In To Take Place, a provocative discussion of ritual theory, Jonathan Z. Smith sets out some fundamental distinctions between medieval Jerusalem and Constantinople (Figs. 10.1-10.2).1 Because they could be regarded as two of the three most important Christian cities of the Middle Ages (Rome being the third), Smith’s argument merits further exploration. In both cities, sanctity - that is, the sanctity of place and the sanctity of buildings - appeared as part of a larger, politically inspired formulation that interwove power and status. And yet the construction and perception of sanctity remained remarkably different in each. This distinction is borne out by the analysis of the most important churches of these two cities, the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. The construction histories and the recorded responses emphasize their fundamental differences.
Simply put, in Christian Jerusalem sanctity was embedded in the topography, particularly in the sites associated with the Passion of Christ. Each locus sanctus was fixed precisely where the event had occurred, and in Christian practice it was provided with a monumental frame and a ritual of commemoration. As Smith explains, “the specificity of place is what gives rise to and what is perpetuated in memorial.”2 Within the context of its urban development, its sanctity was fixed and immutable, and history, ritual, and loca sancta merged in the experience of the faithful. This is a constant theme in the accounts of early Christian visitors to Jerusalem. For example, St. Jerome told of the efficacy of worship within the holy places, where the events commemorated could be
10.1. Jerusalem, aerial view with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the foreground and the Dome on the Rock in the background. Photo Duby Tal, Albatross Aerial Photography, Jerusalem.
10.2. Istanbul (Constantinople), view looking toward Hagia Sophia from Galata. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
Made spiritually present through ritualized veneration: “Whenever we enter [the Tomb of the Lord],” he wrote, “We see the Savior lying in the shroud. And lingering a little, we see again the angel sitting at his feet and the handkerchief wound up at his head.”3 Because the exact locations of the Crucifixion, Entombment, and Resurrection were fixed, set precisely where the sacred events had occurred, the faithful could experience there the “real presence” of holy persons and events; this belief gave the loca sancta power in the Christian imagination. The specificity of place is emphasized in pilgrimage literature as a validation of the scripture.4 As Jerome relates, following the psalm, it is the Christian obligation to worship “where his feet have stood.”5
Constantinople, on the other hand, had no significant Christian history prior to its refoundation as an imperial capital by Constantine in 324-330. In fact, prior to Constantine, it had no significant history at all. Thus, in contrast to Jerusalem, Smith emphasizes the novelty of Constantinople as a ritual site, which could be “deliberately crafted as a stage for the distinctive drama of the early Byzantine liturgy and for the later complex elaboration of imperial-Christian ritual.” 6 Yet, from the standpoint of ritual, although novelty may result in functional gain and freedom to innovate, it may also result in ideological loss and lack of
Resonance in the relationship of old and new. Because Constantinople did not suffer the restrictions of a memorialized past, it could, in effect, free-associate. In a recent study of the public sculptural displays in the early city, Sarah Bassett emphasizes that Constantine’s city was very much an intellectual construct, consciously or even self-consciously crafted to resonate historically, mythically, and religiously. It could be New Rome, but it could also be celebrated as New Athens, or even New Troy.7 All were potent metaphors, but none of these associations existed prior to Constantine’s refoundation. They were consciously constructed.
As with much of its historical and mythical symbolism, the sanctity of Constantinople was also consciously constructed. The city became head of the Orthodox Church through political means, rather than because of any previous sacred associations. The latter was obviously a matter of some concern and was compensated in several ways - most notably by the acquisition of relics, for which the city became famous. More than thirty-six hundred relics are recorded, representing at least 476 different saints, most of which were imported.8 It was thus celebrated as New Jerusalem as well. We can trace the beginnings of the city’s imported sanctity to the Church of Holy Apostles, begun by Constantine to be his place of burial. Both its early architectural history and the date of the arrival of relics at the site are highly contested. By mid-century, the church consisted of a cruciform basilica with an adjoining, centrally planned mausoleum containing the tomb of Constantine. Surrounding the altar, the basilica housed twelve thekai representing the twelve Apostles, to which were added the mortal remains of Timothy, Andrew, and Luke, brought in from different locations. Although rebuilt under Justinian and destroyed in the fifteenth century, one important message of the early building remains clear: with the possession of relics, any church could be a martyrium; any church could become the goal of pilgrimage.9 That is, holy sites and venerated tombs, whose locations may have been originally fixed and immutable, could be relocated to more advantageous situations. This translation signals the beginning of a flood of holy relics into Constantinople.
But few of the city’s important relics were site-specific. For example, St. Euphemia, one of the city’s few local martyrs, was originally venerated in the Asiatic suburb of Chalcedon, where a martyrium was constructed, with her tomb in a chapel adjoining the sanctuary. In the troubled seventh century, when the Asian shore was threatened by Persian attack, her relics were transferred into the city by the Emperor Heraclius for safekeeping, either in 615 or 626.10 Eventually they came to be housed in a more centrally located church dedicated to her, by the Hippodrome, formerly the triclinium of the fifth-century palace of Antiochos. It is not entirely clear when this occurred, but once Euphemia was established near the Hippodrome, tombs and mausolea were added around the building as her cult grew in importance. . 1 Curiously, rather than being fixed and immutable, her original place of burial seems to have been gradually forgotten. That is to say, the relics, wherever they were, assumed greater importance than her original place of burial. Another telling example, the robe of the Virgin, was kept at the Blachernai Church since its arrival in Constantinople in the fifth century.12 Regarded as the sacred palladion of the city, its resting place was considerably less important than its activated presence. In its protective role, the robe was empowered by parading it along the city walls in times of crisis.13 Indeed, the efficacy of the relic as protector of the city seems to have depended on its movement through space.
Of course, architecture contributed to the construction of a spiritual landscape, but in Constantinople its role is primarily as ceremonial setting; monumental buildings almost never appear as commemoration of place. The Great Palace of the Byzantine Emperors, for example, was regarded as sacred because it was the home of Christ’s earthly representative, but more specifically because it was the setting of the rituals and ceremonies that guaranteed taxis, the order of the well-governed Christian cosmos, as the Ceremony Book explains.14 That is, rather than commemorating events that had occurred in a specific location in the historical or legendary past, its significance as setting was directly related to universal - not site-specific - concerns of the present and future. The palace was also a great repository of relics, many of which figured prominently in court ceremonial. 3 5 Like the Blachernai relic, however, they seem to have been more important when activated in the rituals of the court than as markers of sacred sites. Moreover, site selection for the Great Palace ultimately depended on the location of the pre-existing Hippodrome rather than any specific topographic association. It had become standard by late antiquity for the imperial residence
10.3. Istanbul (Constantinople), Hagia Sophia, as seen from west. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
To connect to a hippodrome, following the model established in Rome. One recalls that in Rome, the Domus Augustana on the Palatine Hill was associated with the hut of the city’s legendary founder Romulus, as well as the sites of a variety of other events in the urban mythology.16 Its ceremonial association with the adjacent Circus Maximus developed only gradually but ultimately set the model for situating the palace in Constantinople.17
Just as the meaning of Constantine’s city was consciously constructed, so too was the meaning of Justinian’s church of the Hagia Sophia (Figs. 10.3-10.4).. Hagia Sophia, the church of the Holy Wisdom, famously dedicated to a concept and not to a person, originally had no specific sacred associations and contained no important relic. 1 9 More correctly, at the time of its initial construction in the mid-fourth century, the Holy Wisdom had come to be identified with the second person of the Trinity, that is, Christ. There were also other “conceptual” churches in Constantinople, dedicated to Eirene (Peace), Dynamis (Power), Homonia (Concord), and Anastasis (Resurrection).20 One wonders if the choice of dedications might be considered part of a larger intellectual construct in the formation of an urban identity for the new capital. When
10.4. Istanbul (Constantinople), Hagia Sophia, interior looking east. Photo Sebah & Joaillier, ca. 1869, collection of Robert Ousterhout.
The first Hagia Sophia was rebuilt in 415, the relics of Joseph (son of Jacob) and Zaccharias (father of John the Baptist) were deposited at the dedication. But these were never particularly important. Hagia Sophia did not commemorate any specific site, nor any specific event.
Rebuilt by Justinian, it was in the words of Cyril Mango a “gigantic, novel and ruinously expensive pile.”21 The church of the Holy Wisdom was, more than anything, a symbol of the rule of Emperor Justinian, and its construction came at a critical point in his reign. In 532, the feuds between the various political factions in Constantinople culminated in a rebellion, called the Nike Rebellion for the shouts of “Victory!” by the participants. Much of the city was set ablaze, including the old cathedral. A new emperor was proclaimed by the rabble, and Justinian was said to have been on the verge of fleeing but was rallied by the courage of his consort Theodora. The riot was quelled, with thousands massacred, and Justinian emerged secure in his imperial power.
Much of Constantinople had been devastated, and Justinian set about to rebuild the city in his own image, so to speak. The reconstruction of
Hagia Sophia was his first project. He engaged two architects with theoretical backgrounds, Anthemius of Tralles and Isidorus of Miletus, to create a unique monument. They designed a building that was more of a study in geometry than anything else. It is worth emphasizing the theoretical backgrounds of the architects, for no one with a practical background would have attempted such an experimental building on such a grand scale.22
In plan, Hagia Sophia follows the model of an Early Christian basilica, with a nave flanked by side aisles, but it differs dramatically in elevation, with vaulting introduced throughout the building, framing an enormous, centrally positioned dome. Thus, in addition to the longitudinal axis of the plan, a centralizing focus is introduced into the interior. The great dome, 100 feet in diameter, is the dominant theme of the building’s design, as it soars 180 feet above the nave. We normally discuss Hagia Sophia today in terms of its structural system, but Justinian’s biographer Procopius emphasized the quality of the space in Hagia Sophia. He notes the effect of early morning sunlight, which gave the impression that the light is generated by the building itself. The original dome, as he describes it, was “. . . wonderful in its beauty yet altogether terrifying by the apparent precariousness of its composition. For it seems somehow not to be raised up in a firm manner, but to soar aloft to the peril of those who are in there. . . ”23 His comments are not addressed to the structural system, but to the aesthetic effect of the interior. The architects consciously created a dematerialized impression in the interior, emphasizing the transcendental. All surfaces were lush and reflective: the vaults were covered with more than four acres of gold mosaic, the walls and floors with “meadows” of many-colored marble revetments and inlays. Even the structural elements lose the appearance of support: the solidity of the piers vanishes behind such lavish coverings, and the lack of vertical alignment in the nave and gallery colonnades denies their structural role and reduces them to decorative screens. The carved marble details encourage such an interpretation: capitals, spandrels, and decorative borders are heavily undercut, the vegetal patterns executed with a drill. The delicate and lacelike surface is emphasized, and these pieces seem unable to support anything of substance. The sense of weightlessness, despite the great mass of the building, led Procopius to conclude that great dome was not supported from below but suspended by a golden chain from heaven.24
Hagia Sophia is all about architecture - a building, and the process of building as metaphor. It was a flexible symbol that could be read in a variety of ways and whose meaning shifted with fundamental changes in Byzantine society. As a potent visual symbol of the sacred character of the city, it acted as a magnificent stage for the intersection of imperial and religious ceremonies that underscored Byzantine social order. It was through ritual that the sanctity of the building was invoked. The architecture of Hagia Sophia was meant to remove the ceremonies it housed from common existence, to transform them into heavenly dramas. By the tenth century, the Ceremony Book lists seventeen special events in which the emperor officially participated.25 Set in the magnificent interior, the Kiss of Peace between the emperor and the patriarch would have emphasized the unity of church and state. In 987, when the ambassadors of the Russian Prince Volodymir attended the liturgical celebrations in Constantinople, they responded: “We knew not whether we were in heaven or on earth. . . we only knew that God dwells there among men. . . we cannot forget that beauty.”26 It is a rare historical event when a nation is converted on the impression of a building.
In spite of damage and repairs, including the complete or partial collapse of the great dome on three separate occasions, Justinian’s church retained its impressive appearance throughout the Byzantine period. With its great, gilded dome seeming to float above its immense nave, the church still inspires awe, as well as metaphor. Justinian’s unique creation may have been meant to evoke the Heavenly Jerusalem, or the Throne of God, or the Temple of Jerusalem, or quite possibly all three. Procopius writes, “Whenever anyone enters to pray, he understands at once that it is not by human power and skill, but by God’s will that this work has been so finely finished. His mind is lifted up to God and floats on air, feeling that God cannot be far away, but must especially love to dwell in this place, which He has chosen.”27 Similar themes echo in the ninth - or tenth-century, semilegendary Diegesis, which recounts that the bricks of the building were stamped with the verses of Psalm 45, reading “God is in her midst, she shall not be moved.” Gilbert Dagron extends the metaphor to suggest that as Hagia Sophia increased in prestige, it came to be regarded as the new Temple of Solomon, thereby equating Constantinople with Jerusalem.28 Generations of Byzantine rhetoricians waxed eloquent on the subject of the meaning of the Great Church. I wonder sometimes if the interpretation of Hagia Sophia could have been a standard exercise in Byzantine schools of rhetoric, much as we assign our Art History students similar essays today.
The excavation and study of the church of Hagios Polyeuktos, built shortly before Hagia Sophia by Justinian’s political rival, Anicia Juliana, encourage an Old Testament interpretation.29 As the excavator Martin Harrison has argued, H. Polyeuktos replicated the Temple of Solomon in its measurements, translated into Byzantine cubits: measuring 100 royal cubits in length, as was the Temple, and 100 in width, as was the Temple platform - following both the unit of measure and the measurements given in Ezekiel. Harrison estimates the sanctuary of the church to have been 20 royal cubits square internally, the exact measurement of the Holy of Holies. Similarly, the ostentatious decoration compares with that described of the Temple, if we let peacocks stand in for cherubim, we have cherubim alternating with palm trees, bands of ornamental network, festoons of chainwork, pomegranates, network on the capitals, and capitals shaped like lilies (Fig. 10.5).30
A powerful noblewoman, Anicia Juliana was one of the last representatives of the Theodosian dynasty, who could trace her lineage back to Constantine. When her son was passed over in the selection of emperor in favor of Justin I and subsequently Justinian, the construction of H. Polyeuktos became her statement of familial prestige. It was the largest and most lavish church in the capital at the time of its construction. The adulatory dedicatory inscription credits Juliana with having “surpassed the wisdom of the celebrated Solomon, raising a temple to receive God.”31 In this context, Hagia Sophia could be seen as part of a larger, competitive discourse between political rivals. Justinian’s famous, if legendary, exclamation at the dedication, “Enikesa se Solomon!” “Solomon, I have vanquished thee!” may have been directed more toward Juliana than toward Jerusalem.32 In addition to the double entendre, there might also be a pun here: Enikesa : Anikia. Procopius uses similar Temple-like language about Hagia Sophia, insisting that God “must especially love to dwell in this place which He has chosen.”3 3 The discourse, I would
10.5. Istanbul, (Constantinople) H. Polyeuktos, remains of decorated niche from the nave, with inscription, now in the Archaeological Museum. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
Argue, was ultimately more about the construction of divinely sanctioned kingship than about sacred topography. Clearly, both Juliana and Justinian understood the symbolic value of architecture, with which they could make powerful political statements.
Recent studies have offered a more nuanced history to the architectural discourse, suggesting that HH. Sergios and Bakchos appeared as an intermediary between H. Polyeuktos and H. Sophia, and revising the dates of the first two churches.34 Although the new chronology would place the initial construction into a somewhat different context than the rivalry between Juliana and Justinian, J. Bardill insists that it “was doubtless intended to make a striking political and religious statement.” With all of its ostentation, however, H. Polyeuktos never figured prominently in the sacred landscape of Constantinople. By contrast, the idea of a sacred presence at Hagia Sophia relied more on its scale and magnificence than on any intended architectural symbolism.
In Byzantine accounts of Hagia Sophia, what is not said may be just as important as what is: no specific historic events are associated with the building; nor is there any explanation of why the building is situated
10.6. Jerusalem, Holy Sepulchre, plan of fourth-century complex: (1) Patriarchate, (2) Anastasis Rotunda, (3) Tomb Aedicula, (4) Courtyard, (5) Calvary, (6) Constantinian Basilica, (7) Atrium. Robert Ousterhout with A. Papalexandrou.
Where it is. At the Holy Sepulchre, it is exactly the opposite. Historic events and specific associations with place are precisely what give the building its meaning. Constantine’s biographer Eusebius refers to the church as “witness to the resurrection,” “scene of the great struggle,” “the place of the saving sign,” a “memorial of eternal significance,” and “a trophy of victory over death.”36 Marking the sites of Christ’s Crucifixion, Entombment, and Resurrection, the spiritual significance of the church of the Holy Sepulchre guaranteed the building a tumultuous history.
As begun by Constantine the Great in 326, the Holy Sepulchre isolated the most significant holy sites - Calvary and the Tomb - and established the basic architectural features to glorify them (Figs. 10.6-10.7). The complex of buildings included an atrium, a five-aisled basilica with its apse oriented to the west, a courtyard with the rock of Calvary in the southeast corner, and, finally, the great Rotunda of the Anastasis (Resurrection), housing the Tomb of Christ.37 Eusebius claimed that all remains of an earlier Roman temple had been removed to purify the site; in fact, as the archaeologist Virgilio Corbo has shown, several Roman walls and foundations were incorporated into the Constantinian complex, and these help to explain many of its irregularities.38
Following its destruction in 1008, the church complex was rebuilt circa. 1048 with the financial support from Byzantium.39 As reconstructed, the Holy Sepulchre followed Byzantine architectural ideas,
10.7. Jerusalem, Holy Sepulchre, interior of the Anastasis Rotunda, looking west toward the Tomb Aedicula. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
Probably directed by a master mason from Constantinople. Neither the basilica nor the atrium was reconstructed. The Anastasis Rotunda was provided with an apse, and the courtyard was enveloped by numerous annexed chapels organized on two levels. Along its eastern perimeter, the chapels marked events from the Passion of Christ, including the Prison of Christ, the Flagellation, the Crown of Thorns, the Division of the Garments, and, in an elevated position, the chapel of Calvary, above the so-called Chapel of Adam. Stairs led down to a grotto, identified as the site of the Invention of the Cross. There were additional chapels on the gallery level, above Calvary.
With the conquest of Jerusalem at the completion of the First Crusade in 1099, the complex was given a more unified appearance, incorporating elements associated with Western European pilgrimage architecture (Figs. 10.8-10.9). The crusaders’ project seems to have been motivated by the limited scale of the existing building. William of Tyre noted that at the time of the First Crusade, “ . . . there was only a rather small chapel here, but after the Christians, assisted by divine mercy, had seized Jerusalem with a strong hand, this building seemed to them too small. Accordingly, they enlarged the original church and added to it a new building of massive and lofty construction, which
10.8. Jerusalem, Holy Sepulchre, plan of twelfth-century complex: (1) Patriarchate, (2) Anastasis Rotunda, (3) Tomb Aedicula, (4) Crusader Choir, (5) Chapel of St. Mary (eleventh century), (6) Subsidiary chapels (eleventh century), (7) Prison of Christ, (8) Ambulatory and radiating chapels, (9) Chapel of St. Helena, (10) Chapel of the Finding of the Cross, (11) Calvary, (12) Monumental entrance. Robert Ousterhout with A. Papalexandrou.
10.9. Jerusalem, Holy Sepulchre, view toward the south transept fagade. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
Enclosed the old church and in marvelous wise included within its precincts the holy places. . .
Beginning circa 1114, the Cloister of the Canons was built to the east of the Byzantine complex, on the site of the Constantinian basilica. The subterranean chapel of St. Helena was built into its foundations.41 The Anastasis Rotunda was left in its eleventh-century form, but the Byzantine courtyard and its subsidiary chapels were replaced by a domed transept and pilgrimage choir, with its three apsidioles replacing the Byzantine chapels. The chapel of Calvary was expanded, but contained within the eastern portions of the south transept. To connect the crusader transept to the Anastasis Rotunda, the Byzantine apse was removed, and the portals to either side were enlarged. The choir was dedicated (although certainly not completed) in 1149 to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the conquest of Jerusalem.42 For the first time, all of the Holy Sites were both visually connected and housed under one roof. As one entered the building through the south transept, one could experience a panoramic view that swept from Calvary to the extreme right, across the crusader transept, and to the Tomb of Christ on the left side, visible through the enlarged doors to the Rotunda. Nevertheless, in its final form the Holy Sepulchre is as awkward as the Hagia Sophia is monumental. There is an old joke that a camel is a horse designed by a committee; in architectural terms, the Holy Sepulchre is a camel.
Throughout the Middle Ages, descriptions of the architecture of the Holy Sepulchre are at best vague and have led to all sorts of amusing reconstructions. When architectural references appear, they are meant to situate the reader in relationship to the holy places. The construction of the Holy Sepulchre never inspired detailed descriptions as the Hagia Sophia did. The architectural setting may have been appropriate to the sanctity of the site, but it was certainly not wonderful - it never inspired awe. If anything of the character of the building is emphasized in the historical accounts, it is the its venerable antiquity. But it was the awe-inspiring sacred contents - the Tomb of Christ and Calvary - that gave the architectural setting its meaning, not the quality of its space. Moreover, because of the fundamental importance of the events it commemorates, the Holy Sepulchre does not allow any flexibility to its interpretation; it inspires no metaphorical flourishes, for the meaning of the building is firmly grounded in the Crucifixion, Entombment, and
Resurrection. Unlike Hagia Sophia, in which ritual invokes the sanctity of the building, at the Holy Sepulchre, it is the inherent sanctity of place that inspires ritual - and gives meaning to the architectural forms.
What the Holy Sepulchre shares in common with the Hagia Sophia is that in both buildings the very fabric came to be regarded as sacred, and that with the passage of time the church itself came to be treated as a holy object. In the accounts of Russian pilgrims to Constantinople, for example, they “visit” other churches, but they “venerate” Hagia Sophia.43 To be sure, Hagia Sophia acquired a collection of relics, including many associated with the Temple of Jerusalem, but they were clearly secondary to the architecture - that is to say, they were as important to the experience as the Guggenheim art collection is to Frank Geary’s new museum in Bilbau. The building speaks for itself.
In contrast, the architecture of the Holy Sepulchre came to be regarded as sacred by virtue of what is housed. In this respect it could be regarded as a venerable reliquary or perhaps more appropriately as a contact relic. This ultimately compromised the unity of design in medieval rebuildings, in which as much as possible of the older building was maintained as new portions were added. The masons were obliged to balance aesthetic and structural decisions with spiritual concerns: the revered antiquity of the building constituted a more potent expressive force than the latest imported architectural features. I am reminded of Abbot Suger’s explanation of his additions to the monastery church at St.-Denis. to “respect the very stones, sacred as they are, as if they were relics.”44 The architecture became an inextricable element in the experience and meaning of the place.
Within Constantinople, we may witness the construction of a sacred topography in many different ways, but it was not the topography of Jerusalem, and its sanctity was both constructed and perceived differently. Constantinople became “the city” (he polls) but it never became “the place” (ho topos). Like Gertrude Stein’s Oakland, there was no there there. As it gained in sacred character, it could be likened to Jerusalem, in its heavenly and earthly aspects, which it neither replicated nor replaced. The distinction becomes readily apparent when we examine the Byzantine attitude toward pilgrimage. Even the Byzantine terminology marks the process as something different from the familiar, western medieval concept. Our word pilgrimage derives from the Latin peregrinus, meaning stranger or foreigner, and thus peregrinatio implies travel to foreign lands. The equivalent Greek word for pilgrimage is proskynesis - the same used for prayer or veneration, and scholars have argued that after the Early Christian period, pilgrimage as we think of it was literally a foreign concept within Byzantium.45 There is ample evidence for veneration of relics, healing shrines, miraculous interventions of saints, and the like, but site-specific veneration was almost entirely a local phenomenon.
Henry Maguire has noted the discrepancy between Byzantine and Western medieval attitudes toward pilgrimage in his comparative studies of Byzantine rhetoric and Latin drama. In Sicily, which had coexistent Latin and Greek Christian populations, the interpretation of sacred texts could stand in sharp contrast.46 For example, Christ’s appearance at Emmaus was popularly reenacted in the Latin Peregrinus Play, presented during the Easter liturgy. In the rubrics, Christ is described as a pilgrim, and in south Italian depictions of Christ’s appearance at Emmaus, he is dressed in pilgrim’s garb. As represented at S. Angelo in Formis, for example, painted before 1086, Christ wears a cap and a shoulder bag and carries a double staff.47
By contrast, in the sermons of the Greek Philagathos, who preached throughout Sicily and southern Italy in the mid-twelfth century, the story of Emmaus is presented differently - and probably in response to the Latin drama. In his Emmaus homily, Philagathos emphasizes the appearance of Christ: not recognized by his disciples, they take him to be a man from Jerusalem based on his outward appearance. As he feigns ignorance of the Crucifixion, the disciples question him, “Are you the only one to sojourn (paroikeis) in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened in these days?” As Maguire notes, the Greek paroikeis is rendered in Latin as peregrinus, which could mean pilgrim, and was elaborated thusly in the Latin play. Educated in the Byzantine cultural tradition, Philagathos will have none of it, and his homily indicates his disapproval of the Latin drama, the misinterpretation of the Gospel, and his lack of appreciation for the phenomenon of pilgrimage at this time.48
Although we know of Byzantine pilgrims traveling to Jerusalem, we have virtually no evidence of a Byzantine ever going to Constantinople solely for the purpose of pilgrimage.49 There is no genre of pilgrimage literature in Byzantium, as developed in the West; most of our pilgrims’ guidebooks to Constantinople were written by Western Europeans or Russians, who came from a different tradition.50 The concept of place, as locus of sanctity, is constructed differently in Byzantium. For example, writing in the early thirteenth century, Nicholas Mesarites recounted the adventures of his brother John, who had attempted secretly to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land but was arrested and returned to the capital before he had traveled very far. His father subsequently reprimanded him: Why would he want to travel to the Holy Land when he could find the same things in Constantinople? Christ’s tomb is there, but his shroud is in Constantinople; Golgotha is there, but Constantinople has the Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the sponge, the lance and the reed. He concludes, “This place. . . is Jerusalem, Tiberias, Mount Tabor, Bethany, and Bethlehem.”51 The relics he mentions were all housed in the church of the Virgin of the Pharos, located within the confines of the Great Palace. To be sure, Byzantine criticism of pilgrimage appears as early as the fourth century, but here Mesarites deconstructs the notion of place, condensing the entire Holy Land into the relic collection of a diminutive palace chapel. Moreover, in Mesarites’s view, the relics represent the sanctity of the city, not a specific place.
In the Byzantine figuration, architecture did not simply house holy objects, it symbolized the sacred presence. Meanings associated with place in Jerusalem and the Holy Land came to be associated with church architecture in Byzantium. This might explain the popularity of the architectural ekphrasis, by which detailed descriptions of buildings appear in texts to represent larger, abstract concerns.5 2 From the Byzantine perspective, the journey to sacred topography was not necessary because the church mystically represented sacred topography. In the often-quoted words of the eighth-century Historia mystagogica, attributed to Patriarch Germanos,53
The church is a heaven on earth where in the heavenly God “dwells and walks.” It typifies the Crucifixion, the burial, and the Resurrection. It is glorified above Moses’s tabernacle of testimony. . . . It was prefigured by the patriarchs, foretold by the prophets, founded by the apostles, and adorned by the angels.
The same text gives a decidedly topographical interpretation to the various parts of the church:
10.10. Chios, Nea Moni Katholikon, interior, looking south, showing so-called Feast Cycle in the transitional zone. Photo Robert Ousterhout.
The apse is after the manner of the cave of Bethlehem where Christ was
Born, and that of the cave where he was buried____The altar is the place
Where Christ was buried, and on which was set forth the true bread from heaven. . . It is also the throne upon which God. . . had rested. At this table too he sat down at his Last Supper. . .
The idea that the Byzantine church could represent the Holy Land was developed by Otto Demus. He termed a common interpretation of the Middle Byzantine pictorial program the topographical: the images of the so-called Feast Cycle, which depicted scenes from the lives of Christ and the Virgin Mary: could transform architecture framework into sacred space (Fig. 10.10). In other words, sacred places could be collapsed into sacred space. Demus wrote:
The building is conceived as the image of (and so magically identified with) the places sanctified by Christ’s earthly life. This affords the possibility of very detailed topographical hermeneutics, by means of which every part of the church is identified with some place in the Holy Land. The faithful who gaze at the cycle of images can make a symbolic pilgrimage to the Holy Land by simply contemplating the images in their local church. This, perhaps, is the reason why actual pilgrimages to Palestine played so unimportant a part in Byzantine religious life.54
What this passage suggests is that we should understand the Byzantine church as more representational than functional, more symbolic than practical. While the meaning of the church building rendered the practice of pilgrimage unimportant, at the same time, when a Byzantine church housed a special, venerated object, there is little in its outward form to indicate a sacred presence. There does not seem to have been a distinctive type of Byzantine church architecture created in response to pilgrimage or to the special requirements of veneration, as is found in Western Europe, with crypts or chevets designed to accommodate the visits of the faithful to venerated tombs and relics. In fact, for Byzantium in general, we only have a vague idea of the setting for special veneration - that is, where within the churches relics were kept and how they were displayed. The typology of Byzantine church architecture seems to depend more on scale than on function.55
To sum up: In Jerusalem, sanctity was imbedded in its topography. Architecture could add validation to the loca sancta, but it was clearly secondary to the experience of place itself. It is worth noting that the majority of holy sites memorialized in the fourth century came with distinctive topographical markers: the rock-cut Tomb, the cave of the Nativity, the cave of the preaching, the footprints in the rock at the site of the Ascension., 6 In Constantinople, by contrast, sanctity was introduced and perpetuated within a complex system that interwove power and status, and architecture functioned as a setting for the rituals that emphasized the interweaving. God could choose to dwell in Hagia Sophia, just as he had chosen to dwell in Solomon’s Temple, because of the piety of its patron and the skill of its builders. As with Justinian’s legendary outburst, “Solomon I have vanquished thee!” we are repeatedly invited to compare Hagia Sophia with the Temple. In both, if we discount possible angelic appearances, the building preceded and inspired the sacred presence, but both buildings could have been built anywhere.
Part of the meaning of the Holy Sepulchre also comes from its association with the Temple, but the relationship of the two is constructed differently. Eusebius calls the Holy Sepulchre “the new Jerusalem, facing the far-famed Jerusalem of olden time.”57 But here we are invited to contrast, not to compare. Constantine’s new church complex rose in visual juxtaposition to the ruins of the Temple, across the Tyropeon Valley. An imposing new work of architecture could testify to the success of the
New Covenant, just as the empty and abandoned remains of the Temple opposite it could represent the failure of the Old Covenant. But place was always more important than building: it didn’t really matter what the church complex looked like. What mattered was the fact that the Holy Sepulchre was - both topographically and symbolically - exactly where it was supposed to be.
Notes
1. Smith 1987. A shorter version of this paper appeared as Ousterhout 2006.
2. Smith 1987, p. 22.
3. Jerome, Ep. 46.5, PL 22; 426.
4. This theme is developed in several essays included in Ousterhout 1990, in particular MacCormack 1990; see also Vikan 1986.
5. Jerome, Ep. 46.7, PL 22, 488; as noted by MacCormack in Ousterhout 1990,
P. 21.
6. Smith 1987, p. 75.
7. Fenster 1968, p. 177; see also the analysis by Bassett 2004.
8. Meinardus 1970, pp. 130-3. See the discussion by Wortley 1982, p. 254; Maraval 1985, pp. 92-104.
9. See Cameron and Hall 1999, chs. 58-60, pp. 176-7; with commentary, pp. 337-9; also Mango 1990, pp. 51-62.
10. AASS, Sept., V: 275; Nauman and Belting 1966, pp. 23-4.
11. Naumann and Belting 1966, pp. 49-53; with limited remains, the dates of the mausolea remain uncertain. Mathews had argued for a sixth-century conversion for building on the overwhelming sixth-century character of its liturgical furnishings - that is, he proposed that the conversion had occurred before the transfer of relics: Mathews 1977, pp. 61-7. However, a close examination of the evidence suggests that the sixth-century marbles are spolia, and thus a later conversion sees more likely - perhaps even as late as the 796 restoration by Eirene and Constantine VI: Mango 1999, pp. 79-87. I thank Jordan Pickett for his observations of H. Euphemia.
12. Baynes 1949a, pp. 87-95; Baynes 1949b, pp. 165-77 (both reprinted in Baynes 1955); Cameron 1978; Cameron 1979.
13. As above, n. 12, esp. Cameron 1979.
14. McCormick 1991; De ceremoniis, book 2, praefatio, ed. Reiske 516.
15. Kalavrezou 1997.
16. Platner and Ashby 1929, pp. 101-2.
17. Platner and Ashby 1929, pp. 114-20.
18. The literature on Hagia Sophia is voluminous; see Mainstone 1988, with earlier bibliography.
19. As emphasized by Mathews 1971 , pp. 105-80; see also Mainstone 1988 .
20. Mango 1997, p. xxiii: all but Concord, part of the pagan or imperial vocabulary, would refer to Christ.
21. Mango 1997, pp. xxvi-ii.
22. For the Byzantine architect, see Downey 1946-1948; and more recently, Ousterhout 1999, esp. pp. 39-85.
23. Procopius, Buildings, I. i. 33-34; ed. Dewing, p. 16; trans. Mango 1972, p. 74.
24. Procopius, I. i.47; Mango 1972, p. 75.
25. Vogt 1935-39, passim; note also Baldovin 1987, pp. 167-226, on the stational liturgy of Constantinople; also Cameron, 1987.
26. For text, Zenkovsky 1963, pp. 66-67.
27. Procopius, I. i. 62-63; Mango 1972, p. 76.
28. Dagron 1984, pp. 293-309.
29. Harrison 1986, esp. pp. 410-11; Harrison 1989; Harrison 1984, pp. 276-9.
30. Harrison 1986.
31. Harrison 1986, pp. 5-7.
32. Ed. Preger, I, 105; Dagron 1984, pp. 303-9.
33. Procopius, Buildings, I. i.61-62.
34. Bardill 2004, pp. 62-4 and 111-16, dates the bricks from the substructure to the period 508/9 to 511/2, and those of the superstructure to 517/8 to 521/2; see also review by Ousterhout 2005.
35. Bardill 2006, pp. 339-70, with a thorough bibliography; note esp. pp. 339-40. All the same, it is difficult to argue that the specific model for Juliana’s church was Ezekiel’s Temple, particularly when the dedicatory inscription refers to Solomon. Whereas the underlying symbolism derives from the Temple, most likely it was not a representation of one particular Temple, although Ezekiel’s or Solomon’s might have been called to the fore as the political or religious occasion prompted. Note also Croke 2006, for an earlier date for HH. Sergios and Bakchos; and Ousterhout 2010, for a review of Solomonic themes in Byzantine architecture.
36. Eusebius, V. Const, 3.33.1-2, trans. Cameron and Hall 1999, p. 135; extensive commentary, pp. 273-91.
37. The standard monograph remains Vincent and Abel 1914, vol. 2. The history of the building is summarized in Ousterhout 1989, and Ousterhout 2003, Corbo 1981, 3 vols., is indispensable and has superseded all previous publications on the subject, but without providing a full analysis of its architectural remains. A less satisfactory account, with imaginative reconstruction drawings is provided by Couasnon 1974, More recently, see Taylor and Gibson 1994, for important observations on the site of the Constantinian building, although their essays at reconstruction are less useful. Biddle, 1999, offers important observations on the building’s history while focusing on the present condition of the tomb aedicula.
38. Corbo 1981, I, 41-42; Eusebius, Vita Constantini, 3:26.
39. Ousterhout 1989; Biddle 1999, pp. 77-81, has questioned the attribution of the Byzantine reconstruction with Constantine Monomachus, preferring his predecessor Michael IV (1034-41). The association with Constantine Monomachus was recorded after ca. 1165 by William of Tyre, based on local tradition, although the reconstruction may have been begun several decades earlier.
40. William Archbishop of Tyre 1943, p. 344; Folda 1995, p. 503, n. 121.
41. Folda 1995, pp. 57-60, and 517, n. 3; and fig. 5 for plan of the cloister (reproduced from Enlart).
42. Folda 1995, esp. p. 178.
43. Majeska 1984, p. 199.
44. Panofsky 1946, pp. 100-1.
45. Mango 1995, pp. 2-3; Carr 2002, esp. pp. 76-77 (and other studies in the same volume devoted to Byzantine pilgrimage); see also Vikan 1991; Ousterhout 2000.
46. Maguire 2001 ; Maguire 2003 .
47. Maguire 2001, pp. 222-5, and fig. 2.
48. Ibid., pp. 225-7.
49. Greenfield 2000; see also Kaplan 2002, pp. 109-27; Talbot 2002.
50. Ciggaar 1996; Majeska 1984.
51. Heisenberg 1922, p. 27; see Magdalino 2004 (whom I thank for the reference).
52. Ousterhout 1999, pp. 36-7; James and Webb 1991.
53. Brightman 1908; significant portions are translated in Mango 1972, pp. 141-3.
54. Demus 1948, p. 15.
55. See comments by Ousterhout 1996.
56. Curcic 2006.
57. Eusebius, V. Const. 3.33.1-2; Smith 1987, p. 83.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
DIVINE LIGHT: CONSTRUCTING THE IMMATERIAL IN BYZANTINE ART AND ARCHITECTURE
Slobodan Curcic
When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the testimony in his hand as he came down from the mountain, Moses did not know that the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God. And when Aaron and all the people of Israel saw Moses, behold, the skin of his face shone, and they were afraid to come near him. But Moses called to them; and Aaron and all the leaders of the congregation returned to him, and Moses spoke with them. And afterward all the people of Israel came near, and he gave them in commandment all that the Lord had spoken with him in Mount Sinai. And when Moses had finished speaking with them he put a veil on his face; but whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak with him, he took the veil off, until he came out; and when he came out, and told the people of Israel what he was commanded, the people of Israel saw the face of Moses, that the skin of Moses' face shone; and Moses would put the veil on his face again, until he went in to speak with him.1
The quoted passage from the Book of Exodus refers to the visible evidence of Moses’ encounter with God atop Mt. Sinai - “the skin of his face shone.” The following passage from the Book of Matthew describes the Transfiguration of Jesus atop Mt. Tabor:
And after six days Jesus took with him Peter and James and John his brother, and led them up a high mountain apart. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like sun and his garments became white as light, And behold there appeared to them Moses and Elijah talking with him. And Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord it is well that we are here; if you wish, I will make three booths here, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.’ He was still speaking, when lo, a bright cloud overshadowed them, and a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him.’ When the disciples heard this, they fell on their faces, and were filled with awe. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Rise and have no fear.’ And when they lifted up their eyes, they saw no one but Jesus only.2
The quoted accounts of the two quintessential biblical theophanies are key reminders of the invisibility of God in both the Old and the New Testament traditions. In both instances it is light that appears as the only manifestation of divine presence. Reflecting the Second Commandment that states: “You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above. . .” (Ex. 20:4) in each of the two theophanies, a human being - Moses and Christ - became instruments of transmission of Divine Light for the benefit of human perception. There is a fundamental difference between the two theophanies, however, that also must be underscored. While in both accounts it was the faces - of Moses and of Christ - that shone, in the case of Christ, his garments also “became as white as light.” Moses, we must remember, was a man chosen by God; consequently, we might say, he was “irradiated” by Him. Christ, by contrast, was God incarnate, made visible on earth by virtue of his flesh and his distinctive, human form.
While in Judaism the message of the Second Commandment was clear and was universally observed, the Christian tradition grappled with the issue of representation of God for a long time with eventually differing approaches in the Eastern and Western Christian traditions. This paper cannot and will not presume the task of exploring the various aspects and histories of the Christian debate regarding representations of divinity. It will only consider the role of certain specific means of representing Divine Light in the Eastern Christian or Byzantine artistic and architectural tradition. Specifically, I intend to explore how Byzantine painters and builders employed common symbolic language - expressed in media as different as mosaic, fresco painting and brick and mortar - to convey the notion of Divine Light in physical terms.3 What I hope to demonstrate is that the concept of “construction of sanctity,” to which this volume is dedicated and as it applies to this context, had not only the predictable symbolic, but also distinctly
11.1. Dorset, England, Hinton St. Mary, Roman villa. Floor mosaic, fourth century. Photo © The British Museum.
Tangible, even three-dimensional characteristics in art and architecture of Eastern Christendom.
The problem of depicting Divine Light arose already in the early stages of monumental Christian art. One of the earliest known representations of Christ, on a third-century vault mosaic in a mausoleum discovered in the necropolis under St. Peter’s basilica in Rome, depicts Him glorified by a halo and with an arrangement of rays emanating from his head in such a way that they could at once be understood as a symbol referring to his name ICOYC XPICTOC (Jesus Christ, in Greek), as well as a depiction of rays of Divine Light.'* Another fourth-century image image - from the Roman villa at Hinton St. Mary in Dorset, England - while using the very same formula is a bit more intelligible, not to say “literal” - the Greek letters XP here made clearly visible (Fig. 11.1).
The formula, as illustrated in the mentioned examples, is of interest because it appropriated a pagan idea of the radiant crown as a means of conveying the notion of divinity in the Christian context. Generally understood as coming from the East, the radiant crown became commonplace in the Roman world of the third century, appearing on statues
11.2. Gold coin, minted in Siscia (after 330?). A. Constantine I wearing radiant crown (obverse); B. God Helios (reverse). Photo Belgrade City Museum.
Of oriental divinities, and eventually within the context of Roman imperial iconography, linked to the growing significance of the cult of Sun God, Helios. Common on late-third - and early-fourth-century coinage, it appears also on the coinage of Constantine I, as the coin minted in Siscia, now in the Belgrade City Museum, illustrates (Fig. 11.2).5
World History
