Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
Arnold Hauser: Between
Marxism and Romantic Anti-Capitalism Andrew Hemingway In a well-known essay of 1974 T.J. Clark cites
two sentences from Georg Lukács’s great work History and Class Consciousness: ‘And yet, as
the really important historians of the nineteenth century such as Riegl, Dilthey and
Dvořák could not fail to notice, the essence of
history lies precisely in the changes undergone by those structural forms [Strukturformen]
which are the focal points of man’s interaction [Auseinandersetzung] with environment at any
given moment and which determine the objective nature of both his inner and outer
life.1 But this only becomes objectively
possible (and hence can only be adequately comprehended) when the individuality, the
uniqueness of an epoch or an historical figure, etc., is grounded in the character of these
structural forms, when it is discovered and
exhibited in them and through them.’ While
acknowledging that this statement proposed ‘a
difficult and fertile thesis about history… that art historians might care to contemplate
again,’ Clark used it mainly to make a contrast between the lofty intellectual stature of art
historians in the early twentieth century and
that of their British counterparts in the 1970s.2 In this essay I want to explore Lukács’s
‘difficult and fertile thesis about history’ as a way in to the art history of his sometime friend
Arnold Hauser, whose The Social History of Art has been seen as a landmark in Marxist
approaches to the discipline since its first
publication in 1951.3 In the process I will argue that Hauser’s divided loyalties between
Lukács and another early friend, Karl Mannheim, help to explain the complex weave
of Marxist and romantic anti-capitalist motifs in
his work.4
To begin with, it is necessary to say something of the figure who accompanied Riegl and
Dvořák in Lukács’s statement, namely the philosopher Wilhelm Dilthey (1833-1911),
whose ideas were hugely influential in German
language social thought in the early twentieth century. Dilthey’s lifelong project was to
complement Kant’s critique of pure reason with a critique of historical reason. In realizing
this Dilthey introduced a psychological
dimension to cognition that Kant’s system had eschewed in its critique of empiricism. For
Dilthey knowledge of the social world falls largely outside the domain of pure reason and
is grounded in the Erlebnis (lived experience)
of the subject. A complex concept, Erlebnis encompasses both inner experience and the
ways this is shaped by external circumstances; it is also constantly informed by a socio-
historical component of the mind that Dilthey called ‘acquired psychic nexus’ (erworbener seelischer Zusammenhang). In contrast to the
natural sciences, what Dilthey designated as the Geisteswissenschaften (human sciences) –
a term that covers both the social sciences and humanities – establish their truths not
through mathematical proofs, the positing of
cause and effect relationships, and the establishment of law-like regularities, but
through reflective judgments and hermeneutic procedures that are empathetic and intuitional.
While Dilthey was strongly affected by Hegel’s historicization of philosophy, he rejected the
metaphysical scheme in which Hegel framed it
and insisted that all philosophies are grounded in lived experience. In Dilthey’s conception of
history there are three recurrent types of
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
metaphysics, or Weltanschauungen, which he
designated as naturalism, the idealism of freedom, and objective idealism. None of
these has more than relative validity and they cannot be reconciled through synthesis.5
Kant’s aesthetic was central to Dilthey’s concept of historical judgment. But he was
also deeply interested in the arts, and especially in literature, to which he accorded
high cognitive status and about which he wrote extensively. His Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung – a volume of essays on Goethe,
Hölderlin, Lessing, and Novalis published in 1906 – sought to demonstrate a consistent
Weltanschauung in each author that arose out of their individual life experiences and
penetrated the form of their work. Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung made a large impact and was one of the models for the pre-Marxist
work Die Seele und die Formen (1911), which established Lukács’s reputation.6
Weltanschauung and style are the ‘structural forms’ that Lukács was referring to in the
quotation with which I opened this essay.
It was Dilthey, Lukács wrote in 1918, who had
awakened ‘my interest in cultural-historical interconnections.’7 But his positive reference to
Dilthey in History and Class Consciousness stands in stark contrast to the evaluation of him in his 1954 book The Destruction of Reason, where Dilthey’s Lebensphilosophie represents a key stage in the succession of
irrationalist philosophies that make up
‘Germany’s path to Hitler in the sphere of philosophy’, and is seen to correspond with
the needs of German imperialism under the Second Reich.8 Although Lukács conceded that
Dilthey was ‘a man of exceptional knowledge and genuine learning,’ his attempt to maintain
a suprahistorical conception of human
character while at the same time asserting the inherent relativism of philosophical systems
effectively brought him to an antinomy that he was unable to resolve.9 In Lukács’s words, ‘His
efforts led only to the achievement of a
psychological and historical typology of philosophical outlooks.’10 The denial of any
principles behind history or of any ascertainable progress within it removed all
possibility of establishing ‘real historical connections’ from this typology. Although
Dilthey sometimes acknowledged the need to
define the relations between Weltanschauungen and specific historical
circumstances, his methodology offered no
instruments for comprehending them.11
Lukács’s critique of Dilthey was not new. He had attacked the idealist tendencies in German
thought as preparing the ground for the
‘fascist counterrevolution’ twenty years before in a self-criticism of History and Class Consciousness delivered before the philosophical section of the Soviet Academy of
Sciences, and explicitly associated Dilthey with the course of reaction in a manuscript essay
on the historical origins of German fascist
philosophy written contemporaneously.12 As such, Lukács’s change of mind on Dilthey
belongs with the renunciation of his greatest work for its ‘disharmonious dualism,’ that is for
the way in which it registered ‘the objective
internal contradictions’ that marked his transition from what he called the ‘romantic
anti-capitalism’ of his ethical critique of bourgeois society in the pre-1917 period to his
embrace of Marxism in December 1918.13
Yet in fact it was partly the presence of
romantic anti-capitalist elements in History and Class Consciousness that made it such a fertile
source for the development of Western Marxism, and that both contributed to its
renaissance of key themes in Marx’s own work
occluded within the positivistic Marxism of the Second International, and at the same time
supplemented the Marxist corpus with new insights into the ideology and culture of
capitalism. Correspondingly, we may
acknowledge the rightness of Lukács’s critique of internal contradictions in Dilthey’s
philosophy without sharing his view that it played a necessary role in an ineluctable line
of descent in German thought that could only issue in fascism. At the same time we may
question whether Lukács’s distrust of the role
of intuition in Dilthey’s thought led him to put certain kinds of productive cultural analysis out
of bounds.
This brings me on to Arnold Hauser and the
role of Diltheyan motifs in his thought, motifs that I will argue were partly mediated to him
through Karl Mannheim and Max Dvořák. I will begin with Mannheim, since he has
precedence in terms of his role in Hauser’s formation and may have influenced his
reception of Dvořák’s work. Mannheim has
been described as being, with Lukács, the ‘spiritus rector’ of the Freien Hochschule für Geisteswissenschaften (Free University of the
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
Human Sciences) that emerged out of the
famous Budapest Sonntagskreis (Sunday Circle) in 1917-18 – although Lukács himself
was, Hauser recalled, its unquestioned leader from beginning to end.14 Born in 1893,
Mannheim was eight years Lukács’s junior,
and one year younger than Hauser. He and Hauser met as students at the University of
Budapest and became best friends,15 while Hauser and Lukács did not meet until 1917.16
Mannheim had studied with Simmel in Berlin and was a fervent proselytizer for the
Geisteswissenschaft school of German
sociology, on which Dilthey had such a formative influence.
At first Lukács and Mannheim were bound in a
kind of master-pupil relationship, with the
latter accepting a commission to translate Lukács’s 1911 History of Modern Drama from
Hungarian into German, although this was never realized.17 Both Mannheim and Hauser
were ardent admirers of Lukács’s Theory of the Novel, first published in 1916, a book that
its author himself later admitted was written
under the spell of the Diltheyan method.18 However, personal relations between
Mannheim and Lukács subsequently cooled and by Hauser’s account eventually
transformed into something approaching
animosity.19 Although all three were forced into exile after the Hungarian counter-
revolution of 1919, neither Hauser nor Mannheim took anything like the prominent
role Lukács played in the Council Republic, and
neither joined the Communist Party.20 In 1938 when Hauser fled Austria after the Anschluss, he went to London at Mannheim’s invitation to compile an anthology of writings on the
sociology of art, for which he was also to have written the introduction. (Mannheim had
settled in Britain after being forced out of his
professorship at the Goethe University in Frankfurt after the Nazi takeover in 1933 and
held a lectureship at the London School of Economics). According to Peter Christian Ludz,
Mannheim’s friendship gave Hauser the
courage and strength to begin his The Social History of Art in 1941. However, while
Mannheim explicitly distanced himself from Marxism, Hauser presented himself as a
nonorthodox Marxist – in that he separated Marxism as a science from Marxism as a
political practice – but as a Marxist none the
less.21
More than thirty years after the Hungarian
counter-revolution Lukács would attack Mannheim’s sociology of knowledge
(particularly as represented in his widely read 1929 book Ideologie und Utopie) as
representing, like the sociology of his
University of Heidelberg mentor and colleague Alfred Weber, the ‘defenselessness’ of German
liberal sociology in the face of the reactionary tendencies of German imperialism and
fascism.22 Symptoms of its functions in the downward drift of German thought were the
relativism of the sociology of knowledge and
Mannheim’s notion of a ‘free-floating intelligentsia’ (freischwebende Intelligenz) able
to rise above the partisanship of other social groups in the realm of ideas, as well as his
recommendation in later writings of social
planning by an elite of experts as the way of the future.23 In the early 1920s, however,
Mannheim’s thinking was still oriented to a romantic anti-capitalist project of redeeming
the fragmentation of society through philosophy and culture and he did not posit
the sociology of knowledge as a political
solution to the crisis of the bourgeois liberal state as he would in the very different
circumstances of 1929. While he subsequently placed far more stress on the social
determination of cultural production than on
its redemptive powers, in his first years of German exile Mannheim advocated a
verstehende (interpretative) approach to art and other cultural products grounded in the
principles of the Diltheyan
Geisteswissenschaften.24
The Mannheim texts I am particularly concerned with are two articles published in
1923 and 1924 respectively, that is, while their author was based at the University of
Heidelberg and Hauser was studying in Berlin.
The first of them (which may have been written even earlier) is titled ‘On the
Interpretation of Weltanschauung,’ and was published in the Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte. The second, ‘Historicism,’
was published in the Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik, the
journal edited by Edgar Jaffé, Werner Sombart, and Max Weber, in which Weber’s
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism had first appeared.25 What makes
the ‘Historicism’ essay especially pertinent in
relation to Hauser is that Mannheim takes as the paradigmatic statement of contemporary
historicism Der Historismus und seine
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
Probleme (1921) by the theologian,
philosopher and historian Ernst Troeltsch, whose lectures Hauser attended in Berlin in
the early 1920s and whose Die Sozialgeschichte der christlichen Kirchen und Gruppen (1912) he cites a number of times in
The Social History of Art.26
For Mannheim, the historicist outlook is the Weltanschauung of the age in that it ‘not only
organizes, like an invisible hand, the work of the Geisteswissenschaften, but also permeates
everyday thinking’; it is an ‘organically
developed basic pattern’ that has ‘the same universality as that of the religious
Weltanschauung of the past.’27 Like all Weltanschauungen, it not only dominates ‘our
inner reactions and our external responses,
but also determines our forms of thought.’ All of which partly means that ‘our view of life
has… become thoroughly sociological.’28 A basic consequence of this is a rejection of the
static Enlightenment conception of reason with its false claims to universality and the
replacement of epistemology by the
philosophy of history.29 However, this does not make historicism itself a transcendent truth,
since it will in turn be superseded: the ‘fact’ is that ‘sociology and all the other cultural
science must necessarily always be written
anew.’30 Truth has a dynamic character, although within a given ‘historical constellation
only one perspectivistic conclusion can be correct’ and historicism is not an absolute
relativism.31
From the perspective of historicism, ‘every
segment of the spiritual-intellectual world… [is] in a state of flux and growth.’32 It is the
role of historicist theory to establish an ‘ordering principle’ in the seeming anarchy of
this flux, that is, to identify ‘an ultimate basic
process which is the real “subject” undergoing the change.’ And this cannot be determined
merely by establishing the causal relations behind events, but only by asking what they
mean, since for Mannheim, following Dilthey,
the problems of philosophy arise out of life, in which fact and value are inextricably
interwoven.33 According to Mannheim, the decline of religion, ‘the hierarchical
determination of all the departments of life in the Middle Ages,’ led to both the dominance of
‘an historico-philosophical vision’ and the
emergence of seemingly autonomous spheres of life that have become hypostatized.
Correspondingly, historicism undertakes to
show that ‘the individual historico-cultural
spheres, in art history, in the history of religion, in sociology, etc.,’ are each ‘an
integrative part of a totality.’34 Such thinking wreaks havoc with all static categories of
reason because it assumes that content and
form are an inseparable unity, so that the model for thinking their relationship must be
that of the Gestalt and the life and growth of plants. The ‘analyzing, atomizing, isolating
tendency’ of the natural sciences, the model in which complex forms are compounded from
‘the simplest elements’ will not work since
totalities are ‘primary and irreducible.’35
Bronzino (Agnolo di Cosimo di Mariano): Portrait of a Young Man (1530s). Oil on wood, 95.6 x 74.9 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, H. O. Havemeyer Collection, Bequest of Mrs. H. O. Havemeyer, 1929 (29.100.16). Image © Metropolitan Museum of
Art.
Drawing on Troeltsch’s Der Historismus und seine Probleme (1922), Mannheim points up
the distinction between the historicism of Hegelianism (now ‘accentuated’ in the
historicist Marxisms of Lukács and Karl
Korsch)36 and that of Lebensphilosophie thinkers such as Dilthey and Simmel. Whereas
Hegel’s dialectic makes history ‘too logical,’ the irrationalist thinkers excel in ‘the intuitive
assimilation of concrete phenomena,’ which
permits them to establish ‘the subtle correlations between various manifestations of
life within the same epoch.’ But they are unable to discern any ‘meaningful evolutionary
pattern’ in history as a whole. The ‘conceptual-
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
systematic method’ of the first is best suited to
representing the ‘evolution of philosophy,’ but is not suited to the analysis of the history of
art, for example. Any ‘extreme logification does… violence’ to spheres such as ‘religion
and art, ethos and erotic,’ which are ‘actually
understandable less as systems than as “parts” of the unified psychological Gestalt of
the various epochs.’37
While Mannheim maintained (wrongly) that ‘technology or exact science…“progresses” in a
straight line and merely develops one and the
same system,’38 philosophy could be adequately comprehended only through a
quasi-Hegelian dialectic, and ‘“irrational” fields of culture’ such as art through ‘Gestalt type
concepts’ in which the key question was not
that of causality but of the relation of part to whole. The measure of adequacy in such
analysis was the degree of penetration into the object the analysis achieved, and the test
here lay in an engagement with the ‘“material” evidence.’ From such a perspective Lukács’s
History and Class Consciousness represented a
one-sided ‘elaboration of the rational dialectic method, expressed in an absolutist language,’
and Mannheim – contradicting the key claim of that work – explicitly rejected the idea that
any one class was ‘the bearer of the total
movement.’ Mannheim’s assertion that ‘the harmony of the whole can be grasped only by
taking into account the whole contrapuntal pattern of all the voices’ points towards his
essentially liberal conception of politics and the
parting of ways with his one-time mentor.39
If Mannheim’s ‘Historicism’ essay establishes the type of science to which art history
belongs, ‘On the Interpretation of Weltanschauung’ speaks more directly of the
discipline’s conceptual tools. Mannheim starts
by saying that he will not provide ‘a substantive definition’ of the concept ‘based
upon definite philosophical premises,’ since experience is resistant to theory’s categories
and ‘many things are “given” of which no clear
theoretical account can be rendered.’40 As an object of this type, the concept of
Weltanschauung ‘lies outside the province of theory,’ or at least theory understood as ‘the
methodological principles of the natural sciences.’41 This is because the ‘ultimate
object of historical knowledge… is the
historical process as a whole,’ and abstraction always tends to do violence to the ‘the
concrete experiential whole.’42 Mannheim
explicitly associates Dilthey with the
formulation of these insights and with the spread of ‘the anti-rationalist movement’ in the
Geisteswissenschaften.43 However, he also associates Weltanschaaung and the imperative
to totalize specific phenomena into a ‘global
historical scheme’ with the style researches of Riegl, which epitomize ‘the essence of the
procedure of interpretation which has no counterpart in the natural sciences – the latter
only “explain” things.’44
Theory, Mannheim argues in a fine phrase,
‘must achieve something else besides chilling the authentic experience with the cold blast of
reflection.’ In fact, the life of the mind continually oscillates between theoretical and
a-theoretical poles, and Weltanschauung belongs to the latter in that as ‘an unformed and wholly germinal entity,’ it is beyond
rationality and exceeds every cultural objectification.45 So if Weltanschauung is
defined as something ‘a-theoretical,’ the question that remains is ‘whether and how the
a-theoretical can be “translated” into theory.’46
To this question Mannheim responds by asserting that while aesthetic and religious
experiences are not formless, the types of form they take are radically different from
those of theory as such.47 Works of art may be
a-theoretical and a-logical, but they are not irrational in that they are endowed with
‘explicitly interpretable meaning.’48 They issue from a ‘submerged culture’ that is ‘meaninglike
in structure’ and which can be apprehended
through ‘intellectual intuition.’49
In a schema that anticipates Panofsky’s tripartite levels of analysis in Studies in Iconology,50 Mannheim proposes that there are three types of meaning in the ‘intentional
object’: (1) an ‘objective meaning,’ which in
the visual arts is the ‘purely visual content’ as defined by Konrad Fiedler’s notion of ‘pure
visibility’ – although since this is a meaning it is not simply optical and Mannheim does not
propose ‘some unique and universally valid
“visual universe”.’51 (2) ‘Expressive meaning,’ which comprises ‘a second stratum of meaning
superimposed, as it were’ upon the first, and arising from the specific experiences of the
individual subject.52 It is inescapably historical and has to be analyzed as such.53 (3)
‘Documentary meaning,’ which is distinguished
from ‘expressiveintentional’ meaning by the fact it is unlikely to be wholly present to our
consciousness and may indeed appear strange
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
to us. This is the Weltanschauung, the totality
that represents the ‘“genius” or “spirit”’ of an epoch,54 as it is present in the ‘“ethos” of the
subject which manifests itself in artistic creation.’55 Documentary meaning pervades
the work in its entirety and can be arrived at
through fragmentary aspects of it, since in documentary interpretation, ‘we understand
the whole from the part, and the part from the whole.’56 Such interpretations are so
‘profoundly influenced’ by the positioning of the interpreter in his or her own culture that
they must be ‘performed anew in each period.’
If, as Mannheim claimed, Weltanschauung was
a kind of ‘submerged culture which also is meaninglike in structure,’ then it was ‘located
beyond the level of cultural objectification’ and
could not be ‘conveyed by any of the cultural spheres taken in isolation.’ This left the
problem of how to develop concepts that would be applicable across the whole range of
cultural spheres, and be pertinent to ‘art as well as literature, philosophy as well as
political ideology, and so on.’57 Dilthey’s model
of Weltanschauungen was too narrowly philosophical to be of much use in the
‘elucidation of a-theoretical fields’ such as the visual arts and in any case Dilthey had
explicitly denied the validity of philosophical
models in interpreting the visual arts of the modern period.58 To Mannheim, it seemed
more promising to ‘start from art and analyze all other fields of culture in terms of concepts
derived from a study of plastic arts.’59 This
sounds today like a startling claim, but when we consider it in relation to the quotation from
Lukács with which I began, one can see that from the perspective of early twentieth-
century romantic anti-capitalism it did not appear so. As an early step in the realization
of such a method, Mannheim cites Riegl’s
‘heroic’ attempt to link the developmental stages of late Roman art to Weltanschauung in
his Die spätrömische Kunstindustrie. But he found Riegl’s exposition too logical and
theoretical, lacking in that quality of vital
intuition that linked part to whole and whole to part.60 Instead he recommended the example
of ‘“synthesizing” historians’ such as Dvořák and Max Weber, who though they were
specialists in particular fields, had ‘a strong sense of universal history which impels them
to correlate their chosen subject with the
“total constellation.”’ While Weber sought to establish the relation between ‘various cultural
fields’ in terms of ‘causality’ and ‘function’ –
and Mannheim acknowledged such
explanations had their place – he made clear that Dvořák, with his preference for
‘correspondence’ or ‘parallelism,’ practiced the kind of interpretative method that was both
distinctive of the Geisteswissenschaften and
fundamental to their truth claims.61
Earlier in the essay, Mannheim had illustrated his claim that in documentary interpretation
‘we understand the whole from the part and the part form the whole’ through Dvořák’s
argument concerning the significance of the
compositional structure in El Greco’s Burial of the Count of Orgaz (1586; Santo Tomé,
Toledo, Spain) in an article published in the same issue of the Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, where ‘an exposition of the
layer of objective meaning in the shaping of both the subject-matter and the medium is
immediately followed by a specification of the corresponding documentary meaning.’62
According to Dvořák, the disappearance in El Greco’s picture – and other works by him – of
‘the solid spacious structure, which, since
Giotto, had formed the essential basis of all pictorial representation,’ together with their
anti-naturalism and visionary qualities, were symptomatic of the artist having undergone a
spiritual crisis symptomatic of the larger
religious and theological crisis of the Reformation, one that led to ‘skepticism and
doubt as to the value of any theory of moral law based on reason, and to a keen awareness
of the limitations of man’s perception and the
relativity of knowledge.’ 63 That which found expression in mannerism was ‘not something
limited to art,’ but was rather ‘the very criterion’ of the artist’s age.64
Dvořák’s essay supported Mannheim’s thesis
that ‘to understand the spirit of an age we
must fall back on the spirit of our own,’ so that documentary interpretation must be
‘performed anew in each period.’ At several points Dvořák remarked on the similarity he
perceived between the spiritual crisis of the
fifteenth century and that of his own time – the former issuing in a revulsion against the
‘widespread spirit of materialism’ within the church and the latter in a revulsion against
capitalism.65 He concluded by suggesting that two centuries dominated by ‘the natural
sciences… mathematical thought and a
superstitious regard for causality, for technical development and the mechanization of culture’
explained the long-term neglect of El Greco.
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
Correspondingly, it was contemporary
circumstances that made possible the reappraisal of his art and of mannerism more
generally, since ‘today this materialistic culture is approaching its end.’ In both art and
literature there had been ‘a turning towards a
spirituality freed from all dependence on naturalism, a tendency similar to that of the
Middle Ages and the mannerist period.’66 Dvořák was of course referring to
Expressionism; in 1921 he wrote a foreward to a book of reproductions of Kokoschka’s work.67
* * * *
This evaluation of mannerism seems to have made an enduring impression on Hauser, who
reiterated Dvořák’s key claims in The Social History of Art, and then expanded on them at length in his 1964 book Mannerism: The Crisis of the Renaissance and the Origin of Modern Art.68 In an interview of 1973 Hauser recalled
that initially art history had been for him a history of forms and structures on the
Wölfflinian model, and that he began to
comprehend the visual arts as a historical product only through the influence of Dvořák’s
writings. In retrospect Hauser judged Dvořák ‘a thoroughly undialectical thinker,’ an art
historian who for all his sensitivity in analyses
of form and expression lacked any sense of art’s sociological grounding.69 Nonetheless, in
his 1964 book he credited Dvořák with the fundamental insight that mannerism could not
be comprehended solely as a reversion to a
medieval ‘other-worldliness,’ and that its spiritual side was interlocked with ‘the
empiricism of the new scientific age.’70 The movement thus represented a contradictory
unity – ‘a union of apparently irreconcilable opposites’ – that encompassed artists as
different as El Greco, Bruegel, and Bronzino,
and entailed conflictual stylistic elements of both ‘naturalism and formalism,’ corresponding
to the dual impulses of ‘sensuousness and transcendentalism.’71
Hauser’s fundamental claim is that ‘the spirit of modern times’ did not begin in the
Renaissance, but in the crisis or ‘break-up’ of Renaissance humanism.72 Out of the ruins left
when this ‘faith in man’ collapsed, ‘there arose the anti-humanist spirit of the Reformation, of
Machiavellism, and of the mannerist sense of
life.’73 In a kind of dialectical movement, the ‘spirit of modern times’ is like the Renaissance
(and unlike that of medieval times) in being
‘rationalist, empirical, anti-traditionalist, and
individualist,’ but is also unlike it in that ‘it tends irresistibly towards irrationalism, anti-
naturalism, traditionalism, and anti-individualism,’ leading to repeated crises.74 In
line with the conception of Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte – to borrow Dvořák’s term – Hauser posited what is essentially a
Weltanschauung that stretched across the domains of what would come to be called the
natural sciences, philosophy, religion, and politics, and encompassed equally the visual
arts, literature, and theatre. Copernicus,
Giordano Bruno, Montaigne, Luther, Machiavelli, Cervantes, Donne and
Shakespeare – the ‘first modern thinkers’75 – are as much mannerists as Pontormo,
Parmigianino, El Greco, and Tintoretto. As if
echoing Mannheim, he claimed that priority was only given to the visual arts because in no
other field can ‘the relevant historical processes be so immediately and vividly
displayed.’76
For Hauser, ‘the key to mannerism’ is
alienation. Following Werner Sombart, he dated the beginnings of capitalist economic
relations to around 1300 and presented the Renaissance as corresponding to the first
stages of the capitalist Weltanschauung.
Mannerism, by contrast, coincided with the moment at which capitalist accumulation first
became ‘perceptible’ in the sixteenth century, that is, when ‘capitalism in the real sense of
the word’ came into being. And that which
really marked out the capitalist economy was not so much changes in the structure of
economic relations as the ‘completely new outlook’ of ‘economic rationalism,’ which
superseded any respect for tradition and led to a culture in which ‘every factor in the process
of production was considered on material
grounds alone,’ quite independent of larger human concerns. Increasingly viewed solely in
terms of the abstractions of the market, the commodity’s value became divorced from the
complex tissue of human relations through
which it was produced. Not only is this a position that in its stress on rationalization is
as much indebted to Weber and Simmel as to Marx, it also renders capitalism inseparable
from Weltanschauung and ‘a much broader trend of the age towards complication and
abstraction.’ 77
Already in the sixteenth century, then, the
reification of life was so advanced that the
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
products of human action assumed an
apparent autonomy that rendered human beings dependent on their own creations, so
that ‘the self loses itself in its objectifications.’ Essentially, ‘alienation means the loss of the
wholeness or… the universal nature of man’ in
that ‘men whose world is still homogenous and undivided are not yet alienated and are still
whole.’ To face a world made up of ‘independent and autonomous cultural
phenomena’ such as the state, the economy, the sciences and art, is to experience it as a
fragmented and alienated self.78 For Hauser,
such alienation is seen ‘in its most unmistakable form’ in the portraits of
Bronzino, Salviati, or Coello, with their ‘cool, rigid, glassy expressions’ and ‘lifeless “armour-
like” masks,’ which suggest both ‘mystery’ and
‘a complete withdrawal from the world.’ Lack of concern with character representation is
matched by the care lavished on ‘incidentals,’ with the result that ‘it is impossible to feel at
home among the things of this world or to make friends with them.’79
A key register of the mannerist outlook is the representation of space. Thus, discussing how
murals by Andrea del Sarto in the courtyard of the Compagnia dello Scalzo prepared the way
for the treatment of space in Pontormo’s work,
Hauser pointed to their effect of spatial dissolution: ‘The principal figures are displaced
to one side, and unimportant subsidiary figures are excessively emphasized by
assonances or contrasts; symmetrical and axial
arrangement is disturbed by lights irregularly distributed over the whole composition; and
the main action takes place in a shallow plane right in the foreground.’ These features
combine to impart ‘an abstract, unreal, inhospitable character to space, which
becomes a medium in which men move as in
an alien world; figure and space, man and his environment, do not really belong together.’80
Hauser was clear that the space of mannerist painting cannot correspond to the infinite
space of the seventeenth century Scientific
Revolution; one must wait for the landscape space of baroque art to find an equivalent to
that. However, following Dvořák, he saw the landscapes of both Bruegel and Tintoretto as
figuring a new ‘cosmographical vision’ that ‘burst the bonds of the category of space in
classical painting.’81 In Tintoretto’s case it is
space presented ‘on a scale that surpasses ordinary experience,’ but that does not for all
that ‘overstep the limits of the human
intelligence and imagination.’82
Although Hauser presented the depersonalization of social and legal relations
and the rise of bureaucratic institutions as
causes of alienation, he posited the key to its specifically modern form of reification in
explicitly Marxist terms, as arising from the fetishism of commodities. This is truly a
Weltanschauung in that ‘the way of thinking of the whole of society was based on the
ideology of commodities.’ Alienation entered
into artistic production too, in that the middle years of the sixteenth century saw the
beginnings of the art trade and the subjection of art itself to the commodity form.
Correspondingly, it is the period that
represents ‘the birth hour’ of the modern artist.83 The new uncertainty and
contradictoriness in the realm of ideas was matched by an unprecedented degree of
uncertainty in relation to artistic style; for the first time in the history of art there was no
single artistic path ahead for artists, and the
question of choice between different styles became acutely problematical.84 This unsettled
the relationship between the individual personality of the artist and the character of
his works.85
Following Dvořák, Hauser claimed that it was
similarities between the crisis of the Renaissance and his own times that had made
the ‘rehabilitation’ of mannerism possible.
Expressionism, surrealism and abstract art permitted the qualities of earlier ‘non-
naturalistic and anti-naturalistic art’ (art that does not set out from nature but from earlier
art) to be valued.86 Indeed, modernism and mannerism share a kindred attitude to medium
in that in both ‘the instrument of expression
and the element in which the representation moves is to an extent end as well as means,
content as well as form,’ with the result that ‘all kinds of mannerist representation are in a
sense metaphorical.’87 Although Hauser made
this point more in relation to literary style than style in the visual arts, he also asserted – as
indeed the spirit of holistic analysis required – that metaphor ‘more or less performs the
function of irrational treatment of space, distorted proportions, and twisted forms in the
visual arts.’88
Particularly revealing of Hauser’s relationship
to Lukács’s pre-Marxist vision is his
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
characterization of the ‘symbolic naturalism’ of
Bruegel’s work, with which, he claimed, the history of modern art began. Bruegel’s style
‘originates in the mannerist view of life, its dualism, its dialectic, its paradoxical
combination of opposites, and involves on the
one hand the complete overthrow of the blissfully naïve faith, say, of the Homeric age
in the homogeneity of things, the meaningfulness of life, and the presence of
the gods in this world, and on the other the end of the clean and neat distinction drawn by
medieval Christianity between the true and the
false, the real and unreal. The world is no longer meaningful just because it exists, as in
Homer, and works of art are not the truer the more they depart from ordinary reality, as in
the Middle Ages. But, because of their
imperfection and inherent meaninglessness, they point towards a fuller and more
meaningful whole, which is not there for the taking, but has to be striven for.’ 89 This was
clearly written with the argument of Lukács’s Theory of the Novel in mind, but with the
difference that while shortly after the
composition of that work in 1914-15 Lukács came to the view that the fate of humanity
under the condition of modernity could be remedied – with negative implications for his
evaluation of modernist art – Hauser was less
confident about human prospects, leading him to a position that was more affirmative of
modernism’s (and mannerism’s) Weltanschauung.
At two points in the book Hauser made clear that his defense of mannerism and modernism
was directed against Lukács, something that in any case might be guessed from his long
enthusiastic analyses of Proust and Kafka.90
Thus, near the outset, he conceded that while
irrationalism in philosophy and science led to
what Lukács called ‘the destruction of reason,’ the ‘artistic intelligence’ and the ‘theoretical
intelligence’ are quite different things, so that irrationalism in the realm of philosophy and
political thought does not necessarily lead to
bad art, as ‘left wing art criticism’ too often assumed.91 In contrast to the classical model
of the work of art as a ‘synthesis’ and a whole, Hauser emphasized the fragmentary character
of the mannerist artwork: ‘In contrast to this synthesis, the objective of an anti-classical
mannerist work of art is the analysis of reality.
Its aim is not the seizure of any essence, or the condensation of the separate aspects of
reality into a compact whole; instead it aspires
to riches, multiplicity, variety, and
exquisiteness in the things to be rendered. It moves for preference on the periphery of the
area of life with which it is concerned, and not only in order to include as many original
elements as possible, but also to indicate that
the life it renders has no centre anywhere. A mannerist work is not so much a picture of
reality as a collection of contributions to such a picture.’92 As if to affront the ideologues of
Socialist Realism, in addition to treating aestheticism and surrealism as stages in a
revival of the mannerist sensibility appropriate
to the age, Hauser explicitly affirmed the formalism of mannerist art, interpreting it in a
quite different way from its realist critics, not as reflecting a ‘belief in the predominance of
form over matter,’ but as a ‘compensation, or
rather an overcompensation’ for the lack of a sense of order in the social world.93 This is not
to say that mannerism is only ‘a symptom and product of alienation… an art that has become
soulless, extroverted and shallow.’ Although there may be many works that unreflexively
manifest alienation, the artist’s sense of his
alienation could also lead to ‘the most profoundly self-revelatory creations,’ becoming
the ‘raw material’ of the work – a conclusion that points towards an Adornian rather than a
Lukácsian aesthetic.94
Despite all his efforts to connect the sixteenth
century to the present, when Hauser’s Mannerism was published in English in 1965, it
seemed a book out of time – as Francis
Haskell observed in an acerbic review.95 Seemingly unaware of much recent literature,
Hauser appeared locked in the mindset of an earlier age of German language art
historicalscholarship. Historians in the English-speaking world were becoming increasingly
skeptical of mannerism as a category; John
Sherman’s 1967 study – which made no reference to Hauser’s work – seems like the
concept’s last hurrah.96 Moreover, to read through Hauser’s endnotes to The Social History of Art or Mannerism is to be
confronted everywhere with the names of Simmel, Sombart, Troeltsch, and the Webers.
In other words, not just with Marxists but with representatives of the tradition of German
social thought whose tenor Michael Löwy has described as one of ‘resigned romanticism,’97
to characterize its simultaneous aversion to
and resignation before capitalist development. Such thinking in all its philosophical complexity
was deeply alien to British empiricist art
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
history. But Haskell was certainly correct that
Hauser’s grand generalizations needed to be tested against detailed research of individual
cases. Confident in the principle of holistic critique Mannheim had laid out in the early
1920s, Hauser had delivered a tour de force of
premature totalization.98 The immediate future of the social history of art lay not with such
grand ‘intuitive analogies between form and ideological content’ as T.J. Clark put it, but
with detailed studies of ‘the network of real complex relations’ between them and the
‘concrete transactions’ on which they rested.99
Yet despite the seeming anachronisms of
Hauser’s argument and his failure to support his claims with detailed analyses of patronage
relations or other evidence, even Haskell
acknowledged that the problems he tried to tackle ‘are amongst the most interesting and
important that can face any student of cultural history.’100 And the challenge of what Clark
called Lukács’s ‘difficult and fertile thesis’ remains for us today. If its realization seems
more difficult than ever – and vastly more
complex than Hauser imagined – that may be because the acute fragmentation of our own
world has made us too leery of totalizing critique despite the elusive truths it promises.
Andrew Hemingway is Emeritus Professor in History of Art, University College London. His
books include Landscape Imagery and Urban Culture in Early Nineteenth-Century Britain (Cambridge University Press, 1992), Artists on the Left: American Artists and the Communist Movement, 1926-1956 (Yale University Press,
2002), The Mysticism of Money: Precisionist Painting and Machine Age America (Periscope,
2013), and the edited volume Marxism and the History of Art: From William Morris to the New Left (Pluto Press, 2006).
NOTES
1. T.J. Clark, ‘The Conditions of Artistic Creation,’ Times Literary Supplement (24 May 1974): pp. 561-2; Georg Lukács, History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics, tr. Rodney Livingstone (1923; London: Merlin Press, 1971), p. 153. 2. This essay began life as a paper delivered at the Colloque international: ‘L’histoire de l’art: généalogies et enjeux d’une pratique,’ Institut national d’histoire de l’art, Paris, 11 December 2009.
3. Arnold Hauser, The Social History of Art, tr. Arnold Hauser and Stanley Godman, 2 vols. (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1951).
4. The most compendious account of romantic anti-
capitalism is Michael Löwy and Robert Sayre, Romanticism Against the Tide of Modernity, tr. Catherine Porter (Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press, 2001). 5. My presentation of Dilthey draws heavily on Rudolf A. Makkreel, Dilthey: Philosopher of Human Studies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975). For Dilthey’s conception of Weltanschauung, see Dilthey’s Philosophy of Existence: Introduction to Weltanschauungslehre, tr. William Kluback and Martin Weinbaum (New York: Bookman Associates, 1957). I have followed Makkreel’s translations of most of Dilthey’s key terms. 6. For the chapters on Goethe and Hölderlin, see Wilhelm Dilthey, Poetry and Experience, ed. Rudolf A. Makkreel and Frithjof Rodi, Selected Works, vol. 5 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), part 2. Georg Lukács, Soul and Form, tr. Anna Bostock (London: Merlin Press, 1974). 7. In the Curriculum Vitae Lukács prepared to support his bid for Habilitation at the University of Heidelberg in 1918. See Judith Marcus and Zoltán Tar (ed.), Georg Lukács: Selected Correspondence, 1902-1920 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), p. 286. 8. Georg Lukács, The Destruction of Reason, tr. Peter Palmer (1954; London: Merlin Press, 1980), pp. 4, 434. 9. Ibid., pp. 430, 432-4, 440. 10. Ibid., p. 436. 11. Ibid., p. 439. 12. Michael Löwy, George Lukács: From Romanticism to Bolshevism, tr. Patrick Camiller (London: New Left Books, 1979), pp. 169-70, 170 n.7. 13. Lukács, History and Class Consciousness, x, xiv. For Lukács and romantic anti-capitalism, see Michael Löwy, ‘Naphta or Settembrini? Lukács and Romantic Anticapitalism,’ New German Critique 42 (Fall 1987), pp. 17-31. 14. Löwy, Georg Lukács, p. 86; Arnold Hauser, Im Gespräch mit Georg Lukács (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1978), p. 54. The fullest picture of the circle is
given in Éva Karádi and Erzseébet Vezér (ed.), Georg Lukács, Karl Mannheim und der Sonntagskreis (Frankfurt a.M.: Sendler, 1985). 15. Hauser, Im Gespräch, pp. 29, 49. Although Mannheim’s published correspondence provides testimony of his warm friendships with the art historians Lajos Fülep and Charles de Tolnay (both members of the Sonntagskreis) it contains no mention of Hauser. See Selected Correspondence (1911-1946) of Karl Mannheim, Scientist, Philosopher, and Sociologist, ed. Éva Gábor (Lewiston: Edward Mellen Press, 2003). Neither does Hauser feature in the most substantial historical account of his intellectual formation: Colin Loader, The Intellectual Development of Karl Mannheim: Culture, Politics, and Planning (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). 16. Hauser, Im Gespräch, p. 112.
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
17. This is confirmed by the tone of the eight letters
from Mannheim from 1910-16 in Georg Lukács: Selected Correspondence. On Mannheim and Lukács, see David Kettler, Volker Meja, and Nico Stehr, Karl Mannheim (Chichester: Ellis Horwood Ltd., and London: Tavistock Publications Ltd., 1984), pp. 35-9. 18. Georg Lukács, The Theory of the Novel: A Historico- Philosophical Essay on the Forms of Great Epic Literature, tr. Anna Bostock (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1971), pp. 12-13. In 1887, Dilthey had described the ‘theory of the novel’ as ‘the most pressing and important task of contemporary poetics’ – Dilthey, Poetry and Experience, p. 172. Mannheim’s review of The Theory of the Novel reveals just how intellectually close he and Lukács were at this time. See From Karl Mannheim, ed. Kurt H. Wolff, second edition, introduced by Volker Meja and David Kettler (New Brunswick and London: Transaction, 1993), pp. 131-35. 19. Hauser, Im Gespräch, p. 58. For a rather different picture, see Michael Löwy, ‘Karl Mannheim and Georg Lukács. The Lost Heritage of Heretical Historicism,’ in Frank Benseler and Werner Jung (ed.), Jahrbuch der Internationalen Georg- Lukács-Gesellschaft, vol. 6 (Bielefeld: Aisthesis, 2002), pp. 61-77. Loader emphasizes their intellectual differences – see Intellectual Development, pp. 62-65, 96-101. 20. For this phase in their lives, see David Kettler, Marxismus und Kultur. Mannheim und Lukács in den ungarischen Revolutionen 1918/19 (Neuwied and Berlin: Luchterhand, 1967). 21. Hauser, Im Gespräch, pp. 37-38, 115, 14, 16. Significantly, Hauser rejected Mannheim’s notion of a free-floating intelligentsia (pp. 43-44). 22. The English edition, Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction to the Sociology of Knowledge, tr. Louis Wirth and Edward Shils (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1936), differs in important respects from original German text. See Kettler, Meja, and Stehr, Karl Mannheim, pp. 111-16; Loader, Intellectual Development, pp. 95-96. Mannheim was
a student and then Privatdozent at Heidelberg from 1922-30. 23. Lukács, Destruction, pp. 632-41. 24. For Mannheim’s intellectual trajectory in this period, see Loader, Intellectual Development, chapters 2-4. Although Mannheim presents Ideologie und Utopie as an attempt to define a science of politics, romantic and holistic themes remained central to his thinking, and correspondingly Weltanschauung continued to be part of his conceptual armoury. 25. ‘Beiträge zur Theorie der Weltanschauungs-Interpretation’ and ‘Historismus,’ to give them their German titles, in Karl Mannheim, Essays on the Sociology of Knowledge, ed. Paul Kecskemeti
(London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1952), pp. 33-83, 84-133. The German text of the former is reprinted in Karl Mannheim, Wissenssoziologie.
Auswahl aus dem Werk, ed. Kurt H. Wolff (Berlin
and Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1964), pp.91-154. 26. Mannheim, Essays, p. 97-108. For Troeltsch, see Carlo Antoni, From History to Sociology: The Transition in German Historical Thinking, tr. Hayden V. White (London: Merlin Press, 1959), chapter 2. 27. Mannheim, Essays, pp. 84, 85.
28. Ibid., pp. 84, 85. 29. Ibid., pp. 87-8, 91, 97. Cf. p. 100. 30. Ibid., p. 126. 31. Ibid., pp. 130, 104-5. My emphasis. 32. Ibid., p. 86. 33. Ibid., pp. 86, 87. 34. Ibid., pp. 94, 95. 35. Ibid., pp. 91-2, 95-6. 36. Ibid., p. 106 n.2. 37. Ibid., pp. 106, 107, 109. 111. 38. Ibid., pp. 116-17. 39. Ibid., pp. 121, 122-23, 124, 125. 40. Ibid., pp. 33, 39. 41. Ibid., pp. 36, 37. 42. Ibid., pp. 34, 36. 43. Ibid., p. 38. 44. Ibid., p. 36. 45. Ibid., pp. 40, 41, 42. 46. Ibid., pp. 38, 39. 47. Ibid., p. 39. 48. Ibid., p. 41. 49. Ibid., pp. 66, 67. 50. Erwin Panofsky, ‘Introductory,’ in Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (1939; New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1962), pp. 3-31. Mannheim refers to Panofsky’s writings twice in the essay – Mannheim, Essays, pp. 58 n.1, 73, n.1. For the interplay of Panofsky and Mannheim, see Joan Hart, ‘Erwin Panofsky and Karl Mannheim: A Dialogue on Interpretation’, Critical Inquiry 19, no.3 (Spring 1993), pp. 534-66. 51. Ibid., pp. 43, 51. 52. Ibid., pp. 46-47. 53. Ibid., pp. 49-50. 54. Ibid., p. 48. 55. Ibid., pp. 55, 56, 58. 56. Ibid., p. 74. Dilthey was profoundly influenced by the hermeneutics of Friedrich Schleiermacher – on whom much of his early scholarly work focused – but advocated a more open and less deterministic theory. See Makkreel, Dilthey, pp. 255-72. 57. Mannheim, Essays, pp. 66, 74. 58. Dilthey, Poetry and Experience, p. 5. On the attempt of his student Herman Nohl to correlate pictorial styles with Weltanschauungen, see Makkreel, Dilthey, pp. 410-12. 59. Mannheim, Essays, pp. 75, 76. 60. Ibid., pp. 76-80. 61. Ibid., pp. 80-82. 62. Ibid., p. 56 n.1. Mannheim refers to the lecture ‘Über Greco und den Manierismus’, published in the Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, vol. 1 (XV), 1921/22, and reprinted in a revised form in Dvořák’s Kunstgeschichte als Geistesgeschichte (Munich: R. Piper and Co., 1924), pp. 261-76. See Max Dvořák, The History of Art as the History of Ideas, tr. John Hardy (London: Routledge and
Text copyright Andrew Hemingway. First published in Enclave Review, Autumn 2014, pp. 6-10.
Kegan Paul, 1984), chapter 6. For Dvořák, see
Matthew Rampley’s fine article ‘Max Dvořák: Art History and the Crisis of Modernity,’ Art History 26, no.2 (April 2003), pp. 214-37. 63. Dvořák, History of Art, pp. 98, 99. 64. Ibid., p. 104. 65. Ibid., pp. 103, 104. 66. Ibid., p. 108. 67. ‘Vorwort’, in Oskar Kokoschka: Variationen über ein Thema (Vienna: Richard Lányi, 1921). On the perceived affinity between Expressionism and Gothic, see Magdalena Bushart, Der Geist der Gotik und die expressionistische Kunst, Kunstgeschichte und Kunsttheorie 1911-1925 (Munich: Verlag Silke Schreiber, 1990). 68. Arnold Hauser, Die Manierismus. Der Krise der Renaissance und der Ursprung der modernen Kunst (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1964); Mannerism: The Crisis of the Renaissance and the Origin of Modern Art, tr. Eric Mosbacher (1965; Cambridge, Mass., and London: Harvard University Press, 1986). 69. Hauser, Im Gespräch, p. 35. 70. Hauser, Mannerism, p. 16. 71. Ibid., pp. 12, 17. 72. Ibid., p. 31. 73. Ibid., pp. 7, 8. 74. Ibid., p. 33. 75. Ibid., p. 36. 76. Ibid., pp. xvliii-xix. 77. Ibid., p. 55-56.
78. Ibid., pp. 95-96. See also pp. 105-08, 108.
79. Ibid., p. 114. Cf. pp. 119-200. 80. Ibid, p. 189. 81. Ibid., pp. 230, 51. 82. Ibid., p. 230. 83. Ibid., p. 102. 84. Ibid., pp. 23-4, 28. 85. Ibid., p. 33. 86. Ibid., pp. 3-4, 29, 40. 87. Ibid., pp. 286, 291. 88. Ibid., p. 291. 89. Ibid., pp. 245-6. Cf. p. 295. 90. Lukács acknowledged the greatness of both authors, but argued that their vision of contemporary society was partial and limited. See Georg Lukács, The Meaning of Contemporary Realism, tr. John and Necke Mander (London: Merlin, 1963). 91. Hauser, Mannerism, pp. 15-16. 92. Ibid., p. 25. 93. Ibid., p. 27. 94. Ibid., p. 111. 95. Francis Haskell, ‘Generalisations,’ Encounter, vol. 25, no. 1 (July 1965), pp. 78-82. 96. John Sherman, Mannerism (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1967). 97. Löwy, Georg Lukács, pp. 30-49. 98. Ironically, Hauser acknowledged the dangers of this – Mannerism, p. 108. 99. T.J. Clark, Image of the People: Gustave Courbet and the 1848 Revolution (London: Thames and Hudson, 1973), pp. 10, 12. 100. Haskell, ‘Generalisations,’ p. 80
El Greco (Doménikos Theotokópoulos): The Burial of the Count of Orgaz
(1586). Oil on canvas, 460 cm × 360 cm. Church of Santa Tomé, Toledo.