Model and Copy in Byzantium

Anthony Cutler

Few aspects of social behavior tell us more about a culture than

those practices that involve the roles it assigns to models and

copies. Under interpretation, such conduct reveals its attitudes
toward authority and antiquity, its sense of identity and regard for
security, and the relative importance that it attached to imitation
and invention. To varying degrees, all societies display these con-
cerns, but in none were they so firmly grounded in a considered
theory of the relation between prototype and derivative as they
were in Byzantium. An example from the domain of law will illus-

trate, though not explain, this cultural difference. As against the

Roman tradition in which the use of copies as evidence in court
was prohibited, at least from the tenth century on Byzantine tri-

bunals accepted the legitimacy of certified copies of documents.1

The very word used for an official copy-ison, meaning equal-
suggests the conceptual distinction between it and the terms copie,
Kopie, kopiya, and so on, in modem languages, all derived from the
Latin word for abundance.
Beyond the realm of law, the term antigraphon (transcript) was
normally used to denote the duplicates needed in many transac-
tions. But it is the theological term paragbgon (derivative) that best
illuminates the sort of thinking that allowed and even encouraged
belief in the validity of copies. As part of his efforts to define
Orthodox doctrine, about the year 750 St. John Damascus begins
his argument, tellingly, with a direct quotation from the fourth-
century church father, Basil of Caesarea: &dquo;Honour [paid] to the
image is conveyed to its prototype.&dquo;’ The citation is immediately
followed up with a definition of this last term: &dquo;The prototype is
the subject represented from which the derivative is made.&dquo;3
These and similar ideas, seized upon by art historians seeking to
57
account for the endurance of types across the history of Byzantine
art, are applicable only by extension to painting. And this exten-

sion is itself made by the eighth-century father in an overt defense

of the legitimacy of icon veneration when he compared the
process of painting, in which the artist &dquo;by virtue of imitation&dquo;
transfers human forms to pictures, to God’s creation of man in his
own image.4 Again, part of this passage is taken from another

Cappadocian father (Gregory of Nyssa), but for our purposes its

significance lies in the ready application of an article of faith to the
task of legitimizing the cult of objects made by human hands.
And, once again prolonging the chain of quotation, in the early
ninth century Theodore of Stoudios recycles the phrase &dquo;by virtue
of imitation&dquo; to clarify and qualify the way in which an image
resembles its exemplar: &dquo;The model is in the image except for the
difference in substance ... By virtue of imitation, the image and
the model are one.&dquo;5
We can thus recognize a complex texture of copying in Byzan-
tine intellectual practice. The basic layer is a fabric of citation into
which, and exploiting which, is inwoven an ethical theory of rep-
resentation designed to justify the production and veneration of
sensible images. Against the charge that the painter’s craft was
futile and deceptive- not so much illusionistic as illusory6 -
the
defenders of icons argued that pictures were symbolic aids to
worship and contemplation.7 True, if images served not descrip-
tive but contemplative purposes, as the Pseudo-Dionysius had
maintained, there was little or no need for realism in their execu-
tion ; with some slight justice one could attribute to this attitude
the frequent lack of attention to mimesis in Byzantine icon paint-
ing. But such concerns were outweighed by the understanding
that, as the Patriarch Nicephorus put it, they are &dquo;figured symbols
of heavenly powers Their utility consisted precisely in this
transparency to a higher realm, a utility that could only be infi-
nitely expanded by the simulacra that they generated. And if
iconophile theory had propounded a non-essential relation
between model and copy, that between one image and another
was essential: in order to &dquo;work&dquo; an image must emulate its pre-

cursor as closely as a human agent could manage. This end

attained, its very resemblance would guarantee its effective adher-

58
ence saintly prototype. The perpetuation of the chain of likeness
to
depended upon the mimetic skill of those who forged its compo-
nent links.
On the face of it, this theological (rather than &dquo;artistic&dquo;) aim
would seem to have little to do with the pragmatic objectives of
those who commissioned copies of documents. A slab of marble
painstakingly inscribed with the contents of a lengthy chryso-
bull-a charter bearing an imperial seal-confirming the privi-
leges of the church of Corfu,9 for instance, was clearly intended to
lend enduring form to a document originally written on parch-
ment, and thereby serve to maintain those privileges. But tran-
scending its obvious juridical value, such a monument was
ordered with one eye on perpetuity, an extension forward in time
much in the way images, as we have seen, looked back to, while
observing, ancient uses. In both cases the production of copies,
regardless of medium, cost, or aesthetic merit, was held to partici-
pate in the power of revered iconic archetypes.l° The conventional
language of the inscription and the conventional forms of an icon
declared and reinforced an established order, an unchanging set of
norms assuring the spectator that he or she was witness to a real-

ity ordained by heavenly authority or its earthly surrogate.

Furthermore, nowhere in a Byzantine document or objet d’art is
there to be found explicit or implicit acknowledgment of its nov-
elty. Conscious originality was to be vilified. This is evident from
the tale of a painter named Theodoulos the Stylite condemned for
allegedly depicting &dquo;angels in the form of Christ, with both angels
and Christ shown as aged.&dquo; Pressing this charge, an abbot of the
Stoudios monastery cited the objections of others, presumably
members of his community, who in turn invoked the pillars on
which the church was built:
They said that you had done something foreign and alien to the tradition of
the church ... given that all the years that have passed no examples of this
peculiar subject have ever been given by any one of the many holy God-
inspired Fathers.&dquo;
Lest it be supposed that this was simply an argument among
monks, story told by Theophanes the Confessor should be
a

recalled. In the course of his reign (491-518), the emperor Anasta-

sius commissioned pictures in a palace and a church in Constan-

59
tinople from a Syro-Persian painter. Since these were &dquo;alien to the
holy iconography of the Church,&dquo; the chronicler relates, &dquo;there
occurred, as a consequence, a big popular uprising.&dquo;12
Unlike the self-consciously radical creations of modem cultures
(from the New Deal to Novyj Mir and the French NRF) that pro-
claimed their novelty, in Byzantine Greek the word neos, from
which our &dquo;new,&dquo; &dquo;nouveau,&dquo; and &dquo;neu&dquo; derive, meant imitation
not innovation.13 To rebuild, to recover, to restore what had been
were blessed enterprises; to undertake a new dgmarche was to
approximate heresy. Behavior that expressed the sanctified aspect
of reproduction is particularly evident in architecture. Scattered
through the Byzantine east and the Latin west are a host of monu-
ments that in one way or another reflect the circular plan of the
Anastasis, the rotunda built about the middle of the fourth cen-
tury over the tomb of Jesus and said to have been discovered
under the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus in Jerusalem.l4 Whether
these &dquo;replicas&dquo; were built as echoes of, or substitutions for, the
prime pilgrimage site in the Holy Land matters less than the fact
that the formal mimesis involved was understood as an adequate
and fitting embodiment of the idea of the Holy Sepulchre. By this
means the temporary setting of the original construction was

ignored in acts that made present (in both a chronological and a

spatial sense) the most important of Christendom’s loca sancta. The
lack of accord between the paradigm and its exponents-in mate-
rials, elevation, or decoration-was of little concern to those who
worshipped in these later rotundas, if indeed it was even noticed.
These versions, in the language of molecular biology, reproduced
the genome rather than the constituent cells of the Sepulchre.
Time is implicitly denied no less by that (to us) most curious of
Byzantine institutions, the &dquo;second founder&dquo; (anakainistes).
Repeatedly in documents one finds invoked with this epithet per-
sons who created entirely new foundations, yet are described as

restoring an ancient monument. Thus Leo the protospatharios (an

official at the imperial court), who in 873-874 built the church of
the Dormition at Skripou, is described in an inscription addressed
to the Mother of God and her son around its apse as he &dquo;who has
reconstructed (anastesantos) your church because of his desire and
very great faith.1115 On its face, such sentiments may seem like
60
those of Romantic litt6rateurs and artists who saw in Goethe a fig-
ure that brought antiquity to life again. But there is a signal differ-
ence : where the eighteenth century celebrated an individual, in
the ninth and later centuries in Byzantium it was his creation, not
his personality, that was saluted. Far from being an index to a
building’s reception such inscriptions-often commissioned by
the donor-are, rather, guides to the social expectations of a build-
ing. And these, at least at the level of those who paid for and com-
memorated new foundations, were rhetorically couched in terms
of continuity.
We shall return presently to the implications of inscriptions in
churches. But for the moment it is the perpetuation of a long-lost
antiquity via the culturally sanctioned process of copying that
merits consideration. In Byzantine painting and sculpture, Christ
was traditionally shown in the classical costume of chiton and

himation; military saints and warriors of the Old Testament, such

as Joshua, in the lamellar corslets and &dquo;fighting skirts&dquo; of Roman

generals. Apostles and Evangelists, meanwhile, appear in the

guise of ancient philosophers. Once again it is instructive to com-
pare these attributes with those in which eighteenth-century
artists garbed their heroes. In the hands of a David, to dress
Socrates or the Horatii in this manner was a deliberate piece of
historicism, as a comparison with his many images of Napoleon,
dressed in contemporary fashion, makes clear. It is true that
Byzantine emperors were likewise shown in garments and regalia
that we take to be of their own time. But the discourse in which
such images are described leaves no doubt that they, too, were
treated as incarnations of antiquity: &dquo;scion of the Ausonii,&dquo; for
example, was a standard way of referring to a Komnenian ruler. 16
The emperor and empresses, moreover, when they appear in the
company of Christ, the Mother of God or the saints are marked by
the very contemporaneity of their costume, yet engage these fig-
ures from the New Testament and Christian antiquity with no
sense of historical disjunction. If the mass of visual evidence is

insufficient to prove the point, the fact that no Byzantine, no

medieval or Greek author remarks on this discrepancy, or ques-
tions the classical attire of the community of saints, shows that
these phenomena were normative.

61
 This much, perhaps, is self-evident. But it raises the important
question of the source of the models employed by Byzantine
artists. Given that they were unaware of ancient Greek costume,
even as depicted on artefacts,17 it seems clear that they were copy-

ing not Hellenistic or Roman sources but each other. By dint of

their ubiquity, these forms declared and reinforced an established
order, an unchanging set of norms that assured the beholder, even
in a distant land, 18 that he or she inhabited a divinely ordained
oikoumene. This realm, peopled with figures dressed as they imag-
ined the Homer or Lucian on whom they commented to have
dressed, was a fictive universe of the Byzantines’ own creation,
more remote from their own time than we are from the era of

Lorenzo de Medici.
So all-persuasive is such imagery that in toto it could be said to
constitute a foundation myth for Byzantium. As with most such
myths, one should look to it for the purposes that it discharged for
its disseminators rather than for any concern with archaeological
accuracy or the veridical niceties that a later age expects in its vain
pursuit of an objective history. One result of the uniform that it
bestowed on its holy men and women, and of depicting the emper-
ors of early Byzantium in the garb that they wore in the artist’s own

time, was to allow and encourage a dense system of visual and ide-
ological cross-reference. One image could furnish multiple allusions
and evoke diverse responses. To describe this optical potential we
need some equivalent for the literary phenomenon that today is
called intertextuality, but, in its absence, its workings are easily con-
veyed by example. A well-known ivory plaque in Moscow shows
Constantine VII crowned by Christ in the manner in which more
often Christ himself is shown baptized by John in the Jordan. The
emperor becomes a Christ-like figure ipsofacto.19 In such contexts a
search for ultimate &dquo;sources&dquo; is less productive than the discovery
of analogues, especially those that were widely diffused. Thus, on a
gold coin issued in 1042, the empress Zoe and her sister Theodora
are represented frontally, holding between them the labarum,2° the

early Christian standard borne by Constantine the Great and

Helena in countless mosaics, frescoes, and icons. Its import is clear:
in an age when male rulers were the norm, women, and especially
women of imperial blood, are worthy vehicles of imperial authority

62
and faithful representatives of the mission to preserve the long-
established faith. On the obverse of the coin, bearing a frontal image
of the Virgin with the child on her breast, transparency yields to
direct appropriation with the legend &dquo;Mother of God, come to the
aid of the empresses.&dquo;
Simple invocations of this sort could be manufactured ad hoc,
but more elaborate compositions, particularly those in archaizing
verse (like the one at Skripou) would require the intervention of a

poet for hire. It may be such an individual in the capital, far

removed from the site where his words would be employed, was
responsible for the long inscription that runs around the main cor-
nice of the New Church at Tokah kilise at Goreme in Cappado-
cia.21 Alternatively, the inscription could be derived from one in
another church, even as frescoes in the New Church were repro-
duced in the so-called Pigeon House church at çavusin.22 All we
know for sure is that the Tokah inscription mentions scenes that
are not depicted in the church and ignores others that are present.

Despite these examples, it would be rash to argue generally

that the practice of copying, whatever the medium, served to sep-
arate Byzantines from the realities around them. First, the replica-
tion of an existing artefact involved, at the least, access to and
experience of that model. This is surely so in the case of a four-
teenth( ?)-century sarcophagus, expanded to accommodate an
adult but obviously based on one designed for a child in the
fourth century, now housed in the Archaeological Museum in
Istanbul. 23 More tenuously, we can speculate on the impact that
Byzantine creations may have had on the conduct of daily affairs.
If it is true that the picture of Goliath’s head carried into Jerusalem
on a pike in a Psalter of 108824 reflects the end of George Mani-

akes, the rebel who suffered a similar fate in Constantinople forty

years earlier, the power of images to bolster socially approved pat-
terns of behavior can scarcely be doubted.
In the empirical domain of construction and decoration, on the
other hand, learning from the past might be a more apt term than
copying for the process entailed in later applications of an exem-
plar. In the Chiote church of H. Georgios Sykousis and the Panagia
Krina, built on a plan similar to that of the Nea Mone on the island,
the &dquo;mistakes&dquo; of the eleventh-century building are corrected.
63
Where in the latter the conch of the eastern arch was set lower than
the vaulting of the sanctuary, thus blocking the view of the mosaic
of the Virgin to whom the church is dedicated, this solecism was
eliminated in its derivatives.15 Similarly, echoes of the complexity
of John II Komnenus’ Pantokrator monastery in the capital are to
be found nearly two centuries later in the additions to the monas-
teries of Constantine Lips, the Pammakaristos and the Chora
(Kariye Camii). Despite their difference in plan, these last two
churches are linked by resemblances in both masonry techniques
and decorative details to the point where they may well be expres-
sions of the same workshop.26
Yet, beyond such cases, we can still recognize the authority of
the type in Byzantine building and the power that it wielded to
command replicas. The best-known instance is the paradigmatic
form of the katholikon at the Great Lavra, begun about 962, particu-
larly as it was enlarged with lateral apses perhaps a generation
later. The resulting triconch commended itself first to the monks
of Vatopedi and Iviron at the time of this addition and, later, to the
builders of churches throughout the Balkans.27 This sort of obser-
vance suggests something akin to the cognitive attitude of John of

Damascus when he spoke of the Mosaic tabernacle which &dquo;con-

tained the image and pattern (typos) of heavenly things.1128 And it
is perhaps in this light that we should regard the production of
&dquo;copies&dquo; in other forms of Byzantine art.
The primacy of the type over the individual variant presents dif-
ficulties for modem scholars, trained to discriminate between arte-
facts that are superficially similar. It is easy to detect the differences
of iconographic detail and emphasis in two contemporaneous ver-
sions of, say, Christ’s Nativity29 or between three eleventh-century
mosaics variously depicting the Anastasis (Resurrection).3° But
surely more revealing than these distinctions about the nature of
the culture that gave rise to them is the degree of similarity, the
unity of purpose, and to a large extent of content in these images.
All versions of the Anastasis announce the message of salvation
just as all renderings of the Nativity, despite their differences,
declare the human aspect of Christ on which that salvation ulti-
mately depends. The extent to which these representations may be
said to be &dquo;copies&dquo; is therefore less important than that which they
64
offered to shared experiences, much as Dutch flower pictures of
the seventeenth century, replete with insects, bemused a public
newly interested in natural science; or as Cubist still lifes, employ-
ing newspapers, wine bottles, and other household paraphernalia
implied that the new vision of a Braque or a Picasso was available
to anyone. Each representative of these groups replicated the expe-
rience involved and did it with a common visual vocabulary.
There is more to these cognitive communities than the conclu-
sion that conceptual models bulked larger in the minds of both
artists and their audiences than the immediate prototypes that the
former exploited and the parallels that the latter witnessed. To the
extent that we emphasize the phenomenology of beholding, be it
of the vision in the mind’s eye of its creator or in that of the per-
son who experiences what has been created, we relieve the Byzan-

tines (and even ourselves) of the burden imposed by the

mechanistic relation that we suppose to have existed between the
model and copy.

Notes

1. See N. Oikonomides, s.v. "Copy official" in The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium,

New York, 1991, p. 530.
2. , vol. 17 bis, ed. B. Pruche,
Traité du Saint-Esprit, XVIII, in Sources chrétiennes
Paris, 1968, p. 406.
3. De fide Orthodoxa IV in Patrologia graeca 94, col. 1158.
4. Oratio I, in Patrologia graeca 94, col. 1269.
5. Epist. ad Platonem, in Patrologia graeca, 99, col. 500. For more on this question,
and particularly the model-image relation that connects the members of the
Trinity, see G. Ladner, "The Concept of the Image in the Greek Fathers and the
Byzantine Iconoclastic Controversy," Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 7 (1953): 8-10.
6. A charge levied at the Iconoclastic Council of 754. See G.D. Mansi, Sacrorum
conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio XII, col. 252.
7. Most succinctly argued by the Patriarch Nicephorus (c. 750-828). See his Dis-
cours contre les iconoclastes, trans. M.-J. Mondzain-Baudinet, Paris, 1989.
8. The original wording is to be found in his Antirrhetikos in Patrologia graeca 100,
col. 777C.
9. A. Guillou, ed. Recueil des inscriptions grecques médiévales d’Italie, Rome, 1996,
no. 56. The chrysobull, dated 1218, was drawn for Theodore Comnenus

Doukas, ruler of Epirus.

10. G. Vikan, "Ruminations on Edible Icons. Originals and Copies in the Art of
Byzantium," Studies in the History of Art 20 (1989): 47-59.
65
11. For this case and its ideological context, see A. Cutler, "Originality as a Cul-
tural Phenomenon," in Originality in Byzantine Literature, Art and Music, ed. A.
Littlewood, Oxford, 1995, pp. 203-216, esp. 205. The studies in this volume, on
which I have drawn in the present paper, contain valuable observations on
the topic specified in its title.
12. Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor, Leipzig, 1883, I, pp. 149-150.
13. P. Magdalino, "Observations on the Nea Ekklesia of Basil I," Jahrbuch der
Österreichischen Byzantinistik 37 (1987): 52-53.
14. The classic study of these replications by R. Krautheimer, "Introduction to an
’Iconography of Medieval Architecture,"’ Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld
Institutes 5 (1942): 1-33 has not been replaced.
15. N. Oikonomides, "Pour une nouvelle lecture des inscriptions de Skripou en
Béotie," Travaux et Mémoires 12 (1994): 481.
16. See the body of texts usefully assembled and commented by P. Magdalino
and R. Nelson, "The Emperor in Byzantine Art of the Twelfth Century,"
Byzantinische Forschungen 8 (1982): 123-183.
17. On this matter, a controversial issue, see A. Cutler, "Mistaken Antiquity.
Thoughts on Some Recent Commentary on the Rosette Caskets," in AETOS.
Studies in Honour of Cyril Mango, ed. I. Sevcenko and I. Hutter, Leipzig, 1998,
pp. 46-54, with bibliography.
18. Thus compare the famous observation of Sylvester Syropoulos when, attend-
ing the Council of Ferrara in 1408, he encountered forms that were alien to
him: "When I enter a Latin Church, I do not revere any of the saints that are
there because I do not recognize any of them." See V. Laurent, Les ’Mémoires’
du grand ecclésiarque de I’Eglise de Constantinople ... sur le Concile de Florence
(1438-1439), Paris, 1971.
19. The Glory of Byzantium. Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843-
1261, exhib. cat., ed. H.C. Evans and W.D. Wixom, no. 140 (I. Kalavrezou). The
same strategy is used in images of emperors anointed by the patriarch of Con-

stantinople in the illustrated Skylitzes manuscript in Madrid.

20. The Glory of Byzantium, no. 147G (W.E. Metcalf).
21. A.W. Epstein, Tokah Kilise: Tenth-Century Metropolitan Art in Cappadocia, Wash-
ington, D.C. 1985, p. 33, pp. 35-36, 79-80.
22. L. Rodley, "The Pigeon House Church, Çavusin," Jahrbuch der Österreichischen
Byzantinistik 33 (1983): 301-339.
23. A. Grabar, Sculptures byzantines du moyen âge II, Paris, 1976, no. 145. For this
and other derivatives, see A. Cutler, "Art in Byzantine Society: Motive Forces
of Byzantine Patronage," (1981), reprinted in his Image and Ideology in Byzantine
Art, Aldershot and Brookfiel, Vermont, 1992, study no. XI, esp. pp. 780-787.
24. A. Cutler, The Aristocratic Psalters in Byzantium, Bibliothèque des Cahiers
Archéologiques XIII, Paris, 1984, fig. 67.
25. In my turn, I derive this information from the forthcoming study of R. Ouster-
hout, Byzantine Masons at Work.
26. Idem, The Architecture of the Kariye Camii in Istanbul, Washington, DC, 1987,
pp. 19-20.
27. P.M. Mylonas, "Le plan initial du catholicon de la Grande-Lavra au Mont-
Athos et la genèse du type du catholicon athonite," Cahiers archéologiques 32
(1984): 89-112.
28. See note 3 above.

66
29. I have in mind the difference between mosaics in the Chora in Constantinople
and the church of the Holy Apostles in Thesalonike, noted by T. Gouma-
Peterson in Originality in Byzantine Literature, Art and Music, p. 138 and figs.
11.4, 11.5.
30. Ibid., pp. 133-137 and figs. 11.1-11.3.

67