One of the most exciting aspects of classical studies is the perpetual ingenuity of scholars when it comes to finding new things to say about well-studied texts and objects. This slim yet ambitious volume is one such recent example. Julia C. Fischer’s Power and propaganda in the large imperial cameos of the early Roman empire is the first study to examine five famous ancient carved gemstones as a group. Her argument is threefold. First, she argues that these five cameos are a referential group, i.e., they are related to one another in terms of their iconography because the patrons of these objects were familiar with the earlier ones. Second, Fischer argues that when taken chronologically, these cameos are illustrative of the four stages in the “life cycle” of iconography, as theorized by Göran Hermerén (p. 11), and should be seen as important evidence for the development of Roman imperial iconography in general.[1] Finally, Fischer takes a feminist perspective and argues that the patrons of all five cameos were imperial women, a point which would explain why the art form waned with the end of the Julio-Claudian dynasty (because the Flavian dynasty did not include any comparably powerful women).
Fischer is most convincing when arguing points one and two, which this reviewer sees as her main scholarly contribution. The third point, while plausible and perhaps even likely, rests entirely on conjecture. Nevertheless, Fischer seems confident in attributing each cameo to a specific Julio-Claudian woman, although we will never know exactly who commissioned objects like the Gemma Augustea and Grand Camée de France, aside from the almost certain assumption that they were imperial commissions. That being said, Power and Propaganda is certainly an interesting read.
The study unfolds over eight chapters. Chapter 1 serves as an introduction, offering a useful overview of what to expect over the course of the next seven chapters as well as relevant background information on gem-carving, Roman imperial iconography, and some of the criteria and terms used in the book, including “propaganda.” Fischer acknowledges the pejorative meaning of this word in modern English (pp. 9-11), and for that reason, perhaps another word like “rhetoric” would better convey the idea of subtle persuasion that seems to be Fischer’s intent in using it.[2]
The structure of the next six chapters, each of which is focused on one specific object, follows a more or less consistent pattern. First, Fischer gives some historical background on the circumstances under which each object was presumably created, followed by what we know of its provenance (which is often not much). Then follows a description of all the figures represented in each of these visually complex objects. Next, Fischer elucidates the specific symbols and iconography used and their meanings, although some of her iconographic readings feel as if they are not fleshed out enough and are sometimes stated too authoritatively when the iconography is, in fact, ambiguous (as much of Roman iconography is). Finally, each chapter concludes with an argument on where the object fits into the life cycle of iconography and who its patron was.
Chapter 2 examines the silver Aquileia Dish. Fischer justifies its inclusion in her study because, she argues, it was the inspiration for the Tazza Farnese, the subject of Chapter 3. It is therefore a sort of proto-example of an imperial cameo because this dish served as a testing ground for some of the symbols and ideas that would later become solidified in Roman imperial iconography via the later cameos. This object’s patron, Fischer argues, was none other than Cleopatra, who commissioned it as part of the “propaganda wars” between Mark Antony and Octavian in the years leading up to the Battle of Actium in 31 BCE. Although the central figure does bear a resemblance to numismatic portraits of Mark Antony, as previous scholars have noted (p. 30), this attribution does not rest on firm ground. The dish could have just as easily been commissioned by any other Roman or Alexandrian aristocrat around the same time.
The justification for the inclusion of the Aquileia dish in Fischer’s study becomes clearer in her discussion of the Tazza Farnese. The date and origin of this object have always been controversial, with most scholars historically favoring Hellenistic Alexandria as the context of its creation. A minority of scholars, including Dorothy Burr Thompson and John Pollini, believe it was created under Roman patronage in the years after Actium, an assumption which Fischer follows.[3] Indeed, Fischer is most convincing when arguing this point (pp. 53-55). Her subsequent argument that the dish was commissioned by Livia specifically, and that Livia was directly inspired by the Aquileia Dish because she had personally laid eyes on it, is less so. Fischer concludes that the Aquileia Dish and Tazza Farnese belong to “stage one” of the life cycle of iconography, when “an iconographic symbol is first used, and its underlying meaning is beginning to be understood” (p. 11). At this stage, the iconography is not yet distinctly “Roman,” and artists and patrons are instead testing out Egyptian and Greek motifs in the service of Roman imperial ideals. In the context of the years surrounding the Battle of Actium, when Augustan art was in its formative state, this argument is sound.
Chapter 4 examines the Gemma Augustea, which Fischer argues represents stage two, when iconography is in its mature state and is generally understood by viewers. Likely dating from the last years of Augustus’ life, the Gemma certainly does seem to represent a mature and easily legible imperial iconography, now with distinctly Roman symbols. Fischer explains why the Gemma is generally thought to commemorate the victories of Tiberius in Germany (celebrated with a triumph in 7 BCE) or, more likely, his victories in Illyricum (celebrated in 12 CE). Implausible, however, is Fischer’s suggestion that the missing figure in the top left corner, cut off with only his hand and shoe remaining, could represent Drusus the Elder, Tiberius’ younger brother. Throughout this chapter, Fischer argues that the Gemma was created by Livia to persuade Augustus to choose her son as his successor. However, Fischer errs in writing as if Drusus were still a possible successor, when in fact he died in 9 BCE, before either of the proposed dates of the gem’s creation. Also, towards the end of Augustus’ principate, he likely did not need much convincing: Tiberius was truly the only mature and competent man left standing. Thus, Fischer’s arguments about patronage and intent are less convincing.
Chapter 5 explores the Tiberian Grand Camée de France, a notoriously difficult object to interpret beyond the more or less certain identification of five of the figures. Fischer’s interpretations of this object rest on the work of Luca Giuliani, who largely follows Dietrich Boschung.[4] In this chapter, too much space is dedicated to summarizing theories that are generally not accepted today; Fischer herself does not follow them either. But Fischer’s argument that this object represents stage three of the life cycle of iconography, when “the iconographic tradition is well-known and established and becomes more varied and complex” (p. 11), is difficult to refute, as is her point that the patron of the Grand Camée certainly seems to have been familiar with the Gemma Augustea and purposefully references the earlier object. There is the possibility, of course, that the unknown maker of the Grand Camée had some agency in the design of the object and was also familiar with the Gemma, but Fischer is mostly concerned with patronage as it relates to her feminist theory. Fischer, following Giuliani, argues that the Grand Camée’s patron was Agrippina the Elder, who gave it to Tiberius to convince him to choose one of her three sons as his successor.
The subject of Chapter 6 is a well-known fragment in the Kunsthistorisches Museum (Vienna) of what was likely once a much larger imperial cameo, featuring two figures: Caligula and the goddess Roma.[5] Based on the relatively large size of these figures and the evidence that the fragment was cut (rather than possessing its original edge), it seems plausible that this object was once part of a larger, multi-figure composition like the Gemma or the Grand Camée. What is less plausible is the complex “reconstruction” Fischer gives for this cameo, including specific figures that would have been included, which is based entirely on conjecture. According to Fischer, the object’s patron would have been Agrippina the Younger, who was trying to convince Caligula to choose her son Nero as his successor.
Chapter 7 is focused on the Gemma Claudia, whose patron, according to Fischer, was again Agrippina the Younger. Fischer follows the widely accepted identifications of the four figures represented. Her main argument is that the Gemma Claudia represents the final stage in the life cycle of iconography, when large imperial cameos were becoming a dying art form. In this stage, “symbols begin to wane, lose popularity and potency, and eventually die out” (p. 11). In this chapter, it sometimes seems as if Fischer is forcing the Gemma Claudia into her pre-conceived argument. Can one really say that cameos became a “dying art form” under Claudius, or is the seeming decline of large cameos after the Julio-Claudian period a case of survivorship bias? As evidence of her theory, Fischer points to the simplicity of the Gemma Claudia as compared to the earlier ones, as well as its smaller number of figures. Fischer herself admits that this aspect might be better explained by the gem’s smaller size: “This could have been because this was the largest piece of sardonyx available” (p. 153). This statement seems most logical, and in general, the book would be stronger if Fischer addressed more of these possible counterarguments throughout her study. The most compelling part of this chapter is its conclusion, in which Fischer argues that iconographic aspects of imperial cameos, such as the mixing of deities and humans, later surfaced in public reliefs under the Flavians. Private art thus served as a testing ground for imperial iconography.
Chapter 8, which serves as a brief epilogue, examines four cameos which either date to the fourth century or could have been recut in the fourth century from earlier cameos: the Belgrade Cameo, the Rothschild Cameo, the Ada Cameo, and the Hague Cameo. While Fischer discusses various scholarly theories surrounding the dates of these more controversial cameos, she seems to think they are all fourth century, but further discussion of why she places them in that century, and not earlier, would be useful.
The book is visually appealing and well-illustrated. Unfortunately, it is not free from typos, grammatical errors, and factual errors (e.g., “1950s and 1960s” when it seems clear that the 50s and 60s CE are intended, p. 156). The prose is repetitive, beyond what would be considered reasonable “signposting.” The same sentence is even repeated on pgs. 128 and 131, which seems to be an editorial oversight. The author relies too heavily on the quotation of secondary sources when the quotations themselves do not add much that is compelling. Finally, more direct citations of ancient literary and historical sources in the endnotes (which come after each chapter) would have been helpful.
Although Fischer’s ambitions in Power and Propaganda are laudable, it is a bit disappointing that her feminist approach does not seem to go much beyond seeing the cameos’ patrons as women (an argument with which this reviewer hesitates to wholeheartedly agree, see above). Moreover, in this reviewer’s opinion, it is difficult to argue for an entire “life cycle of iconography,” a theory that would have a large impact on the study of Augustan and Julio-Claudian imperial art, in a study that focuses mostly on only five fairly unique objects. However, the book is certainly not without its merits and will primarily be of use to students and scholars in classical art history.
Notes
[1] See Göran Hermerén, Representation and Meaning in the Visual Arts: A Study in the Methodology of Iconography and Iconology (Stockholm: Läromedelsförlagen, 1969).
[2] See John Pollini, From Republic to Empire: Rhetoric, Religion, and Power in the Visual Culture of Ancient Rome (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2012), 3-4.
[3] Dorothy Burr Thompson, “The Tazza Farnese Reconsidered,” in Das ptolemäische Ägypten, ed. H. Maehler and V. Strocka (Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1978), 112-22; John Pollini, “Tazza Farnese: Augusto Imperatore ‘Redeunt Saturnia Regna!’” American Journal of Archaeology 96 (1992): 283-300.
[4] Luca Giuliani, Ein Geschenk für den Kaiser: Das Geheimnis des großen Cameo (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2010); Dietrich Boschung, Die Bildnisse des Caligula, Das römische Herrscherbild 4 (Berlin: Gebrüder Mann Verlag, 1989).
[5] Antikensammlung, Inv. No. IXa 59.