A British historian might be excused for looking slightly askance at any collection of recent books relating to the philosophy of history. This is because we have been told, several times over and by distinguished members of the profession, that such speculative and analytic activity has little, if anything, to do with the actual business of historiography. One of the most forthright warnings was delivered on the very first page of Professor G. R. Elton's The Practice of History (1967), when (...) we were advised that: ‘Every new number of History and Theory is liable to contain yet another article struggling to give history a philosophic base, and some of them are interesting. But they do not, I fear, advance the writing of history’. For Elton, therefore, there could be little point in granting his colleague in another discipline the right to assess the cognitive claims of historiography. The historian himself, and he alone, was qualified to determine, for all practical purposes, the aims and applications of historical method. It was left to the late Arnold Toynbee to diagnose (in Toynbee on Toynbee, 1974) the dangers in this protectionist approach. He claimed that Elton was ‘trying deliberately to create a closed circuit of “professional” historians’ which was, in his opinion, ‘fatal to any form of study’. But of course Toynbee's own lack of standing within the historical profession could be put forward as a telling index of the dangers of transgressing the barriers between history and philosophy. (shrink)

This article considers the concept of the utopia from the point of view of garden design. It begins with an evocation of the `Jardin de Julie', the literary garden described in Rousseau and acutely analysed by Louis Marin. It then passes to a series of actual gardens created by the French contemporary designer Bernard Lassus, in which the use of landscape effects is seen as achieving similar dislocations of space and incitements to the imagination.

Jean-Louis Schefer's study takes as its point of departure Uccello's predella, Profanation of the Host. The painting in question has generally been interpreted within the context of medieval anti-Semitism. However, Schefer argues that the meaning of the work, and of numerous other representations of this particular miracle, must be referred ultimately to the codification by Charlemagne of the dogma of the Real Presence. Uccello's painting in effect makes manifest the requirement that the profaned host should reveal its nature through the (...) gushing of blood. This also involves a political significance, since the Carolingian theology organized around the consecrated host stands in direct opposition to the Byzantine theology of the icon. Schefer's argument leads him to make a thorough investigation not only of the many iconographic precedents, but also of some key Latin texts such as the Libri Carolini, which are published in a French translation. It also advances a methodology that is strikingly at variance with some of the more simple-minded attempts of historians to crack the codes of a complex visual tradition. One of its most original aspects is the new light that the overall thesis casts upon extremely well-known texts like The Merchant of Venice and Dracula. Thus the tendency to identify vampirism as an East European phenomenon, already discernible in Western sources in the eighteenth century, is shown to be closely linked to the historical extension of the myth of Profanation of the Host. In exploring the outcomes of this doctrinal split between East and West, Schefer has identified a deep fault-line in post-antique European history whose consequences are far from being understood at the present day. (shrink)

The historicist approach is rarely challenged by art historians, who draw a clear distinction between art history and the present-centred pursuit of art criticism. The notion of the 'period eye' offers a relevant methodology. Bearing this in mind, I examine the nineteenth-century phase in the development of history painting, when artists started to take trouble over the accuracy of historical detail, instead of repeating conventions for portraying classical and biblical subjects. This created an unprecedented situation at the Paris Salon, where (...) such representations of history could be experienced as a collective 'dream-work', in Freud's sense. In France, this new pictorial language dates back to the aftermath of the Revolution, and the activities of the 'Lyon School'. Two artists, Richard and Révoil, were its leading proponents. However their initial closeness has obscured the differences in their approach to the past. Substituting for Freud's 'condensation' and 'displacement' the concepts of 'Resurrection' and 'Restoration', I analyse the pictorial language of the two painters, taking two works as examples. The conclusion is that Révoil, also a collector, was a precursor of the historical museum, which convinces through accumulating objects. Richard, however, employs technical and rhetorical devices to evoke empathetic reactions, and anticipates the illusionism of cinema. (shrink)

Goya's and Manet's painted images, and Jean Renoir's cinematic image of historical executions have the power under the ideology of the image to reveal the truth of a moment outside of historical narrative. At the same time, these images are pulled back into the narrative from which they have been removed. The works of these three artists can be used to trace changes in the relationship of the image to historical narrative and its connection to photography and cinema. Goya, working (...) in the early nineteenth century, uses the power of the scopic drive in a strategy which can be called the "witness effect." He deploys the traditional codes of post- Renaissance art in his composition, leading to a detemporalization of his image. Fifty years later, Manet's scene of execution includes an element outside the domain of codes, an element not symbolic, but indexical-the smoke coming out of the soldiers'gun barrels. The conception of the smoke as a sign of actuality is made possible by the invention of photography, which asks of the historical narrative, "Could such a fact, as it is narrated, have been photographed?" The third scene of execution, a still from a history film, is in a state of narrative nonexistence. The execution will be thwarted as the film continues. Renoir accommodates the historical imagination through allowing the image to assert both its presence and its absence. He articulates the gap between the reality and theatricality of visual representations of history. (shrink)

This paper takes as its point of departure Roland Barthes’s proposition in La Chambre claire that the nineteenth century “invented History and Photography,” that the era of photography is one of revolutions, and that the photograph’s “testimony” has diminished our capacity to think in terms of “duration.” Barthes also asserts that the French photographer Nadar is “the greatest photographer in the world,” but takes no account of Nadar’s acute receptivity to the history of the nineteenth century. The paper argues that, (...) though he fully recognized the unique properties of the new medium, Nadar himself was overridingly preoccupied with assessing photography’s role in a period when war and revolution were compromising the onward march of social and economic progress. Throughout his life, he was committed to the progressive ideas that he assimilated while growing up in Paris and Lyon in the 1830s. He wrote of the emergence of a Bohemian culture in the Latin Quarter of Paris, and remained keenly aware of the visual impressions that he had received in his youth from the popular lithographs of the pre-photographic era. He became a supporter of the artistic avant-garde, which led him to purchase important work by the landscape painter Daubigny. In his art criticism, he excoriated the later portraits of Ingres, which might have competed with his own reputation as a photographic portraitist. Yet, in his admiration for Delacroix, he emphasized the lengthy initiation necessary for the appreciation of the master’s paintings, implying a direct contrast with the “instantaneity” of the photographic process. By common consent, the period of Nadar’s great success as a portraitist, which secured his posthumous fame, occupied a short phase in his career as a whole. But his writings show that it was his lively intuition of the wider ramifications of photography that impelled him to move on—experimenting successfully with the first aerial photographs and documenting the catacombs of Paris with the aid of magnesium lighting. Though he could never experience television, he left a narrative in which the feasibility of transmitting images over a distance was presented as being startlingly realistic. In short, Nadar’s published work can be viewed as a sustained meditation on the interaction of historical experience and the media, which not only records but anticipates photography’s impact within the wider framework of visual culture. (shrink)