Early Modern Dandies
My new favorite thing: Hark! A Vagrant. Terribly clever comics about literary and historical figures. And pictures of dandies. Really, I can’t do much more than explain that it’s been 24 hours since I discovered Kate’s site and I have not stopped laughing since then. Be sure to check out the archives for all the good stuff. (Click the picture for a larger version of this comic.)
Filed under authors, comics, dandies, drawing, history, humor | Comment (0)
I Like the Dead Bees on the Windowsill
There’s some things that money can’t buy. Like the love I’ve found in a little bookshop off Russell Square. Yes, love. You know… well, not love so much, more… freedom. Well, not really freedom. More kind of a largeness of heart… Well, not really largeness of heart… or freedom… or love… But, uh, I was never contractually obliged to sleep with foreign businessmen, alright? – Manny
I discovered that the outdoor filming location for Black Books is about five feet away from my dorm. Best of all, it’s actually a bookshop: Collinge & Clark on Leigh Street in Bloomsbury, founded in 1987, it “deals almost exclusively in private press books and books on typography.”
Here’s my photo, followed by a screenshot from the show:
Across the street, the pub where Bernard taunts the skinheads in the first episode.
Memento Mori Part I
Quid me mihi detrahis? Who is it that tears me from myself? – Ovid, The Metamorphosis Book VI
I recently began an essay on the evolution of images in anatomy books between 1450 and 1800, and I thought I’d share some of my early research. All the images I’ve used are from the National Library of Medicine, which has an excellent historical anatomy exhibit. Clicking on the pictures below will take you to the appropriate section of the NLM website for more images, biographies, and bibliographies. (And a word of warning, some might find the illustrations graphic, disturbing, or not safe for work.) Part II will hopefully appear sometime next week.
Sources:
- Books of the Body: Anatomical Ritual and Renaissance Learning by Andrea Carlino
- The Body Emblazoned: Dissection and the Human Body in Renaissance Culture by Jonathan Sawday
- The Art of Anatomy: Depicting the Body from the Renaissance to Today by Rifkin, Ackerman, and Folkenberg.
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Although curiosity about the body has long been a feature of human culture, anatomical science stagnated during the Middle Ages, a time when the words of classical authorities were valued over discovery. Rather than working from observation or experimentation, medieval scholars compiled, rewrote, and annotated older medical works, particularly those of Galen. It wasn’t until the late Middle Ages and Renaissance that increasingly literate and intellectual segments of society, renewed interest in science and discovery, and advances in printing resulted in the production of new anatomical treatises that eclipsed the achievements of the past and led to the foundation of modern anatomy. But these new volumes were not purely scientific or didactic. Luxury texts intended for an erudite, upper-class audience beyond the medical profession, they mixed art, science, and religion to create dramatic meditations on the natures of flesh and soul and the meaning of the body’s short existence.
Fasciculus de medicina
The first printed anatomy book was published in Venice in 1492 by the Gregorio brothers. A Latin translation of a work by a little known German physician named Johannes de Ketham, it was planted firmly in the medieval medical tradition. The book, which included treatises on subjects such as bloodletting, urinoscopy, and dissection, became an important teaching text, but its sumptuous woodcuts were also geared toward an audience of wealthy intellectuals. A major success, it was republished in 1493 with new illustrations showing contemporary medical scenes including a dissection, and it appeared in twelve editions within a decade. Though produced by a workshop, the designs are good examples of the clean, classical style of Venetian Renaissance illustration. Below is the traditional zodiac man as well as a dissection scene, which portrays an anatomy lesson as performed in the late Middle Ages. The young lector reads from an anatomical text, most likely Galen, while the sector, an uneducated barber/surgeon, preforms the dissection, and the ostensor, a high ranking professor, translates the words of the lector and directs the sector. At this time dissection was not an act of observation and discovery, but was a tightly controlled public ritual intended to reinforce the authority of classical medical texts. The illustration indicates the importance of the text by the prominent placement of the lector relative to the other figures, including the higher ranking ostensor.
Isagogae breves
This book, published in 1522 and 1523 by the humanist physician Jacopo Berengario da Carpi, is credited as the first printed anatomy text based on direct observation of the body. Berengario was deeply skeptical of traditional anatomical practice, saying that a good anatomist ‘does not believe anything in his discipline simply because of the spoken or written word: what is required here is sight and touch.’ Though the woodcuts are artistically and anatomically crude, part of their importance lies in their reflection of Italian Renaissance culture. Berengario was an art collector, and many of the figures are based on rediscovered classical art, religious images, and important works by Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael. Berengario recognized the importance of anatomical knowledge for artists, and he recommended his book for their use as well as that of medical students. The half-flayed figure below is in the traditional pose of an Apollo with light rays. Other illustrations represent the redemptive potential of dissection, which was believed to help atone for the sins of the criminals whose bodies were commonly used for this purpose. Several images of partially draped female nudes indicate a tension between sexual modesty and the display of dissected reproductive organs.
De humani corporis fabrica
One of the most famous medical texts of all time, The Fabric of the Human Body (1543) by Andreas Vesalius, was the first truly modern anatomical book. Vesalius was a Flemish surgeon of the University of Padua who had been trained in the Galenic tradition. Based on his own experience with dissection he rejected Galen as the ultimate authority and argued that surgeons should make their own observations, and he corrected many Galenic mistakes, such as the multi-lobed liver, that had been passed from text to text through the Middle Ages. Vesalius and his collaborators were also some of the first people to grasp the full potential of the printed book, using the title page, illustrations, initials, and chapter/paragraph subdivisions to create a harmonious and practical work. Vesalius’s illustrations were most likely based on his own careful drawings, and he worked closely with the woodcut artist Jan Stefan van Kalkar, a member of Titian’s studio. This partnership resulted in extremely accurate and detailed work, better than anything that proceeded it. But these are not just sterile medical images—the cadavers display human emotions of sadness, despair, and mourning. The skeleton below ponders mortality in a memento mori which would reappear throughout western culture, including in Shakespeare. The second appears to pray, or to be bent in agony. Throughout the book dead trees and barren landscapes, representing death, are contrasted with churches and the promise of eternal life.
De dissectione partium corporis humani
Charles Estienne, a member of the famous printing family of Paris, began work on this book during the 1530s, hoping it would replace the Isagogae breves of Berengario. He had been a student in Paris at the same time as Vesalius, sharing the former’s interest in dissection and the belief that direct observation was more important than the words of authorities. Unfortunately, while Estienne’s book contributed some new discoveries to the science of anatomy, it was plagued by legal issues regarding the artwork and was not published until two years after De humani corporis fabrica. One of the interesting aspects of Estienne’s book is that it includes a number of woodcuts of nude women that were, according to Rifkin, originally intended as ‘genteel humanist erotica’, but were altered by partial dissection and the inclusion of anatomical information relating to reproductive anatomy. Included are Bathsheba being spied upon by David (below), as well as the goddesses Venus, Antiope, and Proserpina. A good example of the complex relationships between art, medicine, books, and sex during the early modern era.
Sony Reader Goes Romance
Check out the funny video review from Wired.
Filed under gadgets, harlequin, romance novels, sony reader, valentine's day | Comment (0)Back away from the generic chocolates…
I don’t normally condone the materialistic celebration of Valentine’s Day, but if you’re looking for a gift for a bibliophile the Penguin Great Loves set may be a good place to start. I saw them on display at the bookshop this afternoon and might have left with a handful if I’d had a few spare moments. They’re extremely inviting in person—lovely covers and just the right size. Though you might want to think carefully before presenting your girlfriend with a volume of Freud.
For the philanthropically inclined there’s also the British Library’s Adopt A Book program, which supports important conservation work. Lots of romantic titles to choose from! I quite like Courtship by Post.
The Golden Compasses
Last weekend I finally did some traveling, heading to Antwerp for a couple of days to see the Plantin-Moretus Museum. On the whole, information about specific early modern printers is rare and usually gleaned from the texts they published. In the case of the Plantin-Moretus dynasty, however, a wealth of material has been preserved in close to its original context. Founder Christoffel Plantin, originally a bookbinder, opened a printing firm in Antwerp the 1550s. He was a clever businessman, printing material for a range of groups including humanists, scientists, Catholics, and Protestants, and his success allowed him to expand rapidly. In 1575 he moved the press to a new headquarters which makes up part of the museum.
Plantin was succeeded by his son-in-law, Jan Moretus I—it was common at the time for senior employees to marry into printing families with the expectation that they would inherit—and the business remained within the family until the late nineteenth century, when it was sold to the city of Antwerp. Because of unbroken family control, and the fact that the firm remained at the same headquarters for hundreds of years, a great deal of its history is preserved, including the layout of rooms, artifacts, decor, presses, type, casting equipment, engravings, finished books, and the extensive company archives. The museum even holds the two oldest printing presses in existence, in addition to a number of canvasses by Reubens, who was apprently a friend of the family (too bad he’s one of my least-favorite artists). There is no other place like it in the world, and it’s a fantastic experience for anyone interested in book history.
I traveled with my friend Megan (who just happens to be another book historian living in the same hall) on the Eurostar, which I’m happy to report was one of the nicest transportation experiences of my life. I did get patted down at security, but overall it was easy, quick, and much more pleasant than flying. The Eurostar tickets covered our transfer to local rail at Brussels, and it was about an hour from there to Antwerp Central Station.
Our first stop in Antwerp was for a late lunch of frites, and it’s now difficult for me to entertain the thought of eating lesser fries than those in the paper boxes we carried down the main thoroughfare toward the museum. The Plantin-Moretus publishing house is completely engrossing—far larger and more rambling than we had expected. It’s hard to say what I enjoyed the most. The press room was fantastic, and it was a joy to see the workshop filled with antique typecasting materials. But it’s the experience of visiting a completely preserved publishing firm, and getting a sense of its day-to-day operation and the lives of the people who ran it, that is really special.
After the museum we wandered around the city for a while, had dinner, and drank Belgian beer at a bar filled with tourists and tacky religious icons. The next day we explored the art and fashion museums and more of the city. Oh, and lunch was waffles. Which, for me, meant waffles with ice cream, chocolate sauce, and cream. Overall a fantastic trip, and I felt that even in such a short time it was possible to get a good sense of the city. I would definitely recommend it for anyone traveling in Europe, and I’d love to go back again during the summer months. You can see my pictures of the museum, with explanations, here, and the set for the rest of Antwerp is here. There is a brief history of the Plantin-Moretus firm at the museum’s website.
The Great Frost
Last night London was hit by England’s worst winter storm in about two decades. It snowed almost all day yesterday, and it began sticking around 9. A couple of inches had built up by the time I went to bed at 1am, when students were already having snowball fights outside in the dark. This morning I got out the door at 7am, before it was really light, and wandered around Bloomsbury through 6 inches or fine, sparkling powder. After breakfast and a hot shower it was back out again, though by this time most of the snow on the sidewalks had been trampled into hard sheets or dirty puddles. It was freezing all day and big, soft flakes fell until late afternoon. I walked down Southampton Row and the Strand to Trafalgar Square, and then along the Thames to Parliament. Here are the pictures.
My favorite part was Trafalgar Square. The sculptures looked like mythical creatures that had been suddenly frozen by a malicious spell.
