Journal articles on the topic 'St. Andrew (Church : Ford)'

<p>The sprouts of the research have appeared during the development of “Latgale Linguo-territorial Dictionary” (2012), creating a headword “Andreja dīna” (Andrew’s day) (Šuplinska 2012: 39–42). The goal of the article is to analyze a current layer of the concept of Andrew’s day in today’s society, culture, as well as to look for common traditions, ritual layers in the deepest perception of the concept, linking the Baltic and Slavic folklore and traditions of Christianity.</p><p>The results of the survey conducted in 2010 show, that the most well-known celebrations in Latgale are those, ones that have roots in Christian traditions, while at the beginning of the 21st century the celebration of Juoņa dīna (Summer solstice) is the most popular one. Andrew’s day, like Anna’s day, is not related to the ancient Latvian seasonal traditions, however, at the same time these two days have been characterizing concepts of the cultural space of Latgale for several centuries. It must be mentioned, that the popularity of this celebration is strengthened today with the particular measures organized in certain areas of Latgale (for example, Anna’s day – in Dagda, Bērzgale, F. Trasuns’ Museum “Kolnasāta” Andrew’s day – in Rēzekne).</p><p>There have been used linguo-cultural and comparable approaches in the research, viewing the topical, well-known layer of Andrew’s day as a name’s day, “additionally given passive features, which usually are known by a certain user group” (Степанов 004: 48). In this sense, Andrew’s day is revealed as a church calendar day and Andrew’s day as a popular tradition, ritual (“inner meaning, etymology [..] also known for its user so much, that it was the basis for other layers of the concept”; Степанов 2004: 48).</p><p>Andrew’s day is on the 30th of November according to the Catholic calendar, but according to the Orthodox and Old Believers’ calendar it is on the 13th of December, one of the newest days of celebration, that gained its popularity with the strengthening of the Christian traditions, by synthesizing folk and religious ritual elements. It must be admitted, that in the current territory of Latgale this tradition manifest itself more strongly (compared to other regions of Latvia), because:</p><p>1) Andrew’s day marks the end of the year and the beginning of Advent in Catholic Church;</p><p>2) it might have been promoted by the fact, that Latgale was a part of Rzeczpospolita (transition to the new calendar, Strengthening Catholicism);</p><p>3) the border area is characterized by a multi-ethnic composition and a mix of traditions.</p><p>To show that Andrew’s day tradition is topical in border cultural space, there will be described: firstly, prevalence of the person’s name, popularity, secondly, interaction between Christian and folkloric elements, most often in the brachyology layer, thirdly, the traditions of modern event in Rēzekne at Rēzekne Higher Education Institution (additional passive meaning, that has arisen in the last 20 years).</p><p>Studying Kārlis Siliņš’ “Dictionary of person’s names”, we can get a number of important facts on the prevalence of Andrew’s name in Latvia:</p><p>1) Andrew, from the Greek ἀνδρεῖος means ‘manly, brave’ and the first time in Latvia it was mentioned in 1204 in the Livonian Chronicle;</p><p>2) Latgale is the place, where the first time there were mentioned variants of the name Andrejs (Andrew), such as Andžejs (Ludza 1599), Andža, Andžs (Viļaka 1738), Andrīvs (Višķi 1762);</p><p>3) in K. Siliņš’ dictionary there are given 47 variants or derivatives of the name Andrew (Andrejs), which contain the root of the name Andrejs.</p><p>The statistics on persons’ names in Latvia and Lithuania slightly differs by its criteria, but it is regularly collected and is available in the Central Statistical Bureau data. In turn, the data collected by Russia is quite conditional and taken from the project “Планета имен и фамилий” (“The planet of names and surnames”) website, that since 2006 collects information on onomastic research studies, as well as provides the reviews and, where possible, the analysis on the most popular names (http://imja.name/index.shtml).</p><p>Studying the origin, prevalence and popularity of the name Andrew (Andrejs), there is a number of questions to be addressed to some research dedicated to onomastics, but it is clear, that this person’s name is still the second most popular name in Latvia (if to count together the names Andrejs and Andris), and the word is given to newborns and has taken the 14th place by its popularity in Lithuania (1991–2010), and still it is the most popular name in Slavic cultures.</p><p>Describing the concept of Andrew’s day in additional passive sense (church calendar day), it must be reminded, that the change of the actual and passive role has appeared in the relatively recent past. That is to say, until the Soviet occupation (after the World War II) there were used Catholic calendars in Latgale.</p><p>Semantics of Christian Andrew’s day is associated with the worship of St Andrew. St Andrew is the first of the 12 disciples of Christ (New Testament 1877: 101), a follower of John the Baptist. According to religious sources, in the year 67 on the 30th of November he was martyred on oblique (X type) cross, now commonly known as St Andrew’s cross.</p><p>In Ukrainian folklore there can also be found clear indications of the fact, that such celebration existed until the day of Saint Andrew: “one of the most poetic and unique winter holidays is Калита [Kalita] festival (from “Kalendo”). In the past it was also celebrated on the 11th or 14th of December, but later the tradition to link it with Andrew’s day has become more common [13th of December – I. Š.]” (Cкуратiвский 1995: 248–249).</p><p>If to compare the evidence, which has remained in Baltic and Slavic folklore, then the ritual of preparing food and eating (also fortune telling) is different and has remained in Ukrainian folklore tradition. It must be mentioned, that herbal magic indications have remained fragmentary in Belarusian folklore. We are talking about a plant speedwell (Veronica officinalis), that was kept by young ladies as it is Andrew’s plant, which allows to keep the chosen person beside (Арцeменка 2013). Magical rituals are quite common:</p><p>1) deciding fate, divination of the chosen young man (uncommon – young lady), prediction of marriage, success–failure, next year forecasting;</p><p>2) the household magic, that is connected with weather observations, particularly water listening ritual.</p><p>In conclusion it must be emphasized, that the magic of Andrew’s day, that was used to predict winter and future, has more remained in Slavic folklore traditions, which certainly contributed to the worship of Saint Andrew preached by Orthodoxy, but it was not so significant in Catholic traditions. At the same time, though fragmentary, but the manifestations of destiny and household magic have remained in Latvian and Latgalian folklore.</p><p>As already mentioned at the beginning of the article, after Latvia gained its independence the celebration of Andrew’s day emerged throughout Latvia (passive meaning of a new concept has intensified). Since 1998 the traditions of Andrew’s day are celebrated at Rēzekne Higher Education Institution.</p>

The lives of many converts in nineteenth-century England underwent quite significant, and often drastic change as a result of their decision to enter into full communion with the Catholic Church. Social ostracism, rejection by family and friends, and acceptance of the loss of professional advancement were counted among the risks of ‘going over’ to Rome. Conversion brought with it a discontinuity with the past; yet the Catholic careers of many of those received into the Church exhibit a remarkable continuity with the subject's non-Catholic past, if not in matters of doctrine and worship, then certainly in the field of social and apostolic goals. Father George Bampfield, educator of the poor and lower middle classes, and pioneer of Catholic evangelization in Hertfordshire and North Middlesex, is one such example. His career, in both its Anglican and Catholic spheres, represents the realisation, in albeit very changed circumstances, of a vision first glimpsed and a commitment made within the bosom of the Establishment.

During archaeological investigations of 2020 at the settlement of Sitka I situated to the south from Novgorod, the necropolis of the Church of St Andrew the Holy Fool on Sitka of the Sitka Monastery was excavated. In the mixed strata between burials of the 17th–18th century, the face valve of an encolpion with the Crucifix was found dated through analogues to the 14th century. Apparently, it came from a disturbed later grave and belonged to a representative of the clergy.

Octoechos is not merely a musical manual in everyday use during the service in Orthodox Church, but also a comprehensive anthology of church poetry. It contains poetical works of great Byzantine poets, such as John of Damascus, Joseph the Hymnographer, Andrew of Crete. The use of Octoechos during the service is strictly regulated by Typicon. After accepting the Orthodox rite, the Slavs were acquainted with Octoechos which has undoubtedly made a great impression on the attentive audiences present at the service. Octoechos has also influenced the work of medieval Serbian hymnographers all of whom were, as it is well known, pious men. The influence of the poetics typical of hymns of the Octoechos has already been present in the Akoluthia to St. Simeon written by St. Sava. In the hymnographical work of Theodosius this influence is even more present, especially in his Canons on the eight modes (echoi) that follow the pattern of the supplicatory canons of the Octoechos. Ephraim, who was the Serbian patriarch in two turns (1375-1379, 1389-1392), wrote his church hymns and prayers following those of the Octoechos. Ephraim composed his stichera dedicated to Christ and Theotokos following the regular change of tones of the Octoechos. The spirit of Octoechos has also marked the work of the last Serbian anonymous hymnographers who wrote Akoluthia to the Translation of the holy relics of Saint Apostle Luke to Serbia and the Paraklisis to St. Luke (mid 15th century).

The intertwined relationship between the foundation of the burgh of St Andrews by Robert, bishop of St Andrews (d.1159), and the establishment of the Augustinian cathedral priory (St Andrews Day 1140) has not hitherto been explored. Building on the work of A. A. M. Duncan, it is argued here that the burgh was set up in response to the establishment of the new priory and the ambitious programme pursued by its first prior, Robert (1140–60). The burgh's early history was bound up in the contentious relationship of bishop and prior, as Prior Robert sought to gain sole control over the cathedral and the altar of the apostle Saint Andrew, the parish church, ecclesiastical lands in east Fife, and their revenues. The burgh allowed Bishop Robert to recoup some of his financial losses, but the priory's commercial ambitions presented competition for the bishop's burgesses in the burgh's first generation.

In the year 1294/95, in the church of the Virgin Peribleptos in Ohrid, figures of the apostles Peter and Andrew were painted in the bottom register of wall paintings of the south wall, in front of the altar space (fig. 1), while those of St. Clement of Ohrid and St. Constantine Kabasilas appeared on the opposite, north wall (fig. 2). Their choice and placement on such a conspicuous location have already been the subject of interest of scholars who attempted to explain their iconography and unveil the reasons behind their appearance in this Ohrid church. The image of apostle Peter is related to the text of Mt. 16, 18 and this apostle is thus represented as carrying a church on his back while trampling on Hades who, at the same time, is being pierced by an angel bearing a lance. From above, Christ, shown in bust, addresses St. Peter with the gospel text written out in fresco above his image. This rare representation could be interpreted as an image referring to the founding of the church on earth by Christ. The gospel text which inspired it was one of the main arguments in the primacy doctrine of the Roman church. In Byzantium, on the other hand, the equality of all apostles was underlined, and Peter shared his place of honor with Paul and, at times, Andrew. This can explain the presence of the latter by Peter's side in the mentioned Ohrid church. On the opposite wall we find figures of saints who held in particular reverence in the Ohrid area, namely those of Clement and Constantine Kabasilas. St. Clement (whose relics were treasured in Ohrid) was a bishop in nearby Velika in the X century, and his cult developed shortly after his death. On the other hand, at the end of his lifetime Constantine Kabasilas, an archbishop of Ohrid from the middle of the XIII century, was very devoted to the emperor Michael VIII and that seems to have decisively contributed to the early development of his cult. We can basically except the opinion of those among the scholars who associated the images of the mentioned saints with Christ's founding of the church on earth and the spreading of Christianity among the Slavs. However, since the archbishopric of Ohrid had no direct apostolic origins, and since even St. Clement was actually its founder, the wall paintings of the Virgin Peribleptos should be viewed in a somewhat different light. It is well known that the Archbishopric was founded by emperor Basil II who, in the second sigillium (1020), associated it with the earlier existing Bulgarian archbishopric. However, in the XII century, if not already at an earlier date, the archbishopric of Ohrid began to be associated also with Justiniana Prima, the archbishopric founded by emperor Justinian in 535. The first to include it in his title was the archbishop of Ohrid John Komnenos, in 1157, and many of his successors followed his example. Formulas such as Bulgarian and Prima Justiniana which appear in their titles were of a legal and canonic nature and were used in defending the autocephalos rights of the Archbishopric from both the Roman and the Constantinopolitan church. This prompts us to explain the wall paintings of the eastern part of the naos of the Virgin Peribleptos as a result of intentions of the archbishops of Ohrid to underline the ties of their church with Justiniana Prima and the Bulgarian archbishopric. The image of the founding of the church upon St. Peter is not only a universal image of Christ's founding of the church on earth but also a reminder that the archbishopric of Ohrid was formed on the territory of ancient Illyricum which once belonged to Rome and was handed over as a result of an agreement between pope Vigilius and emperor Justinian for the purpose of founding the autocephalos church of Justiniana Prima. Supposedly, the independence and high rank of the archbishopric of Ohrid found justification in those facts. In his letter to patriarch Germanos II (from the 1220's), the archbishop of Ohrid Demetrios Chomatenos goes on to say that the emperor Justinian, in establishing the hierarchy of the most ancient and great patriarchal sees, called the pope of old Rome the first among priests, the patriarch of Constantinople the second and directly after him made mention of the see of the Bulgarian archbishopric, i.e. Ohrid. In the fresco decoration of the Virgin Peribleptos these references to the Roman and Constantinopolitan church were substituted by images of their founders, a common procedure in Byzantine iconography. Just as it did in Chomatenos's letter, the presence of the apostle Andrew was there to point out that the church of Ohrid belonged to the Orthodox world. The second argument upholding the ancient origins and independence of the church of Ohrid - reflected by both the title of its prelates and the wall paintings of the Peribleptos - is based on its ties with the ancient archbishopric of Bulgaria. That is why its archbishops strove to develop the cults of "Bulgarian" saints, primarily that of St. Clement. The text of his vita (XII century), ascribed to Theophylaktos of Ohrid, celebrates him as the most commendable missionary of the Bulgarian people, and in the Catalogue of Bulgarian archbishops (from the same century) he is mentioned in such a manner that one gets the impression that Clement was the first prelate of the territory of the future archbishopric of Ohrid. Such a calculated treatment of St. Clement was especially intensified in the XIII century, as attested in particular by his synaxarion vita and service, in which he is referred to as the thirteenth apostle. A similar phenomenon developed also in the decoration of the church of the Virgin Peribleptos in which Clement plays the role of the first prelate of Ohrid and the perpetuator of the activities of the apostles painted on the wall opposite his image. In order to express clearly and most thoroughly the idea of the origins and the nature of the Archbishopric, it was also necessary to include in this group an image of one archbishop of Ohrid and so the choice fell on Constantine Kabasilas, whose memory was still alive and who, moreover, was the only actually canonized archbishop of Ohrid. Finally, we should also inquire why this ideologically colored fresco decoration appeared in 1294/95 in the church of the Virgin Peribleptos. The theory of the supposed origins of the archbishopric of Ohrid greatly gained in importance in the course of the events related to the Union of Lyon. This time it was suitably used in an attempt to abolish the Serbian archbishopric and the Bulgarian (Trnovo) patriarchate, founded at a somewhat earlier date and for the most part on the one-time territory of the archbishopric of Ohrid. Such pretensions appeared openly in the charter issued by emperor Michael VIII to the archbishopric of Ohrid (1272) and in his memorandum to the pope, read at the Council of Lyon in 1274. Moreover, in 1282 the Serbian king Milutin conquered vast Byzantine territories so that certain administrative units of the archbishopric of Ohrid were not only dislocated within a different state but also became a part of a different, Serbian church. So while the Byzantine emperor attempted to recapture these territories by military force, the archbishop of Ohrid, Makarios, strove to demonstrate visually on the walls of the church of the Virgin Peribleptos the supposed origins of his archbishopric and thus also to claim its rights, through the images of the apostles Peter and Andrew and saints Clement and Constantine Kabasilas. Because of its political engagement, this painted decoration remained unique in medieval art and should thus find explanation in particular ideological and political motives.

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> The church dedicated to Sant'Andrea (St. Andrew) in <q>Porta Dipinta</q> street in Bergamo city is a treasure that keep inside it a rich heritage of great historical and cultural value, both from the architectural and from the artistic point of view. Lacking of the façade (left unfinished), it is often neglected, despite being on the main road leading to the old town from <q>Sant'Agostino</q> Gate. The approach to an historical building like this requires a multi-disciplinary integration, in order to join the technical competence of engineering sciences to the sensitivity of human and fine arts sciences. For a better understanding of the structural performances of the building, historical research, measurement survey, material and decay condition study have to complement each other.</p>

The article provides an analysis and interpretation of 55 Greek Catholic medals of the 17th – 18th centuries. The search for information about Greek Catholic medals was carried out through the study of scientific literature, search in catalogs of private collections, monitoring of specialized sites dedicated to the subjects of Christian worship and Internet forums of “black” diggers, as well as Internet auctions. During archaeological research, only 4 Greek Catholic medals were identified (Belarus, Lithuania, Poland, Italy). The overwhelming majority of the medals under consideration (51 copies) were discovered during the illegal work of “black archaeologists” in Belarus, Ukraine, Poland and Spain. On the front side, the Greek Catholic medals contain images of the Mother of God Zhirovitskaya, Mother of God of Pochaev, Mother of God of Kholmskaya and Mother of God of Borunskaya. On the reverse side there are images of St. Andrew (apostle), St. Basil the Great, St. Joseph with the Christ Child, St. Josaphat Kuntsevich, St. Anufriy the Great. Most of the medals are labeled in Latin. The inscriptions on the medals with the image of Our Lady of Zhirovitskaya (subtype 3 (no. 5–26)) are made from a set of letters of the Greek, Latin and Church Slavonic alphabets.

The Scottish zoologist Henry Charles Williamson was one of a group of young men who initiated fisheries science in the late Victorian age, schooled under Professor William Carmichael McIntosh at St Andrews University. Initially working for the Fishery Board of Scotland, Williamson contributed original studies on fish anatomy, morphology, systematics and life cycles; decapod Crustacea life-history stages; fish diseases and parasites. He was at the forefront of attempts to transport herring ova to Australia and New Zealand to introduce this European food fish to antipodean waters. That involved him researching how to retard development of ova using low temperatures and developing glass settlement-plate techniques for their transportation. He left Scotland in 1925 to spend five years in the Canadian Pacific, studying salmon migration by tagging and latterly becoming responsible for pilchard and herring work there too. Returning to his home town of Dundee in retirement, he lived a quiet life, giving talks to local groups, supporting his church's administration and contributing articles to the fishermen's press. Sadly he died before he could complete the two volumes on fishes that he was in the course of writing.

The Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete is a masterpiece of Byzantine hym­nography. Due to its liturgical use during the Great Lent in the Orthodox Church for more than a thousand years it has played a very important role in the process of spiritual preparing for the feast of the Resurrection of Christ. In the Orthodox con­sciousness the Great Canon is first of all the Lenten special invitation for personal repentance (and more specifically “a change of mind” – met£noia) and compunc­tion (kat£nuxij). The whole content of the Great Canon, in the vast majority wo­ven from biblical phrases and referring to the essential events of salvation history, has the purpose of reshaping a believer’s life according to the Divine Wisdom. This “ecclesial liturgical act” helps to release the faithful not only from the bond­age of sin but also from evil thoughts (ponhroˆ logismo…) and destructive pas­sions (p£qoi). Based on an analysis of issues and terminology of the Great Canon it seems to be a well-founded argument that it is a work that combines the Eastern Orthodox use of the Bible, and the hesychastic tradition in the liturgical context.

<p>Ilias Anagnostakis and Anna Lambropoulou</p><p>An instance of the implementation of the Byzantine institution of asylum in the Peloponnese: the Slavs seek sanctuary in the Church of St Andrew of Patrai</p><p>The events which took place in the Peloponnese in the early ninth century (c. 800) are recorded in later sources, mostly of the tenth century. Following the establishment of the theme system of territorial administration and the securing of ecclesiastical order in the region, the emperor Nikephoros I, in implementing his new fiscal and economic policy, took steps to increase the number of inhabitants by systematically encouraging the settlement of new population groups from outside the area. It was within this general context and during this same period that the rebellion of the Slavs in Achaia, as described by Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, needs to be viewed. Clearly, also, the phenomenon needs to be seen within the context of the specific social climate of the region where radical change was taking place and significant breaks with the past were occurring. During the repression of the rebellion the Slavs sought sanctuary in the church of the Apostle Andrew. As a result of this move, however, the rebels were given special treatment as they were viewed as having repented their actions. This was an occurrence whose more general implications are worthy of further study. Looked at from the broader ecclesiastical and political perspective, there are certain characteristic features to be noted in the attitudes towards asylum and the priority ascribed to ecclesiastical over civil law in Constantinople at the end of the eighth and the beginning of the ninth centuries. At the beginning of the ninth century, during the reign of Nikephoros I and while Tarasios was on the patriarchal throne (784-806), the flight of the defeated Slavs to the Church of St Andrew and the relative leniency that was shown them by the state suggest that here we are dealing with an instance of the workings of the institution of sanctuary in Byzantium. While the sources bring in a host of hagiographie and miraculous elements -the standard baggage of accounts of Christianisation and repentance-he flight of the Slavs to the church of the patron saint of the city constitutes, in our opinion, in instance of mass asylum. Moreover, it is interesting to observe that the respective terminology which was used in Porphyrogenitus' account and was in all likelihood included in the sigillion of Nikephoros I relies, in our view, directly on Byzantine legislative reforms concerning sanctuary.</p><p>This is the first recorded instance of mass asylum and resort to church sanctuary in the middle Byzantine period in the Peloponnese. An effort was made both on the part of the church and the state to find a compromise solution: the former sought recognition of the institution of sanctuary while the latter was concerned to maintain the authority of its judicial and penal organs. The Slavs, who had sought sanctuary in the church, while normally liable to the punishment reserved for insurrection, were in the end granted special treatment. A compromise was found: despite the Slavs' attempt to rebel against the Byzantine authorities, the institution of asylum was fully implemented with the imposition of a number of restrictions and sanctions against the Slav population. The economic side of this treatment, which was generally a feature of the institution of ecclesiastical asylum both in Byzantium and the medieval West, has been well investigated. Indeed, monasticism and land ownership in the region of Bithynia are thought to have developed thanks to the institution of monastic asylum and the geographical boundaries of asylum, and this appears to be the case in the Peloponnese, too, where we see privileges and sigillia being granted for new monasteries and metropoleis in the ninth century. It is particularly interesting to note that the limits of 'rural asylum', i.e. the legal delimitation of the concepts of asylum and imperial donations, are lumped together with the estates of the church or monastery. The transfer of the exploitation of cultivable land to the workers of the monastery or church very often led to the development of settlements in the area. Seen in this light, the introduction of the institution of asylum and its legal delimitation in the case of the ecclesiastical estates of Achaia are directly related to the settlements of the early ninth century. It is probable that in contrast to the case of Syria and Bithynia asylum was not the catalyst behind the gradual settlement of the region of Achaia. However, and more importantly, it did offer solutions to the problems arising from the settlements. In the case of Patrai groups of unruly and discontented peasant populations developed an allegiance to the metropolis and were subsequently integrated to the point that they became entitled to protection from every epinoia adikos ('unjust design').</p><p>Subsequent to the Patrai episode - as far as the evidence allows us to construe- the Empire turned its military operations to the unsubdued, mountainous and more southerly regions of the Peloponnese. By contrast, the Slavs of Achaia were granted sigillia guaranteeing protection from any unapproved measures or epinoia adikos of the metropolitan. The flight of the Slavs to the Church of St Andrew following the miraculous intervention of the Apostle Andrew and the repression of the revolt, as well as the special treatment that they then received at the hands of the Byzantine authorities on account of their seeking sanctuary in the church, can be seen to constitute a form of asylum that is entirely consistent with the political and social climate and with the concept of asylum of the age of Nikephoros I.</p><p> Further investigation of the sigillia and their authenticity and reliability as sources may help to improve our understanding of the implementation and development of the institution of asylum in Byzantium during the reign of Nikephoros I.</p><p> </p>

It is a well-known fact that medieval scribes often used several manuscripts as their sources in order to produce a new copy of a text; this is because every source manuscript can contain errors or be damaged. Because scribes did not attempt and were not able to select source manuscripts belonging to the same textual group, the new copy might reflect more than one textual tradition. Translators from Greek into Church Slavonic apparently had the same problems with their sources as scribes did. Moreover, translators had even more difficult problems due to itacism and the numerous abbreviations used in Byzantine manuscripts. However, so far scholars have provided no evidence for the use of multiple Greek manuscripts for translations into Church Slavonic. In this article a few instances of contaminated readings (conflations) from the Old Russian translation of the Life of St. Andrew the Fool are cited. They reflect variant readings from different Greek manuscripts and seem to prove that the translator worked from at least two Greek manuscript sources, which enabled him to choose the wording he considered to be the best for any given passage.

Based on new archival research, the article focuses on previously unknown information about wooden altarpieces in Rab and Šibenik. The documents created by the Rab notary Ivan Božidar Kašić, which are keptin the State Archive at Zadar, contain a contract about the making of a wooden superstructure (palla) for the high altar in the Church of St. Andrew and its original altar painting. The contract bears the date of 19 April 1623 and obliges Piero Sandrioli, an indorador and resident of Zadar, to make an altarpieces according to a set design, fifteen-feet high and nine-and-a-half-feet wide, together with a canvas painting of the Blessed Virgin Mary and paintings depicting the scenes of the Most Holy Rosary. He was required to paint the figure of St. Dominic to the right of the Virgin, the figure of St. Catherine of Siena to her left, and, next to the Virgin’s feet at the bottom of the painting, the scenes on the topic of the Most Holy Rosary. The rest of the altarpieces had to correspond to the aforementioned design in all respects. The whole structure (probably referring to the wooden superstructure and the painting) had to be carved, delivered to the Church of St. Andrew and set up on the altar at the expense of Pietro Sandrioli. Once in Rab, after the delivery of the wooden altarpiece and the painting, Sandrioli was also required to gild the altarpiece. The entire task had to be completed by the following December. As soon as the work was completed, Sandrioli was to be paid the amount of 250 ducats and here it is mentioned that he had already received 360 lire. Apart from the described altar superstructure from Rab, the same mistro Pietro Sandrioli da Venecia indorador is mentioned in connection to the making of the former high altar in the Church of St. Dominic at Šibenik. This document of 13 June 1628 has been preserved in the records of the Šibenik notary Ante Vrančić which are also kept in the State Archive at Zadar. The document states that Lorenzo Corradis, a representative and intermediary on behalf of the confraternity of the Virgin of the Most Holy Rosary from the Church of St. Dominic, paid Pietro Sandrioli, the indorador of Venice, 376 lire which is also confirmed by a receipt issued for the services of carving and painting undertaken in Venice for the wooden high altar of the Virgin of the Most Holy Rosary.As confirmed by Pietro Sandrioli himself, only 180 of those 376 lire had been spent and he owed Lorenzo Corradis the amount of 196 lire. In other words, he owed him the amount which could be somewhat higher or lower than the stated sum but which would correspond to the amount of money that was actually spent. The next step was to see a Venetian notary who was to issue Corradis with a confirmation that the amount of 180 lire was spent to pay for the work of the master craftsman, and this would guarantee that the money was indeed spent. For this purpose, the indorador Pietro Sandrioli, in the company of the aforementioned witnesses, promised and committed to provide a trustworthy and original confirmation issued by a Venetian notary in which these master carvers and painters would state the exact cost of their work while under oath. Then, he would bring or send this confirmation from Venice by the end of the following January. In the event of Sandrioli’s failure to send or bring the confirmation by the end of the following January, he was to be replaced by another master indorador, Zuanne Voicovich, who would be responsible for the payment of the 196 lire in full. Although this document merely regulates some expenditures, it can still be used to establish that the work on the wooden high altar for the Church of St. Dominic at Šibenik was begun before 13 June 1628 when, it seems, it was still ongoing; that the majority of work was done in Venice, and that the indoradori Pietro Sandrioli and Zuanne Voicovich were involved in the production together with numerous unnamed master wood-carvers and painters. It may be concluded that Sandrioli and Voicovich were at that time in Šibenik together, and that they worked on the completion of the altar, decorating it with gilding. Since Pietro Sandrioli was mentioned in the Rab document of 1623 as a resident of Zadar, it can be suggested with a high degree of certainty that he worked for the commissioners who were based in the capital of Dalmatia and its environments. In Venice, the term indoradóri or doradóri denoted those craftsmen who used gold or silver foils to decorate various hand-made objects, most frequently those made of wood. The Indoradóri did not have a guild of their own but formed one of the branches of the confraternity of painters, a member ofwhich, between 1597 and 1610, was a certain Piero de Zen Sandrioli, probably the same master craftsman who worked on the wooden altarpieces at Rab and Šibenik. On the basis of the analysis of archival records and other examples of the production of carved and gilded wooden altars in seventeenth-century Venice and Dalmatia, it is concluded that the making of the wooden altar superstructure from Rab was a task shared by a number of master craftsmen who specialized in the various aspects of carpentry such as the marangoni, tornitori, figuristi, ornatisti and indoradori. Pietro Sandrioli, apart from being responsible for the tasks of an indorador, probably acted as an intermediary of sorts between them and the commissioners. After Pietro Salamone (Hvar, Zadar) and Jacopo Costantini (Trogir), Pietro Sandrioli is the third Venetian indorador to have worked for Dalmatian patrons in the late sixteenth and the early decades of the seventeenth century. Since the indorador Costantini also made the canvas painting of the Virgin and Child with St. Dominic and a donor for the wooden altar in the Dominican church at Trogir, it can be assumed that the indorador Sandrioli may have also been responsible for the painting of the now lost Virgin of the Most Holy Rosary with SS Dominic and Catherine of Siena, which was inset in the wooden altar superstructure of the main altar of the Church of St. Andrew.

In this paper there was made an attempt at determining more precisely the location of the four ?inhabited cities? (?????? ?????????) of Pagania, mentioned in the De administrando imperio of Constantine Porphyrogennetos: Mokron (?? ??????), Beroullia (?? ?????????), Ostrok (?? O?????) ? Slavinetza (? ??????????). Having considered the results previously established in historiography in connection to the issue, the author concludes that Mokron (Makr) was probably situated in the village of Makar beneath Mt. Biokovo, and that Beroullia (Vrulja) was identical with Vrulja near Podgora. Ostrok (Ostrog), in accordance with generally accepted oppinion, is to be located in the immediate vicinity of today?s Zaostrog, at the foot of the Mt. Viter, while, considering Slavinetza, it is assumed that it was situated in the region of the Bacina lakes, near the ruins of Sladinac, where are the remnants of the old Church of St Andrew, although the possibility that it should be searched for in the area of today?s Gradac, near the Slavinjac spring, mentioned in a description of Gradac from 1863, should not be excluded.

While debate has arisen in the past two decades regarding the foundation of Edinburgh University, by contrast the foundation and early development of Marischal College, Aberdeen, has received little attention. This is particularly surprising when one considers it is perhaps the closest Scottish parallel to the Edinburgh foundation. Founded in April 1593 by George Keith, fifth Earl Marischal in the burgh of New Aberdeen ‘to do the utmost good to the Church, the Country and the Commonwealth’,1 like Edinburgh Marischal was a new type of institution that had more in common with the Protestant ‘arts colleges’ springing up across the continent than with the papally sanctioned Scottish universities of St Andrews, Glasgow and King's College in Old Aberdeen.2 James Kirk is the most recent in a long line of historians to argue that the impetus for founding ‘ane college of theologe’ in Edinburgh in 1579 was carried forward by the radical presbyterian James Lawson, which led to the eventual opening on 14 October 1583 of a liberal arts college in the burgh, as part of an educational reform programme devised and rolled out across the Scottish universities by the divine and educational reformer, Andrew Melville.3

On the titlepage of his collection of sermons, The Happinesse of the Church (1618), Thomas Adams styled himself “preacher” at St. Gregory’s, London. The term could indicate puritan leanings, and in the nineteenth century Robert Southey went so far as to call Adams “the prose Shakespeare of puritan theologians… scarcely inferior to Fuller in wit or to Taylor in fancy.” Adams often used the word “puritan” pejoratively. Historians, however, have classified as puritans people who rejected the term for themselves, just as political analysts-sometimes justly-classify as “liberals” or “conservatives” politicians who cavil at these terms. The problem, as always, is one of definition, and Adams affords an excellent opportunity to test the adequacy of our definitions. Like “humanist” or “republican,” “puritan” is one of those terms that have come to have a meaning that transcends the circumstances in which they originated. I argue that Adams was not a puritan; he was instead a mainstream Calvinist episcopalian of the kind so convincingly described by Patrick Collinson in his Ford lectures. Nevertheless, an attempt to place Adams in the spectrum of religious opinion has a value beyond merely getting one individual situated. Scholars have contradicted each other in their placing of Adams, and this analysis, by getting him right, will throw light on our understanding of the varieties of Calvinism in early Stuart England.

Generally speaking, paleochristian memoriae have emerged out of the funeral traditions of the pagan world of Antiquity with its particular expression of the cult of deceased, sustained with the culture that had come out of Christian theology and aesthetics. It came together withnew architectural forms some of which were characterized with cross-like forms, not only as a general symbol of new faith, but also as the spatial projection, model after which one had to build. It is defined by two axes that cross at the right angle, the framework of the overall architecturalcomposition, factor of building’s extension in its entire length and width, as well as the height of the building that is dominated and marked by a dome. This particular structure of the building expresses its own essence, memorial use and the Christian paradigm. Through form and function, these buildings have become a distinguished phenomenon of the Christian civilization, valued in the architecture from the late antiquity to Romanesque period.Mature form of the space intended for the cult of the deceased, particularly when small cruciform churches are in question, is remarkably expressed in the preserved chapel of St. Lawrence, widely known as the mausoleum of Galla Placidia, one of two identical buildings once located at the ends of the narthex of the Ravennate church of the Holy Cross. The lower space of Theodoric’s mausoleum in Ravenna is also cruciform, however one should also remember emperor Justinian’s cruciform tombin Constantinople church of the Holy Apostles. It was demolished in the 15 century, together with the whole complex, and is known only through historical sources.Together with the Ravennate memoriae, such tombs could have – directly or indirectly – influence the formation of the cruciform memoriae in the Adriatic cultural landscape from Late Antiquity to Romanesque period.This paper elaborates the group of approximately fifteen buildings that demonstrate – through their forms and funerary functions – perseverance of particular cruciform plan of a memoriae within the Adriatic ambiance. A particularly numerous group is that of southern Istria, which consists of the Pula cathedral baptistery, two chapels by the basilica of Sta Maria Formosa and St. Mathew’s chapel in Pula, that of St. Catharine on a nearby islet and the supposed cruciform church of St. Andrew on an island in front of Rovinj. To such a concentration of the paleochristian memoriae one should link two early-mediaeval chapels, that of St. Clement in Pula and St. Thomas’ near Rovinj. The latter’s forms were already commented by Ivan Matejčić to follow and repeat paleochristian features. Among these features there are three protruding apses similar to those of St. Catharine’s. Therefore, it seems that the forms and themeasures of pre-Romanesque chapels were taken from those of the nearby Byzantine buildings, rather than from the distant Carolingian examples in Italy or France. Earlier and later southern Istrian memoriae are treated here as a typological group with emphasized regional features and continuity. Their forms differ only in some less important details, e.g. facades being either flat or articulated with lesenes. Their common features are, on the other hand, elementary architectural composition, spatial structure that consists of four branches and the dome hidden in the drum, as well as their dimensions and proportions. An element ofparticular interest is the octagonal upper part of the dome on Pula baptistery, that on St. Catharine’s on an islet in front of Pula as well as one on St. Andrew’s on an islet in front of Rovinj. These are probably reconstructions of the older solution. Within the supposedly later construction, there is a dome, a trula, as Pietro Kandler has named it, relating it with the Longboard architecture. It is carried by squinches.This solution is, actually, the Byzantine tradition in the area of Ravennate influences. A similar dome is constructed above the cruciform chapel consecrated to St. Mary Mater Domini (Theotokos), built next to the church of St. Felix and Fortunato in Vicenza, in 6 century. It seems that the same tradition was followed by very similar buildings, Paduan chapel of San Prosdocimo, and the memory erected by Santi Apostoli in Verona. On the other hand, St. Clement’s in Pula did not have a dome of such type and this church had yet another significant difference from the other Istrian chapels, the rectangular extension of areas in front of the apses. Another example that stands out from the group is the church of St. Euphemia at Saline bay in Lim channel. It is an Early Romanesque chapel with three apses at the rear. Lateral branches are reduced; they are much shorter than the front one, and give an impression of a transept rather than cruciform branches, as in other churches of the group. The upper part of the walls give no evidence of neither vaults nor a dome.Differently from the typological unity of the paleochristian and early mediaeval Istrian memoriae, those in Dalmatia show significant variability of the theme, already noticeable at the physiognomy of the earlier examples. For instance, the small baptistery in Baška on the island of Krk is an orderly cruciform building with relatively short branches and unarticulated flat walls, similar to Pula baptistery. The ground plan of St. Martin’s on the island of Cres is considerably different. It was a considerably larger building, probably in a memorial function related to a nearby villa rustica. It also has the rectangular extension in front of the apse, like St. Clement’s at Pula. Its walls show no traces of vaulted constructions. In a later phase, it was probably used as a parish church, like some examples of Dalmatian triconchal churches. A particular articulation of the walls, different from all of the Istrian and Dalmatiancruciform memoriae, was that of St. Cyprian’s chapel at Gata. Its short branches are rectangular on the outside, while on the inside they have inscribed round apses. Therefore, the outer surfaces have narrow round niches as relief of the thickened angles. Memory of the Holy Cross at Nin also has a round apse inscribed in the rectangular body of its rear branch. However, it is flanked by two smaller protruding apses, i.e. three in total. Other branches are vaulted with a half-dome on angular squinches that are also constructed below the drum with the dome inside. Ivo Petricioli has long ago suggested that its proportions indicate influences of the early mediaeval Byzantine architecture. This is further corroborated by its outer surfaces articulated with shallow niches. These features do not appear in Carolingian architecture, so it seems that the Holy Cross should be dated into the 10th or the 11th century. It also should be related tothe influences from nearby Zadar - contemporary capitol of the Byzantine Theme of Dalmatia - with the church of St. Vitus whose features, both general form and details, are of the same type of the building. Furthermore, they should be compared with the chapel of St. Donatus at Kornić on Krk Island. This small church is of apparently different groundplan, but one could still consider it a cruciform type. Its front and rear branches are rectangular, and there are indications that the rear branch had a round apse inscribed, similarly to the memory of the Holy Cross at Nin. However, its lateral branches are relatively small round apses, protruding from the sides of the chapel. Among them, there is a relativelyspacious central section with the dome constructed on the squinches. Miljenko Jurković has plausibly dated the church in 12th century, while I believe that it confirms the continuity of the paleochristian cruciform type of the Christian memory in Istria and Dalmatia from Late Antiquity to theRomanesque period. This is proven by some contemporary constructions, such as the chapel of an unknown title at Crkvina near Kašić, near Biljani Donji, that has also been dated in Romanesque period. In spite of some individual differences all of the memoriae compared in this paper, both groups are assembled by numerousness and similarities of both cruciform plans and funerary functions. Also, the influence of Adriatic Byzantine centres, particularly that of Ravenna, Pula and Zadar, is noticeable in formation of the regional characteristics of memorial architecture in the cultural ambiance of Istria and Dalmatia, within the context of long-lasting continuity of its forms and functions, from Late Antiquity to Romanesque period.

<p><strong>Resumo: </strong>O artigo apresenta um estudo sobre a atuação do bispo de Santo André, Cláudio Hummes, durante as greves dos operários de 1978, 1979, 1980 no ABC. Através do texto é possível verificar e suscitar discussões sobre a influência da teologia do Vaticano II e da teologia latino-americana nas práticas do bispo e, ao mesmo tempo, a aliança deste segmento do catolicismo com o operariado durante o regime militar.</p><strong></strong><p><strong>Palavras-chave: </strong>Catolicismo, ABC, greves, operários, bispo</p><strong></strong><p><strong>Absctrat: </strong><span style="color: #222222;">This article presents a study on the performance of the St. Andrew Bishop, Claudio Hummes, during the strikes of 1978 workers, 1979, 1980 on ABC. Through the text you can check and raise discussions on the influence of Vatican II theology and Latin American theology in the bishop practices and at the same time, the alliance of this segment of Catholicism with the working class during the military regime </span><strong></strong></p><p><strong>Keywords: </strong><span style="color: #222222;">Catholicism, ABC, strikes, workers, bishop</span></p>

In our opinion, the spiritual purpose of Ancient Rus in the middle of the ІХ–ХІV centuries was the spread of Christianity to the vast expanses of Eastern Europe, its contribution to the spiritual transformation of the world. Overcoming the insurmountable obstacles of nomadic destruction, Ukraine-Rus own strife and betrayal step by step goes to self-determination as the Second Jerusalem – the spiritual center of Orthodoxy and of all Eastern Christianity through the choice of faith, through the three christening of Rus Askoldov, Olzhine and Volodymyrove, through the disregard for Christianity, through the creation of the glorious Kiev variant of Orthodoxy, through the acquisition of holiness in the temples of St. Sophia, the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, and the exploits of its monasticism, etc., through the acquisition of apostolic origin in the legend of Andrew, through overcoming all temptations, preservation and rebirth, through the enrichment of world experience of Christianity, because of the fostering of mystical Eastern Christian foundations in Paisii Velychkovsky's Little Rus monasteries, in Skovoroda, in Gogol, in Bulatovych's nameword, etc., through the Metropolitan of Kyiv Petro Mogyla of the Orthodox Center – New Jerusalem already reached and finally, overcoming all the insurmountable obstacles in the creation of our own Orthodox Church of Rus-Ukraine in recognition of patriarchy and in unity with world orthodoxy and modern religious revival. Let Moscow want to be a political center and it proves very consistently, and Ukraine-Russia, the blasphemous city of Kyiv, emerge as a spiritual center – the New Jerusalem, which is evidenced by all its historical development, already demonstrated by the fact that the “priesthood is higher than the kingdom”, which could be its contribution to the spiritual transformation of the world. Thus, the very reason that Kyiv could become the spiritual center of Eastern Christianity could be that it 1) overcame all temptations, first and foremost 2) the loss of gain, 3) consistently pursues the unity of Christianity, for example, Kyiv is also the center of the UGCC, 4) Kyiv with its shrines concentrates the fullness of the holiness of Christianity, 5) it develops its specifically Eastern Christian mystical foundations and is 6) open to the positive world (Kyiv – Mohylyanska Academy and its theology, etc.) of mutual influence. Let's form Ukraine-Rus as the New Jerusalem – the spiritual center.

-Stanley L. Engerman, Heather Cateau ,Capitalism and slavery fifty years later: Eric Eustace Williams - A reassessment of the man and his work. New York: Peter Lang, 2000. xvii + 247 pp., S.H.H. Carrington (eds)-Philip D. Morgan, B.W. Higman, Writing West Indian histories. London: Macmillan Caribbean, 1999. xiv + 289 pp.-Daniel Vickers, Alison Games, Migration and the origins of the English Atlantic world. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1999. xiii + 322 pp.-Christopher L. Brown, Andrew Jackson O'Shaughnessy, An empire divided: The American revolution and the British Caribbean. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. xviii + 357 pp.-Lennox Honychurch, Samuel M. Wilson, The indigenous people of the Caribbean. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1997. xiv + 253 pp.-Kenneth Bilby, Bev Carey, The Maroon story: The authentic and original history of the Maroons in the history of Jamaica 1490-1880. St. Andrew, Jamaica: Agouti Press, 1997. xvi + 656 pp.-Bernard Moitt, Doris Y. Kadish, Slavery in the Caribbean Francophone world: Distant voices, forgotten acts, forged identities. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2000. xxiii + 247 pp.-Michael J. Guasco, Virginia Bernhard, Slaves and slaveholders in Bermuda, 1616-1782. Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1999. xviii + 316 pp.-Michael J. Jarvis, Roger C. Smith, The maritime heritage of the Cayman Islands. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000. xxii + 230 pp.-Paul E. Hoffman, Peter R. Galvin, Patterns of pillage: A geography of Caribbean-based piracy in Spanish America, 1536-1718. New York: Peter Lang, 1999. xiv + 271 pp.-David M. Stark, Raúl Mayo Santana ,Cadenas de esclavitud...y de solidaridad: Esclavos y libertos en San Juan,siglo XIX. Río Piedras: Centro de Investigaciones Sociales, Universidad de Puerto Rico, 1997. 204 pp., Mariano Negrón Portillo, Manuel Mayo López (eds)-Ada Ferrer, Philip A. Howard, Changing history: Afro-Cuban Cabildos and societies of color in the nineteenth century. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1998. xxii + 227 pp.-Alvin O. Thompson, Maurice St. Pierre, Anatomy of resistance: Anti-colonialism in Guyana 1823-1966. London: Macmillan, 1999. x + 214 pp.-Linda Peake, Barry Munslow, Guyana: Microcosm of sustainable development challenges. Aldershot, U.K. and Brookfield VT: Ashgate, 1998. x + 130 pp.-Stephen Stuempfle, Peter Mason, Bacchanal! The carnival culture of Trinidad. Philadelphia PA: Temple University Press, 1998. 191 pp.-Christine Chivallon, Catherine Benoît, Corps, jardins, mémoires: Anthropologie du corps et de l' espace à la Guadeloupe. Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2000. 309 pp.-Katherine E. Browne, Mary C. Waters, Black identities: Wsst Indian immigrant dreams and American realities. New York: Russell Sage Foundation; Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1999. xvii + 413 pp.-Eric Paul Roorda, Bernardo Vega, Los Estados Unidos y Trujillo - Los días finales: 1960-61. Colección de documentos del Departamento de Estado, la CIA y los archivos del Palacio Nacional Dominicano. Santo Domingo: Fundación Cultural Dominicana, 1999. xx+ 783 pp.-Javier Figueroa-de Cárdenas, Charles D. Ameringer, The Cuban democratic experience: The Auténtico years, 1944-1952. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000. ix + 230 pp.-Robert Lawless, Charles T. Williamson, The U.S. Naval mission to Haiti, 1959-1963. Annapolis MD: Naval Institute Press, 1999. xv + 395 pp.-Noel Leo Erskine, Arthur Charles Dayfoot, The shaping of the West Indian Church, 1492-1962. Kingston: The Press University of the West Indies; Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999. xvii + 360 pp.-Edward Baugh, Laurence A. Breiner, An introduction to West Indian poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. xxii + 261 pp.-Lydie Moudileno, Heather Hathaway, Caribbean waves: Relocating Claude McKay and Paule Marshall. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999. xi + 201 pp.-Nicole Roberts, Claudette M. Williams, Charcoal and cinnamon: The politics of color in Spanish Caribbean literature. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000. xii + 174 pp.-Nicole Roberts, Marie Ramos Rosado, La mujer negra en la literatura puertorriqueña: Cuentística de los setenta: (Luis Rafael Sánchez, Carmelo Rodríguez Torres, Rosario Ferré y Ana Lydia Vega). San Juan: Ed. de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, Ed. Cultural, and Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña, 1999. xxiv + 397 pp.-William W. Megenney, John H. McWhorter, The missing Spanish Creoles: Recovering the birth of plantation contact languages. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. xi + 281 pp.-Robert Chaudenson, Chris Corne, From French to Creole: The development of New Vernaculars in the French colonial world. London: University of Westminster Press, 1999. x + 263 pp.

In order to deepen our contemporary knowledge about the Romanesque cathedral of Dubrovnik, it is of utmost importance to turn to the archaeological remains and the documented material evidence in order to establish its ground plan. On the basis of the ground plan and in combination with the way the Cathedral was depicted in the art works produced during the period from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century, while also taking into account the contemporary written sources, we can propose a reconstruction of the Romanesque Cathedral together with a number of architectural features which have not been preserved. The Cathedral was an aisled basilica with a semi-circular apse which protruded at its east end. The nave was separated from the two aisles by means of arcades consisting of six piers resting on rectangular bases. The piers carried the vaults and these, in turn, supported the galleries above the aisles and the roof of the basilica. Such an arrangement was recorded by Diversis and Casola in the fifteenth century. In all likelihood, the two buttresses on the façade and eight more on each lateral wall were added later. At the top, the buttresses were connected by semi-circular arches and an exterior gallery existed above them. This gallery was connected to the one at the back of the church, creating thus an ambulatory which enabled the circumambulation of the basilica. This feature was mentioned by Casola and can be seen, to a certain degree, on the triptych painted by Nikola Božidarević. Most depictions show the Cathedral as having a dome on a round drum. However, the dome on the triptych painted by Pietro di Giovanni features a polygonal drum. The fact that the bases of the two piers situated under the dome are narrower compared to others, as can be seen on the ground plan recorded by Stošić, may have had something to do with that. The depictions of the dome regularly show exterior ribs which is a feature that requires further critical deliberation. At the same time, the dome does appear frequently in the architecture of Italian Romanesque churches. This can be seen in the architectural heritage of Apulia, Tuscany and Lombardy alike. When it comes to Dalmatia, however, only the cathedrals in its southern part, that is, at Dubrovnik and Kotor, were provided with a dome which is a phenomenon that points to the longevity of Byzantine tradition in these towns. The proposal put forward by Stošić, that the building of the Romanesque cathedral started during the last three decades of the twelfth century, when the Archbishop of Dubrovnik was Andrew of Lucca in Tuscany, seems convincing. Stošić also drew attention to the fact that the buttresses were added onto the exterior face of each lateral wall in order to carry the weight of the gallery in the upper part of the basilica. This may indicate that the initial concept was altered and it could be linked to an archival record of 1199 which mentions that a certain Eustace was required to carry out building works on the Cathedral. This Eustace was the son of Bernardo, a foreman (protomagister) in Trani in Apulia. This means that the twelfth century was not the time when the building works began, as Peković suggested, but the time when the building continued after the introduction of a new design with exterior galleries. Such galleries are found in Italian churches (in Apulia, Tuscany and Lombardy alike) as well as in some Dalmatian ones, for example on the lateral wall of Zadar Cathedral and on the wall of the semi-circular apse of the basilica of St Chrysogonus in the same town. On the other hand, fact remains that the exterior galleries in Apulian churches were supported by a series of robust buttresses which carried high vaults (Bari, Bitonto, Trani). These buttresses are much more solid in comparison to the narrow ones which were added onto the walls of Dubrovnik Cathedral. Perhaps this can be understood as a consequence of the change of design for the new cathedral which saw the replacing of what one might call a Tuscan project of the second half of the twelfth century with the Apulian one from the turn of the thirteenth. The building works continued long after this, well into the mid-fourteenth century, and in the process the cathedral acquired a number of Gothic elements. Its overall architectural composition was also imbued with the Gothic spatial articulation such as the testudines opere gothico. This makes it clear that during the thirteenth and fourteenth century, Dubrovnik experienced intense connections with Apulia.

The present study has delved into the different ways the Greek prefix συν- has been translated in the Church Slavonic language. Our research was conducted on the available Church Slavonic translations of four Byzantine hymns (the Akathistos Hymn, the Great Canon of Repentance by St. Andrew of Crete, the Alphabetical Shichera from the Great Canon service and the Antiphons of the Great and Holy Friday) examined in the South and East Slavonic manuscripts of the 11th — 15th century. The textological study of the Slavonic translation revealed the existence of eight versions of the texts caused by several successive corrections of the Slavonic text in accordance with the Greek original. Based on these results, the linguistic textological method was applied in order to reveal the main differences between said versions in regard to the conveyance of the words with the prefix συν-. We examined a total of 46 words in 58 contexts and separated them in four categories depending on their grammatical characteristics. The comparative analysis of the structures corresponding to the συν- prefix in the Slavonic translation revealed eight different ways in which the semantics of this prefix could be conveyed in the target language. The results of our research showcased the different role the calque word formation in accordance with the Greek pattern played in the Slavonic noun and verb derivation. The relatively small amount of calque verbs with the prefix съ-, which is the Church Slavonic equivalent of the Greek συν-, is a result of the weak aspect formation potential of this prefix in comitative semantics. Therefore, the linguistic textological method helps us arrive at conclusions that are of interest to the fields of translation theory, history of the Church Slavonic language, Greek — Slavonic language communication, and comparative linguistics

Edelmayer, Friedrich / Gerhard Pfeisinger (Hrsg.), Ozeane. Mythen, Interaktionen und Konflikte (Studien zur Geschichte und Kuktur der iberischen und iberoamerikanischen Länder, 16), Münster 2017, Aschendorff, 336 S. / Abb., € 49,00. (Ruth Schilling, Bremen / Bremerhaven) Jaynes, Jeffrey, Christianity beyond Christendom. The Global Christian Experience on Medieval Mappaemundi and Early Modern World Maps (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, 149), Wiesbaden 2018, Harrassowitz in Kommission, 483 S. / Abb., € 128,00. (Gerda Brunnlechner, Hagen) Weltecke, Dorothea (Hrsg.), Essen und Fasten. Interreligiöse Abgrenzung, Konkurrenz und Austauschprozesse / Food and Fasting. Interreligious Differentiations, Competition and Exchange (Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 81), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 130 S., € 30,00. (Helmut W. Klug, Graz) Dirmeier, Artur (Hrsg.), Essen und Trinken im Spital. Ernährungskultur zwischen Festtag und Fasttag (Studien zur Geschichte des Spital-‍, Wohlfahrts- und Gesundheitswesens, 13), Regensburg 2018, Pustet, 287 S. / Abb., € 34,95. (Josef Matzerath, Dresden) Widder, Ellen / Iris Holzwart-Schäfer / Christian Heinemeyer (Hrsg.), Geboren, um zu herrschen? Gefährdete Dynastien in historisch-interdisziplinärer Perspektive (Bedrohte Ordnungen, 10), Tübingen 2018, Mohr Siebeck, VIII u. 307 S. / Abb., € 59,00. (Lennart Pieper, Münster) Füssel, Marian / Philip Knäble / Nina Elsemann (Hrsg.), Wissen und Wirtschaft. Expertenkulturen und Märkte vom 13. bis 18. Jahrhundert, Göttingen / Bristol 2017, Vandenhoeck &amp; Ruprecht, 418 S. / Abb., € 70,00. (Justus Nipperdey, Saarbrücken) Whittle, Jane (Hrsg.), Servants in Rural Europe. 1400 – 1900, Woodbridge 2017, Boydell &amp; Brewer, XIII u. 271 S., £ 19,99. (Werner Troßbach, Witzenhausen) Rutz, Andreas, Die Beschreibung des Raums. Territoriale Grenzziehungen im Heiligen Römischen Reich (Norm und Struktur, 47), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2018, Böhlau, 583 S. / Abb., € 80,00. (Falk Bretschneider, Paris) Denzel, Markus A. / Andrea Bonoldi / Anne Montenach / Françoise Vannotti (Hrsg.), Oeconomia Alpium I: Wirtschaftsgeschichte des Alpenraums in vorindustrieller Zeit. Forschungsaufriss, -konzepte und -perspektiven, Berlin / Boston 2017, de Gruyter Oldenbourg, VIII u. 313 S., € 99,95. (Franziska Neumann, Rostock) Rothmann, Michael / Helge Wittmann (Hrsg.), Reichsstadt und Geld. 5. Tagung des Mühlhäuser Arbeitskreises für Reichsstadtgeschichte, Mühlhausen 27. Februar bis 1. März 2017 (Studien zur Reichsstadtgeschichte, 5), Petersberg 2018, Imhof, 397 S. / Abb., € 29,95. (Angela Huang, Lübeck) Borgolte, Michael (Hrsg.), Enzyklopädie des Stiftungswesens in mittelalterlichen Gesellschaften, Bd. 1: Grundlagen, Berlin / Boston 2014, de Gruyter, 713 S. / Abb., € 209,00. (Christine Kleinjung, Mainz / Göttingen) Borgolte, Michael (Hrsg.), Enzyklopädie des Stiftungswesens in mittelalterlichen Gesellschaften, Bd. 2: Das soziale System Stiftung, Berlin / Boston 2016, de Gruyter, 760 S. / Abb., € 169,95. (Christine Kleinjung, Mainz / Göttingen) Borgolte, Michael (Hrsg.), Enzyklopädie des Stiftungswesens in mittelalterlichen Gesellschaften, Bd. 3: Stiftung und Gesellschaft, Berlin / Boston 2017, de Gruyter, 680 S. / Abb., € 199,95. (Christine Kleinjung, Mainz / Göttingen) Becher, Matthias (Hrsg.), Die mittelalterliche Thronfolge im europäischen Vergleich (Vorträge und Forschungen, 84), Ostfildern 2017, Thorbecke, 484 S., € 56,00. (Gerhard Lubich, Bochum) Reinle, Christine (Hrsg.), Stand und Perspektiven der Sozial- und Verfassungsgeschichte zum römisch-deutschen Reich. 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“People live here, they die here so they must leave traces.” (Read 140) “Whatever colonialism was and is, it has made this place unsettling and unsettled.” (Gibson, Badland 2) Introduction What does it mean for [a] country to be haunted? In much theoretical work in film and Cultural Studies since the 1990s, the Australian continent, more often than not, bears traces of long suppressed traumas which inevitably resurface to haunt the present (Gelder and Jacobs; Gibson; Read; Collins and Davis). Felicity Collins and Therese Davis illuminate the ways Australian cinema acts as a public sphere, or “vernacular modernity,” for rethinking settler/indigenous relations. Their term “backtracking” serves as a mode of “collective mourning” in numerous films of the last decade which render unspoken colonial violence meaningful in contemporary Australia, and account for the “aftershocks” of the Mabo decision that overturned the founding fiction of terra nullius (7). Ray Lawrence’s 2006 film Jindabyne is another after-Mabo film in this sense; its focus on conflict within settler/indigenous relations in a small local town in the alpine region explores a traumatised ecology and drowned country. More than this, in our paper’s investigation of country and its attendant politics, Jindabyne country is the space of excessive haunting and resurfacing - engaging in the hard work of what Gibson (Transformations) has termed “historical backfill”, imaginative speculations “that make manifest an urge to account for the disconnected fragments” of country. Based on an adaptation by Beatrix Christian of the Raymond Carver story, So Much Water, So Close to Home, Jindabyne centres on the ethical dilemma produced when a group of fishermen find the floating, murdered body of a beautiful indigenous woman on a weekend trip, but decide to stay on and continue fishing. In Jindabyne, “'country' […] is made to do much discursive work” (Gorman-Murray). In this paper, we use the word as a metonym for the nation, where macro-political issues are played out and fought over. But we also use ‘country’ to signal the ‘wilderness’ alpine areas that appear in Jindabyne, where country is “a notion encompassing nature and human obligation that white Australia has learned slowly from indigenous Australia” (Gibson, Badland 178). This meaning enables a slippage between ‘land’ and ‘country’. Our discussion of country draws heavily on concepts from Ross Gibson’s theorisation of badlands. Gibson claims that originally, ‘badland’ was a term used by Europeans in North America when they came across “a tract of country that would not succumb to colonial ambition” (Badland 14). Using Collins and Davis’s “vernacular modernity” as a starting point, a film such as Jindabyne invites us to work through the productive possibilities of postcolonial haunting; to move from backtracking (going over old ground) to imaginative backfill (where holes and gaps in the ground are refilled in unconventional and creative returns to the past). Jindabyne (as place and filmic space) signifies “the special place that the Australian Alps occupy for so many Australians”, and the film engages in the discursive work of promoting “shared understanding” and the possibility of both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal being “in country” (Baird, Egloff and Lebehan 35). We argue specifically that Jindabyne is a product of “aftermath culture” (Gibson Transformations); a culture living within the ongoing effects of the past, where various levels of filmic haunting make manifest multiple levels of habitation, in turn the product of numerous historical and physical aftermaths. Colonial history, environmental change, expanding wire towers and overflowing dams all lend meaning in the film to personal dilemmas, communal conflict and horrific recent crimes. The discovery of a murdered indigenous woman in water high in the mountains lays bare the fragility of a relocated community founded in the drowning of the town of old Jindabyne which created Lake Jindabyne. Beatrix Christian (in Trbic 61), the film’s writer, explains “everybody in the story is haunted by something. […] There is this group of haunted people, and then you have the serial killer who emerges in his season to create havoc.” “What’s in this compulsion to know the negative space?” asks Gibson (Badland 14). It’s the desire to better know and more deeply understand where we live. And haunting gives us cause to investigate further. Drowned, Murderous Country Jindabyne rewrites “the iconic wilderness of Australia’s High Country” (McHugh online) and replaces it with “a vast, historical crime scene” (Gibson, Badland 2). Along with nearby Adaminaby, the township of Old Jindabyne was drowned and its inhabitants relocated to the new town in the 1960s as part of the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Scheme. When Jindabyne was made in 2006 the scheme no longer represented an uncontested example of Western technological progress ‘taming’ the vast mountainous country. Early on in the film a teacher shows a short documentary about the town’s history in which Old Jindabyne locals lament the houses that will soon be sacrificed to the Snowy River’s torrents. These sentiments sit in opposition to Manning Clark’s grand vision of the scheme as “an inspiration to all who dream dreams about Australia” (McHugh online). With a 100,000-strong workforce, mostly migrated from war-ravaged Europe, the post-war Snowy project took 25 years and was completed in 1974. Such was this engineering feat that 121 workmen “died for the dream, of turning the rivers back through the mountains, to irrigate the dry inland” (McHugh online). Jindabyne re-presents this romantic narrative of progress as nothing less than an environmental crime. The high-tension wires scar the ‘pristine’ high country and the lake haunts every aspect of the characters’ interactions, hinting at the high country’s intractability that will “not succumb to colonial ambition” (Gibson, Badland 14). Describing his critical excavation of places haunted, out-of-balance or simply badlands, Gibson explains: Rummaging in Australia's aftermath cultures, I try to re-dress the disintegration in our story-systems, in our traditional knowledge caches, our landscapes and ecologies […] recuperate scenes and collections […] torn by landgrabbing, let's say, or by accidents, or exploitation that ignores rituals of preservation and restoration (Transformations). Tourism is now the predominant focus of Lake Jindabyne and the surrounding areas but in the film, as in history, the area does not “succumb to the temptations of pictorialism” (McFarlane 10), that is, it cannot be framed solely by the picture postcard qualities that resort towns often engender and promote. Jindabyne’s sense of menace signals the transformation of the landscape that has taken place – from ‘untouched’ to country town, and from drowned old town to the relocated, damned and electrified new one. Soon after the opening of the film, a moment of fishing offers a reminder that a town once existed beneath the waters of the eerily still Lake Jindabyne. Hooking a rusty old alarm clock out of the lake, Stuart explains to Tom, his suitably puzzled young son: underneath the water is the town where all the old men sit in rocking chairs and there’s houses and shops. […] There was a night […] I heard this noise — boing, boing, boing. And it was a bell coming from under the water. ‘Cause the old church is still down there and sometimes when the water’s really low, you can see the tip of the spire. Jindabyne’s lake thus functions as “a revelation of horrors past” (Gibson Badland 2). It’s not the first time this man-made lake is filmically positioned as a place where “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson, Badland 13). Cate Shortland’s Somersault (2004) also uses Lake Jindabyne and its surrounds to create a bleak and menacing ambience that heightens young Heidi’s sense of alienation (Simpson, ‘Reconfiguring rusticity’). In Somersault, the male-dominated Jindabyne is far from welcoming for the emotionally vulnerable out-of-towner, who is threatened by her friend’s father beside the Lake, then menaced again by boys she meets at a local pub. These scenes undermine the alpine region’s touristic image, inundated in the summer with tourists coming to fish and water ski, and likewise, with snow skiers in the winter. Even away from the Lake, there is no fleeing its spectre. “The high-tension wires marching down the hillside from the hydro-station” hum to such an extent that in one scene, “reminiscent of Picnic at Hanging Rock (Peter Weir, 1975)”, a member of the fishing party is spooked (Ryan 52). This violence wrought upon the landscape contextualises the murder of the young indigenous woman, Susan, by Greg, an electrician who after murdering Susan, seems to hover in the background of several scenes of the film. Close to the opening of Jindabyne, through binoculars from his rocky ridge, Greg spots Susan’s lone car coursing along the plain; he chases her in his vehicle, and forces her to stop. Before (we are lead to assume) he drags her from the vehicle and murders her, he rants madly through her window, “It all comes down from the power station, the electricity!” That the murder/murderer is connected with the hydro-electric project is emphasised by the location scout in the film’s pre-production: We had one location in the scene where Greg dumps the body in some water and Ray [Lawrence] had his heart set on filming that next to some huge pipelines on a dam near Talbingo but Snowy Hydro didn’t […] like that negative content […] in association with their facility and […] said ‘no’ they wouldn’t let us do it.” (Jindabyne DVD extras) “Tales of murder and itinerancy in wild country are as old as the story of Cain in the killing fields of Eden” (Badlands 14). In Jindabyne we never really get to meet Greg but he is a familiar figure in Australian film and culture. Like many before him, he is the lone Road Warrior, a ubiquitous white male presence roaming the de-populated country where the road constantly produces acts of (accidental and intentional) violence (Simpson, ‘Antipodean Automobility’). And after a litany of murders in recent films such as Wolf Creek (Greg McLean, 2005) and Gone (Ringan Ledwidge, 2007) the “violence begins to seem natural” (Gibson Transformations 13) in the isolating landscape. The murderer in Jindabyne, unlike those who have migrated here as adults (the Irish Stuart and his American wife, Claire), is autochthonous in a landscape familiar with a trauma that cannot remain hidden or submerged. Contested High Country The unsinkability of Susan’s body, now an ‘indigenous murdered body’, holds further metaphorical value for resurfacing as a necessary component of aftermath culture. Such movement is not always intelligible within non-indigenous relations to country, though the men’s initial response to the body frames its drifting in terms of ascension: they question whether they have “broken her journey by tying her up”. The film reconfigures terra nullius as the ultimate badland, one that can never truly suppress continuing forms of physical, spiritual, historical and cultural engagement with country, and the alpine areas of Jindabyne and the Snowy River in particular. Lennon (14) points to “the legacy of biased recording and analysis” that “constitutes a threat to the cultural significance of Aboriginal heritage in alpine areas” (15). This significance is central to the film, prompting Lawrence to state that “mountains in any country have a spiritual quality about them […] in Aboriginal culture the highest point in the landscape is the most significant and this is the highest point of our country” (in Cordaiy 40). So whilst the Jindabyne area is contested country, it is the surfacing, upward mobility and unsinkable quality of Aboriginal memory that Brewster argues “is unsettling the past in post-invasion Australia” (in Lambert, Balayi 7). As the agent of backfill, the indigenous body (Susan) unsettles Jindabyne country by offering both evidence of immediate violence and reigniting the memory of it, before the film can find even the smallest possibility of its characters being ‘in country’. Claire illustrates her understanding of this in a conversation with her young son, as she attempts to contact the dead girls’ family. “When a bad thing happens,” she says, “we all have to do a good thing, no matter how small, alright? Otherwise the bad things, they just pile up and up and up.” Her persistent yet clumsy enactment of the cross-cultural go-between illuminates the ways “the small town community move through the terms of recent debate: shame and denial, repressed grief and paternalism” (Ryan 53). It is the movement of backfill within the aftermath: The movement of a foreign non-Aboriginal woman into Aboriginal space intertextually re-animates the processes of ‘settlement’, resolution and environmental assimilation for its still ‘unsettled’ white protagonists. […] Claire attempts an apology to the woman’s family and the Aboriginal community – in an Australia before Kevin Rudd where official apologies for the travesties of Australian/colonial history had not been forthcoming […] her movement towards reconciliation here is reflective of the ‘moral failure’ of a disconnection from Aboriginal history. (Lambert, Diasporas) The shift from dead white girl in Carver’s story to young Aboriginal woman speaks of a political focus on the ‘significance’ of the alpine region at a given moment in time. The corpse functions “as the trigger for crisis and panic in an Australia after native title, the stolen generation and the war-on-terror” (Lambert, Diasporas). The process of reconnecting with country and history must confront its ghosts if the community is to move forward. Gibson (Transformations) argues that “if we continue to close our imaginations to the aberrations and insufficiencies in our historical records. […] It’s likely we won’t dwell in the joy till we get real about the darkness.” In the post-colonial, multicultural but still divided geographies and cultures of Jindabyne, “genocidal displacement” comes face to face with the “irreconciled relation” to land “that refuses to remain half-seen […] a measure of non-indigenous failure to move from being on the land to being in country” (Ryan 52), evidenced by water harvesting in the Snowy Mountains Scheme, and the more recent crises in water and land management. Aftermath Country Haunted by historical, cultural and environmental change, Jindabyne constitutes a post-traumatic screen space. In aftermath culture, bodies and landscapes offer the “traces” (Gibson, Transformations) of “the social consequences” of a “heritage of catastrophe” that people “suffer, witness, or even perpetrate” so that “the legacy of trauma is bequeathed” (Walker i). The youth of Jindabyne are charged with traumatic heritage. The young Susan’s body predictably bears the semiotic weight of colonial atrocity and non-indigenous environmental development. Evidence of witnesses, perpetrators and sufferers is still being revealed after the corpse is taken to the town morgue, where Claire (in a culturally improper viewing) is horrified by Susan’s marks from being secured in the water by Stuart and the other men. Other young characters are likewise haunted by a past that is environmental and tragically personal. Claire and Stuart’s young son, Tom (left by his mother for a period in early infancy and the witness of his parents strained marital relations), has an intense fear of drowning. This personal/historical fear is played with by his seven year old friend, Caylin-Calandria, who expresses her own grief from the death of her young mother environmentally - by escaping into the surrounding nature at night, by dabbling in the dark arts and sacrificing small animals. The two characters “have a lot to believe in and a lot of things to express – belief in zombies and ghosts, ritual death, drowning” (Cordaiy 42). As Boris Trbic (64) observes of the film’s characters, “communal and familial harmony is closely related to their intense perceptions of the natural world and their often distorted understanding of the ways their partners, friends and children cope with the grieving process.” Hence the legacy of trauma in Jindabyne is not limited to the young but pervades a community that must deal with unresolved ecologies no longer concealed by watery artifice. Backfilling works through unsettled aspects of country by moving, however unsteadily, toward healing and reconciliation. Within the aftermath of colonialism, 9/11 and the final years of the Howard era, Jindabyne uses race and place to foreground the “fallout” of an indigenous “condemnation to invisibility” and the “long years of neglect by the state” (Ryan 52). Claire’s unrelenting need to apologise to the indigenous family and Stuart’s final admission of impropriety are key gestures in the film’s “microcosm of reconciliation” (53), when “the notion of reconciliation, if it had occupied any substantial space in the public imagination, was largely gone” (Rundell 44). Likewise, the invisibility of Aboriginal significance has specificity in the Jindabyne area – indigeneity is absent from narratives recounting the Snowy Mountains Scheme which “recruited some 60,000 Europeans,” providing “a basis for Australia’s postwar multicultural society” (Lennon 15); both ‘schemes’ evidencing some of the “unrecognised implications” of colonialism for indigenous people (Curthoys 36). The fading of Aboriginal issues from public view and political discourse in the Howard era was serviced by the then governmental focus on “practical reconciliation” (Rundell 44), and post 9/11 by “the broad brushstrokes of western coalition and domestic political compliance” (Lambert, CMC 252), with its renewed focus on border control, and increased suspicion of non-Western, non-Anglo-European difference. Aftermath culture grapples with the country’s complicated multicultural and globalised self-understanding in and beyond Howard’s Australia and Jindabyne is one of a series of texts, along with “refugee plays” and Australian 9/11 novels, “that mobilised themselves against the Howard government” (Rundell 43-44). Although the film may well be seen as a “profoundly embarrassing” display of left-liberal “emotional politics” (44-45), it is precisely these politics that foreground aftermath: local neglect and invisibility, terror without and within, suspect American leadership and shaky Australian-American relations, the return of history through marked bodies and landscapes. Aftermath country is simultaneously local and global – both the disappearance and the ‘problem’ of Aboriginality post-Mabo and post-9/11 are backfilled by the traces and fragments of a hidden country that rises to the surface. Conclusion What can be made of this place now? What can we know about its piecemeal ecology, its choppy geomorphics and scarified townscapes? […] What can we make of the documents that have been generated in response to this country? (Gibson, Transformations). Amidst the apologies and potentialities of settler-indigenous recognition, the murdering electrician Gregory is left to roam the haunted alpine wilderness in Jindabyne. His allegorical presence in the landscape means there is work to be done before this badland can truly become something more. Gibson (Badland 178) suggests country gets “called bad […] partly because the law needs the outlaw for reassuring citizens that the unruly and the unknown can be named and contained even if they cannot be annihilated.” In Jindabyne the movement from backtracking to backfilling (as a speculative and fragmental approach to the bodies and landscapes of aftermath culture) undermines the institutional framing of country that still seeks to conceal shared historical, environmental and global trauma. The haunting of Jindabyne country undoes the ‘official’ production of outlaw/negative space and its discursively good double by realising the complexity of resurfacing – electricity is everywhere and the land is “uncanny” not in the least because “the town of Jindabyne itself is the living double of the drowned original” (Ryan 53). The imaginative backfill of Jindabyne reorients a confused, purgatorial Australia toward the “small light of home” (53) – the hope of one day being “in country,” and as Gibson (Badland 3) suggests, the “remembering,” that is “something good we can do in response to the bad in our lands.” References Baird, Warwick, Brian Egloff and Rachel Lenehan. “Sharing the mountains: joint management of Australia’s alpine region with Aboriginal people.” historic environment 17.2 (2003): 32-36. Collins, Felicity and Therese Davis. Australian Cinema after Mabo. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005. Cordaiy, Hunter. “Man, Woman and Death: Ray Lawrence on Jindabyne.” Metro 149 (2006): 38-42. Curthoys, Anne. “An Uneasy Conversation: The Multicultural and the Indigenous.” Race Colour and Identity in Australia and New Zealand. Ed. John Docker and Gerhard Fischer. Sydney, UNSW P, 2000. 21-36. Gelder, Ken and Jane M. Jacobs. Uncanny Australia: Sacredness an Identity in a Postcolonial Nation. 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