Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium: Perceptions and Representations in Art and Text

Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

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Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium Perceptions and Representations in Art and Text Myrto Hatzaki

© Myrto Hatzaki 2009 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries ISBN-13: 978–0–230–00715–4 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 18

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

To Evita, who gave me my first ever book on art history

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Contents

Acknowledgements

ix

Introduction

1

1 The Byzantine Ideal of Beauty: Definitions and Perceptions A Byzantine ideal of beauty The real and the ideal: Beauty between fact and fiction Gender, the image and the mask of beauty On the beauty of men

14 24 29

2 Only Skin-Deep: Beauty and Ugliness between Good and Evil The varied face of ugliness Handsome heroes, ugly villains and other half-truths The handsome executioner Beauty is as beauty does?

33 34 39 42 46

3 Beauty and Power and Beauty as Power Beauty as a force of action The beautiful body as statue The beauty of harmony and symmetry

49 49 52 58

4 The Beauty of Broken Bodies: Pain, Eloquence and Emotion The beauty of the dead Christ Painting the unsayable Beauty and the horror of death The beauty of images, rhetoric and the power of emotion vii

7 8

66 67 73 75 78

viii

Contents

5 Angels and Eunuchs: The Beauty of Liminal Masculinity The angel’s body between word and image ‘Beautiful, blond and resembling the eunuchs of the palace’ The angel and the Adam’s apple The beauty of ‘eternal springtime’ Beauty and the captivated gaze

86 86 93 96 100 106

6 The Fragile Beauty of Soldiers Beautiful soldiers on display Between Ares and Eros: Dangerous beauty and the soldier’s fragile masculinity The unkempt beauty of military masculinity

116 116

Conclusion

136

Notes

139

List of Illustrations

172

Bibliography

175

Illustration Sources

190

Index

191

124 131

Acknowledgements No book is an island, and in the writing of the present I am indebted, both directly and indirectly, to a number of people. First and foremost, to Robin Cormack under whose expert guidance and benevolent supervision I undertook the study of beautiful male bodies in Byzantium as a PhD thesis at the Courtauld Institute of Art. This project would have never come this far without his direction, support, encouragement, vast knowledge and unique ability to offer criticism without ever sounding dismissive; I will be grateful to him for ever. I owe a great deal to Liz James for reading, commenting and offering invaluable suggestions at key stages of the book’s development. I cannot thank her enough for all her help without which this book would not have been the same. Sincere thanks also to Margaret Mullett for her insightful suggestions and comments – and for introducing me to Bohemond, though the eyes of Anna Komnene, in a lecture at the Courtauld, in my MA year. The financial support of the Arts and Humanities Research Board (AHRB) through a three-year studentship was instrumental in allowing me to complete my PhD at the Courtauld. With regard to the present publication, my wholehearted thanks go particularly to the A.G. Leventis Foundation and the National Bank of Greece who kindly contributed towards the cost of the colour illustrations. Their generosity has allowed for the beautiful Byzantine bodies presented here to appear in all their colourful splendour and I know that these painted figures, and the artists who produced them, would have been eternally grateful; as indeed am I. A number of Ephorates of Byzantine Antiquities in Greece very kindly granted me photographic permissions and reproduction rights: I am genuinely thankful to the 1st EBA Athens, 5th EBA Sparta, 7th EBA Larissa, 9th EBA Thessaloniki, 16th EBA Kastoria, 19th EBA Trikala, 24th EBA Lamia, 28th EBA Rethymnon, as well as to the Byzantine and Christian Museum in Athens and the Photographic Archive of the Benaki Museum. I am profoundly grateful to His Eminence Archbishop Damianos of St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai, for kindly granting me the rights of reproduction for a number of Sinai icons and deeply indebted to the managing director of the Holy Monastery Mr. Nikolaos Vadis for all his help. A warm word of thanks also goes to the Monastery of the Transfiguration at Meteora, the Monastery of St Neophytos in Paphos, ix

x

Acknowledgements

Cyprus, and the Monastery of St Ierotheos in Megara. I am also grateful to the staff of the Warburg Library, the Gennadius Library and the Library of the British School in Athens for all their kind assistance. Moreover, I am indebted to my editor, Michael Strang, who believed in this project from the start; to Tony Eastmond, who unveiled exciting aspects of Byzantium even at the Warwick days in Ravenna, Charles Barber, Dion Smythe, Elizabeth Jeffreys, Maria Vassilaki as well as Julian Gardner, Richard Morris and Evita Arapoglou. A special thank you goes to George Kakavas for all his help and support. I would also like to thank friends from the Courtauld for the endless deliberations on things Byzantine and Diana Newall, Brad Letwin and Vassiliki Dimitropoulou for friendly comments and discussions. A final word of thanks to the nameless nuns in monasteries around Greece, who, in the spirit of tradition, welcomed an exhausted art historian in from the scorching Greek sun, and offered her their kindness and hospitality.

Introduction

To be really mediaeval one should have no body. To be really modern one should have no soul. To be really Greek one should have no clothes. Oscar Wilde, ‘A few maxims for the instruction of the over educated’, Saturday Review, November 1894.1 In recent years, scholarship has looked into the notion of Byzantine bodies enough to unquestionably challenge Wilde’s humorous maxim; whether, male, female or ‘other’, the body in Byzantium is increasingly finding its voice in Byzantine studies. Questions of ‘desire and denial’ have opened the field for investigations into sensuality and the senses in Byzantium, addressing the body’s responses to the sensual world.2 Notions of sexual difference, insights, for instance, into gender constructions or the different types of masculinity existent in the Byzantine world have illustrated complexities in the Byzantine perception of gendered bodies.3 Where Gombrich once saw only the ‘solemn mosaics of Ravenna’, scholarship today perceives not only noisy children, but also eroticism and display.4 As Byzantine bodies take centre stage, a (hitherto unspoken) question is begging to be asked: what about physical beauty in Byzantium? As we redress the imbalance between the ascetic body and the sensual body in the Byzantine world, the image of physical beauty and the Byzantine views, stereotypes, beliefs and attitudes surrounding the beautiful body emerge as grounds for discussion. That art historical thinking since the 1990s, in what has been termed ‘a turn against the anti-aestheticism of modernism’, has striven to allow beauty back into deliberations on art and theory, suggests perhaps that beauty is increasingly appearing as a question in the general debate, re-entering the discourse on the visual arts.5 To the question ‘how relevant is beauty to the 1

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Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

study of Byzantium’, the answer is multifold. That concern over beauty in general was a crucial part of Byzantine responses to their world has been noted, for instance, in the case of the complex, highly charged cult objects that are the Byzantine icons, acknowledged by scholarship to have functioned not only as religious artefacts but also as ‘objects of beauty’.6 Recent research has noted that even Byzantine inscriptions, masterfully executed in relief upon church walls, may have been conceived to serve as much an ornamental as a didactic role.7 In this book, the discussion looks not to the abstract notion of ‘Byzantine aesthetics’, but to beauty as an attribute of the physical body. What can we know about physical beauty as experienced in real life by the proverbial man (or woman) in the street, as depicted in imagery or as described in Byzantine writing? A glance at Byzantine imagery from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries reveals a world in which the emaciated asceticism of Byzantine holy monks is only one part of the story; beautifully painted figures of saints such as St Victor from the church Panagia Olymbiotissa, in Elasson, or St Nestor from the church of St Nicholas Orphanos in Thessaloniki are an equally potent presence (Figures 1 and 2). Byzantine churches are populated by angels painted as comely youths, with their chiselled features, large, almond-shaped eyes and curly locks, like the angels from the churches of St Vlassios in Veroia, or St Nicholas of Kasnitzi in Kastoria (Figures 3 and 4). Byzantine icons equally depict figures like the breathtaking St George from the monastery of St Catherine’s, Sinai (Figure 5). Imagery, in visual media from wall paintings and mosaics to manuscript illustrations and enamels, and writing, in literary genres from historiography and poetry to saint’s Lives or the Byzantine romances, in fact, paint an image of Byzantium as a world in which physical beauty was of prime importance. Its significance for the Byzantines, it seems, was matched only by its perceived complexity, which reveals physical beauty as a curious and ambiguous notion; to be seen as beautiful in Byzantium was to be in possession of a quality with complex social repercussions hovering between notions of goodness and evil, masculinity and effeminacy, life and death. A less than straightforward quality with an undeniable dark side, physical beauty in Byzantium reveals itself to have only constant: the (surprising) reverence in which it was held by Byzantine men and women in all strands of life. Contrary to the worlds of Wilde, in fact, it seems that the Byzantines not only had bodies, but that they were obsessed by the beauty of those bodies in ways that we, from our twenty-first century standpoint, may only begin to imagine, despite our own culture’s fascination with ‘beautiful bodies’. This book is about how the Byzantines saw beauty as a quality of the human body. It attempts to explore how they defined, perceived and

Introduction

3

addressed physical beauty within the context of their own world. It aims to investigate what physical beauty was and what it was perceived to do; as well as to decipher the curious dynamics of beauty in general and of male beauty in particular. A hitherto unexplored aspect of Byzantium, physical beauty is first discussed in terms of its ‘definitions’ and perceptions, then examined thematically to allow insights into the different facets of this broad subject: notions of beauty and ugliness as visual manifestations of good and evil, notions of beauty and power, the play between beauty and emotion in the discourse not only of the living but also of the tormented and dying body. At parts, the discussion necessitates treating male and female beauty in juxtaposition, both in order to explore the fundamental attitudes about the beautiful body that lie beyond gender distinctions, and in order to investigate whether and how gender distinctions affected attitudes towards physical beauty, towards what constituted comeliness or how it affected both the bearers and world around them. The greater emphasis on male beauty in this discussion reflects the considerable attention devoted to it as a prized attribute in diverse genres of Byzantine writing, which overall betray a Byzantine concern with the beauty of men: with its allure, significance and perils. The focus on male beauty thus addresses the tensions inherent in the Byzantine perception of the beautiful male body and the ways in which physical beauty was both seen as a valued attribute of manly bodies and simultaneously believed to relate ambiguously to the notion of masculinity, of what it meant to be male in Byzantium. In the context of the male-dominated Byzantine world, it aims to unravel how beauty related to the perception of male gender, to its attributes and expressions. Addressing the beautiful body in Byzantium, whether described in a text or painted in an image, inevitably involves addressing the extent to which we can hope to see ‘through the eyes of others’.8 Can we know what the Byzantines meant or thought of when they described the beautiful hero of a romance? In looking at Byzantine imagery, can we prevent ourselves from imprinting our own tastes, views and quality judgements on what we see? Can we distinguish between a painted image of a beautiful youth and a beautiful painting of a youth? Looking at what we do have, what the Byzantines left behind in terms of visual images and written texts, we cannot but recognize the gap that separates ‘us’ from ‘them’; but at the same time acknowledge that a painted image or an elegant set of verses were created within a specific context, they are thus both formative and informative of the milieu in which they were produced. They both were shaped by the world around them and in turn conditioned its views and attitudes; they reflect and are reflected in structures of thought

4

Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

and belief. The question is ‘what art and text, taken together might reveal about (. . .) the world-view of a particular culture’ and in this case, what the juxtaposition of the visual and the verbal may suggest of Byzantine beliefs and attitudes surrounding the beautiful body.9 The written and visual sources through which this discussion attempts to envisage the Byzantine world view focus on the time span from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries, consciously encompassing a period described by scholarship as a ‘time of change’ in Byzantine society.10 Though it is perhaps more appropriate to acknowledge Byzantium as ‘a continually developing and adapting culture’, the time frame chosen for this book nonetheless looks into aspects of ‘change’ such as the growing militarization of Byzantine society starting in the eleventh century and the (temporary) breakdown of the Byzantine state after the Crusader conquest of Constantinople in 1204, with its considerable implications for the Byzantine self-image.11 The emergence of a ‘cult’ of military masculinity in the mid-eleventh century, the re-found interest in the figure of the Byzantine angel towards the end of that century, the rehabilitation of the figure of Eros, the increasing contact between Byzantium and the West during the reign of the Komnenian dynasty, the novel fascination with the body of the dead Christ in the twelfth century and the creation of new, emotive, iconographical types in Byzantine imagery, all feature in this discussion, creating a complex and simultaneously evocative backdrop for an investigation of Byzantine attitudes on the beautiful body. Symptomatic of living in ‘interesting times’ these apparent innovations are then examined in contrast of later developments in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Thinking in terms of ‘change’ in the Byzantine perception of what beauty is and what it is perceived to do throughout this time span builds a twofold picture: on the one hand, there seems to be little change in fundamental attitudes on how beauty was perceived, identified and defined; the ideal of what constituted the beautiful body appears not to change between the eleventh and the fourteenth centuries. On the other hand, Byzantine imagery and writing reveal subtle nuances, developments and variations in attitudes towards beauty (whether in real life or in pictorial representations) across this time span of four centuries, which help refine the broader picture. The discussion starts with an investigation into the Ideal of Beauty as it emerges through Byzantine writing, looking at both Byzantine historiography and literature, that is, writing that proposes to evoke ‘reality’ and historical truth set against the world of fiction and the imagination. Diverse genres of Byzantine writing are intentionally juxtaposed throughout the book to include a variety of written sources from

Introduction

5

epistolography and eulogistic verses composed for the Byzantine court, to Byzantine romances, saints’ Lives and liturgical texts. The aim of this juxtaposition is to allow an image of Byzantine attitudes that is not genre specific to emerge through the writing, and to permit a reading of physical beauty through a variety of different perspectives, such as that of the theologian writing a religious discourse, and that of an emperor’s daughter composing history. Can similar attitudes be traced in their writing? The parallel between pen-portraits in texts and painted portraits in visual imagery and its insights into Byzantine attitudes leads on to a discussion of beauty’s association with notions of good and evil. Beauty’s moral connotations are juxtaposed to those of the classical world as the classical concept of kalokagathia (of being ‘both beautiful and good’), linking moral character to physical appearance, is addressed in a Byzantine context. The handsome heroes and ugly villains that cross their paths in Byzantine writing, and the image of the executioner in Byzantine art pose questions on their own right: was beauty per se seen as a benign or evil quality? The Byzantine recognition of beauty’s power, noted in the realm of love as much as in that of politics, leads on to an investigation of beauty’s role in Byzantine society in the context of the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries. Beauty was often discussed in association with notions of power; whether political, social or sexual. The relationship between beauty and power is examined with regard to the Byzantine imperial image as this appears in writing and the visual arts, and the way in which the imperial body was perceived and represented. The question of beauty’s potency in Byzantium is studied further, illustrated through a study of beauty in a context where it may be least expected: could beauty coexist with physical pain and the horror of death? The broken bodies of Byzantine martyrs and, most importantly, the potent image of the dead body of Christ are examined in the context of imagery and writing, looking into how beauty could be represented and manipulated to serve a set agenda. Physical beauty is looked into in relation to notions of masculinity and liminality, through an examination of the curious beauty of angels and eunuchs. Theoretically bodiless and sexless, angels nonetheless appeared as gendered beings in the Byzantine collective imagination. The parallel between angels and eunuchs in Byzantine writing brings the question of their liminal masculinity and the beauty befitting it, into the forefront of the discussion, also addressing the notion of ‘youth’ and its relation to beauty. Finally, military masculinity is addressed, looking into the image of the beautiful soldier in which the tensions between beauty, masculinity and effeminacy become particularly prominent. In the midst

6

Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

of alluring displays of military splendor the Byzantine fascination with the image of the handsome soldier reached new heights starting in the eleventh century. Set against it, is the thorny question of the soldier’s adornment that highlights the strained balance between manly beauty and unmanly effeminacy. Was beauty a threat to (military) masculinity? The quest for the beautiful body in Byzantium through the evidence of imagery and writing reveals a Byzantine concern with physical beauty that can have implications on the way we view the Byzantine world. By casting new light on an aspect of Byzantine life that has been largely ignored in accounts of Byzantium, this investigation aims to further tip the balance between spirituality and physicality, soul and body in our perceptions of Byzantium restoring beauty, as a quality highly valued among the Byzantines themselves, to its proper place: the foreground of attention.

1 The Byzantine Ideal of Beauty: Definitions and Perceptions

The sight of him inspired admiration [. . .] his stature was such that he towered almost a full cubit over the tallest men. He was slender of waist and flanks, with broad shoulders and chest [. . .] he was neither taper of form nor heavily built and fleshy, but perfectly proportioned – one might say that he conformed to the Polyclitean ideal. [. . .] The skin all over his body was very white, except for his face which was both white and red. His hair was lightish-brown [. . .] Whether his beard was red or of any other colour I cannot say, for the razor had attacked it, leaving his chin smoother than any marble. However, it appeared to be red. His eyes were light-blue and gave some hint of the man’s spirit and dignity. Anna Komnene, Alexiad, tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena1 It is with these words that Anna Komnene describes the Western warrior Bohemond, one of the Emperor Alexios I Komnenos’s foremost adversaries, in what is one of the lengthiest physical descriptions of characters to be found in the Alexiad, Anna’s account of her father’s reign. The vivid pen-portrait, written years after Anna Komnene had first set eyes upon Bohemond in her father’s court, appears, at least at first glance, to offer a rare insight into a woman’s account of a beautiful male body through an elaborate description indulging the reader’s imagination. Bohemond’s beautiful body is discussed in detail; its individual features, from the figure’s height, build and physique to the particulars of his blondish hair (komi ypoxanthos), ruddy beard (geneion pyrson) and blue eyes, are vividly described. Set within the context of the Alexiad, which was mostly composed after 1143, Anna’s account of Bohemond forms a part of a narrative filled with 7

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Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

physical accounts of the numerous key characters, both men and women, protagonists or anti-heroes, who feature in Anna’s account of her father’s reign. The imperial couple, Alexios Komnenos and his wife Eirene; the basilissa Maria of Alania; Anna’s husband Nikephoros Bryennios; the military commander Michael Doukas, related to Anna on her mother’s side; and the young Constantine Doukas, who died prematurely, are in fact not only described but also lauded for their good looks. So too are enemies of the state: figures such as Nikephoros Diogenes or Robert Guiscard. Far from unique in the Alexiad, the eloquent description of Bohemond’s good looks is thus matched by those of other beautiful men and women in Anna Komnene’s writing, characters praised for their beauty (variously termed kallos, kallonen and oreotis), their grace (charis) and the wonderment they brought upon onlookers (thambos). Anna’s accounts thus underline a particular importance attached to physical beauty, which is discussed, exalted and described in varying degrees of elaboration, suggesting a fascination with physical beauty in the Alexiad.2

A Byzantine ideal of beauty The way in which Anna goes about describing the beauty of such characters is evocative in itself. Anna notes that Emperor Alexios, though not tall, was well proportioned and symmetrical in body, radiant in countenance and blessed with a brilliant gaze. His cheeks were red, his shoulders broad, his build mighty. Empress Eirene was similarly well proportioned, with a face that gleamed like the moon, skin both white and rosy, and joyful eyes. Of Maria of Alania, readers are told that she was slender like a cypress tree, white skinned like the snow but also ruddy like a rose, with luminous eyes and arching golden brows. As for the foreign Robert Guiscard, he too is described as tall and of a height surpassing other men. He was rosy skinned, blond haired and broad shouldered, with eyes that shone like fire and a perfectly harmonious body.3 The beauty of the seven-year-old Constantine Doukas is similarly described despite his young age: his hair was blond, his skin white, his cheeks rosy and his eyes brilliant. As her descriptions record the details of the appearance of her characters almost from head to toe, the image of physical beauty that emerges from Anna’s writing is that of a list of specific, beautiful features, which were ascribed to beautiful bodies. Features such as considerable height, a good, sturdy build, well-proportioned limbs, a white and rosy complexion, radiant skin, brilliant eyes with arching brows and blond or ruddy hair appear to constitute a concrete image of physical beauty in Anna’s history.

The Byzantine Ideal of Beauty

9

The evidence of Byzantine writing suggests that this view of physical beauty that appears in the Alexiad fitted in with contemporary attitudes: from historical writing to fiction, from real characters to imaginary heroes, the ‘beautiful’ appear to possess a set of identifiable, easily recognizable characteristics many of which match those identified in Anna’s writing. In the twelfth-century romance of Drosilla and Chariclis (c.1157?), as Niketas Eugenianos creates the characters of the two young lovers, the protagonists of the narrative, he bestows upon them exceptional beauty. Chariclis, whose beauty and glowing countenance, we are told, surpasses the stars, sports golden hair, a ruddy complexion and a broad chest. He has blond, curly hair which reaches down to his back and fine slender hands with white fingers. Drosilla too has golden-blond curls, fine beautifully shaped fingers and a complexion resembling a rose but also the whiteness of the snow. She has beautiful black eyes, perfect arching brows, a cypress-like posture and pearl-like teeth.4 In the ‘proto-romance’ of Digenis Akritis, written in the late eleventh or early twelfth century, and telling of the exploits of the great warrior Digenis, the noble guard of the border lands, the hero is described as a beautiful young man.5 He has ‘a graceful appearance, with fair curly hair, large eyes, a white and rosy face, deep black eyebrows and he had a chest like crystal, a fathom broad’.6 The object of Digenis’s affection, the unnamed Girl, possesses a luminous countenance, beautiful eyes, ‘deep black eyebrows, the black undiluted’, fair curly hair and a face white like snow ‘with a tint at the centre like the choice purple which emperors honour’.7 In Michael Psellos’s (1018–c.1078) eleventh-century historical text, the Chronographia, the handsome young Michael IV is described as having a well-proportioned body, a blossoming complexion, bright eyes and truly red cheeks that became ever more ravishing when he blushed.8 The beauty of Emperor Constantine IX Monomachos, praised as rivalling that of Achilles and Nireas, also receives an elaborate description: Psellos describes the symmetry of the emperor’s body, his perfect analogies, his ruddy hair which shone like rays of sunlight, his white body which appeared like clear and translucent crystal.9 In this light, the description of Bohemond in the Alexiad, despite its length and detail, rather than evoking a highly personalized ‘female’ viewpoint, appears unexceptional both in what it identifies as a ‘beautiful body’, and in the way this beauty is described to the reader. The Western warrior is praised by Anna for possessing many of the same, familiar features equally found in other descriptions of beautiful bodies: the wellproportioned figure, the white and rosy complexion, the light-coloured

10 Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

hair. This juxtaposition of accounts of physical beauty seems to encapsulate a definition of the beautiful body in Byzantium that was based on this ideal image. What this underlines is a key aspect of the Byzantine perception of beauty as a notion: physical beauty appears to have been regarded not an abstract, indescribable quality, as ‘a certain something in one’s air’, but as something concrete and tangible which could be read on the body of the bearer through a series of visual signs; as a list of identifiable, often-repeated, even stereotypical physical features. By complying with the stereotypical image of the ideal of beauty, beautiful people in Byzantium appear to stand together, as a class apart from the rest of the world. In Theodore Prodromos’s twelfth-century romance of Rodanthe and Dosiklis, where the hero and heroine are, unsurprisingly, blond haired, white and rosy skinned, black browed and brilliant eyed, with well-shaped bodies and, in the case of Dosiklis also a manly broad chest, their beauty, in fact, appears to align them in the eyes of onlookers.10 Prodromos tells his audience that, abducted by evil pirates, the young lovers introduce themselves as brother and sister to their captors. This lie then leads the enamoured pirate Govryas to approach Dosiklis and ask for the hand of Rodanthe in marriage. Prodromos clearly states that it is the beauty of the characters that causes the confusion; Govryas claims to recognise in the beauty of Dosiklis’s face proof that he is Rodanthe’s brother, ‘as those who look alike in beauty and have the same features, also have common lineage’. In the world of Prodromos’s romance, it seems that beautiful people looked alike, the universality of their ideal beauty serving to visually align them in the eyes of onlookers who read in their ideal, beautiful features this common ground between beautiful people. This seemingly conventional language of physical beauty in itself, however, is suggestive. If, as Liz James has noted, clichés in themselves evoke underlying truths about a given culture, then the stereotypical discourse of the ideal of beauty as it is formulated in Byzantine writing (Anna’s description of Bohemond included) may be evocative of fundamental attitudes towards the beautiful body in Byzantium.11 Reading through the lines of the ideal, stereotyped accounts of physical beauty can help formulate an understanding of Byzantine perceptions and definitions of what constituted the beautiful body. Ideal bodies; Stereotyped words Set against the pen-portraits in Psellos’s Chronographia, Anna’s physical descriptions of individuals are also read against the context of a Byzantine literary tradition. It has been suggested that the pen-portraits

The Byzantine Ideal of Beauty

11

in the Alexiad were written in a manner that evoked two erudite influences: on the one hand the general principles of Byzantine eikonismos, a written system of physical description that focused on the identification of individuals through physical features, and on the other the particular style of the Chronographia, which despite its profound characterizations of individuals used, at least according to Ljubarskij, ‘rather ordinary and in any case traditional methods of describing their appearance’.12 The result, Ljubarskij argues, was the creation of pen-portraits which, ‘conventional and stereotyped’, evoked not the particulars of an individual’s appearance but rather appeared overall to comply with the dictates of an established ideal.13 Byzantine eikonismos, seen as a formative influence in Anna’s penportraits in the Alexiad, was a written description of an individual’s physique that attempted to evoke the ‘likeness’ of a person by means of a meticulous description of facial and physical characteristics. Handed down from classical antiquity where it had served many purposes, not least that of aiding in the identification of criminals, the eikonismos broke down the face and body of the person described into a list of individual features. Its pervasive logic can be traced in various aspects of Byzantine thinking: Dagron has linked it to the logic of Byzantine icons and their meticulous rendering of saints’ portrait-likeness.14 Its principles are also aligned to the Byzantine fascination with the study of physiognomics, a ‘science’ that concentrated on the decoding of facial features and their reading as outward signs of a figure’s personality.15 Psellos’s Chronographia makes subtle reference to the logic of physiognomics, noting, for instance, that the eyes of Basil II were neither too deeply set denoting wickedness and violence, nor too protruding denoting sluggishness, but rather shone with a manly glow.16 In the description of Michael Doukas, the emperor’s facial features are equally isolated and examined as bearers of meaning on his character; his forehead was neither arrogant, nor sunken towards his eyes, but maintained instead an expression of honesty and propriety that gave him the appearance of a thoughtful schoolmaster.17 Like the eikonismos, physiognomics worked by breaking down a face into individual characteristics, which were then treated as signs in need of deciphering. The survival of such principles of physical description in the penportraits of individuals in Byzantine writing, which equally break down the human body into a list of physical features, is evocative. It speaks not of the inability of authors such as Anna Komene or Michael Psellos to describe the physical appearance of individuals in a ‘better’ way, but rather suggests that this manner of physical description (rather than

12 Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

being merely ‘conventional and stereotyped’ as Ljubarskij suggested) was perhaps seen as sufficient to serve its purpose of creating a written record of an individual’s appearance. The fact that the Byzantine ideal of beauty appears as a list of individual beautiful features that together constitute a beautiful whole, equally suggests, not that the Byzantines were incapable of describing beauty in different terms, but rather that this manner of writing was expressive (and is thus also potentially informative) of their attitudes towards beauty as a physical quality ascribed to the human body. Just as bodies were described as a list consisting of specific features, beautiful bodies were spoken of as a list of beautiful parts that together constituted a beautiful whole. That such attitudes towards beauty were deeply ingrained in Byzantine thinking is suggested by Michael Psellos’s Chronographia, where a similar logic is applied to the description not only of physical beauty but also of beauty in architecture. In a passage describing the splendid church of St George at Maggana, Psellos notes that the edifice was of unsurpassable beauty; its loveliness could be seen in all the parts of the grand building so that it seemed to shine into the rest of the structure. It was both excessively beautiful in the whole, he adds, since it was made up of beautiful parts, but each of its details in itself was worthy of admiration to the point that one could not decide which aspect of the church was most beguiling. From golden-speckled domes and stone revetments to fine-looking fountains, in Psellos’s account the beauty of the church as a whole, like a human body, consists of beautiful parts. Bodies made of perfect parts In a world where a beautiful face is made up of (beautiful) parts, individual beautiful features can serve as a saving grace, improving the overall appearance of a figure. This is noted in the Chronographia in Psellos’s description of the Alanian princess held in the court of Emperor Constantine Monomachos. The young girl was no exceptional beauty, Psellos notes, but possessed two physical blessings, which were enough to dazzle the emperor. Blessed with white skin and beautiful, luminous eyes the princess won over the emperor’s affections, to the point that Monomachos abandoned all his other love affairs for this otherwise unexceptional girl.18 In the structured world of the Byzantine ideal of beauty, individual flaws can also condemn an otherwise beautiful whole, as is the case in the fourteenth-century romance of Velthandros and Chrysandza.19 In the romance both Velthandros and Chrysandza are built as paradigms of the ideal of beauty. Handsome and well built, Velthandros is described

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as having a head of blond and curly hair (xanthos kai sgourokephalos), beautiful eyes (euophthalmos) and a chest bestowed with the whiteness of cold marble. The heroine too is supremely beautiful. Her body is perfectly crafted, and she possesses blond, golden hair (chrysaphota) which is rich like grass from heaven, eyes that steal a man’s soul, black eyebrows artfully shaped to resemble bridges, a nose fashioned by the Graces. She has a graceful mouth, teeth that resemble pearls, cheeks that are red like roses, lips that are red as if painted.20 The contour of her face is rounded and she is blessed with white hands, a sculpted neck, an artfully slender waist – a body overall exceptionally put together. But the perfection of Velthandros and Chrysandza, with its close adherence to the dictates of the ideal, is all the more pronounced by being compared to the physical imperfections of others. This becomes apparent in the story when the travelling hero Velthandros comes across the Castle of Love and is commanded by its ruler, King Eros, to serve as judge in a contest between forty beautiful and noble maidens. This beauty contest, instrumental to the unravelling of the story as it marks the first meeting between Velthandros and Chrysandza, is also evocative of how physical beauty is perceived and measured. It presents the hero assessing the beauty of numerous candidates and dismissing them through a process of elimination, with the aim of bestowing a prize to the ‘fairest of all’. In his role as judge, Velthandros evaluates the beauty of the maidens by proceeding to affront the (otherwise beautiful) contestants by remarking on the single physical shortcoming that damns the whole, marring the beauty of the girl in question. Beauty emerges here as the opposite of everything dismissed by Velthandros’s critique: it is the perfection encapsulated by Chrysandza who possesses none of the other girls’ physical faults and is blessed instead by an ideal beauty identified by her finely proportioned body, blonde tresses and white and rosy skin. In his critique of the bodies of the various contestants, Velthandros presents an image of beauty checked against a predetermined image of perfection; the beauty of Chrysandza that condemns the lesser beauty of her rivals. A similar logic is found in Eustathios Makrembolites’s twelfth-century Hysmini and Hysminias. In the romance it is the physical perfection of the heroine which notably echoes the Byzantine ideal of beauty: Hysmini’s luminous face, black eyebrows and red-lipped mouth, that appeared to have drawn the colour of a rose, establish the absolute standard against which beauty must be judged. Before this embodiment of ideal, physical perfection, the rival beauty of Rodopi, daughter of Sostratos and proposed bride to Hysminias, is dismissed by the hero for appearing (by comparison) as an ape before Aphrodite, a gnat before an elephant and a star

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before the sun. In Velthandros and Chrysandza and Hysmini and Hysminias alike, not only is the body broken down into features, but beauty is perceived as made up of individual, beautiful characteristics and the whole is then judged by being measured against a preconceived ideal.21 This seems a remarkably consistent view: beauty can be traced on the countenance and figure of the bearer, as a list of individual features which set together constitute the (beautiful) whole even when the dictates of what constitutes the beautiful body change. In a spirit similar to that of the beauty contest in Velthandros and Chrysandza though in a rather different milieu, the bride show described in the ninth-century Life of St Philaretos the Almsgiver (c.821–822) also presents female beauty judged against an ideal. Judges, set with the task of preselecting suitable candidates for an imperial bride show from which the future wife of Constantine VI may emerge, cross the territories of Byzantium, assessing various beauties in accordance with the strict instructions laid down by the emperor’s mother. The three granddaughters of St Philaretos, Maria, Myranthia and Euanthia, are included in this examination and closely inspected by the judges. They are put through three tests and examined literally from head to toe: their height is measured by being set against an ideal standard, their faces are judged against a model portrait and finally the size of their feet is examined by being compared to a perfect shoe size.22 The judges’ criteria highlight an interest in features, such as small feet, which are not part of the ideal of beauty as it appears in later centuries. Yet what the story underlines is the principle of physical beauty examined and measured on the basis of individual, physical features, to be finally assessed by being compared to the stipulations of an ideal. In a world where physical beauty is perceived as made up of individual, beautiful characteristics, and the ideal of beauty is often stereotypically worded, Anna’s description of the wondrous beauty of Bohemond can be seen in a different light. When breaking down his body into individual features and commenting on his ideal physique, was Anna merely playing to the dictates of the Byzantine ideal of beauty? In her writing, where does the balance lie between the ‘truth’ of Bohemond’s appearance, of what he really looked like, and the image of a man formulated as an ideal of physical perfection?

The real and the ideal: Beauty between fact and fiction Where the fictive worlds of the romances are dominated by the imaginary beauty of their fictional protagonists, the Alexiad is filled with characters that were real-life, historical personae. Anna’s account of their

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physical appearance, such as her discussion of the beauty of Bohemond or Alexios Komnenos, thus inevitably brings up the issue of reality versus idealization and the balance between fact and fabrication: the extent to which accounts of proclaimed physical perfection corresponded to reality, and if not, the purpose presumably served by the divergence from the ‘truth’. Set against the description of Bohemond, Anna Komnene’s account of her father’s physical appearance is suggestive in this respect. Anna presents the reader with two references to Alexios’s handsome looks. One is an elaborate, detailed account which paints the emperor’s portrait as he sits upon his throne. ‘He reminded one of a fiery whirlwind, so overwhelming was the radiance that emanated from his countenance and his whole presence. His dark eyebrows were curved and beneath them the gaze of his eyes was both terrible and kind. A quick glance, the brightness of his face, the noble cheeks suffused with red combined to inspire in the beholder both dread and confidence. His broad shoulders, mighty arms and deep chest, all on a heroic scale, invariably commanded the wonder and delight of the people. The man’s person indeed radiated beauty and grace and dignity and an unapproachable majesty.’23 Anna’s other physical description of Alexios is very short and creates a somewhat different image of the emperor. Caught in the midst of battle Alexios loses his helmet, which causes his loose locks, described as ruddy and sunny (pyrsi kai iliosa komi), to fall into his eyes: ‘he was dusty and bloodstained, bareheaded, with his bright red hair straggling in front of his eyes and annoying him (for his horse frightened and impatient of the bit, was jumping about wildly and making the curls fall over his face).’24 Scholars have looked at both statements with regard to what they can tell us about what Alexios Komnenos really looked like. Baldwin, writing on the physical appearance of Byzantine emperors, interprets Anna’s comment as an evocation of her personal taste that appears in her writing ‘to the detriment of truth’, suggesting that Anna’s admiration of reddish hair influences the objectivity of her account.25 Head, on the other hand, attempts to give a rational explanation for the discrepancy in Anna’s account of Alexios’s appearance, by suggesting Alexios had black hair with reddish-brown overtones which would have been more noticeable when seen in the light of the sun.26 However, we may note that Anna’s account of Alexios’s appearance actually echoes the familiar traits of ideal beauty in the bodily symmetry, the arching brows, the brilliant eyes and ruddy complexion of the figure. The choice of red hair would indeed fit in well with this list

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of ideal features; pyrsos (ruddy) alongside xanthos (blond) was a prized feature of physical beauty in Byzantium, with reddish locks often singled out for particular praise. Baldwin’s statement that Anna idealizes the image of her father’s physical appearance to the ‘detriment of truth’, by questioning the truthfulness of Anna’s account, highlights our awareness that the author may have manipulated the reality of the character’s physical appearance to serve an agenda. If Anna Komnene was prepared to lie about Alexios’s hair colour, was this in order to make the literary likeness of her father comply with the prevailing ideal of beauty, and why would this be necessary? The way in which Anna’s descriptions of physical beauty fit into the narrative flow of her writing seems to explain matters. Laiou has noted a fixation on physical beauty in the Alexiad, with Anna ascribing exceptional beauty to a number of her characters, particularly those who are members of her own kin, and in doing so presenting ‘to posterity a quasi perfect group of aristocratic men and women’.27 By claiming that beauty is part of the uniqueness of her class, a natural, physical distinction that can be visually manifested upon the bodies of the members of that class, the author uses beauty as a tool to express her own agenda, that of the (natural) uniqueness of the rank to which she herself had been born, making beauty in the Alexiad as much about identity, class, politics and privilege, as it is about the physical appearance of the human body. In fact, it appears that Anna uses physical beauty as an essential component of the ideal persona of these characters, with the elaborate pen-portraits that describe the astounding beauty of her protagonists, closely followed by discussions of their fine personality traits: the wisdom of Bryennios, the eloquence and military valour of Emperor Alexios, the religiosity of her grandmother Anna Dalassene. The description of Alexios’s beauty fits into this context. In Anna’s account of the ideal physique of her imperial father and mother, the beauty of the characters is both painstakingly described and hailed as a part of their ideal image: the image of the perfect imperial couple. This in itself would explain both the need to praise Alexios’s beauty and make his appearance comply with the dictates of the ideal: his physical perfection being both a visual manifestation of this excellence, and an embodiment of it. The role played by the account of Bohemond’s beauty within the narrative is somewhat different. In telling the story of Alexios’s exploits, Anna’s history throughout presents the struggle between great adversaries, from which Alexios emerges triumphant, vanquishing men who match his strengths in every way, exceptional beauty included.28 When

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Anna sets Alexios against the rebel Nikephoros Bryennios, she notes that they were perfectly weighed against one another, not only in strength, but also in physique: they were both beautiful of body and brave of soul.29 Bohemond’s role as Alexios’s foremost adversary, as a man who could be vanquished by Alexios alone, necessitates a description of his beauty that works in a similar manner, creating an image of Alexios’s great rival that is matched to the emperor in every way; in cunning, military valour and (notably) physique. As Anna builds up her image of Bohemond, she elaborates her account with a detailed description of the physical beauty of her ideal anti-hero, who, being vanquished, can only aggrandize the image of the emperor. As to the balance between fact and fiction, it seems that in the case of Alexios as much as in that of Bohemond, reality is idealized to echo the prescribes of the Byzantine ideal of beauty, and yet concessions are also made to include actual fact. Alexios’s beauty is eulogized, his physical attributes manipulated to evoke an image of perfection, yet, if Anna is liberal with the truth regarding Alexios’s hair colour, she also admits to his short build, a feature which diverges from the tall stature admired by the Byzantines. This acquiescence to fact, however, is mitigated by her suggestion that, though unremarkable in height, Alexios possessed a broad chest and a well-proportioned body. If he did not dazzle onlookers when standing, she adds, when seated upon the imperial throne he appeared like thunder to all that came before him. The perfection of Bohemond, too, is mitigated by reality. Though overall ‘a miracle for the eyes to behold’, Anna acknowledges that he was slightly stooped due to a defect from birth, a feature noticeable to those who would examine his appearance closely, but which presumably did not ruin the effect of the whole. Throughout the Alexiad, Anna’s physical descriptions of beauty seem to tilt the balance between reality and idealization towards the latter, but the author does not go as far as to entirely disregard what her contemporaries would have known to be the truth. Her protagonists may resemble the sun and the stars, possess canonical bodies that dazzle onlookers with their perfection, be praised for features that echo the Byzantine ideal of beauty; reality, however, can also be read between the lines. It remains unclear, however, whether Anna and her contemporaries would necessarily interpret elements of her pen-portraits as a clear-cut manipulation of the truth or whether other, more subtle, messages could also be read into her record of the appearance of various individuals. When describing the young Constantine Doukas, Anna Komnene notes that he was blond and possessed skin that was white like milk,

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rosy cheeks like a fresh rose that had just blossomed, hawk-like brilliant eyes that shone under the golden arches of his brows.30 A detail from another passage in the Alexiad, which also speaks of the young Constantine, adds a telling Homeric reference to this image. Anna describes how Maria of Alania, Constantine’s imperial mother, worried about her son’s safety during the Komnenian coup, by noting that she feared ‘for her blond Menelaos’ (xantho Menelao).31 The importance of this reference lies beyond what it tells us about Constantine’s appearance: it lies in what it evokes of the connotations attached to xanthos among Anna’s contemporaries. In her erudite reference to Constantine Doukas as Homer’s blond Menelaos, Anna goes beyond simply describing the boy as possessing what was considered to be a praised physical trait in Byzantium. Her choice of wording underlines her awareness that the Byzantine fascination with blond hair had its precedents in the classical past. It acknowledges what both Anna and her learned readers would have known: that in the ancient world blond tresses were the attribute of kings and heroes. By being described as xanthos, Constantine Doukas is singled out for special praise for possessing a valued physical feature; he is also aligned, however, with that special class of people who are set apart from the ordinary world. The exact meaning of the term xanthos for the Byzantines underlines this possibility for other, symbolic connotations attached to the notion of ‘blondness’. Liz James’s study of the Byzantine perception of colours has shown the multiple meanings of colour words in Byzantium. James notes with reference to xanthos the multiplicity of uses, synonyms and definitions available in Byzantine writing where xanthos is used in relation to hair but also has other connotations: used to signify fire, good, chloros and yellow.32 What these associations underline is that, as Byzantine colour words often allude to ‘not a hue as such, but a quality’, the term xanthos may be used to signify, beyond colour, notions of texture, luminosity, even radiance and light, with all their symbolic associations.33 A passage from the Life of St Andrew the Fool, describing St Epiphaneios’s vision of an angel appearing as a handsome youth, illustrates this point. The author describes the youth as xanthokomos (that is, as possessing blond tresses), and adds that his hair had the appearance of gold.34 In this context xanthos alludes to blondness, but also to the sheen and metallic brilliance of gold, to a quality of light highly valued in a culture that delighted in the glitter of mosaics and lustre of precious metal vessels: a quality in this case bestowed by the author of the Life to the hair of a heavenly, spiritual being.

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Given the multiplicity of meanings attached to Byzantine colour terms, it may well be that the words used to describe ruddy hair also had similar connotations. A telling example of the many connotations attached to the colour red that may have implications in the reading of hair colour terms is found in the story of the miraculous icon of Christ known as the Antiphonetes as told in Psellos’s Chronographia. When Psellos speaks of the shifting colour of the Antiphonetes, which was read by Empress Zoe as prophesizing the future, he uses the terms ochros and pyrros to refer to the icon’s two different states: the former, ochros, signalled a negative message and the latter, pyrros, a positive one. Liz James has noted that ‘the two words are not simply used in the context of “yellow” and “red” but rather “pale” and “fiery” ’, each linked at the same time with other, symbolic nuances.35 In Anna Komnene’s Alexiad (whose debt to Psellos’s Chronographia has been noted) the reference to Alexios’s tresses as pyrsi kai iliosa komi may have similar connotations. Pyrros stands for ‘fiery’ in Psellos, and the term pyrsos used by Anna could have held similar implications since it is also the term for ‘torch’. References to the fiery Alexios are also found elsewhere in the Alexiad and appear to bestow almost superhuman qualities upon the emperor: riding into battle against satrap Monolykos Alexios is described as being like a tower, or a column of fire (stylos pyros), or some other divine and heavenly vision.36 What this suggests is the possibility that, in describing her father’s head as graced with fiery, gleaming locks, Anna Komnene chooses her words with less concern about its actual colour or hue and more about what the choice of term tells the reader about Alexios as hero, standing radiant in the midst of battle. In the image of Alexios projected by his daughter, as reality battles with idealization, words and features appear chosen to denote the emperor’s unique majesty and the quasi-divine status that sets him apart from the realm of ordinary men. Painted beauty: The portrait and the ideal (Self-)image This question of reality versus idealization in the physical representation of individuals in Byzantine writing has particularly troubled scholars in the juxtaposition of literary portraits of historical personalities against their pictorial likenesses in visual imagery. When Spatharakis set the mosaic image of Constantine Monomachos depicted in St Sophia against Psellos’s literary description of the emperor’s appearance, he noted, for instance, that image and text present discrepancies in their likeness of the emperor (Figure 6). In terms of the figure’s hair colour, described by Psellos as ruddy and as shining like rays of sunlight (iliosa kai pyrsi kefali), Spatharakis argued that the visual evidence of the imperial panel

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‘makes us question the accuracy of Psellos in describing the hair of both Zoe and Constantine as blond’.37 As suggested above, one could begin by questioning the translation of iliosa (sunny) and pyrsi kefali (ruddy head) with the term ‘blond’. That aside, however, Spatharakis’s approach is problematic in itself, in its reading of Psellos’s statement as ‘a rhetorical liberty’ taken by Psellos in his description of the emperor who gave him a distinguished position in court – a description that Spatharakis argues runs ‘contrary’ to the visual representation.38 Spatharakis appears to claim that the visual image of the emperor is an objective record of Monomachos’s appearance, while Psellos’s account is subjective and presents an idealized (even beautified) image of the emperor that matches Psellos’s generally encomiastic account of Monomachos’s reign. Problematic as this logic is, the remark nonetheless highlights the obvious: the juxtaposition between word and image underlines the inherent ambiguities in reading between the lines of Byzantine writing, through idealized physical descriptions and symbolic words. The opposite too, however, must be acknowledged; pictorial portraits of individuals in themselves are susceptible to idealization and manipulation, equally problematic with regard to the balance between ‘true’ likeness and the dictates of the ideal of beauty. That physical appearance, whether in real life or in a pictorial representation, was susceptible to manipulation and could be improved upon or otherwise altered is noted in Byzantine writing. When Niketas Choniates (c.1155–1215/16) praises Manuel Komnenos’s German wife Bertha-Eirene in his Historia for her contempt of the powders and rouges used by other women as a means of beautification, his words do not merely point to the use of cosmetics in Byzantium.39 They attest to the fact that the social perception of beauty, the fascination for instance with white-and-rosy complexions, affected the way real-life bodies were perceived and handled. That the physical appearance of both men and women could be altered and made compliant to the dictates of the ideal of beauty is noted by the evidence of a medical manuscript written in the eleventh or twelfth century, which outlined a series of concoctions for the use of both sexes, including formulas for bleaching hair, preventing hair loss or achieving depilation.40 These artificial means secured that the dictates of taste and the prevailing aesthetics of the human body, the fascination with light hair colour, depilated smooth skin and thick tresses, could be imprinted upon one’s physical appearance. Just as real bodies could be manipulated to be tuned in with the dictates of the ideal, the Byzantines recognized that visual images of bodies were also subject to manipulation, portrait-likenesses beautified or made

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ugly at will. Nikephoros Gregoras’s Romaiki Historia (c.1293–1358/61), in an admonition towards those engaged in the art of writing, advises authors to learn from the painter’s trade, praising the artful painters for correcting the natural faults in a figure’s likeness so as not to present the sitter at a disadvantage for posterity.41 The opposite was also possible. Niketas Choniates notes that the villainous Emperor Andronikos I ‘ordered that the paintings of empress Xene, Emperor Alexios’s mother, whom he had ordered strangled, be done over, so that she appeared as a shrivelled-up old woman because he was suspicious of the pity elicited by these radiant and very beautiful portrayals worthy of the admiration of the passers-by’.42 Added or eliminated, beauty could play a part of the preordained agenda served by a visual representation, just as it could serve the aims of a literary description; it could be used to propagate a message, whether visual or literary. In the Enkleistra, or cave-monastery of St Neophytos in Paphos (c.1182/3), the portrait-image of the founder of the monastic community, St Neophytos the Recluse, seems to make this point; it appears as an image of a holy man which uses physical features to create a sophisticated self-propagatory message. Prominently depicted in the sanctuary of the Enkleistra in a large scene painted on the wall opposite the altar, St Neophytos is seen in full length, his hands crossed on his chest, his gaze directed at the viewer, ascending to Heaven (Figure 7). He is supported by the flanking figures of the archangels Michael and Gabriel, depicted with large outstretched wings, who appear to hold him from the shoulders.43 The inscription written over the scene, which was intended to be read in conjunction with the image, suggests that the recognition of the figure of the monk held up by the angels as Neophytos was essential to unlocking the image’s meaning. Written on behalf of Neophytos and in the first person, the inscription asks: ‘may I join the community of these two angels by virtue of my “angelic” habit’, thus taking the form of a prayer entreating for Neophytos’s reward in the afterlife.44 Executed during Neophytos’s own lifetime, the painted scene appears to serve, as Robin Cormack has noted, as a visual fulfilment of this verbal prayer: by presenting Neophytos carried up to Heaven in the midst of the angels the prayer appears to ‘materialize’ before the viewer’s eyes. In order for the scene to serve its purpose as a visual fulfilment of the inscribed prayer, the representation of Neophytos had to be recognized by viewers as a portrait-likeness of the holy man; unless one could read, it was essential to identify the aged monk as Neophytos, in order to witness his sanctification, his inclusion among the angels. The importance of likeness in the image must also have been strengthened

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by the fact that, albeit for a limited period, the painted image of the founder was probably juxtaposed with the actual face of Neophytos, peering into the church from the opening in the wall via the shaft that led to his new cell overhead – a physical presence which Robin Cormack has noted may have achieved an (intentional) iconification of the Recluse.45 As Neophytos made his bid for self-sanctification, he appears to have created a prototype holy portrait of himself executed by the hands of Theodore Apseudes – a holy portrait being by definition a true likeness of a saint that enables prayer to travel via the image to the actual holy figure depicted in it.46 It is, however, possible that Neophytos’s image, despite being intended as an exact portrait-likeness of the figure, also served other agendas through its choice of individual physical features and the manner in which these are represented by the hand of Apseudes. A juxtaposition of Neophytos’s likeness to the holy portraits of the other contemporary figures of monastic saints in the Enkleistra, depicted on the walls of the sanctuary in the lower register of the decoration (c.1182/3), underlines that Neophytos’s image both resembles those of the other monastic figures and is significantly differentiated from them.47 On the one hand, his likeness encompasses all the recognizable features that signal a life of asceticism: the monastic habit, the motionless, twodimensional body, the white hair, long beard and sunken cheeks, all of which align Neophytos to the figures of the other holy monks.48 On the other hand, however, a juxtaposition of Neophytos’s portrait-likeness to those of the other monastic saints painted in the sanctuary, such as Sts Kyriakos and Stephen the Younger, suggests that Neophytos has been depicted with larger eyes than his counterparts (Figure 8). His eyes, moreover, are crowned by beautifully arching brows, whereas the other holy monks have nondescript eyebrows that hang low over their eyes; in the case of Sts Kyriakos and Stephen the Younger, they are even shaped as crooked, undulating lines. More strikingly perhaps, Neophytos is also presented with flawless, wrinkle-free skin, while the other monastic figures have foreheads and faces furrowed by wrinkles. Figures like St Ilarion display a dark v-shaped wrinkle between their eyebrows, but also pointedly sunken cheeks, marked by v-shaped lines (Figure 9). In other figures, such as that of St Ephraim the Syrian, sunken cheeks are denoted with heavy, angular shading (Figure 8). The contrast with the smooth, conspicuously flawless skin of Neophytos, noted both in his likeness in the sanctuary and in his other portrait-image depicted on the wall of his cell, where he is portrayed kneeling before Christ, is pointed. No wrinkle, no dark line mars his complexion, while the

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discrete shadowing of his cheeks is distinguished by its soft handling. His beard and hair, moreover, appear, unlike the schematic, linear beards of the other monastic saints, to have an almost silky quality, carefully modelled with grey tones to denote a softness of texture. That the attention lavished upon these features may have entailed an element of manipulation, allowing the image to propagate an ideal, beautified self-image of Neophytos, is suggested by the presence of ideal features in his likeness such as the perfectly arching brows, large eyes and silky hair, and, above all, the figure’s flawless skin. Neophytos is depicted with the youthful appearance so praised in Byzantium, not least by authors of the calibre of Psellos and Choniates: the Chronographia lauds the youthfulness of Empress Zoe, portrayed as possessing wrinkle-free skin despite being over 70, while Choniates’s Historia similarly describes how the villain Andronikos Komnenos retained his youthful appearance despite his advanced years.49 It is striking that in these images of Neophytos there is no wrinkle to betray his age (he would have been 50 in 1182/3), or for that matter the hardship of his rural existence, or the harshness of monastic life.50 Ptochoprodromos’s twelfth-century poetry explicitly notes how hunger, in his case due to poverty rather than rigorous fasting, destroys one’s cheeks and makes them appear shrivelled with wrinkles.51 It is unlikely that Neophytos truly possessed such a flawless complexion; and if wrinkles were consciously eliminated from his likeness this can only be explained as an attempt at beautification, and one which may have been picked up by a Byzantine audience. Manganeios Prodromos’s writing on the occasion of a visit to Constantinople by Louis of France and Conrad of Germany underlines this point when it presents the city of Constantinople hailing the Emperor Manuel I as her great benefactor, for improving her physical appearance in view of the upcoming festivities.52 Constantinople praises Manuel, exclaiming that: ‘by means of my enemies you have made me powerful and lusty: you have smoothed away my old age, you have hidden my wrinkles, you have renewed me once more by adorning me and by making me blush as with cosmetics through the slaughter of Germans, and by their blood you make me gleam as with rouge.’53 The wiping away of wrinkles is thus aligned with the rouging of cheeks as part of the beautification process that makes the city resplendent. In the image of Neophytos projected by his portrait likeness, flawless skin seems to have been similarly intended. Judging from the self-propagatory feel of the visual representation, it seems that these images evoked something of how Neophytos saw himself and wished to be seen by others. The facial features with which

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he is represented seem thus to reflect something of the Recluse’s ideal self-image. The evidence in Byzantine writing is eloquent in this respect, claiming that monks were not above making such visual statements in painted images of their likeness: Niketas Choniates criticized the vainglory of monks who inside churches ‘even when dead, desired to depict themselves as crowned in victory and with cheerful and bright countenances’.54 What the case of Neophytos appears to suggest is that, in determining the appearance of his ‘likeness’ in the Enkleistra, the Recluse uses elements from the vocabulary of physical beauty to create his ideal portrait-likeness; physical beautification is added to the ideal self-image propagated by the portrait with which Neophytos makes his bid for self-sanctification, reflecting the perceived importance of this quality.

Gender, the image and the mask of beauty The painted portraits of donors depicted in the context of Byzantine church schemes are evocative in their own right regarding the balance of beauty, ‘reality’ and idealization in the rendering of an individual’s likeness. In the case of the triple donor portrait in the twelfth-century church of Sts Anargyroi in Kastoria, Theodore Lemniotes, his wife Anna Radene and his son John are depicted in the presence of the Virgin. Each figure is identified by an inscription, and in each case the rendering of facial features appears to serve a distinct agenda (Figure 10).55 Set close together, the figures of Theodore and John are similarly posed. They face in the same direction and are depicted gazing sideways; the overall similarity in their physical appearance is noticeable despite their difference in age. Lacking the wrinkles evident on Theodore’s forehead, John appears as a younger version of his father. Both are oval faced, depicted with circles of red upon their cheeks and with brown wavy hair, which, shoulder length in the case of the father and shorter in that of the son, is similarly rendered: it appears voluminous on the right side of the face, painted with an undulating contour. Both figures are also depicted with a slightly hooked, elongated nose, with broad nostrils carefully accentuated with dabs of black. Even the beard which marks the age difference between the two is similar in treatment. Theodore’s fully grown beard appears to start directly under his lower lip and culminates in a distinctive point under his chin, while his thin moustache thickens at the sides of the mouth. John sports an abbreviated version of his father’s facial hair: a hint of hair is visible around the corners of his mouth and just under his lower lip, while something reminiscent of Theodore’s beard grows into the same pointed shape below his chin.

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The physical similarity between Theodore Lemniotes and his son would have sent a clear message to the Byzantine viewer. Byzantine authors suggest that lineage, legitimacy and other such claims of family ties could be made through the evidence of physical features shared between parents and their offspring, as much in real life as in painted likenesses. Michael Psellos notes in the Chronographia that the two sons of Emperor Constantine Doukas were perfect likenesses of the emperor, both in character and physical appearance.56 One of Anna Komnene’s boldest statements of lineage and legitimacy in the Alexiad is her claim of physical resemblance in childhood to her imperial father.57 Margaret Mullet has noted the use of portrait imagery as proof of lineage by the heirs of Alexios Komnenos.58 In this context, the physical resemblance between Theodore and John could have been read as a statement about their relationship as father and son, a visual propagation of the point made in the inscription overhead. What served to align the two generations of Lemniotes males in this record for posterity is the similar handling of their facial features. In this respect, the pictorial handling of the figure of Anna Radene appears notably different to the images of Theodore and John. Unlike the two of them, who are set close together and in echoing poses, Anna is depicted standing to the left of the Virgin, physically separated from the father-and-son pair. Notably, she also gazes in the exact opposite direction from Theodore and John, adding psychological to physical distance. This visual juxtaposition to the two male figures is, moreover, underlined by the treatment of her facial features. Anna Radene’s face is strikingly rounded, rather than oval. A rigidly straight, elongated nose divides it symmetrically in two. Perfectly arched eyebrows are set over her eyes. Her small red mouth appears schematic and somewhat decorative while her lips as two red lines. The most striking feature, however, is the handling of her hair which is long, blond and arranged geometrically to frame her face. The artist creates two pyramid-shaped formations out of rows of distinct, rounded curls that are arranged horizontally, with extra curls added progressively on each row. Unlike Theodore’s wrinkly forehead and flaring nostrils or John’s distinctive facial hair, Anna’s face appears to lack distinguishing characteristics, displaying instead a more schematic, stylized arrangement of facial features. Devoid of individualizing characteristics, her face is distinguished by its geometric handling; it appears more of a mask than a likeness. Where the facial features of the male bodies of Theodore and John propagate agendas of lineage and legitimacy, Anna’s features convey a generalized image of ideal beauty: arching brows, red lips, rosy cheeks, blond

26 Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

curly hair, the overall geometry of her face, from its shape, the almost perfect circle, to the pyramidal arrangement of her spherical curls. In the nearby, contemporary church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi in Kastoria, the pair of donors identified by an inscription as Nikephoros Kasnitzis and his wife Anna make a similar point (Figure 11). The head of Nikephoros, which is given a slightly odd eight-shaped form, is marked by its distinctive bone structure, strong cheekbones, sunken, heavily shaded cheeks and protruding mouth. His bony nose, which is long in proportion to the rest of his face, appears to stand out at a sharp angle and culminates at a pointed tip. His small eyes are framed by wrinkles at the corners, while lines also mark his brow and cheeks. Unlike Nikephoros’s likeness, that of Anna’s presents a rounded face with smooth contours, regular features and flawless skin. Her arching eyebrows crown her large eyes, her mouth is highlighted by the colour on her carefully rendered lips. The male, physical individuality of Nikephoros is set against the female, featureless beauty of his wife. The evidence of imperial imagery appears to make a similar point. In the twelfth-century mosaic image in St Sophia, Constantinople, Emperor John II Komnenos is represented alongside his wife Eirene and his son Alexios (Figure 12). Both John and Alexios are depicted with a face in the shape of an elongated oval, thick black, perfectly arching eyebrows over their dark eyes, and longish, dark, wavy hair which reaches well below the ears and appears as the distinguishing mark of both father and son. Standing between these two figures is the Empress Eirene. Depicted with rich plaits of blond hair that symmetrically frame her rounded face, she is painted with a thin, linear nose which divides her visage in two neat halves, while her cheeks are marked by faultless red circles. With the geometrically arranged perfection of her features which in themselves appear to echo the Byzantine ideal of beauty, Eirene appears as a stylized, beautiful mask. John and Alexios, with the individualizing facial characteristics which mark them as father and son, are juxtaposed to the generalized beauty of the empress. In the mosaic image of Constantine Monomachos and his wife Zoe in St Sophia (1042–1050), the complex history of the image is reflected in the figures’ likenesses and appears also to reflect attitudes towards male and female beauty (Figure 6).59 Originally representing Empress Zoe and her first husband, Romanos III Argyros, offering a donation to the church of St Sophia, the mosaic was later altered to reflect a second donation – this time by Zoe and her new husband Constantine Monomachos. In the revised image, the inscription identifying the emperor was altered so as to mention Monomachos by name, while the heads of the emperor and empress were also replaced, as seen in the missing tesserae visible near the ornamented necklines of their imperial

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garb. The need to replace the emperor’s likeness is self-evident, as the image was required to depict the face of Monomachos in place of that of Romanos Argyros, who was thus replaced visually as well as symbolically.60 Yet the rationale behind the alteration to Zoe’s existing likeness and its replacement with a new image is more complex to account for. Monomachos’s face, though echoing the ideal of beauty in the rosy circles on his cheeks and the blond highlights in his hair and beard created with the use of light-coloured tesserae, displays some individualized features. On his forehead, two bold, arching lines that evoke the bone structure of his brow appear as a distinctive physical feature. The face of the empress on the other hand appears as the perfect mask of beauty: not only are her facial features, such as her delicate nose and large, almond-shaped eyes, so perfect and regular that they hardly appear distinctive, but Zoe is also depicted with the flawless, wrinklefree skin of a young girl despite being in her late sixties when this image of her was created.61 In the Chronographia we read that Empress Zoe had large eyes set under heavy eyebrows, blond hair and a body that seemed to glow with the whiteness of her skin; she maintained an appearance of youthfulness into her old age, her skin remaining smooth and unfurrowed.62 A woman susceptible to exaggerated compliments by flatterers (a known trick was to pretend to fall over as if thunderstruck upon seeing her), the aged Zoe is, moreover, described by Psellos obsessively concocting perfumes and unguents in cauldrons in her royal apartments. In this light, it is unsurprising to find the St Sophia mosaic depicting her with an appearance of remarkable youthfulness. The original image created as a companion to Romanos Argyros may even have been altered to accommodate a more extreme image of Zoe’s physical perfection. The ideal mask of beauty portrayed in the mosaic is one in which the empress does not age, but remains flawless and unspoilt.63 Set against each other these male and female portraits suggest a distinction between male and female portrait-likenesses. In depicting the likenesses of men their portraits conveyed a semblance of physical presence – at least the impression of representing actual individuals. Elements of idealization are visible, from the case of Neophytos to those of Monomachos and John Komnenos; wrinkles may be softened and cheeks rouged, likenesses made to conform to the ideal of the beautiful body, yet artists also used the visual vocabulary of facial features to bestow upon their figures a sense of personality or even to proclaim lineage, visually aligning the likeness of father and son. In the case of the women, on the other hand, facial features evoke more a generalized image of physical beauty that complies with the dictates of the ideal, than a sense of individuality. Geometrically

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applied, this generalized beauty appears almost mask like. If portraits of individuals were created to represent them in an ideal light before the gaze of the world, it may be that the ideal persona of these women necessitated a display of beauty even at the expense of individuality. In Theodore Prodromos’s story of Rodanthe and Dosiklis the physical descriptions of the hero and heroine underline this point. What is striking in Prodromos’s account of the two figures’ physique is that, unlike those of Dosiklis, the girl’s features are described through a wealth of geometric analogies. Prodromos’s description, in fact, structures the heroine’s face as an arrangement of circles: two white circles make up her cheeks, two red circles within the white ones light her face. As for her eyebrows, these are ‘shaped by nature’s good geometry’ into perfect semicircles. Introducing the description of his heroine the author in fact describes her beauty as unnatural and resembling a statue, while elsewhere in the text, Dosiklis remarks that Nature, skilled in geometry, has beautifully fashioned the young maiden.64 Eustathios Makrembolites’s contemporary romance of Hysmini and Hysminias, which equally presents numerous physical descriptions of characters built on the Byzantine ideal of beauty, also limits the geometric parallels to the description of the female beauty of the heroine.65 Hysmini’s face, overall, is like a well-shaped circle with the nose set within the very centre of this perfect circle. Her beautiful, black eyebrows have the arched shape of the rainbow or the crescent moon. Her teeth, locked within shapely lips, form a perfectly aligned row, while even colour on her cheeks appears neatly structured; they are very white except in the centre, where they appear red. It is Hysmini’s black, lively and playful eyes, however, that are portrayed in most curiously geometric terms. We are told that the circle of her eye culminated in an acute angle, so that her eyes were shaped like cones, rather than being round.66 The persistent geometry of these descriptions is echoed in other Byzantine writing that describes the beauty of maidens as so great and also so schematic that it appears to have been rendered by the painter’s hand. In the world of Digenis Akritis the hero’s unnamed beloved is described as so beautiful that she was ‘truly as if painted in a picture’.67 In Eugenianos’s Drosilla and Chariclis the author not only dwells (twice) on the perfect circles of Drosilla’s eyebrows but adds that Nature, like a painter, had mixed milk with roses in her complexion, giving her truly white-and-rosy skin. Like Rodanthe, Drosilla too appears to resemble more ‘a work of art, not a flesh and blood girl’.68 The parallel to Byzantine imagery, such as the image of Anna Radene with her perfectly geometric facial features and her pyramidal

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arrangement of curls, is pointed. The ‘mask of beauty’ that graces the figure, much like the texts, builds the impression that in images of women it is often a generalized notion of perfection that is advertised, at the expense of any hint of characterization bestowed upon a male face by a hooked nose or a thick set of unruly eyebrows.

On the beauty of men In Byzantine eleventh- and twelfth-century writing, a further gender distinction appears to be made in the way beauty is discussed as an attribute of male and female characters. Women are more often summed up by reference to their ideal, beautiful looks whereas the beauty of men appears at times to be described in a more complex context. In the Chronographia, female characters, whether they play a key part in the development of the story or receive only brief mention in the narrative, are often spoken of with regard to their beauty, or the lack of it. All we are told of Constantine Doukas’s two wives is that they were of noble birth and of outstanding beauty.69 The Skleraina, mistress of Constantine Monomachos, is introduced into the narrative with summary account that describes her as ‘beautiful and, otherwise, sensible’.70 When Psellos first presents the daughters of Constantine VIII in his story, he offers a comparative account of their beauty in his brief characterization of the three sisters. Marred by disease, Eudokia is not particularly beautiful, Zoe is of brilliant beauty and the last, Theodora, is less beautiful than her comely sister. The more elaborate references to physical beauty in the Chronographia are, however, devoted to the beauty of male characters. This is most notable in the description of the beauty of Constantine Monomachos, which is one of the most elaborate and detailed in the Chronographia and includes an in-depth account of the emperor’s ideal features that follows the rhetorical practices of an encomium, set within Psellos’s eulogy of the emperor. Throughout the text, Psellos’s references to male beauty, in fact, appear to have a ‘logical’ place within the narrative, either, as in the case with the description of Monomachos, serving the author’s rhetorical ends, or portraying male beauty as a significant factor in the development of events. Beauty, for instance, appears as an important factor in Zoe’s quest for a third husband. Besides the description of the fine looks of Constantine Monomachos, Zoe’s eventual choice, Psellos devotes attention to the comeliness of each perspective candidate in turn: the reader is told that Constantine Dalassenos was ‘an extraordinarily handsome man’, and also that the beauty of Constantine Artoklinis was so impressive that he had charmed the empress already when secretary to Romanos III, even to the

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point that she had been accused of having illicit relations with him.71 In a different context, the beauty of the young Constantine Doukas is described as so great that it could not be disguised by the simplicity of his dress, but rather shone brightly from beneath it.72 By praising Constantine’s comeliness Psellos suggests indirectly that it was this feature (rather than Psellos’s own influence) that helped to ensure his succession to the throne, his beauty making everyone acclaim him as the most suitable candidate.73 Michael Attaleiates’s (c.1020/30–1085?) Historia seems to draw a similar picture. Attaleiates’s history presents the reader with only two lengthy descriptions of physical beauty, both, significantly, describing male characters: the emperors Nikephoros Botaneiates and Romanos Diogenes. The beauty of women, like their deeds as historical figures, is largely ignored by Attaleiates. The author even dismisses female beauty as irrelevant to his history, noting, in the case of Eudokia Makrembolitissa, that he will not speak of the blossoming youth of the Augusta, as there are other matters of greater importance to be recounted.74 The cases of Botaneiates and Diogenes are suggestive in that the beauty of both, which is discussed in considerable detail, appears to be justified by the flow of Attaleiates’s narrative and of its rhetorical needs.75 The account of Botaneiates’s beauty forms a part of Attaleiates’s encomium to the emperor and was in keeping with the rules of rhetoric, which specified that physical description and an account of the beauty of the eulogized constituted a part of this genre. Pleasurable in appearance, Botaneiates is described as a second sun upon the earth. He is impressive in stature, of glowing complexion, ruddy in colouring, with black, beautiful eyes, arching eyebrows and a forehead that beamed with light.76 The description of the beauty of Romanos Diogenes is equally important in terms of the development of the narrative, and is in fact presented as playing a crucial role in the unravelling of the story. Exiled because of an attempt at the throne, Diogenes is brought before the empress who is seized by pity and moved to tears at the sight of his beautiful, youthful physique.77 Tall, broad shouldered, with the appearance of a king, with a ruddy complexion and comely eyes, the handsome Diogenes presents a sight that stirs not only the empress but also the attending nobles, swaying their hearts to granting him pardon and eventually leading Diogenes, through marriage, to the imperial throne.78 In the Epitome of John Kinnamos (1180–1182) beauty is presented as a key feature of a number of the female characters discussed in the narrative. The exceptional beauty of Maria, daughter of Isaac Komnenos, is praised twice within the text; the comeliness of Maria, daughter of Manuel and Bertha-Eirene, is also lauded as is that of the

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daughters of Raymond of Antioch.79 In the case of Raymond’s daughters, female beauty is also judged comparatively, with Marie deemed the most beautiful by Basil Kamateros, the imperial envoy, and selected as suited consort for Emperor Manuel.80 In his account of the beauty of men, however, Kinnamos links good looks to the flow of the narrative. The western Raymond of Poitou, he notes, was so handsome that he attracted the attention of a custodian at the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which eventually led to a marriage alliance that made Raymond prince of Antioch.81 In Kinnamos’s writing the beauty of men is ascribed such importance that it is described as triggering an imperial response, particularly when beauty is ruined by calamity: when the handsome son of sebastocrator Andronikos loses an eye in a joust he is compensated with the title of protosebastos. When the handsome Manuel, son of John Kantakouzenos, is imprisoned for treason and then blinded against the emperor’s wishes, Kinnamos speaks of the emperor’s anger against the wrongdoers. In the Alexiad, which presents elaborate accounts of both male and female beauty, Anna Komnene devotes her longest account of physical beauty to the description of a male character: the handsome, infamous Bohemond. The images of beautiful men painted through the lines of her history, moreover, by far outnumber those of beautiful women. Overall, what the above suggests is that though the beauty of women was often seen as important enough to have women measured with regard to their comeliness in Byzantine writing, at times it was the beauty of men that received the most numerous or lengthy descriptions; even when these were legitimized by being a crucial factor in a historical sequence of events or by serving the rhetorical ends of an encomium. In descriptions of physical beauty an underlying gender distinction was noted: addressed as an essential part of a woman’s image, sometimes beauty was praised in greater detail or given a greater validity when ascribed to the bodies of men. The question of what constitutes the beautiful body in Byzantium appears to be answered by the emergence of an Ideal of Beauty, echoed in visual imagery and identified in writing where it is made up of a long list of easily identifiable, even repetitively acclaimed physical features. Blond, curly locks, white-and-rosy skin, gleaming, bright eyes set under perfectly arching brows, a glowing complexion and a beautifully fashioned physique feature consistently in descriptions of ‘beautiful bodies’. Yet these rigid formulations of the ideal that present themselves as the ‘natural’ way of speaking about beauty in Byzantium, determining what constitutes the beautiful body and underlining how beauty is perceived and identified on the body of the bearer, are not without their ambiguities. In

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imagery and writing, individual physical features may idealize the bearer, make concessions to ‘reality’ or have symbolic connotations depending on the agendas of authors, painters, patrons and audiences. The claim on the universality of beauty is challenged by the distinction between the geometricized idealization of female beauty and the greater individuality ascribed to the beauty of men. Byzantine writing may sum up women by reference to their beauty and simultaneously devote its attentions to describing the beauty of men, as if to assign greater validity to the latter. What the dominant presence of the ideal also underlines is the existence of a profound preoccupation with beauty as an attribute of the human body in Byzantium; its repetitive presence indicates that the Byzantines were more concerned with physical beauty than scholarship has so far allowed for. Overall, one could argue that the ideal constitutes a discourse on beauty in Byzantium between the eleventh and the fourteenth centuries; the challenge is to penetrate what it professes to tell us about what beauty is and how it can be read on the human body.

2 Only Skin-Deep: Beauty and Ugliness between Good and Evil

Next to beauty, ugliness appears to be even more conspicuous Niketas Choniates, Historia, tr. H. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, Annals of Nicetas Choniates.1 A discussion of the ideal of beauty and its dictates in imagery and text alike from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries highlights the ways in which physical beauty in Byzantium was perceived and defined in this period. Yet the blond and curly-haired, bright-eyed and rosycheeked ideal of beauty that represents the image of the ‘beautiful body’ in Byzantium also necessitates a consideration of its alternative: the unsightly, ugly or deformed body. As beauty and ugliness coexist in Byzantine imagery and writing, a close look into the latter can also inform our understanding of the former: insights into perceptions and attitudes towards ‘the ugly’ may also be evocative about the Byzantine understanding of ‘the beautiful’. In the story of Velthandros and Chrysandza, the hero is called upon to judge a beauty show held in the Castle of Love and charged to bestow a golden rod upon the fairest maiden of all. He is thus faced with a contest of beauties, from which the perfection of Chrysandza will emerge triumphant, after defeating the imperfect beauty of all other contestants. In doing so, the story sets the blond-haired, gleamingeyed, white-skinned beauty of the heroine against the flawed bodies of her rivals, which are dismissed in a manner that sets excellence against physical fault and ultimately beauty against ugliness. This juxtaposition, however, of beauty and ugliness poses a broader question. If ugliness, like beauty, is written on the body, what can it tell us about the bearer and what does it reveal about itself as a quality on its own right? 33

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The varied face of ugliness As Velthandros proceeds to dismiss the thirty-nine comely maids that make up Chrysandza’s competition, he addresses a number of candidates in turn and explains his decision by naming the physical fault that ruins their beauty and makes them ugly (aschimizei). He identifies, in other words, the ugly part that damns the otherwise beautiful whole, thus providing his audience with a list of undesirable physical features that make a body ugly. Blurry eyes, large, excessively fleshed and poorly shaped lips, dark skin, brows that join in the middle of the forehead, a slumping posture, excessive weight or crooked teeth deny each candidate in turn the golden rod, bestowing fault (psogos) upon their otherwise fine appearance. In its elaborate detail, Velthandros’s speech is evocative of attitudes towards ugliness in Byzantium. As with beauty, ugliness too is made up of features, and a single ugly characteristic can evidently mar the beauty of the whole. More importantly, perhaps, Velthandros’s account also indicates that to the standard, repetitive ideal of beauty, ugliness proposes varied alternatives. Whereas ideal teeth look simply like a row of pearls, Velthandros describes how ugly ones protrude and recede at will, some sticking out, others coming still forward. Imperfect eyes, similarly, can be either hot and blurry or watery and appearing as if at risk of drowning.2 Whereas the beautiful body in Byzantium is easily summed up by the dictates of the ideal and made up of standard, often repeated, beautiful features from blond hair and white skin to gleaming eyes, the ugly body seems defined mostly by its diversity. In the story of Rodanthe and Dosiklis, a debate, which takes place as the hero and his friend Kratandros, captured by the barbarous pirate king Bryaxis, are about to die by the sword, makes a similar point. Bryaxis proposes to sacrifice Dosiklis and Kratandros as thank offerings to the gods and justifies his position in the face of opposition by noting that the gods, who find beauty pleasing and despise what is ugly, are only satisfied when receiving the best of offerings. So, ‘should one offer them a lame or a blind man, a shaky and snotty old man, with a hunched back and no teeth, a bald man, a hairy, pasty figure who reeks from afar or rather beautiful youths, on the peak of their youth?’3 To the ideal, if stereotyped, blond, white-skinned and rosy-cheeked beauty of Dosiklis, Bryaxis juxtaposes a varied image of ugliness: the old; the balding; the hairy; the smelly; the generally revolting ‘other’. Whether in the twelfth or the fourteenth century, the face of ugliness presents the potential for endless elaboration.

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Evocative of Byzantine perceptions on the unsightly body, the physical characteristics that make up the varied world of ugliness in Byzantine writing appear to apply equally to both sexes. When the third contestant in Velthandros and Chrysandza is dismissed for her dark skin, for instance, she is condemned for a feature that appears often in physical descriptions of (ugly) men and women alike. It appears as the defining attribute of Anna Komnene’s much-disliked younger brother in the Alexiad where she describes the future Emperor John as a dark-skinned infant, in pointed contrast to beautiful children in the Alexiad like the blond, white (milky-)skinned and rosy-cheeked Constantine Doukas. In the writings of John Zonaras in the Epitome Historion, the author quotes the unflattering nickname Antzypotheodoros ascribed to the ‘dark Theodore’ who joined John Tzimiskes in the murder of Nikephoros Phokas. The nickname, which translates as ‘Gypsy-Theodore’, was an open reference to the bearer’s dark complexion (melagchrous) and thus related explicitly to Theodore’s physical shortcoming.4 A dark complexion was generally seen in an unfavourable light in Byzantium, with black skin in particular associated also with the appearance of demons, who are habitually described as the dark figures of Ethiopians in Byzantine writing.5 In the Life of St Andrew the Fool, for instance, written in the mid-tenth century but enjoying popularity and continual readership in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the figure of the black man, whether Ethiopian or Arab, serves almost as a shorthand for a demon.6 A woman who consulted a sorcerer is punished by being pursued in her dreams by a lustful Ethiopian, a figure that she promptly interprets as an evil demon. The Arab merchant who verbally abuses St Epiphanios is also a demon envious of the saint’s virtue. With dark skin bearing such negative connotations, it is no surprise to find a dark complexion featuring among the list of negative attributes outlined in Velthandros’s story, or to see it transformed into a nickname for the unfortunate ‘Gypsy-Theodore’. This reference to Antzypotheodoros by Zonaras also underlines the negative popular attitude attached to ugliness in Byzantium, causing a nickname to be ascribed to an individual on the basis of a physical fault. The derogatory tone of the term suggests that Theodore’s blackness was a source of ridicule among his contemporaries. Choniates’s Historia is equally evocative in this respect, noting for instance that Alexios Doukas Mourtzouphlos received his nickname because ‘his eyebrows were joined together and hung over his eyes’.7 That the term, which means ‘heavy- or dark-browed’ but also ‘dreary’ and ‘cheerless’, was meant to be derogatory is also noted by George Akropolites. To this account of Mourtzouphlos’s appearance, Ephraim Ainios adds a fuller description,

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noting that he possessed, besides bushy eyebrows, a bad voice and an unattractive physique, lacking in bodily harmony. John Komnenos ‘the Fat’ also acquired his nickname due to a physical shortcoming. Choniates’s account of John’s brief sojourn in power presents a caricatured image of the emperor which emphasizes his obesity. John is described as ‘potbellied and with a body shaped like a barrel’, a fat usurper who appears ridiculous as he sits on the throne, perspiring heavily.8 Choniates paints a ridiculous image of the rotund emperor, undone by thirst because of his enormous size, gulping great quantities of water and sweating copiously. When Ephraim Ainios repeats this story in his fourteenth-century Chronographia, he tellingly elaborates it further by linking the usurper’s morbid end to his obesity. Being both ‘fat in the head’ and drunk, after greedily consuming a great quantity of wine, he left the palace doors unguarded, a mistake that proved fatal as he was then apprehended and beheaded.9 Fatness is generally derided: when Choniates speaks of the potbellied Michael Stryphnos, for instance, he aligns the latter’s obesity with his attitude towards government, describing him as a man ‘greedy of gain’ who ‘eagerly gulped down the public revenues’.10 Byzantine writing explicitly notes that ugliness made the bearer vulnerable to mockery and abuse. In Psellos’s Chronographia the author notes that the Skleraina may not have been an outstanding beauty, but she could not easily be attacked by vicious tongues or become the subject of ridicule. The implication is that there was no serious fault with her appearance that would cause her to be derided in public. Besides obesity and dark complexions, other physical flaws such as baldness could easily be turned into the butt of popular jokes. Choniates notes that when the elderly John Doukas lost his crown in a triumphal procession he was mocked by onlookers who ‘shouted and then laughed when they observed his bald head which earlier had been concealed by the crown but now shone like a full moon’.11 When the disgraced Emperor Andronikos I was paraded through the streets and taunted by the populace the author notes that he was bare headed, his bald head likened to an egg as it shone for all to see. The badly proportioned body was also looked upon as both ugly and potentially ridiculous. Choniates notes how Constantine Tripsychos was overheard mocking John Komnenos by paralleling him to Zintziphitzes, ‘a most hideous looking little man’ who lingered around the Hippodrome and provoked laughter with his taunts but also with his physique as ‘most of his limbs were disproportionate, and he was small in stature and corpulent’.12 A similar attitude is noted in Gregoras’s Romaiki Historia,

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where the author prompts fellow writers to follow the example of skilled painters in their characterization of individuals. Like the artist they too must eliminate any visible natural fault, such as a disproportionate arrangement of limbs, in order not to allow the ugliness of the prototype, this shame of Nature, to be reproduced in the image for eternity exposing the sitter to laughter and ridicule.13 Gregoras’s writing suggests not only that a disproportionate body is subject to mockery but also that ugliness is ‘a shame of Nature’ suggesting that when it comes to the ugly body in Byzantium, feelings ran deep. Ugliness and deformity as social stigma In this context, it is perhaps no surprise to find that in Byzantium, the image of the ugly jester, who provoked laughter not only with his antics but also with his hideous and often deformed body, is a commonplace with authors from historical writing to the fictive world of the romances. In Prodromos’s Rodanthe and Dosiklis, the jester Satyrion, who amuses the pirates, is a small, skinny figure with a shaved head and beard who terrified children with his looks and made grown men burst with laughter.14 More evocatively, Niketas Choniates’s Historia notes how the pleasureloving Isaac Angelos opened the doors of the court to ‘laughter-stirring dwarfs’, suggestively noting that deformity, as much as ugliness, would have entertained the jesters’ intended audience.15 This analogy between ugliness, deformity and disability appears frequently in Byzantine writing. In Kallimachos and Chrysorroi the female villain of the story who helps the king of Egypt abduct the beautiful heroine is an evil witch, notably described as an ugly, old, crutch-bearing cripple.16 Niketas Choniates remarks that Andronikos Komnenos, who enjoyed mocking those ‘who had suffered a repulsive physical deformity’, nicknamed the Sultan of Ikonion ‘Koutz-Arslan’ (limping Arslan), instead of Kilij Arslan, because of his crippled body, disproportionate, disjoined limbs and limping leg.17 The author also notes how, in the reign of Isaac Angelos, the crippled figure of the logothete Theodore Kastamonites enjoyed honours ‘inconsonant with Nature herself’, as able-bodied men were made to stand in a servile manner before one who had to be carried around in a litter.18 When the latter was replaced by Constantine Mesopotamites, a conniving youth much loved by the emperor, Choniates tellingly exclaims how ugliness is more noticeable when juxtaposed to beauty, the maimed body of Kastamonites, presumably, juxtaposed with that of the handsome Constantine. Such statements that link ugliness to disability are all the more poignant in a society that regarded bodily mutilation as a customary form

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of judicial punishment. From the mild punishment of hair cropping, which underlines the Byzantine association of fine tresses with beauty and their shearing with chastisement, to practices such as blinding and nose slitting, which both disfigured and disabled the condemned, punishment was made visible on the body.19 Byzantium in fact appears as a world in which shame was attached to bodily mutilation and where one had to be physically whole in order to have a claim to the throne. Justinian II, a notable exception, was suitably nicknamed the Rinotmetos or ‘slit nosed’. Choniates underlines the Byzantine belief in the embarrassment and humiliation ascribed to bodily mutilation or disfigurement. Speaking of the outrageous behaviour of the base, slit-nosed Stephen Hagiochristophorites, the author exclaims that rather than shying away from the world, mortified by his physical disfigurement as would be natural, he rather flaunted his slit nose, a sign of his overbearing shamelessness.20 The association between ugliness and social stigmatization is equally made in Rodanthe and Dosiklis, as the hero contemplates his chances of wooing the beautiful Rodanthe: neither strange nor unsociable in appearance, he argues, he is beautiful among men and thus worthy of her attention.21 If beauty is neither ‘strange’ nor ‘unsociable’ then its opposite, ugliness, is presumably both. Such attitudes are underlined in the ease with which Byzantine writing associated physical ugliness with other, non-physical, faults in a character’s moral fibre, intellectual ability, social position or manners. In his often venomous Epistolai (c.1135–1160) John Tzetzes urges Isaac Komnenos to rid himself of a certain unworthy character, wrongly enjoying his favour: he is a snotty man, Tzetzes claims, a horribly ugly, disgusting homosexual, who is dumber and more stupid than fish.22 Choniates’s Historia makes a similar point when describing the Cypriot John Spyridonakis who makes an attempt at the throne as ‘a worthless scoundrel among men’: he was ‘plain in appearance and of average height, squint-eyed, a craftsman by trade, a rustic in station’ and generally summed up as ‘pigmy-like humunculus’.23 Like Tzetzes, Choniates aligns ugliness with other shortcomings such as villainy, low birth and immorality. What is worth considering is how evocative this is of Byzantine beliefs on the relationship between physical appearance and the moral character of an individual. Does it follow that ugliness, a contemptible quality aligned to disability and punishment, was seen as proof of an individual’s vile inner character? Was beauty aligned with goodness in Byzantium and ugliness with evil, making saints beautiful and demons ugly?

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Handsome heroes, ugly villains and other half-truths That evil was ugly in Byzantium seems, at first glance, to be the obvious assumption in a culture that clearly associated demons, for instance, the quintessential embodiment of evil, with notions of physical revulsion. In the Life of St Andrew the Fool, demons are black creatures that emit foul smell and noise and, notably, cause disgust (aideia) when looked upon. The devil himself is equally described as ‘having savage eyes and striking terror mixed with disgust into anyone who looked at him’.24 Yet if demons were ugly it does not necessarily follow that all Byzantine saints were beautiful; ascetic saints, for instance, were often spoken of as emaciated, dark-skinned, and even filthy. The Life of St Mary of Egypt, attributed to the seventh-century author Sophronios, describes her as dark of skin, blackened by the sun, and like a shadow in appearance.25 The twelfth-century monk Philagathos equally describes St John the Baptist as possessing a squalid appearance and dirty hair.26 Despite their rough exterior, however, ascetic saints are not actually termed ‘ugly’, but rather paralleled to angels in praise for their renunciation of the flesh. Images of St Mary of Egypt may depict her drawn and haggard, her ribs showing through her dark skin, yet the epigraphs written about these images note that she was painted ‘as the nature of angels is often seen’, placing emphasis on the saint’s inner self.27 Looking at the image of St Onouphrios from the Protaton Monastery in Karyes, Mount Athos, the viewer would note the wrinkled face of the saint, his drawn features, emaciated arms, prominently visible ribs, and in particular the unsightly hair that covers all of the saint’s body – all in poignant antithesis to the Byzantine ideal of beauty, or the beautiful youthfulness of figures like the military St Demetrios from the same church (Figures 13 and 14). Yet what the monks standing within the space of the church were expected to see in the saint’s image and in his haggard body was a paradigm of the ascetic values they ought to aspire to if they were to achieve salvation. In images of the ascetic body it seems that the lack of beauty was seen as ‘only skin-deep’; beyond the leathery complexion of the saint it was the sanctified soul that was emphasized. The other side of the coin from the complex image of the emaciated ascetic is the classical notion of the ‘good and the beautiful’ (kalos k’agathos), which prescribes an effortless alignment between inner and outer beauty, between physical beauty in the appearance of an individual and the moral goodness within. Petrakova, writing on the beauty of the human body in antiquity, has suggested that the belief in the link

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of outer and inner beauty seen in ancient literature is ‘a motif typical of Byzantine literature as well’.28 A reference in the Souda, the Byzantine tenth-century dictionary compilation, suggests that the classical connotations of kalos k’agathos were not lost on the Byzantines; to explain the term, the dictionary notes that ‘kalos refers to the beauty of the body and agathos to that of the soul’.29 Yet, whether the principles of kalokagathia can be traced in Byzantine attitudes towards beauty and ugliness, and the extent to which inner and outer beauty were seen to reflect upon one another, is a point that merits careful consideration. In Prodromos’s romance, the debate on beauty that takes place before the altar as Dosiklis and Kratandros face the sacrificial blade puts forward a play on the notions of kalos and kakos, which evokes the twofold connotations of the two terms between beauty and goodness, ugliness and evil. As Dosiklis’s father, Kratonas, attempts to counter the arguments of the pirate king and save the youths, he asks: where would this world be led if all the good/beautiful (kaloi) were sacrificed? Only the evil/ugly (kakoi) would live, receiving life as a reward for their wickedness (kakia), and life in such a world would be an awful thing.30 Kratonas asks that the beautiful are spared because they represent all that is good about the world. In this logic, physical beauty is equated with inner, moral goodness while the lack of beauty is associated with the wickedness of evil men (kakia). On the basis of this account one would argue that in Byzantium ‘heroes are handsome and villains ugly’, goodness is aligned with beauty and ugliness with evil.31 At first glance, Zonaras’s history seems to underline this logic, presenting images of ugly villains in the case, for instance, of the physical descriptions of the ugly iconoclast emperors Zeno and Stavrakios. Describing Zeno, Zonaras notes that he was unsuitable for the throne because he had neither the personality nor the appearance suitable for a ruler: on the contrary, he was very ugly, and as for his personality, that was worse than his appearance.32 He also notes that Stavrakios, son of Emperor Nikephoros, was exceedingly ugly and naive and possessed neither the appearance nor the bravery or the wisdom fitting for a king.33 Regardless of how this may have corresponded to the actual appearance of Zeno and Stavrakios, these views speak of a world in which a bad emperor is easily picked out through his appearance as much as through his cruel and despicable rule. Zonaras’s matter-of-fact wording suggests that among his contemporaries all this would be far from foreign. This said, however, a closer look at Zonaras’s history presents a more complex image of beauty and ugliness than it may at first seem. Writing on the rise to power of Basil I, Zonaras notes that it was Basil’s comeliness

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that led to his position as the emperor’s protégé. His beauty attracted the eye of Theophilitzis, a relative of the emperor, who liked Basil because he was beautiful, tall, brave and a good soldier, and he had long and curly hair.34 It was due to these fine physical attributes and his skill as a horseman that Basil earned the favour of Michael III and was taken into the emperor’s service, only to eventually murder him. Zonaras’s account speaks both of Basil’s beauty and the murder of his imperial benefactor. In describing how the emperor’s mother received Basil, moreover, Zonaras notes that she looked upon him carefully and prophesized that he would ruin her family line, something she claimed to know from some signs that her husband had once revealed to her.35 Michael’s mother reads, through the knowledge of secret signs, Basil’s future conduct in his physical appearance. To the uninitiated, however, all that was visible was Basil’s beautiful physique, which was, evidently, enough to eventually raise him to the position of emperor. In a similar fashion, Zonaras reports that the low-born Empress Theophano rose to power as the wife of Nikephoros Phokas by virtue of her beauty, despite being descended from a family of inn-keepers. Originally a common and vulgar woman by the name of Anastaso, she had been crafted by Nature with the perfection of a statue; yet Zonaras’s story indicates that this outer beauty by no means matched her deeds.36 The author notes how she embarked in an affair with the handsome John Tzimiskes, either captivated by love because of his good looks, or because she saw in him a fitting adversary for her husband.37 With her help, Tzimiskes and his fellow conspirators entered the emperor’s bedchamber and proceeded to torture and finally murder Nikephoros before desecrating his dead body. Zonaras’s story of Theophano and Tzimiskes underlines that physical beauty can coexist with a far from flawless moral character. In fact, contrary to Petrakova’s suggestion, beauty in Byzantium can be the attribute of a villainous, adulterous woman and a murderer alike. This is also the case in other Byzantine historical writing. Anna Komnene’s Alexiad is full of handsome villains, characters who are both physically beautiful and morally reprehensible. Robert Guiscard and his son Bohemond are described as bloodthirsty, disloyal, conniving scoundrels, yet their beautiful physique is elaborately praised.38 The young Nikephoros Diogenes is acclaimed for his beauty and sportsmanship despite his treacherous character; Anna describes his good looks while at the same time dwelling on Nikephoros’s attempts to take both Alexios’s throne and his life despite having benefited from the emperor’s kindness.39 Scholars have attempted to account for the rationale behind this image of the handsome villain in historical writing: Anna’s interest in the

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beauty of her villains has been read as a need to set Alexios, the great hero of her narrative, against worthy opponents who would match Alexios in every way, in physical beauty as much as in military shrewdness.40 Yet if Anna’s laudatory portrait of Bohemond’s good looks, for instance, can be explained in these terms, it would be hard to ascribe a similar agenda to Zonaras’s accounts of beautiful, yet morally unwholesome, characters. The image of the handsome villain thus appears to be much more than merely a literary ploy intended to aggrandize the hero, a fact that is revealing about the Byzantine notion of the role of physical beauty. Anna’s account of the beauty of Bohemond or Zonaras’s description of the handsome Basil have similar implications: the emphasis on the beauty of these characters coupled with the openness about their moral shortcomings suggests that for authors and audiences alike physical beauty would not be seen as incompatible with evil deeds. As authors disassociate outer, physical beauty from inner, moral traits, seeing the physical exterior as detached from moral connotations, it seems that beauty may be an attribute of villains as much as of heroes in Byzantium.

The handsome executioner When it comes to visual depictions of ‘the villain’, it is the image of the executioner who takes the martyr’s life that is an obvious visual example of an unquestionably evil character in Byzantine imagery. That executioners were not seen in a positive light is suggested by the way in which they are described in written texts, which would in turn condition the attitudes of audiences. Maguire quotes an ekphrasis (a literary description of a work of art, whether extant or imagined) by Philagathos on an image of the Massacre of the Innocents, which speaks of the executioners’ beastly, savage and inhuman nature.41 Philagathos describes how the painted figure of Herod is seen ‘sitting proudly on some high throne, giving sharp and savage looks with wide-open eyes (. . .) commanding the soldiers to mercilessly harvest the field of children. They, springing like wild beasts, pitilessly dismembered the wretched infants.’42 The unfavourable light in which the executioners were seen is evident in Philagathos’s choice of wording. In a parallel between text and image, Maguire also points to the scene of the Massacre of the Innocents depicted in the lower half of the Nativity icon from the Monastery of Mount Sinai dating to the first half of the twelfth century (Figure 15). The icon, which portrays the story of the Nativity from the Proskynesis of the Magi to the flight to Egypt and the Massacre of the Innocents in a series of scenes layered within a

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rocky landscape, includes a scene where a bearded executioner chases a retreating St Elizabeth. Maguire suggests that the ‘streaming hair’ of the figure is reminiscent of descriptions of such characters as wild beasts in Byzantine writing.43 However, this scene as a whole presents a more complex image of the executioner than it may at first seem – one in which the execution is no uglier than the next man. On the lower register of the icon, the scene of the Massacre presents seven figures of executioners; some are seen standing by Herod receiving their orders while others are depicted in the act of carrying out his commands, spearing and dismembering the infants. The pictorial rendering of these figures appears to tell its own story. All seven executioners are notably eye-catching characters. They are depicted wearing elaborate armour, helmets adorned with finials and decorative detailing, all rendered in gold down to their golden leg-shields. The variety of their dress is also noted. Their breastplates are embellished with scroll-like decoration, seen, for instance, on the figure standing closest to Herod on the left and that of the bearded, sword-wielding executioner in the centre of the image who holds an infant by its ankles. The executioners standing next to Herod bear ornate shields decorated with scrolls and patterns. Their faces are depicted with carefully denoted, regular features, with most of them looking no different than the faces of the angels at the top register of the icon. An exception is the bearded figure at the centre of the scene whose low forehead and oddly painted mouth make him appear somewhat caricatured. Notably, the figure also appears in profile. One could argue that this is a significant choice by the artist. Corrigan’s reading of the image of the Jew in Byzantine marginal Psalters has linked the caricatured profile views of evil characters in Byzantine imagery with notions of ugliness and villainy.44 In a world that valued bodily symmetry and linked it with the beautiful body (as seen in Psellos’s account of Monomachos or Anna Komnene’s description of Emperor Alexios), the choice of the profile pose, which presented a pictorial refutation of the symmetry of the human face, could be seen as serving to communicate a negative visual message.45 If symmetry is beauty, is the asymmetry of the profile pose linked to ugliness and perhaps also to villainy and used as a visual way of denouncing an evil character? Setting the figure in the context of the icon as a whole, however, disrupts the logic of such an argument. A quick glance at the image reveals a number of other figures also set in profile who could not have been intended to be seen in a negative or unfavourable light: two angels in the upper register of the iconography, Joseph and the angel appearing in his dream, the third Magus bearing a gift to the Christ child,

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a servant girl pouring water into Christ’s bath. In other words, this image suggests that there seems to be no clear cut link between the villain and the profile pose; not all villains are painted in profile, and not all profile characters are villains. More importantly, in the case of the Sinai icon executioners, there is no clear telltale feature in the physical appearance of these figures that identifies them as evil characters. Another image from St Catherine’s Sinai, the eleventh-century calendar icon that depicts the various feast days from 1 September to 30 November, is evocative in this respect. Among the ninety-one images depicted, many illustrate the martyrdom of saints (Figure 16).46 Notably, the manner in which the executioner is depicted varies significantly between scenes. In the martyrdoms of the Apostle Thomas (6 October) and of St Demetrios (26 October), the executioners are depicted as featureless, black figures brandishing spears. These dark silhouettes may well have evoked the traditional iconography of demons in the mind of Byzantine viewers, who are consistently depicted as small, pitch-black human figures equipped with a pair of wings.47 Faced with the dark figures of these executioners (who resemble Byzantine demons in all but their lack of wings that denotes them as human rather than incorporeal beings) audiences would presumably read their physical appearance as visual evocation of their evil deed. This said, however, only two of the forty-seven executioners painted in the calendar icon are represented in this manner; others make a much different visual impression (Figure 17). The youthful executioner in the scene of 14 October is depicted with wavy tresses and a delicately painted face, the careful handling of his facial features resembling that of the kneeling saint. In the scene for 17 September depicting the martyrdoms of Sts Pistis, Elpis and Agape, the executioner is also a beardless youth, with hair arranged in rows of tight, neat curls, a face rendered as an elegant oval, carefully illuminated on the right to accentuate its smooth contour. Strikingly, the attention lavished on the depiction of this executioner’s fine features has not been extended to those of his victims; their hair and facial features are summarily handled. The youthful beauty of these executioners is often matched by their elaborate dress and armour. Numerous executioners in the icon appear in armour rendered in gold, while those not in military dress, like the sword-wielding figure in the scene of the martyrdom of St Plato (18 November), or the murderer of prophet Zachariah (5 September), display elaborate golden-coloured breaches decoratively patterned with dark lines and scrolls. Resplendent in their golden armour and fine facial features, such executioners are very different in appearance from the

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two pitch-black figures spearing Sts Thomas and Demetrios. One could argue that the magnitude of their crime, the murder of an Apostle and a revered military saint like St Demetrios, is reflected in the artist’s choice to depict these figures (literally) in a darker manner than the rest, but this logic seems precarious. Regardless of why the artist seems to make the distinction between some executioners and others, what is significant is that out of the forty-seven executioners in the icon, only in two cases could viewers safely read the characters’ villainy in their physical appearance. The scene of the Massacre of the Innocents depicted in the Church of the Prophet Elias, Thessaloniki (c.1360–1370), makes a similar point (Figure 18). In the left-hand corner of the scene, where Herod gives his orders to a group of standing soldiers, an executioner with an almost caricatured appearance is particularly noticeable. His profile is marked by an enormous hooked nose, his cheeks appear chubby, his lips thick, his ear disproportionately large in relation to the rest of his face. Elsewhere, in the centre of the scene, among the soldiers represented carrying out Herod’s commands, is an aged executioner, seen wielding an enormous spear. He is depicted in profile, with a receding hairline and a shiny, bare forehead, the irregular outline of his bony nose silhouetted against the dark background. The figure of a young spear-bearing executioner in the foreground of the scene presents a very different image (Figure 19). The youth is depicted with rich, wavy hair, embellished with yellow highlights and a few loose curly locks. The smooth oval of his face is carefully illuminated, his complexion livened with a touch of pink on the cheeks and the delicate, small mouth. His eyes are large and framed by arching brows, his nose straight and delicate, his armour splendid and embellished with a fluttering, dark-red cape. Depicted in the act of murder, the youth is nonetheless painted with attention to detail and with carefully rendered features that match the Byzantine ideal of beauty. The only visible trait that betrays the dark soul that lies beneath the beautiful body is in the figure’s gaze. He is painted with wide-open eyes, the whites drawn clearly around the iris bestowing the figure with an air of grim determination – a telling detail that echoes, for instance, Philagathos’s description of Herod giving instructions to his men with savage, wideopen eyes and a razor-sharp gaze. For the Byzantines’ ‘wild eyes’ were one of the characteristics of the devils, as is underlined, for instance, by Niketas Choniates in his Dogmatike Panoplia. They equally appear as an attribute of bloodthirsty villains, as in the case of the pirates in Hysmini and Hysminias: likened to savage beasts with their dark faces and bloodthirsty hands, the pirates are described as wild-eyed men. Overall,

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however, what the handling of the youthful executioner in the scene from the church of Prophet Elias suggests is that in the Byzantine mind, not all executioners looked alike. In some cases, their physical appearance may have alluded to their role as villains. In others, however, their finely executed facial features and elaborate dress would underline that the notion of a ‘beautiful executioner’ was not an impossibility in the Byzantine mind. Kazhdan, writing on Byzantine hagiography, notes that ‘human beauty was ambivalent; it could reflect the beauty of the soul and, on the contrary, it could deceptively cover the spiritual ugliness of a man’.48 In fact, it seems that beauty in Byzantium does more than to mask or reveal an individual’s character. The beauty that indiscriminately marks the bodies of saints and sinners alike appears neither to hide nor to expose, but rather to reveal nothing of their inner self. In the image of the executioner, physical beauty appears independently of all moral qualities. Whether painted in an image or described in a text, the executioner’s beauty thus appears to be there per se, celebrated on its own accord for the pleasure it offers the artist/author in rendering it and the viewer/ audience in contemplating it. What this underlines is a fascination with physical beauty on its own right in Byzantium, on behalf of the producers as much as of the receivers of both verbal and visual images.

Beauty is as beauty does? Unattached to moral connotations, beauty was depicted and praised per se both in Byzantine imagery and writing; what remains unclear, however, is whether this lauded attribute was regarded as a good or evil quality on its own right. An anonymous Byzantine treatise titled Charidimos, or On Beauty, loosely dated between the ninth and the twelfth centuries, presents a discourse on beauty between the Athenians Charidimos and Ermipos who are presented talking over the previous night’s symposium, describing the course of the discussion for the benefit of the reader.49 Through their exchange, the audience follows a discussion that takes as its starting point the (physical) beauty of a youth named Cleonymos and concludes that beauty is a divine quality served by gods and men alike and the final goal of all human endeavour. Beauty was at times acclaimed as a divine gift: in the world of Rodanthe and Dosiklis, the hero Dosiklis is presented describing beauty as an invaluable divine blessing and a proof of divine magnanimity.50 When Rodanthe is captured by the evil Govryas and put in chains, the author notes that her beauty, being so great, causes the satrap to release her, fearing his captive may be some goddess; immense beauty, the author

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notes, can sooth and beguile even the soul of thieves. This said, however, the course of the narrative proves this divine gift of beauty to be the cause of misfortune. In the case of Rodanthe, it is her beauty that causes Govryas to fall in love with her, brewing anxiety for the lovers. More dramatically, it is beauty that nearly costs Dosiklis and Kratandros their lives, bringing them before the sacrificial blade as prized offerings to the gods. In an eloquent lament on the evils of beauty delivered by Prodromos as he prepares to lead his characters before the sacrificial altar, the author notes: ‘o vile beauty, o evil gift of the gods, it would be better that the beautiful were not born so, if they must be slaughtered because of their beauty.’51 In the epic of Digenis Akritis, beauty is equally portrayed as a divine gift with possibly disastrous side effects. It is described as a blessing bestowed by a Christian God upon the worthy hero. Digenis, we are told, was ‘by all the favours of Christ enriched, beauty and bravery, wisdom and much daring’.52 The beauty of his only female adversary, Maximou, proves to be less straightforward. Digenis defeats Maximou in combat but then, struck by her beauty, spares her life. When Maximou partially undresses to wash her wounds in the river, the sight of her beautiful body seen through her transparent chiton seduces the hero. Wounded by her beauty, Digenis then submits to her charms, consummating his desire. This sin, instigated by Maximou’s beauty, will prove to be her undoing, as Digenis later confesses all to his wife and returns to kill Maximou in order to expiate his transgression.53 Proclaimed a gift of the gods, beauty can nonetheless be a treacherous blessing for men and women alike, a point noted by Byzantine historiography which speaks both of the potential evils of beauty and of its ability to bring disaster on the bearer. In Zonaras’s Epitome Historion, the author, writing on the cruelty of the Abasgian tyrants, notes how the birth of beautiful boys was the greatest of misfortunes for their fathers who paid with their lives for the beauty of their children; boys with comely faces and fine bodies were seized by the Abasgian rulers by force, castrated and sold as eunuchs to Byzantium, while their fathers were put to death to prevent retaliation against the state. Throughout Byzantine writing beauty is acknowledged as having the power to bring evil upon the bearer. In the case of Kallimachos and Chrysorroi an entire country suffers for the beauty of the heroine. An evil dragon, captivated by the beauty of the young princess Chrysorroi, who refuses his hand in marriage, swallows her entire people, takes her captive and hangs her by her hair in his castle where she is found (and rescued) by the brave Kallimachos. Written on the body as a list of individual features, ugliness, unlike beauty, is distinguished by its startling variety: to the ideal, stereotyped

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image of the beautiful body, ugliness, like a distorting mirror, seems to juxtapose a multitude of warped reflections. A reviled quality that was seen to cause both laughter and disgust, it is described as heaping ridicule upon the bearer. Yet, just as the Byzantines acknowledged it as an attribute of devils and villains, they also read its physical attributes on the body of an ascetic saint, in which case it was ascribed a different significance: the haggard flesh alluding instead to the beauty within. Two sides of the same coin, ugliness and beauty, both relate ambiguously to notions of goodness and evil, to the inner self of individuals and their moral character. Beauty appears as an attribute of saints and sinners, heroes and their adversaries alike; it cannot be read as a clear-cut, outer sign of moral righteousness. Whether in images or in writing, beauty was thus appreciated and exalted purely on its own accord, with no reference to the bearer’s personality or moral values: it was hailed wherever it appeared, from the holy bodies of young saints to those of unholy executioners. The effects of beauty on the bearer or those around him/her were equally neither straightforward nor predictable. Beauty was seen as able to achieve the benign and the terrible to equal measure; described as instigating affection but equally shown to incite the vilest of passions. Struck by beauty, the beholder could be stirred to love or pity, but equally to envy, sin and murder. What this underlines is that beauty was seen as an inherently neutral quality; it revealed nothing about the bearer and promised nothing of its effect on the beholder. For the Byzantines, beauty and its dark side, rather than appearing as distinct opposites, seemed at times to overlap: beauty was often the source of both temptation and damnation, the instigator of evil deeds, just as much as it could be a benign quality, a divine gift and the bearer’s saving grace. All that can be said of it, in fact, is that it was perceived as a potent quality; neither good nor evil in itself but neutral, unpredictable and powerful, it was a force to be reckoned with.

3 Beauty and Power and Beauty as Power

A study of Byzantine attitudes towards beauty and its opposites reveals that, found equally in the bodies of heroes and villains, saints and sinners, beauty was acknowledged as having the ability to achieve both good and evil. Perceived as neither good nor bad but rather as an intrinsically neutral quality, beauty was seen as having the ability to bring about the salvation of the bearer, but equally to heap misfortune upon him/her. This chapter looks further into the ability of beauty to effect action and achieve result, its power to set events into motion and stir individuals into action. Acknowledged by the Byzantines as a force that directed human activity, beauty’s power was perceived to work in multifold ways, which are examined for what they reveal of contemporary attitudes. If beauty was written on the body, how was its power (a quality for which beauty was exalted but also damned and blamed) perceived and expressed in life, text and art?

Beauty as a force of action In the realm of love, a sphere in which beauty’s power was both acknowledged and acclaimed, beauty was renowned for having the power to instigate affection, to unleash passion, to woo and lure, even to secure an advantageous match for those fortunate enough to possess it. Niketas Choniates comments, for instance, that Constantine Angelos though ‘not descended from a very eminent and noble family’ nonetheless managed to marry into the royal family, thanks to his good looks.1 ‘Robust in stature and graced with a handsome bloom on his face, Angelos took to wife Theodora (begotten of Emperor Alexios, Manuel’s grandfather), fortunate in having his comeliness serve as matchmaker.’2 Beauty’s power in stirring love is underlined in written accounts, which describe it as a 49

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weapon that wounds the object of one’s desire. Manganeios Prodromos, for instance, writes of John, eldest son of Eirene Komnene: ‘You (the bridegroom) shoot at the maiden from your eyes like Eros; your beauty is your weapon and the fire of passion your curling locks.’3 Beauty in the realm of love, however, can also instigate murder. In Nikephoros Gregoras’s Romaiki Historia, Andronikos III, burning with jealousy at the discovery that his mistress was enjoying the attentions of a certain youth of exceptional beauty, set about a hurried murder plot that resulted in the accidental death of his own brother. When Zonaras tells the story of Empress Zoe’s infatuation with Michael IV, he dwells on how Michael’s beauty stirred the aging empress; seized by love for him, she would burn with desire and, seeing his beauty, she was consumed by the flame of passion. The author also describes the mysterious death of Zoe’s husband, Romanos III Argyros, speaking of the emperor’s declining health, possibly due to poisoning, and adding that his head was held long underwater in the baths, bringing about his death. Zoe’s involvement is implied: she feigned distress yet proceeded to enthrone her beloved Michael on the very night of her husband’s death.4 The case of Zoe and Michael IV underlines that beauty’s power to instigate passion could also be transformed into a more literal kind of power. Psellos’s account of the story of the lovesick empress notes the effect of Michael’s beauty on Zoe, claiming that at the sight of him her ‘eyes burned with fire as dazzling as the young man’s beauty and she at once fell victim to his charm’.5 The author then prefigures how this beauty was to lead Michael directly to the throne for, driven to obsession, Zoe would ‘adorn him, as if he were some statue (agalma), cover him with gold, make him resplendent with rings and garments’ and then sit him on the imperial throne calling him her ‘idol’ (agalma), ‘the delight of her eyes’, ‘the flower of beauty’.6 Notably, in Psellos, as in Manganeios Prodromos, it is the eyes that serve as sensory gates allowing beauty to be transmitted and perceived and enabling it to ‘do its work’, which in Michael IV’s case is to lead him to the imperial office. Byzantine authors are often eloquent on this front, describing cases in which physical beauty led to advancement and illustrating how the power of beauty could be translated into literal, political power. Men like Synadenos in Anna Komnene’s Alexiad and Mizizios in Zonaras’ Epitome, for instance, rose to prominence and approached the imperial throne by virtue of their good looks. Anna Komnene notes that Emperor Nikephoros Botaneiates preferred Synadenos to all other candidates for the throne because he was ‘of illustrious descent and fine appearance, a thoughtful youth of strong physique, on the verge of manhood’.7 As for

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Mizizios we are told that, following the death of Emperor Constans, the army proclaimed emperor ‘an Armenian, by the name of Mizizios, who was statuesque (agalmatias) in appearance and of exceptional beauty’.8 Zonaras also notes that Basilikinos, raised by Michael III from the status of an imperial rower to one of the emperor’s confidants due to the beauty of his body, was even asked by the drunken emperor to wear the imperial sandals.9 In the writing of Niketas Choniates a young impostor by the name of Alexios who posed as the son of Emperor Manuel was so handsome that the populace marvelled at his ideal physique: his long blond hair that seemed decked with gold, his imposing build and fine horsemanship. Physical beauty seems to have had the power to stir the hearts of both emperors and the common people. Anna Komnene’s description of how Alexios took pity on Leo and Nikephoros Diogenes, partly ‘for their sufferings, partly because they were exceptionally handsome and strong, on the threshold of manhood, tall and finely proportioned, with all their promise of youth’ is a case in point.10 Alexios’s pity, instigated by the youths’ beauty, resulted in the emperor’s protection and the opportunity for political advancement: Nikephoros, for instance, was made governor of Cyprus. As for the regard won over by beauty, Anna notes how Nikephoros, described according to the ideal of beauty as ‘a broadchested, blond man, a head taller than others of his generation’, dazzled audiences with his athletic and military prowess and thus swayed ‘the favour of the people’ who would watch him gaping with admiration as if thunderstruck by the spectacle.11 Michael Taronites, the emperor’s brother-in-law, being no better than the common man in being dazzled by such things, elevated Nikephoros to the title of panhypersevastos, thus underlining just to what extent the power of beauty could lead to one’s advancement to power and prominence. Yet, if the physical beauty of those around him could beguile the emperor, it could equally brew anxiety and worry the head that wore the crown. Niketas Choniates writes that those in power dreaded any man in their realm who might distinguish himself, and phrases the emperor’s fear of beauty’s power and the belief in beauty’s association with kingship in no uncertain terms: ‘should there exist someone endowed with the beauty of a statue and the lyrical eloquence of a nightingale in song ( . . .) then the wearer of the crown can neither sleep nor rest (. . .) with wicked tongue he curses the creator nature for fashioning others suitable to rule and for not making him the first and last and the fairest of men.’12 Zonaras makes a similar claim for the evil Emperor Constantine Kopronymos who persecuted men of distinguished families

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because he envied some for their beauty and strong physique and others because they informed the church of his debauched ways. Even Manuel Komnenos was susceptible to such thoughts; the imprisonment of Andronikos Komnenos, Choniates notes, was caused by the suspicion in which he was held by Manuel because of his impeccable physique, which was deemed ‘worthy of empire’, coupled with physical strength and unbridled pride.13 Beauty’s ease in procuring the love of the populace and marking out an individual among the crowd meant that it was often not only admired by emperors but also feared and envied. The power of beauty, from the realm of love to that of politics, is acknowledged and proclaimed in Byzantine writing, underlining, moreover, how beauty was discussed in association with notions of power, whether sexual, political or social. It also makes a further point. In having the ability to secure brides, wound hearts, stir individuals into action, even lend the bearer political protection and pave his way to office, a title or even the throne, beauty appeared not merely as a state of being, but as a force of action. It suggests that to be beautiful in Byzantium was to find oneself in a dynamic situation, to be in possession of a quality that was energetic rather than static. This dynamic power of the beautiful body manifested and proclaimed itself as a driving force in Byzantium.

The beautiful body as statue Throughout this discussion of the power of beauty the repetition of the word ‘agalma’ or ‘statue’ as an analogy for the beautiful body in numerous of these accounts is striking. It was not just the infatuated Empress Zoe who both proclaimed her lover a statue (agalma) of beauty and proceeded to adorn him like a statue, too. From Michael IV to Mizizios and the writings of Choniates, the beautiful body in Byzantium is often aligned with the agalma. In his Epitome Historion, John Zonaras notes that the youth selected to marry the youngest daughter of Alexios Komnenos, though of an undistinguished family, was of statuesque beauty (agalmatias).14 What survives of Constantine Manassis’s fragmented romance of Aristandros and Kallithea equally presents a reference to the statue-like beauty of handsome youths; women are by nature jealous, Manassis notes, particularly when in love and all the more so when their lover is young, beautiful and like a statue (agalmatias) in appearance.15 In Psellos’s account of the physical appearance of Constantine Monomachos the author refers to the emperor as an agalma of beauty.

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In Anna Komnene’s Alexiad, numerous beautiful bodies are paralleled to agalmata, including the broad-shouldered, wide-chested Bohemond, the imperial couple Alexios and Eirene, and Maria of Alania, who is described as an ‘agalma endowed with life’. Clearly beautiful female bodies were aligned to the agalma, just as much as the beautiful bodies of men; in Prodromos’s Rodanthe and Dosiklis the author’s description of the heroine exalts Rodanthe’s exceptional beauty which made her appear like a sacred agalma, a sculpted image of Artemis.16 Found in numerous references in Byzantine writing this parallel of the ideal perfection of beautiful bodies to statues (agalmata) is suggestive in what it may evoke of Byzantine attitudes on physical beauty. Agalma to the Byzantines literally meant ‘statue’. The analogy between the beautiful body and the agalma was thus inevitably coloured by the numerous associations attached to the statue in Byzantium, whether these were the remnants of antiquity or the sculpted images of emperors that formed a part of everyday reality for many Byzantines. The evidence of the eighth-century Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai underlines the extent to which the cityscape of Constantinople was littered with statues and presents evidence of how Byzantine viewers responded to them, through stories that often describe statues in a negative light.17 Based on such evidence in Byzantine writing, scholarship had long claimed that the statue, as much among the ignorant masses as among the learned elite, was regarded with a mixture of fear and superstition: statues in Byzantium were associated with the demonic, seen as able to prophesize the future, and inflict misfortune, injury or even death upon the innocent bystander.18 Mango notes that even Michael Psellos, ‘perhaps one of the most brilliant of all Byzantine intellectuals, himself half-believed this nonsense’.19 Liz James has noted, however, that such attitudes rather than illustrating Byzantine superstition, in fact underline that statues in Byzantium were primarily seen as loci of power, a suggestion that may have significant implications for the ‘beautiful body as statue’ paradigm.20 For the Byzantines, images, whether Christian or pagan, were invariably regarded as powerful: for the Christian icons which prophesized the future or miraculously revenged themselves upon their attackers, the source of power was the holy, for the pagan statues it was the demonic.21 The evidence of Byzantine writing presents such beliefs put into practice with twelfth-century sources, for instance, describing how Manuel Komnenos cast down the so-called Hungarian woman in the Hippodrome to improve his chances of victory over the Hungarians – an attempt to manipulate the power vested within the statue to suit his own ends.22

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When statues were represented pictorially, their images may also have evoked similar attitudes. Writing on representations of antique statues in the background of manuscript illustrations in the Menologion of Basil II (c.1000) (cod. Vat. gr. 1613, Biblioteca Vaticana, pp. 371, 406), Mango puts forward an argument on the Byzantine misconception of antique sculpture.23 He observes that the artists used a specific pose almost as a shorthand or a sign for the statue: ‘a nude, standing figure holding a spear in one hand; the other may be free, but usually it holds an orb with a piece of fabric hanging below it’.24 For Mango these shorthand figures, employed by artists to represent statues, stand as proof of the Byzantine inability to understand or render classical sculpture. It may be, however, that this pose of the spear-bearing figure held rather different connotations. A similar image of a statue in the early-thirteenth-century narrative icon from St Catherine’s Sinai (Figure 20), representing St Catherine surrounded by scenes of her life, makes a suggestive point. In the second narrative scene at the top of the icon’s frame, St Catherine is presented challenging the emperor’s worship of idols. Before her, represented beneath an elaborate canopy, are the silhouetted figures of pagan statues. Among them, a clearly discernible statuette is executed in white paint, represented holding up a spear or baton: one hand is raised, its forearm and upper arm set at right angles to one another, the forearm running parallel to the vertical axis of the figure’s body. Could it be that this particular pose symbolically encapsulated the power believed by the Byzantines to lie within statues, which is vanquished by St Catherine in the scene? Iconographically, this pose, which has precedents in Roman imperial statuary depicted with one hand raised at right angles to hold an imperial baton, is not an unfamiliar one in Byzantine imagery. It appears to be a customary pose of emperors and soldiers: it is the pose of the spearbearing Basil II, towering over his prostrated foes in his Psalter of c.1000 (cod. Mar. gr. Z.17, fol. 3r. Biblioteca Marciana, Venice) (Figure 21).25 It is also frequently found on imperial coinage, such as the silver Miliaresion of Romanos III Argyros (1030), which displays the emperor in a similar stance, holding up an imperial baton at a distance from his body, his forearm and upper arm at an angle to one another.26 It is perhaps most recognizable, however, as a familiar pose of Byzantine military saints, whose iconography, Walter has noted, has adapted poses and attitudes from those of antique military figures depicted in reliefs spearing their foes and brandishing their weapons.27 The figure of St Demetrios from the Protaton Monastery, Mount Athos, or, equally, the figure of St Nestor

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from the church of St Nicholas Orphanos in Thessaloniki, depicts the saint standing in just this pose, with his hand raised to hold the spear, forearm and upper arm at an angle to each other, forearm running parallel to the vertical axis of the saint’s body (Figures 14 and 2). That an evocation of the notion of power may have been significant in such imagery is noted in Byzantine writing, which often associates, for instance, military saints or emperors and their power to statues. In the words of John Mauropous’s (c.1000–c.1075/81) Odes to St Theodore, the military St Theodore is described as ‘iron-like and like a statue, able to resist the assaults of evil’.28 In the case of the imperial body the view stated by Leontios of Constantinople, that the emperor is ‘a statue endowed with reason’, is one with currency throughout the Byzantine world. Its logic is eloquently underlined in Anna Komnene’s description of Alexios, receiving audiences till the early hours, like a statue ‘made perhaps of bronze or cold-forged iron’, motionless, unwavering, unyielding while his courtiers slump with exhaustion.29 What the above appears to suggest is a close-knit association between three notions: the statue, power and a specific pose used in Byzantium to represent ‘the statue’, but also equally employed in other contexts to represent inherently ‘powerful’ figures, whether soldier-saints or emperors. Byzantine artists, in their visual representations of statues (as seen for instance in the icon of St Catherine), often appear to codify the notion of power inherent in the statue into a symbolic pose. In depicting the authority of emperors or military saints, artists appear to manifest the figures’ power (temporal or supernatural, respectively) by using a pose that somehow both evoked and encoded this notion, through an actual allusion to three-dimensional sculpture and its own, in-built, connotations of power. In this light, when Byzantine authors speak of the beautiful body as a statue, they are inevitably drawing upon such inherent power associations. In fact, the ideal, beautiful bodies in Byzantine writing, paralleled to statues because of their good looks, seem to encapsulate various notions of power, the power of beauty as a force to be reckoned with on its own right included. Constantine Monomachos combines the power of beauty with that of imperial authority. The young lovers in the romances claim, besides beauty, the power of social privilege, noble birth and wealth. Most importantly, like statues, beautiful bodies in Byzantine writing are often described as made not of mere flesh but of materials that are themselves powerful, incorruptible and beautiful: materials that evoked additional notions of power by being rare, precious and costly. Both Monomachos and Digenis possess a chest of crystal, Eirene Doukaina is

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described as having arms and fingers crafted out of ivory, Bohemond is praised for possessing skin smooth like marble when he shaved; in the Chronographia, the golden-red-haired Maria, daughter of the Bulgarian princess Katherine, has skin that resembled amber. Likened to these lifeless substances, all invariably beautiful by the standards of Byzantine aesthetics, which cherished such materials in luxury objects or architectural surfaces, for instance, the bodies of these characters notably rendered them all the more extraordinary, precious and almost superhuman. To be beautiful and like a statue in appearance was to appear almost otherworldly in the Byzantine mind. Notably, the materials described as making up these ideal, beautiful bodies also have additional power associations of permanence and incorruptibility. Statues in Byzantium were recognized as symbols of all that is steadfast, permanent and lasting. When Bohemond takes an oath of allegiance to Alexios he promises to fight for him like a statue made of hammered iron, remaining fixed and unwavering to the end.30 Describing the fearsome sight of Alexios’s armour-clad troops at Dyrrachion, Anna Komnene notes that his men appeared like copper statues, soldiers wrought in metal, standing motionless along the plain, their awe-inspiring power evoked through their immobile, incorruptible, copper-clad bodies.31 More significantly, when describing Alexios receiving audiences through the night, the author plays elaborately on the parallel between the man’s mettle, the statue’s metal and the notions of power and permanence she associates with both. ‘Like a statue wrought by the hammer, made perhaps of bronze or cold-forged iron, the emperor would sit through the night’ motionless, unwavering, unyielding, in sharp contrast to the bodies of his courtiers, which slump with exhaustion, as ‘not one of them would stay motionless as long as he did’.32 When she speaks of Alexios’s beautiful body as an agalma of Nature Anna is thus evoking numerous associations of power inherent to the agalma as a beautiful and precious but also powerful and incorruptible statue. The ‘Agalma’: Desire, delight and beauty Next to power, it is clear from Byzantine writing that notions of desire and delight also linked the beautiful body to the statue in the Byzantine mind and were, in fact, central to the ‘beautiful body as statue’ paradigm. The Life of St Andrew the Fool underlines the link between statues and desire by describing the belief in the possible erotic power of statues in the story of a woman who was incited by the devil into experiencing sensuous dreams. She saw herself inflamed with desire having intercourse with the nude statues (agalmata) in the Hippodrome. In their

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erotic nudity, the pagan statues thus became instruments of the devil, which could incite lustful dreams.33 If it was the nudity of these statues that was provocative, however, the beauty of a statue could also inflame the viewer with desire. In Choniates’s Historia, an ekphrasis on the statues destroyed by the Crusaders in Constantinople underlines this point. Choniates speaks of the bronze statue of Helen of Troy in a manner that, echoing the literary tradition of the ekphrasis, blurs the lines between the beauty of the statue described and the rhetorical need to lead the reader’s imagination beyond the object to the mythical beauty of Helen itself.34 Yet, Choniates’s rhetoric nonetheless underlines the statue’s sensual power on the viewer by exclaiming that ‘the Fates had foreordained that you should succumb to the flame’s fervors or that your image should no longer enflame spectators with sexual passions’.35 Here, the parallel between the statue and the beautiful body is notable: beautiful statues possessed erotic power – like beautiful bodies they had the power to stir individuals into action – and to beautiful statues and beautiful bodies alike the viewer responded with desire. It seems, in fact, that when the Byzantines paralleled the beautiful body to the agalma they were aware of using a loaded term, one that did not merely describe the notion of ‘statue’ but also expressed the way in which the viewer responded to it. Terms such as eidolon, andreikelon, andrias, eikon or stele were also used to signify the statue in Byzantium, but these terms were rarely employed in Byzantine writing in allusion to the beautiful body. The term agalma, which was more commonly used, seems to have been preferred because it described the statue’s ability to delight and please. The tenth-century Souda dictionary, widely used in Byzantium well into the fourteenth century, defines the agalma as ‘anything in which one takes delight’, translated to mean not only statue but also ‘ornament’, ‘delight’ and ‘decoration’, underlining that the term bore an inherent association with beauty.36 The same was not the case with other terms such as eikon, for instance, which is defined in the Souda simply as omoioma or ‘likeness’.37 Such attitudes are evident in Byzantine writing. Papaioannou has noted, for instance, that in the epistolography of Michael Psellos the term agalma was aligned to beauty (kallos) and even to erotic desire.38 It was used to signify ornament in a variety of contexts: Psellos refers to Romanos Diogenes as arrenon agalma in his panegyrics (‘a statue/ ornament among men’), John Komnenos is porphyras agalma (‘imperial statue/ornament’) in Theodore Prodromos’s verses, Metochites describes the beautiful buildings of Nicea as kallous agalmata (‘statues of

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beauty’), using the term to stand for adornment or embellishment, for that which brings delight.39 When the Byzantines used the agalma to refer to the beautiful body, they evoked not only the inherent notion of power attached to statues, but also the association with delight, ornament and beauty which was attached to the term. To the question of why authors chose to speak of the beautiful body as an agalma the answer appears to be that in the agalma as beautiful statue, vested with the power of beauty and the inherent power of statues, the Byzantines found a fitting parallel to the kind of power they perceived as inherent to the beautiful body.

The beauty of harmony and symmetry In a world not known for its production of free-standing sculpture it is, nonetheless, somewhat curious that Byzantine authors would parallel the perfection of the ideal body to an art form with little relevance to their own artistic production – and one which simultaneously had numerous connections to the art of the classical past. Anna Komnene’s description of beautiful bodies as agalmata complicates matters by drawing further allusions to the classical world. In describing the broad-shouldered, wide-chested Bohemond, as neither thin nor overridden with flesh but perfectly crafted, Anna adds that one could say he conformed to the canon of Polyclitus.40 In her account of her imperial parents, she equally notes, moreover, that ‘a painter could never reproduce the beauty of such an archetype, nor a sculptor mould his lifeless stone into such harmony. Even the celebrated canon of Polyclitus would have seemed utterly inadequate, if one looked first at these living statues (the newly crowned rulers, I mean) and then at Polyclitus’ masterpieces.’41 In the description of Maria of Alania the author adds that such was the proportion and symmetry of her limbs, ‘of the part to the whole in her body and of each part to another’, such was her beauty, grace and virtue that neither Appelles nor Pheidias, ‘nor any of the sculptors ever produced such an agalma’.42 In describing her heroes and heroines and their perfectly proportioned bodies as conforming to Polyclitus’s canon, Anna is aligning bodily perfection to a legendary text, compiled in antiquity and (presumably) outlining a system of mathematical ratios expressing the ideal proportion of parts in a sculpted body.43 Her reference to the agalma and the canon could thus evoke some notion of a system of proportional ratios regulating what the ideal body looked like in Byzantium, underlining a more concrete conceptual link between Byzantine attitudes on the

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beautiful body and the logic of classical art. Yet there seems to be no evidence in Byzantine writing to suggest that a study of proportional ratios governing the ideal body was applied either to art or to real life. Though scholarship has argued for the use of proportional systems in the representation of the human figure in Byzantine wall painting for instance, both the practice itself and the extent to which this approach may help decipher Byzantine perceptions is questionable.44 The possibility that a proportional system of any kind guided the artist’s hand in the execution of human figures would have had implications for the way the Byzantines regarded the (canonical?) human figure in an image and possibly even in real life. But Byzantine writing on images, which speaks of the proportions and analogies of the human body, appears to dwell instead on different principles. Gregoras’s Romaiki Historia presents two references to the proportions of two representations of the human figure, the statue on Justinian’s column and the image of Christ Pantokrator in the dome of St Sophia.45 In both cases, he uses universal measures of length such as the spithami to denote the dimensions of various body parts, betraying no evidence of an interest in describing the ideal proportions in the rendering of a human figure, or of a mathematical system with which to measure the perfect body. Instead, Gregoras vaguely praises what he sees as the ‘correct’ proportions of the figures and claims that these could be inferred by virtue of symmetry, in analogy and in proportion to the whole. This logic is upheld by Gregoras throughout his Historia. In describing the perfect physique of Emperor Andronikos II, Gregoras places special emphasis on notions of harmony, symmetry and good proportion evident in the emperor’s ideal body: his body parts were so symmetrical (symmetra) to one another and to his height that it seemed Nature herself had used a ruler and measure (kanoni kai stathmi) with which, presumably, to achieve this perfection.46 What emerges from the description of Andronikos’s praiseworthy physique is not a reference to some proportional system but rather an emphasis on the role of symmetry as the guiding principle behind the well-proportioned body.47 It seems, in fact, that this belief in good proportions as essential in the beautiful body in art as much as in real life is one with great occurrence in Byzantine writing; harmony and symmetry appear among the standard features of the ideal of beauty. Descriptions of beautiful characters in Byzantine writing often play upon these features to considerable detail, dwelling on the symmetry and harmony of body parts as a key aspect of the beautiful body.48 Like Anna Komnene and Gregoras, Psellos

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too dwells on this point in describing the physical appearance of Constantine Monomachos, for instance, who is described ‘so justly proportioned, so harmoniously fashioned, that there was no one in our time to compare with him’.49 His body, perfectly symmetrical, was crafted by Nature who made ‘each limb proportioned to the rest of his body’, from his head to his hands and feet.50 In Anna Komnene’s parallels of ideal bodies, such as those of Bohemond and Alexios, to the perfection of the Polyclitan canon, the latter seems to be mentioned not in reference to a specific proportional system governing the ideal body, but as a learned allusion that aligns physical perfection to a paradigm of the perfectly proportioned body in the ancient world. However, what also emerges from Byzantine writing is that the perfectly proportioned body is beautiful, and that the importance of good proportion, symmetry and harmony in defining the beautiful body is noted by authors. The ideal of beauty necessitated the good analogy between part and whole, and though it disclosed no specifics to create a lasting impression of what a ‘canonical’ body ought to look like, these descriptions emphasized the link between notions of symmetry, harmony and beauty in the ideal body. Power and permanence personified: Symmetry, beauty and the imperial body Setting the image of Andronikos II in an imperial document 1301 (chrysobull) in the Byzantine Museum in Athens against the description of the emperor in Gregoras’s Historia is suggestive (Figure 22).51 Where Gregoras describes Andronikos’s body he notes that the emperor’s body parts were so symmetrical to one another and to his height that it seemed he had been crafted by Nature with the aid of a ruler, such was his perfection. The author, whose writing generally underlines the belief that the beautiful body should be symmetrical, and symmetry is an essential part of the beautiful body, thus bestows the emperor with a typical attribute of beauty. In the case of the image of Emperor Andronikos II in his chrysobull, the rigid symmetry that dominates the imperial figure is particularly apparent both in Andronikos’s body, draped in the bold pattern of his loros, and in his face, divided into two equal parts by his thin, strikingly linear nose. For contemporary viewers, the symmetry communicated by this image of the imperial body would have been read within the context of a culture in which the symmetry of body parts was regarded as an essential part of the beautiful body, and physical beauty was believed to entail bodily symmetry. If Byzantine readers would have read Andronikos’s perfection through the lines of Gregoras’s description

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of his symmetrical body, does it then hold that viewers would have read beauty in the perfectly symmetrical face and body of the painted emperor on the chrysobull? Faced with the representation of Andronikos, contemporary viewers would have immediately recognized that they were looking at the most representative (and timeless) image of the imperial body in Byzantium. Robin Cormack has noted that, employed by imperial dynasties throughout the centuries, this was a standard image of imperial power depicting the emperor full-figure, frontally posed and in all the splendour of his imperial garb.52 Byzantine writing underlines the recognition that such imagery was intended to communicate a visual statement of imperial power: John Kamateros’s speech for the Epiphany of 1196 describes imperial images as ‘the colourful representations of the emperors’ that serve to glorify the emperor’s magnificence.53 The anonymous verses ‘On an image of the emperor’ stress the importance of the notion of permanence as an essential element of the power vocabulary attached to images of the imperial body.54 The nameless author expresses the hope that the emperor’s authority over his realm should be everlasting, extended beyond his own life to his descendants, and beyond the limits of this world to the next, with the emperor ruling alongside Christ over the never-ending Kingdom. Overall, such writing underlines the belief that the image of imperial authority chiefly communicated a message of power and permanence. For Maguire, the stylistic handling of the emperor’s body in imperial imagery embodied a visual manifestation of power, and in particular of divine power. Maguire notes that Psellos’s eulogy on Isaac Komnenos describes the emperor as ‘straight, true, stiff, exact, sweet, gentle, steadfast, firmly fixed, lofty’ and as ‘an image of the signs of God’.55 This rigid impassivity attributed to the emperor’s physical body in Psellos’s description is aligned by Maguire with the immobility and frontality of the emperor’s pictorial body in visual representations: ‘portraits which are lofty, stiff, and straight, which lack any movement or expression’, and which were, he suggests, intended to emphasize the closeness between emperor and God.56 Motion, Maguire argues, is associated with humanity, the lack of motion (and emotion) with divinity. Thus the motionless and impassive imperial faces in Byzantine imagery may have associated the emperor with Christ’s divinity in the mind of viewers. The fully frontal faces of John II Komnenos and Eirene in the mosaic from St Sophia in Constantinople, Maguire notes, reflect the greater audacity of later texts and images in playing upon the parallel between Emperor and Christ (Figure 12).

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Yet, one could argue that in the representation of John and Eirene symmetry was an equally important part of the formula chosen to represent the imperial couple. Posed in full frontality, the body of the John appears rigidly symmetrical, an effect accentuated by the patterning of the imperial garments: John’s grid-like imperial loros and the curving, symmetrical pattern of blue tesserae decorating the front of Eirene’s dress, make the symmetry that dominates their bodies all the more apparent. There is no doubt that the image of John and Eirene expressed the agenda of imperial imagery, reflecting the values of imperial power through the traditional formula chosen to represent the bodies of the imperial couple. It is also evident, however, that the figures are represented in adherence to Byzantine ideals of beauty not only in the details of their features, such as Eirene’s long golden tresses and John’s perfectly arching brows, but also in the perfect symmetry of their bodies. What this suggests is that in this image of the imperial couple viewers would have read different manifestations of power: the power of imperial authority and alongside it also the power of beauty itself, which appears to set the emperor and empress as beings apart. When the emperor’s actual, physical body was presented to his subjects, we are told that he appeared as a true ‘marvel, not a man’; Byzantine empresses are likewise presented as statue-like figures, as more than human, set apart from the rest of the world.57 It is this image that appears to be propagated by the depiction of the perfect, beautiful, harmonious, symmetrical bodies of John and Eirene, playing once more upon the notion of the beautiful statue, as not only the embodiment of power but also of physical perfection. The image of Andronikos II on the chrysobull appears to make a similar statement. As the body of the emperor is represented on the very document that delineates his imperial authority, his power to bestow privileges upon his subjects, the image of his full-frontal, symmetrical body depicted in all the splendour of his regalia was unequivocally an expression of imperial power. Yet, just as Byzantine readers were expected to read Andronikos’s physical perfection through the lines of Gregoras’s description of his symmetrical body, so too, presumably, would viewers have seen in the perfectly symmetrical face and body of the painted emperor on the chrysobull a manifestation of not only the power of imperial authority, but, alongside it also power of beauty, which, written on the emperor’s body, evoked the emperor’s physical uniqueness: his existence as God’s representative on earth in a sphere removed from the viewer’s own reality. This said, the dominant symmetry of the figure of Andronikos also makes a further, qualifying statement. As Andronikos is depicted standing

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next to the figure of Christ, the symmetry of the emperor’s body is sharply juxtaposed to the blatant asymmetry of Christ’s own body (Figure 22). Notably, the emperor appears to be built on an imaginary vertical axis that neatly divides his body into two symmetrical halves: starting at the red tip of the imperial crown and culminating between the paired eagles of the imperial cushion, it runs down the straight line of his nose and down the middle border of his imperial loros. Christ on the other hand appears set in an elegant contraposto, the right side of his body larger than the left, his twisting body neither straightforwardly frontal nor symmetrical. Maguire’s statement that imperial portraits in their stiff immovability emphasize the closeness between emperor and God seems puzzling in this context.58 Equally, as the figures of John Komnenos and Eirene in St Sophia are juxtaposed to the Virgin who is represented in their mist, one notes that the careful symmetry of the emperor and empress contrasts with the treatment of the Virgin’s figure. In the case of the Virgin, the right half of her face is larger than the left, while the one eye notably larger than the other. The effect of asymmetry is accentuated by the application of colour; on the cheeks, a red half-circle is seen on the left side of the face, while a diffused red tinge is visible on the right, appearing also on her neck and forehead of the figure, in poignant juxtaposition with the face of Eirene, whose cheeks are marked by the presence of two symmetrically arranged red ‘circles’.59 The emperor and empress, depicted standing alongside Christ or the Virgin, were presented as occupying the same sacred space as the holy figures. Cut off from the world of the viewer, the imperial figures were thus both literally and symbolically incorporated into the realm of the divine. One could argue that what Maguire terms their ‘calmness and serenity’ is evoked by the carefully denoted symmetry of their face and body; that this visual vocabulary served to underline the emperors’ elevated status, their God-sent and God-like nature which set them apart from ordinary mortals and granted them inclusion into that realm in which the divine was represented. Yet, in both images, the distinction between the emperor and empress and Christ or Virgin, the temporal sphere of the court and the realm of the divine was simultaneously maintained. This distinction was visible for instance not only in the juxtaposition of the timeless, eternal garb of the divine figures and the earthly dress of the imperial couple, but also in the distinction between the symmetrical faces and bodies of the imperial figures and the asymmetry visible in the bodies of Christ and the Virgin. The divine bodies of the holy figures were clearly not subjected to the same laws

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of symmetry applied to the mortal, albeit imperial, bodies that flank them. If, as Maguire suggests, rigidity attributes the emperor’s body with ‘divinity’, then maybe the symmetry of his face and body had a more complex role, evoking his otherworldly status with regard to ordinary men, but set against the asymmetry of the divine, also drawing the distinctive line between the divine and the temporal. A juxtaposition of contemporary imagery and text suggests that, whereas ‘harmony’ and ‘symmetry’ were words used to describe the imperial body, notions of asymmetry were often used to describe the divine. Michael Psellos dwells upon harmony and symmetry as essential attributes of Constantine Monomachos’s beautiful body in the Chronographia; simultaneously, in his panegyric orations, he praises symmetry and harmony as values generally expressive of Monomachos’s reign, an era paralleled to Hesiod’s golden age, as a time where all is beautiful, harmonious and symmetrical.60 On the other hand, when Psellos describes the appearance of the body of Christ in a painted image in his Discourse on the Crucifixion, it is asymmetry that appears to dominate the discussion on the representation of Christ’s body. Though the features of Christ’s face are joined in careful harmony, he notes the rendering of his limbs and ‘the positioning of his body and hands is neither perfect nor symmetrical, but its brilliance is best preserved in its imbalance, as our bodies are unevenly shaped by nature which shapes thighs, and shoulders, knees, belly and ribs so that some are set evenly and others are enlarged’.61 In paralleling the asymmetry of the body of the Crucified Christ with the way ‘our bodies are shaped by nature’, Psellos seems to be making a curious point. The asymmetry of the body of Christ evoked his humanity, while the perfect symmetry of the emperor underlined his quasi-‘divinity’, and his superhuman status. In representations of the divine bodies of Christ and the Virgin, the undisputable divinity of these figures necessitated asymmetry in their face and body, to lend the divine a touch of human approachability. In the body of the emperor and empress it was the superhuman symmetry that was emphasized, encoding the power and permanence of imperial authority and expressing the dividing line between imperial majesty and the world of mere mortals. Moreover, the symmetry of the imperial body echoed its physical beauty, and the power inherent in that perfect beauty of statuesque bodies; the asymmetry of the divine bodies of Christ and the Virgin on the other hand reflected their beauty as truly otherworldly, as belonging to different, inaccessible realm. What these images thus proposed was a three-tired visual hierarchy between the realm of the human viewer

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(absent from the image but ever present as the recipient of its message), the superhuman realm of the emperor and his court and the otherworldly realm of Christ, both divine and ‘human’ through his divine magnanimity (philanthropia). Perceived as an active rather than a passive quality, beauty was defined by the Byzantines above all by its ability to set events into motion and stir individuals into action. Its wide-ranging implications were believed to stretch from the sphere of love, into that of politics, securing an advantageous match but also obtaining imperial favour or paving an individual’s way to the throne. From the pages of Byzantine writing to the images adorning church walls, beauty, in fact, appears alarmingly powerful. Paralleled to the statue and, more specifically, to the agalma as ‘beautiful statue’, the beautiful body shared the statue’s inherent association with notions of power. It was often described as crafted out of materials that were costly and inherently beautiful, exalted for having the power to delight and please, even to incite desire in the viewer, but also the power of permanence and incorruptibility that further aligned the statue with the beautiful body. Beauty in fact appeared as a visual manifestation of power. In the beautiful, statuesque bodies of fictional heroes or real-life historical characters in Byzantine writing, the perfect bodily symmetry that identified their ideal beauty, whether crafted by the hands of Appelles or Pheidias or sculpted out of extraordinary materials by Nature herself, in fact distinguished them from the realm of ordinary men and women. Perfect symmetry served to denote their otherness, just as it served to denote the emperor’s uniqueness in visual imagery by cutting him apart from the real world and setting him into the realm of the quasi-divine. In the emperor’s ideal body, the symmetry of beauty functioning as a visual ploy by which to communicate his power: the combined power of imperial authority and beauty that identified the emperor as superior being.

4 The Beauty of Broken Bodies: Pain, Eloquence and Emotion

By appearing as a visual manifestation of power, beauty in Byzantium was discussed in relation to its ability to set events into motion and stir individuals into action. Its effects, whether benign or terrible, were both noted and described in every sphere of human endeavour, beauty seen even to affect the judgement of emperors and serve as stepping-stone for political advancement. This chapter examines beauty in connection more with emotion than action and focuses in particular in a context where beauty may be least expected, yet were the Byzantines appear to have observed its presence: in the broken bodies of Byzantine martyrs and, most importantly, in the potent image of the dead body of Christ in Byzantine imagery and writing. How did beauty in Byzantium coexist with physical pain and the horror of death? When Psellos describes the events of Good Friday he speaks of the exceptional beauty of the dead Christ, noting that ‘he who is fair with a beauty transcending the sons of men was hanged on the wood of the cross, which like a sword he girded upon his thighs in his beauty and comeliness’.1 Equally, in his Discourse on the Crucifixion, a spiritual treatise that speaks of the life of Christ starting with the Incarnation and culminating in an account of events surrounding the Passion, he demonstrates an interest in the appearance of the body of Christ at the moment of death. In a passage that takes the form of an ekphrasis on an icon of the Crucifixion, Psellos describes the appearance of the crucified body of Christ in considerable detail.2 The author rhetorically asks the reader, who assumes the position of ‘viewer’ within the context of the ekphrasis, to contemplate the Crucified Lord, the image of the ‘living dead’: the pallor of Christ’s body, his tilting head which does not fall forward but rests to one side.3 The description of Christ’s face presents Christ himself arranging his facial features in a certain way 66

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before dying: he carefully closed his eyes and mouth and perfectly, harmoniously arranged his features before giving up his spirit.4 Psellos goes on to describe in detail the appearance of Christ’s body, down to the swelling of the belly as a result of the pressure of the internal organs such as the lungs and the heart. This elaborate account, which has the effect of transforming the body of the dead Christ into the focal point of Psellos’s ekphrasis, suggests a growing interest in the appearance of Christ’s body at death that was not out of place in Psellos’s milieu. Maguire has noted that in depicting the scene of the Lamentation, eleventh-century artists painted Christ’s body clad only in a loincloth, in contrast with the shrouded body depicted in the previous century; the new iconographic choice allowing the seminude body of Christ to be displayed before the viewer’s gaze.5 By the mid-twelfth century this growing fascination with the body of the dead Christ would culminate in the creation of new, emotive iconographic types displaying the dead body of Christ in Byzantine art. These were the Byzantine Man of Sorrows, termed by scholars as a ‘funeral portrait’ of Christ, and the scene of the Lamentation or Threnos, which displayed the mourning over Christ’s lifeless body; both will be examined here for what they evoke of Byzantine attitudes on the beauty of the dead Christ and in general about the ability of beauty to coexist with the horror of the dead, dying or tormented body.6

The beauty of the dead Christ The double-sided icon of the second half of the twelfth century now in the Byzantine Museum of Kastoria is suggestive of the emotive appeal of this novel imagery.7 It depicts a bust-length figure of the dead Christ on one side and an image of the Virgin holding the Christ-Child in her arms on the other (Figure 23). In the image of the dead Christ, the exquisitely painted head of the figure dominates the composition: it is accentuated by the carefully painted, undulating lines of the hair that create a smooth, rounded contour, almost like a second halo framing the figure’s face. The warm flesh tones of Christ’s face and nude torso, set against the dark blue background, provide a strong colouristic contrast that strengthens the visual impact of the figure’s body upon the viewer. Emerging from the surrounding darkness Christ’s figure seems to be thrust forward into the viewer’s space, turning the viewer into an eyewitness of the event, placing him/her truly in the presence of the dead body of Christ.

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On the other side of the icon, the image of the Virgin Hodegetria holding the Christ-Child in her arms provides an emotive juxtaposition to the figure of the dead Christ. The Virgin is depicted with a pained look, her eyebrows contorted, her brow furrowed, her sideways glance lending her an anxious air. Physical evidence on the lower part of the panel suggests that the icon was affixed to a pole and used in processions, thus allowing both sides of the icon to be visible to the congregation, and provoking a mental juxtaposition of the imagery on either side. Seen together, the two images would make for a poignant emotive effect: already in the late tenth century, authors exploited the tragic parallel of the Virgin holding Christ in her hands as a playful child with her cradling his lifeless body in her arms after the Crucifixion.8 Scholarship initially saw such imagery, with its interest in the emotive portrayal of the dead Christ, as an indication that ‘a new emotionalism animated Byzantine art’.9 Robin Cormack has suggested, however, that this emotional treatment of Christ’s dead body in pictorial imagery and the promotion of a personal, face-to-face involvement with the dead Christ was rather a response to contemporary theological controversies which brought the body and blood of Christ into the forefront of theological attention.10 A religious dispute that emerged in the late eleventh century and was only settled by a church council in 1157 challenged the official position of the church on the Eucharist, by proposing that the bread and wine of Communion were a symbolic allusion to Christ’s sacrifice rather than his actual flesh and blood.11 The increasing visibility, prominence and display of the body of Christ in religious imagery and the greater emotional appeal of images that transformed viewers into mourners of Christ’s death were thus well suited to the theological concerns of the period.12 Robin Cormack has noted that the introduction of new iconographic themes such as the Man of Sorrows, for instance, drew an obvious parallel between Christ’s dead body prominently displayed in the imagery, and his sacrificial body offered to the faithful in the Eucharist, echoing an insistence on the corporeality of Christ.13 As the face of the dead Christ was consciously transformed in this period into the focus of the viewer’s attention and emotional response, it offers itself for an investigation into the play between beauty and death. In the case of the Kastoria icon the attention lavished on the depiction of the details of Christ’s facial features is striking. The familiar features that identify ‘the face of Christ’ as depicted in Byzantine imagery, such as the long brown hair and the short beard that would make the likeness of Christ easily ‘readable’ to the Byzantine viewer, are here meticulously rendered and even elaborated by the artist’s hand.14 Christ’s

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hair is embellished with light-coloured striations in the form of yellow highlights while numerous curling locks of hair are painted falling decoratively upon Christ’s bare shoulders. His eyelids, denoted with an elegant, curving sweep of paint, are set under bold, perfectly arching eyebrows. His lips are painted in a soft pink hue. From the highlights in the hair to the figure’s arching brows this image of the dead Christ appears to reflect Byzantine perceptions of the ideal of beauty. A similar effect is seen in the image of the Lamentation over the dead body of Christ in the twelfth-century church of Sts Anargyroi in Kastoria, which presents the body of Christ, locked in his mother’s embrace, under the gaze of St John the Evangelist and Joseph of Arimathea (Figure 24). Held in the arms of the Virgin in a tender embrace, Christ’s body is tilted outwards, easily readable to the congregation below, his torso, arms and legs displayed with maximum visibility.15 That viewers were intended to focus their attention on the body of the dead Christ is evident from the pictorial handling of the figure: the bright, all but horizontal line, formed by the haloed heads of the figures standing behind Christ’s body serves almost as a highlight to draw attention to it. The tightness of the pictorial space, with the four large figures cramped within the image’s red border, thrusts the body of Christ forward into the viewer’s own space, placing the viewer directly in the presence of the dead Christ.16 As they gazed upon the depiction of Christ’s face in the scene of the Lamentation, viewers would notice his ideal, beautiful features, the hair embellished with undulating, light-coloured striations, the perfectly arching eyebrows painted as elegant, semicircles over his closed eyelids, his notably smooth skin (Figure 25). Christ is portrayed with an unfurrowed forehead and cheeks that are unmarked by lines, with the exception of a soft white highlight. By contrast the Virgin is depicted with contorted eyebrows, painted as two crooked lines, a forehead marked by v-shaped shadows, cheeks marred by a dark, shaded, vertical furrow. Christ’s delicate mouth is set in an unwavering line, while that of his mother painted as a tense grimace. The lines on the Virgin’s youthful face were to be read as an expression of her anguish; we know that the Byzantines interpreted a frown as an evocation of graveness and worry while they associated a smooth forehead with a calm or joyful mood. Psellos notes, for instance, that Constantine Monomachos ‘hated to see anybody approach him with a worried look’ while ‘the man who found favour with him was one with a smooth brow, a man with a tongue always ready (. . .) to utter the most benign prophecies about the future’.17 In the world of Choniates, sorrow and anguish can equally be

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read on the face of figures through their contorted brows and worried looks: Isaac Angelos suffering defeat and ‘stung bitterly by these events, knitted his brows’.18 But if the expression of the Virgin signified her mental pain, Christ’s facial expression clearly betrayed no mark of the suffering and physical torment endured during the Crucifixion. In the scene of the Lamentation from the church of St Panteleimon in Nerezi (1164) (Figure 26), the difference in the handling of the face of the Virgin and that of her dead son is equally noted, as Christ’s perfectly arching eyebrows are set against the contorted brow of the Virgin, his smooth, unblemished skin juxtaposed to her furrowed cheeks and forehead. It is the antithesis in their colouring, however, that is the most striking. Christ’s cheeks and forehead are rendered with clearly visible strokes of red paint set in parallel, horizontal lines, a feature conspicuously absent from the complexion of the Virgin, which displays only white highlights (Figure 27). The body of Christ may be represented dead, and yet it appears rosier in complexion than that of his grieving mother. There is no sign of the pallor of death visible on Christ’s face, just as in the Kastoria double-sided icon Christ’s pallor is broken by the soft, pale pink tint which is clearly visible on the figure’s mouth. It could be that the Byzantine artist was attempting a concession to the rosycheeked ideal of beauty in Christ’s complexion even in death, or perhaps that another explanation lay behind this seemingly incongruous image of a dead body depicted with a hint of red on its lips or cheeks. The evidence of Byzantine writing helps unravel attitudes and perceptions surrounding the body of the dead Christ. Some of the most eloquent descriptions of Christ’s dead body were notably written in the form of sermons, hymns or readings related to the Holy Week service, which suggests that they would have been heard in the same sacred space in which the images of the dead Christ were presented before the viewer’s eyes, reaching broad audiences, beyond the limitations of literacy or the accessibility of written texts. As texts like images both reflect contemporary belief and play a part in shaping it, such writing, whether composed in the twelfth century and thus in the same context as the imagery or copied and reused in this period, cannot but be evocative of how Byzantine viewers would have thought of the body of Christ, particularly in the spirit of the growing fascination with the image of the dead Christ in this period. The learned text of Christos Paschon, for instance, attributed to various authors in the twelfth century such as John Tzetzes, Theodore Prodromos and Constantine Manasses, and also to the hand of St Gregory Nazianzenus (c.329/30–c.390), presents the Virgin lamenting over the

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body of her dead son and offers a description of Christ’s body spoken by the lips of his mother.19 The Virgin speaks both of Christ’s beauty and of its loss in death; she laments that she can no longer see her son’s fair countenance as its colour has changed, its beauty is estranged. Christ is described as a terrible sight; his sweet, beloved face, his desirable, unspeakable beauty appearing so sorrowful that she cannot bear to look upon him.20 In George of Nikomedia’s Logos to the Virgin Attending by the Cross and to the Entombment on Good Friday, the Virgin is again presented lamenting over the wounded body of her son, addressing the question of Christ’s beauty, its presence and absence.21 The sermon enjoyed considerable popularity; it is found in numerous manuscripts from the tenth to the fourteenth centuries and is included, for instance, in the eleventh-century Typikon of the Evergetis Monastery as a suggested reading for the eve of Good Friday.22 It presents the Virgin referring to Christ as unadulterated beauty (anothephton kallos) and imperishable comeliness (analloiotos oraiotis) yet simultaneously describing what she sees before her as a terrible sight. She can no longer see Christ’s sweet appearance, and look upon his physical beauty.23 As Christ’s limbs are described as drenched and reddened by his blood this image of absent beauty is juxtaposed with the current state of his body: his tormented, bruised flesh.24 He who healed so many has had his limbs viciously attacked: commenting on the ingratitude of men, the Virgin juxtaposes the speckled bodies of the lepers healed by Christ with the body of her sweet light, the sun of justice, her most beautiful ornament which has been stripped naked.25 He who adorned Nature and beautified the earth is hanging upon the cross deprived of beauty (akales).26 Christ’s aspect has changed, the Virgin can no longer recognize the familiar colour of his countenance (chroian), his beauty has faded.27 The Virgin speaks of kissing the now motionless and many-wounded limbs of Christ that had healed even incurable ailments. Yet reading between the lines also divulges an additional message. By speaking of Christ’s speechless mouth, resting lips and closed eyes the Virgin addresses the current state of Christ’s dead body not as one sealed with permanence of death but with the impermanence of a state of slumber.28 The implications of this are taken on by the author in the passage that follows, where the lament softens, and the Virgin expresses the wish that she may soon witness the joy of the Anastasis.29 Symeon Metaphrastes’s tenth-century Oration on the Lament of the All-Holy Theotokos Embracing the Sacred Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ equally presents the Virgin addressing her dead son, in a text with continual readership into the thirteenth century.30 Looking upon Christ’s dead body, the Virgin

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exclaims that now he lies shapeless, he who is the most beautiful amongst the sons of men.31 Christ is lamented as dead (nekre) and naked (gymne). Various parts of his body are in turn praised and lamented as the Virgin mourns that none of Christ’s limbs has been left unharmed. His divine head, beautiful and holy, has been pricked by thorns; she laments moreover ‘his head, which rods had beaten; his jaws which had received blows; his mouth which had drunk the bitterest gall; his hands, which had been affixed to the cross; his side, which the lance had pierced’.32 Set against each other these texts share common ground in the way they address the body of the dead Christ. Authors dwell on his beauty, praise it and lament its loss. Unsurprisingly, their accounts speak of Christ’s beauty in vague terms that offer little by way of an actual likeness. Spoken of as most beautiful amongst the sons of men, Christ is described as possessing beauty that is unadulterated, sweet, imperishable, yet vague enough to allow for the complexities inherent in depicting Christ’s portrait, whether through words or images.33 The other question is whether these references to Christ’s comeliness speak of his beauty as a physical or a spiritual quality. The manner with which the texts on the Lamentation dwell on the physical appearance of Christ’s dead body, the persistence of speaking about his wounded limbs, of features such as his eyes, his lips and his hands, creates an image of beauty (whether present or absent) that is physical as much as its theological. This means that, looking at the dead Christ painted in the Sts Anargyroi Lamentation, viewers would have seen beauty as a feature inherent in the physical features of the figure, as a manifestation of the divine beauty of the prototype, and as an attribute of the painting itself; seeing beauty in the face of Christ as concrete and physical as much as it was abstract and spiritual. What is particularly notable about these writings, moreover, is the curious manner in which the descriptions of the dead body of Christ seem both to dwell upon Christ’s beauty and simultaneously to lament its loss. Writing on the emotional Epitaphios Threnos, incorporated into the liturgy of the Holy Week by the fourteenth century, though it probably existed in some form already in the ninth century, Alexiou notes that the verses ‘dwell, almost erotically, on Christ’s youth and beauty even in death’.34 The Virgin exclaims ‘O, my sweet spring, my sweetest child, where has your beauty set?’35 Described as setting, like the sun, Christ’s beauty is presumably no longer visible in his dead body; the verses manage to convey the image of Christ’s youth and beauty while actually describing its absence from his dead body: ‘he who is fair in beauty beyond all mortals looks like a corpse without form, he who gave

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beauty to the nature of the Universe’.36 This image of beauty is described not in its presence but by its absence from Christ’s dead body. A similar attitude is conveyed in the writings of Symeon Metaphrastes and George of Nikomedia who refer to the beauty of Christ as darkened by death, to his beautiful limbs that are wounded and bleeding. The twelfth-century Cypriot Didaskalia, which appears as a player’s handbook for a religious drama on the Passion of Christ, dwells on this same point. The lamenting Virgin is presented asking: ‘where is your beauty, my sweet son? Most beautiful amongst the sons of men you have neither shape nor beauty’, which has been robbed by the hands of villains.37 A juxtaposition of image and text suggests that there were discrepancies between the visual and the verbal in the way the notion of Christ’s beauty was evoked and represented. Byzantine texts appear to hover ambiguously between praising Christ as beautiful and simultaneously lamenting the absence of beauty from his dead body. As Christ lies dead in his mother’s arms, his beauty is described as having set or faded or as being darkened by death. In the imagery, however, Christ’s beautiful features from the locks of his hair to his finely painted, closed eyelids are carefully rendered by artists. In St Panteleimon where his flesh tone is reddened with strokes of red paint, unlike the pale cheeks of his grieving mother, this feature may have served to ‘say the unsayable’, addressing the question of beauty in the dead body of Christ in a way that goes beyond what could be expressed in the written texts.38 It may be, that is, that this disparity of a dead body both praised as beautiful yet described as wounded and shapeless in Byzantine writing was more decidedly resolved in pictorial terms in Byzantine imagery.

Painting the unsayable In Middle Byzantine art, the Body of Christ often appears naked, and at Daphni it is even sensuous and alluring (. . .) it is a broad shouldered, well-developed masculine body. The head is bowed in death, but the wounds are discreet and hardly appear life-threatening. T. Mathews, The Art of Byzantium; Between Antiquity and the Renaissance.39 Mathews’s statement on the sensuous beauty of the dead Christ in the late-eleventh-century Daphni mosaic notes that the wounds on Christ’s body do not seem ‘life-threatening’. Indeed, in the Daphni Crucifixion, Christ’s cheeks appear rosy, like those of his mother standing besides

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him, while even the wound at his side is elegantly rendered; a slender, curving line of red and white tesserae spring out of it into a decorative arch (Figure 28). When the dead body of Christ is described in Byzantine writing, graphic emphasis is placed on his injuries: the head pricked by thorns, his limbs that are bruised and bleeding and darkened by death. Yet where the dead body of Christ is represented in imagery, the absence of blood-drenched limbs is striking. The pierced side of Christ, for instance, is not visible in the Kastoria icon or the Lamentation at Sts Anargyroi and St Panteleimon, while in the latter image only a discreet drop of blood can be seen on the pierced hand of Christ that faces the viewer. In other words, the wounds on the dead body of Christ, graphically emphasized in the texts, do not appear to receive any pictorial emphasis in the imagery. Scholarship looking into the complexities inherent in pictorial representations of death has noted that such imagery is by necessity liminal, in that ‘like fire, it [death] hovers between a state and an event’.40 In the context of Byzantine representations of the dead Christ, this notion of liminality is particularly pointed, as contemporary authors battle with the complex theology of Christ’s dual nature, both divine and human. Christ may suffer and die as man, but as God, he remains immortal. At the turn of the eighth century, Anastasios of Sinai noted that at the time of his death, Christ’s body, though truly dead, nevertheless still encompassed the divine. In the Discourse on the Crucifixion, Psellos’s ekphrasis on the icon depicting the crucified Christ, which is discussed at the beginning of this chapter, presents an account of the dead body of Christ that voices a contemporary attempt to address this issue. Psellos underlines that Christ has released his spirit, yet he urges his audience to regard Christ like living dead (empsycho nekro).41 This same term is repeated in the closing of his description: this is the body of the Lord, this perfect, this clear, this living and dead. The Passion may have killed the body of Christ, Psellos notes, but the artist’s hand has given it life once more, presenting Christ as living among the dead, and dead among the living.42 To say that Christ was liminally neither quite dead, nor alive, or rather that he was simultaneously both, is to oversimplify the complex theology of the matter, yet it points to the very complexity of the situation that must be resolved by authors and artists in image and text, respectively. It may be that this uncomfortable combination of death and life was easier to solve pictorially than to address in writing. The red strokes that add colour to the cheek of Christ in the Lamentation at St Panteleimon, or his pale pink lips in the Kastoria icon, or for that matter, the pink cheeks and lips of Christ, which match those of his mother, in the

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Daphni Crucifixion mosaic may better evoke this liminal status of Christ as hovering ambiguously between life and death, being lifeless yet untouched by death and simultaneously encompassing life. It could thus be that the imagery was trying to denote in visual terms not only the beauty of the dead Christ, but also the inherent theology of the image, combining the uncombinable, the dead body of Christ bringing together both death and life, conceptually as well as pictorially. The closest Byzantine writing comes to evoking this message is the description of the death of Christ as a life-giving event, the life-giving sleep that saves mankind, or the juxtaposition between the lament over Christ’s death with the hopeful premonition of the Anastasis, seen for instance in the writings of George of Nikomedia.43 In the visual imagery the representation of Christ’s dead body simultaneously provided viewers with a pictorial image of death and a symbolic promise of Life. Bringing death and life together in the image, the representation of the dead body of Christ thus both expressed and somehow resolved the liminality inherent in the dead Christ. In this light, the touches of red on Christ’s lips and cheeks in the Lamentation at St Panteleimon were not only a concession to the Byzantine ideal of beauty; they simultaneously allowed artists to evoke this subtle theological point, which was made tangible through the visual ‘evidence’ of Christ’s physical features. At the same time, using easily readable attributes of the ideal of beauty, such as a hint of colour in the face of Christ or his perfect arching brows and smooth skin, artists appear to resolve the question of the ‘absent-yet-present’ beauty of Christ, which remains unresolved in Byzantine writing. Christ was represented lifeless and dead, yet simultaneously the familiar features of the ideal marked his body as ‘living’ and beautiful.

Beauty and the horror of death This portrayal of Christ’s body as beautiful in death, however, may also serve other, emotive ends. A close look at Byzantine writing suggests that the curious balance between beauty and horror reflected in the lament over the body of the dead Christ in Byzantine theological writing is also found in other genres, suggesting it may somehow have been evocative of Byzantine attitudes. In the opening book of Prodromos’s Rodanthe and Dosiklis, the hero, captured by pirates, befriends a young Cypriot prisoner named Kratandros, who proceeds to relate his tragic story. Kratandros describes how an illicit, night-time visit to his beloved Chrysochroi resulted in a scuffle and in the girl’s accidental death, as she

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was struck by a misdirected stone. As Kratandros describes the lament of Chrysochroi’s father, Androklis, over her dead body, he notes how Androklis weeps at the sight of beauty clipped in the middle of spring, at a beautiful tree that has lost its blossoms and exclaims: ‘Where is the beauty of your face, my virgin?’ The description juxtaposes gruesome detail to the image of the maiden’s beauty, speaking of her crushed head, her beautiful face that is black with blood, the humanity of her visage that has been altered.44 It is not just that the beauty that once graced the girl is praised and its loss is lamented; what is most striking is the sharp contrast between the evocation of her former beauty and the grim detail of flowing, dark blood that obscures her facial features. Later in the narrative, Dosiklis himself is presented lamenting the death of his own beloved, whom he (mistakenly) presumes to have drowned: the roses of her cheeks, the ivy of her curly hair, the tenderness of her flesh, the beauty of her eyes are described as lost. As the apple rots, the pomegranate decays, the trees lose their leaves and the lilies wilt, so will the body of Rodanthe, Dosiklis notes, offering a disturbing image of her corpse fed upon by the fishes, her flesh devoured by sea creatures or broken to pieces by being shattered against rocks and gravel.45 Psellos’s account of the death of his daughter draws a similar antithesis of beauty and horror. Psellos composes a eulogy to the deceased Styliane, portraying the girl as a figure crafted according to the ideal of beauty. He speaks of her brilliant, almond-shaped eyes, her straight nose and teeth that appeared like pearls or crystal, her white and rosy complexion and her gleaming, golden-blond hair.46 The description of this once perfect, ideal beauty is then set against the horror of the disease that ruined Styliane’s comeliness and took her life. The detailed account of Styliane’s perfections are followed by a graphic description of the girl’s swollen body covered in pustules, the illness destroying the harmony of her body, turning shapeless and hideous what once was beautiful. Psellos describes how the girl’s body is covered in secreting, swollen wounds, so numerous that one could not begin to count them.47 These laments dwell on the physical beauty that graced the body of the deceased only to deplore its loss, often by painting a graphic picture of the dead body’s gruesome state, which is described to considerable detail. In doing so, the writing sets horror and beauty, or the loss of beauty, in a pointed juxtaposition. One could argue that this approach evoked the rhetorical device of antithesis, which was structured on the juxtaposition of opposites.48 Yet the evidence of real-life ritual and practice surrounding the dead body in Byzantium suggests that this juxtaposition of beauty and horror, far from being merely a

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literary ploy, seems to have been a part of how the Byzantines addressed death in everyday reality. Beauty and the recognition of the horror of death were set side by side in Byzantine burial ritual and practice. In Byzantine funerary rites, for instance, the soothing beauty of the religious service, where the promise of eternal life was enhanced by the sweetness of incense and the softness of psalms, was juxtaposed with the dramatic displays of emotion customary in the Byzantine threnos, the lament over the body before burial. The use of professional mourners, the wailing and tearing of cheeks so frowned upon by the church, was a practice that underlined both the tragedy and the horrid reality of death.49 The concern over the display of physical beauty and the beautification of the body of the deceased itself is equally noted. Scholarship attests that people were buried in their finest garb and this included clerics, buried in their best hieratic dress, and even monks buried in their best habit, while evidence of tomb raiding suggests that elaborate funerary dress was valuable enough to tempt thieves.50 The practice of draping long blond hair outside the casket so that it could be displayed in full visibility to the mourners, moreover, was a morbid gesture that set beauty in the form of a praised physical attribute against the horrible reality of death. The latter lay particularly in the knowledge that the beautiful hair on display, like the body itself, would decay and fade away, underlining the tragedy of loss of life. The intended effect of such practices must have been to enhance rather than mitigate the drama of the event. Byzantine writing suggests that physical beauty and the loss of it in death was recognized by contemporaries as having the effect of heightening emotions. When Kinnamos’s Epitome speaks of the young beauty from Tripoli, Phoenicia, intended as a bride for Emperor Manuel, the author describes how the girl fell ill and wasted away before setting sail for Constantinople, the disease utterly ruining her comeliness. Seeing the fine meadow of her beauty wither so untimely, he adds, brought tears to people’s eyes.51 What the above suggests is the belief that to display the beauty of the deceased, through an eloquent description of their fair tresses and luminous eyes in a literary lament, or even through the actual display of blond hair flowing out of a casket in a funerary service, served to accentuate both their beauty and the horror of its loss. In Byzantine writing, moreover, when authors draw such juxtapositions they appear to exploit this powerful rhetorical device of the antithesis. They also reflect, however, the contemporary recognition that beauty and the horror of death were not mutually exclusive but rather mutually enhancing, particularly in securing the audience’s emotional response.

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The beauty of images, rhetoric and the power of emotion The remarkable feature of this mosaic is the contrast between the horror of its content and the beauty of its presentation; the colors are fresh, the drawing of the figures is elegant and the landscape of the background enfolds the whole composition in a sequence of rhythmical curves. H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence52 This passage in Maguire’s description of the Massacre of the Innocents in the Chora Monastery in Constantinople juxtaposes the intrinsic beauty in the rendering of the mosaic with the inherent horror of the massacre scene it depicts. In light of the arguments above, one could suggest that the beauty of the pictorial handling may have enhanced the horror of the subject matter by prompting the viewer’s emotional involvement. But would the Byzantines themselves have registered such nuances in their images? Beauty’s role in stirring viewers’ emotions on its own right is noted in Byzantine writing on visual imagery in a variety of contexts, its potency discussed as much in relation to the pictorial representation of real-life characters as in the representation of religious scenes. When Choniates speaks of Emperor Andronikos ordering the repainting of the public portraits of Empress Xene (whom he had had murdered) the author notes that Andronikos was ‘suspicious of the pity elicited by these radiant and very beautiful portrayals’.53 The implication is that the emperor feared the emotive influence these beautiful images could exert on the hearts of passers-by. With regard to the power of a beautiful image to rouse the viewer in the context of religious imagery, this is most eloquently described by Psellos whose writing speaks of the beauty of Byzantine icons as a powerful trigger for the viewer’s emotions. In a letter to an unknown recipient, he addresses the experience of viewing an image of the Virgin by noting: ‘I am a most fastidious viewer of icons, but one astonished me by its indescribable beauty, paralysing my senses like a thunderbolt and bereft me of my power of judgment in the matter. Its subject was the Mother of God.’54 Scholarship has read in these lines an image of Psellos as a connoisseur of icons, displaying his aesthetic sensibilities towards religious imagery. Yet, the letter also underlines Psellos’s recognition of, what Charles Barber has termed, ‘the all too human limits of our acts of looking’.55 In addressing where beauty lies within the image, the author, on the one hand praises the icon for pictorial effects such as the mixing of colours to mimic the nature of flesh, but on the other describes the

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beauty of the Virgin as divine and going beyond the sensation of the eyes to what can be experienced only through the eyes of the soul.56 Significantly, however, he also claims to be writing in order to express what he suffered at the sight of the icon, that is, to describe this thunderbolt that struck his senses at the sight of the painted Virgin, underlining thus the extent to which the icon’s indescribable beauty (whether inherent with the painting as such or with its divine prototype) had an emotional impact upon him.57 Despite the complexity of thinking evident in his writing, the belief that beauty may serve to trigger the viewer’s emotional response seems to reappear with some consistency in his letters. In his letter to the Metropolitan of Chalkedon, voicing a complaint that his gift of an icon had been refused, Psellos makes another reference to the power of imagery, viewed as aesthetic objects to stir the viewer: ‘Not even icons? Why my most sacred Lord? I actually robbed them from churches. On your holy soul, I have stolen many from sanctuaries, tucked them under my arm, and made off unnoticed. (. . .) I am rather attached to these faint pictures because they exemplify the art of the painter. I have a collection of such boards, mostly without gold or silver like some of the new senators who have neither crosses nor silk robes.’58 Cutler and Browning have noted that the letter presents Psellos’s desire to acquire the icons as adequate enough a reason to steal them.59 Regardless of what that may say about Psellos’s appreciation of the icons’ aesthetic (as opposed to monetary or spiritual) value, it underlines his emotional response towards these works that lead him to covet and steal them in the first place. Such attitudes in Byzantine writing cast the image of the Kastoria Man of Sorrows, for instance, and the manner in which it depicts the face of Christ, in a different light. In this image, the skill of the artist and thus also the artistry of the image (what Psellos describes as ‘the painter’s hand’) are strikingly visible. The highlights in the hair of Christ are geometrically arranged like rays emanating schematically from his forehead, the decorative handling of the loose curls on his shoulders, the painterly rendering of his beard which swerves somewhat unnecessarily into two elaborate spirals, all these motifs appear to concentrate on producing a decorative effect. They appear almost to aestheticize the dead body of Christ, to turn his features into pattern, into ‘decoration’, into beautifully painted detail. A similar point is made in the Daphni Crucifixion mosaic. There, it is not just Christ’s pink-fleshed, beautifully formed body, but also details, such as the elegant arch of tesserae representing the blood and water that issues from his side, or the two

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intricate, curling ribbons of blood that stream from the wounds at his feet, that attract the viewer’s eye. These images of the dead Christ did not merely communicate the belief that Christ was beautiful even in death, or evoke the complex spiritual notion of Christ’s dead body encompassing both death and ‘Life’. They also suggest that the artist was actively attempting to encourage the viewers’ emotional response to the images by playing on their aesthetic sensibility, their response to a beautifully painted scene, made resplendent even with ornamental detail. The images underline, moreover, as Robin Cormack has noted, that ‘one of the processes involved in the operation of religious art is the sense of beauty’: the aesthetic and the spiritual acted together in making the icon work as a ‘window to heaven’ allowing the viewer to behold the sacred with his own eyes.60 The aesthetic, that is, the contemplation of beauty, thus complements the spiritual by ensuring the viewers’ emotive response. A similar effect could be achieved even when beauty was not experienced through the eyes, as seen in an image, but through a text which described pictorial beauty through words; there too could beauty, manipulated by rhetoric rather than the painter’s artistry, stir the emotions of the audience. Psellos’s writing suggests as much in his Discourse on the Crucifixion, where the author uses an ekphrasis describing an icon of the Crucifixion to achieve his rhetorical aims, that is, of encouraging the listener’s involvement with Christ. Charles Barber has observed that this ekphrasis appears ‘as a condescension to those who cannot achieve spiritual participation by words alone, but still depend upon the corporeal senses to know things’.61 It seems, in fact, that Psellos’s emphasis on the beauty that makes the icon resplendent, by residing ‘no less in the contrast (antilogias) than in the harmony (euarmostias) of the parts and limbs’, may serve a rhetorical purpose towards that end.62 If the ekphrasis was intended to make the listener visualize and relate to Christ’s sacrifice, it may be that the author’s elaborate account of the icon’s beauty was intended to transport the viewer (through the imagination) beyond the image described, to this identification with the crucified Christ. Psellos acknowledges the power of beauty, whether tangible and residing in images or divine and accessible only through spiritual eyes, to stir viewers/readers, and attempts to manipulate its power for his own rhetorical ends. Psellos’s encomium on Symeon Metaphrastes makes a striking point in this respect. Psellos praises Symeon as an author of saints’ Lives for having succeeded where others failed: other writers ‘fell short of the grandeur of their theme’ as their manner of writing did not do justice to

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their story, the lack of beauty (kallos) making their writing laughable to audiences.63 Symeon managed to attract learned readers to his writing, because of the beauty of the words with which he chose to tell the saints’ stories.64 Psellos acknowledges that it was beauty, this time verbal, rather than visual, that served Metaphrastes’s ends. On this front, Papaioannou has noted that, as a teacher of the art of writing, Psellos wished to instruct his students in a new kind of rhetoric that combined style with depth of meaning ‘so that the entire form (eidos) of the discourse was beautiful both according to the external and according to the intelligible beauty (kallos)’.65 Moreover, writing on the rhetoric of St Gregory, Psellos notes that the beauty (kallos) of the saint’s words, like ‘the sculpted body of Aphrodite’, took his mind away from the content, so that he was carried away by the senses.66 Psellos’s writings recognize and manipulate the inherent power of beauty in rousing both the emotions and the senses. He notes that it is through beautiful words that a writer may achieve his aims, while it is through the beauty of images made up of words, such as the ekphrasis of the beautiful icon in the Discourse, that Psellos himself attempts to transport the reader (turned ‘viewer’ through the eyes of the imagination) to the contemplation of higher things. Beauty versus horror revisited? In representations of the dead Christ in the Lamentation in St Panteleimon or Sts Anargyroi, Christ’s calm state, his smooth forehead, his arching rather than contorted brows, his colouring, his body that seems untouched by death, contrast sharply with the state of quiet anguish visible in the face of the Virgin and the other mourners. The image thus provides just that juxtaposition between beauty and the horror of death that would be seen to highlight the drama of the scene. Placed on display, Christ’s beauty in itself heightens the scene’s emotive effect, encouraging ‘an involvement with the living Christ’, by securing the viewer’s emotional participation in the image. Beauty accentuated the tragedy of the scene, stirring the viewer’s emotions, leading him/her to the contemplation of the divine and thus accomplishing the image’s pictorial role.67 Yet, when the Lamentation scene was depicted in the church of Panagia Perivleptos (St Clement) at Ohrid (1295) over a hundred years after the St Panteleimon Lamentation, the same story appears to be told in a somewhat different manner (Figure 29). To the subtle balance between the beautiful body of Christ, unmarred by death, and the pained faces of the onlookers at St Panteleimon, the dead Christ

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in St Clement proposes an alternative image. Christ is surrounded by a large crowd of mourners who gesture eloquently and tear their hair, creating a bold and vivid image of mourning. The body of Christ, in sharp contrast to the calmness and repose of his well-shaped torso at St Panteleimon, is presented in a pose that strongly suggests both pain and suffering: the head is thrown backwards, the neck uncomfortably taut, the chin turned up so as to manifest great strain in the body. Christ’s skin colour appears to have a sallow tinge, his arms are emaciated, and the parallel lines upon his chest are suggestive of the bones lying beneath the skin. In the face of Christ, a dark line over the eyebrows signals contortion in his expression. The sharp, somewhat angular, handling of the eyes suggests they are tightly shut rather than closed in the calm of a sleep-like death. One could, indeed, not mistake this figure as asleep or resting. The body of Christ seems in fact to convey the impression that he is still suffering, and the implements of the Passion, which are also visible in St Panteleimon, are here all the more prominently displayed and extended to include the crown of thorns and a basket of sharp instruments, which allude to the suffering of the Crucifixion. In the St Clement Lamentation, it seems that it is suffering and horror that takes pre-eminence over calm beauty. A similar impression is evoked in the representation of the sacrificial body of Christ in the apse of the late-thirteenth–early-fourteenth-century church of St John Chrysostom in Geraki. Presented in the context of the Melismos, as sacrificial offering in a large gold vessel, Christ’s dead body is depicted with tightly clenched eyes and a furrowed forehead (Figure 30). Setting the diptych representing the Man of Sorrows and the mourning Virgin from the Monastery of the Transfiguration, Meteora, dating to the second half of the fourteenth century, against the twelfth-century double-sided icon from Kastoria is equally suggestive (Figure 31). In the Meteora diptych, the image builds a strong contrast between Christ and the Virgin. The Virgin is depicted with a bright flesh tone, pink colouring in her cheeks and the tip of her nose, bright pink also highlighting the lips that form her delicate mouth. Christ’s body and face on the other hand are depicted with a dark flesh-tone. His visage, moreover, is devoid of colour whether on the cheeks or the lips of the figure, with only white highlights around the eyes, on the modelling of the cheeks, the forehead and torso, which underline the deadly pallor of his body. Suggestively, the only stroke of colour in the image is the bright red stream of blood, which flows from the prominent, gaping wound in Christ’s side. Literally darkened by death, Christ’s body seems to underline the unmitigated horror of

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his suffering. What is striking, however, is that in Byzantine writing of the fourteenth century the emphasis on beauty against horror in the body of the dead Christ has not changed; Byzantine congregations focusing their eyes upon such imagery during the offices of Good Friday would also listen to the Epitaphios Threnos, incorporated into the liturgy in the fourteenth century, with its familiar treatment of Christ’s body, the elaborate praise of the beauty of the dead Christ coupled with the lament at its loss. Yet, though this is not reflected in the texts, the imagery registers change in the manner that artists chose to represent the body of Christ between the Lamentation scenes in St Panteleimon and St Clement, between the double-sided icon from Kastoria and the diptych from Meteora. The suffering body of St George, whose martyrdom is often visually juxtaposed to Christ’s Passion, in cycles of scenes set against each other upon church walls, makes for a telling parallel. This too is a holy body in torment whose manner of representation appears to shift between twelfth-century versions of the image and later-date depictions of the scene.68 The saint’s martyrdom on the wheel, as depicted in the church of St George in Kalamas, Rethymnon, Crete, in the second half of the twelfth century for instance, set against the scene from the church of the Omorfoklissia in Galatsi, Athens, dating to the last twenty years of the thirteenth century (Figures 32 and 33), points to the dramatically different handling of the saint’s body between the two images.69 In both cases, the saint, set against a blue background, is tied to the wheel: below, sharp and ominous, are the points of knives and spears that will cut into the saint’s flesh as the executioners set the wheel in motion, by pulling on the two clearly visible ropes. At a glance, however, what is striking about the Kalamas St George, is the lavish attention devoted to the treatment of the saint’s head. Somewhat out of proportion with regard to the rest of the figure, by virtue of being larger in scale and framed by a grand halo, the saint’s head is presented in an elegant threequarter profile view. This makes for a graceful, if rather irrational pose, which allows the head to be displayed to the viewer at maximum advantage, perhaps at the expense of being peculiarly attached to the rest of the figure’s body. Painted with great delicacy, it attracts the viewer’s attention: the saint’s hair is arranged in perfect, schematic curls, which are neatly and symmetrically arranged to frame his face. Each curl is individually rendered with circular, bright yellow highlights, which match in hue the yellow of the figure’s halo. The large eyes are accentuated with carefully painted eyelids, which meet decoratively at the corner of the eye with the figure’s arching brows. The saint’s mouth is small and delicate and painted with upturned edges at the corners. In terms

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of colouring, a reddish tinge is used in the shadows of the forehead and the contours of the face and neck, so that the shaded areas seem to brighten rather than dull the figure’s complexion, white highlights also used to create a luminous flesh-tone. The body of the figure, perfectly nude, seems almost to embrace the wheel as the hands and the legs of St George encroach on wheel’s outline. The case of the St George in Omorfoklissia at Galatsi is rather different (Figure 33). Strapped to the wheel, the figure is securely fixed upon it with black ropes which are tied to the saint’s hands, ankles and waist, as if to suggest the artist’s concern with the grim realities of the wheel’s function, the later notably a more credible structure than that in the Kalamas image. At first glance, it is clear that it is not the saint’s discreetly haloed, forward-facing head, but his body that is intended to attract the viewer’s attention. His limbs, particularly his arms, appear elongated; they are stretched forward along the circular form of the wheel. His head faces in the same direction, echoing the body’s outline. More striking, however, are the signs of torment evident on the saint’s body. Dark marks, cuts and drops of red blood, are visible on his flesh, staining his hands, his back, his thighs and legs. The contrast with the body of the Kalamas St George is pointed; there, a closer look at the figure reveals a few, ambiguous, black, wedge-like lines along the figure’s back and legs. If these represent cut wounds from the sharp objects below, these almost decorative blood-free cuts present a sharp contrast with the suffering, bleeding body in the Omorfoklissia image. What the scenes seem to suggest is a shift in emphasis between beauty and horror in the depiction of the dead or martyred and suffering body between the twelfth and the late-thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The logic behind this change may be what Robin Cormack has noted in the context of Byzantine icons: that, as the experience of imagery became increasingly familiar, viewer responses towards iconographic themes dulled and needed to be ‘sharpened’ with changes and novel nuances.70 It may be that this shift from calm beauty to emphatic representation of horror in images of the martyred body of saints or the suffering body of Christ reflected similar attitudes. The iconographic innovations of the twelfth century that first made the dead body of Christ a focal point of attention in scenes depicting the Lamentation or the Man of Sorrows, engaging the viewer’s gaze through the beauty of the imagery and its handling, may have become over-familiar by the thirteenth and seen to need refining, by tipping the balance between beauty and horror. When later-date images of the Lamentation and the Man of Sorrows focus on depicting the dead body of Christ, it was not the calm beauty,

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but rather the elaborate portrayal of death and torment that was most pointed, as the viewer’s attention was meant to be drawn to the suffering visible in the body of the dead Christ. The fact remains, however, that contemporary writing demonstrates a continuity of views to those seen in earlier texts, echoing the tradition of writing on the dead body of Christ, which both praises Christ’s beauty and laments the loss of this beauty in death. What this suggests is that what has changed between the twelfth-century Kastoria icon and the image of Christ portrayed in the icon from Meteora is not the perception of what the dead Christ looked like but the way in which artists, patrons and viewers chose to address, pictorially, the issue of ensuring an emotional response towards the dead Christ, triggering the viewers’ emotions and inciting their involvement in the scene. Emphasis on the horror of the event, rather than the subtle play between the calm beauty of Christ and the tragic reality of his sacrifice, appeared to have been the visual solution to this need of involving the viewer with the iconography, in the later-date images. For the Byzantines, beauty was not irrelevant to images of the suffering, the dead and the dying body, but rather was both reconciled with notions of horror and death and even seen to accentuate their drama. Alarmingly powerful, physical beauty, simultaneously hailed as present and lamented as absent from the dead body of Christ in Byzantine writing, was recognized as having the power to say the unsayable in Byzantine imagery. Resolving pictorially what could not be said with words, it presented the body of Christ, beautiful in death, his body encompassing both death and Life. In its rosy flesh, even in death, Christ’s beautiful body was seen to vanquish death. It was not merely that the beauty of images was ascribed with the ability to solicit the viewer’s emotional response, securing his or her involvement with the scene; beauty could be manipulated to achieve various rhetorical or pictorial ends. It could serve as a (physical) bridge that leads the beholder, though the senses, to the contemplation of the divine. The beauty praised in Byzantium as a concrete attribute of the human body, whether alive or dead, was thus also able to lead the mind to loftier things.

5 Angels and Eunuchs: The Beauty of Liminal Masculinity

The investigation of beauty as a physical trait, whether of a real-life individual or an imaginary character, as an aspect of the imperial body, or even as a feature of the suffering, dead or dying body, leads on to an examination of beauty in the context of an entirely different kind of ‘body’: a body that appears in Byzantine imagery and writing to be inherently linked to notions of liminality, being simultaneously physical and bodiless, gendered and sexless and above all beautiful – the body of the Byzantine angel. This chapter looks into figures such as the archangel Gabriel from the apse of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria, with his delicately rendered facial features and elaborate drapery, and questions how the Byzantines addressed and discussed beauty as an integral attribute of the angel’s celestial body (Figure 34). It also investigates what these attitudes may reveal about the beauty of real, human bodies in Byzantium. How do insights into the beauty of angels inform our understanding of Byzantine attitudes towards a special kind of beauty that lies at the borders of the masculine?

The angel’s body between word and image Show me an angel and I will paint one Gustave Courbet Though, unlike Courbet, Byzantine artists had no difficulty in painting angels; it is clear from Byzantine images and writing that artists and viewers alike recognized the complexities inherent in perceiving, viewing and representing the angel’s ‘body’ whether depicted in an image, experienced in a vision, or viewed with the eyes of the imagination. How would one speak of, visualize and represent the body of a spiritual being? 86

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In the late eleventh and throughout the twelfth century the figure of the angel in Byzantium acquired increasing visibility, both in pictorial and in literary terms. Around the middle of the eleventh century, in the coins of Michael IV, the figure of the angel first appeared alongside the emperor in imperial coinage. It thus emerged as part of the visual vocabulary of imperial propaganda, depicted in a medium that ensured its broad dissemination: the image of the archangel Michael, depicted on imperial coinage standing along his imperial namesake, travelled across the Byzantine Empire.1 Throughout the dynasty of the Angeloi, imagery and texts played upon the pun between the angel and the emperors’ last name, ensuring the increasing visual prominence of angels in various media; Emperor Isaac II, for instance, was presented standing alongside the archangel Michael in his coinage.2 The late eleventh century also demonstrates a re-found interest in the figure of the angel in literary terms. Texts written on the subject of the Annunciation present the exchange between Gabriel and the Virgin with a novel focus on telling the story from the archangel’s point of view. Such writing revisited an original idea explored by St Andrew the Great in the eighth century in a text, which, in the context of the increasing literary fascination with Gabriel’s viewpoint on the Annunciation during the eleventh century, also acquired renewed popularity. Evidence of the Typicon of the Evangelistria Monastery, for instance, attests to its use as a prescribed reading for the feast day of the Annunciation. By the second quarter of the twelfth century a sermon by the monk James Kokkinovaphos also focuses on this theme, dwelling on the archangel’s anxious deliberation on how to best present his message to the Virgin. Maguire has suggested that this literary trend also had an effect in the visual representation of the Annunciation in painted images of what he calls the ‘self-conscious angel’, which he traces in Byzantine religious imagery by the end of the twelfth century.3 Increasingly visible, the angel’s ‘body’ and the complexities inherent in its nature were reflected in the writing of the period. Christopher of Mytilene’s story of the gullible monk Andrew and his enormous collection of false relics, which included among other things four heads of the military St George and twelve arms of his companion St Demetrios, makes a point in this respect. Christopher of Mytilene mockingly offers Andrew a piece from the wing of the archangel Gabriel as an addition to his collection.4 The irony of the gesture lies in the blatancy of the fraud, the recognition that a saint cannot have four heads or a dozen hands, any more than an angel, bodiless and immaterial, can possess wings, or leave behind a tangible relic. Such sarcasm aside, however, the attempts

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of Byzantine authors to describe, explain or account for the appearance of the angel’s body in themselves reflect the Byzantine perception of the fine dividing line between how angels appeared and what they were truly like. In his treatise On the Question Why Angels Are Winged, Wear Headbands, Have Human Form and Carry a Sphere in Their Hands ( . . . ), Michael Psellos tells his readers that angels look like human beings except that they are winged and lack the corporeal bodies that tie humans to this world.5 The human form of angels, he notes, ‘shows them to be rational beings’, the fact that angels are winged ‘hints at their exalting and heavenly upward motion’.6 Other features are also explained: the white ribbon in their hair, which alludes to the angels’ purity and the sphere they hold in their hand, which evokes their ability for swift motion. In his careful choice of wording, Psellos underlines the symbolic nature of all he describes, noting how the various ‘characteristics’ of the angels’ bodies evoke their nature as angelic beings. Symbolic rather than literal, the features that constitute the angel’s appearance, Psellos suggests, illustrate deeper truths about the nature of angelic beings: bodiless in their essence, the angels appear with bodies that evoke the immaterial through material terms. Writings that speak of the representation of angels in visual imagery particularly evoke such attitudes, underlining the Byzantine awareness of the intricacies involved in representing the angel’s body. Epigrams intended to be written upon icons portraying angelic figures, such as the archangels Gabriel and Michael, underline the realization that the angel lacks a body, yet was painted with one in religious imagery. An epigram composed in the mid-eleventh century by John Mauropous (c.1000–c.1075/81) for an icon depicting the archangel Michael notes: ‘Light, spirit and fire we know the angels to be, altogether above baseness and feeling: but the leader of the immaterial host is set here formed out of colours. O faith, such wonders have you the power to bring about, so easily [you give] shapeless nature in shapes. Yet, the representation reveals what is represented, not as he is by nature, but as he was made manifest many times.’7 By speaking of the impossibility of transcribing the immaterial essence of angels with material colours, Mauropous is playing upon a familiar topos on the pictorial representation of angels. Yet, Mauropous is telling readers (and in this case also the icon’s potential viewers) that though the image may not demonstrate the archangel’s essence, it nonetheless represents him as he appeared on earth, thus, in a sense, rendering the archangel’s likeness. Less sophisticated than Psellos’s symbolic reading of the angel’s features, this approach follows

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the rational of Byzantine icons, which were believed to depict the actual portrait-likeness of saints and thus to allow the transferral of veneration from the icon itself to the holy person it represented.8 Mauropous’s epigram presents the painted icon as a likeness of the archangel’s appearance when on earth, an attitude which in itself is evocative of the perception of angels in the Byzantine collective imagination. In Michael Psellos’s treatise On the Miracles of the Archangel Michael, the story of a miracle witnessed by a monk called Ephraim offers an account of a nocturnal vision during which a host of (initially unidentified) brightly dressed men fill the monastery church.9 One figure stands out among the crowd; resembling the appearance of the archangel Michael in icons, he is identified by Ephraim as the archangel himself. A recently deceased fellow monk, who has also appeared miraculously alongside the host of brilliantly clad angels, confirms Ephraim’s identification of Michael. The dead monk confides in Ephraim that, having spent most of his life abusing the monastery’s funds, he finds himself dreading the archangel, that fearsome man who the readers would conclude could be no other than the angel of judgement. What the story tells us is that Ephraim’s identification of the archangel was based on the visual evidence of the latter’s appearance in icons. Such attitudes, Dagron has noted, are suggestive of the dependence of the Byzantine viewers’ ‘collective imagination’ upon the visual evidence of the icon, the curious logic of which he sums up by noting: ‘I recognise the saint from his image, but this image prefigures the vision I shall have of him.’10 In the case of angels, in order to visualize the invisible, Byzantine viewers seemed to have largely relied upon the visual authority of the painted image, which conditioned and determined how they would see angels, and also what form the latter should take in order to be recognized. If angels were believed to look like their images, these images in themselves may evoke the Byzantine perceptions of the angel; they also underline, however, some of the complexities inherent in representing angels in pictorial terms. In his study of ‘corporeality and immateriality’ in the representations of saints and angels in Byzantine imagery, Maguire has looked at the juxtaposition between the image of a bodily angel and that of an ascetic, all but dematerialized, monk and attempts to explain why celestial beings may have been portrayed with greater physicality than a flesh-and-blood saint.11 Maguire suggests that, rather than having a fixed bodily or bodiless quality, the angel was used pictorially as a foil to evoke the bodily or bodiless nature of the other figures with which the angel was juxtaposed in a pictorial scene. Thus, set against the figures of monks, angels were rendered bodily to denote the ascetics’

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renunciation of the flesh, while set against other figures such as the apostles, angels were represented as bodiless and immaterial. Writing on issues of style and ideology in Byzantine art, Maguire also notes that the bodies of the angels in Heaven were depicted with a pronounced twodimensionality, lacking in modelling so as to evoke their immateriality, suggesting that the angel’s body was conditioned by its environment, its representation adapted in terms of bodilessness or physicality to evoke a specific theological meaning about the angels or the figures that were juxtaposed to them.12 Byzantine authors indeed saw the angel as lacking a fixed bodily or bodiless quality, that is, as fluctuating between the corporeal and the immaterial; the authority of scripture itself presented angels as ‘both celestial bodies and terrestrial bodies’.13 In just what way the angel’s body fluctuated between corporeality and immateriality, however, is less clear. Theodore the Studite perhaps offered a guideline, noting that ‘in comparison to a solid body, the nature of the angels is bodiless, but in comparison to the deity it is neither bodiless nor uncircumscribable’, an attitude which suggests that, bodiless with regard to man who is tied down with a physical body, the angel is nonetheless corporeal with regard to God, the highest divinity characterized by supreme immateriality.14 This implies that the angel may have been represented as bodiless on earth and bodily in heaven. In the small eleventh-century church of the Evangelistria, Geraki, an exquisitely painted decorative scheme presents the painted bodies of angels in a variety of contexts, both heavenly and earth bound. In the Ascension scene in the vault of the apse, Christ in Glory is held up by four angels, of which the two to the viewer’s left present a rendering of the figures’ bodies that would seem to comply with Maguire’s analysis on the immateriality of angels depicted in a heavenly context (Figure 35).15 These angels are rendered in a schematic, almost two-dimensional manner which bestows no sense of physicality on the figures. Rather than showing the presence of two separate legs, the angels’ bodies below the waist are rendered in the schematic form of a cone, from which spring, in a sharp v-shaped line, the angels’ legs and feet. Their upper body appears equally two-dimensional with the schematic lines of the drapery, giving little indication as to where the arms join onto the figure’s body, or where the (equally flat and two-dimensional) wings are attached to the angel’s back. Yet if these angelic figures appear bodiless and insubstantial rather than bodily and corporeal, the angels depicted in the dome of the church, kneeling before the empty throne of Christ’s Second Coming

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(the Etoimasia), create a different impression (Figure 36). Despite being set in an equally heavenly setting, and depicted in a cramped posture, the dome angels have a noted physicality; their clinging drapery denotes the existence of a body beneath it. Soft shadowing evokes the presence of their arms beneath the baggy fabric of their sleeves, thighs and knees are denoted by circular strokes, and the figures’ chins cast soft shadows as their heads tilt upwards to gaze at the image of Christ in the dome. The images of angels in the Evangelistria, by appearing bodily in the dome and incorporeal in the apse, suggest that the angel’s corporeality fluctuates throughout the church scheme, in a manner that betrays no clearly defined logic reflecting the angel’s heavenly or terrestrial context. What all this underlines is that in the Byzantine collective imagination angels were recognized as bodiless beings that nonetheless appeared bodily in dreams and visions and were painted with bodies in their images. They had ‘likenesses’ even though they lack actual bodies to which these likenesses should correspond. The texts moreover suggest that, though angels were thought of as incorporeal, they were simultaneously ascribed a body which was physical enough to have characteristics that defined and possibly even identified the angel depicted. This is noted in Psellos’s account of the appearance of the host of angels before the monk Ephraim. Psellos notes that the archangel Michael looks like his image in an icon and this is partly what makes him easily recognizable; yet, Ephraim’s identification of the archangel is also based on the additional observation that this particular figure looked unlike the rest of the angels. In an account that creates a very corporeal image of the bodiless archangel, Psellos notes that it is Michael’s appearance, unique and exceptional, that serves to clearly distinguish him from the figures that surround him. The archangel, who shines remarkably with indescribable light, seems to possess a distinctive physique: Psellos tells the viewer that he looked physically superior to the rest of the angels in head and chest and the whole of the body.16 His impressive physique makes Michael stand out among the crowd of angels, a feature that, Psellos notes, also visually denotes his superior status as overlord among them. The contemporary icon of the Last Judgment from the Monastery of St Catherine’s, Sinai, dating to the late eleventh or early twelfth century, makes a very similar visual point about the appearance of the archangel Michael (Figure 37). Depicted among the choir of angels at the top of the image, the archangel Michael is clearly distinguished from the surrounding figures on account of his ‘physique’. Larger in scale than the rest of the angels, he is presented in bust-length format and in a frontal pose. His face is striking, framed by his long, curly hair, which runs

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symmetrically to both his shoulders, while his clearly visible wings are arranged so as to frame his body (Figure 38). Placed in direct alignment with Christ below, in a position that signals his superior status, he stands out among the multitude of heads, haloes and fragments of golden wings that make up the crowd of angels. It may have been that the artist’s choice of depicting Michael as physically larger than the other figures was a symbolic one, denoting the archangel’s greater importance by his grander scale. This said, however, it is notable that the representation did not simply give the bodiless archangel a body, but rather a body that was physically distinguishable from the rest on account of its scale and pictorial handling, literally allowing him to stand out among the anonymous celestial crowd. By using the archangel’s impressive physique as a way of expressing Michael’s status, the icon, like Psellos’s text that presents the archangel as superior in head, chest and in the whole of his body over the rest of the angels, played upon the topos of imposing impressive physique, which was seen in Byzantium as a mark of distinction. Particularly valued among the Byzantines themselves, a broad chest and impressive height were believed to make a man stand out in a crowd. In Psellos’s Chronographia, we are told that Basil, the parakoimomenos, advisor and half-brother of Basil II, was held to be ‘the most remarkable person in the Roman Empire’ because of his exceptional ‘bodily stature and regal appearance’.17 Anna Komnene’s description of Bohemond characteristically dwells on how ‘his stature was such that he towered almost a full cubit over the tallest men’.18 Nikephoros Bryennios’s description of his mutinous relative (also named Nikephoros) remarks upon the rebel’s impressive build, which is presented almost as a justification of his attempt on the throne: as he is brought captive before Alexios Komnenos, we are told, the latter admired the prisoner’s appearance and his stature, which was deemed worthy of empire.19 In this light, when the body of an angel was described in a text or depicted in an image, the representation often reflects Byzantine audiences’ own experience of what an important man would look like, being a cut above the rest in every way. Image and text thus ascribe upon the angel’s body the prized attributes of, notably, fine manly bodies, in order to evoke the archangel’s prominence and status; the feature of imposing build and the admiration for sheer size was one ascribed only to male bodies in Byzantium. Overall, the attitude reflected by authors and artists alike suggests the angels were somewhat humanized both in images and texts; they appeared to take on human characteristics through which their nature and their bodies could be perceived and represented.

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In the representation of the dome angels from the twelfth-century church of St Ierotheos, Megara, this logic of representing angels as beings that were visually and thus also ‘physically’ distinguishable one from another was made particularly evident (Figure 39). In the dome of the church, six angels are depicted in the decorative zone that surrounds the central representation of Christ. Two of these angels appear in roundels in a bust-length format, while four are depicted full-figure in a kneeling pose. Of the kneeling angels, two frame a roundel with a representation of the empty throne of the Etoimasia, and are identified by inscriptions as Michael to the left and Gabriel to the right (Figure 40). The anonymous second pair, which kneel before a roundel depicting the Virgin, are identified by Mouriki as the next in rank, Raphael and Uriel, while the bust-length angels are seen as Giel and Gidael.20 What is striking is that each pair of angels is painted differently from the next. Michael and Gabriel are portrayed with a head of thick, neatly arranged, tight curls, while their wings consist of short, stylized, overlapping feathers. The angels flanking the Virgin have hair arranged in fine, slightly wavy, lines and wings that resemble peacock feathers, shaped in a distinctive eye-and-fishbone motif. Finally, the angels in the roundels, distinguished by their frontal pose, are represented with rows of curls framing their face and running down the sides of their necks, and schematic wings painted with rows of parallel lines and adorned by a rim of decorative pearls (Figure 41). This visual differentiation may have served to enable the angels to be read as pairs that were distinguished from each other both visually, on the basis of physical differences, and symbolically, according to rank: first Michael and Gabriel, then Raphael and Uriel, and finally Giel and Gidael. For the viewer standing beneath the dome, however, what the evidence of the image underlines is that not all angels look alike: they possess a level of physical individuality, be it one that symbolically evokes their status in the heavenly realm. Described in writing and rendered in imagery as both bodily and immaterial, the angels’ curious, physical bodies possessed ‘likenesses’ that distinguished them from others on the basis of physical features. The Byzantine eye, trained to break down a face into individual features, seems to have applied some of its familiar logic of reading likenesses to the angel’s humanized body.

‘Beautiful, blond and resembling the eunuchs of the palace’ In the satirical text of the Timarion (dated to c.1100), the hero, snatched prematurely out of his ailing body and dragged to Hades by two over-keen

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soul carriers (psychopompoi), is fortunate to meet his deceased teacher Theodore Smyrnaios, who serves as his guide into the underworld.21 As Timarion, defended by Smyrnaios, stands before the court of Hades to petition his return to earth, he makes a revealing observation with regard to the Byzantine perception of angels and their physical appearance. In the panel of judges gathered to hear his case Timarion observes the deceased Byzantine Emperor Theophilos and, standing beside him, a beardless figure who whispers continually into the emperor’s ear: this figure is dressed in white, with face that is brilliant like the sun and resembles the imperial eunuchs in appearance.22 Confused as to the eunuch’s identity, Timarion is told by Smyrnaios that the figure is ‘none other than the emperor’s angel, assigned to guide him during life, but also to follow him in the underworld after his death’.23 Accounts in which the appearance of angels was confounded with that of imperial eunuchs were not uncommon in Byzantine writing. A similar case of mistaken identity is described in the Narratio de S. Sophia, dated to the eighth or ninth century but still popular in the twelfth century as indicated by surviving manuscripts. The story recounts how the chief mason’s 14-year-old son, left behind at St Sophia to guard the workmen’s tools as they take a rest, is confronted by a beautiful eunuch in a shiny garb who appears as if he had been sent from the palace.24 Dispatched by the ‘eunuch’ to fetch the masons so that they can resume their work on the church, the boy is eventually brought before the emperor who attempts to identify the eunuch that appeared at St Sophia. Justinian summons all imperial eunuchs before him, but when boy replies that no one among these men resembled the appearance of the eunuch at St Sophia, it becomes clear that the visitor in the church was not a eunuch but an angel of God. To this the boy corroborates that the figure he saw was dressed in white, gleamed with fire and his face was ‘altered’, proving beyond doubt that he was indeed an angel.25 Byzantine writing suggests that with the exception of the luminous face that hinted at the otherworldly nature of the figure, the Byzantine angel, beardless, beautiful and dressed in white, was easily conflated with the appearance of imperial eunuchs. In the Life of St Andrew the Fool, the angel/eunuch parallel is evoked when St Andrew is described witnessing a guardian angel weeping at a sinner’s funeral; the angel looks like a eunuch dressed in white and gleaming with a brilliance outshining the sun.26 Besides explicitly paralleling angels to eunuchs, however, the Life also uses similar vocabulary to describe both angels and eunuchs in various parts of the narrative. An angel who appears miraculously to prepare a meal for the ascetic St Andrew is described as a beautiful young man (neanias eueidis),

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admirably tall, with a face that shines like the sun, dressed in a shining garb. He is blond (xanthos) with hair that shines like gold while his face appears sometimes white like snow and sometimes brilliant like fire.27 Elsewhere in the Life, a young eunuch approaches St Andrew, attracted by his teaching. This eunuch, a dubious character who is severely reprimanded by St Andrew for submitting to his master’s licentious desires, is notably described as beautiful young man, with blond hair (epixanthos), a face like a rose and a body white like snow.28 What the Life of St Andrew appears to suggest, therefore, is that angels were not just paralleled to eunuchs, but that angels and eunuchs physically looked alike, sharing common physical features, such as youthfulness, beauty, golden-blond hair and white and rosy skin, features which notably also evoked the familiar physical characteristics that made up the Byzantine ideal of beauty. This parallel between angels and eunuchs, which made them virtually indistinguishable in terms of their physical appearance, allowing angels to be mistaken for eunuchs by onlookers, appears to juxtapose the divine purity associated with the former to the somewhat shady character usually ascribed to the latter. The young eunuch in the Life of St Andrew is berated for one of the numerous vices customarily ascribed to eunuchs: he is described as unclean (akatharte), accursed (katarate) and lowlier than beasts (such as dogs, swine and serpents) for engaging in homosexual acts. Theophylact of Ohrid’s treatise in Defense of Eunuchs, dated between 1089 and 1107, attempts to refute some of the customary accusations leveled against eunuchs by Theophylact’s contemporaries, and in doing so cites a long list of faults that range from lasciviousness to greed and thirst for power.29 Choniates’s Historia berates court eunuchs of similar vices, and describes them as individuals who could be easily won over by promises of riches and power. The fictive world of the romances also reflects such attitudes: in Kallimachos and Chrysorroi the author presents the heroine, captured by a foreign king, meeting with her lover Kallimachos in secret and being betrayed to the king by evil eunuchs. Ascribed the role of villains in the story the king’s eunuchs are spoken of as a conniving, hateful race and described as the sons of vipers, and as workers of evil and calamity. This unfavourable manner in which eunuchs were often portrayed, however, may have made little difference to the fundamental logic that paralleled them with the angels in the Byzantine mind. We have noted that, at least with regard to physical appearance, beauty could be equally ascribed to the virtuous and the unholy in Byzantium, making the beauty ascribed to the angel and the young eunuch alike in the Life

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of St Andrew less than surprising. As for the fundamental logic behind the angel/eunuch parallel, it has been suggested that this reflected the distinguished position held by eunuchs in Byzantine society, which ranked them among the highest dignitaries of the Byzantine court.30 In the role of the cubicularii, imperial eunuchs enjoyed a proximity to the emperor that matched the exalted position of the angels in the heavenly court, a parallel supported by the dominant ideology of the state, which had both vested interests in promoting the analogy between celestial and imperial courts and the ability to condition popular perceptions. In a world that saw the workings of the temporal court of the Byzantine emperor as mirroring the heavenly court of God (and vice versa) not only was the angel confused with the eunuch in visions, but also the imperial eunuch became a metaphor for the angel.31 In the Life of St Andrew the holy angel and the licentious eunuch alike, possessing the familiar features of blond hair and white and rosy skin evocative of the Byzantine ideal of beauty, underline what we know of the Byzantine unequivocal admiration of beauty; acclaimed wherever it may have been found, regardless of the inner character and moral fibre of the bearer. This fact in itself underlines the disparity between the dictates of theology and those of the Byzantine popular imagination. Theology tells us that angels are bodiless and sexless spiritual beings. Byzantine imagery and texts, however, note with surprising consistency that in the collective imagination of Byzantine viewers angels were young, paradoxically male, and above all beautiful, and the parallel to eunuchs curiously both clarified and refined this image.

The angel and the Adam’s apple A key element in the analogy between angels and eunuchs in Byzantium may have resided with their gender. Maltese has suggested that the notion of angelic sexlessness was echoed in the similarly ambiguous sexual status of the eunuch.32 In an analysis of the image of the angel in Byzantine art, Maltese argues that the Byzantine belief in angelic asexuality was received and transmitted through the iconography, in which the angel had the appearance of an effeminate youth or an adolescent.33 To the contrary, however, one could question the extent to which the Byzantine angel (or, for that matter, the Byzantine eunuch) was truly perceived as a sexless being. To begin with, the balance between (biological) sex and (socially determined) gender in angel and eunuch alike was complex. On the front of Byzantine angel, theology clearly stated that being bodiless angels were by

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definition sexless creatures. That said, however, angels were consistently referred to as male, for instance, through the wording used to speak of them in written sources. It is no coincidence that the body of the archangel Michael is ascribed the manly feature of impressive height in Psellos’s writing. The crowds of angels that appear in the vision of Ephraim the monk are also, notably, described as a multitude of men (andron) that fill the monastery church. Among them, the archangel Michael is similarly referred to as a formidable man (andra) whose appearance causes fear in the sinful monk. It could be argued that Psellos merely used the term ‘man’ (aner) to evoke the angel’s appearance in human form, in other words, that aner was used interchangeably or as a substitute for the term ‘human’ (anthropos). This, however, seems unlikely. In his treatise On Why Angels Are Winged, where Psellos attempted to explain the angels’ human form, the author explicitly described them as being ‘human in appearance’ (anthropomorphoi), opting for a term that explicitly covered the point, describing angels as human like. When Psellos referred to the angel as aner in the story of Ephraim the monk he was, in fact, echoing a long-standing tradition of employing male-gendered terms when speaking of the appearance of Byzantine angels. The evidence of contemporary Byzantine imagery, such as the figure of the archangel Gabriel from the Annunciation scene in the twelfth-century church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, is equally suggestive with regard to how the angel was perceived and represented in relation to other characters, both male and female, in the pictorial scheme of the church (Figure 34). Visually paired with the Virgin across the apse, Gabriel is painted with delicate, carefully rendered features: large, almond-shaped eyes framed by perfectly arching brows, a tiny mouth set with bright-red lips, a straight nose. His wavy hair, which culminates in tight, stylized, circular curls framing his long neck on either side, is highlighted with bold strokes of yellow. His complexion, the skin appearing smooth and unblemished, is highlighted by circles of red on the cheeks and a rosy shadow on the neck and forehead. The figure’s features strongly evoke the Byzantine ideal of beauty. But rather than representing the ‘effeminate adolescents’ of Maltese’s analysis, a detail in the handling of Gabriel’s body appears to portray the angel as masculine, rather than as a feminine or genderless figure. As the archangel and the Virgin are set against each other across the apse, one notes how the necks of the two figures are handled differently by the artist. In the case of Gabriel, the base of the figure’s neck is marked by a v-shaped line, below which two c-shaped curves appear in mirrorimage symmetry. The Virgin on the opposite side of the arch is painted

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with a neck rendered as a smooth, unbroken cylinder highlighted by a soft wrinkle that echoes its cylindrical shape. This handling of the lower neck appears to distinguish male from female figures throughout the decorative scheme of the church. In the case of the military saints lining the north and south walls of the nave, Gabriel’s combination of a v-shaped and two c-shaped lines is clearly visible in the necks of Sts Demetrios, George, Nestor and Mercurios (Figures 42 and 43). This arrangement of lines, moreover, is notably absent from the necks of female figures, such as the saintly women depicted in narthex. Sts Iouliane and Marina are portrayed with necks painted like smooth cylinders in much the same way as that of the Virgin (Figure 44). On the south wall of the church, the scene representing St Nicholas between the Virgin to the left and Christ to the right underlines this point. The smooth neck of the Virgin is juxtaposed to the complex arrangement of lines seen on the neck of the two male figures. What is more striking in this image, however, is the importance which the artist apparently ascribes to this feature, causing him to condense these v-shaped and c-shaped forms so that they will fit into the narrow strip of flesh visible between St Nicholas’s chin and the top of his garb. Similarly, in the figure of Christ, the artist attempts to accommodate this feature upon Christ’s neck despite the sideways turn of the figure’s head, creating a somewhat odd effect. What this highly stylized rendering of the structure of the lower neck appears to denote is the presence of the Adam’s apple; hence both its persistent association with the bodies of male saints throughout the decorative scheme and its conspicuous absence from the bodies of female figures. A similar observation can be made in the case of the enamel icon in the Treasury of San Marco in Venice, portraying a standing archangel Michael in high relief (c.1100) (Figure 45).34 A thin gold line on the neck of the archangel evokes his Adam’s apple, displaying a characteristic v-shaped curve at the base of his neck, a feature that also appears on the necks of military saints depicted on the icon’s elaborate border (Figure 46). The fact that this figure of the archangel Michael, or that of Gabriel and the other angels in St Nicholas of Kasnitzi such as the kneeling figure in the apse (Figure 4), are depicted with an Adam’s apple, in fact, links them not only visually to representations of other male figures (like the military saints), but also symbolically to the notion of masculinity as such. These figures visually evoke something of the complexity inherent in perceiving the angel’s body: theoretically sexless, Gabriel is pictorially represented as male, illustrated with a physical feature which can be seen as emblematic of the male body. In fact, precisely because of the angel’s sexlessness, in the angelic body the Adam’s apple becomes an

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attribute not of biological sex (as in the case of the military saints) but of socially constructed gender, of the curious masculinity ascribed to the angel in Byzantine writing and evoked in the angel’s representation in pictorial imagery. Galatariotou attributed the angels’ male gender in Byzantine texts to the theological (and sexist) need to associate them, as beings so closely associated with the divine, with the masculine, as ‘patriarchal ideology would allow them to be nothing else’.35 The case of Byzantine eunuchs and their own gendered bodies is equally complex. At least according to theologians like Theophylact of Ohrid, eunuchs, despite their muddled biological status, were regarded as male, that is, as neither belonging to the female sex, nor seen as sexless creatures. The eunuchs were, however, recognized as holding a somewhat ambiguous masculinity in that they did not posses the traditional attributes of the male gender, lacking, for instance, ‘masculine musculature, body hair and beards’ or a thundering, deep voice.36 That possession of a beard appeared to have been recognized as an attribute of the gendered body, relating to sex but also to socially constructed perceptions of masculinity, is suggested in Byzantine writing. The term used to identify bearded men (barbatos) notably possessed additional connotations of reproductive potency, which, as Ringrose notes, was often regarded as the measure of masculinity in Byzantium. The eunuchs’ beardlessness seems, in fact, to have been recognized as a sign of the eunuchs’ ‘other’ masculinity, of their ambiguity. It can be no coincidence that the angel/eunuch parallel, which in its analogy between celestial and terrestrial worlds was used by the Byzantines to understand and define the angel, often played upon beardlessness as the common, identifying feature of angels and eunuchs. The lack of a beard was often crucial to the description of the Byzantine angel: in the Timarion, Emperor Theophilos’s guardian angel, initially mistaken for a court eunuch, is described as apogon, a remark that makes his lack of beard a defining feature of the figure. Evidence of Byzantine court ceremonial suggests that this feature was acknowledged and incorporated into the eunuch’s courtly role. Piltz, writing on court ceremonial, notes that ‘the emperor was never crowned before bearded officials (barbaton) except when he was crowned by the patriarch’: in other cases the court eunuchs formed a protective ring around the emperor at his coronation to protect him from the evil eye.37 Plitz’s account presents a case in which the peculiar, ‘other’ masculinity of eunuchs was seen as serving an almost magical, protective purpose: shielding the emperor from the invisible yet potent threat posed by the evil eye.

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The beauty of ‘eternal springtime’ Above all, it was their arresting and remarkable beauty that appeared as the common ground that aligned angels and eunuchs in the Byzantine mind. It is no coincidence that in the Life of St Andrew, both angel and eunuch are described using the same term: eueidis. That physical beauty was central to the eunuch was noted in Byzantine writing, with sources acknowledging the role of physical beauty even in the making of eunuchs. John Zonaras, in his twelfth-century Epitome Historion, recounts how the Abasgian kings selected boys with beautiful faces and bodies, whom they abducted and castrated to be sold as eunuchs in Byzantium.38 Though the story originated in Procopius, the fact that it was quoted by Zonaras in the twelfth century suggests it may well have been seen as a credible tale by Zonaras’s contemporaries. In the case of angels, the belief in their supreme beauty may have had its Biblical precedents, but Byzantine eleventh- and twelfth-century writing played upon this feature as a crucial attribute of the angelic body. Psellos’s treatise On the Miracles of the Archangel Michael speaks eloquently of the beauty of angelic figures; the angels that appear in Ephraim’s vision are described as brilliantly clad and marvellous of face, while the archangel appearing to the family of the ailing merchant is described as riding upon a horse, his face flashing with light, his beauty matchless.39 The numerous angels seen by the saint in the Life of St Andrew the Fool are all described as beautiful. Not only is the blond angel sent to cook the saint’s meal handsome (eueidis) but so are the angels encountered by the saint in his vision of heaven; four music-making angels appear beautiful, large in scale and white like light, while Andrew is also faced by a multitude of such angelic youths that are all beautiful and appear burning like fire.40 It is notable, moreover, that when Byzantine texts speak of the beauty of angels they do so discussing beauty not merely as a spiritual, abstract, theological quality but often as a concrete, physical quality. The image of the angel of the Annunciation from St Nicholas of Kasnitzi cannot but be seen in this light. The viewers would be expected to see the figure of the curly-haired, ruby-lipped, red-cheeked figure as beautiful not only because he complied with the Byzantine ideal of beauty but also because the Byzantines knew angels to have beautiful bodies, blond and curly hair and white and rosy skin. Such beliefs would be both confirmed and reinforced by the ‘evidence’ of the visual imagery, of figures such as the curly-haired, rosy-cheeked deacon-angel from the scene of the Melismos in the apse of the church of St Vlassios in Veroia or imagery that rendered, for instance, the angel’s possession

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of blond hair gleaming like gold in literal terms (Figure 3). The lines of gold tesserae that embellish the locks of angels from the mosaics of St Sophia in Constantinople, or the gold striations visible in the icon of the so-called ‘Archangel with the Golden Hair’ in the State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg, underline this point.41 That the Byzantines expected to see their angels as beautiful, both through the eyes of their collective imagination and in the pictorial realm of visual imagery, further refines the angel/eunuch parallel. Lacking the roughness of a beard, angels and eunuchs may have shared a similar kind of beauty, one characterized by a sweetness of a face that never reached mature masculinity and the roughness of bearded, fully grown manhood that came with it. Angels and eunuchs thus shared both a liminal, ‘other’ masculinity (advertised by their conspicuous beardlessness) but also a unique kind of beauty which appeared to be attached to this curious masculinity: that beauty of liminal masculinity which lacked the traditional attributes of manly reproductive potency, and defined them as a kind apart. The study of Byzantine eunuchs through the gaze of modern medicine has recognized the effects of testosterone deprivation in what Ringrose identifies as the characteristic physical appearance of court eunuchs, castrated before adolescence to achieve a specific physical appearance aesthetically appreciated in Byzantium: ‘the appearance of boys at the cusp of puberty’.42 Ringrose notes that ‘such boys were stereotypically graceful, feminine without being female, and sexually pure. Their skin was still clear, they had no beards, their voices were high-pitched, their faces, which had not yet taken on a masculine appearance, were short and broad’ and adds, moreover, that this ‘pubescent face of the Byzantine eunuch is readily seen in the images of angels and youthful warrior saints in Byzantine art’.43 One may doubt that the painted faces of angels, or for that matter, Byzantine military saints, truly evoke a eunuchoid facial type; or that it is boyish beauty that one looks upon when faced with figures like Gabriel from St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, whose prominent Adam’s apple aligns him not only with the male figures in the church but also with men that have passed the age of adolescence, when this feature becomes particularly prominent. Yet there is something in Ringrose’s suggestion that the Byzantines ‘aesthetically appreciated the appearance of boys at the cusp of puberty’ – though perhaps the focus was less on boyish beauty and more on the beauty of youthful manhood.44 Despite being inherently timeless creatures, angels in Byzantium were often referred to using an age-specific term: they were described

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as neaniskoi, using a word that bore a distinct association with youthful masculinity. It is this term that appears consistently in the Life of St Andrew, for instance, or the contemporary twelfth-century text compiled by the holy man and author St Neophytos to tell the Old Testament story of the angels appearing to Lot.45 The term neaniskos was in accordance with theological tradition; in the Gospel of Mark, for instance, the angel addressing the Maries by the Sepulchre is similarly described as neaniskos.46 Yet the continuity in the use of this term in Byzantine writing underlines an unequivocal association of the angel with youthful manhood in the Byzantine mind. It is significant, however, that the term neaniskos in itself, though it conveyed a generalized sense of male youthfulness, was ambiguous as to the exact age it would have conjured in the mind of a Byzantine audience. The Lexicon, attributed to Zonaras, defines the term neanias or neaniskos as describing a man between 22 and 34 (or 41) years of age.47 According to this account, a neaniskos was a man who had outgrown the stage of meirax, which covered ages from 15 to 22, and was definitely past boyhood, pais being identified as between the ages of 5–14 years. That said, however, the definitions provided by the Lexicon are ambiguous at best and less than evocative of universally accepted attitudes towards the various age groups in Byzantium and the words suitable to describe them. Zonaras’s Epitome underlines this point, for instance, when describing the 20-yearold Constantine V Kopronymos, as a neanias (rather than meirax), while also labelling Michael III neanias at the age of 16, when Bardas removed him from of the guardianship of Theoktistos and Theodora (856). In Nikephoros Bryennios’s Yli Historias, the young Alexios Komnenos who follows his brother Isaac on campaign in Cappadocia, aged probably around 16 or 17, is also labelled neanias, and, to complicate matters further, simultaneously described as a beardless youth. This last reference makes a further point; not only were the various terms used to describe age groups in Byzantium often arbitrarily used, but also it seems that authors may have manipulated the apparent age and youthfulness of an individual to a make a specific point. This is noted in Bryennios’s account of Alexios’s exploits later on in the narrative, when the author describes his hero at the age of 21 vanquishing the rebellious kinsman of the author (also named Bryennios) and in doing so describes Alexios as a beardless youth. The mighty general Bryennios is defeated, we are told, by one who had not yet grown a beard and possessed a tender and golden down upon his cheeks (chloazonta kai chrysizonta). In order to praise the exploits of the 21-year-old Alexios the author thus chooses to promote his image as that

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of a brilliant youth that could defeat a seasoned warrior. By choosing to express Alexios’s youthfulness by describing the first golden hair growing on his cheeks, Bryennios’s writing curiously ‘youthens’ the hero to fit the ideal image created for him.48 This feature of fine hair just sprouting on the face of a young man appears often in Byzantine writing. It stands for the beauty of youthful adolescence on the brink of manhood, evoking the particular moment in time when boyhood has passed and a youth displays what authors describe as the first bloom of facial hair. The handsome heroes of Byzantium, invariably young, were usually described in this state. Michael Psellos notes the fine down of hair on the cheeks of the young Basil II, and equally creates a splendid image of the tall men that made up Bardas Phokas’s Iberian bodyguard, noting that they were growing their first beard and sported the first bloom of youth. Niketas Choniates describes Constantine Doukas as ‘a youth growing his first beard and who, like luxuriant plants, promised to bear fruit prematurely’, conveying just this image of youthful life at the peak of its powers exemplified in the body of the young man at the brink of manhood.49 Stewart has suggested, in the case of the world of Periclean Athens, that the ‘image of a beardless youth’ evokes ‘all the hope and energy of “life’s jewelled springtime” ’; it may have been that the same principle was noted also in Byzantine attitudes.50 Byzantine writing often draws parallels between this kind of youthful masculinity and the blossoming of Nature. Psellos notes that the future Emperor Romanos admired Constantine Monomachos for his comely youthfulness and saw him as a fresh shoot to be added to the family tree, while the blossoming beauty of his face that made him look like a spring fruit made him a favourite of the empress. It is no coincidence that from the story of Digenis Akritis in the late eleventh or early twelfth centuries, to the world of Livistros in the fourteenth century, and equally in Byzantine historical and hagiographical writing throughout this period it was the beauty of the young shoot that was particularly praised and most elaborately described by authors, rather than the full-blooded beauty of mature men. In the world of Rodanthe and Dosiklis, from the hero himself to minor figures like the handsome Dryas, beautiful young men were invariably described as just beginning to grow their first beard. The visual imagery would have both echoed and strengthened this fascination with the beauty of the youthful male body, particularly as numerous figures of saints appear to have undergone a similar process of ‘youthening’ in their pictorial representations, which allowed them to appear as beardless youths despite being, at least according to

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hagiographical writing, well past the age of puberty. This was the case with the military saints, for instance, who despite being full-fledged soldiers at the time of their martyrdom nonetheless often appear as beardless figures. St Sergios, for instance, was depicted beardless though he would have been not only past the age of 18 years, which was the standard age of military recruitment according to Roman regulations, but possibly older as he held the rank of primicerius in the imperial bodyguard.51 The youthening evident in Byzantine writing seems to have been reflected in the long-standing tradition of the established holy portraits of Byzantine saints.52 Yet, this attitude that favours youthfulness and the youthening of figures in both imagery and writing was nonetheless matched by the Byzantine recognition of youth’s darker side. Like beauty in Byzantium, youthfulness was revered as much as it was mistrusted. Youth was criticized for its impetuosity, its lack of judgement and (perhaps because of its beauty) for its lasciviousness and predilection for vice. Choniates notes how Isaac Angelos’s cousin Constantine, though otherwise clever, would occasionally succumb to rashness and the unpredictable behaviour of youth. Foolishness, even in mature men, was described as ‘youthfulness of mind’; when Alexios, son of Isaac Angelos, agreed to demands he could not meet, Choniates notes it was because he was ‘juvenile in mind rather than in age’, and thus easily swayed by others.53 Zonaras notes in the Epitome Historion that the Emperor Michael III surrounded himself with immodest youths who enticed him to all kinds of despicable behaviour, including dressing up as priests and mocking the sacred rites of the church. In monastic Typica, such as that compiled by St Neophytos for his foundation of the Enkleistra, Paphos, young monks were dismissed as a temptation to homosexuality and left outside the community of the Enkleistra, lest they should tempt the brethren into vice. The notorious pessimist Kekaumenos advises his readers not to put themselves in the position of the young or they will end up by hating their own soul. By young, he adds, ‘I mean those who think and act as the young even though they may be old.’ Perhaps it was in this that the uniqueness of angels and youthful saints lay. Their youthful beauty by being godly was perfect, lacking the treacherous side which made both youth and beauty unreliable in mere mortals. In the particular case of the angel, this beauty of unripe manhood, caught before its youthful sweetness gave way to the roughness of mature masculinity, would stress the notion of the angel as eternal youth whose beauty was frozen by never attaining the characteristics of full manhood. This youthful, beardless beauty may thus also have

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served to underline something of the angel’s spiritual essence. By possessing the beauty of the ‘eternal springtime’ of youth, the comely body of angels, as it was visualized by the Byzantines in both images and texts, conveyed spiritual meaning by underlining the role of angels as timeless and eternal creatures.54 In the same way that the angels’ youthful beauty evoked their timelessness as celestial beings, the figure of the military saint was also frozen in time, preserving a youthful beauty in its prime cut short by martyrdom and never allowed to age. Ringrose has questioned the unwillingness of Byzantine sources to discuss ‘castrations, eunuchs' medical problems, their deaths’, noting: ‘Is it because eunuchs are perceived to be created beings who are ephemeral, who live outside the normal human life cycle of birth, reproduction, and death, with the result that these facets of their lives cannot be mentioned?’55 It may have been, however, that in this respect, the eunuch/angel parallel that aligned the celestial and temporal spheres bestowed upon eunuchs a sense of timelessness that went beyond their arrested development: stressing the continuity of their role in the Byzantine imperial court and its enduring traditions. What Byzantine imagery underlines is the attempt of artists to evoke, but also simultaneously to celebrate, the various nuances of youthful masculinity in the painted likenesses of saints. Weitzmann has noted in the case of the five martyrs of Sebaste that Byzantine artists used the length of figures’ beards to distinguish them visually according to age.56 In the representations of the martyrs of Sebaste, who were often depicted in a line-up, he notes, the five figures can be read as ranging between youth and mature age on the basis of the absence or presence of beards, and of the latter’s respective lengths. Similar ‘line-ups’ of saintly figures are noted lining the walls of Byzantine churches, as in the case of Sts Eustratios, Eugenios and Orestes in the Panagia Mavriotissa in Kastoria dated to the second half of the twelfth century, where the features of the figures equally distinguish them on the basis of age (Figure 47). All three were painted in a manner that reflects the artist’s careful attention and the dictates of the ideal of beauty: their cheeks are red, their skin white, their brows perfectly arched, their eyes large, their features carefully delineated. The difference in age between the figures is also clearly marked. St Eustratios displays a full, dark beard, which identifies him as a mature man and gives him a more austere look. Between St Eugenios and St Orestes, who both sport the ideal feature of (schematic) curling locks, the difference of age is more subtly evoked: the former displays a shadow of facial hair and a thin moustache, while the latter is clearly the youngest, painted as a smooth-cheeked youth, whose lack of a beard

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allowed the artist to accentuate both the elegant oval of his face and (a feature ignored in the other saints) the exquisite shape of his almost luscious red lips. A similar distinction is seen in the representation of Sts Vincentios and Victor from the north ambulatory of the church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa in Elasson, in northern Thessaly. The two saints, beautifully painted in their lavish robes evoking the folds of patterned silk embellished with embroidered rims of pearls, are distinguished according to age. Both sport ruddy hair, rosy skin and arching brows in accordance to the ideal of beauty, but St Victor is depicted with smooth cheeks while St Vincentios sports ruddy hair on his chin and a thin moustache (Figures 1 and 48). To the topos evident in Byzantine writing that exalted the ideal image of the youth in an arrested moment in time, just sprouting the first beard, Byzantine imagery juxtaposed two distinct formulas for depicting youthful beauty: that of the beardless young man at the brink of manhood, and that of the youthful male figure sporting his first beard but painted before reaching full maturity, both depicting the lauded springtime of youth, and underlining the ability of imagery for infinite subtlety in evoking complex nuances.

Beauty and the captivated gaze A glance at Byzantine imagery within church schemes suggests that the artists were adept at manipulating the appearance of beautiful figures within a decorative scheme to meet their own ends. In the twelfthcentury church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria, two angels are painted flanking the figure of the Virgin in the apse. The careful treatment of their splendid curls, the painstaking rendering of the drapery that clings onto their bodies, reflects the attention lavished by the artist on the rendering of their features (Figure 49). Equally notable is the angels’ gaze that appears to meet that of the viewer: both angels appear to be looking down into the viewer’s space as he/she stands in front of the apse. Set within the church’s decorative scheme the angels share the pictorial and iconographic role of the other holy figures that line the walls of the church, in that they serve to present doctrine through images, turning aspects of faith into a tangible reality before the viewer’s eyes. They also play a part in affecting a specific viewer psychology by visually and symbolically transforming the church into a divine space, set apart from the rest of the world, in which the sacred mysteries are enacted before an audience, that includes the (living) members of the congregation, but also the saints and martyrs who are made present through their images.57

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How the figures of the angels appear to relate to the viewer within the context of the church scheme is thus evocative of their perceived role in the mind of the Byzantine viewer. The angels in the apse at Sts Anargyroi are notably differentiated in their pose and gesture from the young Sts Kosmas and Damian, for instance, painted in the apse. The two saints, who also appear to look out into the viewer’s space, are depicted in what the Byzantine viewer would have recognized as a gesture of prayer; their arms, elbows set close together, are held up in front of them to form a ‘v’ as they gesture upwards (Figure 50).58 In contrast, the angels, who hold a rod in one hand, use the other hand to gesture towards the Virgin in the apse. Their gesture, the palm of the hand facing away from the viewer, the fingers set together with the thumb apart from the rest, is one with notable currency in Byzantine imagery. It is the familiar gesture of the Panagia Hodegetria (‘the Virgin who leads the way’), whose role, as her title suggests, is to guide (hodegei) the worshipper towards the contemplation of the Christ-Child held in her arms.59 The angels’ gesture seems similarly intended as an attitude of demonstration to serve as a device with which to lead the viewers’ eye to a desired focal point: in the pictorial scheme of the church the two figures appear ascribed with the role of attracting the viewer’s attention with their arresting gaze, and literally pointing it towards the representation of the Virgin in the apse. In the pictorial scheme of the narthex at Sts Anargyroi other angelic figures seem employed in a similar fashion. As the viewer walks into the narthex from the entrance he/she stands in a space dominated by the scene of Christ in Glory, painted overhead. Four angels, all of which appear to make eye contact with the viewer below, are depicted holding up the figure of Christ who is set in a blue mandorla. On closer inspection one observes another pair of angels in the narthex, painted on the wall opposite the entrance of the church, which appear intended to direct the viewer’s gaze to the Ascension scene. As the viewers enter the church they are faced with these two standing angels, depicted in full length, which engage the viewer’s gaze by appearing to look directly at him/ her (Figure 51). Both gesture upwards, directing the viewers’ attention with their raised hands. The angel to the right, in particular, is depicted in a twisting pose with his one shoulder receding into the background almost as if caught in the act of a right-hand turn, a pose which has the effect of making his hand gesture more pronounced as his prominent right arm is held up against the dark-blue background. What the angels at Sts Anargyroi suggest is that in depicting angelic bodies artists may have employed the angels’ eyes and hands to serve the figures’ function

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within the decorative scheme: that of arresting through eye contact, and directing through hand gesture, the viewer’s gaze to a selected focal point. In Byzantine imagery, the angel’s pointing finger is often what leads the gaze not only of the viewer, but also the other figures in the pictorial scene towards a specific focus of attention. In the Louvre Museum gold reliquary cover of the second half of the twelfth century, portraying the scene of the Maries before the Sepulchre of Christ, the three female figures are confronted by the angel and his pointing hand (Figure 52). The angel is presented seated upon the rock, his head turned to face the Maries who are huddled together in awe, his gaze fixed upon their cowering figures. His hand, fingers clenched together and index finger extended, points to the empty tomb of Christ where the discarded shroud is still visible. The explicatory gospel text, strategically inscribed over the heads of the figures, transcribes the scene into words and thus reinforces the meaning of the angel’s gesturing hand. The inscription describes the fear and ecstasis that gripped the Maries and quotes the angel’s speech which instructs them to approach the empty tomb: ‘come and see (eidete) the place where he lay’. The angel’s role within the scene, of directing the Maries to witness the miracle of the Resurrection, is thus doubly imprinted on the image: through the angel’s words, visualized through the inscription, that urge the Maries to look into the vacant tomb and through the gesture of his pointing hand that directs their gaze (and ours). A similar role is ascribed to the angel directing the Maries to the empty sepulchre of Christ in the small late-thirteenth–early-fourteenth-century church of St John Chrysostom in Geraki (Figure 53). The scene, depicted at the higher part of the wall, presents all three Maries crowding on the left side of the image. The angel, who takes up most of the painted scene with his large, widespread, multicoloured wings, appears to gaze not at the women but at the viewer standing in the space of the church. His gaze captivates that of the viewer and directs it, like the Maries, with his pointing finger towards the black emptiness of Christ’s tomb. Looking around the small church, the viewer’s gaze is similarly arrested by other angelic figures also appearing to look straight out into the viewer’s space. In the apse, two angels dressed as deacons are depicted flanking an image of Christ’s sacrificial body in the scene of the Melismos (Figure 30). Both are striking in their beautifully painted heads with their slender noses, pink cheeks and heavy, arching eyebrows. The angel to the right, moreover, looks out at the viewer, his large, almond-shaped eyes engaging the viewer’s gaze, directing our attention towards the

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painted body of Christ in the image, and presumably also the sacrificial body of Christ prepared at the altar. Equally, in the blind arch on the north wall of the small church, two angels, resplendent in their imperial dress, are depicted holding up a fiery roundel bearing a representation of Christ. The angel to the right, beautifully painted with delicate facial features, a perfect aquiline nose, rosy cheeks and lips and heavily shaded piercing eyes, engages the viewer’s gaze, attracting the viewer’s attention (Figure 54).60 Within the decorative scheme of the church of St Chrysostom, the angels appear to adhere to this role of engaging the gaze of viewers and directing their eyes, and presumably also their thoughts, to a specific focus of attention. This act of captivating and directing the viewer’s gaze in visual imagery is in keeping with the angel’s spiritual role with regard to mankind. As go-between amidst heaven and earth, whether as a divine messenger or as an implementer of divine will, the angel is charged with directing human beings to ‘see’ a manifestation of the divine. From the role of Gabriel in the Annunciation to that of the angel in the Life of St Andrew, sent on earth to cook a meal for an ascetic saint, angels are often seen to serve as the (visible) hand of (an invisible) God. In keeping with this celestial role, the representations of angels in visual imagery also stand between the (real) world of the viewer and the (pictorial) world of saints and holy truths depicted upon the wall, guiding the viewer’s access into this divine realm. Their arresting gazes and gesturing hands underline this point. Yet, looking at the figures of the angels in the little church of St Chrysostom or the painted angels in the apse of Sts Anargyroi, their magnetic eyes, elaborate dress and magnificent wings in themselves may have played a part in serving the angels’ role within the pictorial scheme. Beautifully painted, the facial features of the angels in the apse of Sts Anargyroi, the large eyes emphasized by their heavy shading, the luscious golden-yellow curls, the white skin that seems to glow as it is touched up with flecks of yellow, the bright, cherry-red of the cheeks, and lips all evoke the prized features of ideal beauty in Byzantium. The pictorial handling of the figures also betrays the attention lavished upon them by the artist. Their curling locks of hair are decoratively rendered, their large wings are brightly coloured, executed in a splendid arrangement of red, pink and blue tones. Their bodies are fitted with clinging drapery, which marks out their long, slender figures, and extravagantly ornamented with lavish folds looping decoratively in the upper part of their bodies and fluttering splendidly around their legs. Written accounts of angelic apparitions stressed the beauty of the angel that appeared to man to deliver God’s message or to implement his will. It seems natural that when angels

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appeared in an image within the church to do just the same, there too they would appear beautiful. Yet, it is not just that Byzantine angels were both inherently beautiful and beautifully painted in visual imagery; this lavish handling of their facial features, decorative drapery and brightly coloured wings suggests their beauty may have been instrumental to the fulfilment of their pictorial role of enticing and captivating the viewer’s gaze. That this was the case is also suggested by the imagery of the small, eleventh-century church of the Evangelistria in Geraki, where the decorative scheme of the apse depicting the scene of the Ascension makes similar use of a beautiful youthful figure to attract the viewer’s gaze to the painted scene. The image of the Ascension depicts Christ held up in glory and two groups of apostles observing the scene from the walls below (Figure 55). As the viewer stands in the space of the church his/her gaze picks up the figure of a beardless young apostle with finely painted facial features, curling hair and large almond-shaped eyes. Notably the only one among the apostles to look out into the viewer’s space, this youthful figure directs our attention towards the scene painted overhead by means of his extended hand: fingers clenched together with the index extended, he literally points the viewer’s gaze towards the Ascension. The pictorial handing of the figure in itself appears intended to ensure that the viewer will pick out this youth among the crowd of apostles. The crispness of the youth’s features, the careful rendering of his lips and eyes, the extra prominence given to his head that escapes the bounds of its neighbour’s halo, make him particularly eye catching. A beautifully painted figure and simultaneously a painting of a beautiful youth, this apostle suggests that the role of captivating the viewer’s gaze and directing it to another scene was ascribed by the artist to a visually attractive, eye-catching figure rather than any other in the pictorial scheme.61 Similar observations can be made in the Daphni Crucifixion, where it is notably the handsome St John that gazes out at the viewer (Figure 28). A striking figure of youth, the smooth-cheeked St John, with his wavy hair highlighted with yellow streaks, attracts our gaze and directs it through his gesturing hand to the contemplation of the crucified Christ. Just as in the case of the Evangelistria Apostle, what these figures suggest is that, for the Byzantines, beauty was eye catching. Perceived as inherent in the figure or lying equally with the image and its execution, it played its part in serving the figures’ purpose, that of (literally) pointing the viewer in the right direction. Such figures possessed the ability of attracting the viewer’s gaze and directing it to a chosen focal point. In this light, the role of angelic beauty in Byzantine iconography was pointed: it served as a pictorial device

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used to achieve specific pictorial ends, to serve the angel’s role within a decorative scheme by leading the eye and the mind towards a manifestation of the divine. Sensual beauty? Eros and the angel The angels’ beauty, their brightly coloured wings and their fluttering drapery in Byzantine imagery could equally have had other connotations. Peers has looked at the figure of the archangel Michael in the fourteenth-century icon at Byzantine Museum, Athens, and noted with regard to the handling of the figure’s facial features that ‘the full mouth, finely modelled cheeks and chin and detailed shaping of luxuriant hair, show a desire on the part of the painter to manifest a degree of sensuality in this image’ though, he suggests, ‘the archangel’s piercing eyes create a distance from the realm of the viewer that the sensual handling of the archangel paradoxically encourages’.62 Was there a place for sensuality, even desire in the painted image of the angel in Byzantium? At a glance, the viewer gazing upon the figure of the archangel from the Byzantine Museum notes the figure’s striking physical presence (Figure 56). His cheeks, reddened with a reddish-pink tone applied like a blush on both sides of the face, appear almost flushed. The modelling of his flesh is built up as a juxtaposition of bright areas, which appear to glow, and shaded areas, which appear to recede, thrusting the figure into relief. The sides of the face, the lower jaw, the forehead, the staff-bearing hand with its glowing knuckles and shaded wrist and particularly the figure’s neck, where the shading accentuates the area of the figure’s Adam’s apple, create a sense of three-dimensionality in the figure. The handling of his garment is also suggestive in this respect. The angel’s orange garb, which is set off against a darker cloak, is resplendent with chrysography evoking the folds of drapery in a web of golden lines. The dark cloak is also gold trimmed, while the translucent orb held before it allows the folds of the fabric to show through. The handling of the archangel’s flesh and drapery in fact creates the impression of a truly ‘physical’ presence of the figure, who appears to materialize before the viewer’s gaze. Simultaneously, the pictorial handling of the figure emphasizes the tactile qualities of the figure’s skin and dress. That tactility, in the form of the practice of touching and kissing of icons, was part of the Byzantine response to devotional images has been noted by Robin Cormack.63 Beyond this practice of physically touching holy images, Nelson’s analysis of the extramission theory of vision, the belief that invisible rays travel from the eye to the object beheld and back, allows vision in Byzantium to be described as a ‘tactile’ experience that involves physical

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contact between the painted figures of saints and the viewer’s eyes.64 But to this belief inherent in Byzantine attitudes towards imagery, which was both touched by the hands and the lips of the faithful and seen, in turn, as touching their eyes through imperceptible rays, the angel in the Byzantine Museum icon appears to juxtapose a different kind of tactility: a tactile quality matched by the angels of Sts Anargyroi or the figure of Gabriel from St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, which were depicted in a manner that emphasized their luxuriant locks of hair, the lavish, silky garb clinging to the angelic bodies, making the figures in their painterly handling by the artist appear almost tangible. Emphatically tactile through the effects of pattern, colour, and notably also texture, the angel’s body in these images invited the viewers’ involvement with the figure, exciting not only his sense of sight but also that of touch. The possible implications of such a response are less than straightforward. In Byzantium the physical senses, including those of touch and sight, were perceived as the means by which the outer world could, through the body, reach the bearer’s soul, often leaving the latter precariously open to assault. Theological texts and spiritual treatises often warn against the dangers of allowing, particularly the senses of sight and touch to pollute the soul by serving as gates to sensuality. The belief that the senses acted as doors to the psyche was shared by the secular world of Kekaumenos’s Strategikon and by Digenis Akritis despite their different attitudes towards the physical world.65 What did this appeal to the viewer’s senses, enticed in the often tactile quality of dress and decorative detail seen in images of the angelic body, imply of the Byzantine response to the image of the angel? Manuel Philes’s (c.1275–c.1345) epigram on an image of an archangel notes that ‘the painter mingles the flame with water. For having described the immaterial nature by means of flesh, he provides water to the faithful [to quench] the flames of desire.’66 In a world in which spiritual writing traditionally used ‘the language of love ( . . .) to express the legitimate longing of the soul for union with God’, the notion of desire seems to have been used in a different context than that of sensuality.67 Yet, it may also be that the iconography of the Byzantine angel was adapted in Byzantium to fit a different context, which expressed desire in a more physical sense. Magdalino has noted that in eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantium, Eros, the love god of antiquity, appeared to undergo a transformation from the image of a boy into that of a youth. In Makrembolites’s romance of Hysmini and Hysminias, this novel image of Eros was further elaborated with the love god ascribed the title of basileus and portrayed surrounded by all the paraphernalia of kingship.68 As Hysminias and his friend Kratisthenis

Angels and Eunuchs: Beauty and Liminal Masculinity 113

are presented walking in an idyllic garden setting they are confronted by a painted image of the nude Eros depicted upon a wall. In the ensuing ekphrasis, Eros’s statuesque beauty is eloquently remarked upon: should the three goddesses of antiquity, Athena, Hera and Aphrodite, stand again against each other in the wedding of Thetis, this youth would surely rob them of the apple. Makrembolites’s image of Eros informs the reader that the love god is armed; he holds an arrow in his hand and has a bow and sword strapped to his waist. He has wings instead of feet, a point interpreted by Magdalino as supporting a Byzantine rather than Western origin for this new image of Eros, suggesting that the figure may owe his winged feet to the ‘six-winged angels, the hexapteryga, of religious iconography’.69 The winged feet noted by Magdalino aside, the fact that this renewed interest in the figure of Eros and his transformation from a boy into a young man appears to coincide with the growing fascination with the angel in eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantium is suggestive. To Eros’s traditional emblems of the bow and arrow, which lend him the name of the winged archer in contemporary court poetry, the author of Hysmini and Hysminias also significantly adds the sword strapped to the figure’s waist – a weapon associated with the image of the archangel Michael. To this parallel is added the eloquent description of the figure’s curious beauty; Eros was a young man who possessed a kind of beauty that had not yet reached mature masculinity and was thus comparable to the beauty of Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. Yet if this image of Eros borrowed his attributes from the image of the Byzantine angel, there was no doubting his secular nature in the mind of contemporaries; the writings of the twelfth-century canonists, such as Theodore Balsamon’s commentary on the hundredth canon of the Council of Trullo, for instance, clearly linked images of erotes with carnal desire, thus ascribing them to a realm far removed from that of the divine.70 In the mid-thirteenth-century romance of Livistros and Rodamni the story recounts a nightmare experienced by the hero in which he is led before Eros the King to account for his proud dismissal of love.71 Livistros dreams that he is pacing through a beautiful garden complete with running waters, luxurious plants and flowers, which is paralleled to Paradise itself, when he is suddenly attacked. A group of armed, winged, angry, fire-breathing men fall upon the hero and order him to surrender his weapons and follow them. Livistros, who assumes himself to be ‘now at death’s door’, does as he is told, whereby ‘one of them, extremely handsome and of pleasing build and appearance, with wings on his shoulders and armed, came up to me peacefully and took my hand’.72 Led by this outstandingly beautiful, winged man and fiercely scolded

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for his arrogant dismissal of love, the hero is then taken into the love king’s domain. Past the stern guard at the gates he is brought before Eros the King, only to be spared his terrible judgement at the intercession of Desire. If Makrembolites’s handsome, young Eros acquired his winged feet as Magdalino suggests from the hexapteryga of Byzantine religious imagery, one could equally argue that in the mid-thirteenth-century world of Livistros and Rodamni it is the attendants of Eros (rather than the king himself) who evoke the imagery of the angels in the Byzantine collective imagination. Portrayed as ‘Love’s executioners who punish crime’ these figures are described as a crowd of fearsome men with wings springing from their shoulders and a fiery, formidable nature.73 They are strikingly beautiful, moreover, and appear to serve a role similar to that of angels in the heavenly court: standing between mortal Livistros and the all-powerful, god-king Eros they match the position of angels in their attributes, their physical appearance and their role of mediators between the human and the divine. Whatever the eros/angel parallel may have suggested about the emerging image of the love god in Byzantium, its implications for the Byzantine perception of the angel and his body are significant. The analogy underlined in the texts suggests that the image of the angel may have fuelled the Byzantine imagination in creating written images of erotes in the twelfth century. That the imagery of the angel was so readily adapted to the secular setting of the iconography of eros and his court underlines, moreover, that the angel was somewhat secularized by the Byzantine gaze. There is the possibility in other words that the visual and verbal images of angels in Byzantium, with their gendered bodies suggested by the manly Adam’s apple, their elaborate wings, blond curly hair and tactile drapery, allowed for a level of ‘humanization’, linked to their all-too-physical and tangible rather than abstract and spiritual beauty. This may in turn suggest a possible sensuous undercurrent to the image of the beautiful angel. Ascribed as a physical attribute to beings inherently spiritual, the angel’s complex beauty underlines the importance of this quality in the Byzantine mind, which caused beauty to be read as a tangible quality even in the immaterial body of an incorporeal being. Young, male, and above all beautiful, the angel stood in alignment with the Byzantine eunuch. Their special kind of beauty, a beauty of ‘eternal springtime’, revealed itself as a Byzantine obsession; it was praised in texts and elaborately depicted in visual imagery, with saintly bodies evoking nuanced representations of youthful manhood caught before their beauty hardened by the roughness of mature masculinity. Represented upon church walls, standing between the world of the viewer and the realm of the divine, the angel’s beauty

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is ascribed a purpose, serving to direct both the viewer’s gaze and his mind to the contemplation of higher truths. Yet this brightly coloured, visually captivating image of angelic beauty also appeared to secularize the angel, lending his attributes to the figure of Eros in Byzantine literature. In this, Eros’s beauty underlines the extent to which beauty stood liminally between sanctity and sensuality in Byzantium, bridging rather than dividing these two theoretically divergent but secretly overlapping worlds. Inherent to both and exclusive to neither, beauty not only served both sanctity and sensuality, but also underlined the blurred boundaries between the two. The parallel between angel and eunuch, moreover, by identifying a particular kind of beauty that befitted, and also defined and expressed the curiously masculine, sexless yet gendered status of the angel, looks further into some of the ways in which beauty and masculinity were seen to relate to each other in Byzantium. The beauty of angels, like that of eunuchs, reveals further nuances of the Byzantine perceptions of beauty, masculinity and the relationship between the two.

Figure 1 St Victor. Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson.

Figure 2

St Nestor. St Nicholas Orphanos, Thessaloniki.

Figure 3 Deacon-angel. St Vlassios, Veroia.

Figure 4 Angel from the apse. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 5 St George. St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 6

Emperor Constantine IX Monomachos and Empress Zoe before Christ. St Sophia, Constantinople.

Figure 7 St Neophytos ascending to Heaven supported by angels. Enkleistra, Paphos.

Figure 8 St Ephraim the Syrian and St Kyriakos. Enkleistra. Paphos.

Figure 9

St Ilarion (centre). Enkleistra, Paphos.

Figure 10 Theodore Lemniotes, his wife Anna Radene and his son John before the Virgin and Child. Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 10 (Continued).

Figure 11 Nikephoros Kasnitzis and his wife Anna. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 12 Emperor John II Komnenos and Empress Eirene before the Virgin and Child. St Sophia, Constantinople.

Figure 13 St Onouphrios. Protaton Monastery, Karyes, Mount Athos.

Figure 14 St Demetrios. Protaton Monastery, Karyes, Mount Athos.

Figure 15 Sinai.

The Nativity and scenes of Christ’s childhood. St Catherine’s Monastery,

Figure 16 Calendar icon for the months of September, October and November depicting the martyrdoms of saints. St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 17 Calendar icon (detail). St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 18 The Massacre of the Innocents. Prophet Elias, Thessaloniki.

Figure 19 Executioner from the Massacre of the Innocents (detail). Prophet Elias, Thessaloniki.

Figure 20 St Catherine surrounded by scenes of her life. St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 21 Emperor Basil II. Biblioteca Marciana, Venice (cod. Mar. gr. Z.17).

Figure 22 Emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos before Christ, Byzantine Museum, Athens (cod. 1).

Figure 23 The Virgin Hodegetria and the Man of Sorrows. Byzantine Museum, Kastoria.

Figure 23 (Continued).

Figure 24 The Lamentation. Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 25 The Lamentation (detail). Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 26 The Lamentation. St Panteleimon, Nerezi.

Figure 27 The Lamentation (detail). St Panteleimon, Nerezi.

Figure 28 The Crucifixion. Daphni Monastery.

Figure 29 The Lamentation. Panagia Perivleptos, Ohrid.

Figure 30 Christ flanked by deacon-angels in the Melismos. St Chrysostom, Geraki.

Figure 31 The Virgin and the Man of Sorrows. Monastery of the Transfiguration, Meteora.

Figure 32 St George on the Wheel. St George, Kalamas, Rethymnon.

Figure 33 St George on the Wheel. Omorphoklissia, Galatsi, Athens.

Figure 34 The archangel Gabriel and Panagia from the Annunciation. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 34 (Continued).

Figure 35 Angels from the Ascension scene. Evangelistria, Geraki.

Figure 36 View of the dome with images of angels. Evangelistria, Geraki.

Figure 37 The Last Judgment. St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 38 The choir of angels from the Last Judgment (detail). St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai.

Figure 39 View of the dome with images of angels. St Ierotheos, Megara.

Figure 40 The archangel Michael. St Ierotheos, Megara.

Figure 41 Bust-length angel in roundel. St Ierotheos, Megara.

Figure 42 Sts Demetrios and George. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 43 Sts Nestor and Mercurios. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 44 Sts Iouliane and Marina. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 45 The archangel Michael. Treasury of San Marco, Venice.

Figure 46 The archangel Michael (detail). Treasury of San Marco, Venice.

Figure 47 Sts Eustratios, Eugenios and Orestes. Panagia Mavriotissa, Kastoria.

Figure 48 St Vincentios. Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson.

Figure 49 Angel from the apse. Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 50

St Damian. Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 51 Angels in the narthex. Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria.

Figure 52 The Maries by the Tomb (detail). Louvre Museum.

Figure 53 Angel by the sepulchre. St Chrysostom, Geraki.

Figure 54 Angels in imperial dress. St Chrysostom, Geraki.

Figure 55 Apostles from the scene of the Ascension. Evangelistria, Geraki.

Figure 56 The archangel Michael. Byzantine Museum, Athens.

Figure 57 St Mercurios. Panagia Perivleptos, Ohrid.

Figure 58 St Nestor. St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria.

Figure 59 Sts Demetrios and Nestor from the frame of the icon depicting the archangel Michael (detail). Treasury of San Marco, Venice.

Figure 60 Sts Prokopios and Nestor. Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson.

Figure 61 Sts Prokopios (detail). Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson.

Figure 62 St Orestes from the Episkope, Evritania. Byzantine Museum, Athens.

6 The Fragile Beauty of Soldiers

Insight into the beauty that befitted the curiously gendered bodies of angels and eunuchs underlines the complexities involved in understanding how beauty related to Byzantine notions of masculinity; the question of the soldier’s beautiful body adds to this debate. From the eleventh century onwards, imagery and writing suggest a fascination with the image of the handsome soldier and a growing interest in alluring displays of military splendour in Byzantium. On the other side of this, however, lies the thorny issue of the soldier’s proclaimed aversion to the mirror: a fear of adornment and beautification that highlights the strained balance between manly beauty and unmanly effeminacy in the Byzantine perception of the handsome soldier. Did beauty constitute a part of military masculinity or a threat to it? This chapter looks into the perception of beautiful military bodies on display, the notion of the ideal soldier and its connotations in Byzantium between the eleventh and the fourteenth centuries.

Beautiful soldiers on display In the story of Timarion (c.1100), the protagonist recounts a trip from Constantinople to Thessaloniki that takes an unexpected detour into the underworld. The hero, seized by a sudden illness and attacked by two over-keen psychopompoi, is dragged to Hades, from where he escapes only after facing a stern tribunal. In the earlier part of the story, however, Timarion offers a description of the Demetria and of the festivities in honour of St Demetrios, patron-saint of Thessaloniki. Led by his desire to observe the spectacle of the city and above all the sacred ritual celebrated in the saint’s honour Timarion joins the crowd gathered around the saint’s church. There, onlookers stand in anxious anticipation of the arrival of the Duke of Thessaloniki and his resplendent retinue, which 116

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includes numerous bodyguards and horsemen. Upon the duke’s arrival Timarion describes how he relishes in the splendid spectacle: young men in the prime of life (akmazondes), curly-haired and blond (xanthoi), bright eyed and tall, ride before their lord who is pictured as the epitome of physical excellence. Acclaimed as initiates of the war-like Ares, the men of the duke’s retinue possess fine physique and are beautifully clad in silken and embroidered dress while their curly, blond locks are described dangling from their heads like the blossoms of the hyacinth. As they appear in a harmonious march, riding upon wild Arabian steeds decked in gold and silver trappings, they are likened to a military gallop.1 As for the duke, Timarion describes his appearance as rivalling the stars: his eyes are joyous, his teeth white like milk, his body tall and well built, his limbs perfectly symmetrical, his stature resembling a cypress. His harmonious, well-built body is so perfect that nothing should be added or removed from it; even his hair is neither too black, nor too blond but a perfect colour somewhat in between the two. For black hair, Timarion notes, is too savage and blond too effeminate to be suited to men but this mixture of the two perfectly blended bravery with love. Overwhelmed by the splendour of the scene Timarion exclaims: ‘How can I describe (…) the joy that took hold of my soul, the delight that filled me?’ By recounting the unspeakable pleasure that fills the hearts of onlookers as they gaze upon the duke’s procession, the author evokes the reaction of the spellbound crowd to a specific spectacle: that of beautiful male bodies on display. Described in considerable detail, the physical appearance of the duke and his beautifully clad retinue evokes many of the familiar features of the ideal of beauty. Equally notable in Timarion’s account, however, is the fact that the ideal male beauty of these characters is specifically linked by the author to an elaborate military display; described as initiates of the mythical Ares, the duke’s horsemen in their ornate trappings approached the church in a military gallop. In evoking the anticipation of the crowd and their delight in this spectacle of fine manly bodies in military display, the author of Timarion is, in fact, echoing sentiments that would not have been unfamiliar to his contemporary audience. Scholarship has noted the growing militarization of Byzantine society in this period and the rising prominence of a powerful military aristocracy, which emerged in the eleventh century and appeared to come into its own by the twelfth, with the writing of Michael Attaleiates, John Skylitzes and Nikephoros Bryennios, for instance, proclaiming the glorified image of the military hero as ‘noble warrior’.2 In the context of the twelfth century and of what has been

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termed ‘the development of a martial ideal’ in Byzantium, Timarion’s account may thus have evoked something of the contemporary interest on the soldier and his elaborately armored body.3 The growing fascination surrounding the soldier’s body and the arms and armour that made it resplendent is noted, for instance, in the writing of Theodore Prodromos. In his poems exalting the military prowess of John II Komnenos, the emperor is eulogized for his military exploits, lauded as a statue (porphyras agalma) and an ornament among kings (kallos anakton) as he leads his troops to subdue the enemies of the empire.4 Prodromos marvels at the power of the soldierly emperor’s limbs: the adamantine hardness of his body, his hands wrought of copper, arms of iron, fingers carved of sturdy stone.5 Strikingly, the author presents himself in proskynesis before the glorious imperial armour: in a poem dedicated to John Komnenos returning victorious from war, he speaks of worshipping John’s entire coat of armour, his breastplate and his belt, kissing his golden lance, his sword, his bow, down to the hooves of his Arabian horse.6 Prodromos even devotes verses to military equipment per se, as in his poem To the Sword of Alexios Kontostephanos, which betrays his fascination with the soldier’s trappings through which military prowess is exemplified.7 On the occasion of the wedding of Alexios, son of panypersebastos Nikephoros Phorbenos, Prodromos creates a lavish military image for the young bridegroom, listing his military trappings.8 Hailed as a bridegroom-soldier (nymphie stratiota), the handsome Alexios is called upon to swap his armour for more fitting dress, lay down his breastplate, his armour of battle, his iron footwear and iron garb, his spears and helmets, for they belong to another ceremony and another feast. Composing verses for the new-born son of the sebastocrator Andronikos, the infant Alexios, Prodromos similarly dwells upon a fantasy of military splendour.9 Iron is hammered to produce this young soldier’s weapons, his breastplate, leg-shields, spear and bow; arrowheads must be sharpened, a two-edge sword crafted, so that like another Achilles he may fight at another Troy. Military prowess and its trappings take centre stage even in verses presenting the sebastocratorisa mourning the loss of her husband Andronikos. The widow’s lament speaks of splendid arms and armour, golden swords, breastplates, bows and helmets, which are invoked as Andronikos is hailed as a hero and a great general; the grand military equipment called upon almost to stand in for the absent body of the dead soldier. In Prodromos’s romance of Rodanthe and Dosiklis the beautiful young hero is notably a soldier too, underlining the fascination not only of the author but also of the milieu for which these texts

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were composed, with the soldier, his body and the military trappings that adorned it. Whether flesh-and-blood historic characters or fictive, imaginary heroes, soldiers appear as objects of admiration, role models and paradigms, increasingly prominent in historical writing and literature alike. Elaborate images of armoured men and their gleaming weapons, descriptions that appear to turn the soldier into a dazzling spectacle, are noted in Anna Komnene’s Alexiad, describing, for instance, how the Emperor Alexios mistook one of the enemy’s best men for his rival Bassilakios ‘because of the brightness of his armour, which reflected the light of the stars’.10 This Homeric image of brilliant armour that catches the eye of onlookers is also found in Niketas Choniates’s Historia. When Branas’s men hold Constantinople at siege, Choniates notes that as ‘the sun’s rays fell on the armour and the newly burnished and smooth corselets, they were reflected like flashes of lightning, so that the City’s populace gathered in groups on hilltops of the City to view the scene with great amazement’.11 Branas’s men in their gleaming array are thus described as a sight worthy of an admiring audience. Equally, Choniates speaks of the spectacle presented as the men of Kontostephanos and Dionysios pitched themselves for battle, soldiers and their steeds forming a lavish display as the sun gleamed brightly on the armour of men and horses: ‘the men armed cap-a-pie, and it was a spectacle to behold the horses displaying fillets and cinches and wearing frontlets and breastplates as protection against missiles. The snorting of the horses and the sunlight flashing brilliantly in reflection from the weapons as the armies approached each other created a most unusual sight that inspired fear and wonderment on both sides.’12 The soldier’s glamorous image in Byzantine writing is often complemented by the elaborate physical descriptions of his body and physique. Much in the way of Timarion, Anna Komnene’s Alexiad speaks of the dangling, ruddy curls that fall into her father’s eyes when he removes his helmet during battle, and creates elaborate visual portraits of men such as Robert Guiscard and Bohemond. The handsome young Nikephoros Diogenes too excited the admiration of the world with his beauty and fine physique as he exerted himself in military activity. Speaking of Bassilakios she notes how the populace and the military look not into a man’s virtue but ‘stand in awe only of his physical excellence, his daring, his virility, his speed of running, his size’.13 The soldier’s increasing prominence in Byzantine writing seems to be matched by the evidence of Byzantine visual imagery from the eleventh century onwards. Kazhdan and Epstein have noted the emergence of

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a novel image of the emperor, which depicts him as a military figure decked in armour, both in large-scale iconographic schemes and in imperial coinage by the middle of the century.14 The prominent image of Basil II presented in resplendent armour standing over his grovelling enemies in his Psalter (cod. Mar. gr. Z.17, fol. 3r, Biblioteca Marciana, Venice) (Figure 21) underlines this point.15 Yet, the increasing visibility of the soldier is perhaps best illustrated in the growing prominence of the Byzantine military saints who appear increasingly in a variety of media. Walter’s study of the warrior saints in Byzantium notes for instance that, in the iconography of bishop’s seals in Thessaloniki, the martyr St Demetrios was transformed into a military saint, a practice initiated in the seals of Bishop Romanos in the eleventh century (post 1038) and echoed in those of his twelfth-century successors.16 From the eleventh century onwards, military saints appeared on the seals of the Komnenian aristocracy, while, starting in the twelfth century, images of the military Sts Demetrios, George and Theodore appeared upon the coinage of the Komnenian emperors.17 The evidence of Byzantine monumental art further underlines this point. Walter has demonstrated that a formal echelon of military saints, initially placed high up in church schemes, first emerged in Byzantine art around the eleventh century. In the mosaics of Hosios Loukas, dated to the first half of the eleventh century, the military Sts Prokopios, Mercurios, Theodore Stratelates, George, Theodore Tiron and Demetrios were prominently displayed in the arches below the dome of the Naos, decked in full military dress and making up the first surviving representation of military saints on a grand scale. By the time Sts George, Mercurios and Nestor were painted in their elaborate garb and military trappings in the late-twelfth-century church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi in Kastoria, the figures of the military saints had been moved to ground level, a gesture seen by Walter as an evocation of their growing importance.18 At that level these figures were displayed in greater physical proximity to the viewer, who would feel almost that he stood before the ranks of the resplendent Soldiers of God. Faced with the beautifully painted figure of St George from the church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi the Byzantine viewer’s gaze would have noted the splendour of the soldier’s body and its trappings (Figure 42). The saint’s head sports tight, symmetrical, golden curls, painted as a complex formation of bright-yellow knots. His complexion is ruddy, with flecks of red paint highlighting his cheeks and lips. His well-built torso is discernible below what appears as a coat of chain mail, carefully shaded to denote the muscular body that lies beneath. His red mantle,

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highlighted with white paint, is given a silky texture; a splendid goldenyellow decorative border embellishes his cloak while his elaborate shield is adorned with scrolling patterns. Placed on display, magnificently clad in full military paraphernalia, the soldier and particularly the handsome soldier was portrayed in Byzantium, from the word of Timarion, to that of Choniates, Prodromos and Anna Komnene, as an object of admiration on his own right. But would the Byzantine viewer, looking at this figure of St George, have seen a beautiful soldier on display? Beauty and the image of the ideal soldier In the church of Panagia Perivleptos, Ohrid (1295), the work of the painters Michael Astrapas and Eutychios suggests as much, with the artists singling out the figures of three military saints for special attention. In the wall paintings of the church, the figures of Sts Prokopios, Demetrios and Mercurios are notably depicted with carefully delineated facial features and resplendent dress and armour: patterned breastplates, elaborate shoulder-plates and mantles adorned with rich folds, delicate bands of vegetal scrollwork and rims of painted pearls. What is striking, however, is that these three figures of military saints bear the artists’ only full signatures in the entire decorative scheme of the church. The inscription ‘by the hand of Michael Astrapas’ appears on the blade of St Mercurios’s sword and on the rim of the cloak of St Demetrios while the name of Eutychios is visible on the rim of St Prokopios’s mantle (Figure 57).19 The artists’ choice of signing their names upon these military figures rather than any others within the church was not unique; just under a century later, when the artist Constantine signed his name on the frescoes of the middle register in the church of Ravanica (c.1385/7), he too chose to sign on the cloak of a military saint. The implications of such a decision, however, are suggestive, in that they evoke both the attitudes of the artists and those of the images’ intended recipients. Robin Cormack has noted that, on the question of artistic merit, Byzantine audiences, like modern-day viewers, agreed that it was the quality of their work that identified the accomplished artist.20 On their part, Byzantine artists at times made open, self-aggrandizing statements on their superior artistic merit, as in the case of the artist Kalliergis, who proclaimed himself as ‘the best painter of all Thessaly’ in the dedicatory inscription of the Church of Christ in Veroia (1314/5).21 In the case of Michael Astrapas and Eutychios, their decision to inscribe their names on the elaborate figures of Sts Prokopios, Demetrios and Mercurios may have suggested that the artists were attempting a similar, if less blatant, self-aggrandizing statement. Through their signatures, the artists were

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connecting their own names to these painted soldiers, suggesting that it was with these figures above any others in the church scheme that they wished to be identified with and perhaps even be remembered for by generations to come. Michael Astrapas and Eutychios proclaimed, in their beautifully painted images of ideal soldiers on display, the best advertisement of their artistic skill and their expectation that this would be recognized by the thirteenth-century viewer standing in the space of the church. The artists’ gesture moreover implies that in their eyes, and in the eyes of the images’ contemporary audience, these painted saints would have been recognized as being beautiful; a beauty, presumably perceived as lying both with the prototype, the military saint, and with his painted representation upon the wall. That the Byzantines believed their military saints to be beautiful is noted: Walter, comments that military saints were customarily portrayed as beautiful in their Lives or in accounts of their martyrdom and miracles.22 Sts Artemios, Mercurios and Christopher, for instance, appeared as beautiful figures in their Lives, as did less-known figures like St Ioannikios, described as ‘delightful and handsome in appearance’ (oraiotatos).23 When Theodore Laskaris saw the two military St Theodores as he marched towards Melnik, he described them as two comely young men.24 When St Theodore was described in the Life of St Andrew, there too he was lauded for his beauty (oreon to kalli). The military saint’s beauty was often described not as a vague, spiritual quality but as an explicitly physical quality relating to the tangible attributes of the saint’s body. The Life and various miracles of St George, for instance, describe him as a handsome, blond, curly-haired youth. An account of St George’s appearance in the seventh-century Life of St Theodore of Sykeon presents the military saint as ‘a most handsome and good looking young man’, described by St Theodore’s grandmother Elpidia as ‘exceedingly handsome with shining clothes and curly hair gleaming like gold’.25 In Symeon Metaphrastes’s Life of St Orestes the saint is similarly described as physically well built and beautiful.26 As beauty did in Byzantium, the comeliness of saints often affected the attitudes of others towards them: St Sergios, we are told, was so beautiful that upon his death the sight of his beauty caused the crowd looking upon his martyred body to weep.27 These sacred texts that often tell audiences that the military saints were indeed beautiful would, presumably, have created the expectation of seeing them depicted so in the visual imagery. In the case of St George from St Nicholas of Kasnitzi with his delicate facial features, the attention to detail such as the rendering of each individual lock of his curling hair, the closeness to the Byzantine ideal of beauty in the figure’s blond locks, rosy cheeks, red lips and impressive stature, all

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suggest that the Byzantine artist painting the body of this soldier-saint expected viewers to look upon him and see the (physically) beautiful soldier of God described in his Life. In fact, in painting the image of the military saint, artists appear often both to make concessions to Byzantine perceptions of ideal beauty and to focus on decorative detail. In the case of the youthful St George depicted in the early-thirteenth-century icon from St Catherine’s, Sinai, the image incorporates the prized feature of ruddy locks, visible in the copper highlights that illuminate the saint’s voluminous curls (Figure 5). The subtle rendering of the saint’s gaze, moreover, which employs shaded areas and bright red highlights in the eyes and eyelids, underlines the desire for decorative elaboration. The evidence of the Lives of military saints, however, also makes another point that underlines the increasing importance of physical beauty in the image of the ideal soldier, exemplified by the figure of the military saint, starting from the eleventh century onwards. Examining versions of the Life of St Mercurios, Binon noted that the story of the saint’s Life found in the Vatican manuscript Vat. Gr. 807 was elaborated in the eleventh century with the introduction of new details to the saint’s image.28 In this embellished account of the earlier Life (Ambros. Gr. 251), St Mercurios was described as being twenty-five years old and beautiful in appearance, with a ruddy complexion and blond hair. The saint thus underwent ‘beautification’ as his story was rewritten in the eleventh century, embellished to include a reference to the praised attribute of physical beauty, which was newly ascribed to the saint. Other military saints’ Lives underwent similar elaboration, adding beauty as a fresh addition to older versions of the story. Symeon Metaphrastes rewrote the Life of the military St Menas, for instance, describing Menas as tall and handsome and thus embellishing the saint’s image with the attribute of physical beauty.29 The story of St Theodore Slaying the Dragon, which appeared in three versions dating to the ninth, tenth and late eleventh or early twelfth centuries, respectively, displayed a similar elaboration with the late-eleventh- or early-twelfth-century version of the story reflecting an interest in the saint’s comeliness. Papamastorakis has argued that the dragon-slaying St Theodore was transformed from a soldier in the ninth- and the eleventh-century versions of the story to a young aristocratic warrior in the last version, a move that he suggests points to the emerging image of the aristocratic soldier in Byzantium.30 The fact that in the first two dragon-slaying stories the hero was St Theodore Tiro, while in the last the dragon slayer was St Theodore Stratelates, whose higher rank may have explained his aristocratic status, somewhat complicates this argument. This said, however, the two

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St Theodores often acted as ‘doubles’ in Byzantium, suggesting the possibility of a line of development in the treatment of the story from the earlier to the later versions.31 With regard to the saint’s beauty, however, regardless of the identity of the Theodore in question, one fact remains unchanged: the details of the saint’s physique, deemed irrelevant to the earlier dragon-slaying tale, were added in the final version of the story, which offered a novel description of the military figure, informing readers for the first time that he was young and, notably, beautiful. What the evidence of the elaborated saints’ Lives suggests is the increasing importance ascribed to the beauty of soldiers in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, which caused beauty to be added to the earlier versions of the miracles and exploits of the military saints. As the old stories were retold they were altered and embellished to describe the saints’ ideal beauty at times in elaborate detail. In this light, it may also have been that in the image of the soldier’s body (exemplified by that of the military saint who as Soldier of Christ represented the Ideal Soldier) physical beauty was also increasingly seen to go hand in hand with the soldier’s military image.

Between Ares and Eros: Dangerous beauty and the soldier’s fragile masculinity In the story of Timarion, the eloquent description of the duke and his handsome retinue, all ideal soldiers on display, suggests that an additional connotation may have been attached to this image of military beauty. As Timarion describes the duke approaching he speaks of a group of erotes that precede and follow him, a rhetorical reference that appears to use allegorical figures to evoke the beauty and grace of the spectacle. In his choice of wording Timarion thus explicitly aligns the spectacle of ideal soldierly beauty, of flowing blond curls, sturdy bodies draped in fine cloths and splendid military trappings, with the symbolic figures of erotes, emblematic of erotic love. The possible implications of this are underlined in Timarion’s own reaction to the spectacle: his professed loss of words, the eloquent description of the joy that took hold of his soul and of the delight that filled him. Timarion himself and the impatient crowd standing around the church of St Demetrios appear transformed almost into worshippers of the duke, his splendid retinue and their military masculinity on display. The vocabulary of erotes symbolically translates their anticipation into desire, suitably expressed in erotic terms. In Niketas Choniates’s Historia, an account of a tournament held in Antioch at the instigation of Manuel Komnenos makes a similar

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point. As the emperor and his men stand up against Prince Reginald of Chatillon and his Latin retinue, Choniates dwells on the elaborate dress and armour of the participants on both sides, describing the splendour of Reginald’s tall warriors, his princely white horse and gold-embroidered headdress. On the Byzantine side, Choniates notes, the flamboyant display of dress and armour was intentional, for the emperor had ordered each of his picked men to appear dressed in ‘the most splendid armour possible’.32 The author describes how Manuel’s cloak draped elegantly over his shoulder, his fine horse bedecked in gold trimmings appearing to rival its imperial rider in magnificence. In ascribing to Manuel the decision of lavishly embellishing his troops Choniates underlined the emperor’s recognition that the display of a beautiful spectacle was an essential part of the ideal soldier’s image, at least according to the expectations of Byzantine onlookers. It is Choniates’s reference to the sight provided by the actual tournament, however, that is most eloquent. So splendid was the spectacle of the armies as they locked together engaged in mock combat that ‘one could have described it, and not inelegantly, by saying that it was like watching Aphrodite in union with Ares’.33 With these words, the author parallels the clash of these beautifully dressed, manly bodies with the physical union of love and war. His parallel, drawing upon mythology, speaks of the notorious adulterous couple of the war god Ares presented in (presumably sexual) union with love goddess Aphrodite. The parallel adds a suggestive erotic undercurrent to Choniates’s account of the beauty of finely clad military figures: was erotic allure a part of the beautiful soldier on display? Writing on the male body in visual imagery, Greer has addressed the fetishistic fascination with the beautiful body of the soldier in his fine military attire as an essential element of the soldier’s image, a view also expressed by Bryson who sees this fascination as inherently linked to the soldier’s super-masculine imago.34 It seems precarious to make a similar claim for Byzantium. One could argue that Prodromos’s verses that present the author worshiping the armour of John Komnenos, in veneration (proskynesis) before his armour and his horse, kissing the imperial sword and lance, constitute a fetishistic displacement of erotic interest from the true object of desire, which is the body of the soldier, to his attributes of war, though this uncomfortably proposes a reading of Prodromos’s verses that employs notions of desire foreign to Byzantium. The fact remains, however, that Byzantine writing displays an obsessive fascination with soldierly beauty as encapsulated by the soldier’s fine body, his features, his military trappings, often using vocabulary that borders on the erotic in order to describe it. This is underlined in a later

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text, the fourteenth-century story of Velthandros and Chrysandza, when the heroine’s father, giving his blessing to the (supposed) union between the hero and Chrysandza’s maid Phedrokaza, speaks of the handsome soldier in terms loaded with longing: the king desires Velthandros (potho) and wishes to keep him close, for as a beautiful soldier (stratiotin eumorphon), he yearns for him (oregomai). The king’s admiration for Velthandros’s beauty and his military masculinity was thus expressed through terms of desire and longing, underlining the potent allure of the ideal soldier’s image. This description of Velthandros as the ‘beautiful soldier’ addresses beauty not just as a part of the soldier’s ideal image, but also as a part of his military masculinity. Masculinity, what it meant to be male in Byzantium, appeared to an extent to have been (re)defined starting in the eleventh century onwards through the notion of military ardour. In a society engulfed in its fascination with a military ideal, imagery and writing growingly appeared to create an image of masculinity which measured a man’s worth by his soldierly valour.35 As the military image appeared increasingly to identify men’s lives, Byzantine writing also associates this military ideal with virility, a potent characteristic of masculinity. When Anna Komnene describes the soldierly Bassilakios, she notes that he was held in awe by the populace for his physique, his bravery, his enormous build but also, notably, his virility; she thus aligns Bassilakios’s military image with sexual potency, a key attribute of masculinity in Byzantium.36 In a world where real men were soldiers, where manliness was increasingly measured by feats of war, the manly and the unmanly were distinguished by their ability to fight or the lack of it; and the image of the soldier encapsulated what it meant to be male, potent and virile. When he claims to worship the lance and armour of John Komnenos or the sword of Alexios Kontostephanos, Prodromos points to the reverence due not only to the men themselves but also to their weapons as attributes of their potent military masculinity. The erotic undercurrent evident in Timarion’s account of the beautiful Duke of Thessaloniki and his retinue, or Choniates’s erotic description of warring armies in Manuel’s tournament, could thus equally be seen to link the Byzantine fascination with ideal soldiers, their beautiful bodies and the soldier’s super-masculine image. Yet, if beauty was an essential part of the spectacle of the ideal soldier and his military masculinity, Byzantine writing suggests that the balance between beauty and masculinity was less than straightforward. In Timarion’s description of the Duke of Thessaloniki, just as the author praises his physical perfection, he also provides his account with a

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disclaimer, noting that the duke was blessed with hair colour which was neither too black to appear savage nor too blond which may appear effeminate, but just the right mixture of the two. What this reference suggests is that the author, though he may relish in describing this spectacle of beautiful male bodies on military display, at the same time felt he needed to guard his duke against an accusation of effeminacy. Could it be that praise of the soldier’s beauty was undermined by a fear that this beauty may have been detrimental to that very masculinity to which it was attributed? The Historia of Niketas Choniates eloquently presents just such a case in which concern with physical beauty leads the military man to his downfall by depriving him of his masculinity. Choniates notes how the love-smitten Andronikos Komnenos abandons the rigours of military life to follow his mistress, Philippa, to Antioch where he ‘adorned himself like a fop and paraded in the streets escorted by bodyguards bearing silver bows (. . .) he was endowed, moreover, with a wondrous comeliness; he was like a young shoot climbing up a fir tree. The acknowledged king of dandies, he was titillated by fine long robes (. . .) But his manliness was diminished, and he was constantly anxious.’37 The beauty of Andronikos is noted, yet the stripping off of his armour and its replacement by effeminate dress proclaims his downfall from military masculinity to unmanliness. With the sanctified perfection of the military saint as ideal Soldier of Christ exempted, among mere mortals there was clearly a fine line that divided the handsome soldier from the effeminate fop. In fact, the beauty which was so essential a part of the ideal soldier’s image at the same time appeared to rest uneasily with the soldier’s very essence, his masculinity. This belief that the very beauty that served as a key attribute of the soldier could also be the ruin of his military self is underlined in a Byzantine paradox. On the one hand the handsome soldier with his beautiful body and fine trappings was exalted and set on display in image and text; on the other Byzantine authors often moralized on how beauty should not be a soldier’s concern. The point is evocatively summed up in an episode recounted by Nikephoros Bryennios (c.1055/60–before 1136) in the Yli Historias, on the arrival of the young soldier Alexios Komnenos at a town in Gabadonia after a battle and a long march. Tired and dripping with blood, Alexios is looked after by the town’s inhabitants and is offered a change of clothes and a mirror so that he may, presumably, somewhat tidy up his appearance. Bryennios notes how Alexios politely declines the latter and explains that the mirror is unnecessary to a soldier like himself: ‘It is not customary for men, and particularly soldiers, to look

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at themselves in the mirror, as that is fitting to women and only to those who take care to appear attractive to their husbands. Adornment for the soldier are his weapons, and his simple and unpretentious way of life.’38 The mirror, and the concern with one’s beauty (and its appeal on others), which is implied by its use, is thus described by Bryennios, through the words of Alexios, as womanish, irrelevant to men and particularly to the potent masculinity of soldiers. Theodore Prodromos’s fictive hero Dosiklis makes a similar claim when the author presents him musing on his chances of wooing the comely Rodanthe. Dosiklis initially asserts that being beautiful in appearance, he is worthy of Rodanthe’s attention. He then adds, however, that after all beauty in a man is his steadfastness and bravery in battle, his forcefulness and courage as he stands unwavering in the slaughter of combat, his sword red from the blood of his foes; and in that sense too Dosiklis claims himself worthy of his beloved, for he has been graced with many glorious wreaths of victory.39 To Bryennios’s description of the soldier’s irreverence to beauty, Prodromos’s account adds that it is hardship and military feats that are the soldier’s adornment, bravery on the battlefield being what beautifies a man. What is notable, however, is that Dosiklis first acknowledges his own beauty, which makes him deserving of Rodanthe, and then proceeds to dismiss it by claiming for himself the superior, manly beauty bestowed by battle on the valiant soldier. The point made is that a soldier’s beauty, though it may be relished by the beholder, could not be seen to concern the bearer. The reference to the true soldier’s proclaimed aversion to the mirror, the belief that preoccupation with one’s beauty reflected in the glass and the desire for self-beautification that it implied was unmanly, womanish and unsuited to men, preceded Byzantium. The works of Roman writers such as the writings of Aulus Gellius, for instance, ascribe the image of a man who indulgently gazes at himself in a mirror with traits of effeminacy and homosexuality: ‘the man who perfumes himself daily and adorns himself before a mirror (…) does anyone doubt that he does what cinaedi commonly do?’40 Much had changed between Aulus Gellius’s perception of the world and that of the Byzantine contemporaries of Bryennios or Prodromos, but such attitudes towards effeminacy make for a telling parallel.41 Zonaras’s twelfth-century Epitome Historion, describing the antics of Constans, son of Constantine I, notes how the emperor would sneak into the woods with the pretext of hunting, having with him handsome youths, who were picked especially for him and who got very familiar with him. They would adorn themselves ostentatiously

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and, with their greedy eyes looking everywhere, they were a provocation for debauchery: ‘they were his lovers, so it is said’, the author adds.42 This group of beautiful youths, hand-picked for their good looks, and indulging in the excessive adornment of their bodies are explicitly linked by Zonaras with sexual provocation and homosexuality. The antithesis with Bryennios’s and Prodromos’s image of the soldier fortified by the hardship and austerity of war, irreverent to beauty, adornment and the beguiling reflection of the mirror, decked out only in his armour and his rugged soldier’s lifestyle, could not be more pronounced. Beauty on display and the guilty gaze For the Byzantines, between the rugged austerity of the soldier and the unmanly embellishment of the effeminate fop stood the profound preoccupation with beauty. In a world that despite all its claims of the opposite revelled in the beauty of soldiers and regarded it as an essential part of the ideal soldier’s image, what was it that tilted the balance branding the beautiful soldier with effeminacy? As discussed in earlier chapters, Byzantine writing suggests that evil lies not with beauty as such, but with people’s attitude towards it. In the case of the soldier, it was the bearer’s excessive preoccupation with beauty and the emphasis on adornment and display that was regarded as the source of vice and sin. When Niketas Choniates describes the lovesmitten Andronikos Komnenos abandoning the rigours of military life to pursue his mistress, the author dwells not only on Andronikos’s beauty but also on his fascination with bodily embellishment, long, clinging robes and effeminate adornment. He also stresses how Andronikos displayed his finery to the gaze of others, how he paraded the streets making a public spectacle of his foppish dress, a display enhanced by the presence of his escort of handsome youths bearing extravagant military trappings such as silver bows. Choniates’s account appears to link beautification and a preoccupation with bodily adornment with both effeminacy and peacock-like display. Isaac Angelos, derided openly by men like Baldwin for his inexperience in the affairs of Ares, we are told, perfumed his body with sweet-smelling ointments and displayed his exquisite robes and curled hair: ‘the dandy strutted about like a peacock and never wore the same garment twice’.43 Similar accusations are levelled against the blood relations of Emperor Manuel Komnenos, young men who ‘had never heard the sound of the war trumpet, who sported beautiful hair styles and displayed bright and cheerful faces, and wore around their necks collars of gold and translucent necklaces of sparkling gems and precious pearls’.44 The remark that these youths had never

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heard the trumpets of war branded them as non-soldiers; their interest in self-beautification, underlined in their handsomely dressed hair and their use of costly ornaments, pointed to their unsoldierly demeanour. Choniates considered this interest in adornment and its display as unmanly and even shameful, as noted elsewhere, in his condemnation of the suitors courting Manuel’s widow who are berated for similar faults and openly branded as effeminate. They ‘arranged their hair in charming curls, rubbed themselves with sweet oils as though they were infants and effeminately wore necklaces set with precious gems’.45 When the Germans under Henry VI make their demands of money from Alexios Angelos, Choniates plays between the manliness of the Germans and the effeminacy of Alexios’s court: the emperor appears in gem-encrusted dress ‘adorned like a meadow’ but his German audience proclaims it is unmoved by such a spectacle and by adornments that are fitting for women, their own ‘ornaments’ being instead the pearls of sweat fitting to manly toil.46 In the Historia effeminate men are groomed and overtly groomed men are effeminate, concerned with their own beauty and presumably with the display of that beauty to others, reinforcing the image of the soldier as the man who dismisses grooming, overt concern with one’s beauty, and the threat it poses to his military masculinity. The role of the gaze in this game of effeminacy, masculinity, beauty and display is pointed. Andronikos, decked like a fop and surrounded by beautiful bodyguards, turned himself into a spectacle before the gaze of the city. Zonaras, writing on the antics of Constans and his retinue, equally stresses that evil lies in the gaze. It is not merely that the emperor’s excessively adorned young lovers constituted a gaudy spectacle and a provocation for debauchery. An elaborate sight on their own right, these youths were as much actively looking as they were being looked at: they possessed greedy eyes looking everywhere, gazing aggressively, gorging the spectacle around them. Such attitudes fit in with the general Byzantine preoccupation with the dangers of the gaze. The advice of Kekaumenos, who notes that women should be locked up as convicts so that they will be seen by no one, and warns against allowing false friends and house guests to feast their greedy eyes upon one’s womenfolk, taking in their manner of walking, their dress, their body from head to toe, is a case in point. It underlines the belief that the eyes and the lascivious gaze could serve as entry points of sinister desires into the body and mind, but could also damage the receptacle of the gaze, making one pray to (sexual) attack as much as ridicule. In Rodanthe and Dosiklis the wise father of the heroine had her locked in a tower to keep her away from the eyes of men and the greedy gaze of lovers, a futile

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precaution, Dosiklis remarks, for she did not escape his own gaze: the sight of Rodanthe wounded his heart and led to their elopement. In this light, the soldier’s aversion to the mirror is easier to account for. To be seen as looking at himself in the mirror, concerned with his own beauty and adornment, places the handsome soldier on display before his own gaze and those of others – that gaze, which was both possibly effeminizing and dangerous, underlining the complex relationship between display, beauty and the body in Byzantium. An essential part of the soldier, beauty may have been praised, described, portrayed, displayed and envied, but at the same time it was feared as detrimental to the very masculinity that it was believed to enhance. It was not beauty in itself that was problematic, however, but rather beauty excessively adorned, turned into spectacle and subjected to the precarious gaze of one’s own self, or of others.

The unkempt beauty of military masculinity When only a thin line separated the handsome soldier from effeminate fop, it was easy to decline from the former state to the latter. As Andronikos discarded his armour for fine robes, his beauty remained, but his manliness was diminished into a state of permanent anxiety, encapsulating his downfall from military masculinity to effeminacy. None of this is surprising in a world in which masculinity was perceived as a fragile state under constant threat. Authors agreed that anything from an environment of luxury to a spectacle such as a dance could be potentially effeminizing, putting masculinity at risk. This conviction is found as much in Anna Komnene as in the Patristic texts echoed in Zonaras’s writings on the council of Trullo.47 Military manliness in particular was prone to deterioration and easily put under threat by any kind of softness: Anna Komnene’s account of the deeds of Armenian warrior Aspietes, for instance, points to how the once-rugged warrior was unmanned by his abandonment to pleasures.48 So how could one resolve the tension between beauty and masculinity? Could there be an image of military beauty that was at once conspicuous (in tune with the spirit of the times that saw the image of the soldier as increasingly visible in imagery and text) and at the same time not running against the soldier’s own dismissal of the mirror? Among the military saints depicted in the church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, one notes the figure of St Nestor standing between Sts George and Mercurios in what, Walter notes, was probably the first inclusion of this figure in the echelon of military saints, which increasingly took

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its place along the walls of Byzantine churches in the twelfth century (Figure 58). A relative newcomer appearing among the established ranks of the beautifully clad soldier-saints of the echelon, amidst revered military figures like Sts Demetrios, Mercurios and George, the figure of St Nestor seems to be set apart by his distinct hairstyle. Unlike the tight, neat, symmetrically arranged curls of Sts Mercurios and George, each highlighted by flecks of gold, or the smooth contour of St Demetrios’s locks, the outline of St Nestor’s tresses creates a jagged line. Set against the gold background of his halo, loose locks of hair stand out both on the top of his head and on either side of his face, curving and undulating irregularly, giving St Nestor’s head a somewhat ruffled appearance. In a different medium, St Nestor is depicted in the enamel icon from the Treasury of San Marco in Venice, which portrays a standing archangel Michael in high relief framed by an ornate border that includes paired images of military saints (c.1100) (Figure 59). Standing alongside St Demetrios, to form one of the four pairs of saints on the icon’s frame, St Nestor is equally physically distinguished in appearance. Unlike St Demetrios whose established portrait type dictates the neat arrangement of hair that renders him recognizable, St Nestor is presented with small locks of hair sticking out against the gold of his halo. This feature sets him apart from the other military figures on the frame: the two St Theodores are depicted with a wavy contour line indicating curls and St Demetrios with a smooth, unwavering outline. Notably, this feature is not always typical of representations of St Nestor. At the late-thirteenth-century church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson, and the fourteenth-century church at Decani, for instance, he is portrayed with neat, thick curls reaching below his ears (Figure 60). If the unruly locks of St Nestor were not part of the saint’s portrait type that made him identifiable to viewers and ensured his recognizability, then what was the significance of this feature that appeared in numerous images of the saint? The imagery of the church of the Olymbiotissa also makes a striking point in the appearance of another military saint, that of St Prokopios, who is painted standing by St Nestor’s side and appears to take on this look of unruly tresses (Figure 61). Notably, numerous locks of hair are depicted sticking out against the figure’s halo, in this case at the expense of St Prokopios’s traditional portrait-likeness, which included longish hair that curled richly below his ears, as seen for instance in Studenica, Graˇcanica, Chilandari, Perivleptos, and the Parecclesion of the Chora Monastery. The question is what this feature of unruly locks of hair might have evoked in the mind of Byzantine viewers that was significant

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enough to allow at times a divergence from the traditional portrait type of the figure. It could be that Byzantine imagery was attempting a pictorial solution to the thorny question of the soldier’s beauty by creating an image of ruggedness, an unkempt look befitting the ideal soldier’s military masculinity, which was then ascribed to figures such as Sts Prokopios and Nestor who were relative latecomers in the echelon of Byzantine military saints.49 St Orestes may be a similar case; the only member of the Holy Five of Sebasteia depicted in military dress, he appears in the church of the Episkope in Evritania dating to the first half of the thirteenth century, with this feature of unruly, dishevelled locks, which stand out prominently against his bright halo (Figure 62).50 That unkempt hair suggested a lack of grooming is evident in both Byzantine imagery and writing. The twelfth-century Ptochoprodromika, for instance, eloquently attest to this fact through its tonsured author recounting how he was instructed to abandon all forms of grooming and bodily embellishment in order to conform to the harsh austerity of monastic life. He must renounce fine dress and fancy shoes but also bathing and, notably, the combing of his hair.51 Similarly, in Hysmini and Hysminias, when Makrembolites describes the painted representation of the month April, depicted as a youth on a garden wall in the house of Sosthenis, he notes that the figure’s hair and beard were unkempt, and that he was dressed as a farmer or a shepherd, the ruffled hair presumably seen as fitting to the figure’s rural existence. In Byzantine imagery, unkempt hair was the iconographic attribute of figures renowned for their rugged lifestyle. The portrait-likeness of St Mary of Egypt, like that of the Baptist, included this feature, which was also ascribed to ascetics and even young shepherds such as St Mamas, or the young Abel depicted amidst the Old Testament kings in images of the Anastasis, all the above having a particular lifestyle that would make grooming inappropriate or impossible. If Byzantine viewers associated ruffled and unruly hair with an evocation of the lack of grooming befitting the unkempt appearance of an ascetic saint or a young shepherd, they may also have seen in this feature, when gracing the beautifully painted heads of soldiers (whether military saints or the nameless figures such as the executioner from fol. 97v of the Menologion of Basil), a visual sign of the soldier’s ungroomed beauty. Byzantine writing underlines this image of a particular type of military masculinity, which was visibly distinguished by the soldier’s ruffled and unkempt look, as portraying a different kind of manly beauty. When Niketas Choniates creates his image of the ideal soldier in the face of Manuel Komnenos, he ascribes him a beauty of a special kind,

134 Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

imbued with undeniable masculinity. Manuel was ‘skilled in war, venturesome and undaunted in the face of danger, high-minded and eager to give battle. The youth had a handsome face (. . .) in complexion he was neither snow-white like those reared in the shade nor the colour of deep black smoke like those exposed to the burning rays of the sun; he was, consequently, not fair-complexioned but swarthy in appearance.’52 Choniates’s physical description of Manuel speaks of his military prowess, bravery and eagerness in the battlefield, praises his beauty and then dwells on a feature that comes against customary descriptions of the Byzantine ideal of beauty. In a world that praised the fair, the whiteskinned and rosy-cheeked, Manuel, the reader is told, was tanned and swarthy.53 The author’s choice of wording with which to express the emperor’s swarthiness suggests, moreover, that his comment was not merely a reference to physical appearance and skin colour, but also a statement on Manuel’s manliness. By contrasting Manuel’s tanned look to that of those reared in the shade, Choniates is using a phrase with potent connotations in Byzantium. Ringrose notes that Byzantine eunuchs were often spoken of derogatively for ‘having being reared in the shade of the gynekeion’, raised and educated like women in the sheltered environment of the women’s quarters.54 By disassociating Manuel’s physical appearance from those bred in the shade, Choniates underlines the hero’s handsome, military masculinity by firmly setting it apart, visually as much as symbolically, from all that was effeminate or womanish. The association between unmanliness, effeminacy and the shadiness of the women’s quarters is a favourite with Choniates elsewhere in his Historia where he derides the unmanly Andronikos by noting that he ‘shunned helmet, coat of mail, greaves and shield like those tenderly reared ladies who know nothing outside the shaded women’s apartments’.55 Choniates’s account of Manuel’s appearance could not be more different, creating as it does a clear image of Manuel’s military masculinity that was enhanced by the special kind of manly beauty that was ascribed to it. Anna Komnene’s accounts of the antics of the handsome Nikephoros Diogenes evoke similar attitudes both of the ruggedness expected of the soldier and of his tanned skin look and rough beauty. The young Nikephoros Diogenes, praised for his beauty and strength, was notably swarthy in complexion (sitochrous) and also, unsurprisingly, broad shouldered, taller than all the men of his time and capable of exciting great admiration in all onlookers.56 As to his rugged appearance, this is discussed in an episode describing Emperor Alexios and his retinue reaching Serres and being invited by Constantine Doukas Diogenes to rest

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at his estate in Pentegostis. As Alexios takes the opportunity for respite in the baths, Nikephoros Diogenes, who has been secretly plotting to murder him, makes an unsuccessful attempt at his life. Yet, Nikephoros’s plan is frustrated as his rugged appearance arouses suspicion. Stopped by Tatikios, he is asked: ‘why do you enter so unkempt and bearing your sword?’, ‘this is a time for bathing, not marching, nor of hunting, nor of battle.’57 What alerted Tatikios was Nikephoros’s rugged appearance, deemed unfitting for the context of indoor relaxation. Anna thus distinguishes between the ruggedness of Nikephoros’s looks, suited to the soldierly activities of the battlefield and the hunt (the latter regarded as the young soldier’s training ground and his diversion in peacetime), and the more indulgent space of the baths where grooming may have been more acceptable even for the soldier. There was no easy balance between beauty and masculinity in Byzantium. In a world in which war was the test of manhood, the ideal soldier must have both possessed (and be seen to possess) ideal beauty, and at the same time have proudly scorned beauty as the attribute of women and effeminate youths who knew nothing of the war trumpet. Byzantine soldiers should be beautiful, but they should also be rugged. They may be tanned, like Manuel, swarthy like Diogenes and they must shield their manliness from all things effeminate or possibly effeminizing: from elaborate dress, splendid hairstyles, ornaments and dangerous gazes, whether those of others or their own, reflected in a mirror. As Byzantine imagery and writing proclaim, soldiers, though they must be beautiful, must be seen to be so almost in spite of themselves, possessing a special kind of beauty suited to their rugged lifestyle. Always two faced, physical beauty was both recognized as a crucial attribute of the ideal soldier but also potentially seen as the beginning of his downfall into foppery. Yet, simultaneously, as a quality in itself, beauty once again appeared curiously and consistently innocent: it was not beauty that effeminized the bearer, but its conscious display and the bearer’s own self-absorption.

Conclusion

A study of physical beauty in Byzantium, as it is described in texts and envisaged in visual imagery from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries, reveals it as a quality with numerous implications that reached beyond the beautiful body itself into various aspects of Byzantine life. Beauty in Byzantium was discussed in association not only with bodies but also with the souls within them, with beliefs about power and its manifestations, with notions of eroticism, sensuality and display, with the role of the physical senses in perceiving ‘the beautiful’ whether in real life or in pictorial representations. Yet, through all these facets of the discussion, the face of physical beauty as it emerges in Byzantium is a paradoxical one. Proclaimed as easily legible on the body of the bearer, as a straightforward quality defined through the dictates of an Ideal, the beauty that appears as this seemingly uncomplicated list of physical features – from curly, blond or ruddy hair, to radiant white and rosy skin, gleaming eyes, arching brows and a perfect, harmonious and symmetrical figure – proves imbued with a multiplicity of meanings. Byzantine authors have been accused by scholarship of writing stereotypically about the physical appearance of individuals; of somewhat unimaginatively echoing the traditional principles of eikonismos with its emphasis on the identification of individuals through physical features in their descriptions. Yet when Psellos presents his detailed account of Monomachos’s physical perfection, his wording of the ideal of beauty, broken down into the familiar list of beautiful features, implies that the Byzantines used this literary tradition to their own ends, employing it to establish a way of identifying, describing and even eulogizing the beautiful body. What becomes apparent is that in the question of what beauty is in Byzantium, ambiguity lies not in beauty’s manifestations but in its very 136

Conclusion

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essence; it is not how beauty was to be identified on the body of the bearer that was uncertain but what this beauty meant for the bearer and the beholder alike. The Byzantines may have asserted the antique principles of kalokagathia that linked beauty of the body with that of the soul, and equally echoed the classical dismissal of ugliness and deformity as a visual sign for punishment. Yet at the same time, imagery and writing alike refuted both beliefs, by hailing beauty wherever it appeared, from the bodies of heroes to those of villains, from holy figures to unholy executioners. Beauty seems often to have occupied a grey zone. Images and texts deliberate over beauty’s status as a quality that stood between life and death – portrayed, for instance, as simultaneously both present in and absent from the dead body of Christ. Significantly, beauty was hailed as a prized attribute of the male body, believed to define and even enhance the bearer’s masculinity but also, potentially, to undo it. Beauty visualized the liminal masculinity of the angel, making it tangible as the beauty of the handsome youth on the brink of manhood. In this, it also stood ambiguously as the connecting link aligning the holy angel and the licentious eunuch. Beauty, moreover, appeared as an essential attribute of the soldier’s manly image, yet, in its flamboyant display or the soldier’s own self-absorption, beauty could equally brand the soldier with effeminacy and undo the very masculinity it was acknowledged to enhance. Where beauty appears straightforward is with regard to what it was perceived to do both in Byzantine imagery and writing. Recognized as an active rather than a passive quality, a force of action rather than a state of being, beauty was granted a scope of activity that was as considerable as it was varied. From the realm of love and politics to the accounts of the deeds of historic characters, from the Lives of saints and the Byzantine romances to the images adorning church walls or seen depicted in icons, beauty appeared alarmingly powerful. It was used in visual imagery to say the unsayable, resolving pictorially what could not be said with words; it even served as a visual manifestation of power and was employed to guide the eye and the soul of the viewer to the contemplation of the divine, by using the senses to solicit emotion and reach beyond the realm of the temporal. The perfect beauty of the emperor’s body served to advertise his quasi-divine status, his superiority over the realm of common men. The beauty of the angel’s body served to guide the eyes and presumably also the minds of viewers towards a manifestation of the divine. Beauty itself whether painted in an image or described though words was recognized

138 Beauty and the Male Body in Byzantium

as having the power to stir the hearts of the audience, allowing authors and painters alike to achieve their own verbal or pictorial ends. At times, images appeared more nuanced and more flexible than words. Where Byzantine writing (which eloquently describes the beauty of the male body, often more elaborately than that of its female counterpart) evoked the topos of youthful masculinity just sprouting its first beard, Byzantine imagery responded with two pictorial types to represent youthful manhood at its prime. For the Byzantines, rather than appearing as clearly discernible opposites, beauty and its dark side are often hard to distinguish. At times they may even be one and the same; able to ensnare the senses, incite desire, inflict disaster, unman the once noble general, beauty occasionally was the very source of evil, the tool of the devil that worked against the world, just as it could equally be the bearer’s saving grace, the divine gift that swayed even the hearts of villains. In this light, it may be that beauty’s elusive essence was inherently linked to its most defining characteristic: its neutrality. Neither good nor evil in itself, beauty in Byzantium possessed the chameleon’s gift; its nature was conditioned by its context. Beauty hovered between sanctity and sensuality, the angel and eros, righteousness and villainy, manliness and effeminacy, and remained untouched.

Notes Introduction 1. Oscar Wilde, ‘A few maxims for the instruction of the over educated’, Saturday Review, November 1894, Collins Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (Glasgow, 2003). 2. L. James, ed., Desire and Denial in Byzantium (Aldershot,1999). 3. See L. James, ed., Women, Men and Eunuchs: Gender in Byzantium (London and New York, 1997); D. Smythe, ed., Byzantine Masculinities: Publications of the Sussex Colloquium on Gender (forthcoming). 4. E. Gombrich, ‘Art and Scholarship’, College Art Journal, 17, n. 4 (1958), 342–356. On children in Byzantium see C. Hennessy, Images of Children in Byzantium (Aldershot, 2009). On display in Byzantium see E. Jeffreys, ed., Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies, vol. II (Aldershot, 2006), 263–267. On new approaches to Byzantium in current scholarship see L. James, ed., The Blackwell Companion to the Byzantine World (forthcoming). 5. E. Prettejohn, Beauty and Art (Oxford, 2005). 6. R. Cormack, Painting the Soul: Icons, Death Masks and Shrouds (London, 1997), 17. 7. L. James, ‘ “And Shall These Mute Stones Speak?” Text as Art’, Art and Text in Byzantine Culture, ed. L. James (Cambridge, 2007), 188–206. 8. R. Nelson, ‘Descartes’s Cow and Other Domestications of the Visual’, Seeing as Others Saw; Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance, ed. R. Nelson (Cambridge, 2000), 3. 9. L. James, ‘Art and Text in Byzantium’, Art and Text in Byzantine Culture, ed. L. James (Cambridge, 2007), 1. 10. See A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Berkeley, 1985). 11. Robin Cormack has noted that the notions of the stability and continuity of an uninterrupted Roman Empire fostered by the Byzantine Court after 1261 were ‘more of a vision than a reality’: R. Cormack, Byzantine Art (Oxford, 2000), 217.

1

The Byzantine Ideal of Beauty: Definitions and Perceptions

1. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.10.4), tr. (English). E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena (London and New York, 1969), 422. For the Greek text see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.10.4), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis (Berlin, 2001), 411. 2. On the re-occurrence of beauty in the Alexiad, see A. Laiou, ‘Introduction: Why Anna Komnene?’, Anna Komnene and Her Times, ed. T. Gouma-Peterson (New York and London, 2000), 11. 3. ‘ὁ δὲ Ῥομπέρτος οὗτος Νορμάνος τὸ γένος, τὴν τύχην ἄσημος, τὴν γνώμην τυραννικός, τὴν ψυχὴν πανουργότατος, τὴν χεῖρα γενναῖος, ἐπιθέσθαι μὲν 139

140 Notes

δεινότατος πλούτῳ καὶ περιουσίᾳ μεγάλων ἀνδρῶν (. . .) τὰ δὲ τοῦ σώματος τοσοῦτος εἰς μέγεθος, ὡς καὶ τῶν μεγίστων ὑπερανέχειν, πυρσὸς τὸ χρῶμα, τὴν κόμην ξανθός, τοὺς ὤμους εὐρύς, τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς–ἀλλὰ πῦρ ἀπ’αὐτῶν μονονουχὶ ἀπεσπινθηρίζετο. καὶ ὅπου μὲν ἔδει διοργανῶσαι τὴν φύσιν τὸ πλάτος, εὐμήχανον ἦν, ὅπου δὲ ἀποστενῶσαι τοῦτο, εἰς τὸ εὔρυθμον διωμάλιστο·’ Anna Komnene, Alexiad (I.9.4), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 35. 4. ‘παρειὰς ἐξέρυθρος ὡς ῥόδον· ὀφθαλμος αὐτῆς εὐπερίγραφος μέλας, πυρσὴ παρειά, ῥὶς γρυπή, στιλπνὴ κόμη, (. . .) αἱ τῶν παρειῶν ἐξέπεμπον λαμπάδες, χιὼν δὲ τἆλλα τοῦ προσώπου τῆς κόρης· ὁ βόστρυχος χρύσειος, αἱ πλοκαμίδες ξανθαί, μελιχραί, χρυσοειδεῖς, κοσμίαι, τεταμέναι τε καὶ πνέουσαι τοῦ μύρου· (. . .) τὰ κυκλοειδῆ τόξα τὰ τῶν ὀφρύων ὡς τόξον ἦν Ἔρωτος ἐγκεχαρμένου, ἔοικεν ὡς ἔμιζε γάλα καὶ ῥόδα, καὶ συνδιεχρώσατο καθὰ ζωγράφος ταύτης τὸ σῶμα λευκέρυθρον ἡ φύσις·’ Niketas Eugenianos, Τὰ κατὰ Δρόσιλλαν καὶ Χαρικλέα (I.124–126, 134–138, 145–150), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino del XII Secolo; Teodoro Prodromo, Niceta Eugeniano, Eustazio Macrembolita, Constantino Manasse (Turin, 1994), 313–314. 5. On the process of formation of the Digenis Akritis story from oral tale to written text and the question of dating see Digenis Akritis (IV.196–199), ed. and tr. (English) E. Jeffreys, Digenis Akritis: The Grottaferrata and Escorial Versions (Cambridge, 1998), lvi–lvii. On the discussion of Digenis Akritis’s status as ambiguously between epic and romance (or ‘proto-romance’) see R. Beaton, ‘The Byzantine Revival of the Ancient Novel’, The Novel in the Ancient World, ed. G. Schmeling (Leiden, New York and Cologne, 1996), esp. 719–721 and R. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance (London and New York, 1996), 29–48. See also R. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 67–86, for a comparative discussion of the twelfth-century romances and their dating. 6. ‘Εἶχε γὰρ ὁ νεώτερος εὔνοστον ἡλικίαν, κόμην ξανθήν, ἐπίσγουρον, ὀµµάτια μεγάλα, πρόσωπον ἄσπρον, ῥοδινόν, κατάμαυρον ὀφρύδιν, καὶ στῆθος ὥσπερ κρύσταλλον, ὀργυιὰν εἶχε τὸ πλάτος.’ Digenis Akritis (IV.196–199), ed. and tr. (English) E. Jeffreys, 79. 7. ‘Ἦν γὰρ ἡ κόρη ἀληθῶς ὥσπερ ἱστορισμένη· ὄμμα γοργὸν ἐνήδονον, κόμην ξανθὴν καὶ σγοῦρον, ὀφρὺν εἶχε κατάμαυρον, ἄκρατον δὲ τὸ μέλαν, ὡς χιόνα τὸ πρόσωπον, μέσον δὲ βεβαμμένον, οἵα πορφύρα ἐκλεκτὴ ἥν βασιλεῖς τιμῶσι.’ Digenis Akritis (IV.349–356), ed. and tr. E. Jeffreys, 89. 8. ‘κατεσκεύαστο δὲ τό τε ἄλλο σῶμα παγκάλως καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον ἐς ἀκριβῆ

ὡραιότητα· εὐανθής γε γὰρ ἦν καὶ τὸ ὄμμα λαμπρὸς καὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς μιλτοπάρηος.’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (III.18), ed. and tr. (Italian)

D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri et al. (Milan, 1984), vol. I, 96, 98, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers: The Chronographia of Michael Psellus (London, 1996), 76. 9. ‘ἕκάστοις ἤ ἑκάστῳ τὰ προσήκοντα καταχεαμένη χρώματα, τὴν μὲν κεφαλὴν ἡλιῶσαν ἀπέδειξε καὶ πυρσήν, τὸ δ’ ὅσον ἐν στήθεσι καὶ γαστρὶ ἄχρι ποδῶν καὶ τοῖς ἀντιθέτοις μέρεσιν, τῆς ἀκραιφνεστάτης λευκότητος ὁποσα δὴ μέτρα λαβοῦσα ἀπέδειξεν ἔμπλεων. Καὶ εἴ τις δὴ ἐκεῖνον ἀκριβῶς ᾑρεῖτο ὁρᾶν, ὁπότε δὴ ἀκμαίως εἶχε καὶ οὔπω αὐτῷ τὰ μέρη παρείθησαν, κάλλεσι μὲν ἄν ἡλίου τὴν κεφαλὴν εἴκασεν, οἷα δή τισιν ἀκτῖσι ταῖς θριξὶ διαλάμπουσαν, κρυστάλλῳ δὲ τὸ λοιπὸν σῶμα τῷ καθαρωτάτῳ καὶ διαυγεῖ.’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.126), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 69, 70 translated in E.R.A Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 221.

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10. On Beck’s reading of this as a sign of the effeminate air of the male characters in the romances see H.G. Beck, Βυζαντινόν Ερωτικόν, tr. (Greek) I. Dimitroukas (Athens, 1999), 224. 11. L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art (Oxford, 1996), 131. 12. J. Ljubarskij, ‘Why Is the Alexiad a Masterpiece of Byzantine Literature?’, Anna Komnene and Her Times, 179. 13. Ibid. 14. On the Byzantine eikonismos see G. Dagron, ‘Holy Images and Likeness’, DOP, 45 (1991), 25–28. 15. For a discussion of physiognomics in Byzantium see G. Dagron, ‘Image de Bête ou Image de Dieu; la Physiognomonie Animale dans la Tradition Grecque et ses Avatars Byzantins’, Poikilia; Etudes Offertes à J.P. Vernant (Paris, 1987), 69–80. 16. ‘οὔτε βεβυθισμέναι πρὸς τὸ πανουργότερον καὶ δεινότερον, οὔτε μὴν ἐκκεχυμέναι πρὸς τὸ χαυνότερον, ἀλλ’ αἴγλης ἀρρενωποῦ ἀποστίλβουσαι·’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (I.35), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. I, 50. 17. ‘Τὸ δὲ εἶδος αὐτῷ πρεσβυτικὸν οἷον καὶ σωφρονιστῇ προσῆκον ἤ παιδαγωγῷ

ὅμοιον· πέπηγέ τε γὰρ αὐτῷ τὰ ὄμματα καὶ ἡ ὀφρὺς οὔτε σοβαρὰ οὔτε οἷον ὕποπτος καὶ ἐπικαθημένη τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia

(VII.3.5), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 368. 18. Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.151), tr. E.R.A Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 235. 19. For Agapitos’s date of c.1300 for the romances of Velthandros and Chrysandza and Kallimachos and Chrysorroi see P. Agapitos, ‘Narrative Structure in the Byzantine Vernacular Romances’, MiscByzMonac 34 (1991), 15–16. 20. ‘ἔχει μαλλιὰ χρυσαφωτά, ἴσα τῆς ἡλικιᾶς της· (. . .), Ὀφρύδια κατάμαυρα ἐφύσησεν ἡ τέχνη, γιοφύρια κατεσκεύασεν ἀπὸ πολλῆς σοφίας. Οἱ Χάριτες ἐχάλκευσαν τὴν μύτην τῆς ὡραίας, στόμα Χαρίτων, Χάριτος δόντια μαργαριτάρια. Μάγουλα ροδοκόκκινα, αὐτόβαπτα τὰ χείλη.’ Διήγησις ἐξαίρετος Βελθάνδρου τοῦ Ρωμαίου (688, 699–704), ed. E. Kriaras, Βυζαντινά Ἱπποτικά Μυθιστορήματα (Athens, 1959), 114–115. 21. Physical beauty in these descriptions consists of the familiar list of ideal features, suggesting that the ideal image of beauty in Byzantium appears not to have changed between the twelfth and the fourteenth centuries despite the numerous social and political changes of the intervening years. On the ideal of beauty in thirteenth-century writing see, for instance, Niketas Choniates’s description of beautiful characters in the Historia, including the young Renier of Montferatt, whose fair long hair shimmered like the sun, and Isaac Angelos with his ruddy complexion, red hair and healthy, vigorous body. In the fourteenth century, the Romaiki Historia of Nikephoros Gregoras equally praises Theodore Metochites for his tall stature, symmetrical body and cheerful eye, which attracted the gaze of beholders, while in the romance of Kalimachos and Chrysorroi the fair heroine possesses rivers of curls, hair that gleams brilliantly like the sun’s golden rays, a white body that evokes the nature of crystal, both white and blessed with the hue of a rose: “‘Βοστρύχους εἷχεν ποταμούς, ἐρωτικοὺς πλοκάμους· εἷχεν ὁ

βόστρυχος αὐγὴν εἰς κεφαλὴν τῆς κόρης· ἀπέστιλβεν ὑπὲρ χρυσῆν ἀκτῖναν τοῦ ἡλίου. Σῶμα λευκὸν ὑπὲρ αὐτὴν τὴν τοῦ κρυστάλλου φύσιν· ὑπέκλεπτεν τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς τοῦ σώματος ἡ χάρις. Ἐδόκει γὰρ σὺν τῷ λευκῷ καὶ ρόδου χάριν

142 Notes

ἔχειν.’ Τὸ κατὰ Καλλίμαχον καὶ Χρυσορρόην Ἐρωτικὸν Διήγημα (811–816), ed. E. Kriaras, Βυζαντινά Ἱπποτικά Μυθιστορήματα, 45. 22. W. Treadgold, ‘The Bride-Shows of the Byzantine Emperors’, Byzantion, 49 (1979), 398. On the historicity of Byzantine bride shows see W. Treadgold, ‘The Historicity of Imperial Bride-Shows’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik’, 54 (2004), 39–52. 23. ‘εἰ δ’ ἐπὶ τοῦ βασιλείου καθίσειεν οὗτος θρόνου καὶ γοργωπὸν σέλας ἀφήσει τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν, πρηστὴρ ἐδόκει καὶ ἄμαχον αὐγὴν ἀποστέλλειν καὶ του προσώπου καὶ τῆς ὅλης διοργανώσεως. μέλαινα μὲν γὰρ ἡ ὀφρῦς ἑκατέρωθεν ἐκυρτοῦτο, τῇ δὲ ὀφθαμός ὑπεκάθητο βλοσσυρὸν ἅμα καὶ ἥμερον ἐνορῶν, ὡς ἀπό τε τῆς

βολῆς τῶν ὀμμάτων καὶ τῆς στιλπνότητος τοῦ μετώπου καὶ τῶν παρειῶν τῆς σεμνότητος καὶ τοῦ ἐπιτρέχοντος αὐταῖς ἐρεύθους ὁμοῦ καὶ δεδοικέναι τὲ και θαρρείν· τῶν τε ὤμων ἡ εὐρύτης καὶ τῶν βραχιόνων τὸ στερρὸν καὶ τῶν στέρνων ἡ προβολὴ ἡρωικὰ πάντα καὶ ὅλως είς θάμβος καὶ τέρψιν τοὺς πολλοὺς ἐκκαλούμενα· τὸ γὰρ αὐτὸ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς καὶ ὥραν εἶχε καὶ χάριν καὶ βάρος καὶ ὄγκον ἀπρόσιτον’ Anna Komnene, Alexiad (III.3.2), ed. D.R. Reinsch and

A. Kambylis, 93 translated in E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 109–110. 24. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (IV.6.8), tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 149. 25. B. Baldwin, ‘Physical Descriptions of Byzantine Emperors’, Byzantion, 51 (1981), 12, n.18. 26. C. Head, ‘Physical Descriptions of the Emperors in Byzantine Historical Writing.’ Byzantion, 50 (1980), 237. 27. A. Laiou, ‘Introduction: Why Anna Komnene?’, Anna Komnene and Her Times, 9. 28. See Ibid., 1–14. 29. For the Greek text see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (I.5), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 20. 30. For the Greek text see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (III.1.2), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 87. 31. Ibid. 32. L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art, 73. 33. Ibid., 84. 34. ‘ὁρᾷ νεανίαν εὐειδῆ, τῷ μήκει θαυμαστόν, καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ αὐγάζον ὑπὲρ τὸν ἥλιον, ἠμφιεσμένον στολήν θεοπρεπῆ. Θαμβηθεὶς οὖν ὁ Ἐπιφάνιος ἐπὶ τὸ ὁρώμενον βλέπει τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ, καὶ ποτὲ μὲν ὑπῆρχεν ὡσεὶ χιών, ποτὲ δὲ ὡς πῦρ ἐξαστράπτον (. . .) ξανθόκομος τὴν κεφαλήν, ὡς εἶδος χρυσίου τὰς τρίχας κεκτημένος’ Βίος καὶ πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Ἀνδρέου τοῦ διὰ τὸν Χριστὸν σαλοῦ (963–969), ed. and tr. (English) L. Rydén, The Life of St Andrew the Fool; Text, Translation and Notes, vol. II (Uppsala, 1995), 76, 78. 35. L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art, 84. 36. ‘ὁ δὲ γε αὐτοκράτωρ, καθαπερεὶ πύργος προὔχων τῆς παρατάξεως προϊὼν ἤ στύλος πυρὸς ἤ θεία τίς καὶ οὐρανία ὄψις, τάς φάλαγγας αὐτῶν ἀνερρώννυε’ Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XV.5.2), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 474. 37. I. Spatharakis, The Portrait in Byzantine Illuminated Manuscripts (Leiden, 1976), 102. 38. I. Spatharakis, The Portrait, 101. 39. For the Greek text see Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.2), ed. J.A. van Dieten (Berlin, 1975), 54. 40. G. Litavrin, ‘Malade et Médecin à Byzance XIe-XIVe Siècles. Remarques sur le Cod. Plut. VII 19 de la Bibliothèque de Lorenzo de Medici à Florence’,

Notes

41.

42. 43.

44. 45.

46. 47.

48.

49.

50.

51.

52.

53.

143

Maladie et Societe à Byzance, ed. E. Patlagean (Spoleto, 1993), 97–101. The fact that the medical manuscript was copied and reused in the fourteenth century underlines its continuing relevance. On this point see also D. Bennett, ‘Medical Practice and Manuscripts in Byzantium’, The Society for the History of Medicine, 13.2 (2000), 279–291. Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia (I.1.2), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, Byzantinae Historia Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn, 1829–55) vol. I, 11. Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.2), tr. (English) H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium; Annals of Nicetas Choniates (Detroit, 1984), 183. For an analysis of the agenda behind Neophytos’s imagery in the Enkleistra see R. Cormack, Writing in Gold: Byzantine Society and Its Icons (London, 1985), ch. 6. R. Cormack, Writing in Gold, 242. Ibid., 239 and 249. On Neophytos’s self-sanctification see also C. Galatariotou, The Making of a Saint: The Life, Times and Sanctification of Neophytos the Recluse (Cambridge, 1991). On this point see G. Dagron, ‘Holy Images and Likeness’, DOP, 45 (1991), 23–33. The portrait-likenesses of Neophytos both in the sanctuary and the cell are here compared to the monastic figures of the contemporary, first phase of the decoration of the Enkleistra dating to 1182/3. On the phases of the decoration see C. Mango and E. Hawkins, ‘The Hermitage of St Neophytos and Its WallPaintings’, DOP, 20 (1966), 119–206 and S. Tomecović, ‘Ermitage de Paphos; Décors paints pour Néophyte le Reclus’, Les Saints et Leur Sanctuaire à Byzance; Textes, Images et Monuments, ed. C. Jolivet-Levy, M. Kaplan and J.P. Sodini (Paris, 1994), 151–171. On the bodilessness of the monastic saint as a visual sign of the ascetic’s denial of the flesh which granted him proximity to the divine see H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, Saints and Their Images in Byzantium (London, 1997), 48–99. On the appearance of Empress Zoe see E.R.A Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 239. On Emperor Andronikos’s appearance at the end of his life see Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 193. Neophytos came from a family of farmers and describes in his Typikon how he toiled the land in the service of the monastery. Details on the life of St Neophytos are given in his Typikon for the Enkleistra, see I. Tsiknopoullos ed., Νεοφύτου πρεσβυτέρου Μοναχοῦ καὶ Ἐγκλείστου, Τυπικὴ σὺν Θεῷ Διαθήκη (Larnaca, 1952). ‘Ὡς ἐκατέστησεν λοιπὸν τὸ μάγουλόν μου ἡ πεῖνα, οὐδὲ λαπάραν ὥμοιαζεν τὴν καταζαρωμένην’, Πτωχοπροδρομικὰ: Δ’, Τοῦ αυτοῦ πρὸς τὸν Βασιλέα (221–222), ed. Th. Zoras, Βυζαντινή Ποίησις (Athens, 1956), 130. See also H. Eideneier, Ptochoprodromos (Cologne, 1991). ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos, Ἀπὸ τῆς πόλεως εἰς τὸν αὐτοκράτορα ὅτε κατέλαβον οἱ ρῆγες ὁ Ἀλαμανίας καὶ ὁ Φραγγίας, ed. C. Neumann, Griechische Geschichtsschreiber und Geschichtsquellen im zwölften Jahrhundert (Manheim, 1881), 61 translated in E. Jeffreys, ‘The Comnenian Background to the Romans d’ Antiquité’, Popular Literature in Late Byzantium (London, 1983), 471. ‘σύ μου τὸ γῆρας ἔξεσας, ἔκρυψας τὰς ῤυτίδας’, ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos,

Ἀπὸ τῆς πόλεως εἰς τὸν αὐτοκράτορα ὅτε κατέλαβον οἱ ρῆγες ὁ Ἀλαμανίας καὶ

144 Notes

ὁ Φραγγίας, ed. C. Neumann, Griechische Geschichtsschreiber, 61 translated in 54. 55. 56.

57.

58. 59.

60.

61.

62.

63.

E. Jeffreys, ‘The Comnenian Background to the Romans d’ Antiquité’, Popular Literature in Late Byzantium (London, 1983), 471. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.7), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 118. On the church and its wall-paintings see S. Pelekanidis and M. Chatzidakis, Byzantine Art in Greece: Kastoria (Athens, 1985), esp. 22–49. ‘καὶ βασιλέας υἱεῖς τῷ βίῳ καταλιπών, πατρώζοντας ἀκριβῶς καὶ τὸν ἐκείνου χαρακτῆρα ἔν τε ψυχῇ καὶ σώματι φέροντας’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VII.1.28), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 318. Also in the eleventh century, an attempt to use the visual vocabulary of an image as proof of legitimacy is noted in the Historia of Attaleiates. Proclaiming the (supposed and unlikely) decent of Nikephoros Botaneiates from Nikephoros Phokas, Attaleiates compares Botaneiates’s appearance to a painted likeness of Phokas depicted in a church in Crete, thus using the evidence of a visual image as ‘proof’ of Botaneiates’s lineage: see Michael Attaleiates, Historia (228–229), ed. and tr. (Spanish) I. Pérez Martín (Madrid, 2002), 166 for the Greek text. On Anna’s comment and the distinction drawn between her own resemblance to her father and the ugliness of her baby brother see P. Magdalino, ‘The Pen of the Aunt: Echoes of the Mid-twelfth Century in the Alexiad’, Anna Komnene and Her Times, 21. See M. Mullett, ‘The Imperial Vocabulary of Alexios I Komnenos’, Alexios I Komnenos, ed. M. Mullett and D. Smythe (Belfast, 1996), vol. I, 359–363. For an analysis of the image of Zoe and Monomachos in the St Sophia image see R. Cormack, Writing in Gold, ch. 5. For Robin Cormack’s insight into the manipulation of physical resemblance in visual imagery to make claims on the legitimacy of imperial rule in the case of Constantine Monomachos and the image of Christ in St Sophia, and King Roger II and Christ in Martorana of Palermo see R. Cormack, ‘Interpreting the Mosaics of St Sophia at Istanbul’, Art History, 4.2 (1981), 141–146. See also R. Cormack, Writing in Gold, 188–189. For another reading of this image see I. Kalavrezou, ‘Irregular Marriages in the Eleventh Century and the Zoe and Constantine Mosaic in Hagia Sophia’, Law and Society in Byzantium, Ninth–Twelfth Centuries, ed. A. Laiou and D. Simon (Washington, DC, 1994), 241–257. This juxtaposition of male individualization with female idealization in imperial imagery is also apparent in the case of the manuscript image of Manuel I Komnenos and his wife Maria (cod. Vat. gr. 1176, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana). Manuel’s elongated, oval visage, dark complexion, furrowed forehead, visible wrinkles and irregular, expressive eyebrows contrast with Maria’s carefully rounded face, blond hair, white flawless skin highlighted by perfect pink circles, and arched, slender eyebrows. ‘ὀφθαλμός τε αὐτῇ μέγας ὑπὸ βλοσυρᾷ τῇ ὀφρύϊ διέσχιστο (. . .) τήν τε κόμην εἶχε ξανθὴν καὶ τὸ σῶμα δι’ ὅλου λάμπον λευκότητι· αἱ δὲ τῶν χρόνων αὐτῇ περίοδοι ἐν ὀλίγοις τισὶ συμβόλοις ἀπεσημαίνοντο’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.6), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. I, 252. In the case of Michael VII Doukas (later relabelled Nikephoros III Botaneiates) and Maria of Alania in the eleventh-century Homilies of St John Chrysostom (cod. Coislin 79, f.1v, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris) the image of the emperor

Notes

145

is altered slightly to reflect the change in the emperor’s identity from Michael VII to Nikephoros III, who was older and was portrayed with a longer beard. Notably, the likeness of Maria remains untouched by time between the abdication of her first husband and the coronation of her second, suggesting that like Zoe she too does not age. Maria’s flawless skin fits in with her masklike ideal beauty: a perfectly rounded face, red, stylized, arched eyebrows, schematic, straight nose, tiny mouth, subtle pink cheeks and flawless skin. On the adapted likeness of the Emperor Michael VII Doukas/Nikephoros III Botaneiates see H. Maguire, ‘Images of the Court’, The Glory of Byzantium, Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261, ed. H.C. Evans and W.D. Wixom (New York, 1997), 207. 64. Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (ΙΙ.249–250), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 102. 65. Such descriptions include painted figures, such as the allegorical figures that adorn the garden wall observed by Hysminias and his friend Kratisthenis: the author describes the white hands and curling locks of Wisdom (Phronesis) that resemble ringlets and golden highlights, or equally the beautiful face of the youth representing the month of May whose hair is carefully dressed to appear curly. 66. ‘ἦν γὰρ πλῆρες φωτός, πλῆρες χάριτος, πλῆρες ἡδονῆς· ὀφρὺς μέλαινα, ἶρις τὸ σχῆμα ἤ κατὰ σελήνην μηνοειδές· ὄμμα μέλαν, γοργὸν καὶ μάλα φαιδρόν· ὁ

κύκλος αὐτῷ κατὰ μέρος ὠξύνετο καὶ ἦν τὸ σχῆμα τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς κωνοειδὲς μᾶλλον ἤ κυκλοειδές·ἡ περὶ τὴν ἐπιβλεφαρίδα θρὶξ παντελῶς ἐμελαίνετο· καὶ ἦν ὁ τῆς κόρης ὀφθαλμὸς ὄντως Ἔρωτος κάτοπτρον. Παρειὰ λευκή· τὸ λευκὸν ἄκρατον, ἐς ὅσον οὐκ ἠρυθραίνετο· τὸ μέσον ἐρυθρόν· τὸ ἐρυθρὸν διεσπασμένον καὶ οἷον διεσπαρμένον, οὐχ οἷον πλάττει χεὶρ καὶ τέχνη βάπτει καὶ νύξ μαραίνει καὶ ὕδωρ ἐκπλύνει. Τὸ στόμα συμμέτρως διέρρηκται· τὸ πολὺ τῆς σαρκὸς τῶν χειλέων διέρριπται, καὶ ἄμφω τὼ χείλη φοινίσσεται. Εἴποις ἰδὼν ῥόδον ἐκθλῖψαι τὴν κόρην τοῖς χείλεσι. Χορὸς ὁδόντων λευκός, συστοιχίαν φέρων εὐάρμοστον καὶ πρὸς τὸ χεῖλος ἀνάλογον, ὡς παρθένοι τοῖς χείλεσιν οἰκουρούμενοι. Ὅλον τὸ πρόσωπον κύκλος ἀνεπισφαλής· ἡ ῥὶν κέντρου λόγον ἐπέχει πρὸς ὅλον τὸ κύκλωμα’ Eustathios Makrembolites, Τὰ καθ’ Ὑσμίνην καὶ Ὑσμινίαν (III.6, 1–4),

67. 68.

69.

70.

71.

ed. M. Marcovich, Eustatius Macrembolites de Hismines et Hysminiae Amoribus (Leipzig, 2001), 29–30. ‘Ἦν γὰρ ἡ κόρη ἀληθῶς ὥσπερ ἱστορισμένη·’ Digenis Akritis (IV.352), ed. and tr. E. Jeffreys, 89. C. Jouanno, ‘Discourse of the Body in Prodromos, Eugenianos and Macrembolites’, Der Roman im Byzanz der Komnenenzeit (Referate des internationalen symposiums an der Freien Universitat Berlin, 3–6 April 1998), ed. D.R. Reinsch and P. Agapitos (Frankfurt am Main, 2000), 90. On the first wife of Constantine Doukas, Psellos notes: ‘καὶ γένει περιφανῆ (. . .) καὶ κάλλει διαπρεπῆ’, and Doukas’s second wife ‘εὐγενὴς δὲ καὶ αὕτη καὶ τό τε φρόνημα γενναία, καὶ τὸ εἶδος περικαλλής’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VII.1.6), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 296, 298. On the Sclerena, the author remarks: ‘ὡραίαν τε οὖσαν καὶ τἄλλα σώφρονα’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.1.50), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. I, 296. On Constantine Dalassenos, we are told that he was ‘τις ἀνὴρ τὸ τηνικαῦτα μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων, καὶ τὸ εἶδος οἷος οὐκ ἄλλος (. . .) ἡ Πόλις ἐγεγόνει ἰδοῦσα τὸν

146 Notes

ἄνδρα καὶ μετεώριστο ὡς αὐτίκα τι ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ διαπράξουσα’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.12), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. I, 256, 258, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 160. 72. ‘καὶ ἔστιν αὐταις ὁ ἀμελὴς κόσμος καλλωπισμὸς ἀκριβέστατος, οὕτω δὴ

κἀκεῖνον οὐκ ἔκρυπτε μᾶλλον τὰ ἀφανῆ περιβλήματα ταῦτα ἤ λαμπρότερον ἀπεδείκνυε.’ Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VII.87), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno,

S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 286. 73. For the Greek text see Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VII.1.87), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 286. 74. For the Greek text see Michael Attaleiates, Historia (78), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 59. 75. Attaleiates’s writing evokes an enthusiasm for impressive build and physique that causes the admiration of onlookers: the strategos George Maniakes, for instance, who took up arms against Emperor Monomachos, is praised for being of big build and broad chested, while the brave warrior Theodore Alyates is described as a man most admirable to look at, who would stand out among others because of his height and build. On Maniakes, ‘μέγας ὁμοῦ καὶ εὐρύνωτος καὶ τὴν ὄψιν φοβερὸς καθιστάμενος’, Michael Attaleiates, Historia (19), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 16. On Theodore Alyates ‘ὰνὴρ γένους ἐπιφανοῦς τὰ πολεμικὰ καὶ θεαθῆναι θαυμασιώτατος, μεγέθει καὶ ὄγκω τὥν πολλὥν δαφέρων’, Michael Attaleiates, Historia (170), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 126. 76. ‘ἦν γὰρ θεαθῆναι μὲν φοβερώτατος ὁμοῦ καὶ ἡδύτατος τῷ τε καταπληκτικῷ τοῦ

μεγέθους καὶ τῇ ἐπιφανείᾳ τῆς ῥώμης καὶ τῷ τῆς ὄψεως χαροπῷ καὶ ἀστραπηβόλῳ. διαλάμπουσαν γὰρ ἔχων τὴν ὄψιν ἀκράτοις τοῖς ἐρυθήμασι, τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς ἐδείκνυ χαρίτων μεστούς, τὸ μέλαν ἄκρατον ἔξωθεν ἐπιτρέχον ὑποδεικνύοντας καὶ κάλλος ἄῤῥητον ἔνδοθεν ἀποστίλβοντας, τήν τε ὀφρὺν ὑπεραιρομένην δίκην ἁψῖδος ἐν ὁμοίᾳ καὶ ἀψευδούσῃ βαφῇ, καὶ τὸ μέτωπον φεγγοβόλοις προσεοικὸς ταῖς μαρμαρυγαῖς, καὶ τὴν ἄλλην τοῦ προσώπου κατάστασιν ἀναλογοῦσαν τῷ κάλλει καὶ δεύτερον ἥλιον χειροτονοῦσαν ἐπίγειον.’ Michael

Attaleiates, Historia (216), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 158. 77. ‘καὶ παραστάντος αὐτοῦ τῷ βασιλικῷ βήματι περιέσχεν ἔλεος ἄσχετον τὴν Αὐγοῦσταν, καὶ σταλαγμοὶ δακρύων τῶν βλεφάρων ταύτης ἐξέπεσον ·ἦν γὰρ ὁ ἀνὴρ οὐ μόνον τοῖς ἄλλοις πλεονεκτήμασι προτερῶν, ἀλλὰ καὶ θεαθῆναι παντάπασιν ἥδιστος’ Michael Attaleiates, Historia (100), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 74–75. 78. ‘ἐπιμήκης τε καὶ στέρνων καὶ νώτων ἐν καλῷ καθορώμενος, καὶ εὐγενές τι πνέων ὡς ἀληθῶς καὶ διογενές, εὐόφθαλμός τε εἴπερ τις ἄλλος, καὶ κάλλος ἀποστίλβων τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς, μήτ’ἀκριβὲς τὸ λευκὸν μήτε τὸ μέλαν ἀποσώζων ὡσαύτως ἀλλ’ὥσπερ συγκεκερασμένος τῇ δημιουργίᾳ τῆς φύσεως καὶ συγκεκραμένος τῷ ἐρυθήματι, κἀν τούτοις ἅπασι τὴν γλυκύτητα περιθέουσαν ἔχων, καὶ ἅξιον εἶδος κατὰ τὸν κωμικὸν τυραννίδος ἐπιδεικνύμενος’ Michael Attaleiates, Historia (99), ed. and tr. I. Pérez Martín, 75. 79. ‘Μαρίαν τὴν Ἰσαακίου τοῦ σεβαστοκράτορος θυγατέρα γένει τε καὶ περιουσίᾳ κάλλους διάφορον οὖσαν ἐν Βυζαντίῳ τρέφεσθαι ἤκουσεν, ἥλω αὐτικα τῆς κόρης καὶ πρέσβεις ἐς βασιλέα πέμψας’ and ‘Μαρίαν τὴν Ἰσαακίου τοῦ σεβαστοκράτορος παῖδα περικαλλῆ καθάπερ εἴρηται οὖσαν’ John Kinnamos, Epitome (IV.1) and (V.1), ed. A. Meineke, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn, 1839), 135 and 203, respectively, translated in C.M. Brand, Deeds of John and Manuel Komnenos (New York, 1976), 106 and 155.

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80. John Kinnamos, Epitome (V.4), tr. C.M. Brand, Deeds of John and Manuel Komnenos, 159. 81. Brand underlines that this story is invented by Kinnamos and that the marriage alliance was the reason for Raymond’s visit to Jerusalem, at the invitation of the bride’s father. See C.M. Brand, Deeds of John and Manuel Komnenos, 235–236, n. 20.

2

Only Skin-Deep: Beauty and Ugliness between Good and Evil

1. Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 241. 2. Διήγησις ἐξαίρετος Βελθάνδρου τοῦ Ρωμαίου, ed. E. Kriaras, Βυζαντινά Ιπποτικά Μυθιστορήματα (Athens,1959), 556–640, 112–113. On physical ugliness in art see U. Eco, On Ugliness, tr. (English) A. McEwen (London, 2007). 3. ‘ἀνθρωποθυτῶ, χωλὸν οὐν θυσιάσω, τυφλόν, κορύζης ἔμπλεων, γηραλέον, σαπροσκελῆ, τρέμοντα, κυρτὸν τὴν ῤάχιν, λημῶντα, τοὺς ὀδόντας ἐξωρυγμένον, ποδαγριῶντα καὶ φαλακρὸν τὴν κάραν, πολύτριχον γένειον ἐξηρτημένον, καὶ τοῦτο λευκόν καὶ κινάβρας ἐκπνέον; τίνος δ’ἄν αὐτῶν οἱ θεοὶ πρόσοιοντό γε;’ and ‘τί γοῦν’ ἔφη το λεῖπον ἤ καλούς νέους καὶ τοὺς ἐν ἀκμῇ τοῦ χρόνου θεοῖς θύειν’; Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (VII.428–435) and (VII.439–440), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 246. 4. ‘καὶ ὁ μελάχρους Θεόδωρος, ὅν διὰ τὸ τοῦ εἴδους μελάντερον ἐκάλουν Ἀτζυποθεόδωρον’ John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVI.28), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange (Leipzig, 1868–75), vol. IV, 90. 5. On the Byzantine perception of the devils see R.P.H. Greenfield, Traditions of Belief in Late Byzantine Demonology (Amsterdam, 1988). 6. ‘Αιθιόπων μαύρων πλήθος ἀναρίθμητον’, Βίος καὶ πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Ἀνδρέου τοῦ διὰ τὸν Χριστὸν σαλοῦ (46), ed. and tr. (English) L. Rydén, The Life of St Andrew the Fool; Text, Translation and Notes (Uppsala, 1995), vol. II, 14–15. For the use of Ἀγαρηνὸς and Ἰσμαηλίτης in the same context see vol. II, 66. 7. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VII), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 307. 8. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 289. 9. ‘ἀνὴρ πιθώδης σωματικὴν τὴν πλάσιν, προκοίλιός τε καὶ λιπόκρεως λίαν, Παχὺς ἐπίκλην ἐκ θέας φερωνύμου’ and ‘νυκτὸς δὲ χανδὸν ἐμφορηθεὶς ἀκράτου Παχὺς φρένας κλῆσιν τε τύραννος νεός, ἀνείς τε πύλας ἀνέτους ἀνακτόρων’, Ephraim Ainios, Chronographia (6580–5, 6602–4), ed. and tr. (Greek) O. Lampsides (Athens, 1985), vol. II, 216. 10. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 270. 11. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 252. On how baldness features in the context of Byzantine humour see L. Garland, ‘And his bald head shone like a full moon . . .’: an appreciation of the Byzantine sense of humour as recorded in historical sources of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, Parergon, 8 (1990), 1–31. On the psychological reaction that aligns ugliness with laughter see also ‘theories of laughter’ in

148 Notes R. Garland, The Eye of the Beholder; Deformity and Disability in the Greco-Roman World (London, 1995), 74–75. 12. Choniates notes that Andronikos I Komnenos was told of Tripsychos’s derisory words towards the emperor’s son John by an informer; see Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 174. 13. ‘ὡς τοῦς ἀγαθοῦς τῶν ζωγράφων μιμεῖσθαι χρεὼν, ὁπόσοι ἐς τὸ συγγράφειν

ὁρμῶσι. καὶ γὰρ κἀκεῖνοι εἴ τι που τοῖς ἀρχετύποις ἐκ φύσεως παρυπέστη πλημμέλημα, εἴτ’ἐς τὸ ἧττον τοῦ δέοντος, εἴτ’αὖ ἐς τὸ πλέον παρασῦρον ἔστιν ἅ τῶν τοῦ σώματος μερῶν, οὐχ ἅπαν ἀκριβῶς ἐναρμόσαι σπουδάζουσι τῇ γραφῇ τῆς εἰκόνος· ἀλλα πή μὲν ἐντιθέασιν, ὅσον ἐνδειξασθαι την ὁμοιότητα, πή δ’οὔ ἵνα μήτε τὸ δύσμορφον καὶ αἰσχρόν ἡ γραφή τῆς εἰκόνος ἔχῃ διηνεκῶς, μήτε φύσεως ὄνειδος ἀεί τοῖς οφθαλμοῖς τοῦ χρόνου προφαίνηται, καὶ γίνηται τοῖς φιλοσκώμμοσι πρόφασις γέλωτος ἅμα καὶ χλεύης.’ Nikephoros Gregoras,

Romaiki Historia (I.1.2), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, vol. I, 11. 14. Ephraim Ainios’s Chronographia subtly underlines this point by repeating Zonaras’s story of the Emperor Theophilos, his iconophile wife Theodora and the mentally deprived court jester Denderis, with a suggestive elaboration: the simple-minded Denderis, who betrayed the empress’s secret worship of icons, is described as uglier than Thersitis, using that as a Homeric reference to add ugliness as a fitting epithet to the image of the jester. ‘αἴσχιον ἀνδράριον αὐτοῦ Θερσίτου, παράφορον νοῦν καὶ παρακεκομμένον, άνακτόροις ἄθυρμα, ψυχαγωγία’, Ephraim Ainios, Chronographia (2352–53), ed. and tr. O. Lampsides, vol. I, 84. For Zonaras’s ‘original’ version of the story see John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XV.26), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. III, 404. 15. See Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 242. 16. Τὸ κατὰ Καλλίμαχον καὶ Χρυσορρόην Ἐρωτικὸν Διήγημα (1065–1069, 1086–1087), ed. E. Kriaras, Βυζαντινά Ἱπποτικά Μυθιστορήματα (Athens, 1959), 50. 17. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 69. 18. Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 241. 19. For a case of hair cropping as punishment in the reign of Alexios Angelos see for instance Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 288. For the notion of beauty as a divine gift and ugliness or deformity as a sign of divine displeasure in the ancient world see R. Garland, The Eye of the Beholder (London, 1995). On diverse viewer responses to visual representations of the ugly body in classical art see M. Beard and J. Henderson, Classical Art from Greece to Rome (Oxford, 2001), 141–142. See also N. Vlahogiannis, ‘Disabling Bodies’, Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings: Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, ed. D. Montserrat (London and New York, 1998), 14. 20. On a similar note, when Choniates describes the second reign of Isaac II Angelos he comments unkindly on the blind emperor’s unsuitability for the throne noting that ‘he who had been blinded was ordained to oversee all things and was led by the hand to ascend the imperial throne’. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VII), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 301. Zonaras presents a case in which punishment literally stigmatizes the condemned,

Notes

21.

22.

23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

149

noting how Constantine Kopronymos punished a thousand captives by carving their foreheads and pouring ink in the stigmata. ‘Ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἐµοὶ πρόσωπον ἠσβολωμένον, οὐδὲ ξένη τις καὶ δυσέντευκτος πλάσις εἰ γοῦν κατ’ ἄνδρα τις τὰ τοῦ κάλλους κρίνει ὡραῖον ἄν μάθοι με τὴν θεωρίαν’, Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (II.2.251–252), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 104. ‘εἰ μή γε τοῦτον λεμφώδη τε ὄντα καὶ εἰδεχθῆ, μυσαρόν τε καὶ κίναιδον, ἀφωνότερον τε ἰχθύων καὶ ἀμαθέστερον’, John Tzetzes, ‘Τῷ Σεβαστῷ Κύρῳ Ἰσαακίῳ τῷ Κομνηνῷ’, Ἐπιστολαὶ (6), ed. P.A.M. Leone (Leipzig, 1972), 12. A similar letter by Tzetzes to ‘a man who abuses heroes’ parallels the addressee to the Homeric Thersitis who may have been monstrous, ugly and rude but was of better descent than the letter’s recipient: ‘τῇ ποιήσει παρεζωγράφησε τέρας άδελφόν σοι τῇ μορφῇ καὶ ὁμότροπον, εἰ καὶ τῷ γένει πολύ προφερέστερον’, John Tzetzes, ‘Ἥρωας ὑβρίζοντι Λουτροκανθάρῳ’, Ἐπιστολαὶ (20), ed. P.A.M. Leone, 37. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 293. ‘ἀπηγριωμένος ἔχων τοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς καὶ τρόμον ἐξ ἀηδίας τῷ θεωροῦντι καθεισπραττόμενος’, The Life of St Andrew the Fool (1519–1520), ed. and tr. L. Rydén, 114. A similar reference is found in Timarion, where the hero, descending into a pagan underworld with numerous Christian undercurrents, is faced with the stern guards of Hades, closely modelled on demons in their dark appearance and their ability to cause revulsion: ‘σκιοειδεῖς ἄνδρες καὶ ἀμειδεῖς, πᾶσαν ἀηδίαν ἐκ τῆς ὄψεως προβαλλόμενοι’, Τιμαρίων ἤ περὶ τῶν κατ’ αὐτὸν παθημάτων (XV.356–357), ed. and tr. (Italian) R. Romano, La Satira Bizantina dei Secoli XI–XV (Turin, 1999), 132. PG 87.3, col.3705. On the Baptist in imagery and text see H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 72. John Apokaukos in H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 74. See also Maguire on the image of St Mary of Egypt from the Chruch of Panagia Phorbiotissa, Asinou: H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 32. A. Petrakova, ‘The Beauty of the Human Body in Ancient Greek VasePainting’, The Road to Byzantium; Luxury Arts of Antiquity, ed. R. Cormack and A. Eastmond (London, 2006), 23. For the Souda reference to kalos k’agathos and its translation see the online Souda resource http://www.stoa.org/sol-bin/findentry.pl?keywords =kappa+251. ‘εἰδ’οἱ καλοὶ σφάττοιντο τῶν θεῶν χάριν, τί δὴ τὸ συμπέρασμα τοῦ καινοῦ νόμου, πάντων καθάπαξ τῶν καλῶν ὀλωλότων; μόνους πατεῖν γῆν τούς κακοὺς καὶ ζῆν μόνους, τὸ ζῆν λαβόντας εἰς ἀμοιβὴν κακίας αἰσχρὸν γενέσθαί τι πρόσωπον τοῦ βίου’, Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (VII.506–512), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 250. R. Udry and B.K. Eckland, ‘Benefits of Being Attractive: Differential Payoffs for Men and Women’, Psychological Reports, 54 (1984), 31. On research in the field of social psychology on human responses to beauty and ugliness and the question of positive or negative stereotyping, see A.M. Griffin and J.H. Langlois, ‘Stereotype Directionality and Attractivenes Stereotyping: Is Beauty Good or Is Ugly Bad?’, Social Cognition, 24.2 (2006), 187–206. ‘καὶ τὴν ὄψιν ἦν εἰδεχθέστατος καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν εἶχε τῆς ὄψεως χείρονα’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XIV.1), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. III, 254.

150 Notes 33. ‘ἔστεψε δὲ καὶ τὸν υἱὸν αὐτοῦ Σταυράκιον ὁ Νικηφόρος, εἰδεχθῆ τε λίαν ὄντα

καὶ ἀφελῆ καὶ μήτε εἴδος μήτε μὴν γενναιότητα μήτε σύνεσιν ἔχοντα τυραννίδος ἐπάξια’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XV.14), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du

Cange, vol. III, 370. 34. ‘ἡσθεὶς οὖν ὁ Θεοφιλίτζης ἐπὶ τῷ Βασιλείῳ (ἦν γὰρ εὐειδὴς τε καὶ εὐμήκης καὶ τὴν χεῖρα γενναῖος καὶ περιδέξιος, βαθεῖάν τε τρέφων κόμην καὶ ταύτην οὔλην)’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVI.6), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. IV, 19. 35. ‘καὶ ἡ βασίλισσα συνεχῶς αὐτῷ ἐνητένιζε καὶ ἑώρα τὸν ἄνδρα περιεργότερον, εἶτα καὶ, ἀπεφοίβασε τοῦτον εἶναι τὸν ὀλετῆρα τοῦ γένους αὐτῆς, ἔκ τινων σημείων τοῦτο γνοῦσα, ὡς ἔλεγε, πάλαι αὐτῇ γνωρισθέντων ἐκ τοῦ οἰκείου ἀνδρός.’ John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVI.7), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. IV, 20. 36. ‘τύχης μὲν χαμερποῦς ἤ καὶ χυδαίας, εἴποιεν ἄν τινες, καπήλων γὰρ ἐκφῦναι ταύτην φασί, τὸ δὲ εἶδος εὐπρεπεστάτην, ἄντικρυς ἄγαλμα πλασθεῖσαν παρὰ τῆς φύσεως, ἥτις Ἀναστασὼ καλουμένη Θεοφανὼ μετωνόμαστο’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVI.21), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. IV, 68. 37. ‘εἰς λόγους ἦλθε λάθρᾳ τῷ Τζιμισκῇ, ἤ ἔρωτι τοῦ ἀνδρὸς ἁλοῦσα (ἦν γὰρ τῷ κάλλει διαπρεπὴς καὶ τοῦ εἴδους χάριτας ἀφιείς), ἤ καὶ ἀξιόχρεων τοῦτον τῷ Νικηφόρῶ λογισαμένη ἀντίρροπον’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVI.28), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. IV, 89. 38. For Anna’s account of Robert’s good looks and the passage describing his treachery in the Greek text see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (I.10.4) and (I.11), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 36 and 39, respectively. 39. For the Greek text see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (IX.6.5), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 272. 40. See A. Laiou, ‘Introduction: Why Anna Komnene?’, Anna Komnene and Her Times, 1–14. 41. See H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium (Princeton, 1981). 42. H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium, 27. 43. Ibid. 44. See K. Corrigan, Visual Polemics in the Ninth-Century Byzantine Psalters (Cambridge, 1992), ch. 3. 45. On zoomorphism, physiognomy and the profile pose in scenes of the Passion of Christ see G. Dagron, ‘Image de Bête ou Image de Dieu; la Physiognomonie Animale dans la Tradition Grecque et ses Avatars Byzantins’, Poikilia; Etudes Offertes à J.P. Vernant (Paris, 1987), 76–77. 46. On the icon see K.A. Manafis ed., Σινά, Οι Θήσαυροί της Ιεράς Μονής Αγίας Αικατερίνης (Athens 1990), 99, 147. 47. On Byzantine demons see R.P.H. Greenfield, Traditions of Belief in Late Byzantine Demonology (Amsterdam, 1988). A characteristic representation of demons in Byzantine imagery is seen in the late-twelfth-century icon from Mount Sinai depicting St John Klimakos’s treatise on the Heavenly Ladder, where the black figures of demons are portrayed throwing monks off their course of heavenly accent. See R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 160–162. 48. A. Kazhdan, ‘Byzantine Hagiography and Sex in the 5th to 12th centuries’, DOP, 44 (1990), 135. 49. Χαρίδημος ἤ περὶ κάλλους, ed. and tr. (Italian) R. Romano, La Satira Bizantina dei Secoli XI–XV (Turin, 1999), 72–97.

Notes

151

50. ‘κάλλος ποθῶ, μέγιστον ἀνθρώποις καλόν θεῖον τὸ κάλλος καὶ θεόσδοτος χάρις’, Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (II.216–217), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 102. 51. ‘ὦ κὰλλος αἰσχρον, ὦ θεῶν κακὴ χὰρις. μὴ γὰρ καλοὶ γενοιτό τινες ἐν βίῳ ἄν εἰ κατασφάτοιντο τοῦ κάλλους χάριν’, Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (VII.329–331), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 240. 52. ‘τοῖς τοῦ Χριστοῦ χαρίσμασι πᾶσι πεπλουτισμένον, κάλλος, ἀνδρείαν, φρόνησιν καὶ πολλήν ευτολμίαν’, Digenis Akritis (VI.336–337), ed. and tr. (English) E. Jeffreys, Digenis Akritis; the Grottaferrata and Escorial Versions, 170, 172. 53. This scene is found in the Grottaferrata version of the epic; see Digenis Akritis (VI.795–798), ed. and tr. E. Jeffreys, 200.

3

Beauty and Power and Beauty as Power

1. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 55. 2. Ibid. 3. Manganeios Prodromos, ed. E. Miller, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades (Paris, 1881), vol. II, 262 translated in E. Jeffreys, ‘The Comnenian Background to the Romans d’Antiquité’, Popular Literature in Late Byzantium (London, 1983), 478. 4. On Zoe’s involvement in the death of Romanos III, see John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVII.13), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange (Leipzig, 1868–1875), vol. IV, 135–136. 5. E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 76. 6. ‘Τὸ μὲν οὖν περικαλλύνειν τοῦτον ὥσπερ ἄγαλμα καὶ καταχρυσοῦν, δακτυλίοις τε περιαστράπτειν καὶ χρυσοϋφέσιν ἐσθήμασιν οὐκ ἐν θαυμασίοις ἄγω· (. . .) ἐπὶ τὸν βασιλικὸν θρόνον ἐκάθιζεν ἐναλλάξ, σκῆπτρον ἐνεχείριζε, καὶ ποτε καὶ ταινίας ἠξίωσε, καὶ ἐπὶ τούτοις αὖθις ἐπιχυθεῖσα ἄγαλμά τε ἐκάλει καὶ ψυχῆς ἰδίαν ἀναψυχήν’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (III.20), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. I, 100, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 77. 7. Anna Komnene, The Alexiad (II.1), tr. (English) E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, 75. 8. ‘Ἀρμένιόν τινα, Μιζίζιον ὄνομα, ἀγαλματίαν ὄντα καὶ ὡραιότατον, βασιλέα προεχειρίσαντο’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XIV.20), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. III, 316. 9. In the Byzantine romance of Kallimachos and Chrysorroi, beauty is also linked to a candidate’s right to the throne. The king, Kallimachos’s father, is unable to select an heir among his three sons because they were matched in beauty, stature and physical blessings; the implication is that if were one superior to the others in that respect, this would have tipped the balance in his favour. Διήγησις ἐξαίρετος Βελθάνδρου τοῦ Ρωμαίου, ed. E. Kriaras, Βυζαντινά Ιπποτικά Μυθιστορήματα (Athens, 1959), 29. 10. Anna Komnene, The Alexiad (IX.5), tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 280. 11. Anna Komnene, The Alexiad (IX.6.5), tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 282. 12. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.4), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 81. 13. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 59.

152 Notes 14. ‘τῇ δέ γε τελαυταίᾳ τῶν θυγατέρων συνῴκισεν ὁ πατὴρ νεανίαν τὸ μὲν εἶδος ἀγαλματίαν, τὸ δὲ γένος οὐ τῶν ἐπιφανῶν’, John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XVIII.22), ed. L. Dindorf and C. Du Cange, vol. IV, 241. 15. ‘Σύμφυτα γάρ τοι γυναιξὶ τὰ τῆς ζηλοτυπίας· ἐπὰν δὲ καὶ ταῖς ἔρωτος ἐκκαίοιντο καμίνοις καὶ ταῖς εκ τούτων φλέγοιντο πυρκαϊαῖς τὰ σπλάχνα, τοὺς ἐρωμένους τε συμβῇ σφίσιν ὡραίους εἶναι, ἀγαλματίας τὴν μορφήν, εὐμήκεις ὡς πλατάνους, τότε καὶ βλέμμα καὶ φωνὴν καὶ βάδισμα καὶ νεῦμα καὶ κίνημα καὶ λάλημα φιλοῦσιν ὑποπτεύειν’, Constantine Manassis, Τὰ κατ’ Ἀρίστανδρον καὶ Καλλιθέαν (114), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 744. Equally, in Makrembolites’s Hysmini and Hysminias, a beautiful figure is often described as an agalma: the handsome figure of Eros, for instance, is described as a young man of such beauty that he appeared like a divine agalma: ‘τὰ δέ γε περὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν οὕτω τερπνὸν τὸ μειράκιον, ὑπὲρ μειράκιον πᾶν, ὑπὲρ πᾶσαν παρθένον, θεῶν ἄγαλμα’, Eustathios Makrembolites, Τὰ καθ’ Ὑσμίνην καὶ Ὑσμινίαν (ΙΙ.7.2), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 520. 16. ‘Ἦν οὖν τὸ κάλλος τῆς κόρης χρῆμα ξένον, ἄγαλμα σεπτόν, εἰκόνος θείας τύπος εἰς εἶδος Ἀρτέμιδος ἀπεξεσμένον. Μίμημα λευκῆς χιόνος τὸ σαρκίον, παντὸς μέλους σύστοιχος ἀλληλουχία, ἄλλου πρὸς ἄλλο δεξιῶς κολλωμένου

καὶ παντὸς εἰς πᾶν εὐφυῶς ἡρμοσμένου. Ὀφρὺς φυσικῶς εὖ γεωμετρουμένη εἰς εὐφυους μίμησιν ἡμικυλίου, ὑπόγρυπος ῥὶς καὶ κόρη μελαντάτη. Κύκλοι παρειῶν αὐτόθεν γεγραμμένοι, τέτταρες ἀμφοῖν τῇ μιᾷ πάντως δύο ὧν τοὺς μὲν ἐκτὸς καὶ συνεκτικωτέρους τῆς χιόνος φαιή τις ἄν ἀποσπάδα, τοὺς δ’ ἐντὸς αὐτῶν ὥσπερ ἠνθρακωμένους ἐκ τῶν ἐνόντων αὐτοκαύστων ἀνθράκων. Στενὸν κομιδῇ καὶ κατάσφικτον στόμα· ἀγκών, βραχίων, ἁρμονία δακτύλων ἐκ φυσικοῦ ξεστῆρος ἀπεξεσμένη.’ Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (I.40-57), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 66.

17. A. Cameron, J. Herrin, et al., ed. and tr., Constantinople in the Early Eighth Century; The ‘Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai’, Introduction, Translation and Commentary (Leiden, 1984), esp. 52–53. 18. See for instance, C. Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, DOP, 17 (1963), 55–75. 19. C. Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, 61. 20. L. James, ‘ “Pray Not to Fall into Temptation and Be on Your Guard”: Pagan Statues in Christian Constantinople’, Gesta, 35, n. 1 (1996), 12–20. 21. On this point see L. James, ‘Pray Not to Fall into Temptation and Be on Your Guard’, 15. 22. C. Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, 63. Belief in the prophetic power of statues is noted, for instance, in Choniates’s story of the weeping image of St Tarsus that foretold the downfall of Emperor Andronikos Komnenos; see Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 194–195. 23. Mango juxtaposes two nude figures from the backgrounds of scenes in the Menologion of Basil and a draped figure representing a statue of Isis from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris (Cod. Coislin 239, fol. 122v) in C. Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, 55–75. 24. C. Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, 74. 25. On this image see R. Cormack, Painting the Soul: Icons, Death Masks and Shrouds (London, 1997), 130. 26. See for instance H.C. Evans and W.D. Wixom, ed., The Glory of Byzantium Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261 (New York, 1997), 213.

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27. On this point see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), 22. In the Menologion the same pose appears in the representation of standing military saints such as the figure of St Theodore Stratelates (Vat. gr. 1613, p. 383), presented with his hand raised to hold the spear, forearm and upper arm at an angle to each other, the forearm running parallel to the vertical axis of the saint’s body. 28. ‘σιδηροῦς ὡς ἀνδριὰς διεκαρτέρησας’, John Mauropous, Κανὼν εἰς τὸν ἅγιον μεγαλομάρτυρα Θεόδωρον τὸν στρατηλάτην (Ὠιδὴ I), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. d’Aiuto, ‘Tre Canoni di Giovanni Mauropode in Onore di Santi Militari’, Supplemento al Bolletino Dei Classici, n. 13 (1994), 80. 29. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIV.4.7), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 441, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 451. This pose is found for instance in the representations of Justin I and Justinian on the bronze weights from the Byzantine Museum in Athens. On the weights, objects that were chiefly associated with imperial power, the images of the emperors underline their power as guarantors of financial transactions. D. Konstantios et al., The World of the Byzantine Museum, tr. (English) J. Davis (Athens, 2004), 258–259. 30. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.12.6), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 415. 31. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.2.1), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 387. 32. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIV.4.7), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 441, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 451. 33. On the Byzantine viewer’s concern with power in the ancient statue see A. Cameron, J. Herrin, et al., ed. and tr., Constantinople in the Early Eighth Century; The ‘Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai’. 34. On the ekphrasis in Byzantium see L. James and R. Webb, ‘To Understand Ultimate Things and Enter Secret Places: Ekphrasis and Art in Byzantium’, Art History, 14 (1991), 1–17. 35. Niketas Choniates, Historia (X), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 360. 36. For the Souda definition see http://www.stoa.org/sol-bin/findentry. pl?keywords=alpha+131. For an etymological reading of the word ἄγαλμα see A. Stewart, Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece (Cambridge, 1997), 65. On the vocabulary relating to the ἄγαλμα see also A. Cameron, J. Herrin, et al., ed. and tr., Constantinople in the Early Eighth Century; The ‘Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai’. On the use of the Souda in Byzantium see G.T. Dennis, The Letters of Manuel II Palaeologus (Washington, DC, 1977), 14, n. 2. 37. On this point see the Souda, http://www.stoa.org/sol-bin/findentry. pl?keywords=epsiloniota+93. 38. S. Papaioannou, ‘Animate Statues: Aesthetics and Movement’, Reading Michael Psellos, ed. C. Barber and D. Jenkins (Leiden and Boston, 2006), 108. 39. ‘ὦ καὶ πάντας νικήσας καὶ πάσας νικήσασα, καὶ ἀλλήλους νικῶντες καὶ ὑπ’ ἀλλήλων τῆν ἧτταν λαμβάνοντες· ὦ σὺ μὲν ἀρρένων ἄγαλμα, σὺ δὲ θηλειῶν σεμνολόγημα.’ Michael Psellos, Εἰς τὸν Βασιλέα τὸν Διογένην ὅτε ἐβασίλευσεν’, ed. G.T. Dennis, Orationes Panegyricae (Leipzig,1994), 179 and ‘Ἄγαρ υἱοὶ θρηνήσατε, Ῥώμης υἱοὶ χαρῶμεν· καὶ πάλιν γὰρ ὁ κραταιὸς Αὐσόνων πολιοῦχος, τὸ τῆς πορφύρας ἄγαλμα, τὸ κάλλος τῶν ἀνάκτων, ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν καὶ τῆς ἡμῶν στρατεύων σωτηρίας’, Theodore Prodromos, Tῷ αὐτοκράτωρι ἐξερχωμένῳ κατὰ Περσῶν τὸ δέκατον, ed. W. Horandner, Historische Gedichte (Vienna, 1974), 272. For Metochites’s encomium of Nicea see H. Saradi,

154 Notes ‘The Kallos of the Byzantine City; The Development of a Rhetorical Topos and Historical Reality’, Gesta, 34, n. 1 (1995), esp. 45–46. 40. ‘τοὺς ὤμους εὐρὺς καὶ τὰ στέρνα πλατὺς καὶ τούς βραχίονας καρτερὸς καὶ τὴν ὅλην ἕξιν τοῦ σώματος οὔτε περιεπτισμένος οὔτε περιβριθόμενος ταῖς σαρξίν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἄριστα κεκραμένος καὶ οἷον εἰπεῖν κατὰ τὸν Πολυκλείτειον κανόνα ἐνηρμοσμένος’, Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.10.4), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 411, translated by E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 422. 41. ‘καί οὔτε γραφεὺς γράψειεν ἄν πρὸς ἀρχετυπίαν τοῦ κάλλους ὁρῶν οὔτε λιθοξόος ἄψυχον οὐσίαν οὕτω ῥυθμίσειεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὁ τοῦ Πολυκλέιτου κανὼν ἐκεῖνος ὁ πολυθρύλλητος εἰς ἀτεχνίαν ἄντικρυς ἤρχετο, εἴ τις ἄν πρὸς τὰ τῆς φύσεως ἀγάλματα ταῦτα, λέγω δὴ τοὺς ἀρτιστεφεῖς αύτοκράτορας, καὶ πρὸς τὰ τοῦ Πολυκλείτου ἐκείνου σπουδάσματα ἀποβλέψειεν’, Anna Komnene, Alexiad (III.3.1), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 93, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 109. 42. On Maria of Alania: ‘ἀναλογίαν γὰρ τοιαύτην μελῶν καὶ μερῶν, τοῦ ὅλου πρὸς τὰ μέρη καὶ τοὐτων πρὸς τὸ ὅλον, οὐδεὶς οὐδέπω τοιαύτην ἐν ἀνθρώπου σώματι ἐθέαστο· ἄγαλμα ἔμψυχον καὶ ἀνθρώποις φιλοκάλοις ἐράσμιον’ and ‘τὸ δὲ τῆς

βασιλίδος κάλλος καὶ ἡ έπιλάμπουσα αύτῇ χάρις καὶ τὸ τῶν ἠθῶν ἐπαγωγόν τε καὶ εὔχαρι ὑπὲρ λόγον καὶ τέχνην ἐφαίνετο· οὐκ Ἀπελλῆς, οὐ Φειδίας οὐδέ τις τῶν ἀγαλματοποιῶν τοιοῦτόν ποτε παρήγαγεν ἄγαλμα’, Anna Komnene,

Alexiad (III.2.4), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 91. 43. On the canon see A. Stewart, ‘The Canon of Polykleitos: A Question of Evidence’, Journal of Hellenic Studies, 98 (1978), 122–131. 44. Winfield and Torp have both argued that the Byzantines used a proportional system in order to depict the human figure in monumental art. See J. Winfield and D. Winfield, Proportion and Structure of the Human Figure in Byzantine Wall Painting and Mosaic (Oxford, 1982), 179. For a review of Winfields’ analysis see C. Walter, ‘Proportion and Structure of the Human Figure in Byzantine Wall Painting and Mosaic’ (Review), Revue des Etudes Byzantines, 42 (1984), 350–351. On Torp’s analysis see H. Torp, ‘The Integrating System of Proportion in Byzantine Art; An Essay on the Method of the Painters of Holy Images’, Acta Ad Archaeologiam et Artium Historiam Pertinentia, vol. IV (Rome, 1984), 120. 45. For the description of the statue see Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia (VII.12.5), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, Byzantinae Historia (Bonn, 1829–1855), vol. I, 277. On the image of the Pantokrator see Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia (XXIX.47–48), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, vol. III, 256. On the statue upon Justinian’s column see also C. Mango, ‘Justinian’s Equestrian Statue’, Studies on Constantinople (Aldershot, 1993), 1–20. 46. ‘ἐῤῥωμένον δὲ τὸ σῶμα καὶ πάντα σύμμετρα κεκτημένον ὥσπερ ὑπὸ κανόνι

καὶ στάθμη της φύσεως τελεσιουργησάσης αὐτῷ τήν τε ἡλικίαν ὁμοῦ πᾶσαν καὶ αὖ καθ’ ἔκαστα τῶν μελῶν καὶ μερῶν. ἐπιπρέπειν δ’αὐτῷ καὶ ἱλαρότητα ὄψεως μετά τινος σεμνοῦ μειδιάματος’, Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia

(X.2.3), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, vol. I, 481. 47. This logic is underlined in Gregoras’s analogy between good writing and the art of the painter where the author claims that, faced with a natural fault in the prototype they seek to represent, for example, a part of the body being larger or smaller than it should be, good painters avoid rendering it in their image in order not to allow the ugliness of the prototype to be recorded in

Notes

48.

49.

50.

51. 52. 53.

54. 55.

56. 57.

58. 59.

155

the imagery for perpetuity. Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia (I.1.2), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, vol. I, 11. For the Greek text see ch. 2, n. 14. Bodily harmony is even seen as a quality of organic importance, linked not only to a body’s beauty but also its health and even its survival. Gregoras notes that the lack of harmony, or any lack or excess in the formation of an organism, can lead to improper growth and ultimately to death; see Nikephoros Gregoras, Romaiki Historia (XI.7.3), ed. L. Schopeni and I. Bekker, vol. I, 454. Psellos similarly describes Monomachos’s crippling illness and the loss of harmony it brings about in the emperor’s body: ‘τῶν τε ἰνῶν αὐτῷ καὶ τῶν συνδέσμων διασπασθέντων, τὰ μέλη τῆς ἁρμονίας μετέστησαν, οἷς ἀρυθμίαι καὶ ἀτονίαι συνείποντο’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.128), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 72, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 222. ‘Ἄγαλμα κάλλους ἐκεῖνον ἡ φύσις τῷ βίῳ παρέδωκεν, οὕτω μὲν ἐμμελῶς συναρμόσασα, οὕτω δὲ εὐρύθμως ἀποτυπώσασα, ὡς μηδένα ἔχειν ἐν τῷ καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνῳ τὸν παρισούμενον, τῇ δὲ εὐαρμοστίᾳ καὶ εὐτονίαν ἰσχύος ἐπέθηκεν’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.125), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 66, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 220. ‘Ἐπεί δὲ ἕκαστα τῶν ἐκείνου μελῶν ἀνάλογα πρὸς τὸ ὅλον σῶμα πεποίηκε, κεφαλὴν καὶ ὅσα μετ΄ἐκείνην εὐθύς, χεῖράς τε καὶ ὅσα δὴ μετὰ ταύτας, μηρούς τε και πόδας’ and ‘Αἱ γάρ τοι χεῖρες αὐτῷ καὶ μάλισθ’ οἱ δάκτυλοι συμμέτρως ἔχοντες, παρὰ τὴν συμμετρίαν τὴν ῥώμην ἐσχήκασι’, Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.125), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri, vol. II, 68, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 221. On the chrysobull see D. Konstantios, et al., The World of the Byzantine Museum, 380. R. Cormack, ‘The Emperor at St Sophia: Viewer and Viewed’, Byzance et les Images, ed. A. Guillou and J. Durand (Paris, 1994), 234. For an analysis of such Byzantine writing offering insight into the Byzantine perception of imperial imagery see P. Magdalino and R. Nelson, ‘The Emperor in Byzantine Art of the Twelfth Century’, Byzantinishen Forschungen, 8 (1982), 123–183, esp. 178 on John Kamateros. See P. Magdalino and R. Nelson, ‘The Emperor in Byzantine Art’, 136. Michael Psellos, ed. E. Kurtz, Scripta Minora (Milan, 1936), vol. I, 46–47, translated in H. Maguire, ‘Style and Ideology in Byzantine Imperial Art’, Gesta, 28, n. 2 (1989), 224. H. Maguire, ‘Style and Ideology’, 224. Liutprand of Cremona, Antapodosis, ed. J.P. Migne, PL 136, col. 795, in R. Cormack, ‘The Emperor at St Sophia’, 250, which offers a reading of Liutprand’s writings in the context of the Byzantine perception of the imperial position and public image. On Byzantine empresses see L. James, Empresses and Power in Early Byzantium (London, 2001), 139. H. Maguire, ‘Style and Ideology’, 224. In the panel representing Monomachos and Zoe, the figure of Christ at their midst is also painted with notable asymmetry: the right side of the face is larger than the left, the figure’s beard undulates asymmetrically on either side, his eyes, which appear to gaze at different directions, are framed by asymmetrical eyebrows, his lower body, unlike his frontal torso, appears tilted towards the

156 Notes left. In the representation of Michael VII Doukas/Nikephoros III Botaneiates and Maria of Alania from the Homilies of St John Chrysostom (cod. Coislin 79, f. 1v, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris), the perfect symmetry of the motionless and static imperial couple is contrasted with the figure of Christ above, who crowns the couple, appearing almost in three-quarter profile. 60. ‘ὅρα μοι καὶ ναῶν ὕψη καὶ κάλη καὶ τὴν ἅπασιν εὐαρμοστίαν καὶ συμμετρίαν ἄλση τε καῖ λειμῶνας καὶ ἀκτὰς καὶ κόλπους, μετὰ κάλλους τὸ ἀσφαλὲς ἔχοντας’, Michael Psellos, ‘Πρὸς τὸν aὐτὸν Βασιλέα’, ed. E. Kurtz, Scripta Minora, vol. I, 27. 61. ‘Ὥσπερ δὴ καὶ τὰ ὄμματα οὐκ ἀνεῴγασι τοῖς βλεφάροις, ἀλλὰ συνέσταλται ἀκριβῶς, οὔτινος αὐτὰ συναρμοσάσης χειρός· αὐτὸς γὰρ ὁ σταυρούμενος Κύριος καὶ ταῦτα κατησφαλίσατο ἐμμελῶς, ὥσπερ δὴ καὶ τὸ στόμα

συνέκλεισε καὶ πάντα ἀκριβῶς ἐπισυνηρμόσατο· τὸ γὰρ προσῆκον ἑαυτῷ σχῆμα διατυπωσάμενος πρότερον, ὅυτω τὸ πνεῦμα ἀφίησι. Τὸ δὲ σχήμα τῆς στάσεως, εἰπεῖν δὲ καὶ τῆς τῶν χειρῶν τάσεως, οὐκ ἀκριβὲς οὐδέ εὔρυθμον, ἀλλ’ἐν τῶ ἀνίσῳ σῷζον μᾶλλον τὸ ἐναργὲς· οὐδὲ γὰρ δι’ὁμαλοῦ ἡ φύσις ἡμῖν τὰ μέλη ἀποτετόρνευκεν, ἀλλὰ καὶ γλουτοῖς καὶ ὤμοις καὶ μύλοις γονάτων γαστρί τε καὶ πλευραῖς διέφθειρε τὴν ἰσότητα, τὰ μὲν εἴσω θεμένη, τὰ δὲ ὀγκώσασα.’ Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (688–694), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae (Leipzig, 1994), 189.

4 The Beauty of Broken Bodies: Pain, Eloquence and Emotion 1. ‘κατὰ ταύτην δὲ παρ’ ἡμῖν ὁ ὡραῖος κάλλει παρὰ τοὺς υἱοὺς τῶν ἀνθρώπων εἰς τὸ τοῦ σταυροῦ ξύλον ἐκρέματο, ὃν καὶ ὡς ῥομφαίαν ἐπὶ τῶν μηρῶν ἑαυτοῦ περιέζωσε τῷ κάλλει ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τῇ ὡραιότητι.’ Michael Psellos, Περὶ τοῦ διὰ τί

εἰσιν οἱ ἄγγελοι πτερωτοὶ καὶ ἐστεμμένοι καὶ ἀνθρωπόμορφοι καὶ σφαῖραν ἐν ταῖς χερσὶ φέροντες καὶ δι’ ἣν αἰτίαν μνήμην αὐτῶν ποιούμεθα τῇ β’ τῆς ἑβδομάδος ἡμέρᾳ, τῇ γ’ δὲ τοῦ Προδρόμου, καὶ καθεξῆς ἄχρι τῆς ζ΄, ed. and tr. K. Snipes, ‘An

2.

3.

4. 5.

Unedited Treatise of Michael Psellos on the Iconography of Angels and on the Religious Festivals Celebrated on Each Day of the Week’, Gonimos, Neoplatonic and Byzantine Studies Presented to Leendert G. Westerlink at 75, ed. J. Duffy and J. Peradotto (Buffalo, 1988), 204 Text in italics is my translation. Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν Σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae (Leipzig, 1994), 116–198. See also P. Gautier, ‘Un Discours Inédit de Michel Psellos sur la Crucifixion’, Revue d’Etudes Byzantines, 49 (1991), 5–66. On the ekphrasis in Byzantium and its role of turning readers into viewers see L. James and R. Webb, ‘To Understand Ultimate Things and Enter Secret Places: Ekphrasis and Art in Byzantium’, Art History, 14 (1991), 1–17. See also on the ekphrasis R. Webb, ‘Accomplishing the Picture; Ekphrasis, Mimesis and Martyrdom in Asterios of Amasia’, Art and Text in Byzantine Culture, ed. L. James (Cambridge, 2007), esp. 15–19. Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν Σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (653–655), ed. E.A. Fisher, 187. See section on the ‘Lament’ in H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium (Princeton, 1981), 91–108.

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6. On the use of the image of the Man of Sorrows in Byzantium and its role as ‘funeral portrait’ in the service of Good Friday see H. Belting, ‘An Image and Its Function in the Liturgy; the Man of Sorrows in Byzantium’, DOP, 34–35 (1980–1981), 1–16. 7. On the icon see R. Cormack, Byzantine Art (Oxford, 2000), 152–153. 8. On the Lament of the Virgin in Byzantium see H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence, ch. 5. 9. T. Mathews, The Art of Byzantium, 124. 10. R. Cormack, Sinai, Byzantium, Russia at the Courtauld (2000), 3. On the concept of ‘Renaissance’ in Byzantium see R. Cormack, Byzantine Art, 129–133. 11. On this theological debate and religious imagery relating to the body of Christ in Byzantine wall painting see Walter’s discussion of the image of ‘The Christ Child on the Altar’ in C. Walter, Pictures as Language and How the Byzantines Exploited Them (London, 2000), 229–242. 12. On this point see R. Cormack, ‘Living Painting’, Rhetoric in Byzantium, ed. E. Jeffreys (Aldershot, 2003), 244. 13. R. Cormack, Sinai, Byzantium, Russia at the Courtauld, 3. 14. On the Byzantine ‘quest’ for the face of Christ, see R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, ch. 3. On the portrait-likeness of Christ see also: G. Dagron, ‘L’image de Culte et le Portrait’, Byzance et les Images, ed. A. Guillou and J. Durand (Paris, 1994), esp. 130–138. 15. The tenderness of the scene is noted as the Virgin presses the side of her face against Christ’s, her embrace allowing her darkly clad figure almost to envelop his body. On this point see I. Kalavrezou, ‘The Maternal Side of the Virgin’, Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, ed. M. Vassilaki (Milan, 2000), 43. 16. The play of gazes also seems to work to this effect; the Virgin, St John the Evangelist and Joseph of Arimathea cast their piercing gaze into the viewer’s space as if to acknowledge his/her presence, ‘force him to enter the picture, assign him a place at once privileged and inescapable’, including him/her among the mourners, as a participant rather than simply an eyewitness to the scene. M. Foucault, ‘Las Meninas’, The Continental Aesthetics Reader, ed. C. Cazeaux (London and New York 2000), 402. 17. Michael Psellos, Chronographia (VI.33–34), tr. (English) E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 172 and 173. On a similar reference to the grave brow of the Emperor Nikephoros see Michael Psellos, Ἱστορία Σύντομος (105), ed. and tr. (English) W.J. Aerts (Berlin, 1990), 101. On furrowed brows and distorted eyebrows as signs of sorrow see Maguire’s analysis of facial expressions denoting grief in H. Maguire, ‘Sorrow in Mid-Byzantine Art’, DOP, 31 (1977), 166–171. 18. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2) tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 237. 19. For issues on the attribution and dating, see M. Alexiou, ‘The Lament of the Virgin in Byzantine Literature and Modern Greek Folk-Song’, BMGS, 1 (1975), 111–140. Staurou suggests that the work was probably not intended for a viewing public but rather to be read and/ or orally delivered, see Th. Staurou, Τα Πάθη του Χριστού: ‘Χριστὸς Πάσχων’ (Athens, 1973). 20. ‘Ὦ φθέγμα γλυκύ, γλυκὺ χάρμα μοι φέρον, ὦ φιλτάτη πρόσοψις, ὦ ποθουμένη ὡραιότης ἄρρητος ὑπὲρ πᾶν γένος, εἰκὼν ἄγραφος ἀγράφου μορφώματος, πῶς

158 Notes

νῦν στυγνάζεις; οὐ φέρω βλέπουσά σε.’ Gregory Nazianzenus (?), Χριστὸς Πάσχων (920–925), ed. and tr. (French) A. Tuilier, La Passion du Christ; Tragedie (Paris, 1969), 200. 21. George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ

ἡ Μήτηρ αὐτοῦ καὶ ἡ ἀδελφὴ τῆς Μητρὸς αὐτοῦ καὶ εἰς τὴν θεόσωμον ταφὴν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησoῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ τῇ ἁγίᾳ καὶ μεγάλῃ Παρασκευῇ, ed. J.P. Migne,

PG 100, cols. 1457–1489. 22. On the manuscripts see H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium, 97. On the popularity of George of Nikomedia’s writings on the Passion see N. Tsironis, ‘Historicity and Poetry in 9th Century Homiletics’, Preacher and Audience: Studies in Early Christian and Byzantine Homiletics, ed. M.B. Cunningham and P. Allen (Leiden, Boston and Kollz, 1998), 296. Se also D.I. Pallas, ‘Di Passion und Bestatung Christi in Byzanz: der Ritus, das Bild’, Miscellanea Byzantina Monacensia, 2 (1965), 30. On the readings for Easter see A. Dmitrievskij, Opisanie Liturgiceskich Rukopisej, Charanjastichcja u Bibliotekach Prauoslaunago Uostoka, I (Kiev, 1895), 550–554, esp. 550 for the reference to George of Nikomedia. 23. ‘ἀλλ’οὐχ ὡς τὸ πρότερον· οὐχ οὕτως ὥστε σε περιπτύσσεσθαι· ὥστε σου τῆς

γλυκείας διηνεκῶς ἐναπολαύειν θέας· ὥστε σου τοἴς σωματικοῖς ἐνωραΐζεσθαι κάλλεσι’ George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ,

PG 100, col. 1473. 24. ‘ἀκίνητα νῦν καὶ τετραυματισμένα καταφιλῶ μέλη, τοῦ τὰ ἀνιάτρευτα τῆς

φύσεως ἐξιωμένου τραύματα· τοῦ ὑπὲρ τῆς τῶν ἁπάντων μεμωλωπισμενου θεραπείας’ and ‘πῶς τὸ φρικτὸν ὑπενέγκοιμι τοῦτο θέαμα; πῶς τιμίοις αἵμασι προαιμαχθέντα μὲν νῶτα, ἐρυθραινόμενα δὲ νῦν μέλη θεωμένη διαρκέσω; πῶς κατίδω πάλιν φωτοποιοὺς μύσαντας ὀφθαλμούς’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ, PG 100, col. 1488 and 1473,

respectively. 25. ‘Ἀντὶ τῆς ἀπαμφιασθείσης τῶν καταστίκτων λεπρῶν ἀμορφίας, ἐγύμνωσάν σε

τὸ γλυκύτατόν μοι φέγγος· ἐγύμνωσαν τὸν τῆς δικαιοσύνης ἥλιον· ἐγύμνωσαν τὸ ὡραιότατόν μοι ἐγκαλλώπισμα’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ, PG 100, col. 1472. 26. ‘ὁ ταῖς μυριπνόοις εὐχροίας σε περικαλλύνας, ἀκαλλὴς καὶ ἀνείδεος ἀνήρτηται τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῷ· τὸ ἀνόθευτον κάλλος, ἡ ἀναλλοίωτος ὡραιότης, καὶ τῆς τεκούσης διηνεκὴς τερπνότης’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ, PG 100, col. 1472. 27. ‘Γυναῖκες, ὄψιν οὐχ ὁρῶ φαιδρὰν Τέκνου· χροιὰν γὰρ ἠλλάξατο καὶ κάλλος ξένον, δεινὸν θέαμα·’, Gregory Nazianzenus (?), Χριστὸς Πάσχων (869–871), ed. and tr. A. Tuilier, La Passion du Christ, 196. 28. ‘Ἄφωνον νῦν στόμα καὶ χείλη ἐφησυχάζοντα περιπτύσσομαι·’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ, PG 100, col. 1488. 29. ‘Ἀλλ’εἰ καὶ νῦν οὐχ οἷόν τε, τάχιον τοῦτο ἐν τῇ ἀναστάσει κατίδοιμι, ἐν ᾗ τὴν τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἀνάπλασιν εὐαγγελιζόμενος, χαριέστερα τῇ Τεκούσῃ προσδιαλεχθήσῃ’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὸ εἰστήκεισαν δὲ παρὰ τῷ σταυρῷ, PG 100, col. 1488. On this combination of the Lament with the premonition of the Anastasis, also found in texts dating in the early thirteenth century, see, for instance, the writings of Germanios II on this theme: Germanios Archbishop of Constantinople, In Dominici Corporis Sepulchram, ed. J.P. Migne, PG 98, col. 278.

Notes

159

30. The text is copied in a thirteenth-century manuscript (which in fact attributes it to the twelfth-century schoolmaster Nikephoros Bassilakis) as well as in a manuscript of fourteenth-century date. On the manuscript survival of Metaphrastes’s text see H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium, 98–99. 31. ‘καὶ νῦν ἄμορφος κεἴσαι, ὁ ὡραίος παρὰ τοῦς υἱοὺς τῶν ἀνθρώπων, καὶ ἄδοξος κηδεύῃ ἐν γῇ, οὗ τὴν δόξαν διηγοῦνται οἱ οὐρανοί’ Συμεών τοῦ Λογοθέτου καὶ Μεταφραστοῦ, Λόγος εἰς τὸν θρῆνον τῆς Ὑπεραγίας Θεοτόκου ὅτε περιεπλάκει τὸ τίμιον σῶμα τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ed. J.P. Migne, PG 114, col. 209. 32. ‘Ποῖόν σου τῶν μελῶν τοῦ σώματος ἔμεινεν ἀπαθές; Ὦ θεία μοι κορυφὴ ἀκανθας δεδεγμένη, καὶ ταύτας ἐμπήξασα τῇ καρδίᾳ μου! (. . .) Ὦ σιαγόνες δεδεγμέναι ῥαπίσματα! Ὦ στόμα σίμβλον ἕτερον μέλιτος, εἰ καὶ χολῆς ἐγεύσω πικροτάτης (. . .) Ὦ χεῖρες, αἱ τὸν ἄνθρωπον πλαστουργήσασαι, καὶ νῦν προσηλωμέναι μὲν τῷ σταυρῷ’ Συμεών τοῦ Λογοθέτου καὶ Μεταφραστοῦ, Λόγος εἰς τὸν θρῆνον τῆς Ὑπεραγίας Θεοτόκου, PG 114, col. 212, summarized and translated in H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium, 100. 33. For the vague vocabulary used to describe the beauty of Christ see M. Chatzidakis, ‘Ἐκ τῶν Ἐλπίου τοῦ Ρωμαίου’, Ἐπετηρὶς Ἑταιρείας Βυζαντινῶν Σπουδῶν, 14 (1938), 393–414. 34. M. Alexiou, Ritual Lament in the Greek Tradition, 66. On the beauty of the dead Christ see also G. Greer, The Boy (London, 2003), ch. 9. 35. ‘Ὦ γλυκύ μου ἔαρ, γλυκύτατόν μου τέκνον, ποῦ ἔδυ σου τὸ κάλλος;’, Epitaphios Threnos (3.16), translated in M. Alexiou, Ritual Lament in the Greek Tradition, 67. 36. ‘Ὁ ὡραῖος κάλλει παρὰ πάντας βροτοὺς ὡς ἀνείδεος νεκρὸς καταφαίνεται, ὁ τὴν φύσιν ὡραΐσας τοῦ παντός’, Epitaphios Threnos (1.8), translated in M. Alexiou, Ritual Lament in the Greek Tradition, 67. On the emphasis on Christ’s death as life-giving ‘sleep’, which awakes mankind from the slumber of sin see Epitaphios Threnos (2.4) translated in M. Alexiou, ‘The Lament of the Virgin in Byzantine Literature’, 120. For Alexiou’s reading of continuity in vocabulary used to lament the dead Christ in Byzantine writing, and also in the tradition of antique laments over young gods and heroes see M. Alexiou, Ritual Lament in the Greek Tradition (London, 1974), ch. 4. 37. Διδασκαλία (8), ed. and tr. (English), A.C. Mahr, The Cyprus Passion Cycle (Indiana, 1947). See also M. Ploritis, Το Θέατρο στο Βυζάντιο (Athens, 1999), esp. 196–197. 38. On ways in which art can go beyond writing saying pictorially what may not be said with words see Robin Cormack’s analysis of the ‘Ascension’ scene from the Hermitage of St Neophytos, Paphos in R. Cormack, Writing in Gold, ch. 6. 39. T. Mathews, The Art of Byzantium: Between Antiquity and the Renaissance (London, 1998), 124. 40. M. Bal, Reading Rembrandt: Beyond the Word–Image Opposition, the Northrop Frye Lectures in Literary Theory (Cambridge and New York, 1991), 375. On art ‘aestheticizing’ death see E. Bronfen, ‘Over Her Dead Body’: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic (New York, 1992). 41. Psellos’s ekphrasis attempts to turn listeners, through the eyes of the imagination, into viewers of the scene described. See Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (676), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 188.

160 Notes 42. ‘τοιοῦτον μέν σοι τὸ δεσποτικὸν σῶμα οὕτως ἀκριβές, οὕτως ἐναργές, οὕτως ἒμψυχον καὶ νεκρόν, ὡς μὴ αὐτὸ πρὸς παράδειγμα ἀναφέρεσθαι’, Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (751–754), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 192. 43. George of Nikomedia’s passage on the Anastasis speaks of the risen, and thus spiritual and bodiless Christ in terms that emphasize his beauty, referring to Christ as irremovable ornament, as sweet light, more than desirable sight, and as permanent and un-ruinable beauty. In this case Christ’s beauty is spoken of as an abstract, spiritual quality, as the beauty of the spiritual sun that is approachable through spiritual eyes: ‘Ὥ πόσα μετὰ τῆς ἀνεκλαλήτου σου ὡραιότητος διάνοια περιωδίνειν ὀνόματα βούλεται.’, ‘Εἴδοιμεν νοητῶς νοητοῦ ἡλίου ὑπερωραῖα κάλλη’, George of Nikomedia, Λόγος εἰς τὴν τῆς Ἀχράντου Θεοτόκου ἐν τῷ τάφῳ παρεδρείαν, PG 100, col. 1504. 44. ‘Ποῦ σοι τὸ κάλλος τοῦ προσώπου, παρθένε; Ἡ μὲν κεφαλὴ τῷ λίθῳ συνεθρύβη, μελαίνεται δὲ τῇ ῥοῇ τῶν αἱμάτων τὸ κάλλος, ἡ πρόσοψις, ἡ σεμνὴ πλάσις, ἡ δὲ βρότειος ἰδέα παρηλλάγη’, Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (I.247–251), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 76. 45. ‘Ὤμοι Ῥοδάνθη, ποῦ τὸ τῆς ἥβης ἔαρ, ἡ κυπάριττος τῆς καλῆς ἡλικίας, τὸ τῆς παρειᾶς καὶ τὸ τοῦ χείλους ῥόδον, ὁ τῶν πλοκάμων κιττός (ἡ ξένη χάρις), ὁ τὴν κορυφὴν ὡς πλατάνιστον πλέκων; Ποῦ σοι τὰ κρίνα τῶν καλῶν φιλημάτων, τοῦ σώματος τὰ μύρτα, σαρκὸς ἡ χλόη, τὸ τῶν βλεφάρων ἄνθος; Ὤμοι, παρθένε, μαραίνεται τὸ μῆλον, ἡ ῥοιὰ φθίνει, φυλλορροεῖ τὰ δένδρα, πίπτει τὰ κρίνα· (. . .) Ὤμοι, τὸ σὸν δὲ σῶμα δεῖπνος ἰχθύων, ἡ σὴ δὲ σὰρξ τράπεζα τῶν ἐναλίων.’ Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (VI. 291–306), ed. and tr. F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 212. 46. For Psellos’s text see Michael Psellos, Εἰς τὴν θυγατέρα Στυλιανὴν πρὸ ὥρας γάμου τελευτήσασαν, ed. K. Sathas, Bibliotheca Graeca Medii Aevi, vol. V (Paris, 1876), 62–87. See also L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art, 83. 47. ‘κατ’ἀρχὰς μὲν πυρέττειν παρασκευάζει τὸν νοσήσαντα, ἔπειτα καθ’ ὅλης της σωματικῆς ἐπιφανείας βοτρηδὸν διαχεθεῖσα καὶ εἰς πομφόλυγγας ἐξογκωθεῖσα, καὶ τὰς ἁρμονίας τοῦ παντὸς διαλύσασα σώματος, ἄμορφον μὲν καὶ ἐιδεχθὲς τὸ πρὶν ἀποδείκνυσι κάλλος τῆς σαρκός, ὡς ἀπό τῆς τῶν τραυμάτων πληθύος ἐξοιδηθείσης καὶ διαφυσηθείσης, καὶ δέος καὶ αὐτοῖς τοῖς ὁρῶσιν ἐμποιούσης.

Ἔκειτο οὖν ἡ παῖς τραύμασι πυκνοτάτοις πανταχόθεν πιεζομένη καὶ τοσούτοις καὶ τηλικούτοις ὅσοις οὐδὲ ἀριθμεῖν τις ἐξισχύσειε· περὶ γᾶρ ὤτων πόρους καὶ ἀναπνοὰς μυκτήρων, καὶ στόματος ὑπερώαν, καὶ αὐτὸν λαιμὸν ἐκφῦντα, πόσην εἰκὸς παρέχειν τῇ ὀδυνωμένῃ τὴν αἴσθησιν’, Michael Psellos, Εἰς τὴν θυγατέρα Στυλιανὴν πρὸ ὥρας γάμου τελευτήσασαν (14–20), ed. K. Sathas, Bibliotheca

Graeca Medii Aevi, vol. V, 77–78. 48. On the antithesis in Byzantine literature see H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium, ch. 3. 49. On the Byzantine Threnos over the body of the deceased see P. Koukoules, Βυζαντινών Βίος και Πολιτισμός, vol. IV (Athens, 1951). On the use of professional mourners in Byzantium see C. Walter, ‘Death in Byzantine Iconography’, Eastern Churches Review, 8 (1976), 23. See also reference to the practice of aspasmos within the funerary service in E. Velkovska, ‘Funeral Rights according to the Byzantine Liturgical Sources’, DOP, 55 (2001), 21–51. 50. See J. Kyriakakis, ‘Byzantine Burial Customs; Care of the Deceased from Death to Prothesis’, The Greek Orthodox Theological Review, 19, n. 1 (1974), 37–72.

Notes

161

51. ‘κατακλιθεῖσα ἔφριττε τὸ σῶμα καὶ ἐκλονεῖτο ἐξαισια, πυρετοί τε αὐτὴν μετεδὲχοντο καὶ ὁπωπιασμὸς ἤδη καὶ τηκεδὼν ἐπηκολούθει. καὶ τὸ τῆς ὄψεως ἄνθος χαριέν τι μαρμαῖρον τὰ πρότερα ἠλλοιοῦτο κατὰ βραχύ καὶ εστυγνοῦτο. ἰδὼν ἄν τις δακρύων ἐκπλήσθη τηλικούτου λειμῶνος ἔξωρα φθίνοντος.’ John Kinnamos, Epitome, ed. A. Meineke, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn, 1839), 209. Other references in the Epitome of responses to beauty ruined by calamity include the handsome son of sebastocrator Andronikos who lost an eye in a joust and was compensated by Emperor Manuel by being given the title of protosebastos, and the handsome Manuel, son of John Kantakouzenos, who is blinded against the emperor’s wishes, causing the emperor’s anger against the wrongdoers. 52. H. Maguire, Art and Eloquence, 32. 53. Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.2) ed. J.A. van Dieten, 332–333, translated in H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 183. 54. ‘Εἰκόνων ἐγὼ θεατὴς ἀκριβέστατος, ἀλλά με μία κάλλει ἀφάτῳ ἐκπλήξασα

καὶ οἷον ἀστραπῆς βολῆ τὰς αἰσθήσεις πληρώσασα ἀφείλετό μου τὴν περὶ τὸ πρᾶγμα δύναμίν τε καὶ σύνεσιν. εἶχε δὲ παράδειγμα αὕτη τὴν θεομήτορα καὶ πρὸς ἐκείνην ἐγέγραπτο’, Michael Psellos (194), ed. E. Kurtz, Scripta Minora,

vol. II (Milan, 1941–1945), 220, translated in A. Cutler and R. Browning, ‘In the Margins of Byzantium? Some Icons in Michael Psellos’, BMGS, 16 (1992), 27. 55. C. Barber, ‘Living Painting, or the Limits of Pointing? Glancing at Icons with Michael Psellos’, Reading Michael Psellos, ed. C. Barber and D. Jenkins (Leiden, 2006), 118–119. 56. C. Barber, ‘Living Painting, or the Limits of Pointing? Glancing at Icons with Michael Psellos’, 120. 57. ‘Γράφω γοῦν οὐχ ὅπερ τεθέαμαι, ἀλλ’ ὅ πέπονθα. ἔοικε γὰρ μεταβεβλημένη τὴν

φύσιν παντάπασι καὶ πρὸς τὸ θεοειδὲς μεταμορφωθῆναι κάλλος καὶ τὴν ἐκ τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν αἴσθησιν ὑπερβαίνουσα’, Michael Psellos (194), ed. E. Kurtz, Scripta

Minora, vol. II, 220 and 221, respectively. 58. ‘Οὐδέ εἰκόνας; καὶ διὰ τί, ὁ θειότατος τῷ ὄντι δεσπότης μου; ἐγὼ δε καὶ ἱεροσυλῶ ταύτας (. . .) καὶ κέκλοφά γε πολλάς ἀπὸ τῶν ἀδύτων (. . .). προστέτηκα δὲ μᾶλλον ταῖς ἀμυδραῖς ταύταις γραφαῖς, ὅτι τὴν τέχνην τοῦ γραφέως ἐξεικονίζουσι. Καὶ μοι συνῆκται τοιαῦτα σανίδια, πλείω ἄχρυσα καὶ ἀνάργυρα . . . .’ Michael Psellos (129), ed. E. Kurtz, Scripta Minora, vol. II, 152, tr. A. Cutler and R. Browning, ‘In the Margins of Byzantium?’, 28. 59. A. Cutler and R. Browning, ‘In the Margins of Byzantium?’, 28. 60. R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 23. On the icon as ‘window to heaven’ and the notion that a beautiful icon affords a clearer ‘view’ into the divine, see P.R. Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York, 1988), 207–221. 61. C. Barber, ‘Living Painting, or the Limits of Pointing? Glancing at Icons with Michael Psellos’, 119. 62. ‘Ἀλλ΄ ὥσπερ τὸ κάλλος ἐξ ἀντιλογίας μέν ἐστι καὶ εὐαρμοστίας μελῶν και μερῶν, πολλάκις δὲ καὶ ἡ ἐκ μὴ οὕτω δοκούντων ἔχειν ὑπερφυῶς ἀπολάμπει, οὕτω δὴ κἀνταῦθα.’ Michael Psellos, Λόγος εἰς τὴν σταύρωσιν τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (859–862), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 196–197, translated in H. Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art (Chicago and London, 1994), 529.

162 Notes 63. R. Browning, History, Language and Literacy in the Byzantine World (Northampton, 1989), 120. 64. Psellos notes that: ‘τῷ μὲν γὰρ ῥυθμῷ καὶ τῷ κάλλει τῆς λέξεως τὸν ἐλλόγιμον ἀκροατὴν ἐφειλκύσατο’, Michael Psellos, ncomium on Symeon Metaphrastes (260–262), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 281. 65. S. Papaioannou, ‘Animate Statues: Aesthetics and Movement’, Reading Michael Psellos, ed. C. Barber and D. Jenkins (Leiden and Boston, 2006), 109. 66. Ibid. 67. R. Cormack, Sinai, Byzantium, Russia at the Courtauld, 3. 68. On parallels between the martyrdom of St George and the Passion of Christ in Byzantine church schemes see H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 186–193. 69. On the church of St George in Kalamas, Rethymnon see I. Spatharakis, Βυζαντινές Τοιχογραφίες του Νομού Ρεθύμνου (Rethymnon, 1999), 52–53. On the church of the Omorfoklissia see also A. Vassilaki-Karakatsani, Οι Τοιχογραφίες της Όμορφης Εκκλησίας στην Αθήνα (Athens, 1971). 70. R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 160.

5

Angels and Eunuchs: The Beauty of Liminal Masculinity

1. On the figure of the archangel Michael in Byzantine coinage, see M.F. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire 1081–1261 (Washington, DC, 1969), 436. 2. On this point see H. Maguire, ed., ‘The Heavenly Court’, Byzantine Court Culture from 829–1204 (Washington, DC, 1997), 252. 3. For Maguire’s suggestion of a link between such texts and representations of the annunciation angel in religious imagery see H. Maguire, ‘The SelfConscious Angel: Character Study in Byzantine Painting of the Annunciation’, ‘Okeanos’; Essays Presented to Ihor Ševčenko on His 60th Birthday by His Colleagues and Students, ed. C. Mango and O. Pritsak (Cambridge, MA, 1983), 377–386. 4. On Christopher of Mytilene’s story and its context see A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Berkeley, 1985),96. 5. Michael Psellos, Περὶ τοῦ διὰ τί εἰσιν οἱ ἄγγελοι πτερωτοὶ καὶ ἐστεμμένοι καὶ ἀνθρωπόμορφοι καὶ σφαῖραν ἐν ταῖς χερσὶ φέροντες καὶ δι’ ἣν αἰτίαν μνήμην αὐτῶν ποιούμεθα τῇ β’ τῆς ἑβδομάδος ἡμέρᾳ, τῇ γ’ δὲ τοῦ Προδρόμου, καὶ καθεξῆς ἄχρι τῆς ζ΄, ed. and tr. K. Snipes, ‘An Unedited Treatise of Michael Psellos on the Iconography of Angels and on the Religious Festivals Celebrated on Each Day of the Week’, Gonimos, Neoplatonic and Byzantine Studies Presented to Leendert G. Westerlink at 75, ed. J. Duffy and J. Peradotto (Buffalo, 1988), 185–205. 6. Michael Psellos, Περὶ τοῦ διὰ τί εἰσιν οἱ ἄγγελοι πτερωτοὶ, ed. and tr. K. Snipes, ‘An Unedited Treatise of Michael Psellos’, 201, 7. ‘Φὦς, πνεῦμα, καὶ πῦρ, οἴδαμεν τοὺς ἀγγέλους/ Παντὸς πάχους τε καὶ πάθους ὑπερτέρους·/ Ἀλλ’ ὁ στρατηγὸς τῶν ἀΰλων ταγμάτων./ Ὤ πίστις, οἶα θαυματουργεῖν ἰσχύεις;/ Ὥς ῥᾷστα μορφοῖς τὴν ἀμόρφωτον φύσιν;/ Πλὴν ἡ Γραφὴ δείκνυσι τὸν γεγραμμένον/ Οὐχ ὡς πέφυκεν, ὡς δ’ ἔδοξε πολλάκις’, John Mauropous, Versus Iambici, ed. G.P. Migne, PG 120, col. 1139, translated

Notes

8.

9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

163

in G. Peers, Subtle Bodies; Representing Angels in Byzantium (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London, 2001), 202. On the Byzantine perception of icons as marking the ‘true presence’ of saints, as deceased members of the Christian community, see R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 73. On the notions of likeness in the holy portrait see G. Dagron, ‘Holy Images and Likeness’, DOP, 45 (1991), 32–33. On the icon as portrait of the saint see also R. Cormack, Icons (London, 2007), ch.4. Michael Psellos, Eἰς τὰ θαύματα τοῦ ἀρχιστρατήγου Μιχαήλ, ed. E.Α. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae (Leipzig, 1994), 231–256. G. Dagron, ‘Holy Images and Likeness’, DOP, 45 (1991), 31. For Maguire’s analysis on ‘Corporeality and Immateriality’ see H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, ch. 2. H. Maguire, ‘Style and Ideology in Byzantine Imperial Art’, Gesta, 28.2 (1989), 223. On Maguire’s suggestion that such visual indications may be intended to tell the viewer whether a scene is taking place on earth or in heaven see also H. Maguire, ‘A Murderer among the Angels: The Frontispiece Miniatures of Paris Gr. 510 and the Iconography of the Archangels in Byzantine Art’, The Sacred Image, East and West, ed. R. Ousterhout and N. Brubaker (Urbana and Chicago, 1995), 66. (I.Cor.15.40), translated in H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 70. Theodore Studite, ed. J.P. Migne, PG 99, col. 313A, translated in H. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 70. For the dating of the Evangelistria see N.K. Moutsopoulos, G. Demetrokalis, Γεράκι, Οι Εκκλησίες του Οικισμού (Thessaloniki, 1981), 135–136. ‘ἐωράκει οὖν, ὠς ὀ τοῦ θείου ναοῦ οπισθόδομος πολλῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐπεπλήρωτο

καὶ τὴν στολὴν λαμπροτάτων καὶ τὸ εἶδος θαυμασιωτάτων. εἷς δέ τις τούτων ἐξῆρχε, τὰ πάντα (ἵνα συντελὼν εἴπω) οἷος οὐκ ἄλλος· ἐξῄρηται γὰρ συμπάντων καὶ κεφαλὴν καὶ στῆθος καὶ τὸ σύμπαν τοῦ σώματος κατήστραπτο δὲ καὶ ἀκτῖσιν ἀῤῥήτοις καὶ ἀπεικόνιστό πως πρὸς τὴν θείαν τοῦ ἀρχαγγέλου ἐμφέρειαν, ἥν ἡ τῆς εἰκόνος αὐτοῦ γραφὴ παριστᾷ.’ Michael Psellos, Eἰς τὰ θαύματα τοῦ ἀρχιστρατήγου Μιχαήλ (560–568), ed. E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 253.

17. Michael Psellos, Chronographia (I.3, I.11), ed. and tr. D. Del Corno, S. Impellizzeri et al., vol. I, 10, translated in E.R.A. Sewter, Fourteen Byzantine Rulers, 28. Kinnamos’s Epitome equally presents numerous references to the great build of noteworthy men as their distinguishing mark: John Kantakouzenos was challenged in battle by an enemy who recognized him by his armour and ‘by the height and shapeliness of his body’, while the brave Bacchinos who faced emperor Manuel Komnenos in combat ‘excelled in bravery and possessed an immense frame’. ‘οἱ δὲ ἐκ τῆς ὁπλίσεως αὐτὸν κατανοήσαντες (χρυσῷ γὰρ κατακόρως ἀλήλιπτο πάσα) καὶ τῆς τοῦ σὼματος δὲ ἀναδρομῆς’ and ‘ἀνδρείᾳ τε διαφέροντα καὶ σώματι μεγάλῳ ἐς ἄγαν κεχρημένον’, John Kinnamos, Επιτομή (III.9), ed. A. Meineke, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn, 1839), 109–110 and 111, respectively, translated in C.M. Brand, Deeds of John and Manuel Komnenos, 88 and 89. 18. On Bohemond see Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XIII.10.4), tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 422. 19. ‘ἐθαύμασε τό τε εἶδος τοῦ ἀνδρός καὶ τὸ μέγεθος καὶ γάρ ἦν ὄντως ἄξιον τυραννίδος’, Nikephoros Bryennios, Yli Historias (IV.15), ed. and tr. (French) P. Gautier (Brussels, 1975), 281.

164 Notes 20. Mouriki acknowledges that this last attribution is precarious as only the ‘Γι’ of the angel’s name survives. For the identification of the other figures see D. Mouriki, ‘Ο Ζωγραφικός Διάκοσμος του Τρούλλου του Αγίου Ιεροθέου κοντά στα Μέγαρα’, Αρχαιολογικά Ανάλεκτα, 11 (1978), n. 1, 115–142. 21. On the question of dating for the text of the Timarion see M. Mullett, Theophylact of Ochrid: Reading the Letters of a Byzantine Archbishop (Aldershot, 1997), R. Beaton, ‘Cappadocians at Court: Digenes and Timarion’, Alexios I Komnenos, ed. M. Mullett and D. Smythe (Belfast, 1996), 329–338 and Timarion, tr. (English) B. Baldwin (Detroit, 1984). 22. ‘Παρίστατο δέ τις αὐτῷ λευκενδύτης, ἀπώγων, ἐοικὼς τοῖς περὶ τὰς βασιλίσσας τομίαις, λαμπρὸς μάλα κἀκεῖνος καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον ἀποστίλβων δίκην ἡλίου· καὶ συχνὰ παρὰ τὸ οὖς ὑπεψιθύριζε τῷ βασιλεῖ.’ Τιμαρίων ἤ περὶ τῶν κατ’ αὐτὸν παθημάτων (33.734–736), ed. and tr. (Italian), R. Romano, La Satira Bizantina dei Secoli XI–XV (Turin, 1999), 154. 23. ‘Ἀγνοεῖς, ὦ κάλλιστε Τιμαρίων, ὡς εκάστω τῶν Χριστιανῶν βασιλέων ἄγγελος δέδοται τὰ ποιητέα τοῦτῳ ὑποτιθέμενος; Ἕπεται δὲ κἀνταῦθα τούτῶ, καθώς αὐτῷ καὶ παρὰ τὸν βίον συνείπετο.’Τιμαρίων (33.740–743), ed. and tr. R. Romano, La Satira Bizantina, 154. 24. ‘Ὁ δὲ παῖς ἦν ὡσεὶ χρόνων δεκατεσσάρων. Καθεζομένου οὖν τοῦ παιδὸς ἐφάνη αὐτῷ εὐνοῦχος λαμπράν ἐσθῆτα ἠμφιεσμένος, ὡραῖος τῷ εἴδει ὡς δῆθεν ἐκ τοῦ παλατίου πεμφθεὶς καὶ λέγει τῷ παιδαρίῳ’, Διήγησις περὶ τῆς Ἁγίας Σοφίας (10), ed. T. Preger, Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum (Leipzig, 1901), 86. 25. ‘Ὁ δὲ βασιλεὺς ἀκούσας τὰ ῥήματα τοῦ παιδὸς προςεκαλέσατο πάντας τοὺς εὐνούχους καὶ ὑπεδείκνυεν ἕνα ἕκαστον αὐτῶν τῷ παιδαρίῳ λέγων· “μήτι οὗτός ἐστιν;” Ὁ δὲ παῖς βοήσας μήτινα εἶναι ἐξ αὐτῶν τῆς θεωρίας ἐκείνου τοῦ εὐνούχου ὅν ἐν τῷ ναῷ ἐθεάσατο-ἔγνω τότε ὁ βασιλεύς, ὅτι ἄγγελος κυρίου ἐστὶν καὶ τὸ ῥῆμα γνώριμόν ἐστιν καὶ ὁ ὅρκος αὐτοῦ· εἰπόντος δὲ τοῦ παιδός,

ὅτι λευκοφόρος ἐτύγχανε καὶ αἱ παρειαὶ αὐτοῦ πῦρ ἀπέπεμπον καὶ ἐνηλλαγμένη ἦν ἡ πρόσοψις αὐτοῦ, μεγάλως ἐδόξασε τὸν θεὸν ο βασιλεὺς’, Διήγησις περὶ τῆς Ἁγίας Σοφίας, ed. T. Preger, Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum,

87. 26. On the dating of the Life and the manuscript tradition, which indicates, for instance, that the Life was copied in eleventh- and twelfth-century manuscripts (today in the Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, Rome Cod. Vat. Gr. 1574 and Cod. Vat. Gr. 2010, respectively) see The Life of St Andrew the Fool, ed. and tr. (English) L. Rydén (Uppsala, 1995), vol. I, 82–105. 27. ‘ὁρᾷ νεανίαν εὐειδῆ, τῷ μήκει θαυμαστόν, καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ αὐγάζον ὑπὲρ τὸν ἥλιον, ἠμφιεσμένον στολήν θεοπρεπῆ. (. . .) τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ, καὶ ποτὲ μὲν ὑπῆρχεν ὡσεὶ χιών, ποτὲ δὲ ὡς πῦρ ἐξαστράπτον εἶχε δὲ ἀποκεκαλυμμένον τὸν

βραχίονα αὐτοῦ τὸν δεξιὸν καὶ ἵστατο ἐν τῇ ἀρούλῃ ἀσχολούμενος ξανθόκομος τὴν κεφαλήν, ὡς εἶδος χρυσίου τὰς τρίχας κεκτημένος.’ Βίος καὶ πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Ἀνδρέου τοῦ διὰ τὸν Χριστὸν σαλοῦ (15.963–969), ed. and

tr. L. Rydén, Life of St. Andrew the Fool, vol. II, 76. 28. ‘ἔρχεταί τις νεανίας ευνοῦχος, μεγιστάνου τινὸς τυγχάνων κουβικουλάριος. Ἦν δὲ τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ ὡς τὸ ῥόδον, καὶ λευκὸς τῷ σώματι ὡσεὶ χιών, εὐειδής, ἐπίξανθος’, Βίος καὶ πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Ἀνδρέου τοῦ διὰ τὸν Χριστὸν σαλοῦ (17.1034–1037), ed. and tr. L. Rydén, Life of St. Andrew the Fool, vol. II, 80, 82.

Notes

165

29. Gautier dates Theophylact’s text during the years of his Episcopal office and before the death of Demetrios, for whom the discourse was composed. See Theophylact of Ochrid, Apologie de l’eunuchisme, ed. and tr. P. Gautier, Theophylacte d’Achrida, Discours, Traites, Poesies (Thessaloniki, 1980), 115–117, on the issue of dating, and 288–331 for the text. 30. E.V. Maltese, Dimensioni Byzantine; Donne, Angeli e Demoni nel Medioevo Greco (Turin, 1993), 85. 31. For this remark see S. Avernicev, L’Anima e lo Specchio; L’Universo della Poetica Bizantina (Bologna, 1988), 51. See also H. Maguire, ‘A Murderer among the Angels’, The Sacred Image, East and West, 63–71 for the suggestion that the imperial dress of angels draws parallels between imperial and heavenly courts. For Mango’s reading, which regards the imperial archangel as a sign of Byzantine conservatism and the survival of a pagan motif, C. Mango, ‘St Michael and Attis’, Δελτίο της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 12 (1984), 39–62. 32. E.V. Maltese, Dimensioni Byzantine; Donne, Angeli e Demoni nel Medioevo Greco (Turin, 1993). 33. ‘L’asessualita angelica, recepta e transmessa dall’ iconographia, in cui l’angelo ha I connotati di un giovane effeminato o di un adolescente impubere.’ E.V. Maltese, Dimensioni Byzantine, 81–82. 34. On the enamel icon see R. Cormack and M. Vassilaki, ed., Byzantium 330–1453 (London, 2008), 117, 395. 35. C. Galatariotou, ‘Holy Women and Witches: Aspects of Byzantine Conceptions of Gender’, BMGS, 9 (1985), 76. 36. K. Ringrose, ‘Living in the Shadows: Eunuchs and Gender in Byzantium’, Third Sex, Third Gender, ed. G. Herdt (New York, 1994), 91. The eunuch’s beardlessness was seen as characteristic of their sexual status; for such distinctions between ‘bearded’ and ‘beardless’/eunuch officials within the imperial court see S.F. Tougher, ‘Byzantine Eunuchs; an Overview, with Special Reference to Their Creation and Origin’, Women, Men and Eunuchs: Gender in Byzantium, ed. L. James (London and New York, 1997), 171–172. On the question of the eunuchs’ gender and the official theological views (such as those voiced by Theophylact of Ohrid), which were adamant on the eunuchs’ masculinity, see K. Ringrose, ‘Living in the Shadows: Eunuchs and Gender in Byzantium’, 85–109, esp. 102–109. 37. E. Piltz, ‘Middle Byzantine Court Costume’, Byzantine Court Culture from 829–1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington, DC, 1997), 39. 38. For this story quoted by Zonaras in his Epitome Historion (XV.1), see S.F. Tougher, ‘Byzantine Eunuchs; an Overview’, 176. 39. ‘ἐφίσταται δὲ νυκτὸς ἐνὶ τῶν συγγενῶς ἐχόντων τῷ πεπονθότι ἔφιππός τις ὀφθείς τὸ εἶδος ἀστράπτων, τὸ κάλλος ἀμήχανος’, Michael Psellos, Eἰς τὰ θαύματα τοῦ ἀρχιστρατήγου Μιχαήλ (420–422), E.A. Fisher, Orationes Hagiographicae, 248. 40. ‘κύκλῳ δὲ αὐτοῦ εἰστήκεισαν μελῳδισταὶ, ὡραῖοι, εὐμεγέθεις, καὶ λευκοὶ ὥσπερ φῶς’, Life of St Andrew the Fool (10.611–612), ed. and tr. L. Rydén, vol. II, 54. 41. On the icon and the question of whether it is a Kievan Rus’ or Byzantine work see O.Z. Pevny, ‘The Archangel with the Golden Hair’, The Glory of Byzantium, Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261, ed. H.C. Evans and W.D. Wixom (New York, 1997), 298–299.

166 Notes 42. See Ringrose’s paper presented at the 2006 SPBS Congress of Byzantine Studies in London: K. Ringrose, ‘Perceiving Byzantine Eunuchs through Modern Medicine’, http://www.byzantinecongress.org.uk/paper/I/I.8_Ringrose.pdf, 14. 43. K. Ringrose, ‘Perceiving Byzantine Eunuchs through Modern Medicine’, 14 and 15, respectively. 44. K. Ringrose, ‘Perceiving Byzantine Eunuchs through Modern Medicine’, 14. 45. Νεοφύτου πρεσβυτέρου Μοναχοῦ καὶ Ἐγκλείστου, Περὶ τοῦ Πατριάρχου Ἀβραὰμ καὶ περὶ τῆς πρὸς αὐτὸν θεοφανείας, ἐν τῇ δρυῇ τῇ μαβρῇ, περὶ τε τοῦ Λὼτ, καὶ τῆς καταστροφῆς τῶν Σοδόμων, ed. I. Chatziioannou, Ἱστορία καὶ Ἐργα Νεοφύτου Πρεσβυτέρου Μοναχοῦ και Εγκλείστου (Alexandria, 1914), 216–227. 46. ‘Καὶ εἰσελθοῦσαι εἰς τὸ μνημεῖον εἶδον νεανίσκον καθήμενον ἐν τοῖς δεξιοῖς, περιβεβλημένον στολήν λευκήν, καὶ ἐξεθαμβήθησαν’ (Mark, 19.1–8). The reference to the angel as neaniskos reflects a long-standing tradition that describes the angel as both male and young, found as much in the Gospels as in the Old Testament and the early saints’ Lives. Daniel’s description of Gabriel speaks of him as ‘a man clothed in linen, whose loins were girded with the gold of Uphaz’, while in the fifth-century Life of St Onouphrios a group of boys ‘cheerful and most handsome’ were mistaken for angels as ‘they were so distinguished in splendor that I thought they were angels and had descended from Heaven’. See (Daniel, 10.5) tr. C. Grieschen, Angelomorphic Christology, Antecedents and Early Evidence (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 1998), 132 and Acta Sanctorum, June, vol. II, 526D, tr. G. Peers, Representing Angels; Cult and Theology in Byzantine Art (Ann Arbor, 1995), 272. On the Life of St Onouphrios see De S. Onuphrio anachoreta in Aegypto, Acta Sanctorum, June, vol. II, 519–533, esp. 526. 47. On the authorship of the Lexicon see I. Gregoriades, ‘Tracing the Hand of Zonaras in the Lexicon Tittmannianum’, Ελληνικά, 46 (1996), 27–50. 48. On youthening in ancient Athens see A. Stewart, Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece (Cambridge, 1997), 75–85. 49. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 109. 50. A. Stewart, Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece, 80. 51. On St Sergios as primicerius of the schola gentilium, see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), 146. 52. Cecily Hennessey has looked into Byzantine life expectancy and suggests that Byzantine society was populated by ‘the young’, with a significant percent of young people and children in the overall population. On this point see C. Hennessey, Images of Children in Byzantium (Aldershot, 2008), 26–27. 53. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.2), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 296. 54. On the ‘eternal springtime’ exemplified by young males of the Parthenon frieze see A. Stewart, Art, Desire and the Body in Ancient Greece, 75–85. On the particular kind of beauty as standing apart from the pollution of the world see also K. Ringrose, ‘Perceiving Byzantine Eunuchs through Modern Medicine’, http://www.byzantinecongress.org.uk/paper/I/I.8_Ringrose.pdf, 15. 55. K. Ringrose, ‘Perceiving Byzantine Eunuchs through Modern Medicine’, http://www.byzantinecongress.org.uk/paper/I/I.8_Ringrose.pdf, 22. 56. K. Weitzmann, ‘Illustrations to the Lives of the Five Martyrs of Sebaste’, DOP, 33 (1979), 95–112. 57. On the mechanics of ritual-centred viewing and the working of the space of religious ritual as a liminal site in which the worlds of the divine and the earthly seem to intrude upon one another, see Elsner’s analysis of ‘Visuality

Notes

58.

59.

60.

61.

62. 63. 64.

65.

66.

67.

68.

167

and the Sacred’ in J. Elsner, ‘Between Mimesis and Divine Power; Visuality in the Greco-Roman World’, Seeing As Others Saw; Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance, 60–63. This positioning of the hands, for instance, is identified as a gesture of prayer in the twelfth-century narthex mosaic from the Monastery of Daphni, depicting St Anne similarly posed in a scene marked by an overhead inscription in black lettering as The Prayer of St Anne. On this scene see N. Chatzidaki, Βυζαντινά Ψηφιδωτά (Athens, 1994), 114, 241. On the Hodegetria see C. Angelidi and T. Papamastorakis, ‘The Veneration of the Virgin Hodegetria and the Hodegon Monastery’, Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, ed. M. Vassilaki (Milan, 2000), 373–387 and G. Babić, ‘Les Images Byzantines et Leurs Degrés de Signification: l’Exemple de l’Hodigitria’, Byzance et les Images, ed. A. Guillou and J. Durand (Paris, 1994), 189–222. On other means of achieving a sense of presence through the manipulation of the gaze of a painted figure, such as the use of shading to emphasize the eyes, see R. Cormack, ‘The Wall-Painting of St Michael in the Theatre’, Aphrodisias Papers 2; The Theater; a Sculptor’s Workshop, Philosophers and Coin Types, ed. R.R.R. Smith (Ann Arbor, 1991), 122. Contemporary to the Evangelistria scene, the manuscript illustration from the so-called ‘Imperial’ Menologion (State Historical Museum, Moscow) depicting the Martyrdom of Saint Alexios the Man of God (fol. 211r) similarly presents a youthful figure that attracts the viewer’s gaze and points to the scene. The dead saint, presented lying before Emperor Honorius, is flanked by his white-bearded, grief-stricken father, a censing priest, and an elaborately clad youth depicted with curly locks of hair, elegant features and pink cheeks who gazes at the viewer and points to the scene. On the manuscript see N. Patterson Ševčenko, ‘Imperial Menologion’, The Glory of Byzantium, Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261, 101–102. G. Peers, Subtle Bodies; Representing Angels in Byzantium, 198. R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 26–27. On the extramission theory see R. Nelson, ‘To Say and to See: Ekphrasis and Vision in Byzantium’, Seeing as Others Saw; Visuality Before and Beyond the Renaissance, 143–168. B. Caseau, ‘Christian Bodies: the Senses and Early Byzantine Christianity’, Desire and Denial in Byzantium, ed. L. James (Aldershot, 1999), 101–109, esp. 106. On the different responses in Digenis and Kekaumenos with regard to the senses and sensuality, see C. Galatariotou, ‘Open Space/Closed Space: The Perceived Worlds of Kekaumenos and Digenes Akrites’, Alexios I Komnenos, 303–328. Manuel Philes (XLVIII), ed. E. Miller, Manuelis Philae Carmina ex Codicibus Escurialensis, Florentinis, Parisinis et Vaticanis, vol. II, 415, translated in G. Peers, Subtle Bodies; Representing Angels in Byzantium, 206. M.B. Cunningham, ‘ “Shutting the gates of the soul”, Spiritual Treatises on Resisting the Passions’, Desire and Denial in Byzantium, 31. On desire and sensuality in the context of the art of antiquity see M. Beard and J. Henderson, Classical Art from Greece to Rome (Oxford, 2001), 107–144. P. Magdalino, ‘Eros the King of the Amours: Some Observations on Hysmine and Hysminias’, Homo Byzantinus; Papers in Honor of Alexander Kazhdan, ed. A. Culter and S. Franklin, DOP, 46 (1992), 197.

168 Notes 69. P. Magdalino, ‘Eros the King of the Amours: Some Observations on Hysmine and Hysminias’, Homo Byzantinus, 199. 70. On the erotic potency of imagery and Theodore Balsamon’s commentary see ‘Monuments et Prophéties’, G. Dagron, Constantinople Imaginaire; Etudes sur le Recueil des “Patria” ’ (Paris, 1984), esp. 133 and n. 29 and H. Maguire, ‘The Profane Aesthetic in Byzantine Art and Literature’, DOP, 53 (1999), 199. 71. For the question of dating and the proposed thirteenth-century date for Livistros see P. Agapitos, ‘Η Χρονολογική ακολουθία των μυθιστορημάτων: Καλλίμαχος, Βέλθανδρος και Λιβίστρος’, Origini della Letteratura Neogrecai, ed. N.M. Panagiotakis, Βιβλιοθήκη του Έλληνικού Ινστιτούτου Βυζαντινών και Μεταβυζαντινών Σπουδών της Βενετίας, 15 (1993), 197–234. 72. ‘Καὶ εἷς ἀπὸ ἐκείνους ἄνθρωπος πανεύμορφος εἰς εἶδος, πολλὰ ἔμμορφος, καλόκοπος εἰς σύνθεσιν καὶ σχῆμα, εἶχε πτερὰ εἰς τοὺς ὤμους του, ἦτον ἀρματωμένος, ἦλθεν ἐκεῖνος ἥμερα, κρατεῖ με ἀπὸ χέριν’ Ἀφήγησις Λιβίστρου (218–221), ed. J.A. Lambert, Le Roman de Libistros et Rhodamné (Amsterdam, 1932), 65, translated in G. Betts, Three Medieval Greek Romances; Velthandros and Chrysandza, Kallimachos and Chrysorroi, Livistros and Rodamni (New York and London, 1995), 99. 73. ‘ἀπέδω μου καὶ ἀπέκει μου καὶ ὀπίσω μου καὶ ὀμπρὸς μου εἶχα τοὺς ἀδιάκριτους, τοὺς ἐρωτοδημίους·’, Ἀφήγησις Λιβίστρου (225–226), ed. J.A. Lambert, 65, translated in G. Betts, Three Medieval Greek Romances, 99.

6

The Fragile Beauty of Soldiers

1. ‘θαυμαστὴν ἐνεποίουν τὴν πρόοδον, πάντες ἀκμάζοντες, πάντες σφριγῶντες ἄνδρες Ἄρεος Ἐνυαλίοιο μύσται καὶ τρόφιμοι, σηρικοῖς καὶ καταστίκτοις ἀμφίοις τὴν περιβολὴν καλλυνόμενοι, οὖλοι τὰς κόμας, ξανθοὶ τὰς κόμας’ and ‘Ἵπποι δὲ τούτοις Ἀρραβικοὶ (. . .) ἐδόκουν συνιέναι καὶ τῆς περικειμένης λαμπρότητος, ὅση ἐν χρυσῷ καὶ ἀργύρῳ τοὺς χαλινοὺς περιέλαμπεν’ Τιμαρίων (VII.168–171 and VII.175, 177–178), ed. and tr. (Italian) R. Romano, La Satira Bizantina dei Secoli XI–XV (Turin, 1999), 120. 2. A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Berkeley, 1985), 106. 3. A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture, 105. 4. Theodore Prodromos, Τῷ αὐτοκράτορι ἐξερχομένῳ κατά Περσῶν το δέκατον, ed. W. Horandner, Theodoros Prodromos Historische Gedichte (Vienna, 1974), 272. 5. ‘μὴ σοι χαλκήλατος ἡ χείρ, μὴ σιδηροῦς ὁ πῆχυς, μὴ τοὺς δακτύλους ἐκ στερρᾶς ἐλατομήθης πέτρας’, Theodore Prodromos, Τῷ μεγαλονίκῳ πορφυρογεννήτῳ καὶ αὐτοκράτορι κυρῷ Ἰωάννι τῷ Κομνηνῷ κατά Περσῶν ἐξερχομένῳ το δέκατον, ed. W. Horandner, Theodoros Prodromos Historische Gedichte, 278–279. 6. ‘Ὡς προσκυνῶ σου, βασιλεῦ, τὴν ὅλην πανοπλίαν (. . .) ὡς προσκυνῶ τὴν κόρυθα, τὸν θώρακα, τὴν ζώνην φιλῶ τὸ δόρυ τὸ χρυσοῦν, ἀσπάζομαι τὴν σπάθην’, Theodore Prodromos, Στίχοι ἐπὶ τῷ aὐτοκράτορι Ἰωάννι ἐκ Περσῶν νικητικῶς ἐπανήκοντι, ed. W. Horandner, Theodoros Prodromos Historische Gedichte, 313. 7. W. Horandner, Theodoros Prodromos Historische Gedichte, 445–446. 8. Ibid., 400–401.

Notes

169

9. Ibid., 406–411. 10. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (Ι.8.3), tr. (English) E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, 49–50. 11. Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 209. 12. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.5), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 89. 13. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (Ι.7) tr. E.R.A. Sewter, The Alexiad, 47. 14. A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture, 115. 15. On the representation of Basil II see R. Cormack, Painting the Soul, 130. 16. On this point see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), 78. 17. See T. Papamastorakis, ‘Αυλικοί και Στρατιώτες’, Kαθημερινή, Επτά Ημέρες, 27 Oct. 2002, 7. On military figures in Komnenian coinage see also A.P. Kazhdan and A. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture, 115–116. 18. C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 132. 19. For the full text of the inscriptions see S. Kalopisi-Verti, ‘Οι ζωγράφοι στην Ύστερη Βυζαντινή Κοινωνία. Η Μαρτυρία των Επιγραφών’, Το Πορτραίτο του Καλλιτέχνη στο Βυζάντιο, ed. M. Vassilaki (Heraklion, 1997), 123–125. Initials rather than full signatures can be found elsewhere in the church; see S. Kalopisi-Verti, ‘Οι ζωγράφοι στην Ύστερη Βυζαντινή Κοινωνία. Η Μαρτυρία των Επιγραφών’, 126. 20. See R. Cormack, ‘O Καλλιτέχνης στην Κωνσταντινούπολη: Αριθμοί, Κοινωνική Θέση, Ζητήματα Απόδοσης’, Το Πορτραίτο του Καλλιτέχνη στο Βυζάντιο, 71. 21. See R. Cormack, Byzantine Art (Oxford, 2000), 197. For the Greek text and transcription of the original inscription (recorded to scale) see Th. Papazotos, Η Βέροια και οι Ναοί της (Athens, 1994), 100–102. 22. See C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 285–290. 23. Ibid., 222. 24. On this point see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 64. 25. Ibid., 116 and 118, respectively. 26. Ibid., 219. 27. Ibid., 147. 28. ‘Il sait l’age du martyr: vingt-cinq ans, et esquisse son portrait: il était beau a voir, rouge de teint et portait des cheveux blonds, details inconnus au premier récit’, S. Binon, Essai sur le cycle de S. Mercure (Paris, 1937), 31. 29. C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 182. 30. T. Papamastorakis, ‘Θεόδωρος και Γεώργιος; ο Δράκος και το Παλικάρι’, Kαθημερινή, Επτά Ημέρες, 27 Oct. 2002, 12–16. 31. On ‘doubling’ of Byzantine warrior saints see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 59–66. 32. Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.6), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 62. 33. Ibid. 34. See N. Bryson, ‘Gericault and “Masculinity” ’, Visual Culture: Images and Interpretation, ed. N. Bryson, et al. (Hanover, 1994), 245. On military display and the male body see also G. Greer, The Boy (London, 2003), 191. 35. For a parallel in the West equally aligning ‘the masculine’ with military values see L. Mirrer, ‘Representing “Other” Men: Muslims, Jews and Masculine Ideas in Medieval Castilian Epic and Ballad’, Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, ed. V.L. Bullough (Minneapolis and London, 1994), 169–186.

170 Notes 36. See also K. Ringrose, ‘Living in the Shadows: Eunuchs and Gender in Byzantium’, Third Sex, Third Gender, ed. G. Herdt (New York, 1994). 37. Niketas Choniates, Historia (III), tr. H. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 79. 38. ‘ὁ δὲ οὐκ ἔθος ἔφη ἀνδράσι καὶ ταῦτα στρατιώταις εἰς κάτοπτρον ένορᾶν γυναιξὶ

γὰρ καὶ τοῦτο μόναις ἐπιτετήδευται μεριμνώσαις ἀρέσκειν τοῖς σφῶν ἀνδράσιν ἀνδρὶ δὲ στρατιώτῃ κόσμος τὰ ὅπλα καὶ τὸ τῆς διαίτης λιτόν τε καὶ ἄθρυπτον’,

39.

40.

41.

42.

Nikephoros Bryennios, Yli Historias (II.7), ed. and tr. (French) P. Gautier (Brussels, 1975), 155. ‘Ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἐμοὶ πρόσωπον ἠσβολωμένον, οὐδὲ ξένη τις καὶ δυσέντευκτος πλάσις εἰ γοῦν κατ’ ἄνδρα τις τὰ τοῦ κάλλους κρίνει ὡραῖον ἄν μάθοι με τὴν θεωρίαν ἄλλως τε κάλλος ἀνδρικὸν σταθηρότης, ἀλκη κραταιά πρὸς μάχας εὐανδρία, ἄτεστος ἰσχύς, δεξιὰ θαρραλέα, ἔπαλξις ἀπτόητος εἰς μάχης στόμα, αἵμασιν ἐχθρῶν πορφυρωθεῖσα σπάθη.’ Theodore Prodromos, Τὰ κατὰ Ροδάνθην καὶ Δοσικλέα (II.2.251–257), ed. and tr. (Italian) F. Conca, Il Romanzo Bizantino, 104. Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae, 6.12.5 in C. Barton, ‘All Things Beseem the Victor: Paradoxes of Masculinity in Early Imperial Rome’, Gender Rhetorics; Postures of Dominance and Submission in History, ed. R.C. Trexler (Birmingham and New York, 1994), 85, n. 7. For Roman associations between masculinity and militarism versus effeminacy, luxury and homosexuality see also M. Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago, 2001), 37–69. ‘ἣν ἐξ ἡδονῶν ἀμετρίας ἐνόσησεν ἀκολάστως βίους· καὶ ἐν προσχήματι θήρας εἰς ὕλας ἐγκατεδύετο μετά τῶν περὶ αὐτὸν μειρακίσκων καὶ νεανίσκων, οἵ

ἐκείνῳ διὰ κάλλος συνελέγοντο καὶ ᾠκείωντο ἐκαλλωπίζοντό τε περιεργότερο καὶ λίχνοις ἦσαν ὀφθαλμοῖς, ἀκολασίας ἐμπύρευμα, κἀκείνῳ ἐτύγχανον, ὡς λέγεται, παιδικά.’ John Zonaras, Epitome Historion (XIII.6), ed. L. Dindorf and

C. Du Cange, vol. III, 192. 43. Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.3), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 242. 44. ‘καὶ τούτων μάλιστα ὁπόσοι σάλπιγγος ἐνυαλίου ἦσαν ἀπεριήχητοι καὶ τὴν

κόμην ἀγλαοὶ καὶ φαιδροὶ τὰ πρόσωπα καὶ κλοιοῖς χρυσέοις καὶ περιδερραίοις διαφανέσιν ἐκ λίθων τηλαυγῶν καὶ μαργαρίδων τιμαλφῶν τοῦς τραχήλους περιδεόμενοι’, Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.2), ed. J.A. van Dieten, 179,

translated in H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 101. 45. ‘ἐπαφροδίτως βοστρυχιζόμενοι καὶ τὸν ταύτης ἀντέρωτα

θηρώμενοι, ἐμυροῦντο νηπιωδῶς καὶ ἐμιτροῦντο γυναικωδῶς περιδερραίοις λιθοκόλλοις.’

Niketas Choniates, Historia (V.2), ed. J.A. van Dieten, 224, translated in H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 127. 46. Niketas Choniates, Historia (VI.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 262. 47. For Zonaras’s text on the Council of Trullo see G.A. Ralles and M. Potles, ed., Σύνταγμα τῶν Θείων καὶ Ἱερῶν Κανόνων, vol. II (Athens, 1852), 295–554. On the unstable nature of masculinity that is under threat by the spectacle of dance see R. Webb, ‘Salome’s Sisters: The Rhetoric and Realities of Dance in Late Antiquity and Byzantium’, Women, Men and Eunuchs: Gender in Byzantium, ed. L. James (London and New York, 1997), 119–148.

Notes

171

48. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (XII.2). On the Roman and early Christian belief in the power of adornment to effeminize and unman see M.W. Gleason, ‘The Semiotics of Gender: Physiognomy and Self-Fashioning in the Second Century C.E.’, Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient World, ed. D.M. Halperin, J.J. Winkler and F.I. Zeitlin (Princeton, 1990), 400–406. 49. Walter notes that St Prokopios appears in the guise of a military saint mostly from the eleventh century onwards, while the first surviving representation of St Nestor in an echelon of military saint appears to be at St Nicholas of Kasnitzi. See C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition (Aldershot, 2003), 94–100 and 227–230. 50. On St Orestes see C. Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition, 219–221. 51. Στίχοι τοῦ Γραμματικοῦ κυροῦ Θεοδώρου τοῦ Πτωχοπροδρόμου, ed. Th. Zoras, Βυζαντινή Ποίησις (Athens, 1956), 118. 52. ‘πολεμικός τις καὶ φιλοκίνδυνος κἀν τοῖς δεινοῖς ἀκατάπληκτος καὶ μεγαλόφρων δεικνύμενος καὶ πρὸς μάχας τελῶν ὀξύρροπος. ἐπέπρεπε δὲ καὶ χάρις ἐπί τοῦ προσώπου τῷ νεανίᾳ (. . .) τὴν δὲ χροιὰν οὔτε κατὰ τοὺς σκιατραφουμένους λευκὸς ἦν καὶ χιονώδης, οὔτε μὴν ἄγαν καπνηρός, ὡς οἱ πολὺν τον ἡλιον ἐπὶ τοὺ προσώπου δεξάμενοι καὶ οὔς παρέβλεψαν ἀκτῖνες θερμότεραι, ἀλλὰ τῆς λευκῆς θέας ἀναχωρῶν, τῷ δὲ μέλανι προσεγγίζων χρώματι εὐπρεπείας καὶ οὕτως εἴχετο.’ Niketas Choniates, Historia (II.2), ed. J.A. van Dieten, 50–51, translated in H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 30. 53. See L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art, 82. 54. K. M. Ringrose, ‘Living in the Shadows: Eunuchs and Gender in Byzantium’, Third Sex, Third Gender, ed. G. Herdt (New York, 1994), 94. 55. Niketas Choniates, Historia (IV.1), tr. H.J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium, 165. 56. ‘σιτόχρους τὴν ὄψιν, εὐρὺς τὰ στέρνα, ὑπερωμίας τῶν τότε καιροῦ ὄντων ανδρῶν. εἰ δὲ σφαιρίζοντα τοῦτον εἶδέ τις, εἰ δὲ ἱππαζόμενον, εἰ δὲ ὀϊστὸν πέμποντα ἤ δόρυ κραδαίνοντα καὶ ἱππασίας ποιούμενον, θαῦμα ἐδόκει καινὸν θεᾶσθαι ἐκεχήνει τε καὶ μόνο οὐ πεπηγὼς ἦν.’ Anna Komnene, Alexiad (IX.6.5), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 272. 57. ‘ἵνα τί ἀσυντάκτως οὕτως καὶ ξιφήρης εἰσέρχῃ; καιρὸς βαλανείου καὶ οὐχὶ ὁδοιπορίας οὐδὲ θήρας ἤ μάχης ἐστίν’. Anna Komnene, Alexiad (IX.5.5), ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, 269–270.

List of Illustrations 1. St Victor, wall painting, Church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson (late thirteenth century). 2. St Nestor, wall painting, Church of St Nicholas Orphanos, Thessaloniki (1310–1320). 3. Deacon-angel, wall painting, Church of St Vlassios, Veroia (early fourteenth century). 4. Angel from the apse, wall painting, St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 5. St George, icon, St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (early thirteenth century). 6. Emperor Constantine IX Monomachos and Empress Zoe before Christ, mosaic, Church of St Sophia, Constantinople (1042–1055). 7. St Neophytos ascending to Heaven supported by angels, wall painting, Enkleistra of St Neophytos, Paphos, Cyprus (1182–1183). 8. St Ephraim the Syrian and St Kyriakos, wall painting, Enkleistra of St Neophytos, Paphos, Cyprus (1182–1183). 9. St Ilarion (centre), wall painting, Enkleistra of St Neophytos, Paphos, Cyprus (1182–1183). 10. Theodore Lemniotes, his wife Anna Radene and his son John before the Virgin and Child, wall painting, Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). 11. Nikephoros Kasnitzis and his wife Anna, wall painting, Church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 12. Emperor John II Komnenos and Empress Eirene before the Virgin and Child, mosaic, St Sophia, Constantinople (1118–1122). 13. St Onouphrios, wall painting, Protaton Monastery, Karyes, Mount Athos (c.1290). 14. St Demetrios, wall painting, Protaton Monastery, Karyes, Mount Athos (c.1290). 15. The Nativity and scenes of Christ’s childhood, icon, St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (first half of the twelfth century). 16. Calendar icon (Menologion) for the months of September, October and November depicting the martyrdoms of saints, icon (part of a tetraptych), St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (second half of the eleventh century). 17. Calendar icon (detail), St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (second half of the eleventh century). 18. The Massacre of the Innocents, wall painting, Church of the Prophet Elias, Thessaloniki (c.1360–1370). 19. Executioner from the Massacre of the Innocents (detail), Church of the Prophet Elias, Thessaloniki (c.1360–1370). 20. St Catherine depicted surrounded by scenes of her life, narrative icon, St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (early thirteenth century). 21. Emperor Basil II, manuscript illustration, Psalter, cod. Mar. gr. Z.17, fol. 3r, Biblioteca Marciana, Venice (c.1000). 172

List of Illustrations

173

22. Emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos before Christ, manuscript illustration, cod. 1 (chrysobull) Byzantine Museum, Athens (1301). 23. The Virgin Hodegetria and the Man of Sorrows, double-sided icon, Byzantine Museum, Kastoria (second half of the twelfth century). 24. The Lamentation, wall painting, Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). 25. The Lamentation (detail), Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). 26. The Lamentation, wall painting, Church of St Panteleimon, Nerezi (1164). 27. The Lamentation (detail), Church of St Panteleimon, Nerezi (1164). 28. The Crucifixion, mosaic, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century). 29. The Lamentation, wall painting, Church of Panagia Perivleptos (St Clement), Ohrid (1295). 30. Christ flanked by deacon-angels in the Melismos, wall painting, Church of St Chrysostom, Geraki (late thirteenth–early fourteenth century). 31. The Virgin and the Man of Sorrows, icon (diptych), Monastery of the Transfiguration, Meteora (second half of the fourteenth century). 32. St George on the Wheel, wall painting, Church of St George, Kalamas, Rethymnon (second half of the twelfth century). 33. St George on the Wheel, wall painting, Church of the Omorphoklissia, Galatsi, Athens (late thirteenth century). 34. The archangel Gabriel and Panagia in the scene of the Annunciation, wall painting, St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 35. Angels from the Ascension scene, wall painting, Church of the Evangelistria, Geraki (eleventh century). 36. View of the dome with images of angels, wall painting, Church of the Evangelistria, Geraki (eleventh century). 37. The Last Judgment, icon (part of a tetraptych), St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (late eleventh or early twelfth century). 38. The choir of angels from the Last Judgment (detail), St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai (late eleventh or early twelfth century). 39. View of the dome with images of angels, wall painting, Church of St Ierotheos, Megara (twelfth century). 40. The archangel Michael, wall painting, Church of St Ierotheos, Megara (twelfth century). 41. Bust-length angel in roundel, wall painting, Church of St Ierotheos, Megara (twelfth century). 42. Sts Demetrios and George, wall painting, Church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 43. Sts Nestor and Mercurios, wall painting, Church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 44. St Iouliane (left) and St Marina (right), wall painting, Church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). 45. The archangel Michael, cloisonné enamel icon, Treasury of San Marco, Venice (c.1100) 46. The archangel Michael (detail), Treasury of San Marco, Venice (c.1100) 47. Sts Eustratios, Eugenios and Orestes, wall painting, Church of the Panagia Mavriotissa, Kastoria (second half of the twelfth century). 48. St Vincentios, wall painting, Church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson (late thirteenth century).

174 List of Illustrations 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

Angel from the apse, Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). St Damian, Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). Angels in the narthex, Church of Sts Anargyroi, Kastoria (twelfth century). The Maries by the Tomb (detail), gold reliquary cover, Louvre Museum (twelfth century). Angel by the sepulchre, wall painting, Church of St Chrysostom, Geraki (late thirteenth–early fourteenth century). Angels in imperial dress, wall painting, Church of St Chrysostom, Geraki (late thirteenth–early fourteenth century). Apostles from the scene of the Ascension, wall painting, Church of the Evangelistria, Geraki (eleventh century). The archangel Michael, icon, Byzantine Museum, Athens (first half of the fourteenth century). St Mercurios, wall painting, Church of the Panagia Perivleptos (St Clement), Ohrid (1295). St Nestor, wall painting, Church of St Nicholas of Kasnitzi, Kastoria (third quarter of the twelfth century). Sts Demetrios and Nestor from the frame of the icon depicting the archangel Michael (detail), Treasury of San Marco, Venice (c.1100). Sts Prokopios and Nestor, wall painting, Church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson (late thirteenth century). St Prokopios (detail), Church of the Panagia Olymbiotissa, Elasson (late thirteenth century). St Orestes, wall painting (fragment), Church of the Episkope, Evritania, Byzantine Museum, Athens (first half of the thirteenth century).

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Illustration Sources The author wishes to thank the following individuals and institutions for their kind permission to reproduce the illustrations listed below: Archive of St Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai Byzantine and Christian Museum, Athens © Erich Lessing / Apeiron Photos © Hannibal / H. Stamatopoulos Ioannis Evdokimides Monastery of St Ierotheos, Megara Monastery of St Neophytos, Paphos

5, 15, 16, 17, 20, 37, 38 22, 56, 62 12, 21, 26, 27, 29, 45, 46, 59 28 57 39, 40, 41 7, 8, 9

© Photographic Archive of the Benaki Museum, Athens 6 / photo: Pericles Papachatzidakis 13, 14 7th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities / © photos: Demetrios Benetos 60, 61 9th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities / photos: Kapon Editions, Wandering in Byzantine Thessaloniki, 18, 19 16th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities 23 / © photos: MELISSA Publishing House Athens, Greece, Kastoria, Byzantine Art in Greece, 10, 24, 34, 42, 43 / © photos: Demetrios Benetos 25, 58 19th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities and Monastery of the Transfiguration, Meteora / photo: Athanasios Euthymiopoulos 31 28th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities 32 Photographs not mentioned above are by the author. Every effort has been made to ensure that the above information is correct and accurate; the author apologizes for any error or omission and if contacted will be pleased to rectify it at the earliest opportunity.

190

Index Note: Illustration page references appear in bold italic type. Transliterated Greek words and literary works are italicized. Historical figures are listed under first name and monuments are listed under location. Achilles, 9, 118 agalma, 50, 51, 52–3, 56–8, 65, 118 as ‘beautiful statue’, 56–8 see also statues agalmatias, 51, 52 ages, 102 see also under individual age terms Alexiad, 7–9, 11, 14, 16–19, 25, 31, 35, 41, 50, 53, 119 Alexios I Komnenos, emperor, 7–8, 15–17, 19, 25, 41–3, 51, 53, 55–6, 60, 92, 102–3, 119, 127–8, 134–5 Alexios Doukas Mourtzouphlos, emperor, 35 Andronikos I Komnenos, emperor, 21, 23, 36–7, 52, 78, 127, 129–31, 134 Andronikos II Palaiologos, emperor, 22, 59, 60–2 Andronikos III Palaiologos, emperor, 50 aner, 97 angels, 3, 4, 18, 21, 30, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39, 39, 40, 41, 43, 45, 46, 49, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 86–102, 104–16, 132, 137, 138 and the ‘Adam’s apple’, 34, 46, 96–9, 101, 111, 114, 118 and beardlessness, 94, 99, 101, 104 beauty of, 86, 95–7, 100–5, 109, 110, 111–15 and context (terrestrial versus celestial), 89–91 as deacons, 3, 30, 100, 108 and the gaze, 106–11 gender of, 86, 96–7, 99, 114–15 iconographic role, 51, 52, 53, 106–11 and masculinity, 86, 97–9, 101, 104–5, 114–15 paralleled to eunuchs, 93–6

pictorial representations, 89–93, 111–15 and their bodies, 86–93 as youths, 95–6, 100–2, 104–5, 114 see also neaniskos Anna Komnene, 7–11, 14–19, 25, 31, 35, 41–3, 50–1, 53, 55–6, 58–60, 92, 119, 121, 126, 131, 134–5 Anna Radene, donor, 10, 24–5, 28 Annunciation, 34, 87, 97, 100, 109 Antiphonetes, icon, 19 ‘Antzypotheodoros’, 35 Aphrodite, goddess, 13, 81, 113, 125 Apostle Thomas, 44–5 Appelles, 58, 65 archangel Gabriel, 21, 34, 86–8, 93, 97–8, 101, 109, 112 archangel Michael, 21, 40, 45, 46, 56, 87–9, 91–3, 97–8, 100, 111, 113, 132 archangel Raphael, 93 archangel Uriel, 93 Ares, god, 117, 125, 129 Aristandros and Kallithea, 52 Ascension, 35, 90, 107 ascetic saints, 39, 48, 133 see also under individual saints baldness, 34, 36 barbatos, 99 see also virility Basil I, emperor, 40–2 Basil II, emperor, 11, 21, 54, 103, 120, 133 Basilikinos, 51 Basil Kamateros, 31 Bassilakios, 119, 126 beardlessness, 44, 102–4, 106, 110 and angels, 94, 99, 101, 104 and eunuchs, 94, 99, 101 and youth, 102–4

191

192 Index beautification, 20, 23–4, 77, 116, 123, 128–30 beauty of angels, see under angels in art, 78–81, 83–5 Byzantine ideal of, see ideal of beauty of the dead Christ, 67–73 and death, 75–7 emotional appeal of, 78–81 of eunuchs, see under eunuchs and evil, 40–2, 47–8 and the executioner, see under executioners as force of action, 49–52 and the imperial body, see under imperial body and masculinity, see under masculinity power of, 49–56, 60–5, 78–81 and the soldier, see soldiers and the statue, see statues and the suffering body, 70–3, 81–5 and symmetry, 9, 15, 43, 58–60, 62–5 of women, 20, 27–32 youthful, 100–6, 127 beauty-shows, 13–14 Bertha-Eirene, 20, 30 blond, hair colour, see xanthos Bohemond, 7, 9, 10, 14–15, 17, 31, 41–2, 53, 56, 58, 60, 92, 119 canon, see Polyclitus Christ, beauty in death, see beauty Christopher of Mytilene, 87 Chronographia, 9–12, 19, 23, 24, 27, 29, 36, 56, 64, 92 chrysaphotos, 13, 102 chrysizon, 102 colour words, see individual terms complexion as amber, 56 as crystal, 9, 55 dark, 34–6, 39, 45, see also ugliness glowing, 8, 9, 30, 31, 78 as ivory, 56 as marble, 7, 13, 56 as milk, 17, 28

as snow, 8, 9, 95, 134 swarthy, 134–5 white-and-rosy, 8–10, 13, 18, 20, 28, 31, 34–5, 76, 95–6, 100, 134, 136 Constans II, emperor, 128, 130 Constantine Angelos, 49 Constantine Artoklinis, 29 Constantine Dalassenos, 29 Constantine Diogenes, 134 Constantine IX Monomachos, emperor, 6, 9, 12, 19, 20, 26, 29, 52, 55, 60, 64, 69 Constantine Manassis, 52, 70 Constantine Mesopotamites, 37 Constantine VI, emperor, 14 Constantine VIII, emperor, 29 Constantine V Kopronymos, emperor, 51, 102 Constantinople Chora Monastery, 78, 132 Church of Saint Sophia, 6, 12, 19, 26, 27, 59, 61, 63, 94, 101 Constantinople, city of, 23, 53, 57, 77, 116, 119 cosmetics, use of, 20, 23 Crucifixion, 28, 64, 66, 68, 70, 73–5, 79–80, 82, 110 Daphni Monastery, 28, 73, 75, 79, 110 demons, 35, 38–9, 44, 53 see also Ethiopians desire, 47, 50, 56–7, 65, 79, 95, 111–14, 124–5 Digenis Akritis, 9, 28, 47, 103, 112 Drosilla and Chariclis, 9, 28 effeminacy, 96–7, 116–17, 127–31, 134, 135, 137–8 eikonismos, 11, 136 Eirene Komnene, empress, wife of Alexios I Komnenos, 8, 53 Eirene Komnene, empress, wife of John II Komnenos, 12, 26, 61–3 ekphrasis, 42, 57, 66–7, 74, 80–1, 113 Elasson, Church of Panagia Olymbiotissa, 1, 2, 48, 60, 61, 106, 132 Ephraim Ainios, 35–6 eros, 4, 13, 50, 111–15, 124–6 Ethiopians, 35

Index 193 Etoimasia, 91, 93 Eucharist, 68 eueides, 94, 100 eunuchs as apogon, 99 beauty of, 94–6, 100, 103 court role, 95–6, 99, 101 and the evil eye, 99 and liminal masculinity, 99 vices attributed to, 95 Eustathios Makrembolites, 133 Eutychios, painter, 121–2 executioners, 16, 17, 18, 19, 42–6 Galatsi, Church of Omorfoklissia, 33, 83, 84 George of Nikomedia, 73, 75 Geraki Church of Evangelistria, 35, 36, 55, 90, 110 Church of Saint Chrysostom, 30, 53, 54, 82, 108 gynekeion, 104 hair colour blond, see xanthos likened to gold, 8, 9, 13, 18, 56, 76, 95, 103, 122 ruddy, see pyrsos harmony, bodily, 36, 58–60, 64, 76, 80 Herod, 42, 43, 45 hexapteryga, 113–14 Hippodrome, 36, 53, 56 homosexuality, 38, 95, 104, 128, 129 Hysmini et Hysminias, 13–14, 28, 45, 112–13, 133 ideal of beauty, 8–14, 16–17, 20, 24–34, 39, 45, 51, 59–60, 69, 70, 75–6, 95–7, 100, 105–6, 117, 122, 134, 136 and complexion, see complexion definition of, 8–10 and gender, 24–32 stereotypical wording of, 10–12 and symmetry, 59–60 imperial body and beauty, 60–5 as statue, 55, 58–9

Isaac II Angelos, emperor, 70, 129 Isaac I Komnenos, emperor, 38, 61 jesters, physical appearance of, 37 see also ugliness John II Komnenos, emperor, 12, 27, 35, 61–3, 118, 125–6 John I Tzimiskes, emperor, 35, 41 John Kinnamos, 30 John Komnenos ‘the Fat’, 36 John Lemniotes, donor, 10, 24–5 John Mauropous, 55, 88 John Spyridonakis, 38 John Tzetzes, 38, 70 John Zonaras, 35, 52, 100 Justinian II the Rinotmetos, emperor, 38 Kallimachos and Chrysorroi, 37, 47, 95 kallos, 8, 57, 71, 81, 118 see also beauty kalos k’ agathos, 5, 39–40, 137 Kastoria Church of Panagia Mavriotissa, 47, 105 Church of Saint Nicholas of Kasnitzi, 2, 4, 11, 26, 34, 42, 43, 44, 58, 86, 97–8, 100–1, 112, 120, 122, 131 Church of Saints Anargyroi, 10, 24, 24, 25, 49, 50, 51, 69, 72, 74, 81, 106–7, 109, 112 Kekaumenos, 104, 112, 130 Kilij Arslan, 37 see also ugliness Lamentation, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29, 67, 69–70, 72, 74–5, 81–4 Last Judgment, 37, 91 Leo Diogenes, 51 Lexicon, 102 Life of Saint Andrew the Fool, 18, 35, 39, 56, 94–6, 100, 102, 109, 122 Life of Saint Philaretos the Almsgiver, 14 Life of Saint Theodore of Sykeon, 122 likeness and idealization, 15, 17, 19–20, 24, 27, 32 and male individuality, 26–8, 29–32 and the portrait, 19–29 Livistros and Rodamni, 113–14

194 Index Manganeios Prodromos, 23, 50 Man of Sorrows, 23, 31, 67–8, 79, 82, 84 Manuel I Komnenos, emperor, 20, 23, 31, 51–3, 77, 124–5, 129, 133–4, 135 Manuel Kantakouzenos, 31 Manuel Philes, 112 Maria of Alania, 8, 18, 53, 58 masculinity, 86, 97–9, 101–5, 110, 113, 115–16, 124, 128, 130–1, 133–5, 137–8 beauty as threat to, 124–9, 130–1 and grooming, 130, 133, 135 liminal, 99, 101, 115, 137 mature, 101, 104, 113–14 military, 116, 124, 126–7, 130–1, 133–4 and virility, 99, 126 youthful, 102–3, 105, 138 compare with effeminacy Massacre of the Innocents, 18, 19, 42, 45, 78 Megara, Church of Saint Ierotheos, 39, 40, 41, 93 meirax, 102 Melismos, 30, 82, 100, 108 Menelaos, 18 Meteora, Monastery of the Transfiguration, 31, 82–3, 85 Michael Astrapas, painter, 121–2 Michael Attaleiates, 30, 117 Michael III, emperor, 41, 51, 102, 104 Michael IV, emperor, 9, 50, 52, 87 Michael Psellos, 9, 11–12, 19–20, 23, 25, 27, 29–30, 50, 53, 57, 59, 64, 66–7, 69, 74, 76, 78–81, 88–9, 91, 97, 103, 136 Michael Stryphnos, 36 Michael VII Doukas, emperor, 11 military saints, 105, 121–4, 127 see also individual saints Mizizios, 50–2 monastic saints, 22–3 see also individual saints Mount Athos, Protaton Monastery, Karyes, 13, 14, 39, 54 Nativity, 15, 42 neanias, 94, 102

neaniskos, 102 Nerezi, Church of Saint Panteleimon, 26, 27, 70, 73–5, 81–3 Nikephoros Botaneiates, 50 Nikephoros Bryennios, author, husband of Anna Komnene, 8, 16, 92, 102–3, 117, 127–9 Nikephoros Diogenes, 8, 41, 51, 119, 134–5 Nikephoros Gregoras, 21, 36–7, 50, 59–60, 62 Nikephoros II Phokas, emperor, 35–41 Nikephoros Kasnitzis, donor, and wife Anna, 11, 26 Niketas Choniates, 20, 21, 23–4, 33, 35–8, 45, 47, 51–2, 57, 69, 78, 95, 103–4, 119, 121, 124–7, 129–30, 133–4 Niketas Eugenianos, 9, 28 Nireas, 9 ochros, 19 Ohrid, Church of Panagia Perivleptos (Saint Clement), 29, 57, 81, 121 pais, 102 Panagia Hodegetria, 23, 68, 107 Paphos, Enkleistra of Saint Neophytos, 7, 8, 9, 21–4, 104 Pheidias, 58, 65 physiognomy, 11 Polyclitus, 7, 58 and the Canon, 58, 60 profile pose, 43–5 proportion, bodily, 7–9, 13, 17, 26, 36–7, 51, 58–60 and proportional systems, 59–60 Ptochoprodromos, 23, 133 puberty, 101, 103, 104 pyrros, 19 pyrsos, 7, 15, 16, 19, 20 Raymond of Antioch, 31 Reginald of Chatillon, 125 Rethymnon, Kalamas, Church of Saint George, 32, 83–4 Robert Guiscard, 8, 41, 119 Rodanthe and Dosiklis, 10, 28, 34, 37–8, 46, 53, 75, 103, 118, 130

Index 195 Romanos III Argyros, emperor, 26–7, 29, 50, 54 Romanos IV Diogenes, emperor, 30, 57 Saint Agape, 44 Saint Artemios, 122 Saint Christopher, 122 Saint Damian, 50, 107 Saint Demetrios, 14, 39, 40–5, 42, 54, 59, 87, 98, 116, 120–1, 124, 132 Saint Elpis, 44 Saint Ephraim the Syrian, 8, 22 Saint Epiphaneios, 18 Saint Eugenios, 47, 105 Saint Eustratios, 47, 105 Saint George, 2, 5, 32, 33, 42, 83–4, 87, 98, 120–3, 131–2 Saint Ilarion, 9, 22 Saint Ioannikios, 122 Saint Iouliane, 44, 98 Saint John the Baptist, 39, 133 Saint John the Evangelist, 69, 110 Saint Kosmas, 107 Saint Kyriakos, 8, 22 Saint Mamas, 133 Saint Marina, 44, 98 Saint Mary of Egypt, 39, 133 Saint Menas, 123 Saint Mercurios, 43, 57, 98, 120–3, 131–2 Saint Neophytos, 7, 21–4, 27, 102, 104 Saint Nestor, 2, 2, 43, 54, 58, 59, 60, 98, 120, 131–3 Saint Nicholas, 98 Saint Onouphrios, 13, 39 Saint Orestes, 47, 62, 105, 122, 133 Saint Pistis, 44 Saint Plato, 44 Saint Prokopios, 60, 61, 120, 121, 132, 133 Saint Sergios, 104, 122 Saint Theodore, 55, 120, 122, 123, 124, 132 Saint Victor, 1, 2, 106 Saint Vincentios, 48, 106 Sinai, Saint Catherine’s Monastery, 2, 5, 15, 16, 17, 20, 37, 38, 42, 44, 54, 91, 123

Skleraina, 29, 36 soldiers aversion to the mirror, 127–9, 131 on display, 116–21 unkempt beauty of, 131–5 see also masculinity Souda, 40, 57 statues, 20, 28, 41, 50–9, 62, 64–5, 113, 118 and beauty, 52–6, 56–8 and eroticism, 56–7 and power, 53–6 see also agalma stature, bodily, 7, 8, 9, 17, 30, 36, 49, 92, 117, 122 likened to a cypress, 8, 9, 117 Stavrakios, emperor, 40 Stephen Hagiochristophorites, 38 Styliane, 76 Symeon Metaphrastes, 71, 73, 80–1, 122–3 Synadenos, 50 Theodora, empress, 29 Theodore Apseudes, painter, 22 Theodore Balsamon, 113 Theodore Kastamonites, 37 Theodore Lemniotes, donor, 10, 24, 25 Theodore Prodromos, 10, 28, 57, 70, 118, 128 Theodore Studite, 90 Theophano, empress, 41 Theophilitzis, 41 Theophylact of Ohrid, 95, 99 Thessaloniki Church of Prophet Elias, 18, 19, 45–6 Church of Saint Nicholas Orphanos, 2, 2, 55 Timarion, 93, 99, 116–17, 119, 124, 126 ugliness, 33–40, 43, 47–8 and deformity, 37 as punishment, 37–8 as ridicule, 35–7, 48 as social stigma, 37–8 and variety, 34–7 and villainy, 37–8, 43, 45 see also demons

196 Index Velthandros and Chrysandza, 12, 14, 33, 35, 126 Veroia, Church of Saint Vlassios, 2, 3, 100 villains, handsome, 41–2 see also executioners; ugliness virility, 99, 101, 119, 126 the beard as a sign of, 99 and masculinity, 99, 101

xanthos, 7, 13, 16, 18, 95 Xene, empress, 21, 78

youth, 18, 30, 34, 39, 44, 46, 50–2, 95–6, 100–6, 110–14, 128–30, 133–4, 137–8 importance ascribed to, 101, 104 maintained in old age, 23, 27 mistrust of, 104 pictorial representations of, 55, 105–6, 110 ‘youthening’, 102–4 Zeno, emperor, 40 Zintziphitzes, 36 Zoe, empress, 6, 19–20, 23, 26–7, 29, 50, 52