Egyptian Art

Insofar as ancient Egyptian art is intended to present recognizable subjects and abstract meaning in the same moment, then the characteristic treatment of the human figure in two dimensions is exemplary. Perhaps nothing is so characteristic of pharaonic art as the ‘walk-like-an-Egyptian’ pose adopted by most human figures. That said, the mere fact that their pose can be lampooned indicates how close to the reality of the human form it must be, else the pose could not be mimicked. Nonetheless, the affectation of the ancient figures is apparent, not least through the peculiar manner in which they look over their shoulders, and such peculiarity can easily be ascribed to limited technical ability or even a lack of understanding of human anatomy on the part of the artists. On the other hand, we would have to set such conclusions against the Egyptians’ commitment to retaining this peculiar treatment across dozens of centuries. So, to make sense of their commitment, let us begin within our own culture using a familiar portrait.

Hans Holbein’s portrait of Henry VIII with his father is a study for a lost mural in the Palace at Whitehall [59]. Henry’s physical presence is as blatant as it is huge. He seems elegant and powerful – not merely big – because the shapely legs and slender face contrast with his bulky torso. Looking more closely, though, where do his arms disappear to beneath the heavy robes? How long must they be to reach his shoulders? To put this another way, how unfeasibly broad must his shoulders be to meet his arms? Is his waist at the level of his right hand and belt, as the codpiece suggests? If so, how short is his torso in relation to his legs? How long is his neck, and is it really so thickset as it seems beneath the beard? Does the top of his head really slope in line with the hat? On another matter, what precisely is his grim-faced father standing on and why? More to the point, if Henry is king, how is his dead father in the portrait at all?

These are genuine questions about the portrait but they are not especially troublesome. After all, the composition is plausible: recognizably human, attractive, acceptable to the eye even in the moment when it defies our expectations or our analysis and asks us to consider what we are actually looking at. If the implausible aspects of the composition point to a meaning deeper than a simple likeness of two men named Henry, we may well recognize a portrait of a king in legitimate descent from his father, who in turn is receding into the background – perhaps even ascending to heaven. Likewise, we may recognize the portrait as an expression of Henry’s power and authority stated in physical as well as abstract terms, so that ultimately his massive ‘torso’ is no more than an artistic conceit inferred from the two-dimensional elements, which are all the artist has actually drawn. The physical body we infer (we cannot actually see his torso) befits the power of a man on whom hangs the voluminous regalia of authority. The fact that aspects of the scene are impossible does not indicate that nothing here is true, only that what is seen immediately may not be the real subject of the composition. For example, Henry might well have been a hefty man in real life, but this one scene alone would not be sufficient evidence of that. The scene is not re-creating his actual body as such: it is speaking in the abstract about authority and who rightfully holds it.

Analogous reasoning can be found in the portrait of a 6th Dynasty Egyptian, Ty. As with Holbein, the style is plausible and acceptable to the eye, and Ty is immediately recognizable as a fellow human being. Moreover, a great deal of information is available to us in the first viewing. A youthful man of some dignity or stature sits at a table, and an analogous man stands in a separate register. The hieroglyphic texts tell us that both pictures show the same man, Ty, and that the table is filled with offerings. In each scene Ty wears the collar, wig and fine kilt of an Egyptian nobleman, and in the lower scene he also carries a staff (as a blatant statement of power) and a sceptre (as a symbol of legitimate authority). Otherwise, in both registers we see his body, naked and exhibiting the hallmarks of the ancient Egyptian treatment of the human form. It is this treatment of his body that does not stand close scrutiny as a depiction of what appears to the eye, but it is no less ‘real’ as a consequence. For example, his shoulders are shown from the front but his stomach and hips are in profile – his navel is visible at one side – so the form of his torso has to develop as a triangle from a slender (profile) waist to broad (frontal) shoulders. The result is unnatural but wholly attractive: after all, how desirable are broad shoulders and a trim waist in a ‘real’ man to this day? So the scenes are talking in the abstract about the ‘real’ Ty, rather more than they are ‘showing him’ as our eyes would comprehend him.

In fact, almost all of Ty’s body is shown in profile, whereas the shoulders need to be shown from the front in order to be able to ‘suspend’ a pair of arms on the figure, rather than just one as would be the result were his shoulders in profile. This discrepancy between the view of the shoulders compared with the other elements of the body is essentially what creates the familiar ‘walk-like-an-Egyptian’ pose. On the other hand, why are the other parts of the body shown in profile? Because Ty’s body has been assembled as a composite, and the artist is maintaining a single, distinctive view for each element of the body, avoiding unclear, overlapping or distorted forms. More often than not, the ‘distinctive’ view means the view of each body part in profile (or in outline, as we may say). So, there is no unified viewpoint for the body as a whole because this would introduce the visual distortion of perspective.

An ostracon (a rough flake of stone) presumably from Deir el-Medina has been decorated with various preliminary studies. For one, the artist has drawn a standing figure on the left, using exactly the same compositional technique as in the standing figure of Ty [61]. However, the hand holding the staff is ‘the other way round’ from Ty’s, and looks as though it were drawn on backwards, until we realize that in two dimensions a figure only has hands, but neither right and left nor near and far hands. The hand here is simply ‘grasping’ a staff (which, in turn, is budding as a lotus) because this is the entirety of the meaningful role the hand plays in the composition. Above the standing figure is the head of a god, Ptah, shown in profile, while on the right is a column of hieroglyphs, which in pictorial terms is simply a sequence of things, each shown in a distinctive, unambiguous profile. Lastly, however, the centre of the ostracon is occupied by the study of a wooden box-shrine, used for housing a statue of a god, and the box is undoubtedly shown from the front, precisely because this is the most distinctive and recognizable view. From above or in profile the box would be no more than an indeterminate rectangle. Nonetheless, in this one study alone it is apparent that the artist’s powers of observation are hardly deficient. Exceptional detail is involved in copying the carvings above the doors and rendering the doors themselves with a simple but effective reed-work (or bead-work?) pattern. The large standing figure has also been sketched (twice, facing both left and right) into the carving above the doors. So, whatever reasons the ancient artists might have had for rejecting a single, unified viewpoint in treating the human form, the explanation is certainly not that their eyes, minds or hands were defective or inferior compared with our own.

Because the human figure in pharaonic art is a composite, sometimes obvious indications of how the composites were put together are still preserved. For example, the female figure in the tomb of Sarenput II has been drawn on a grid of squares, something like the copying grids in modern children’s drawing books [62, 63]. Using the grid as a guide, the artist has assembled her figure as discussed above, so the shoulders are shown from the front and everything else seems to be in profile. Although her navel is not visible, notice how the profile of her torso results in the appearance of a single breast, as though beneath her armpit. There is a further discrepancy: the dress is shown frontally, so there are straps across both shoulders but neither covers her breast, so the top edge of the dress has been dropped below her breast to avoid highlighting this odd profile. Likewise, the woman has two feet, one shown as though looking across the toes, the other with the profile of the inside foot – only the big toe and arch shown. However, in ‘real-world’ terms the feet seem to be on the wrong legs (the ‘near’ foot on the ‘far’ leg). Again, what matters is that there are two feet, not that they correspond to any specific ‘real-world’ view and, of course, there cannot be ‘near’ and ‘far’ in two dimensions. Finally, we may notice one of the prominent characteristics of human figures in pharaonic art: the head is shown in profile but the eye is shown from the front, and seems to stretch from the bridge of the nose to the temple. Again, as in the treatment of Ty’s torso above, the ‘oversized’ eye is both unnatural and wholly attractive. In fact, the unnaturally large eye is not disguised but accentuated with eyeliner to create a specific shape, which also happens to be the shape of a hieroglyph used to write the word ‘beauty’. (Today, when anyone tries to look ‘ancient Egyptian’ they are likely to start with kohl around the eyes, though the characteristic ‘Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra’ appearance is more a function of art than a typical feature of life.)

As we noted above, different grids were used as standard in certain periods, most conspicuously during a short-lived revision of art during the Amarna Period, to which we will return in Chapter 12. More importantly, from the 7th century BC the standard grid of squares was adjusted from eighteen rows, baseline to hairline, to become twenty-one rows from the baseline to the top of the eye. On the other hand, a limestone ostracon in the Louvre dating to this period shows the top of the knee at line 7 and the rear elbow at 14, so the canonical proportions remain essentially the same as they were in earlier periods [66]. However, in this grid, which remained in use until Roman times, the upper leg tends to be relatively longer (to line 11 of 21 rather than line 9 of 18) so the torso is typically ‘compressed’ in later pharaonic art.

In wall-painting the grid was typically applied in red before the actual figures were drawn freehand in black [63], though [62] illustrates the opposite practice. Not uncommonly superimposed lines survive to indicate corrections made by an overseer. Allied to the experienced eye of a single overseer, a canon of proportions would tend to generate consistency overall even within a monumental scene. A canon also allowed the ‘crews’ of artists to collaborate over large areas by developing co-ordinated guidelines or grids in predetermined spaces. In the tomb of Suemniut, the artist or artists have begun three smaller registers behind the principal figure, but not by extending the grid used for the principal [70]. Instead, the artists have divided the height of the principal figure into three parts, apparently by eye, and drawn baselines for three registers accordingly. Then guidelines drawn parallel to the baselines – but not separate grid squares – mark the lines of the knees, shoulders and top of the head, to establish the proportions of the minor figures. Because the lines have been plotted freely, there are inconsistencies between the registers in terms of how the figures have eventually been sketched (for example, the figure in the upper register does not even reach the guideline for the top of the head). Likewise, the hypothetical grid in [67] does not seem to extend to the smaller figure, whose height relative to the seated figure seems to have been determined by eye. In other words, grids may be a useful organizing device but they were not used slavishly in every aspect of a composition, and the artists using them were generally skilled and experienced at their business.

Once the scenes were sketched in and corrected, wherever relief work was required the artists used pounders and drills to cut the figures in sunk relief, or wear down and smooth the background to release the figures for raised relief, which was the more delicate medium preferred for interiors [6]. Thereafter details were modelled with bronze chisels. In decorating walls and columns cut from the living rock, Egyptian sandstone and especially limestone was soft and friable as often as not, so a layer of plaster was frequently applied and modelled as necessary. Likewise, mistakes were often ‘fluked’ by recarving or replastering, so where the plaster layer is now lost a scene may be entirely confusing to modern eyes. A skim of fine gypsum plaster would be the final preparation for the arrival of the painters.

At Ramose’s party each couple has been separated out, which creates the impression they are seated in rows, at least if we analyse the scene [72]. (At first glance, there is simply a large gathering of people.) The artist has also created the same improbable ‘six-legged’ chairs to suggest a single seat for each. The married couples are shown embracing, though the two men at the back of the scene overlap more conspicuously, partly because there is no embrace here to illustrate and partly because their bodies have the same gender, so the form of one may be deduced directly from that of the other. (Our expectation has to be that a human body in pharaonic art will adopt a standard, composite form, so one man obscured by his companion will probably have the same body form.) Specific information about who each figure may be is given only in the accompanying hieroglyphic inscriptions. Otherwise, the illustrations conform to expectations and the pictorial information is not specific to individuals. For each pair, one member holds a bouquet of lotuses, a plant whose daily flowering in ponds is a specific symbol of rebirth in pharaonic tombs, but the rest of the ‘real-world’ information in the composition is an illustration of subjects such as togetherness, beauty and love – which in itself is no mean testament.

On the other hand, parties and get-togethers are often the best examples we have – in the formal, sacred setting of most pharaonic art – that artists were not necessarily bound by such conventions as a canon of proportions or standard composite figures. For example, the parade of figures from the tomb of Ramose is immediately recognizable in Nebamun’s party scene too, but here the vignette of musicians and dancers has a different character [73]. The faces and bodies of two musicians are shown from the front, while dancers beside them bend and twist in genuine profile in front of a rack of wine jars ‘labelled’ as such with grapes and garlanded with more lotuses. The dancers adopt dynamic forms – twisting away from the upright, while one kicks a foot up off the baseline – though they are scaled to maintain eye contact with the seated musicians. The musicians’ braids also ‘dance’ conspicuously as their heads bob out of the upright and their pleated dresses sway.

In a well-known scene from the tomb of Rekhmira, a serving girl has her back turned fully towards us as she leans to pour drinks for the more formal figures [74]. As she does so her braids fall across her face and either side of her shoulders, creating depth for her torso and avoiding the static ‘over-the-shoulder’ pose characteristic of more formal figures. Her eye, though treated in the standard fashion, now glances from behind the braids and, as she pours the alcohol, she is ‘speaking’ the knowing words, ‘for your spirit – have the perfect day’. About her there is an obvious eroticism, her bare bottom visible through the sheath ‘dress’ – which is no doubt the usual artistic conceit – emphasized by a slender belt that has settled on her waist. We scarcely notice how the composite arrangement of her feet threatens to trip her up. However, we may recall the ‘same’ serving girl pouring drinks at Nebamun’s party, breaking up the formal parade of men and women, adding a hint of licence and intoxication to the walls of a chamber of death. In these two scenes different artists have allowed themselves to manipulate attractive human forms to create dynamic and engaging poses and add alluring overtones, which are all the more powerful for how they contrast with our expectations of pharaonic art (see also Chapter 14).

Masterpiece
Nebamun with his wife and daughter capturing water-fowl

77 Fishing and fowling scene from the tomb chapel of Nebamun. West Thebes. Painted plaster. 0.98 m (3 ft 3 in.) high. 18th Dynasty.

The scene of Nebamun with his wife and daughter capturing water-fowl in the marshes has been among the treasures of the British Museum since the mid-19th century. Originally, the scene had a counterpart showing Nebamun spearing fish, like the composition in the tomb of Sabni [56]. As in the previous Masterpiece, showing Sennedjem and Iyneferti ploughing, there is a beautiful – not to say captivating – aspect to the scene. Handsome young people, elegant clothing, a vivid landscape, exotic birds and butterflies, inflated, gawping fish and a playful cat are all irresistible in their own ways. The birds’ naturalistic plumage is detailed, vibrant and downy; the cat’s soft fur is dappled and sleek, his eye sparkling with gold leaf; and the artist has been able to render the fish under water with sharp, glassy colours. However, the reeds are so stark and impressionistic as to prefigure a modern graphic design, and – as with the scene of Sennedjem – there are other conceits that guide us away from the initial, literal interpretation of the scene towards a deeper meaning.

The man is dressed for the marshes in little more than his finest linen kilt, banded collar and beaded bracelets, as well as a wig whose bead-tipped braids exemplify the fashion of the late 18th Dynasty. His wife is drawn so small that her scale seems unlikely to represent their relative heights in life. More to the point, his wife’s clothing is ridiculously inappropriate for hunting, and most resembles the clothing of the ladies at Ramose’s party (see p. 120). Her pleated dress is so fine it barely conceals her body, while the conical daub of unguent on her head, suffused with the textures of the dress and hairband, tells us that she is perfumed. The fashionable details of her wig and hairband do not disguise an obvious comparison with the appearance of the lady Nofret, 1,000 years earlier [50]. She also holds a bunch of lotuses, and her daughter reaches out to grasp the lotuses flowering in the marsh with one hand, while the other grasps her father. If the daughter’s scale suggests an infant, her physical form is that of a small adult, which is typical in the treatment of children.

If, once again, we allow ourselves to be guided away from the obvious by such inconsistencies, we see that Nebamun’s pose is analogous to that of king Narmer [9], and he assumes the same dynamic line from his striking hand to the birds he has captured. While the birds round him seem to create a flurry of movement, in fact all is calm. The bottom of the papyrus boat has been fitted with an improbable wooden ‘plank’ to serve as the horizontal baseline, though the boat otherwise has a curved profile. The movement in Nebamun himself is implicit, his feet fixed on the baseline with only an ankle raised, while the birds in his grasp seem to glide in formation. The birds ahead of him are perching on the reeds. Only the golden-eyed cat seems genuinely active, disembowelling birds in front of Nebamun in the same way that the falcon disembowels enemies in the marshes in front of Narmer. Even the throw-stick in Nebamun’s striking hand turns out on close inspection to be a conceit – a snake. We may be certain that Egyptian officials did not really throw snakes at birds, so what does this conceit mean? Perhaps it evokes the uraeus-cobra on the brow of each king? However, formally the snake seems more likely to be a specific hieroglyph [16], perhaps here spelling the word ‘time’. If such an interpretation seems fanciful, then note the caption behind Nebamun, which tells us that he is ‘enjoying seeing the perfect place from the position of an eternity of life happy and without sadness’. So, the hieroglyphs do spell out the spiritual meaning of the scene, the deeper meaning urged on us by so many inconsistencies in any literal interpretation of a scene in which a family is simply hunting for birds.

78 Detail of [77] showing a cat snatching water-fowl from the marshes.