Joachim Noller

 

Thou shalt not make any graven image

 

II. Paradoxes in sacred art [1]

 

 

Joachim Noller

 

Thou shalt not make any graven image

 

II. Paradoxes in sacred art [1]

 

Translation: Philip Marston

 

The so-called prohibition on making images in the monotheistic religions is just one aspect of a controversy surrounding images which has lost none of its relevance today, and which far transcends the innermost circle of the religions concerned. The question as to what is permitted to be depicted is closely linked to the question of what can be depicted, as well as to the fear that "false images" (false in the sense that they refer to a reality which contradicts a firmly held belief) might be created. The spiritualized idea of God in Judaism can no longer be adequately depicted in the old anthropomorphic idols. This may also apply to other visual forms which are deeply rooted in the mists of our history as well as in our unconscious mind, but whose conception of the world, which they once represented, has been lost to modern Man. Differing, sometimes conflicting ideas become associated with one and the same visual element over the course of time.

Every prohibition, every question and every controversy concerning visual works of art is inextricably bound up with complex cultural (not only religious) processes and should be treated accordingly. In general this does not occur, however. The complex of topics touched on here all too often causes writers and readers to short-circuit any real discussion, associating the very idea with ruthless examples of iconoclasm, the destruction of monuments and intolerance of anyone with a dissenting view. This is jumping to premature conclusions, yet is understandable in the light of many things happening today (which are of course focused on by the media). What is pedagogically devastating, however, is the prejudice-permeated approach of many academics who shirk any serious discussion of the question of making images[2]: they present it in Manichean terms of black and white and assert as a self-evident fact that the skepticism of all those who reject certain given forms of visual image is iconophobia. According to this view, the oppressive attitude of such image-haters poses a threat to the spirit of liberty of the image-lovers, whereby the latter view seems to correspond to democratic convictions. Where liberal principles reign supreme, questioning images is a disquieting influence (at the other extreme of the spectrum we find, of course, opposing voices bent on destruction, who do not admit any questioning of their motives at all).

***

 

We will attempt to throw light on the transcultural aspects of this theme – as far as we can - using for this purpose the exposition of the issues given by Mircea Eliade in his essay in religious studies The sacred and the profane. The nature of religion. Here, we find two interesting propositions:

Thesis 1:

Eliade tries to understand the distinctive nature of hierophanies (manifestations of the sacred). "By manifesting the sacred, any object becomes something else, yet it continues to remain itself […]. A sacred stone remains a stone; apparently (or, more precisely, from the profane point of view), nothing distinguishes it from all other stones. But for those to whom a stone reveals itself as sacred, its immediate reality is transmuted into a supernatural reality". For this reason every hierophany, according to Eliade, must constitute a paradox[3].

Thesis 2:

People in archaic societies strive "to live as much as possible in the sacred or in close proximity to consecrated objects. […] for the man of all premodern societies, the sacred is equivalent to a power, and, in the last analysis, to reality. The sacred is saturated with being. Sacred power means reality and at the same time enduringness and efficacity". It is therefore understandable why the religious person should long "to be, to participate in reality, to be saturated with power"[4].

 

Let us examine the first thesis to begin with, that every hierophany is a paradox. Eliade is here pursuing religious studies, not aesthetics, so that he does not discuss the role of figurative image-making. But the sacred is also depicted in them, so that they constitute hierophanies at one remove, as it were. We will permit ourselves to explore the thread of this thinking a little further in terms of aesthetics. When we then depict the sacred stone, is the paradox preserved?

"From the most elementary hierophany - e.g., manifestation of the sacred in some ordinary object, a stone or a tree - to the supreme hierophany (which, for a Christian, is the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ) there is no solution of continuity. In each case we are confronted by the same mysterious act - the manifestation of something of a wholly different order […]"[5]. This means that the paradox between the natural and supernatural function could also be perceived in the human-Divine double nature of Jesus Christ. What part of this can be depicted, however? What is reproduced in images if they are abstracted from the natural body and thus from the "thisness" of the actual physical object? And does not the distinctive nature of the Divine part reside precisely in its concealment, the fact that it is not visually perceptible? Do not some types of sacred painting attempt to escape from the entire paradoxical trap by not simply accepting the physical suchness of Christ as it is, but by enhancing it with gestures signifying transfiguration, without actually corresponding thereby to the representation of His Divine nature? And if Eliade‘s paradox turns out to be a basic characteristic of homo religiosus: would it then be possible to find a corresponding way to realize this in articulated meaning and art, i.e., to reproduce the paradox in the form of an image?

Let us now take a look at the second thesis: that people try to profit from the power and fullness of being of sacred objects by seeking their proximity. Here, too, we can see once again an unbroken continuum of different stages of manifestation, leading us eventually to the forms taken by Christian religiosity. People want to live in close proximity to consecrated objects, which may be (here we are back on aesthetic terrain again) an image of Christ. The believer may now localize a particular power in the image, an especially saturated form of being and reality. An effect may emanate from this (however subjective all this may be) which changes the reality of the recipient. In this case, we would only be dealing here in a secondary sense with depiction (of the figure of Christ) and primarily with presence, real presence, actual realization in the present of everything which constitutes the spiritual core of such religiosity[6]. This is what occurs, if we are to believe Eliade, within a deeply anchored tradition of human religious belief, a convention which we appear to subconsciously be beholden to. And yet Christian dogma (we will skip most of the argument here) stands in opposition to this tendency (with the exception of Eastern Church Orthodox practice). The nature of such real presence is not, therefore, permitted to attach to any image. This is reserved for other types of event, of which the Eucharist must be mentioned as the principal one: it is in this that the fullness of being and efficacy of the flesh and blood of Christ is to manifest itself, not in a depiction of Christ in an image. The entire history of controversies surrounding image-making is part of a complex battle to define the religious paradigm. Elemental and archaic cultic modalities are never completely suppressed by this however, and the veneration of images (including that of profane images) of all types always yearns to return to its roots in magical thinking.

 

***

 

In the 8th and 9th centuries, the dispute known as the iconographic controversy raged in Byzantium, in the East Roman Empire. This has already been dealt with in detail in numerous essays, so that we will not go into it in greater depth here. What does interest us, though, is the reaction it provoked in the West, which should not, however, be seen only as a reaction, since the problem complex was virulent all over the Christian world of the time. The positions taken in the Carolingian Empire are of great interest here[7], beginning with that of Charlemagne himself. In 790 he had a proclamation drawn up and published under the title Opus Caroli Regis Contra Synodum which has gone down in the historical record as the Libri Carolini. In this, the question of image-making is discussed in terms which circumvent the extremes of iconoclasm on the one side and iconolatry on the other. In this document the function of sacred images is largely restricted to two aspects: images are on the one hand an appropriate means of decoration for holy places while on the other hand they function as a memorial, i.e., they document the holy places of the past and constantly remind us of them. When we compare this function of images with Eliade‘s second hierophany, we notice that a dissociation has taken place here. Real presence, the total manifestation of the sacred in the present, is precisely what is not intended to manifest itself, but this, as the Libri Carolini emphasize, is realized in another form (we have already drawn attention to the Eucharist). Images take the impact of salvation in the present onto an aesthetic plane and point to its history; images do not channel Divine salvation. They do not create any presence (of the sacred), and their value as representation is also limited. The traditional hierophany in the sense meant by Eliade does not take place in this medium, or at least it is not supposed to take place.

From a theological point of view the image cannot capture the polarity (physical - metaphysical) inherent in the existence of the sacred; in Eliade‘s thinking, it is the paradoxical nature of the natural "object" which has nevertheless been recognized as being "sacred" which the image fails to cope with (since it cannot sufficiently express the sacred). There are competing media which are considered more capable of this – here principally, of course, the word or writing. If we follow the argument of the Libri Carolini, there is no such thing as a sacred image, but there are the sacred word and the holy scriptures. And the primacy of the scriptures before the image applies in another respect, too. The example given is that of an image of a beautiful woman, who might represent both the pagan goddess Venus and the Virgin Mary. The defining factor is the title, which clearly shows the primacy of the word and writing (also in the realm of the profane).

But there was something else which was set against the images: this was already the case in the disputes during the Byzantine iconographic controversy, and then in the Carolingian reaction. It was articulated even more clearly than in the Libri Carolini in the decisions of the Synod of Paris, which took place in 825: the veneration of the cross is invoked as an argument against an idolatrous stance; images could not be equated with the sign of the cross, "since Mankind was redeemed by the Cross"[8]. Of course, the representation of the cross is also a form of image, a visual reproduction which, from a semiotic viewpoint, contains all the attributes which a sign can possess: it is iconic, meaning that it depicts the ancient instrument of execution, a wooden cross, in a highly stylized form, but this does not make it into the sign of Christianity per se: it must also – defined in semiotic terms – have indexical and symbolic characteristics. The cross points to death and the Resurrection, it is capable of representing symbolically (in the original literal meaning of "fitting together") that which does not occur simultaneously in the iconic image: the man Jesus and Christ as the incarnation of God. Not to put too fine a point on it: the cross is able to convey what Eliade calls the paradox: a wooden cross remains a cross made of wood and yet is at the same time an entity in which – seen through the eyes of the believer – the sacred is manifested in the fullness of its being.

 

***

 

We should address here once again the specific nature of the aesthetic field. A sacred stone is a stone, just like many others. It is and remains a stone. But for those "to whom a stone reveals itself as sacred, its immediate reality is transmuted into a supernatural reality"[9]. Depicted in an image, this stone does not "speak" for itself, but it is interpreted by a painter. This painter has the task of finding a form in which not only the natural "thisness" of the object, but also the manifestation of the sacred is expressed. Putting it another way: the painting not only depicts the stone, but also its perception by the homo religiosus. That is the transformation of the paradox into the aesthetic realm. And the result is a certain deficiency of iconic representation which is only able to depict both sides (of the paradox) in an image by a great effort. Achieving a commensurate representation of the paradox calls for alternative, i.e., non-iconic, means of expression, or at the very least for including them in the image. "Non-iconic" might be replaced here by "aniconic". The cross could (at least primarily) be regarded as an aniconic sign, but so could also every letter of a script[10] (calligraphy is an integral feature of aesthetic perception in many cultures). A preference for aniconic signs is sometimes taken to place its holder in the camp of the iconoclasts, a thesis which is implied in many essays, and repeatedly underscored with biased preconceptions. In fact, both tendencies can be verified throughout human history, that towards the development of (naturalistic) images and that towards developing symbolic signs. They coexist and are not mutually exclusive (the ideological suppression of the one side does not eradicate it from people’s minds).

Let us go in search of evidence for a mediating approach in the history of art, one which satisfies the requirements for the anthropological coexistence of aniconic and iconic modes of representation and sets the two categories in relation to one another. And here we encounter the Carolingian statements we mentioned above, which seem to be an attempt at mediation. The art which I associate with this was not, however, created only in the domain of the Franks, but in a cultural region which extended further. Many of its works hail from Ireland, an island which, as we know, was converted to Christianity much earlier (and without spilling blood), and represented a centre from which missionaries were sent out to convert northern and eastern Europe.

On the one hand we have here the magnificent culture of illuminated manuscripts (the Book of Kells comes to mind, but we could also find examples in the heartland of the Franks), in which image and alphabetic character are so intricately interwoven that they create an illustrative emanation of the imagination in the service of the (Holy) Scriptures. The intensive impression created by this not infrequently achieves a high degree of real presence. And it is always an ensemble which draws on the synergy of iconic and aniconic elements (the latter not only in the characters but in the many ornaments, which are here not merely decorative frills, but contribute towards configuring the fullness of being).

On the other hand, I would like to point to the so-called high crosses which can be found on the British Isles, and above all in today’s Ireland (as examples, the high crosses at the monastery of Clonmacnoise or in the cemetery at Monasterboice can be given). Here we see realized what was postulated in the Carolingian assessment: the cross stands there as an object of veneration; and this cross includes pictorial images of both an iconic, but also an aniconic nature: stories told in pictures, visualizations of sermons on the historical deeds of holy persons and the workings of the Divine spirit manifested in them. The cross and the (figurative-iconic) image are not seen here as antagonistic (as they were in the Byzantine controversy), but as connected in a manner which makes sense from a theological point of view. The total effect and transcendental quality of being which Elaide’s second thesis postulates does not occur in the image. In other words, the archetypal relationship to holy places and objects is not transferred 1:1 to iconic representations. What is created is rather a relationship of tension between different manifestations which, however, lose none of their inherent power through being combined. The image here is – as in the book illumination – truly bound into a whole, but without its expressive power being in any way diminished.

What fascination these towering crosses radiate, how graphically detailed the relief figures and symbols are when one stands before them! And something very similar happens with the letters and images on the initial pages of the Gospels and the other illuminated manuscripts. The presence of the sacred is here brought to the fore using different means of representation without either of them claiming to possess the sole authority or to be the only legitimate channel of intermediation. Aniconic elements at any rate play a crucial role in creating the intensive visual character of such designs.

 

***

 

We have already suggested that Eliade recognizes an unbroken continuum reaching from the most elementary to the highest hierophany. Among the advanced civilizations this is not confined to Christianity, nor even to the three great monotheistic religions: I am thinking here above all of Buddhism and the omnipresent figure of the Buddha. This was not always the case. In the early days of Buddhism, following the death of the historical Buddha (which can be dated to the 5^th or 4^th century B. C.), there was a long period in which there was no representation of his person, and thus no form of veneration focused on a physical image of the religion’s founder. A certain parallelism with early Christianity is evident here. How could Christ’s Divine side be represented? Is not the image of Christ a reduction of His dual nature to its human component only? Absolutely comparable arguments can be made in the case of the Buddha. Indeed, the idea of the Buddha itself does not denote the individual human being per se, but the liberated human being, whose liberation eventually find its fulfilment when he enters into the state known as Nirvana after death. This Nirvana is described as being without forms or designations. In the West, the term Nirvana is used in everyday language to mean a place of non-being, a valuation which however has nothing to do with Eastern thinking and Buddhist ideas in particular. An interesting feature here is that in ancient European culture, just as in ancient Buddhist traditions, there was a doctrine which postulated five elements (with certain variants), or rather four elements, which were then complemented by a fifth (the "quintessence"). These are earth, water, fire and air (with terminological variations). In the case of the fifth, additional element, European thinking diverges from the Buddhist/Eastern conception, however. In the West it is known as the ether, a substance whose nature partakes both of the material and the spiritual, a substance which in fact constitutes the basic element by filling out the infinite expanses of space, thus preventing a vacuum – which must not be allowed to exist, since it would contradict certain fundamental beliefs. The fifth element we find in Buddhism is of a quite different sort: here it is called the void or space or empty space. In sharp contrast to the European horror vacui (emptiness induces fear), the void is here part of a genesis principle, is the first cause and substratum of everything that exists. It is interesting to juxtapose these two philosophies of the universe: empty space could represent nothingness to the European, while the Buddhist sees it as the birthplace of everything which exists, meaning: empty space may not contain anything, but it exists, i.e., it possesses the quality of existing.

What is called Nirvana can better be understood when seen from this perspective: it is not merely non-existence, but neither is it the form of existence we know from our physical world. Nor is it a "beyond" in the sense of an alternative world; rather it is the abolition of our categories, our tenets for perceiving the world, and thus the negation of a ruling principle, namely that of binary thinking: yes or no, being or non-being. Nirvana could be thought of as the dialectical resolution of such contradictory opposites (although this is based on a very European formula). In this sense, the absence of image, form and language is not the ultimately definitive description of this state, since in those terms it might be classified as being pure negation, whereas it is in fact a fusion of states which were previously mutually exclusive.

Consequences could be drawn from this for a (necessary) polarity of Buddhist aesthetics. Dietrich Seckel attempts in his essay Jenseits des Bildes. Anikonische Symbolik in der buddhistischen Kunst (Beyond images. Aniconic symbolism in Buddhist art) to explain the interaction of iconic and aniconic images in late Buddhism in the light of this, and comes to the conclusion that: "The whole of Buddhist art is held in suspension in this dialectical or paradoxical relationship between representation through images and without images"[11]. Such ancient symbols[12] as the "wheel of the law" Dharmachakra or the Buddha’s footprint, but above all the form of the stupa in buildings and their depiction, have become firmly established in it: this type of monument, which developed out of prehistoric burial mounds and is furnished with sacred equipment and other objects which remain unseen, is not merely a memorial, but symbolizes Nirvana, and is perhaps the most significant of all such symbols in Buddhism.

The dominant feature which immediately catches our eye in holy sites today is however the other side of Buddhist visualization: the imposing statues of an often decidedly corpulent Buddha. It is difficult not to be fascinated by these massive sculptures which depict the Master reclining, sleeping or already deceased, and thus already having entered into Nirvana. Is the iconography we see here still "held in suspension" between the iconic and the aniconic poles, or is the paradoxical nature of it not indeed revealed as being in open contradiction to the religious dogma (and not so much an "infusion of vitality" within it)? While Buddhism postulates the resolution of all contradictions in Nirvana (as the goal of belief), they nevertheless come to the surface in such representational forms. Here once again we have the archetypal paradox of a religious object which manifests the sacred and yet partakes of our profane world, and it seems as though the world of human cognition and the human imagination is simply not capable of resolving such contradictions, as if Nirvana were inaccessible to it.

***

 

There was no iconographic controversy in Buddhism. It is nevertheless a fact that religious art underwent a change after a purely aniconic early period, so that the question arises whether this change was not reflected in the attempt to legitimize it in written form. The most interesting document here – as far as we know – is an ancient legend which tells of the patriarch, saint or arhat (a sort of lower level Buddha) Upagupta from Mathura:

Upagupta’s sermons are constantly interrupted by theatrical diversions from Mara, the lord of the world of the senses, evil god, and Buddhist "devil". Upagupta finally loses patience with this and binds three corpses in a tight wreath around the neck of the "evil one", who is unable, either alone or with the help of other gods, to free himself from them. Only Upagupta himself can do this, and Mara is fascinated by the power which this reveals the Buddha as able to exert. Upagupta is now permitted to express a wish: he asks to see the physical manifestation of the Buddha. Mara extracts a promise from Upagupta that, if he appears in the physical form of the Buddha, he will not show him any veneration, and then goes into a wood, changes his shape (as if a woman were to adorn herself in the most splendid jewellery behind a concealing curtain) and reappears in the form of the Buddha, surrounded by a retinue of disciples. A golden halo of glory radiates out from his body like the light of the sun. Gripped by a deep inner excitement, Upagupta gazes at the figure of the Buddha before him, immersing himself more and more in contemplation of it, until he is finally convinced that what he sees before him is the Buddha himself, and he falls (like a tree whose roots are severed) at Mara’s feet. Appalled, Mara reminds him of their pact. Upagupta rises to his feet and declares that he did not bow down before him. When Mara asks in astonishment how he could say this, Upagupta replies humbly: I did not bow down to you and did not deviate from our agreement. It is as if one were to fashion a Buddha of clay, but when one venerates it, one thinks only of the Buddha, not of the clay. And that is why, when I saw you now, I was only thinking of the Buddha, and not of you, not of Mara[13].

What is being dealt with here is quite clearly the question of the legitimacy of erecting Buddha statues. We must realize that the location mentioned here, Mathura in northern India, was an important centre of Buddhist art, where some of the earliest representations of the Buddha appeared at the beginning of the first millennium A.D.[14]. The legitimization strategy put here into the mouth of Upagupta at the end of the legend reminds us as Europeans of very similar words in a quite different cultural context. We find them in the apologetics of icon veneration in Byzantium and later in the Orthodox Churches. It is the doctrine that it is the original manifestation which is being venerated in its reproduction, thus crediting the latter to a certain degree with legitimately representing and conveying the presence of sacred persons.

In the Buddhist legend, however, such an apologetic is given a starkly ironic slant. The wager with Mara turns out to be satirical, shining a luridly theatrical spotlight on the veneration of statues; the "Buddha Show" in dubious taste could be interpreted as being a morality tale warning of the dangers of giving way too unguardedly to one’s feelings. Is a milder Buddhist form of "iconoclasm" being expressed here, or is the irony a component in a dialectical legitimization strategy advanced by proponents of image veneration (possibly against the background of the legends celebrating the pantheon of Hindu gods)?

 

***

 

From a dogmatic perspective, iconodulism should appear in an even more critical light in Buddhism than in the case of the Christian Incarnation[15]. And yet both Christians and Buddhists refuse to let go of a paradox which is not justified by their own dogmatic ideas or religious convictions. Contradictions are accepted and are in some cases not resolvable. In the societies of advanced civilizations, too – although, or perhaps precisely because, a high degree of abstraction has developed there – Man does not want to renounce iconic sign systems, which after all are represented at every level of intellectual activity. The explanation for this can only lie in underlying anthropological phenomena (perhaps in the archetypal strata of human thinking and feeling) and should establish a nexus of connections between cultic or quasi-cultic representations in all eras - whether fertility idols, Orthodox icons, statues of the Buddha or Che Guevara posters. In a sense, the human imagination always returns to the phenomenal world. Many an attempt to achieve a "higher" (characterized by high spirituality) level of real presence incorporates the depiction of real "objects". "For those who have a religious experience" - writes Eliade – "all nature is capable of revealing itself as cosmic sacrality"[16]. Perhaps the overarching idea lurking in the human brain is a megaparadox, namely that everything which exists and can be perceived through our senses is hierophanic in its entirety, meaning that it does not only exist in and for itself, but as the expression of sacrality, and that we, as homines sapientes, are the focal point of this. Representations of things would then have the purpose of enabling Man to affirm the potential sacrality of everything which appears on the surface to be merely profane, including in the final resort himself. It would thus be a truly paradox-driven project devised by the human mind to create meaningfulness, which draws sustenance from religious roots, but also poses a threat to authentic religiosity.