In 1968, the Cleveland Museum of Art put on an exhibition entitled “Chinese Art Under the Mongols” showcasing for the first time the artistic production under Yuan dynasty to the American audience. The exhibition challenged views of Mongol rulers as uncultured barbarians, but only to a certain degree. The following decades saw more exhibitions on Mongol Yuan art in the United States, most notably “The World of Khubilai Khan” in 2010, which made its own contributions toward dislodging the misconceptions held against the Mongol conquerors.

Treating the two exhibitions as “primary texts,” I make a case not only about the art exhibits themselves but also about the narratives they constructed and the intellectual trends they reflected. Can the Mongol Yuan art exhibitions in the United States be seen as a doubled looking-glass, and China under non-ethnically-Chinese rulers, a regime twice refracted and twice imagined under Western eyes? What new meanings have been generated when similar artworks and artifacts were arranged differently in each exhibition? Aside from the cultural splendor of the Yuan dynasty, what can these exhibitions tell us about the so-called “Western” perspective?

To answer these questions, I draw from archival sources and the curators’ writings to resituate the exhibitions in their historical context. From there, I look to sources from outside of the discipline of art history to further ponder the “interior” tension between Han Chinese and non-ethnically Chinese, and the “exterior” tension between the East and the West, both of which played a part in the presentation, reception, and transfiguration of the exhibition’s messages. My findings, though preliminary, challenge the model of linear progression one might be tempted to adopt. Granted, the four decades that separate the two exhibitions have witnessed a general trend in which scholars reexamine their stereotypes, reissue due credit to the Mongol court, and reconsider Chinese art in a global context. However, residues of Orientalist fantasy recur even to this day.

This paper focuses on Utagawa Yoshitoshi’s 1861 print, Furansujin (Frenchman) and the implications of the figures amidst an evolving Japanese environment. The image is set at a turning point in both Japanese and world history as the archipelago is no longer isolated. Delving into the visual language of the work, one can slowly see the pieces of many working parts as women are placed in the center of societal change. There is high significance of this study as Japanese prints play a valuable role in the dissemination of images and information. Small, accessible works such as these help to round out and fill in holes of concepts and histories; easily conveying messages in an understandable visual language. For we know there are records of interactions between East and West before and after isolation, but there is less on individual, common perspective. Additionally, we can investigate and discuss the lack of information on interracial relationships and all their angles. These gaps are important to fill in as recorded history is not always written, and many layers can be created in a print such as this. We want to know how these interactions came to be, how they were viewed by others. What dynamic was created between these individuals, what was common at this time. These are a few of many questions directed towards this topic and imagery. Looking through his series of Westerners in Japan, there is a clear fascination with this idea of clashing cultures and traditions. These ideas give background to both sides found through researching traditions, gender expectations, marriage rituals, and East-West relations and history. This paper is a culmination of evidence from previous research to come to informed conclusions on a work intended to satisfy curiosities. Utagawa Yoshitoshi implements his observational skills and ability to pass between social classes to present both a broad and individualistic view of western customs. Furansujin (Frenchman), can tell us a great deal about shifting perspectives on women, their bodies, and how culture clashes may have influenced such. 

Kent Monkman is a contemporary Canadian Cree photographer, performance artist, and painter whose works largely revolve around historical painting and presentations of previously ignored figures– those of LGBTQ+ and Indigenous identities. Riddled with references to art from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, Monkman utilizes preexisting images to present new takes on these forgotten figures, making them feel as if they were already familiar. It is in this way that Monkman works to destabilize the Western canon, or at the very least, insert the visage of various identities that are integral to the history of North America. In this presentation, Monkman often takes a modern approach by ramping up stereotypes, turning the tables, and overall, remaining unafraid to display the explicit. This can be seen with Indigenous characters who serve as both saviors and oppressors (as opposed to white colonizers), making these figures seem further mythical, or in the sexual and/or violent imagery that makes up the majority of his work. Thus, this piece shall endeavor to explore Monkman’s early works which reflect the Hudson River School and George Catlin in particular, to his more recent paintings and how these historical reworkings offer a more accurate depiction of modern interpretations of the past. Additionally, this work shall refer to other artists who use historical techniques and stylizations and how these may differ from or match Monkman’s own intentions.

When one thinks of Trinidad & Tobago’s Carnival, smiling women and muscled men in large, colorful, feathered costumes first come to mind. Oftentimes, people gloss over Carnival’s radical history based on anti-colonial resistance, along with the gender-bending ole time mas, or folkloric masquerade characters. Despite Carnival’s contemporary perception, the festival has a long history that is not only politically transgressive but also genderqueer. Multiple ole time mas characters are traditionally played by men portraying women, two prevalent characters being Dame Lorraine and Pissenlit, which this presentation will explore. Over the years, the presence of ole time mas has waned while the large, eye-catching costumes known as pretty mas have increased. Today, many Carnival King and Queen costumes resemble a monotonous array of rainbows that tell renditions of mystical Trinbagonian legends. However, in 2016, the legendary mas maker (Carnival costume designer), Peter Minshall designed The Dying Swan: Ras Nijinsky in Drag as Pavlova to set himself apart. Performed by Jha-Whan Thomas, the mas calls back to tradition while simultaneously breaking custom. The title of the performance led to critiques riddled with anti-LGBTQIA+ undertones, but this article addresses faults related to the integrity of the festival as anti-colonial. The Dying Swan represents Trinidad’s multicultural history and reminds the audience that Carnival has always been queer with a simple, yet stylistically complex performance.

This paper provides an in-depth analysis of Weather Side, a tempera painting by Andrew Wyeth completed in 1965 that depicts an intimate view of his neighbor’s (Alvaro “Al” and Christina Olson) home in Cushing, Maine. Despite not showing the physical bodies of either of the Olson siblings in this painting, their presence is felt through use of tone, careful arrangement of the composition, and the part of the house chosen to be shown. Wyeth’s methodical approach to creating the scenes in his paintings not only sees him offering his hyper-realistic representations, but also bending them to fit the narrative to the person or people he strives to portray. Indeed, in ways, his interest in the psychological and subconscious plane was as heightened as many of his abstract expressionist contemporaries. This more cutting-edge approach to painting was then combined with his old-world classical training. The marriage of these two facets is exemplified strongly in Weather Side. Wyeth often lamented that if he were to paint one of his most famous paintings, Christina’s World (1948), again, that he would paint Christina without putting her physically in the painting. This paper will assert that while Weather Side can be related to the lives of both Olson siblings: the viewer is seeing the scene depicted through the eyes of Christina and strives to represent her psychological state during the twilight of her life. The calculated choices Wyeth makes to hint at this idea will be discussed and examined, including the state of the house itself and the shape of the canvas. This discussion will show that Weather Side is an excellent example of Wyeth’s interest in the psychological and is potentially an important successor to Christina’s World.

Popular art is rooted in the white viewpoint as art was historically commissioned by and made for white, often male, audiences. As a result, popular techniques, styles, and mediums are also rooted in the white viewpoint. Contemporary artist Bisa Butler challenges the canon with her unapologetically black perspective of Black leadership with I Am Not Your Negro, a portrait dedicated to civil rights activist James Baldwin. Based on a photograph by Dorothea Lange, I Am Not Your Negro is a life-size quilt that leans on materials and aesthetics relevant to the African diaspora. Dutch wax printed cloth, popular in West Africa, is used in the portrait to address economic disparities afflicted by Black citizens while introducing the nuances of African culture. Additionally, Bisa Butler builds on the AfriCOBRA aesthetic formed by Black artists in the 1960s and 70s, forcing viewers to comprehend Blackness without brown skin as an identifier. The symbolism weaved into this quilt speaks to everyday Black leadership that does not make its way to the evening news. With every stitch, Butler disrupts classical portraiture while allowing viewers to connect back to the history and culture of the African diaspora.

Daniel Spoerri’s tableaux-pièges, often translated as “trap-paintings” or “snare-pictures” are preserved scenes of plates, utensils, and leftovers, taken directly from the remnants of a mealtable. As a part of my senior thesis, which considers conviviality and the everyday in modern and contemporary artworks that center the meal, Spoerri’s trap-paintings are a source of both sociality and a certain time-based darkness. They “trap” scenes of vivacity and communal sharing: thus, both embodying the quotidian-convivial and presenting a threat of immobilizing or stopping life (death). My talk uses several examples of tableaux-pièges, from 1960 to 1991, to discuss the roles of the everyday in (post)modernism, conviviality in food art, and identity in the meals we consume.

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s works are being exploited by way of commercialization and the late artist would have had strong moral objections to the commodification of his art. There is extensive research on both Basquiat’s works and the content of his character, and as of late there has been a recent surge in his art being displayed on clothing, backpacks, shoes and more. These products can be found everywhere ranging from Target to collaborations with brands like Converse and Coach. I believe that Basquiat would have been against these commercial exploits and have come to this conclusion through the in-depth analysis of some of his earlier graffiti works, under his original joint tag – “SAMO,” as well as, paintings such as, Obnoxious Liberals (1982) and Irony of Negro Policeman (1981). In addition to these paintings, my argument is also supported by the shared sentiments and first-hand accounts of Basquiat’s peers and those with whom he had prominent relations. Lastly, as a Black male artist, in an era where Black individuals were (and still are) struggling for equity, Jean-Michel Basquiat’s experiences with the racism that he had faced in interviews and in life, as well as, class issues and his own outlook on such structures play a large part in his views towards the commercialization of art, and more specifically, his own art. These subtopics have aided me in developing my research into the wrongful exploitation of Basquiat’s works further.

Known for his figural realism combined with kaleidoscopic patterned clothing and lavish gold leaf embellishments, Gustav Klimt has been heralded by a number of historians and artists alike, cementing him as a significant symbolist painter, a prominent member of the Vienna Secession, and into the zeitgeist of great European artists. Lesser known, however, is Klimt’s muse and life-partner, Emilie Flöge, a prominent fashion designer and businesswoman in her own right. Although their relationship is surrounded by much speculation regarding their true feelings for one another, one thing is known to be true: Flöge was Klimt’s chosen companion and intellectual equal. Their 27-year long relationship eventually matured into a close, intellectually and emotionally intimate partnership that was ended only with the artist’s death. A testament to platonic love, Klimt and Flöge have left a lasting imprint on the art and design world through their unique bodies of mutually referential and radically intimate work. While Klimt remains in the cultural headspace, Flöge’s work has faded into obscurity; however, her design work is prolific and radically modern, even for today’s standards. Her influence on Klimt’s work has propelled him to his sustained cultural status, imbuing his work with not only passion, but synergistic and acutely modern love.

Marcel Duchamp created The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even, also known as The Large Glass, during the years of 1915-1923. In making this work, Duchamp left the work in his art studio untouched for months, allowing it to collect dust. He wiped most of the dust away but affixed a portion of it to the work permanently. This use of dust takes the substance out of its conventional contexts and pushes it to the point of transformation. This paper argues that dust is sacred. Using surrealist philosophies, this paper considers the ways in which the everyday can be transformed through a change in the way one perceives it. Considered points of reference include André Breton’s notion of convulsive beauty, Mircea Eliade’s writings on the sacred and profane, Bataille’s dissident surrealism, and Duchamp’s philosophy on life and art. These arguments aim to show that the use of dust as a material in The Large Glass allows for the consideration of the connection between the self and the everyday. Becoming aware of this connection and thus pushing dust beyond conventional understanding and into the realm of the sacred becomes a revolutionary act that transforms the way in which one conceives of their sense of self, reality, and freedom.

The beginning of the twentieth century marked the emergence of a mass artistic movement that questioned the traditional conceptualizations of typography and layout, producing a revolution of the printed word. The graphic arts of the Staatliches Bauhaus, especially the design of its printed matter – books, letterheads, posters, and journals – reflect the coterminous typographical experiments conducted by the European avant-garde. The graphic design of the Bauhaus, especially its evolution towards the “New Typography,” can be examined alongside other twentieth-century design-inflected movements. Viewing the development of this style in a temporal context makes visible the porosity of the distinct design movements that existed concurrently on the continent.

The graphic design of the early Weimar Bauhaus reflected the institution’s commitment to craft aesthetics. The school’s graphic work during this time, directed by Lyonel Feininger and Johannes Itten, demonstrated influence from proto-Futurist designers and those affiliated with Futurism and Dadaism. Towards the end of the Bauhaus’ time in Weimar, with the hiring of László Moholy-Nagy, the institution’s graphic design began to take on the recognizable geometry of Russian Constructivism, as well as the interconnected De Stijl movement. Under the guidance of Herbert Bayer at the Dessau Bauhaus, the school began to differentiate itself through the adoption of a radically rationalized graphic identity, exemplified by Bauhaus magazine. The Bauhaus-led proliferation of this design ethos and its associated ideology contributed to the ubiquity of the “New Typography,” an innovation in graphic design characterized by clarity, universality, and above all, a prioritization of the textual message itself.

The core of The Bauhaus Art movement’s modus operandi was to make absolute the union between functionality and design, and in turn, their ethos has become unified with a certain image of ‘modernity’ informed by mass production, aesthetic utility, and artistic function in a post-war Europe. But what does this philosophy of transparent design mean for an institution like the Prison, whose principal function is to disappear, dehumanize, and eliminate?

This paper considers the material and psycho-libidinal impact of the Bauhaus on the so-called ‘modernization’ of prison design, the prison industrial-complex, and the carceral state at large. Beginning with the material retrospective of how Bauhaus’ design was directly implemented in the design of internment facilities, such as Revolutionary Spain’s solitary confinement cells and Bauhaus alumni, Franz Ehrlich’s, role in designing facilities in Nazi Germany’s Concentration Camps. From here, analysis will be placed on how the philosophies of the Bauhaus were directly and indirectly used to inform America’s rapidly expanding carceral system, from architecture to political geography. These effects will be in service to a critique of the industrialization of artistic and internment practices, and their role in building a formulation of ‘modern punishment,’ complete with technologically-enabled modes of surveillance, the industrialization of penal infrastructure, and the transformation of the collective conception of ‘the incarcerated.’ Drawing upon Foucauldian conceptions of discipline and synchronic systems, and placing contemporary penal internment in the framework of Black Critical Theory, this paper will exhibit how modernity itself acts as a technology under-which individuals who (previously or actively) experience incarceration are excluded from the category of personhood within modernity. In closing, placing Bauhaus in the context of the modernization of American incarceration unveils obfuscated processes of brutality and control manufactured by the carceral state, and articulates the imperative of abolition.

Optical brightening agents (OBAs) have been used in papers, fibers, and textiles for decades, allowing objects to appear whiter and brighter as a result of fluorescence. Primary sources often describe these chemicals as having been introduced to the photographic paper industry in the 1950s, which has been further demonstrated through a 2005 study that qualitatively evaluated photographic paper for the presence of OBAs. These findings have been essential in photograph dating practices often implemented by conservators and researchers. The presence of OBAs has been central in uncovering several scandals involving the forged photographs of Lewis Hine and Man Ray. Yale University’s Lens Media Lab, however, has found indications of OBA presence in photographic paper in the decades preceding 1950. Knowing that there would be significant implications within the art market and photograph dating practices if OBAs had been introduced to the paper industry earlier than 1950, my study examined the paper samples used in the 2005 study to quantitatively analyze the presence of OBAs in them. By contextually interpreting the results, we can better understand these discrepancies in OBA presence and develop better-informed practices for the continued research of photographic paper.

With their headache-inducing complementary colors and impossible to read twisting fonts, the psychedelic rock posters of the late 1960s were everything an advertisement was not supposed to be. While often dismissed as being nothing more than LSD-inspired ads, the psychedelic rock posters created in San Francisco were a key visual representation of the counterculture societies forming at the time. Artists such as Wes Wilson and Stanley Mouse made deliberate decisions to go against the conventional norms of poster design to create eye-catching imagery that advertised rock concerts and the counterculture movement alike. Careful analysis of the psychedelic posters, as well as communication with the artists who made them, provides new insight into the intention behind each design decision. The posters promoted a growing movement at the same time as promoting concerts, allowing for the formation of a subculture that challenged the consumerist and complacent ideals of mainstream society. The concerts served as meeting points for like-minded people, and the posters served as beacons to draw in the right crowd, allowing the counterculture movement to flourish in a way that otherwise would not have been possible.

Neş’e Erdok, one of the pioneers of contemporary figurative painting in Turkey, especially in the 1970s and 1980s, had the opportunity to observe many people from different layers in society due to her active life and she never turned her back on society. On the other hand, she is an artist who reflects fragments of her personal life on her canvases. She depicted the beggars, street children, thinner addicts, workers, street vendors, peddlers whom she came across in daily life by paying attention to their moods, and sometimes by showing journeys, depressions, death, and diseases. She has given importance to where the outer world and her inner world intersect and brought them together. In her works, the figure-space relationship, the color tones, the bodies of the figures and the distortions in the body forms reflecting the state of the figures are presented in an expressive style. Social events, traumas, anxieties, feelings of alienation and fears were among her main issues. In this paper, a subjective Neş’e Erdok iconography was created by examining some of her works on the themes of travel, street dwellers and illness, which are basic themes that she has drawn attention during her professional art life.

Performance art has long been understood by art historians as a departure from traditional conventions of art due to its intangible nature and inability to be reproduced. Because of these unique characteristics, the medium quickly became recognized as a tool of deconstruction utilized by women in the 1960s and 1970s to call attention to an oppressive history of art that portrayed women as passive, sexualized objects and is frequently credited as providing women the ability to break away from previous roles and expectations defined by the patriarchy. This understanding of women’s performance art operates under the assumption that performance art is deconstructive by its very nature, and that female performers are simply using the medium as a tool rather than creating their own tools through their art. Examining the performance work of Carolee Schneemann, this paper acknowledges the intentionally deconstructive efforts of the artist and argues against the inherent deconstructive nature of performance. Using Sandra Lee Bartky’s theory of feminine and masculine behaviors as a theoretical basis as well as incorporating historical evidence regarding patterns of bodily movement, I will analyze the physical movements and use of space within Schneemann’s performance of Up to and Including Her Limits to describe the way in which the artist defies traditional gender constructs. In particular, I will discuss how Schneemann departs from movement and body language traditionally labeled as feminine, appropriating masculine body language evident to be historically present within the art world as well as within society. Furthermore, I will describe how her movements in the performance of Up to and Including Her Limits directly act as a deconstructive tool utilized to perform a sexuality that is excluded from the constructs of the male gaze.

The study of an Archaic bronze shield housed at the San Vitale Church in Ravenna, Italy, highlights the cyclic nature of understanding the relationship between the medium’s subjects and well as the relationship between the shield as a utilitarian object and he who wields it. The relief illustrates the climax of The Libation Bearers from Aeschylus’ Oresteia, the murder of Clytemnestra by Orestes. The artwork employs a relatively naturalistic style that is unusual for the archaic period. This piece is a sort of evolutionary intermediate, an amalgamation of varying styles that cannot be perfectly defined. I argue that this liminality of style is further represented by the liminality of the scene it forms as well as the ‘in-between’ nature of the feminine subjects themselves. The women can be understood as embodiments of rites of passage, where they are foiled symbols of life and death whose “interaction. . . comes together to develop the narrative” (Bremmer). The cyclic nature of initiation rites develops a positive feedback loop between medium and portrayal that bolsters one’s understanding of the narrative behind The Libation Bearers as well as one’s understanding of the shield itself.

It can be difficult to recreate the lived experiences of real people from the material objects they leave behind. In recent years, sensory archaeology has offered us new theoretical tools to address this issue by showing how people interacted with material goods to reconstruct their sensory experiences and emotions. These techniques are especially useful in understanding artifacts from high-emotion events and situations like funerals. To truly understand funerary material culture, one must attempt to understand the emotions and reactions of the people who commissioned the funerary objects, planned the funeral, and witnessed the ceremonies. While significant research has been done on funerary material from Roman Egypt, especially mummy portraits, the sensory and emotional experience of attending a Roman-Egyptian funeral has long been neglected. However, the combination of elements of Greek, Roman, and Egyptian funerary practices created a tradition in which the living interacted directly with the dead through a variety of sensory experiences. I argue that linen funeral shrouds, especially when contextualized by their placement on a mummified body, give us insight into these interactions. When placed on the body of the deceased, the shroud elicited visceral reactions from the funeral-goer by representing the deceased individual through a realistic likeness, conforming to the shape of the corpse to remind the viewer that the deceased is present, and depicting aspects of funerary ritual and religious symbolism which would have had deeper meanings to participants in Roman-Egyptian culture. Looking at shrouds as objects of action, that living family members touched and arrayed on the body, helps us see how material goods were a way for them to process grief while participating in longstanding multicultural traditions

In the monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai is a sixth century icon of Saint Peter the Apostle. Unknown to Byzantinists until its rediscovery during the mid-1900s, this icon has since become the subject of robust analysis. Scholars speculate that the icon was produced in a workshop in Constantinople and then gifted to the monastery. The artwork communicates Saint Peter’s roles as eldest apostle, first pope, keeper of the keys to Heaven, and supreme spiritual authority on Earth. The impact of this image lies in its dyadic push and pull of authority and approachability. The painting draws the viewer closer yet also creates a sense of impossible distance. It masterfully projects both power and pathos, absence and presence, matter and spirit.

Oulpios the Roman’s descriptions of prophets and saints (including Saint Peter) developed into a complex visual language that allowed for easy identification of figures in Byzantine art. Saint Peter was consistently depicted as older with a closely cropped light gray beard and hair. Aristotle posited that one’s physical appearance reflects their soul. He uses the phrase “morphe kai to eidos” to describe the duality between matter and spirit. Applying this theory, the facial type is the “matter” of the figure shown and the “spirit” is the saint’s spiritual presence. In Byzantium, it was believed these facial types were not a result of nature’s randomness, or even a saint’s true physiognomy, but resulted upon a saint’s entrance into Heaven. Icons of saints–unlike images of pagan deities–seek to connect viewers with the being who is worshiped. In this way, they act as an intermediary to the prototype, a once-mortal saint now granted eternal life in paradise. His expression is weary, yet not defeated, consummate of a spiritually enlightened individual, especially one entrusted to lead God’s church.

My current research focuses on a 12th-century Byzantine reliquary of the True Cross known as the Esztergom Staurotheke. Originating in Constantinople, this object served as an opulent container for the wooden remains of Christ’s cross, making it a vessel for the most sacred of Byzantine relics. An astonishing combination of gilded silver and enamel, this object poses an arresting mixture of abstract design and elaborate ornament, sacred portraits, and abbreviated narrative. For all of its phenomenal effects, the object has garnered a surprisingly scant amount of scholarly attention. Those who have mentioned the work do so either as an example of this reliquary variety or as evidence of cross-cultural communication between Byzantium and Hungary. There are several elements, however, that discern this object as richly fascinating and opportune for art historical interpretation. This paper will explore the following issues raised by the Esztergom Staurotheke. First, it engages the object’s materiality. How do the various visual combinations, scenes, and designs, as well as the incorporation of physical remains of the True Cross relate to theological concerns current to its making? Second, the presentation considers how viewer response was elicited, or how affect becomes modeled, by the object’s visual and physical elements. Lastly, issues of patronage and ownership will be explored. What was the context of the object’s making and its passing between hands, how did such a work stage an exchange of spiritual power, and what are the larger, contextual implications of this exchange? This case study of the Esztergom Staurotheke aims to demonstrate how form, visual imagery, and materiality interact with the political and theological context of the late 12th century in Europe and the Mediterranean to exemplify the significance of matter and image in creating and dispersing Eastern rhetoric of power and superiority.

The eighth-century Abbasid capital, the Round City of Baghdad, existed in its perfect, circular form for a short period of time. However, even after its ruin, its physical shape and the reasons for its establishment were vehemently remembered in a manner unrivaled in the dense history of Islamic cities. This round city, known as Madinat al-Salam, or the City of Peace, and often described as the dome of Islam became storied. While there are no physical remains of the Round City, the intertwined legends of the city’s site, foundation, and founding caliph established (and perhaps exaggerated) through historical descriptions and stories enable architectural reconstructions of the eighth-century marvel. This foundation lore opened a sphere of myth and memory, and from this realm continued glorifications, reflections, and lamentations of the early Abbasid capital have been elicited in literature after its construction and ruin. Research and writing by scholars across disciplines including history, literature, and art and architectural history delve into the city’s foundation and its mythology as separate entities. Diverging from this dichotomy of study, this research draws a connection between the legends of its foundation and its continued mythology to suggest that the Round City of Baghdad must be studied simultaneously as an architectural site and an imagined landscape.

Illustrated Apocalypse manuscripts played a significant literary and cultural role in the Middle Ages. They provided insight into the path to salvation while compelling series of illustrations elicited audience engagement through visual spectacle. As such, considerable scholarship has been produced on the most significant Apocalypse manuscripts, yet few studies have considered the implications of racial prejudice in an apocalyptic context. To address this lacuna, I will examine the under-studied Apocalypse of 1313 through the lens of otherness. Despite this Apocalypse possessing the longest iconographic cycle of its kind, its ability to escape a more critical scholarly assessment is peculiar and necessitates further consideration. This paper contributes to Apocalypse studies by providing critical insight into the confluence of race and crusading in the later Middle Ages. I argue that the Apocalypse of 1313’s illuminations serve the crusader ethos by displaying anti-Muslim and anti-Semitic sentiments, imbuing the prophetic future with contemporary poignancy for the medieval reader-viewer. Thus, likely made for a French noble patron, the Apocalypse of 1313 functioned to sustain the French crown’s devotion to the reconquest of the Holy Land via biblical exegesis, presenting demonized portrayals of known racial and religious others and their ultimate vanquishment as a reinforcement of the Capetian dynasty’s sacral duty to redeem Christendom and attain eternal salvation.

The draw of medieval art is the possibility it presents: the distance between then and now that opens a world of meaning that modern, more clearly defined art does not. In this realm of possibility, Sir John of Mandeville’s medieval travels become the center of this discussion of gender androgyny in the Middle Ages. The illuminations and detailed descriptions of hermaphroditic monsters within his work prompt curiosity about the concept of medieval gender, and precisely how gender blurs, coalesces, and escapes common binary mindsets. Using Sir John of Mandeville’s travels as a primary source, this piece delves into the complexities of gender presented by the monsters he describes, so closely related to humans that he often calls them men and women. The reality of gender in medieval art is more nuanced than art historians have established; Sir John of Mandeville’s travels illustrate these nuances. He records many instances of gender outside the traditional understanding, promoting further scrutiny of how the medieval world perceived gender. This work combines Mandeville’s travels, secondary source material on medieval gender analysis, as well as visual analysis to argue that Mandeville’s work unravels the binary through their relationship to humans, visual characteristics, illuminations, and the overall popularity of these works within the medieval period.

When the Black Death raged throughout Europe, it left behind a trail of trepidation. The speed at which people succumbed to it caused mass hysteria over whether this event was of supernatural origins. In hopes of preserving their soul, high class individuals began including images of macabre themes, such as The Three Living and the Three Dead, in their prayer books. These memento mori, or reminders of death, attempted to persuade viewers to remain faithful towards their Christian beliefs and resist temptation.

The Prayer Book of Bonne of Luxembourg includes visual imagery and written text of The Three Living and the Three Dead on folios 321 verso and 322 recto. The tale tells of three noblemen who encountered three corpses, all at different stages of decay, whilst on a hunting trip. The corpses mock the noblemen, elucidating that death is inevitable. The noblemen were disturbed by the incident and vowed to improve their behavior and relationship with the Lord before their eventual deaths. Jean le Noir, the principal illuminator, further upholds this theme with illustrations disguised as symbols, such as birds and plants, that share relations with death and the Lord. The vines that border the images and the goldfinches in particular allude to Christ’s sacrifice, reminding the viewer that he endured unimaginable suffering to free humanity from sin and that it should not be easily forgotten.

Aside from these allegories of death, this prayer book demonstrates a shift towards three dimensionality through its use of grisaille on its figures. The drapery worn by the noblemen and the corpses, for example, fall according to the forms of their bodies and have volume. Grisaille allows these figures to appear more sculptural, evolving from past illustrations of drapery. Furthermore, its gray tones against the colorful background could foreshadow the noblemen’s imminent deaths.

Since its inception, the Dance of Death has had many popular culture references across art, music, television, literature, and many other areas. This seemingly innate curiosity concerning death stems from the inevitable, inescapable end to every human life, a fact that became undeniable after catastrophic illness swept across Europe time and again. The Dance of Death emerged after the Black Death led to mass death throughout Europe from 1347 to 1350. Out of the Black Death came “plague art,” which helped people cope with the continuous death they witnessed, with death portrayed as a ceremony everyone could—and eventually, would—participate in. Due to growing interest in the study of the human body during the Renaissance, medical practitioners began to look at what effects dance had within the body, resulting in a variety of positive and negative reactions. These mixed responses may have stemmed from the “dancing plagues” affecting Europe, which were believed to be a punishment from God rather than a health phenomenon. Scholars often suggest Dance of Death images were performative works engaged by viewers to interact with Death without being physically involved in the process. This paper will examine how, starting in the Medieval period, the innate, human curiosity to explore, avoid, and cope with death led to depictions of death as a character, a physical being that comes for everyone without discrimination, dancing on its way.

Late twelfth-century Seljuq Iran saw merchant-class families rise to a level of wealth never before experienced outside the royal court. Merchant families used their wealth to enjoy exuberant luxuries, including hiring musicians to perform in their homes. An iridescent bowl (now in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art) exemplifies their indulgence, both through its sumptuous materiality and its enthralling interior imagery. Two boldly painted female musicians are draped in ornate garments that overflow into a lush garden setting. As one gazes into the bowl, its curvature plays with the light, causing the women to appear to move: their robes ripple; the cypresses sway. The golden sheen of the lusterware is like the glow of the sun warming the skin and reflecting off the scenery. I argue that these sensations compel the viewer to fantasize about being in this garden and hearing the mesmerizing tunes played by these musicians. This bowl reveals the exhilaration of experiencing such luxury in an environment as intimate as the secluded courtyard newly afforded to the aspirational merchants’ homes. The confines of the courtyard concealed the interior activities from prying eyes and ears and protected the participants from punishment by the official laws against music. In the homes of these audacious individuals, this bowl would be displayed to tantalize visitors with the suggestion of the coveted and clandestine activities that occur within. This bowl is a window into the private lives and rebellious fantasies acted out by a class of people with more money than they knew what to do with and the artists whose labor gilded their exploits.

The development of decorative trends in Islamic and Chinese blue-and-white porcelain epitomizes medieval transculturation. Observing patterns of animal decoration on vessels excavated in Safavid Iran, both locally made and imported from China, reveals that Iranian patrons valued work that was recognizably native to its culture of origin over a solely “Islamic” aesthetic. Floral, geometry, and calligraphic motifs were perennial to Islamic ceramicists’ visual repertoires, though the inclusion of animals ebbed by the fifteenth century. Animal presence on Chinese vessels fluctuated; some fourteenth-century examples included phoenixes or dragons, but they drastically reduced in Iran as global demand for Chinese porcelain grew in the fifteenth century. By the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, however, distinctly Chinese animals, such as the auspicious qilin, Buddhist lions, and the ever-popular dragon, were prevalent among exports to Iran. The presence of these unmistakably Chinese creatures reinforces the porcelains’ Chinese origin, even on forms not native to China, and indicates that “authenticity” was a quality especially valuable for medieval Iranian consumers. Conversely, the association between non-figural design and Islamic artistic conventions indicated the same for Iranian-made vessels.

Among historians the word mudéjar has various definitions, as it can refer to a group of people as well as to a decorative and architectural style. This term has been mistakenly interchanged for words like, “Moor,” “Moorish,” “Mozarabic” and “Arabic.” For this presentation, it is imperative to clarify its definition. The etymology of “mudéjar” comes from the Arabic word mudayyan, which translates to “submitted or authorized to remain paying tribute.” This refers to those ethnic Arabs who were allowed to stay within the Iberian Peninsula after the Christian “Reconquista.” Mudéjar architecture was usually executed by mudéjar masters but commissioned by Christian patrons. Therefore, this style became influenced by the Christian-European taste of the aristocracy for over more than three centuries, and the Casa de Pilatos is an example of this. The Casa de Pilatos is one of the best-preserved aristocratic palaces in Spain, it was built as the home for the Enriquez de Ribera family, one of the wealthiest families in Seville. This palace has been historically recognized for its mudéjar architecture, as it exhibits both Islamic and Christian architectural features. The cultural conflation showcased in the Casa de Pilatos mirrors the Islamic-Christian juxtaposition latent during medieval Seville. This presentation will discuss the architecture, decoration, and historical context of the Casa de Pilatos in relation to the modifications done by its different owners. This discussion aims to illustrate the Casa de Pilatos as a faithful example of the mudéjar tradition, characterized by the push-and-pull of decorative forces, and not as a purist representation of Islamic architecture. According to historian Georgiana G. King she describes the nature of the mudéjar as following: “It implies brickwork often, and plaster, […]; it implies cusping always and usually an interlace of forms, and horseshoe arches where practicable. The character is apparent in the coloured tile and cut plaster and inlaid wood[…] Whenever and wherever it was executed it bears the sign that a different and non-European imagination was at work, in the use of 3 the colour, in the invention of the composition, and in the very shape of the curves and angles[…] It can hardly be defined more exactly; but it can be recognized. It gives always a special pleasure, of delicacy, intricacy, subtlety, incredible elusive refinement. Like other things that came out of the East, it is always a little intoxicating.”

The khatchar is an Armenian cultural artifact carved from the mountain stone of this proudly indigenous people. So what happens to this artifact when, in response to the systemic destruction of these artifacts, Armenians are creating replicas made from material other than this ancient stone? This presentation will explore Armenian cultural artifacts and what their destruction means through the lens of material culture. The Armenian cultural artifact in focus is the խաչգար or the ‘Khachkar’. A khachkar is a cross carved into stone with nature motifs. Khachkars serve as a representation and literal manifestation of Armenian craftsmanship and culture. The combination of cultural value, material heritage, and physical craftsmanship imbued within each khachkar means that the destruction of a khachkar is an act of artificially destroying Armenian culture, history, and natural resources native to Armenia. This is why the present-day systematic destruction of Armenian khachkars by surrounding nations is a cultural genocide. Examining the material nature of khachkars as art carved from stone originating in the Armenian highlands furthers this argument. In response to the diasporic movement following the Armenian Genocide of 1915 as well as more recent acts of destruction towards khachkar fields outside Armenian borders, a new iteration of khachkar has emerged– the replica, many iterations of which are notably not carved from Armenian stone. Following the stages of material transformation that accompany the new iterations of the khachkar brings into the conversation the idea of simulacra. These replicas confront how the material composition of the khachkar is central to its being. The distortion of its original stone material parallels a distortion of how the goal behind their production is no longer artistic or faith expression but is now an act of mourning. These replicas’ material composition has been replaced and the journey towards this new material nature is parallel to the systematic historical destruction of Armenian culture, the khachkar cultural genocide. But through the dissemination of these replicas, the khachkar only grows more iconic as a part of Armenian material culture. 

British artist Paul Nash’s landscapes of the Flanders countryside while a military artist in the First World War have an unmistakable apocalyptic connotation. I argue that this interpretation is not incidental, and in fact is heavily rooted in wider eschatological theory as well as Nash’s own, which has been largely informed by his animist beliefs and experiences on the Western Front. Consulting sources regarding eschatological beliefs encompassing WWI England as well as Nash’s own writings, I have crafted what I believe to have been Nash’s personal eschatological theory. This theory is composed of three facets including great powers and their formidable militaries, mass human casualties, and environmental destruction.

This research fills multiple gaps within current art historical as well as eschatological scholarship – Paul Nash’s WWI works have not been seriously examined within an eschatological context and generally eschatological theories of the First World War are not studied thoroughly enough. My research also addresses how the First World War informed ideological beliefs of the soldier and the civilian. As war in Europe continues today, this is a valuable framework under which to consider the Russo-Ukrainian War as well.

This paper explores the work of two Ukrainian female artists: Maria Siniakova, a Kharkiv Futurist who during World War One created a series of anti-militaristic paintings, emphasizing the violence against women, and Dana Kavelina, a contemporary Ukrainian artist whose work deals with the open wounds of the ongoing armed conflict. I look at Siniakova’s painting The War (1915) and Kavelina’s drawing From the Threads of Silence a Pullover for a Soldier is Sewn (2021), to trace how their artistic techniques anchor a vital historical conversation about violence, gender, and power, 100 years apart. Marina Dmitrieva describes Siniakova’s style as “sensual futurism,” highlighting her role in the cultivation of the Ukrainian avant-garde and futurist circles, as well as a feminine approach that opposed masculine futurism. Drawing on the modernist toolkit of collage and fragmentation to speak about the effects of war on the female bodies—Siniakova was influenced by the Cubist experiments, while Kavelina is incorporating Dadaist and Surrealist techniques—both artists are also working with the motifs of Ukrainian traditional ornamentation and textiles to simultaneously disrupt the propagandistic heroic and masculine narratives of war and “weave” in the new more redeeming story. This paper situates Siniakova and Kavelina within the context of both European Modernism and local traditional folk art. Siniakova and Kavelina represent the violence perpetrated against women during the war, amplifying the voices of the most vulnerable, often invisible, victims of conflict.

The Kamra-Pak, a camera-shaped cosmetic case that holds powder, rouge, and lipstick, was manufactured from 1930-1938. It mimicked functional Kodak cameras marketed to women, embodying important connections between photography and fashion. Photography served a key role in shifting the public’s understanding of makeup as a deceitful “painted face” to a tool widely used for expressing one’s “true” self in the first decades of the twentieth century. This concern with truth and artificiality is inherent in the device as it is an illusion, removing the agency to record offered by a camera, and underscoring the lack of real social mobility with the so-called New Woman. Instead, it instructs its users on how to apply cosmetics in accordance with American beauty standards and concepts of femininity. This research examines the design and manufacturing of the Kamra-Pak, its marketing, and its contradictory associations with truth and deception, offering a fuller picture of women’s mobility and her relationship to consumption during the 1930s.

From the late 1920s to the early 1940s, the Weimar German painter, Lotte Laserstein, was a prominent member of the Neue Salichkeit – the modern art movement in Germany – primarily within the field of the Neue Frau, the educated, modern young woman of the 1920s. Despite being a prolific painter of the period, involved in over twenty exhibitions in the 1920s alone, Laserstein has faded from public attention in the art historical field. Three of the significant works Laserstein created in Germany – In My Studio from 1928, Die Tennisspielerin from 1929, and Evening Over Potsdam from 1930 – as well as Madeleine from 1942, developed during her exile in Sweden, showcase Laserstein’s career as a Neue Frau painter deeply in-tune with the politics and climate of her era. Laserstein’s aforementioned artworks reveal a modern artist embracing the advent of more intrinsic rights for women in Germany before the rise of the Nazis in 1933, leading to her exile to Sweden as a woman of Jewish heritage. Yet, as previously mentioned, Laserstein’s exile to Sweden did not infringe upon her artistic career – instead, she continued to paint through the remainder of her life, as exhibited by 1942’s Madeleine. Examining both Laserstein’s German and Swedish artworks in-depth provides a thorough understanding of the perils and tribulations she faced as a Jewish female artist during the period, as well as offers more analysis into her career, with the hopes of lifting her further out of obscurity.

The interwar period (1918-1933) in Germany was a time of social phenomena and changing societal roles facilitated by industrialization, consumerism, and the rise of mass print media. The result was an environment comprised of ambiguity, dissent, and radicalism. The emergence of the New Woman represented the implications these changes would have on the position of women in society.  The New Woman was initially a promise of female emancipation but came to signify an entire generation of female anxieties and desires in the midst of quickly changing gender identities. Scholars such as John Berger (1972) and Laura Mulvey (1975) investigated the ways in which the rampant growth of consumer culture engendered a visual power dynamic resulting in the commodification and objectification of women in media. At the same time, the increasing popularity of photography allowed for a new medium that was aesthetically capable of depicting such paradigms. Photomontage provided a landscape to reposition, juxtapose, and disjuncture the proliferation of images and advertisements flooding publications in Berlin. This paper will analyze how two artists, Hannah Höch and Grete Stern, employed photomontage to address the complexities and contradictions of New Woman values, and to validate the inner turmoil of the female condition. Stern enabled an intervention into patriarchal visual culture through her use of subversive imagery that parodied female stereotypes about the expectations of motherhood and domestic life. Höch used androgyny and confusion of gender to negate and disrupt what Berger would later label the male gaze. While utilizing their own methods, both artists empowered the female perspective and sought to free femininity from male colonization.

Although there have been countless reviews and investigations of H.C. Westermann’s work, there are few that have tried to connect the events he experienced directly to his art. While some accounts are more straightforward, others are more difficult to understand how they might have inspired a particular work of art. Westermann used various media to express and document the events he witnessed in World War II during which he served as a gunner on the renowned carrier the USS Enterprise. The ship experienced some of the most famous and gruesome battles of its time, which greatly affected Westermann. In this paper, I will focus on one of his drawings, a technique that prominently represents his experience in the Marines as compared to his more notable technique of sculpting. Many of his drawings also feature what he called “death ships,” a motif that typically represented his time in the military. Using research from World War II battles and letters from the artist himself, I will argue that Westermann’s drawing titled USS Enterprise from 1959 encompasses the culmination of military events Westermann experienced and heard about throughout his time in the war, rather than a single event.

World War II ushered in years of traumatic events across Western Europe. Among the many tragedies of the Holocaust, specifically, is the oppression of artists and the destruction of art associated with the Avant Garde. From “degenerate art” exhibitions mocking artists who rebelled against “traditional German values,” to persecuting artists who did so, Hitler’s rigid personal standards for German art dictated what was allowed to be created and displayed throughout the majority of Western Europe during WWII. At the same time, female artists across the globe were fighting to destroy barriers that kept them from attaining appreciation and acclaim for their work.

This talk explores the work of Friedl Dicker-Brandeis, a Jewish Austrian artist working during the Holocaust who never had the chance to obtain the acknowledgment that she so greatly deserved. Putting aside her artistic career to teach art lessons to the children of Theresienstadt, one of the most sinister concentration camps of the Holocaust, Dicker-Brandeis was a pioneer of art therapy and fiercely advocated for thousands of children as they were forced to endure unspeakable trauma. Through her revolutionary artwork and tremendous care for her community, Friedl Dicker-Brandeis’ lasting legacy serves as a beam of hope in our chaotic, ever-changing world.

Holocaust commemoration in central and eastern Europe utilizes differing, and sometimes competing, narratives of the Holocaust as a tool of legitimization for political or social benefit. Commemoration, as an aspect of visual culture, constitutes the ways in which a certain narrative or memory of an event is represented to and by the public. Nationality, political systems, information gaps, methods of commemoration, and more all create individual narratives for each memorial and influence the way in which the public interprets and responds to commemorative sites. In the summer of 2022, supported by the Ledford Scholars Program, I visited multiple Holocaust commemorative sites in Berlin, Dresden, Prague, and Warsaw to better understand the different methods and resulting impacts of commemorative projects. I use memory studies, visual analysis, and historical context to examine the ways in which central and eastern European countries appropriate the Holocaust to justify and legitimize certain political and social narratives in a post-communist landscape. I challenge the notions of collective memory and focus instead on the ways memory is being weaponized for social and political justification. From largescale memorials, such as Denkmal für die ermordeten Juden Europas, to smaller and more local memorials, such as Rosenstraße Denkmal, to the most widespread and decentralized Stolpersteine Projekt, I will examine the ways these memorials and others around Europe use the Holocaust as a tool in a historical narrative through commemoration and visual culture.

Dating back hundreds of years, woodblock printing is a highly respected, labor-intensive, and detail-oriented art that produced a visual history of Japanese culture. Academia and scholarship often neglect the prints that emerged out of the 20th century, however. These prints are just as valid as earlier prints and deserving of scholarly research because they complete a circle of stylistic and genre changes that began after Commodore Perry arrived in Japan in 1853, introducing the rapidly-modernizing United States and isolated Japan to each other’s culture. In completing an internship with the Fred Jones Jr. Museum of Art, I undertook the study of such woodblock prints from 1952. This print is indicative of an entire genre of contemporary woodblock prints that began after Japan’s occupation and reconstruction following World War II that marked a pivot in how Japanese artists depicted their society for their audience. When Perry and the United States entered Japan’s borders, the idea of modernization swept the small nation and was the focus of all aspects of life, including art. After two world wars, the 1950s presented Japanese artists returning to traditional subject matters. This era of work represents the resolution of tension between the modernization that overtook Japan and the traditional values that Japanese society revered, so much so that the entire country was willingly isolated from the world to prevent the corruption of these values. In returning to traditional Japanese values, artists did adopt artistic styles and methods from Western art practices that would allow their work to appeal to Western, and especially American, audiences during the occupation of Japan. In completing a circle of artistic styles and subjects, these prints from the 1950s allow scholars to see an unfolding historical narrative of Japan that would be otherwise unfinished under further neglect.

Trade relationships between China and the West have always been an important aspect of global history: in the 19th century export market, tea and silk were the basis for trade, but there was also a demand for Chinese-made objects such as ivory, porcelain, furniture, and oil and watercolor paintings. Chinese export painting refers to works made by Chinese artists for sale to their Western customers, who took them home as mementos of their journeys abroad. The export art industry was heavily commercialized – artists would set up studios near the port, making it easy for ship captains and their crews to commission works. My paper explores the genre of export painting through works commissioned by one specific consumer: Captain Oliver Griffin Lane of Annisquam, Massachusetts. On one of two trips that Captain Lane made to Shanghai in the mid-1850s, he brought ambrotype photographs of his wife and two daughters to the Chinese artist Chow-Kwa from whom he commissioned three miniature portraits on ivory. The introduction of photography into the export art market meant sitters no longer had to be present for portraits and port scenes could be copied from photographs rather than field studies. The study of Chinese export art cannot be separated from its commercial aspect. As a result, the common misconception that photography destroyed painting—an argument that is carried over from Western art history—cannot be applied to Chinese export painting. In the Chinese context, photography provided artists with new skill sets and business opportunities, thereby becoming a medium functioning for the trade.

This paper offers a formal and contextual analysis of a nineteenth century Claret Jug in the collection of the Minneapolis Institute of Art. My analysis explores the biography of this silver vessel, one that is many centuries in the making. This story centers on convergence, in its many forms, from that of cultures to that of aesthetics, material culture, and functional objects. Though small, this vessel has a formidable biography situated in the history and legacy of the British Empire. During the 19th century, official British presence and colonization in India, formally known as the British Raj, upended various aspects of Indian life, forever altering the country in immeasurable ways. The world of craftsmanship and art was especially impacted. Along with themselves, the British brought a taste for silver, and imposed their desire for functional “fine art” on Indian craftsmen. This domination catalyzed an aesthetic formed by force, built on the backs of those deemed British subjects. Prior to the presence of the British Raj, silver production and use in India was minimal. Indeed, the jug’s very existence as one to hold and serve claret is reflective of the cross-cultural interactions which stem from colonization. Claret, the anglicized name of the red Bordeaux wine of France, had no natural place on the Indian subcontinent. Though the jug, in both function and material, is a direct reflection of the thirst of the British colonists, the more intricate and hidden details can reveal dimensions of the culture of the Indian craftsmen who likely made the vessel. Ultimately, my approach seeks critical understanding of the jug’s description by the Museum as representing an “Anglo-Indian” aesthetic; I aim to reveal the political dimensions of this convergence of my two cultures, and to interrogate this characterization of the jug.

In British Bengal, Kali loomed large in the colonial imagination as a dealer of destruction and woe, demonic and dangerous. She is often depicted with a necklace of skulls and a skirt of human arms, with her many arms holding weapons and her feet trampling the inert form of the god Shiva, the very embodiment of shakti or feminine energy and a potent symbol for her followers. Out of fear of this “Other,” British colonialists sought to secularize religious iconography as part of a push to destabilize traditional culture and religion. However, with the rise of new technologies that allowed for mass production, religious images disseminated rapidly, retaining their votive aspect. This paper analyzes several of these mass-produced images of Kali in the waning years of the British Raj to show how popular imagery of the goddess embraced the macabre and violent aspects of her nature. For Kali’s devotees, she is both a destroyer and a mother figure, a fertile ground for revolutionary imagery. Therefore, I argue that her fearsome representation was an intentional choice to subvert colonial ideas about Kali, reclaiming them for use in a revolutionary context.

This art-historical project analyzes the public and private relationships Japanese full-bodysuit tattoos have with the body. While an unorthodox art-historical medium, tattoos examined as an art piece allows new scholarship on ways art spiritually connects to an individual and interacts in public spaces. Analyzing tattoos also merits scholarship as a form of body art. In this project, I examine Japanese countercultures and the ways Japanese bodies have and lack autonomy. I visually analyze bodysuit tattoo composition and iconography to inform my discussion on concealment and the personal uses behind these tattoos. I situate this material historically and culturally through a survey of relevant legal policies and a comparative study of tattoo culture from the Edo and Meiji period through to the present day. I also evaluate Japan’s relationship with the West to discuss the public complexities of these Japanese tattoos and dissect the social rules of Japanese tattoo culture and the dynamic between the artist and the client’s body. I use Ukiyo-e depictions of tattoos from the Edo period, photographs of tattoos from contemporary artist portfolios, cultural projects, art-historical writings, and museum archives as my visual sources. By examining how tattoos operate on the body and interact with the public, I reveal how these tattoos complicate Western discourse on tattoos as “self-expressive,” and how the tattoo culture works interdependently with, as an act of rebellion against and submission to, social and governmental controls.

The altars of the hand, or ikegobo, are one of the many ritual objects that begin to appear in the Kingdom of Benin’s royal court during the 18th century. Since the reign of Akenzua I, these objects, which were usually made of wood, was now produced in brass for the kings (obas) and queen mothers (iye obas) of Benin. Altars of the hand celebrate and ritualize imperial achievement, economic prosperity, and patriarchal domination. Each altar is filled with symbolism that legitimizes its patron’s own dominance and power. However, out of the handful that survives the majority are dedicated to Queen Mothers, not the Kings. In a patriarchal society where the Queen Mother is the only woman allowed to possess such an object, what are the requirements of possession? The Queen mother’s altar of the hand housed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, like all Queen Mother ikegobo, lacks the aggressive symbolism characteristic of the altars made for the king and his chiefs. Using oral traditions, anthropological research, and iconographic analysis I will demonstrate how the Queen Mother’s 18th-century altar of the hand was not dedicated to their individuality and socio-economic prowess like their male counterparts. Their altars highlight an idealized supportive role. The altar of the hand produced for the Queen Mother was designed to celebrate her achievement as a mother who gave birth to the king and her role as a supportive agent during the 18th-century intensification of ritualized kingship.

When one thinks of photography, especially in an artistic manner, perfection might come to mind. The concept of perfected images, developed without a scratch to show, an image displayed with content materials to be observed by many, an image with no room for alterations. However, are there multiple purposes for images? Is there room for damage? Exposing, through image, the unsettling reality of a defective world we live in every day. Gideon Mendel attempts to expose these imperfections through his Freedom or Death: Damage collection, by expanding damaged (decaying) negatives of undeveloped images. This paper explores Gideon Mendel’s Freedom Or Death, specifically the Damage photo collection. The photographic negatives for Mendel’s project were taken in South Africa during apartheid, between 1985 and 1989, however they were not printed until later, when rediscovered by Mendel in the 1990s. The negatives had been neglected, forgotten about, and damaged by the elements.) In reprinting the now-damaged negatives, Mendel intended to display through his work what impacts the apartheid had on him, as well as many others.

Apartheid ended decades ago, yet social tensions in South Africa persist, particularly in urban centers scarred by a legacy of forceful displacement and segregation. Scholars on urbanism acknowledge these difficulties but fail to understand the context of this suffering and how it relates to present challenges. In my paper, I examine South African cities through the lens of public art projects, both official and underground, to attempt to understand an avenue by which racial separation is still enforced and contributes to inequality in South African cities. I focus on contemporary monuments, such as the Eland in Johannesburg, and historical structures, such as the Voortrekker Monument, and place them in a wider context of erasure of Black bodies from public life and urban spaces. I ultimately reach the conclusion that the current state of South Africa’s attempts to move beyond a legacy of racism are inadequate, and that recent projects to tie a fragmented population together are ultimately harmful just as much as they are performative. 

It is nearly impossible to study transnational modern art without considering the “primitive” as an exotic, alluring, and elusive tool for avant-garde artists–well–American artists, that is. In the United States, simplistic symbols and shapes in abstract works were perceived as a portal into a more direct form of expression, a way to produce titillating pieces while tapping into an unconscious reservoir of collective knowledge. Abstract expressionism, as this mode of modern art was dubbed, portrayed a strong sense of postwar anxiety amidst the United States’ (particularly upper-class, white circles in New York City) co-optation of Paris’ throne of cultural domination throughout the world. In the 1940s and 1950s, predominantly white male artists such as Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Mark Rothko would master the art of spontaneity and draw from–while redefining–some aspects of Surrealism. Perhaps the most fascinating consideration when studying transnational modernisms is the ways in which avant-garde artists choose to engage with the primitive. Do they embrace it as the ancestral solution to alleviating contemporary trauma? Is it rejected completely in favor of a tabula rasa approach to an anticolonial future? Is it forced upon them by colonial forces in an attempt to halt their semiperipheral/peripheral nation’s cultural ascendance? It’s vital also to consider willful resistance to the primitive. In subsequent analyses, I will focus particularly on Nigerian modernism, which rejected colonial preferences for Nigerians to engage in their pre-colonial art forms. Because Nigerians–and African people, generally–were declared by dictates of social Darwinism as intellectually, economically, and culturally inferior to white people, artists native to post-colonial African nations were patronized and therefore discouraged from formally exploring modern techniques in their works. The freedom to choose whether to undertake the primitive as an artistic muse without backlash was a privilege, and one that white artists felt entitled to.

Art is an avenue through which people become culturally and historically enriched. It also provides a forum for political and social topics to be introduced, discussed, and questioned. Derrick Adams (b. 1970), an African American multidisciplinary artist, uses art to educate people about the histories of the Black community in the United States. Through his traveling exhibition Derrick Adams: Sanctuary, a series of mixed-media artworks, Adams highlights the time in history when the Jim Crow laws negatively impacted African Americans. This exhibition emphasizes how Black travelers relied on The Negro Motorist Green Book by Victor Hugo Green, a New York postal worker, to find refuge in welcoming establishments. This book was annually updated from 1936 until Green’s death in 1960; however, it continued to be published until 1967. During this time, state and local laws enforced racial segregation, especially in the South. The laws and etiquettes systemically came to an end because of the Civil Rights Movement. I had the privilege of seeing Adams’ exhibition at the African American Museum of Philadelphia (AAMP). It was my first encounter with The Green Book, and how significant it was in guiding Black folks to find safe spaces, to find their sanctuaries as they embarked on road trips throughout the U.S.