Journal articles on the topic 'Paired Stelae'

Steele and others have suggested that minimizing changes in glucose specific activity when estimating hepatic glucose output (HGO) during glucose infusions could reduce non-steady-state errors. This approach was assessed in nondiabetic and type II diabetic subjects during constant low dose [27 mumol.kg ideal body wt (IBW)-1.min-1] glucose infusion followed by a 12 mmol/l hyperglycemic clamp. Eight subjects had paired tests with and without labeled infusions. Labeled infusion was used to compare HGO in 11 nondiabetic and 15 diabetic subjects. Whereas unlabeled infusions produced negative values for endogenous glucose output, labeled infusions largely eliminated this error and reduced the dependence of the Steele model on the pool fraction in the paired tests. By use of labeled infusions, 11 nondiabetic subjects suppressed HGO from 10.2 +/- 0.6 (SE) fasting to 0.8 +/- 0.9 mumol.kg IBW-1.min-1 after 90 min of glucose infusion and to -1.9 +/- 0.5 mumol.kg IBW-1.min-1 after 90 min of a 12 mmol/l glucose clamp, but 15 diabetic subjects suppressed only partially from 13.0 +/- 0.9 fasting to 5.7 +/- 1.2 at the end of the glucose infusion and 5.6 +/- 1.0 mumol.kg IBW-1.min-1 in the clamp (P = 0.02, 0.002, and less than 0.001, respectively).

The study of Egyptian personal religiosity during the third century ad presents an interesting opportunity to explore the processes of cultural encounters between Egypt and the Roman Empire. The religious situation was more complicated and variegated than the textual evidence seems to suggest; sometimes one becomes aware of the existence of certain beliefs only through their iconographic record. For this reason, decorated stelae, coffins, and mummy wrappings are crucial materials for research into questions of religious exchange. This article presents the case of a third-century ad shroud from Memphis painted with a woman's portrait and funerary scenes, along with a representation of Isis navigans.

The history of the iconostasis in the central nave of the church in Decani can be divided into two periods. The icons of Christ, the Mother of God, John the Baptist and St. Nicholas on the original altar screen, painted around 1343, were related to the relics of King Stefan Decanski and with the wall painting in the church space in front of the altar. The removal of those icons at the end of the sixteenth century and their replacement with new ones explains the strengthening cult of St. Stefan Decanski. In 1577 an icon of St. Stephen was placed over the king?s portrait depicted in the fourteenth century fresco painting, and by 1593/1594, the new despotic icons of Christ and the Virgin were painted for the iconostasis, then an expanded Deesis that was placed above them, with a large cross fixed on the top. The central icons were painted by the painter Longin, and the cross is attributed to Andreja, a painter known for his frescoes from the seventh and eighth decade of the seventeenth century.

This research examines a badly washed-out portrait composition of Prince Lazar, Princess Milica and their sons, Stefan and Vuk, in the Ravanica church. The opinion is that it was not painted later, over the original layer of the frescoes, but that it was made simultaneously with the other wall paintings of the lowest zones of the church. Considering the age of Stefan represented in the portrait composition, it is assumed that the decoration of the church was completed around 1385.

Ancient pigments were analyzed using PIXE and XRD methods in the laboratory, which were painted on ancient Egyptian monuments. On the other hand, those on monuments remaining with entire shape were investigated using the hand-held type of an XRF spectrometer and an X-ray diffractometer in the field. For the laboratory experiment, several wall fragments of the Malqata palace in ancient Egypt (18th Dynasty, ca. 1390 B.C.) were investigated. In the field experiment, the block of Ramesses II (19th Dynasty, ca. 1270 B.C.), the Wooden Coffin of Neb-sny (18th Dynasty, ca. 1400 B.C.), the Funerary Stele of Amenemhat (11th Dynasty, ca. 2000 B.C.), and the painted walls of the Tomb of Userhat (18th Dynasty, ca. 1400 B.C.) were investigated. From white and blue colored parts, huntite and Egyptian blue were found, respectively, which are a very rare mineral and an artificial pigment prepared only in ancient Egypt, respectively.

The portrait of grand knez Vukan, the only modern and fragmentarily preserved one, was located on the North wall of the tower of the main entrance to the Studenica monastery. It is assumed that there was a composition on the North wall of the main entrance in which Simeon with his three sons approaches the Mother of God and Christ. There is a possibility that Vukan, as one of the ktetors of Studenica, was shown in the ktetor's composition. Since then, Vukan has been shown only with Stefan in compositions that illustrate scenes from the Life of Saint Simeon, in Radoslav's narthex and monasteries Gradac and Sopoćani. Due to the usurpation of Stefan's supremacy, Vukan became a sinner who broke his father's vow to live in harmony with his brother. However, after the end of the civil war, the brothers reconciled: Vukan repented for everything that he had done, and Stefan forgave him everything. The peace between them was established by Sava's arrival with the relics of Saint Simeon. Saint Sava arranged the reconciliation of the brothers, and he laid the ideal of brotherly love and harmony in the basis of the ruling ideology of Nemanjić's dynasty. He wanted to emphasize this through paintings, fitting the portraits of his brothers into the iconographic program of the frescoes of the Studenica monastery, and he introduced their names in the founder's inscription. After the frescoes created in 1208/9. Vukan was painted where it made sense, as someone who, in agreement with his brother Stefan, transfers theirs father's relics. Since he does not belong to the main lineage of the dynasty, his portrait wasn't painted in the family compositions of Nemanjićs in the 13th century.

The Serbian historiography considers the issue of the co-ruling of King Stefan the First-Crowned and his son Radoslav as the one finally resolved. The suggested solution on the co-rule of Stefan and Radoslav may be most succinctly expressed as following: as early as in the year of 1220, due to the frail health of Stefan the First-Crowned and Radoslav's marriage to Anne the Epirus princess, Radoslav was crowned to be the king and positioned to co-rule with his father after the Byzantine model of governing. Nevertheless this point of view has some loose ends. The notion of co-ruling and the very term of 'co-ruler' are quite freely used in the scholarly works. A general consensus on the precise meaning has not been reached yet. At the point where one author perceives a co-rule, the other categorically denies it. Basically the approach equalizing the heir to the throne and the co-ruler is wrong. Although the co-rulers in most cases were the throne heirs, they cannot be called the co-rulers because of the right to inherit the throne, but for the ruling attributes that formally established that right. The conviction of the co-rule of King Stefan and his son Radoslav is founded on the interpretation of the facts coming from the following sources: entitling charters for the monastery of Zica, produced by Stefan and Radoslav around 1220; some segments from St. Sava's biographies by Domentian and Theodosius describing the circumstances of Stefan's death-bed leaving the throne to Radoslav; the three acts of the town of Kotor from 1221 and 1227 dated by the rule of king Radoslav, the portraits of Stefan and Radoslav next to the entrance to the Church of the Ascension in the monastery of Zica and in the nartex of the Mileseva monastery church. In the first Zica charter, Stefan calls Radoslav his heir, while in the second Zica charter Stefan points out Radoslav as his first-born son blessed by him to be the king of the whole state. (jegoze i blagoslovismo biti emou kralju v'se sije dr'zave). Though differently in manner, Radoslav's hereditary right has been emphasized in both of these charters. In my opinion, the formulation of the second charter does not refer to the coronation of a co-ruler, but a ceremonious act of proclaiming the successor. That may have been one of the results of Radoslav's marrying Anne the daughter of the Epirus ruler Theodore I Angelos in 1219/1220. St. Sava's biography by Domentian tells us about Stefan's appointing Radoslav for his heir immediately before his death. That was followed by arch-bishop Sava's crowning him the king to be s'prestol'nik' ot'c'stva svoego. The expression s'prestol'nik' was supposed to be the proof of Radoslav being his father's co-ruler. However, Domentian uses the term s'prestol'nik' ot'c'stva svoego in the metaphysical sense to cast the stress on the Nemanjic dynastic permanent right to the Serbian throne, not to describe the relations in the real time. The Nemanjic hereditary authority was regarded equal to the throne, so every ruler stepping onto it, according to Domentian, shares the same throne with his predecessors and the future rulers from the same family. Domentian calls both Stefan the First-Crowned and Vladislav, Radoslav's brother s'prestol'nik' ot'c'stva svoego, and the two of them have been firmly confirmed not to be their fathers' co-rulers. Besides, Domentian speaks of Radoslav as of s'prestol'nik' at the moments immediately preceding Stefan's death, thus not even for the chronological reasons can this fact be used as an evidence for the co-rule of Stefan and Radoslav. Theodosius similarly depicts the shift on the throne using the word s'prestol'nik' in the same context. The two acts of the town of Kotor from 1221 and the one from 1227 were dated sub tempore domini regis Radoslavi. The mentioning of king Radoslav at the time when his father was the Serbian king was considered a valid proof of Radoslav's co-rule with his father with the title of a king. Anyway, this is not about the mere mentioning of king Radoslav in some document, but about the official Kotor town documents being dated after the rule of king Radoslav as the master of Kotor (dominus rex). The Kotor town resolutions were dated in the same fashion at the time when Stefan Nemanja's son Vukan had the rule over Duklja while his father and afterwards his brother held the Serbian throne. Therefore, the mentioning of king Radoslav as the master of Kotor means that he got Duklja to rule probably as an heir to the throne and, like Vukan, he took over the old royal title of Duklja. To the left and to the right from the entrance to the Zica monastery Church of the Ascension, the portraits of King Stefan the First-Crowned and king Radoslav were painted. The portraits were believed to have been made at the time of Stefan and Radoslav's producing the charter to the monastery of Zica (circa 1220), so Radoslav's royal title in the inscription next to the portrait was taken as evidence that he had already been appointed as his father's co-ruler and the king. Nonetheless, the Zica exonartex with the tower was built most likely during the rule of king Radoslav (circa 1229-1234); hence the portrait itself could have been painted only then implying that the title in the inscription next to the character of Radoslav might have referred to his independent status as a ruler. In addition to this, there is an iconographic motif after which, when the son is to carry on the father's building project, the younger, i.e. the other founder is always portrayed on the left side of the entrance, just like in the case of Zica. A donors' composition, including the portraits of Stefan the First-Crowned and Radoslav, was painted in the Mileseva church nartex during the twenties of the 13th century. Both Stefan and Radoslav bear the wreaths on their heads and Stefan holds a scepter in his left hand. The wreath on Radoslav's head is regarded as a symbol of his keeping the position of a co-ruler. Still without the support of the written sources, for which this article has showed that they do not prove Radoslav's co-rule, the portraits in Mileseva do not have an independent source value. We do not have at our disposal a representative sample from an earlier period or the one contemporary with the Mileseva fresco paintings to serve as the basis for establishing the iconographic patterns of presenting the co-ruling position. Certain examples of the later paintings (Sopocani, Bogorodica Ljeviska) indicate that the images of the heirs with the ruling signs do not mean that their actual coronation and raising to the rank of a co-ruler had already taken place. Not even the portraits of the younger king Uros, i.e. king Uros at the time of Dusan's imperial rule mark the co-ruler, but the heir to the throne. Since painting is the ultimate expression of the monarchic ideology, the painters of the donors' compositions, similarly to the biographers, have no need to convey every particularity from the real life. Instead of that, they primarily use symbols. Therefore, the crown on the head of the ruler's son doesn't necessarily have to imply him being crowned and set to be a co-ruler. The wreath on Radoslav's head only symbolized his position of the throne heir. From my point of view, no source analyzed here provides an unequivocal confirmation of Radoslav's co-rule. If his participation in the governing may be spoken of, it has been achieved only over the position of the king of Duklja. Considering the fact that the sources of the co-ruling matter are scarce and subject to various interpretations, this piece of work has been intentionally titled with a question mark. Its purpose is not to offer the final and consistently opposite solutions from those generally accepted by scholars, but to provoke a further scientific dispute on this sensitive issue.

The paper focuses on two works of art, Chrysanthemums and Roses, painted by Stefan Luchian, a representative painter for the modern Romanian art from the beginning of the 20th century. The two paintings were analyzed by several non-invasive techniques (optical microscopy, grazing light and UV examination, IR reflectography, XRF and Raman spectrometry) in order to get information concerning the chromatic and to assess the state of conservation. The study is focused in particular on yellow, red and white pigments, which are different in the two pictorial compositions: in Chrysanthemums the predominant pigments are Madder lake, cadmium yellow and zinc white mixed with lead white, while in Roses cinnabar, strontium yellow and lead white were found, according to the XRF and Raman analysis.

Matej Sternen (1870–1949) is better known as an impressionist painter rather than for his restoration work, even though in his impressive career he discovered and restored a considerable number of works, especially frescos in Slovenia and Dalmatia (Croatia). His strong interest in restoration can be seen in the numerous notes he wrote about painting technologies, restoration and conservation techniques. This enriched his entire opus, as it stimulated him to try numerous painting techniques and genres, such as frescoes. Sternen was a painter who constructed his paintings very carefully, and a master in the preparation of the painting’s surface, or “the ground,” and always considered the laws of colours and their relationships and proportions to the white painted surface.In his restoration practice, working together with his close colleagues the art historians France Stele (1886–1972) and Ljubo Karaman (1886–1971), Matej Sternen actualized the principle “conserve instead of restore” that was the rule in his day. This paper is based on fieldwork data and archive sources, kept in Ljubljana, Celje, Split and Zagreb, and focuses on two important monuments — the painted ceiling in the Old Manor House in Celje (Slovenia), and a wall painting in the church of St Michael in Ston (Croatia). These two cases, which are different from both technical and methodological approaches to monument protection, clearly show Sternen’s professional expertise and practical realization of “conserve instead of restore,” which speaks in favour of preserving the original work as opposed to aggressive restoration interventions.

Matej Sternen (1870–1949) is better known as an impressionist painter rather than for his restoration work, even though in his impressive career he discovered and restored a considerable number of works, especially frescos in Slovenia and Dalmatia (Croatia). His strong interest in restoration can be seen in the numerous notes he wrote about painting technologies, restoration and conservation techniques. This enriched his entire opus, as it stimulated him to try numerous painting techniques and genres, such as frescoes. Sternen was a painter who constructed his paintings very carefully, and a master in the preparation of the painting’s surface, or “the ground,” and always considered the laws of colours and their relationships and proportions to the white painted surface.In his restoration practice, working together with his close colleagues the art historians France Stele (1886–1972) and Ljubo Karaman (1886–1971), Matej Sternen actualized the principle “conserve instead of restore” that was the rule in his day. This paper is based on fieldwork data and archive sources, kept in Ljubljana, Celje, Split and Zagreb, and focuses on two important monuments — the painted ceiling in the Old Manor House in Celje (Slovenia), and a wall painting in the church of St Michael in Ston (Croatia). These two cases, which are different from both technical and methodological approaches to monument protection, clearly show Sternen’s professional expertise and practical realization of “conserve instead of restore,” which speaks in favour of preserving the original work as opposed to aggressive restoration interventions.

In Byzantine painting, starting from the XIII and particularly during the XIV century, there was a visible return to models from the period of Antiquity. The influences of ancient, ostensibly, Hellenistic heritage were reflected in the shapes, in the content of the compositions, as well as in the drawing, modellation and colours. In the art that came into being in the course of the XIII century, in the endowments of the Serbian donors numerous elements emerged that had existed in ancient art. In the frescoes in the Church of the Mother of God in Studenica, the endowment of Stefan Nemanja and his sons, we see personifications, symbols, the introduction of details, and space acquiring depth, features that were later to come to full expression, especially from the middle of the XIII century. The few preserved frescoes dating from the XIII century in the Church of the Resurrection in the Zica monastery, the endowment of Stefan the First Crowned, his son Radoslav and his brother Sava, are an iconographic continuation of the trends in the art one encounters in Studenica. The frescoes in the Church of Christ's Ascension in Mileseva, the endowment of King Vladislav, with their subtly fashioned figures and carefully modelled faces, as well as refined colouring, signal a return to the Hellenistic models. The painting in the Church of Dormition of the Virgin in the Moraca monastery, the endowment of Prince Stefan, nephew of king Stefan, with its well-proportioned, firmly modelled figures, landscapes and architecture deepening the space, reminds one of the Sopocani frescoes. In the fresco painting of the Holy Apostles in Pec, the endowment of Archbishop Sava which owed its outcome to the efforts of Archbishop Arsenije I, the images are very vivid, and the painted architecture is depicted in an abbreviated form, using different kinds of perspective. The painting in the Church of the Holy Trinity in Sopocani, the endowment of king Uros I, represents an ensemble of new artistic trends that appeared during the first half of the XIII century. Its spacious and monumental compositions present solutions that give the figures a quality of flexibility and breadth to their movements, while their faces resemble those of Antiquity. The space is indicated by architecture painted in an abbreviated manner, the iconostasis and icons are framed in an ornament of stucco bearing antique motifs, some scenes contain personifications, while the rich and harmonious colours and gold in the background emphasise the Hellenistic spirit. The frescoes in the Church of the Annunciation in the Gradac monastery, the endowment of Queen Jelena followed the trends in painting from Sopocani. The figures in the narthex of the Church of St. George in Djurdjevi Stupovi and in the parekklesion of the entrance tower, the endowment of King Dragutin, were painted in a rather similar fashion. The decoration of St. Ahilije in Arilje, the endowment of King Dragutin, consists of monumental figures of ancient beauty, richly painted architecture in the background, and greater depth painted in different forms of perspective and scenes containing details from everyday life. During the XIII century, the proportions of the compositions became larger, the number of participants in them increased, various episodes were added to the existing scenes, and the space was defined by a larger number of plans and buildings of ancient forms. At the same time, the painted architecture was presented in the perspective of different projections, deepening the space when necessary and highlighting the subject matter. The landscape is presented in the background, keeping to the rhythm of the scene or partitioning the episodes within the composition, while depicting vegetation and animals that resemble the mosaic flooring of ancient times. Special attention was paid to appearance and workmanship, to the modeling of the faces and human figures that acquired the proportions and harmony of Antiquity. Characters with lively movements were more numerous and were located more freely in the space. Compositions were more numerous, enriched with details from everyday life, while into the established scenes as regards Christian iconography were included personifications, symbolic and allegorical figures. The influences of Antiquity were also reflected in the precise drawing, plastic modeling and rich, refined colours. During the XIII century, the revival of models from Antiquity evolved gradually in the painting of the endowments belonging to the Serbian ktetors, most of whom were members of the Nemanjic ruling house. First of all, single elements appeared that were related to the proportions of the compositions and the images, personifications, symbolic presentations, the temperate voluminousity of the figures, refined colours all of which heralded further trends in painting. In addition, the painted architecture, of Hellenistic forms, gained an increasing role in the definition of space. The painting in Sopocani, with its monumental dimensions, its harmony of ancient proportions, precise drawing and modeling, wealth of colours and splendour of gold, reached an outstanding level in the Byzantine painting of that epoch. The decoration of the monuments that were built later, up to the end of the XIII century, mirrored the achievements of the Sopocani painting and continued to develop by including elements from the Antiquity. Thus, at the beginning of the XIV century, the emulation of models from the Antiquity came to full expression in the monumental endowments of King Milutin.

Abstract The pathophysiology of human aplastic anemia (AA) is immune-mediated destruction of bone marrow stem and progenitor cells. Most patients respond to immunosuppressive therapies (IST), which markedly improved survival in this disease. However, a minority of patients undergoes transformation to malignant hematologic disease, myelodysplastic syndrome (MDS) and acute myeloid leukemia (AML), usually accompanied by the cytogenetic abnormality monosomy 7. Clonal evolution in AA confers a poor prognosis in the clinic but is an opportunity to assess early events in oncogenesis in the setting of inflammation and tissue regeneration. We previously reported that low mean telomere length of leukocytes at the time of diagnosis of AA (Scheinberg et al., JAMA 2010) was associated with increased risk of progression to MDS. In the current study, we directly compared acquired mutations in candidate genes and chromosomal instability, as measured by telomere length, in a cohort of AA patients that had progressed to MDS. Thirteen AA patients who developed monosomy 7 were compared with 30 AA patients who had received similar treatments but did not progress to MDS. Leukocytes telomere content was measured by qPCR in samples obtained at different time points from the diagnosis of AA and chromosome-specific telomere length was assessed by single telomere length assay (STELA) for Xp, Yp, 12q, and 17p. In the AA patients who had evolved to MDS and AML, analysis of acquired mutations in myeloid-specific genes was performed by comparison with control “germline” DNA from purified CD3 lymphocytes by exome sequencing. Cells from AA patients with clonal evolution showed marked progressive telomere attrition, 419 bp/year during the period preceding development of monosomy 7. Telomere attrition was progressive from the time of diagnosis of AA. By STELA, accumulation of very short telomere fragments was apparent at 6 months after IST. In contrast, for the AA control group, patients whose disease was stable, telomere attrition was not accelerated in serial qPCR determinations, nor was there increased accumulation of short telomere fragments by STELA. A similar pattern of increased telomere attrition was reproduced in vitro by cultivation of bone marrow cells obtained six months after IST in all AA patients who developed MDS, while none of the AA control bone marrow cultured cells developed shorter telomeres. We examined bone marrow myeloid cells at the time of monosomy 7 for acquired mutations in 125 candidate genes reported to be recurrently mutated in AML and MDS. Exome sequencing was performed using Agilent SureSelect Target Enrichment System. The raw reads were mapped to UCSC Human Genome hg19 by BWA software with default setting. With an average of 111-fold coverage on selected exon regions, somatic mutations were identified between paired samples using SAMtools and Shimmer software for SNP detection. Acquired mutations in myeloid cells were found in two cases. One patient had a heterozygous mutation in DNMT3A (K829T) present since diagnosis of AA. The other patient also had a heterozygous mutation in DNMT3A (P904S) as well as mutations in DOTL1, ASXL1, SETBP1, and STAT3. All these mutations were identifiable after IST as neutrophils recovered. Despite the presence of multiple mutations, this patient had shown a good hematologic response to IST; evolution was manifest as recurrent pancytopenia and stable marrow myeloblasts at about 5% for over 2 years after first detection of monosomy 7. The remaining 11 patients, all of whom lacked candidate gene mutations, had progressive increase in bone marrow myeloblast numbers; the only other three survivors in this cohort had received hematopoietic stem cell transplant. In conclusion, telomere shortening rather than accumulation of point mutations in hematopoietic cells preceded aneuploidy and malignant transformation at an early stage of oncogenesis in this group of patients. These results from AA may be generalizable to other cancers arising in the setting of inflammation and tissue regeneration in other organs. Identification of critically short telomeres before the development of cytogenetic abnormalities may allow for improved management of patients at risk of clonal evolution, and pharmacologic strategies to increase telomerase activity might mitigate the risk of cancer in these settings Disclosures: No relevant conflicts of interest to declare.

Background:Modic type 1 changes (MC1) are vertebral bone marrow lesions associated with non-specific low back pain (LBP). The pathophysiology of MC1 includes inflammation, fibrosis, and high bone turnover. Bone marrow stromal cells (BMSCs) are key regulators of these processes: BMSCs contribute to inflammation by regulating myelopoiesis/osteoclastogenesis; BMSCs can differentiate into osteoblasts contributing to high bone turnover, and BMSCs can differentiate into pro-fibrotic myofibroblasts.Objectives:To identify dysregulated biological processes in MC1 BMSCs contributing to the pathobiology of MC1.Methods:Bone marrow aspirates were obtained from LBP patients with MC1 undergoing lumbar spinal fusion. Aspirates were taken prior to screw insertion. From each patient, a MC1 and a healthy control (HC) aspirate from the adjacent vertebral body was collected. BMSCs were isolated by plastic adherence and expanded. RNA from BMSCs passage 3 was sequenced (n=3 + 3) (Illumina Novaseq) and gene ontology of significantly dysregulated genes (p-value < 0.05) was analyzed. Specificity and rate of BMSC matrix adhesion were quantified: BMSCs (n=8 + 8) were seeded on fibronectin-coated, collagen-I-coated, and non-coated plastic dishes. BMSC adhesion was evaluated from 15min to 30min (Δ 30min - 15min). Percentage of adherent cells of MC1 and HC BMSC was compared with paired t-test. In order to identify integrins responsible for dysregulated cell-matrix adhesion, gene expression of 15 relevant integrins was measured by quantitative real-time PCR (qPCR). Normalized expressions were compared between MC1 and HC BMSC with paired t-test. Integrin β1 protein level was semi quantitatively analyzed by Western Blot (n = 5 + 5) and normalized to β-Actin expression.Results:By RNA sequencing, 154 genes were differentially expressed between MC1 and HC BMSCs (p-value ≤ 0.01; log2-ratio ≥ 0.5). Gene ontology enrichment analysis revealed an overrepresentation of the biological process “cell-matrix adhesion” among all significantly regulated genes (p-value < 9.3e-13). A change in cell adhesion was corroborated with adhesion assay. Binding (Δ 30min - 15min) to collagen I (MC1 + 16%, HC +10%, p-value = 0.10), fibronectin (MC1 + 17%, HC +6%, p-value = 0.03), and non-coated surface (MC1 + 46%, HC +35%, p-value = 0.05) was increased in MC1 (Figure 1). Integrin gene expression analysis revealed significant upregulation of integrin beta-1 gene (ITGB1) in MC1 vs. HC (fold change = 1.24, p-value = 0.047), whereas there was no significant difference between the other integrins tested. On protein level, integrin β1 was upregulated in MC1 in four out of five patients (Figure 2).Figure 1.Adhesion assay.Figure 2.Western Blot analysis.Conclusion:Adhesion of BMSCs to matrix and integrin β1 expression are increased in MC1. Integrin β1 is essential for cell-matrix adhesion and an important contributor to the initiation and progression of tissue fibrosis, a hallmark of MC1. Therefore, BMSCs and integrin β1 might be relevant novel targets for the treatment of MC1.Disclosure of Interests: :Irina Heggli: None declared, Susanne Epprecht: None declared, Tamara Mengis: None declared, Astrid Juengel: None declared, Michael Betz: None declared, Jose Spirig: None declared, Florian Wanivenhaus: None declared, Florian Brunner: None declared, Mazda Farshad: None declared, Oliver Distler Grant/research support from: Grants/Research support from Actelion, Bayer, Boehringer Ingelheim, Competitive Drug Development International Ltd. and Mitsubishi Tanabe; he also holds the issued Patent on mir-29 for the treatment of systemic sclerosis (US8247389, EP2331143)., Consultant of: Consultancy fees from Actelion, Acceleron Pharma, AnaMar, Bayer, Baecon Discovery, Blade Therapeutics, Boehringer, CSL Behring, Catenion, ChemomAb, Curzion Pharmaceuticals, Ergonex, Galapagos NV, GSK, Glenmark Pharmaceuticals, Inventiva, Italfarmaco, iQvia, medac, Medscape, Mitsubishi Tanabe Pharma, MSD, Roche, Sanofi and UCB, Speakers bureau: Speaker fees from Actelion, Bayer, Boehringer Ingelheim, Medscape, Pfizer and Roche, Stefan Dudli: None declared

Background:Skin in people with psoriasis has been comprehensively studied; uninvolved skin has abnormal gene expression. Less is known specifically about skin in PsA, the assumption being that it is identical to psoriasis. Chemokines and ACKR2 are among the upregulated genes in uninvolved psoriasis compared to healthy skin[1]. ACKR2 is a scavenging receptor of inflammatory CC chemokines and has been proposed as a regulator of cutaneous inflammation in psoriasis. It has not been studied in PsA.Objectives:To compare the transcriptome of PsA lesional, PsA uninvolved and healthy control skin and evaluate ACKR2 expression in PsA.Methods:Biopsies were taken from healthy control (HC) skin and paired lesional and uninvolved skin from patients with PsA. Libraries for bulk RNA sequencing were prepared from polyA selected RNA and sequenced on NovaSeq 6000. Sequencing data were analysed using Searchlight2. ACKR2 mRNA expression was validated by qPCR. RNAscope was used to localise ACKR2 expressing cells and sections were co-stained with podaplanin or stained in serial sections with CD45. Chemokine protein expression in skin was evaluated using Luminex technology.Results:Nine HC and 9 paired skin samples from patients with PsA were sequenced. The PsA skin lesions (PsA L) formed a distinct population in the transcriptomic principal component analysis (PCA) plot while HC and PsA uninvolved skin (PsA U) were overlapping. Only 15 genes were differentially expressed between HC and PsA U and none coded for chemokines. There were however significantly upregulated chemokines and receptors in PsA L. Unexpectely, ACKR2 was the 2ndmost upregulated chemokine receptor in PsA L with unchanged expression in PsA U compared with HC (PsA L vs HC log2fold 3.38, p.adj=9.51E-41; PsA L vs PsA U log2fold 3.58, p.adj=3.24E-45; PsA U vs HC log2fold -0.2, p.adj=0.732).The upregulation of ACKR2 in PsA L and unchanged expression in PsA U was confirmed by qPCR. RNAscope demonstrated strong expression of ACKR2 in the suprabasal layer of the epidermis in PsA L. In HC and PsA U, only occasional ACKR2 positive cells were seen in the epidermis. ACKR2 was expressed in lymphatic vessel walls but was not observed in CD45+ leukocytes.Provisional skin chemokine protein expression data showed poor correlation between mRNA levels and protein expression for the ACKR2 ligands CCL2, CCL3, CCL7, CCL8, CCL11, CCL13 and CCL22 in HC and PsA U, with negative correlation between ACKR2 mRNA expression and CCL2, CCL8 and CCL11 protein expression. In PsA L, chemokine mRNA correlated with protein expression, but protein expression of chemokine ligands did not correlate with ACKR2 expression.Conclusion:This data set shows expected upregulation of chemokines and their receptors in PsA L but relatively unchanged gene expression in PsA U, which contrasts to previous studies in psoriasis. Notably, this study demonstrates a strong upregulation of ACKR2 in keratinocytes in PsA L, with unchanged expression in PsA U. The RNA expression and preliminary protein data suggest that ACKR2 has little effect on the levels of its ligands in PsA skin lesions. However, this study may have missed local effects of ACKR2 in the epidermis.References:[1]Singh, M.D., et al.,Elevated expression of the chemokine-scavenging receptor D6 is associated with impaired lesion development in psoriasis.Am J Pathol, 2012.181(4): p. 1158-64.Acknowledgments:Funded by the Chief Scientist Office and a private donation to the University of Glasgow. Dr Sabarinadh Chilaka helped to prepare libraries for RNA sequencing.Disclosure of Interests:Hanna Johnsson: None declared, John Cole: None declared, Gillian Wilson: None declared, Marieke Pingen: None declared, Fiona McMonagle: None declared, Susan Holmes: None declared, Iain McInnes Grant/research support from: Bristol-Myers Squibb, Celgene, Eli Lilly and Company, Janssen, and UCB, Consultant of: AbbVie, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Celgene, Eli Lilly and Company, Gilead, Janssen, Novartis, Pfizer, and UCB, Stefan Siebert Grant/research support from: BMS, Boehringer Ingelheim, Celgene, GlaxoSmithKline, Janssen, Novartis, Pfizer, UCB, Consultant of: AbbVie, Boehringer Ingelheim, Janssen, Novartis, Pfizer, UCB, Speakers bureau: AbbVie, Celgene, Janssen, Novartis, Gerard Graham: None declared

The Church of St. Stephan, in this paper, belonged to a medieval residential complex above the confluence of the River Piva and the River Tara, in the extreme northeast of the present-day Republic of Montenegro. The central part of the complex consisted of Soko-grad, a castle with the court of the prominent, aristocratic, Kosaca family, which, at the end of the 14th century, right until the Turkish conquests in the sixties and seventies of the 15th century, ruled the regions later known as Hercegovina. At the foot of the castle, on Scepan polje, is the suburb with the Church of St. Stephan the endowment of the grand duke, Sandalj Hranic (+1345). At the foot of the northern slope, beneath the castle, in the area of Zagradja, is another church erected by the grand duke's successor, Herzeg Stefan Vukcic Kosaca (+1465). After the Turkish conquest, the complex of the Soko castle with its suburb was destroyed and the churches became deserted and were never renewed. The ruins of St. Stephan were discovered, investigated and then conserved from 1971-973, however, the results of this research have not been published until now. In reviewing the results obtained in the course of the archaeological excavations, it is possible, in a considerable measure, to comprehend the position and former appearance of the Church of St. Stephan and establish roughly, the time when it came into being. This was the largest church erected in the regions governed by the powerful, Kosaca noble family, during the 15th century. The total length of the church exceeded 25 metres and its width was approximately ten metres. In the preserved body of the construction, of which the remaining walls rise to a height of four metres one may see three basic stages of building. A narthex was later erected beside the church, and subsequently a small parakklesion was added, on the northern side. The original church had a single nave, a cruciform base and a gently, horseshoe-shaped apsis, facing east, flanked by rectangular choirs. The interior of the church, with two pairs of small pilasters, was articulated in three bays of almost equal dimensions. The altar, encompassing the apsis and the eastern bay, was separated from the naos by a constructed altar partition-wall, the essential appearance of which can be assumed on the basis of whatever was found. The entire surface of the constructed iconostasis was covered with frescoes. The floor of the naos was a step lower than the floor of the altar. Flooring made of mortar, like in the altar area also existed in the choirs. As opposed to these spaces, in the central and western bays, the floor was made of large, hewn stone slabs. The finds discovered in the debris, offered an abundance of data about the upper, now collapsed, structures of the church, and about the stonemasonry that decorated this building. The church did not have a dome but all three bays were topped by a single vault of carved calcareous stone, reinforced by two arches, resting on the pilasters. We may assume that the roof structure was of the Gothic type, and ribbed at the base. Above the choirs were lower semi-spherical vaults, perpendicular in relation to the longitudinal axis of the church. They were covered by gabled roofs that ended in triangular frontons on the northern and southern fa?ade, like the main vault on the eastern side above the altar apsis. The roof of the church was made of lead. A belfry, of unique construction, existed on the western side of the original church. It stood about one meter in front of the western wall and was linked by a vaulted passage to the main body of the building. All these parts were structurally inter-connected, indicating that they were built at the same time. The position and appearance of the original church windows can almost certainly be determined according to the preserved traces on the remaining sections of the walls, and the finds of the relevant stonemasonry. In the interior of the naos, along the southern wall of the western bay was the grave of the donor of the church of St. Stephan, Grand Duke Sandalj Hranic. This was the traditional position where the donor was buried, according to the custom or rather, the rule that had been practiced for centuries in the countries of the Byzantine Orthodox Christian world, and particularly in the Serbian lands. The duke's grave, marked by a stele in the form of a massive low coffin on a pedestal, was prepared while the church was being built given that it would have been impossible to install this large monolith that weighed approximately 2.5 tons in the church, later. Generally speaking, the donor's grave in the church of St. Stephan, is eloquent testimony of the donor's aspirations and beliefs. Besides the undoubtedly local feature of a funerary monument in the form of a stele, all its other characteristics emulate earlier models from the region of the Serbian lands. In front of the original church, at a later stage, which apparently followed soon after, a spacious narthex with a rectangular base was added on. Pylons of the belfry substructure were fitted into its eastern wall, which seems to have made that wall much thicker than the other walls of the narthex. This later erected narthex was not vaulted, which we concluded after analysing the preserved walls and the finds in the debris. Apparently, it had a flat ceiling construction, supported by massive beams that rested on consoles along the length of the northern and southern walls. The side entrances when the narthex was built were of the same dimensions as its western portal. However later, before installing the stone doorposts, both these entrances were narrowed down on their western, lateral sides, while the southern portal, in a later phase, was completely walled up. In the course of exploration, no reliable data was discovered regarding the position of the windows in the narthex. One can only assume that monophoric windows existed on the lateral walls, one or two on each side, similar to the monophores in the western bay. Apart from the narthex, another, later construction was observed next to the original church. On its northern side, along the western bay and the lateral side of the choir, a parakklesion, that is, a small funerary chapel was added on, in the middle of which a large stele once stood, of which now only fragments exist. The entire interior of the church of St. Stephan was deco-rated with frescoes. Rather small fragments of the wall painting were discovered in the debris, not only of the original church but also of the narthex, as well as of the northern funerary chapel. It was observed that they were all of the same quality, painted on mortar of a uniform texture which suggests that all the painting was done as soon as the additional buildings were finished. On the discovered fragments, one can recognise the dark blue back-ground of the former compositions, and the borders painted in cynober. On several fragments, there were preserved sections of or whole letters from Serbian Cyrillic texts. On several fragments that may have originated from the aureoles or parts of robes, traces of gold leaf were visible, which would indicate the splendour and representativeness of the frescoes that decorated the endowment of the grand duke, Sandalj Hranic. With the shape of the foundation of a single-nave church, divided into three bays and with rectangular choir spaces, the church of St. Stephan continued the tradition of the early Rascia school of Serbian architecture (13th beginning of 14th century), which represented a significant novelty at the time when it appeared. In Serbia, in the last decades of the 14th and the beginning of the 15th century, the predominant plan of the churches, the triconche, was based on the Holy Mount models. The decision by the donor, the grand duke Sandalj, to give his endowment the features of the earlier, Rascia heritage, in the times when the Serbian territories had been broken up and were exposed to pressure from external enemies, undoubtedly had a deeper significance. By relying on the earlier tradition, which is also reflected in the dedication of the church to St. Stephan, the patron saint of the state and of the Nemanjic dynasty, the donor expressed the aspiration to consolidate his authority more firmly in the regions that had previously formed part of the Serbian state. By erecting an endowment, and a funerary church that he wished to be his eternal resting-place, Sandalj was also demonstrating that he ranked among his predecessors, the Serbian rulers and nobility. One can see this from the choice of the traditional burial position, along the southern wall of the western bay, as well as from the tomb he had prepared for himself during his lifetime. Apart from the basic idea and plan of the church based on the Rascia tradition, the features of its architecture also exhibit other influences. Of crucial importance here was the choice of builders, who undoubtedly came from the coastal area, which is reflected both in the structural solutions, as well as in the decorative stonework. However, local master-craftsman undoubtedly took part in this achievement. One can see this particularly when observing the stonework which, besides some admittedly rather rare, better-carved pieces, consists of a great deal of carving by less experienced artisans. The assumptions about the origin of the architecture and the builders are substantiated by observing the preserved traces of the frescoes, which show that the decoration of St. Stephan's and the adjacent narthex was also entrusted to one of the coastal painters. Perhaps it was the well-known Dubrovnik painter Dzivan Ugrinovic, who is known to have been commissioned by the grand duke Sandalj in 1429. There is no direct or reliable record of the date when the endowment of the grand duke Sandalj Hranic or its later annexes were built. The stylistic analysis of the stonework makes it possible only roughly to attribute it to the first half of the 15th century. The year 1435 provides a slightly narrower span of time, which is the time of Sandalj's funeral, when it would appear that the church of St. Stephan was already finished. The data mentioned earlier regarding the engagement of builders from Dubrovnik and the possible later decoration, enables us to date it more exactly. Therefore, we may assume that the church itself was erected before the end of the second decade of the 15Lj century. The additional construction of the narthex may have followed soon after the completion of the church itself, as indicated by the stylistically uniform stonework. If we accept the possibility that the church was decorated at the end of the third decade of the 15S century, and that this was finished both in the church and the narthex at the same time the year 1429 would be the terminus ante quem for the completion of the additional construction. The Kosaca endowment, erected beside the Soko castle, offers new evidence about this prominent, noble or ruling family, and particularly about their religious affiliation. Historians, almost as a rule consider the Kosaca family to have been Bogumils, or people whose religious convictions were not particularly firm. Such views were based on the fact that Sandalj Hranic, the grand duke of Rusaga Bosanskog (of the Bosnian kingdom) and his successor, the duke and subsequently the herzeg, Stefan Vukcic, were tolerant towards the Bogumils and were often surrounded by people who upheld such religious beliefs, which was the political reality of the times in which they lived and functioned. On the other hand, the enemies of the Kosaca family made use of this to depict them to the Western and Eastern Christians as heretics, which was not without consequences. The distorted view of their religious conviction not only accompanied them during their lifetime but persists even today, not only in historiography but in present-day politics, as well, particularly after the recent wars in ex-Yugoslavia. The origin of the Kosaca family is connected with the region of the Upper Drina, that is to say, the region that had always been a part of the Nemanjic state, where there were no Bogumils, nor could there be. As owners of part of what had always been the Serbian lands, which went to Bosnia after the tragic division between Ban Tvrtko and Prince Lazar, the consequences of which are still felt today, the Kosaca very soon became independent rulers of this territory, forming a specific territory that later came to be known as Herzegovina. Another element that also bears weight in this respect is the fact that, in contrast to central Bosnia where the Bogumil heresy was influential, the population in the Kosaca lands was Orthodox Christian, with a certain number of Catholics in the western parts. The fact that the regions they ruled were nominally within the Bosnian kingdom, where the ruling class were predominantly Bogumils for a long time did not have any fundamental bearing on their religious affiliation. Significant records have been preserved of their unconcealed Orthodox Christian orientation. Without going into the details of this complex circle of problems, which requires a separate study, especially after the more recent discoveries and facts that have come to light, we shall dwell only on some facts. During the rule of Grand Duke Sandalj and his successor, Herzeg Stefan, which lasted almost seventy years, a whole series of Orthodox Christian churches were erected. During the first half of the 15th century, a kind of renaissance of the Rascia school of architecture came about in this area. In the words of V.J. Djuric, the endowments of the Kosaca family 'are different from the average buildings of their time by virtue of their size sometimes the unusual solutions, and the great beauty of form and proportions'. The wealth of the family and the continual relations with aitists from the southern Adriatic coastal cities imbued their architecture with buoyancy and significance. The western stylistic features of the churches of the Kosaca, and the Gothic language of the stonemasons, reveal the centres where these master craftsmen had learned their trade. With the erection of the endowment in the 'ruling seat' beneath Mt. Soko and the churches intended as their final resting-places, the Kosaca distinguished themselves as the last continuers of the Nemanjic tradition of earlier centuries, in the time that preceded the final Turkish conquest of the Serbian lands. The memory of their work is preserved in the church of St. Stephan and the nearby church at Zagradja, as well as in the rains of the Soko castle, which still lies waiting to be researched.

The objective of this study is to identify the teachers’ profile funded by the Productivity in Research scholarship (PQ), in order to analyze the promotion of research within the scope of CNPq for Education. Regarding the theoretical reference, Pierre Bourdieu, on social fields, and in particular on the scientific field, associated with the notion of habitus (trajectory, practical sense and strategy), considers that academic practices, university training and scientific research, on which they constitute a specific ethos through which certain values are required and developed. In methodological field, it is based on a qualitative and exploratory approach, based on a bibliographical study, database composition on funding and scholarship, obtained in the CNPq through the SIGEF (Management of Development System) and Directory of Research Groups ( DGP), tabulated using SPSS software and documentary analysis, focusing on official documents of the Ministry of Science, Technology, Innovation and Communications (MCTIC) and CNPq, regarding the PQ scholarship and APQ grants. Among the results, it is noted that the investment in Brazilian science and in scientific production area was based on international strategic and political interest. In the promotion of education, the data allowed to establish the trajectory of formation, institutional linkage and research, and demonstrate a certain conservatism that can be understood as difficulty or impossibility to develop new processes and practices more inclusive from the point of view of the equanimous development between the researchers in Brazil and your ‘homo academicus’.ResumoO trabalho objetiva identificar o perfil dos professores financiados com bolsa Produtividade em Pesquisa (PQ), com intuito de analisar o fomento à pesquisa no âmbito do CNPq para a área de Educação. No que concerne ao referencial teórico, perpassa-se por Pierre Bourdieu, sobre campos sociais, e em particular sobre o campo científico, associado à noção de habitus, considerando que as práticas acadêmicas, a formação universitária e a pesquisa científica, sobre as quais constituem-se em um ethos específico por meio do qual determinados valores são requeridos e desenvolvidos. No campo metodológico, apoia-se em abordagem qualitativa, exploratória, com base em estudo bibliográfico, composição de banco de dados sobre financiamento e bolsistas, obtidos no CNPq por meio do Sistema de Gerenciamento do Fomento (SIGEF) e Diretório de Grupos de Pesquisa (DGP), tabulados por meio do software SPSS; e análise documental, com foco em documentos oficiais do Ministério da Ciência, Tecnologia, Inovações e Comunicações (MCTIC) e CNPq, no que tange aos editais de bolsa PQ e de auxílio à pesquisa (APQ). Entre os resultados, nota-se que o investimento na ciência brasileira partiu do interesse estratégico e político internacional. No fomento à Educação os dados permitiram estabelecer a trajetória de formação, de vinculação institucional e de pesquisa, e demonstram certo conservadorismo que pode ser entendido como dificuldade ou impossibilidade de desenvolver novos processos e práticas mais inclusivas do ponto de vista do desenvolvimento equânime entre os pesquisadores do Brasil e seu homo academicus.Keywords: Promotion of research, PQ scholarship, Educational policies, Researcher profile.Palavras-chave: Fomento à pesquisa, Bolsa PQ, Política educacional, Perfil do pesquisador.ReferencesALBAGULI, S. Ciência e Estado no Brasil Moderno: um Estudo sobre o CNPq. 1988. 1 v. (Tese (de Doutorado). Instituto Alberto Luiz Coimbra de Pos-Graduação e Pesquisa em Engenharia - COPPE, Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, UFRJ, 1998.ANDRÉ, Marli. Pesquisa em educação: buscando rigor e qualidade. Cadernos de Pesquisa, São Paulo, n. 113, jul. 2001.BIANCHETTI, Lucídio e MEKSENAS, Paulo (Orgs.). 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Latar Belakang: Pangandaran merupakan salah satu tempat wisata di Jawa Barat yang memiliki visi untuk menjadi Desa Sehat. Keadaan kesehatan penduduknya merupakan salah satu daya tarik bagi domestic. Sayangnya pada daerah ini masih memiliki masalah dengan gizi balitanya. Pengetahuan masyarakat tentang gizi balita masih rendah sehingga pada balita masih ditemukan gangguan gizi dan gizi buruk. Bila balita mengalami gangguan gizi maka akibat yang akan ditimbulkan antara lain: gizi buruk, gizi kurang, kwashiorkor, marasmus. Angka kekurangan gizi yang dialami anak di bawah lima tahun (balita) di Kab. Pangandaran, hingga saat ini terbilang masih tinggi. Perilaku dalam merawat kebutuhan nutrisi balita, masih merupakan masalah di kabupaten ini yang menyebabkan masih adanya balita dana anak yang berstatus kurang gizi dan gangguan gizi. Tujuan: untuk mengetahui pengaruh pemberdayaan kader kesehatan terhadap pengetahuan tentang gizi balita. Metode: Kegiatan dilaksanakan di Desa Pamotan dan Desa Bagolo Kecamatan Pangandaran Kab Pangandaran pada bulan Januari -April 2017. Khalayak sasaran pada program ini adalah seluruh kader kesehatan yang ada di dua desa tersebut dengan jumlah 39 orang. Analisa data menggunakan t test paired. Kegiatan meliputi; melakukan pendataan tentang kondisi kesehatan yang ada di wilayah kedua desa tersebut, melakukan pelatihan keluarga sadar gizi, dan evaluasi. Hasil: mennjukan bahwa terdapat peningkatan pengetahuan tentang gizi (10,28), sebelum intervensi menjadi (11,36) stelah intervensi (p=0,000). .Simpulan: pemberdayaan dapat meningkatkan pengetahuan dan sikap kader kesehatan terhadap perbaikan gizi balita. Saran: Kegiatan pemberdayaan kader memerlukan dukungan yang efektif baik dari pemerintahan desa maupun dari puskesmas baik material maupun moral bagi para kader kesehatan dan posyandu yang berada di daerahnya masing-masing.

Cities have long been important sites of collective memory. In this paper, I highlight the ritual and memorial functions of cities by focusing on Gibellina, a Sicilian town destroyed by earthquake, and the subsequent struggle among its community to articulate a sense of spatial belonging with its remains. By examining the productive relationships between art, landscape and collective memory, I consider how memorial objects in Gibellina have become integral to the reimagining of place, and, in some cases, to forgetting. To address the relationship between memorial objects and the articulation of communities from this unique vantage point, a significant part of my analysis compares memorial initiatives both in and around the old site on which Gibellina once stood. More specifically, my paper compares the aesthetic similarities between the Italian artist Alberto Burri’s design for a large concrete overlay of the city’s remains, and the Berlin Holocaust Memorial by the American architect Peter Eisenman. To reveal the distinctiveness of Burri’s design in relation to Eisenman’s work and the rich commentaries that have been produced in its name, and therefore to highlight the specificity of their relationship, I extend my comparison to more recent attempts at rebuilding Gibellina in the image of a “frontier city of art” (“Museum Network Belicina”).Broadly speaking, this paper is framed by a series of observations concerning the role that landscape plays in the construction or naturalization of collective identity, and by a further attempt at mapping the bonds that tend to be shared among members of particular communities in any given circumstance. To organize my thoughts in this area, I follow W. J. T. Mitchell’s interpretation of landscape as “a medium of exchange,” in other words, as an artistic practice that galvanizes nature for the purpose of naturalizing culture and its relations of power (5). While the terms of landscape art may in turn be described as “complicated,” “mutual” and marked by “ambivalence,” as Mitchell himself suggests, I would further argue that the artist’s sought-after result will, in almost every case, be to unify the visual and the discursive fields through an ideological operation that engenders, reinforces, and, perhaps also mystifies the constituents of community in general (9). From this perspective, landscape represents a crucial if unavoidable materialization both of community and collective memory.Conflicting viewpoints about this formation are undoubtedly present in the literature. For instance, in describing the effects of this operation, Mitchell, to use one example, will suggest that landscape as a mode of creation unfolds in ways that are similar to that of a dream, or that the materialization of landscape art is in accordance with the promise of “emancipation” that dreams inscribe into imaginaries (12). During the course of investigating and overturning the premise of Mitchell’s claim through a number of writers and commentators, I conclude my paper by turning to a famous work on the inoperative community by Jean-Luc Nancy. This work is especially useful for bringing clarity for understanding what is lost in the efforts by Gibellina’s residents to reconstruct a new city adjacent to the old, and therefore to emancipate themselves from their destructive past. By emphasizing the significance of acknowledging death for the regeneration and durability of communities and their material urban life, I suggest that the wishes of Gibellina’s residents have resulted in an environment for memory and memorialization despite apparent wishes to the contrary. In my reference to Nancy’s metaphor of ‘inoperativity’, therefore, I suggest that the community to emerge from Gibellina’s disaster is, in a sense, yet to come.Figure 1. The “Cretto di Burri” by Alberto Burri (1984-1989). Creative Commons.The old city of Gibellina was a township of Arabic and Medieval origins located southwest of Palermo in the heart of Sicily’s Belice valley. In January 1968, the region experienced a series of earthquakes as it had before. This time, however, the strongest among them provoked a rupture that within moments led to the complete destruction of towns and villages, and to the death of nearly 400 inhabitants. “From a seismological point of view,” as Susan Hough and Roger Bilham write, the towns and villages of the Belice valley were at this time “disasters in the making” (87). Maligned by a particular configuration of geological fault lines, the fragile structures along the surface of the valley were almost certain to be destroyed at some point in their lifetime. In 1968, after the largest disaster in recent history, the surviving inhabitants of the dilapidated urban centres were moved to the squalor conditions of displacement camps, in which many lived without permanent housing into the 1970s. While some of the smaller communities opted to rebuild, a number of the larger townships made the decision to move altogether. In 1971, a new settlement was created in Gibellina’s name, just eighteen kilometres west of the ruin.Since that time, I claim that a pattern of memory and forgetting has developed in the space between the ‘old’ and the ‘new’. For instance, the old city of Gibellina underwent a dramatic refurbishment in the 1980s when an internationally renowned Italian sculptor, Alberto Burri, was invited by the city to build a large concrete structure directly on top of the city’s remains. As depicted in Figure One, the artist moulded the destroyed buildings into blocks of smooth concrete surfaces. Standing roughly at human scale, Burri divided these stone slabs, or stelae, in such a way as to retain the lineaments of Gibellina’s medieval streets. Although unfinished and abandoned by the artist due to lack of funds, the tomb of this destroyed city has since become both an artistic oddity and a permanent fixture on the Sicilian landscape. As Elisebha Fabienne and Platzer write,if an ancient inhabitant of Gibellina walks in the inside of the Cretto, he is able to recognise the topic position of his house, but he is also forced by the Verfremdung [alienting effect] of the topical elements to distance himself from the past, to infer new information. (75)According to this assessment, the work’s intrinsic merit appears to be in Burri’s effort to forge a link between a shared memory of the city’s past, and the potential for that memory to fortify the imagination towards a future. In spatial terms, the merit of the work lies in preserving the skeletal imprint of the urban landscape in order to retain a semblance of this once vibrant and living community. Andrea Simitch and Val Warke appear to corroborate this hypothesis. They suggest that while Burri’s structure includes a specific imprint or reference point of the city’s remains, “embedded within the masses that construct the ghosted streets is the physical detritus of imagined narratives” (61). In other words, Simitch and Warke maintain that by using the archival or preserving function to communicate a ritual practice, Burri’s Cretto is intended to infuse the forgotten urban space of old Gibellina with a promise that it will eventually be found and therefore remembered. This promise is met, in turn, by the invitation for visitors to stroll through the hallowed interior of Gibellina as they would any other city. In this sense, the Cretto invites a plurality of narratives and meanings depending on the visitor at hand. In the absence of guidance or interruption, the hope appears to be that visitors will gain an experience of the place that is both familiar and disturbing.But there is a hidden dimension to this promise that the authors above do not explore in sufficient detail. For instance, Nigel Clark analyzes the way in which Burri has insisted upon “confronting us with the stark absence of life where once there was vitality,” a confrontation by the artist that is materialized by “cavernous wounds” (83). On this basis, by interpreting the promise of memory that others have discussed in terms of a warning about the longevity or durability of the built environment, Clark writes that Burri’s Cretto represents “an assertion of the forces of earth that have not been eclipsed by other forms of endangerment” (83). The implication of this particular forewarning is that “the precariousness of human settlement” is guaranteed by a non-human world that insists upon the relentless force of erasure (83). On the other hand, I would argue that Clark’s insistence upon situating the Cretto in relation to the natural forces of destruction ultimately represents a narrowing of perspective on Burri’s work. Significantly, by citing Burri’s choice of supposedly abstracted shapes made from lifeless concrete, Clark reduces the geographical intervention of the artist to “a paradigm of modernist austerity” (82). From Clark’s perspective, the overture to Modernism is meant to highlight Burri’s attempt at pairing the scale and proportion of the work with an effort to convey a sense of purity through abstraction. However, while some interpretations of Burri’s Cretto may be dependent upon its allusion to such Modernist formalism, it should also be recognized that the specific concerns raised by Gibellina go significantly beyond these equivocations.In fact, one crucial element of Burri’s artistic process that is not recognized by Clark is his investment in the American land art movement, which at the time of Burri’s design for Gibellina was led by Michael Heizer, Robert Smithson and other prominent artists in the United States. Burri’s debt to this movement can be detected by his gradual shift towards landscape throughout his career, and by his eventual break from the enclosed and constrained space of the gallery. On this basis, the crumbling city design at Gibellina obliterates the boundaries as to what constitutes a work of art in relation to the land it occupies, and this, in turn, throws into question the specific criteria that we use to assess its value or artistic merit. In an important way, land art and landscape in general forces us to rethink the relationship between art and community in unparalleled ways. To put it another way, if Clark’s overriding concern for that which lies beneath the surface allows us to consider the importance of relationships between memory, forgetting, and erasure, I argue that Burri’s concern with the surface and the ground make it clear that projects such as the Gibellina Cretto might be better paired with memorial sites that deal in architecture.Figure 2. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe / Berlin Holocaust Memorial, by Peter Eisenman. Photograph courtesy of the author.A useful comparison in this regard is Peter Eisenman’s Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in downtown Berlin. For one, not only is Eisenman’s site composed of a similar exterior of concrete stelae, those concrete blocks resembling gravestones, but it has also been routinely scorned for the same reasons that Clark raised against Burri as mentioned above. To put it another way, while visitors may be struck by the memorial’s haunting and inspirational configuration of voids, some notable commentators, including the venerable James E. Young, have insinuated that the site signifies a restoration of the monument, derived as it is from a modernist architecture in which recuperation and amnesia are at play with each other (184-224). A more sympathetic reading of Eisenman’s memorial might point to the uniquely architectural vision he held for cultural memory. With Adrian Parr for instance, we find that the traumatic memory of the Holocaust can be effectively transposed through the virtual content of the imagination as personified by visitors to Eisenman’s memorial. That is, by attending to the atrocities of the past, Parr claims that we need not be exhausted by the overwhelming sense of destruction that the memorial site brings to the literal surface. Rather, we might benefit more from considering the event of destruction as but one aspect of the spatial experience of the place to which it is dedicated—an experience that must be open-ended by design. By using the topographical lens that Parr, taking several pages from Gilles Deleuze, describes as “intensive,” I argue that Eisenman’s design is unique for its explicit encouragement to be both creative and present simultaneously (158).On this account, Parr makes the compelling assertion that memorial culture facilitates an epistemic rupture or “break,” that that it reveals an opportunity to restore the potential for using the place occupied by memory as a starting point for effecting social change (3). Parr writes that “memorial culture is utopian memory thinking”—a defining slogan, to be sure, but one with which the author hopes will re-establish the link between memory and the force of life, and, in the process, to recognize the energetic resources that remain concealed by the traditional narratives of memorialization (3). Stefano Corbo corroborates Parr’s assertion by pointing to Eisenman’s efforts in the 1980s to supplement formal concerns with archaeological perspectives, and therefore to develop a theory whereby architecture presages a “deep structure,” in which the artistry or attempt at formal innovation ultimately rests on “a process of invention” itself (41). To accomplish this aim, a specific reference should be made to an early period in Eisenman’s career, in which the architect turned to conceptual issues as opposed to the demands of materiality, and more significantly, to a critical rethinking of site-specific engagement (Bedard). Included in this turn was a willingness on Eisenman’s part to explore the layered and textured history of cities, as well as the linguistic or deconstructive relationships that exist between the ground and the trace.The interdisciplinary complexity of Eisenman’s approach is one that responds to the dominance of architectural form, and it therefore mirrors, as Corbo writes, a delicate interplay between “presence and absence, permanence and loss” (44). The city of Berlin with its cultural memory thus evinces a sort of tectonic rupture and collision upon its surfaces, but a rupture that both runs parallel and opposite to the natural disaster that engulfed Gibellina in 1968. Returning to Parr’s demand that we begin to (re)assert the power of virtual and imaginative space, I argue that Eisenman’s memorial design may be better appreciated for its ability to situate the city itself in relation to competing terms of artistic practice. That is, if Eisenman’s efforts indicate a softening “of the boundary between architecture and the landscape,” to quote Tomà Berlanda, the Holocaust Memorial might in turn be a productive counterpoint in the task of working through the specificity of Burri’s design and the meaning with which it has since been attached (2).Burri’s Cretto raises a number of questions for this hypothesis, as with the Cretto we find a displacement of the constitutive process that writers such as W.J.T. Mitchell describe above in relation to the generative potential of community. Undoubtedly, the imperative to unify is present in the Cretto’s aesthetic presentation, as the concrete surfaces maintain the capacity to reflect the light of the sun against a wide green earth that stretches beyond the visitor’s horizon. On the other hand, while Mitchell, along with Parr and other commentators might opt to insist upon a deeper correlation between the unifying function of the landscape and the forces of life, intensity, or desire, I would only reiterate that Burri’s design is ultimately based on establishing a meaningful relationship with death, not life, and he is consequently focused on the much less spectacular mission of providing solutions as to what the remains should become in the aftermath of total destruction. If there is an intensity to speak of here, it is a maligned intensity, and an intensity that can only be established through relation.Figure 3. The “Porta del Belice” by Pietro Consagra (2014). Wiki Commons.If Burri’s Cretto were measured by the criteria that are variously described by Mitchell and others, the effects that the landscape produces would have necessarily to account for an expression of desire for emancipation from death. However, in a significant departure from Eisenman’s Holocaust Memorial, Burri’s design by itself is marked by a throughout absence of any expression of desire for emancipation as such. Indeed, finding such a promised emancipatory narrative would require one to cast their gaze away from the Cretto altogether, and towards a nearby urban center that has supposedly triumphed over the very need for a memory culture at all. This urban center is none other than Gibellina Nuova. As a point in fact, the settlers of Gibellina Nuova did insist upon emancipating themselves from their destructive past. In 1971, the city planners and governors of Gibellina Nuova made efforts to attract contemporary Italian artists and architects, to design and build a series of commemorative structures, and ultimately to make the settlement into a “città di frontiera dell’arte”—a frontier city of art (“Museum Network Belicina”). With the potential for rejuvenation just a stone’s throw away from the original city, the former inhabitants appear to have become immediately invested in the sort of utopian potential that would make its architectural wonders capable of transgressing the line that perennially divides art from community and from the living world. Rivalled only by the refurbishment of Marfa, Texas, which in the last twenty years has become a shrine to minimalist sculpture, the edifices at Gibellina Nuova have been authored by some of Italy’s better-known mid-century artists and architects, including Ludovico Quaroni, Vitorrio Gregotti, and, most notably, Pietro Consagra, whose ‘Porta del Belice’ (Figure Two) has become the most iconic urban fixture of the new urban designs. With the hopes of becoming a sort of “open-air museum” in which to attract international visitors, the city is now in possession of an exceedingly large number of public memorials and avant-garde buildings in various states of decay and disrepair (Bileddo). Predictably, this museological distinction has become a curse in many ways. Some commentators have argued that the obsession among city planners to create a “laboratory of art and architecture” has led in fact to an urban center of monstrous proportions: a city space that can only be described as “elliptical and spinning” (Bileddo). Whereas Gibellina Nuova was supposed to represent a rebalancing of the forces of life in relation to the funereal themes of the Cretto, the robust initiatives of the 1980s have instead produced an egregious lack of cohesiveness, a severed link to Sicilian culture, and a stark erasure of the distinctive traditions of the Belice valley.On the other hand, this experiment in urban design has been reduced to a venerable time capsule of 1970s Italian sculpture, an archive that persists but in constant disrepair. More significantly, however, the city’s failure to deliver on its many promises raises important questions about the ritual and memorial functions of urban space in general, of what specific relationships need to be forged between the history of a place and its architectural presentation, and the ways in which memorials come to reflect, privilege or convoke particular values over those of others. As Elisebha Fabienne Platzer writes, “Gibellina portrays its future in order to forget,” as “its faith in contemporary art is precisely a reaction to death,” or, more specifically, to its effacement (73). If the various pastiche designs of the city’s buildings and ritual edifices fail to stand the measure of time, I claim that it is not simply because they are gaudy reminders of a time best forgotten, but rather because they signify the restless hunt for resolution among inhabitants of this still-unsettled community.Whereas Burri’s Cretto activates a process of mourning and working-through that proves to be unresolvable and yet necessary, the city of Gibellina Nuova operates instead by neutralizing and dividing this process. Taken as a whole, the irreparable relationship between the two sites offers competing images of the relation between place and community. From the time of its division by earthquake if not sooner, the inhabitants of Gibellina became an “inoperative” community in the same way that the philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy has famously described. In the specific hopes of uncovering the motives of Burri and those of the designers and architects of Gibellina Nuova, I argue that Nancy uses the terms of inoperability as a makeshift solution for the persistent rootedness of communities in an atomized metaphysics for which the relationality between subjects is an abiding problem. Nancy defines community on the basis of its relational content alone, and for this reason he is able to make the claim that death itself should be a necessary moment of its articulation. Nancy writes that “community has not taken place,” as beyond “what society has crushed or lost, it is something that happens to us in the form of a question, waiting, event or imperative” (11).Though Nancy is attempting to provide his own interpretation of the impervious dialectic between Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft, between “community” and “society,” the substance of his assertion can be brought into a critical reading of Gibellina’s abiding problem of its formations of collective memory in the aftermath of destruction. For instance, it might be argued that if we leave the experience of loss aside, we can perhaps begin to acknowledge that communities are transformed through complex interactions for which their inert physicality provides but one important indication. While “old” Gibellina was not lost in a day, Gibellina Nuova was not created in an instant. For Nancy, it would rather be the case that “death is indissociable from community, and that it is through death that the community reveals itself” (14). Given this claim, while Gibellina Nuova has undoubtedly been shaped and reconstituted by the architecture of the future and the desire to forget, it could equally be argued that this very architecture shares in a reciprocal exchange with the Cretto, a circuit of memory that inadvertently houses an archive of the city’s destructive past. As the community comes into being through resistance, entropy, possibility and reparation, the city landscape provides some clues regarding the trace of this activity as left upon its ground.ReferencesBedard, Jean-Francois, ed. Cities of Artificial Excavation: The Work of Peter Eisenman, 1978-1988. New York: Rizzoli Publishing, 1994.Berlanda, Tomà. Architectural Topographies: A Graphic Lexicon of How Buildings Touch the Ground. New York: Routledge, 2014.Bileddo, Marco. “Back in Sicily / The Three Dogs Gibellina.” Eodoto108 Magazine. 30 July 2014. Bilham, Roger G., and Susan Elizabeth Hough. After the Earth Quakes: Elastic Rebound on an Urban Planet. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.Clark, Nigel. Inhuman Nature: Sociable Life on a Dynamic Planet. Thousand Oaks: SAGE Publications, 2010.Corbo, Stefano. From Formalism to Weak Form: The Architecture and Philosophy of Peter Eisenman. Farnham: Ashgate, 2014.Mitchell, W.J. Thomas. Landscape and Power. University of Chicago Press, 2002.Museum Network Belicina. Nancy, Jean-Luc. Inoperative Community. Trans. Christopher Fynsk. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991.Parr, Adrian. Deleuze and Memorial Culture: Desire, Singular Memory and the Politics of Trauma. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008.Platzer, Elisbha Fabienne. “Semiotics of Spaces: City and Landart.” Seni/able Spaces: Space, Art and the Environment. Edward Huijbens and Ólafur Jónsson, eds. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007.Simitch, Andrea, and Val Warke. The Language of Architecture: 26 Principles Every Architect Should Know. Rockport Publishers Incorporated, 2014.Young, James E. At Memory’s Edge: After-Images of the Holocaust in Contemporary Art and Architecture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002.

IntroductionThe European will to modify the natural world emerged through English landscape design during the eighteenth century. Released from the neo-classical aesthetic dichotomy of the beautiful and the ugly, new categories of the picturesque and the sublime gestured towards an affective relationship to nature. Europeans began to see the world as a picture, the elements of which were composed as though part of a theatrical scene. Quite literally, as I shall discuss below, gardens were “composed with ‘pantomimic’ elements – ruins of castles and towers, rough hewn bridges, Chinese pagodas and their like” (McGillivray 134–35) transforming natural vistas into theatrical scenes. Such a transformation was made possible by a habit of spectating that was informed by the theatrical metaphor or theatrum mundi, one version of which emphasised the relationship between spectator and the thing seen. The idea of the natural world as an aesthetic object first developed in poetry and painting and then through English landscape garden style was wrought in three dimensions on the land itself. From representations of place a theatrical transformation occurred so that gardens became a places of representation.“The Genius of the Place in All”The eighteenth century inherited theatrum mundi from the Renaissance, although the genealogy of its key features date back to ancient times. Broadly speaking, theatrum mundi was a metaphorical expression of the world and humanity in two ways: dramaturgically and formally. During the Renaissance the dramaturgical metaphor was a moral emblem concerned with the contingency of human life; as Shakespeare famously wrote, “men and women [were] merely players” whose lives consisted of “seven ages” or “acts” (2.7.139–65). In contrast to the dramaturgical metaphor with its emphasis on role-playing humanity, the formalist version highlighted a relationship between spectator, theatre-space and spectacle. Rooted in Renaissance neo-Platonism, the formalist metaphor configured the world as a spectacle and “Man” its spectator. If the dramaturgical metaphor was inflected with medieval moral pessimism, the formalist metaphor was more optimistic.The neo-Platonist spectator searched in the world for a divine plan or grand design and spectatorship became an epistemological challenge. As a seer and a knower on the world stage, the human being became the one who thought about the world not just as a theatre but also through theatre. This is apparent in the etymology of “theatre” from the Greek theatron, or “seeing place,” but the word also shares a stem with “theory”: theaomai or “to look at.” In a graceful compression of both roots, Martin Heidegger suggests a “theatre” might be any “seeing place” in which any thing being beheld offers itself to careful scrutiny by the beholder (163–65). By the eighteenth century, the ancient idea of a seeing-knowing place coalesced with the new empirical method and aesthetic sensibility: the world was out there, so to speak, to provide pleasure and instruction.Joseph Addison, among others, in the first half of the century reconsidered the utilitarian appeal of the natural world and proposed it as the model for artistic inspiration and appreciation. In “Pleasures of the Imagination,” a series of essays in The Spectator published in 1712, Addison claimed that “there is something more bold and masterly in the rough careless strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments of art,” and compared to the beauty of an ordered garden, “the sight wanders up and down without confinement” the “wide fields of nature” and is “fed with an infinite variety of images, without any certain stint or number” (67).Yet art still had a role because, Addison argues, although “wild scenes [. . .] are more delightful than any artificial shows” the pleasure of nature increases the more it begins to resemble art; the mind experiences the “double” pleasure of comparing nature’s original beauty with its copy (68). This is why “we take delight in a prospect which is well laid out, and diversified, with fields and meadows, woods and rivers” (68); a carefully designed estate can be both profitable and beautiful and “a man might make a pretty landskip of his own possessions” (69). Although nature should always be one’s guide, nonetheless, with some small “improvements” it was possible to transform an estate into a landscape picture. Nearly twenty years later in response to the neo-Palladian architectural ambitions of Richard Boyle, the third Earl of Burlington, and with a similarly pictorial eye to nature, Alexander Pope advised:To build, to plant, whatever you intend,To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot;In all, let Nature never be forgot.But treat the Goddess like a modest fair,Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;Let not each beauty ev’ry where be spy’d,Where half the skill is decently to hide.He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.Consult the Genius of the Place in all;That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall,Or helps th’ ambitious Hill the heav’ns to scale,Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale,Calls in the Country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades,Now breaks or now directs, th’ intending Lines;Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. (Epistle IV, ll 47–64) Whereas Addison still gestured towards estate management, Pope explicitly advocated a painterly approach to garden design. His epistle articulated some key principles that he enacted in his own garden at Twickenham and which would inform later garden design. No matter what one added to a landscape, one needed to be guided by nature; one should be moderate in one’s designs and neither plant too much nor too little; one must be aware of the spectator’s journey through the garden and take care to provide variety by creating “surprises” that would be revealed at different points. Finally, one had to find the “spirit” of the place that gave it its distinct character and use this to create the cohesion in diversity that was aspired to in a garden. Nature’s aestheticisation had begun with poetry, developed into painting, and was now enacted on actual natural environments with the emergence of English landscape style. This painterly approach to gardening demanded an imaginative, emotional, and intellectual engagement with place and it stylistically rejected the neo-classical geometry and regularity of the baroque garden (exemplified by Le Nôtre’s gardens at Versailles). Experiencing landscape now took on a third dimension as wealthy landowners and their friends put themselves within the picture frame and into the scene. Although landscape style changed during the century, a number of principles remained more or less consistent: the garden should be modelled on nature but “improved,” any improvements should not be obvious, pictorial composition should be observed, the garden should be concerned with the spectator’s experience and should aim to provoke an imaginative or emotional engagement with it. During the seventeenth century, developments in theatrical technology, particularly the emergence of the proscenium arch theatre with moveable scenery, showed that poetry and painting could be spectacularly combined on the stage. Later in the eighteenth century the artist and stage designer Philippe Jacques de Loutherbourg combined picturesque painting aesthetics with theatrical design in works such as The Wonders of Derbyshire in 1779 (McGillivray 136). It was a short step to shift the onstage scene outside. Theatricality was invoked when pictorial principles were applied three dimensionally; gardens became sites for pastoral genre scenes that ambiguously positioned their visitors both as spectators and actors. Theatrical SceneryGardens and theatres were explicitly connected. Like “theatre,” the word “garden” was sometimes used to describe a collection, in book form, which promised “a whole world of items” which was not always “redeemable” in “straightforward ways” (Hunt, Gardens 54–55). Theatrum mundi could be emblematically expressed in a garden through statues and architectural fabriques which drew spectators into complex chains of associations involving literature, art, and society, as they progressed through it.In the previous century, writes John Dixon Hunt, “the expectation of a fine garden [. . .] was that it work upon its visitor, involving him [sic] often insidiously as a participant in its dramas, which were presented to him as he explored its spaces by a variety of statues, inscriptions and [. . .] hydraulically controlled automata” (Gardens 54). Such devices, which featured heavily in the Italian baroque garden, were by the mid eighteenth century seen by English and French garden theorists to be overly contrived. Nonetheless, as David Marshall argues, “eighteenth-century garden design is famous for its excesses [. . .] the picturesque garden may have aimed to be less theatrical, but it aimed no less to be theater” (38). Such gardens still required their visitors’ participation and were designed to deliver an experience that stimulated the spectators’ imaginations and emotions as they moved through them. Theatrum mundi is implicit in eighteenth-century gardens through a common idea of the world reimagined into four geographical quadrants emblematically represented by fabriques in the garden. The model here is Alexander Pope’s influential poem, “The Temple of Fame” (1715), which depicted the eponymous temple with four different geographic faces: its western face was represented by western classical architecture, its east face by Chinese, Persian, and Assyrian, its north was Gothic and Celtic, and its south, Egyptian. These tropes make their appearance in eighteenth-century landscape gardens. In Désert de Retz, a garden created between 1774 and 1789 by François Racine de Monville, about twenty kilometres west of Paris, one can still see amongst its remaining fabriques: a ruined “gothic” church, a “Tartar” tent (it used to have a Chinese maison, now lost), a pyramid, and the classically inspired Temple of Pan. Similar principles underpin the design of Jardin (now Parc) Monceau that I discuss below. Retz: Figure 1. Tartar tent.Figure 2. Temple of PanStowe Gardens in Buckinghamshire has a similar array of structures (although the classical predominates) including its original Chinese pavillion. It, too, once featured a pyramid designed by the architect and playwright John Vanbrugh, and erected as a memorial to him after his death in 1726. On it was carved a quote from Horace that explicitly referenced the dramaturgical version of theatrum mundi: You have played, eaten enough and drunk enough,Now is time to leave the stage for younger men. (Garnett 19) Stowe’s Elysian Fields, designed by William Kent in the 1730s according to picturesque principles, offered its visitor two narrative choices, to take the Path of Virtue or the Path of Vice, just like a re-imagined morality play. As visitors progressed along their chosen paths they would encounter various fabriques and statues, some carved with inscriptions in either Latin or English, like the Vanbrugh pyramid, that would encourage associations between the ancient world and the contemporary world of the garden’s owner Richard Temple, Lord Cobham, and his circle. Stowe: Figure 3. Chinese Pavillion.Figure 4. Temple of VirtueKent’s background was as a painter and scene designer and he brought a theatrical sensibility to his designs; as Hunt writes, Kent particularly enjoyed designing “recessions into woodland space where ‘wings’ [were] created” (Picturesque 29). Importantly, Kent’s garden drawings reveal his awareness of gardens as “theatrical scenes for human action and interaction, where the premium is upon more personal experiences” and it this spatial dimension that was opened up at Stowe (Picturesque 30).Picturesque garden design emphasised pictorial composition that was similar to stage design and because a garden, like a stage, was a three-dimensional place for human action, it could also function as a set for that action. Unlike a painting, a garden was experiential and time-based and a visitor to it had an experience not unlike, to cautiously use an anachronism, a contemporary promenade performance. The habit of imaginatively wandering through a theatre in book-form, moving associatively from one item to the next, trying to discern the author’s pattern or structure, was one educated Europeans were used to, and a garden provided an embodied dimension to this activity. We can see how this might have been by visiting Parc Monceau in Paris which still contains remnants of the garden designed by Louis Carrogis (known as Carmontelle) for the Duc de Chartres in the 1770s. Carmontelle, like Kent, had a theatrical background and his primary role was as head of entertainments for the Orléans family; as such he was responsible for designing and writing plays for the family’s private theatricals (Hays 449). According to Hunt, Carmontelle intended visitors to Jardin de Monceau to take a specific itinerary through its “quantity of curious things”:Visitors entered by a Chinese gateway, next door to a gothic building that served as a chemical laboratory, and passed through greenhouses and coloured pavilions. Upon pressing a button, a mirrored wall opened into a winter garden painted with trompe-l’œil trees, floored with red sand, filled with exotic plants, and containing at its far end a grotto in which supper parties were held while music was played in the chamber above. Outside was a farm. Then there followed a series of exotic “locations”: a Temple of Mars, a winding river with an island of rocks and a Dutch mill, a dairy, two flower gardens, a Turkish tent poised, minaret-like, above an icehouse, a grove of tombs [. . .], and an Italian vineyard with a classical Bacchus at its center, regularly laid out to contrast with an irregular wood that succeeded it. The final stretches of the itinerary included a Naumachia or Roman water-theatre [. . .], more Turkish and Chinese effects, a ruined castle, yet another water-mill, and an island on which sheep grazed. (Picturesque 121) Monceau: Figure 5. Naumachia.Figure 6. PyramidIn its presentation of a multitude of different times and different places one can trace a line of descent from Jardin de Monceau to the great nineteenth-century World Expos and on to Disneyland. This lineage is not as trite as it seems once we realise that Carmontelle himself intended the garden to represent “all times and all places” and Pope’s four quadrants of the world were represented by fabriques at Monceau (Picturesque 121). As Jardin de Monceau reveals, gardens were also sites for smaller performative interventions such as the popular fêtes champêtres, garden parties in which the participants ate, drank, danced, played music, and acted in comedies. Role playing and masquerade were an important part of the fêtes as we see, for example, in Jean-Antoine Watteau’s Fêtes Vénitiennes (1718–19) where a “Moorishly” attired man addresses (or is dancing with) a young woman before an audience of young men and women, lolling around a fabrique (Watteau). Scenic design in the theatre inspired garden designs and gardens “featured prominently as dramatic locations in intermezzi, operas, and plays”, an exchange that encouraged visitors to gardens to see themselves as performers as much as spectators (Hunt, Gardens 64). A garden, particularly within the liminal aegis of a fête was a site for deceptions, tricks, ruses and revelations, assignations and seductions, all activities which were inherently theatrical; in such a garden visitors could find themselves acting in or watching a comedy or drama of their own devising. Marie-Antoinette built English gardens and a rural “hamlet” at Versailles. She and her intimate circle would retire to rustic cottages, which belied the opulence of their interiors, and dressed in white muslin dresses and straw hats, would play at being dairy maids, milking cows (pre-cleaned by the servants) into fine porcelain buckets (Martin 3). Just as the queen acted in pastoral operas in her theatre in the grounds of the Petit Trianon, her hamlet provided an opportunity for her to “live” a pastoral fantasy. Similarly, François Racine de Monville, who commissioned Désert de Retz, was a talented harpist and flautist and his Temple of Pan was, appropriately, a music room.Versailles: Figure 7. Hamlet ConclusionRichard Steele, Addison’s friend and co-founder of The Spectator, casually invoked theatrum mundi when he wrote in 1720: “the World and the Stage [. . .] have been ten thousand times observed to be the Pictures of one another” (51). Steele’s reiteration of a Renaissance commonplace revealed a different emphasis, an emphasis on the metaphor’s spatial and spectacular elements. Although Steele reasserts the idea that the world and stage resemble each other, he does so through a third level of abstraction: it is as pictures that they have an affinity. World and stage are both positioned for the observer within complementary picture frames and it is as pictures that he or she is invited to make sense of them. The formalist version of theatrum mundi invokes a spectator beholding the world for his (usually!) pleasure and in the process nature itself is transformed. No longer were natural landscapes wildernesses to be tamed and economically exploited, but could become gardens rendered into scenes for their aristocratic owners’ pleasure. Désert de Retz, as its name suggests, was an artfully composed wilderness, a version of the natural world sculpted into scenery. Theatrum mundi, through the aesthetic category of the picturesque, emerged in English landscape style and effected a theatricalised transformation of nature that was enacted in the aristocratic gardens of Europe.ReferencesAddison, Joseph. The Spectator. No. 414 (25 June 1712): 67–70. Eighteenth Century Collections Online.Garnett, Oliver. Stowe. Buckinghamshire. The National Trust, 2011.Hays, David. “Carmontelle's Design for the Jardin de Monceau: A Freemasonic Garden in Late-Eighteenth-Century France.” Eighteenth-Century Studies 32.4 (1999): 447–62.Heidegger, Martin. The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays. Trans. William Lovitt. New York: Harper and Row, 1977.Hunt, John Dixon. Gardens and the Picturesque: Studies in the History of Landscape Architecture. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1992.———. The Picturesque Garden in Europe. London: Thames and Hudson, 2002.Marshall, David. The Frame of Art. Fictions of Aesthetic Experience, 1750–1815. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 2005.Martin, Meredith S. Dairy Queens: The Politics of Pastoral Architecture from Catherine de' Medici to Marie-Antoinette. Harvard: Harvard UP, 2011.McGillivray, Glen. "The Picturesque World Stage." Performance Research 13.4 (2008): 127–39.Pope, Alexander. “Epistle IV. To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.” Epistles to Several Persons. London, 1744. Eighteenth Century Collections Online.———. The Temple of Fame: A Vision. By Mr. Pope. 2nd ed. London, 1715. Eighteenth Century Collections Online. Shakespeare, William. As You Like It. Ed. Agnes Latham. London: Routledge, 1991.Steele, Richard. The Theatre. No. 7 (23 January 1720).

On the back cover of The Art Forger’s Handbook, Eric Hebborn proclaims No drawing can lie of itself, it is only the opinion of the expert which can deceive. (Hebborn) Well certainly, but like many forgers Hebborn was dedicated to ensuring the experts have ample material with which to work. The debate about authenticity rolls into the debate about originality rolls into the debate about excellence, slipping between the verifiable and the subjective, shadowed by the expert assessing, categorising, and delivering verdicts. Yet the proclamation ‘This is authentic’ is not straightforward. It is impossible to prove that the statement ‘This is a painting by Sir Arthur Streeton’ is true. It is always possible (though not probable) that the work in question is an excellent copy, manufactured with materials identical to those employed by Streeton, with brushstrokes reflecting Streeton’s manipulation of paint, applied in the kind of sequence Streeton used and with a provenance crafted to simulate perfectly an acceptable provenance for a work by Streeton. Much easier to prove that a work is not by a particular artist; one very obvious anomaly will suffice (Sloggett 298). But an anomaly requires a context, the body of material against which to assess the new find. John Drew’s manipulation of the art market was successful not because of the quality of the pictures he paid John Myatt to produce (after all they were painted with household emulsion paint often extended with K-Y Jelly). His success lay in his ability to alter the identities of these works by penetrating the archives of the Tate and the Victoria and Albert Museum and manufacturing an archival history that virtually copied the history of works by his target artists, Nicholson, Giocometti, Chagall, Epstein, Dubeffet, and de Stals. While the paintings mimicked works by these artists, without a provenance (an identity and identity trail) they were nothing more than approximate copies, many which were initially rejected by the dealers and auction houses (Landesman 38). Identity requires history and context: for something to be deemed ‘real’, both need to be verifiable. The plight of stateless refugees lies in their inability to verify their history (who am I?) and their context (I exist here because…). Drew’s ability to deliver a history is only one way in which works can slip identities (or in the case of Drew’s works – can be pushed). Drew’s intention and his ability to profit by the deception denoted fraud. But authentication is more often sought to support not fraud but optimism. ‘Can you please look at this painting which hung in my grandfather’s lounge room for over 50 years? It was given to him by the artist. I remember it as a small boy, and my father also remembers it when he was a child. But I can’t sell it because someone said it didn’t look right. Can you tell if it is by the artist?’ Such a problem needs to be approached on two fronts. Firstly, how strong is the evidence that this work is by the artist and secondly, what is the hypothesis of best fit for this work? The classic authentication process examines a picture and, against a framework of knowns (usually based on securely provenanced works) looks for points of identification between the proffered work and provenanced works. From these points of identification a theory of best fit is developed. For example, a painting with the inscription ‘Arthur Streeton/1896’ is analysed for its pigment content in order to test the proposition that this is a work by Arthur Streeton from 1896. Pigment analysis indicates that titanium white (a pigment not available commercially until 1920) is found in the clouds. So the proposition must be modified: either this is a work by Streeton that has been heavily reworked after 1920, or this is not a work by Streeton, or this is a work by Streeton but the date is wrong. The authentication process will define and redefine each proposition until there is one that best fits the evidence at hand. Fluorescing the date to establish whether it is a recent addition would be part of this process. Examining other whites in the painting to check if the clouds had been added later would be another. Checking the veracity of the provenance would also be critical. We may decide that this is not an 1896 work by Streeton based on the evidence of the pigment. But what if an art historian discovers a small pigment manufacturer in Box Hill whose records show they produced titanium dioxide as a pigment in 1890? The new evidence may affect the conclusion. But more likely we would want to verify such evidence before we altered our conclusion. Between the extremes of Drew’s manufactured identities and the optimism of a third generation is the strengthened work, combining identity shift and hope. Dali pulled a reverse strengthening when he signed 20,000 blank sheets of paper for lithographs that had not yet been executed (Hebborn 79), but more usually it is the inscription not the image that is missing. Of course a signature is good, but signature works may not have, and do not need signatures. A signature may be a picture of a certain place (Heidelberg) at a certain time of day (moonrise); optimism will soon join the dots, producing a David Davies Moonrise. Often an inscription helps; a nondescript clean-shaven Victorian gentleman can become a bearded founding father, an anonymous nag the first winner of the Melbourne Cup. And if the buyer is not convinced, then a signature may win the day. Unlike Drew’s fabricated histories these changes in identity are confined to transformations of the object itself and then, by association, to its context. Art fraud is an endearing topic, partly because it challenges the subjective nature of expertise. When van Meegeren manufactured his most successful ‘Vermeer’ The Supper at Emmaus (1937) he explored the theories of experts, and then set about producing a work that copied not an existing Vermeer, but the critic’s theory of what an as-yet-undiscovered Vermeer would look like. Hannema, van Schendel and finally Bredius subscribed to the theory that Vermeer’s trip to Italy resulted in Caravaggio’s influence on the artist (Dutton 25). Van Meegeren obligingly produced such a work. So does it matter? Is an identical work as good a work? Is a sublime copyist of great artists a great artist? (Not that van Meegeren was either.) Authentication is a process of assessing claims about identity. It involves reputation, ownership, relationships and truth. When an artist executes a copy it is homage to the skill of the master. When Miss Malvina Manton produced a scene of dead poultry in 1874, she was copying the most popular painting in the fledgling collection of the National Gallery of Victoria, Schendel’s The Poultry Vendor (Inglis 63), and joined a league of copyists including Henry Gritten and Nicholas Chevalier who sought permission to copy the Gallery’s paintings. When John O’Loughlin copied works by Clifford Possum Tjapaltjarri and passed them off as original the impact on the artist was less benign (Gotting). Sid Nolan refused to identify problematic paintings attributed to his oeuvre claiming that to acknowledge such paintings would cast doubt on his entire oeuvre. Bob Dickerson assiduously tracks down and ‘outs’ problematic paintings from his oeuvre, claiming that not to do so would leave the thin edge of the wedge firmly embedded for future opportunists. Both are concerned with their identity. Creation is a fraught business, simply because the act of creation is the act of giving an identity. Whether we create a child, a musical score, a painting or a t-shirt brand, the newly created entity is located within a lineage and context that means more than the single individual creation. This is why identity theft is such a major crime. If someone steals an identity they also steal the collateral developed around that identity, the ability to deal in credit, to drive a car, to travel overseas, to purchase a house. Identity is a valuable commodity; for an artist it is their tool of trade. There is no doubt that the public celebrates the fake. Perhaps it is a celebration of the power of the object over the critic or the theoretician. But it is an extraordinarily costly celebration. Despite the earlier assertion that it is possible to make the perfect copy, very few even approximate the vibrancy and intelligence of an original. Most, if accepted, would seriously dilute the strength of the artist’s oeuvre. Forging Aboriginal art is even more disgraceful. In a society where cultural transmission has traditionally been based on complex relationships of dance, song, painting and objects to customary rights, laws and obligations, art fraud impacts on the very fabric of society. There will always be works that slip identities, and many are not pulled back. False works do damage; they dull our perceptions, dilute our ability to understand an artist’s contribution to society, and are usually no more than blunt instruments used for financial gain. References Australian Institute of Criminology. “Art Crime: Protecting Art, Protecting Artists and Protecting Consumers.” 2-3 Decembeer 1999. 1 May 2005 http://www.aic.gov.au/conferences/artcrime/>. Catterall, L. The Great Dali Art Fraud and Other Deceptions. Fort Lee, New Jersey: Barricade, 1992. Dutton, Denis, ed. The Forger’s Art Forgery and the Philosophy of Art. California: U of California P, 1983 Gotting, Peter. “Shame of Aboriginal Art Fakes.” 16 July 2000. 31 May 2005 http://www.museum-security.org/00/112.html#3>. Hebborn, Eric. The Art Forger’s Handbook. London: Cassell, 1997. Inglis, Alison. “What Did the Picture’s Surface Convey? Copies and Copying in the National Gallery of Victoria during the Colonial Period.” The Articulate Surface: Dialogues on Paintings between Conservators, Curators and Art Historians. Ed. Sue-Anne Wallace, with Jacqueline Macnaughtan and Jodi Parvey. Canberra: The Humanities Research Centre, the Australian National University and the National Gallery of Australia, 1996. 55-69. Landesman, Peter. “A 20th-Century Master Scam.” The New York Times Magazine (18 July 1999): 31-63. Sloggett, Robyn. “The Truth of the Matter: Issues and Procedures in the Authentication of Artwork.” Arts, Antiquity and Law 5.3 (September 2000): 295-303. Tallman, Susan. “Report from London Faking It.” Art in America (November 1990): 75-81. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Sloggett, Robyn. "Slipping and Sliding: Blind Optimism, Greed and the Effect of Fakes on Our Cultural Understanding." M/C Journal 8.3 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/09-sloggett.php>. APA Style Sloggett, R. (Jul. 2005) "Slipping and Sliding: Blind Optimism, Greed and the Effect of Fakes on Our Cultural Understanding," M/C Journal, 8(3). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0507/09-sloggett.php>.