EARLY CHRISTIAN FUNERARY RITUAL
Walking along the Via Latina, at the corner of Via Cesare Baronio in the southwest corner of Rome, one would never know that just a few feet below street level are some of the most striking frescoes of pagan and early Christian funerary art. Nor is there any visible street signage to let the passerby know they are walking over roughly 400 of Rome’s early Christian and pagan residents, now deceased and buried below. In early July 2012, I met with Evelino Zinobile, who is a ninth-generation fossor, or grave digger. After introductions, Evelino began to dismantle what looked like an ordinary manhole, in the shape of a large rectangle, revealing a series of steep steps that led down into the Via Latina catacomb. The catacomb is not a large catacomb in comparison to some of Rome’s others, such as Callixtus, which stretches up to 20 kilometers and has four levels; in contrast, one could easily walk the Via Latina Catacomb from one end to the other in under ten minutes. What the Via Latina catacomb lacks in size, however, it more than makes up for in its frescoes, as it is one of the most densely and elaborately painted catacombs in Rome. Indeed, the beauty, quality, and sheer number of frescoes engulf the viewer. Its small size and intimacy aids in bringing the viewer into the images, rather than creating a distant, detached feeling, reminiscent of large art museums. This intimacy is further enhanced by the frescoes being in situ, coupled with minimal use of wall space for loculi, or small rectangle niches dug out of the wall’s tufa used by Rome’s innumerable poor, a feature more commonly found in the larger catacombs. Rather, the artists who painted the Via Latina decorated a vast area of the catacomb.
One of the main objectives, if not the main objective, of participants during annual funerary rituals is to memorialize the deceased. As a result, this chapter is concerned with how funerary rituals function in prompting memory of the deceased. In particular, I am concerned with the archeological features and visual images found in Rome’s catacombs. These features and images are intriguing but their function is difficult to interpret. I estimate that by considering the ritual use of the space, we gain an interpretive key for understanding their significance. Catacomb images function in commemorative ritual as mnemonic devices not only in the meaning in the material signs which cultivate remembrance, but also in the participants during the ritualized act of remembering when the community comes together during the annual commemorate festivals (Assman 2012, 38).
This chapter is a case study of a particular archeological site: the fresco of the Samaritan woman (hereafter SW) and a tondo portrait painted immediately above it in the arch in cubiculum F, found in the Via Latina catacomb in Rome (ca. 315–375). A picture of the frescoes is available at the following site – International Catacomb Society, “Via Latina Catacomb,” http://www.catacombsociety.org/free-tour-of-the-via-latina-catacombs-on-sunday-march-20-2016/. The Via Latina catacomb provides an excellent point from which to examine how images function in a group context and with ritualized activity to promote the memory and social identity of the deceased person. The fresco of the SW with Jesus at Jacob’s well (see John 4) is painted in cubiculum F, in the lunette (half-circle shaped back wall) of the arcosolium (arched recess). In her left hand, the SW holds a rope, which has an amphora at the end. At the same time, she points to Jesus with her right hand, a gesture that indicates speech (Zanker 1995, 268–69). Her gaze, along with her stance, both of which point towards Jesus, signifies the act of speech. A young, beardless Jesus is wearing a tunic, cloak, and sandals and stands facing the woman on the opposite side of the well. His gaze falls directly on the SW, while his left hand holds the folds of his cloak, with his right arm held out in the fashion of speech. Above them and in the center of the arch is a large tondo portrait of a woman, with her head tilted towards the left, allowing her gaze to fall directly on the SW. The direction and clarity of her eyes indicates to the viewer that she too is engaged in the dialogue between Jesus and the SW.
The above two factors – group context and ritualized activity – are important since the images, the ritual, and the group combine to generate and perpetuate meaning. In order to understand this particular site, we need to review not only Roman funerary practices but also the significance and influence of material culture such as Roman portraits. How these two frescoes interact with one another must also be considered in light of the Gospel of John 4:1–42, as it is likely the patron knew of the SW only from the gospel account, where she read it for herself or heard it read in a liturgical setting (see later in this chapter). I argue for the strong plausibility that the patron, whom I call Vilantia – following Nicola Denzey (2007, 25) – not only consciously chose the image of the SW, but also had herself portrayed in a tondo portrait in her burial chamber, and in doing so defined her own social identity and communal memory. The tondo evokes ancestor masks typical in elite Roman households. By appropriating the use of these masks in the form of a tondo, the deceased Vilantia situates herself in dialogue with both the SW and Jesus through the tondo’s gaze, which is directed at them. This relationship raises questions about the patron Vilantia’s significance to her community. If she was a community teacher and leader, why did she choose the SW to articulate these activities? What was her self-perception?
In contemporary society, most people reveal the bare minimum of information on their graves. In life, they often shun the idea of discussing death. Usually dying and death are isolated from family, managed by medical specialists and professional undertakers. In antiquity, however, the omnipresence of death made it culturally immediate and as a result an integral aspect of the Roman experience; high mortality rates meant that death was often up close and personal. Since death and dying were such common and public events, the way a person died was included in the list of items in summarizing the person’s character as well as how they were to be remembered (Hope 2007, 39–40).
Not only was dying a good death considered to be important, but equally significant was the design and place of the deceased’s tomb. Unlike modern society, in the Roman world people discussed their deaths: they specified how they wanted to be buried, what their tomb would look like, and who would take care of it and them (Petronius, Satyricon 71; Augustine, Conf. 9.11–12; Jerome, Epist. 108.28–30). They also told us about their lives on their graves: what they did, who betrayed them, where they were from, and how they wanted to be remembered. The divulging of their lives could be done by etching words onto gravestones, carving reliefs on sarcophagi, or painting frescoes on tombs. This information was not intended for the dead but for the living, so that the deceased might not be forgotten.
The function of memory, how and why people remember, is very important in commemorative funerary ritual. Indeed, the main function of funerary festivals is to recall the dead. There has been a surge in recent years on the discussion of memory which I will not reiterate here (Cubitt 2007; Connerton 1989; Jones 2007; Hope and Huskinson 2011). Rather, my discussion on memory will focus primarily on memory as an embodied experience and the function of artifacts as mnemonic aids.
Memory is more than the ability to simply recall stored information, and it is now more commonly understood as an embodied experience. That is, memory is an active process in which our interaction with the “world builds up an understanding of relationships between the past, present and future” (Graham 2011, 26). Embodied memory is shaped through our sensory experience, since it is through our senses that we negotiate our position within the world. This is particularly relevant when there is interaction between people and material objects such as artifacts, tombs, and paintings. According to Andrew Jones, it is material objects which form the “ground for humans to experience memory” (2007, 22). For Jones, material culture reveals the past through the existence of objects, as well as through the sensory experience of them, providing a framework for remembrance. More specifically, it is social practices such as funerary festivals, in which objects (frescoes) are utilized to provide a framework for how “remembrance is socially experienced” (Jones 2007, 22, 225). This is important for understanding the role of tombs and frescoes in the promotion of memory in ancient Rome. How a person died, how they were commemorated, how they were mourned, and (particularly of interest for this paper) how they were remembered were integral to the Roman experience.
Archeological evidence such as tombs and grave goods functioned as a visual eulogy for the deceased, drawing attention to their achievements during their life, highlighting their value, social status, identity, and beliefs. Frescoes, often commissioned by the deceased or their families, underscored the deceased’s achievements, and expressed their values, beliefs, tastes, and social identity. During annual funerary festivals such as the Parentalia or the Lemuria, family and friends would visit the grave of the deceased. During these visits, the frescoes that decorated the catacomb walls were viewed. The images acted as mnemonic devices, intended to promote the deceased’s memory and identity. This is a significant issue for funerary rituals, since as noted earlier in this chapter one of the main functions of these rituals was to ensure the dead were not forgotten. Images or frescoes that were commissioned for tombs and catacombs assisted in preserving the memory of the dead. This memorialization was not possible without the annual funerary festivals in which the living would gaze upon the frescoes, and thus recall the deceased.
Jones is especially interested in how aspects of time affect memory. According to him, it is through temporal distance that material culture not only represents the past, but more importantly objects index past activities of production, construction, and wear. His concern is how individuals access this information or past events; that is, how are these events remembered? It is through our senses that we understand objects as indices of past actions, of past memories, which would suggest, according to Jones, that objects do not simply render the past in physical form but rather “evoke remembrance” of past events, occasioning the act of memory (Jones 2007, 24–25). Indeed, Jones argues that remembrance should be understood as a “dialogical encounter between the experiencing person and the artifact” (Jones 2007, 25–26). This dialogue is expressed through the material object’s indices, which enable people to remember. This aspect of memory and its function is significant when looking at the fresco of the SW in Via Latina catacomb, as it is through visual art that memory of the deceased is recalled during the ritualized act of looking and remembering.
Memory also involves highly stylized performative acts such as the weekly Eucharistic meal performed at Sunday Mass, a ritual which promotes the memory of the passion of Jesus. On the one hand, memory at its core is individualistic, as each person will experience both objects and events differently, even if those events, for example, are experienced collectively. On the other hand, memory is at the same time collective in that all reference to memory is negotiated within a larger social framework. Rafael Rodriguez has examined the phenomena of memory and how it functions in individuals belonging to groups or cultures: what motivates people to remember, the resources that aid in recalling such as rites, and the context in which the act of remembering takes place (2010, 41–80). Like Cubitt, Rodriguez (citing Maurice Halbwachs) argues that it is in societies that people recall, understand, and situate their memories (2010, 42). Although the act of memory happens to the individual, the formation or understanding of the memory is shaped and defined within the individual’s community. As Rodriguez notes, this is not simply a symbiotic relationship between the individual and society; rather, all remembering takes place within a social context, with its social materials, and in response to its social cues. This is the case even if individuals remember alone, since our ability to recall and understand these memories happens with “social materials, within social contexts, […] in response to social cues … [and] with reference to our social identities” (Rodriguez 2010, 42, quoting Olick 2006, 11).
Memory in the Roman world was very important. People from all levels of society commemorated their dead, whether they crudely recorded the names of their loved ones on a slab which covered their resting place, placed more elaborate images of the deceased worked in gold leaf and fixed into the plaster of the loculus, or decorated entire rooms. Memorializing the dead was important to all. One way in which the dead were memorialized was through annual commemorative funerary rituals. In antiquity, people in the Roman world held that the dead were always present in some way and had some sort of influence on the living. But, as Valerie Hope points out, it is often unclear exactly where the dead were thought to reside or how their influence was felt (2009, 98). Franz Cumont argues that the dead were thought to continue to be a presence at the tomb and often retained all the “needs and feelings which were previously theirs” (1959, 47; see Hopkins 1983, 23). In fact, a belief existed that the dead received nourishment from the food and drink that was poured down to them through pipes or holes (Toynbee 1971, 51; Jensen 2008, 114). The dead received this nourishment during the annual festivals, when family and friends would gather at the tomb to commemorate the departed with a funerary meal or refrigerium (funerary picnic). An inscription found at one of the tombs in Rome, for example, states the hope that the deceased would “come in good health to the funeral feast and enjoy themselves along with everyone else” (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 6.26554; cited in Hopkins 1983, 233).
Unlike Christianity, which developed a clear doctrine of death and the afterlife, not all pagans agreed on what happened after the body died. Writing in 45 bce, Cicero comments on the diverse nature of death:
We must first then consider what death, which seems to be a thing well known to everyone, is in itself. Some consider death the separation of the soul from the body; some think there is no such separation, but that the soul and body perish together and the soul is annihilated with the body. Of those who think that there is a separation of the soul some hold that it is at once dispersed in space, others that it survives a long time, others that it survives forever.
(Tusculan Disputations 1.9.18 [King, Loeb Classical Library])
Regardless of the wide speculation over the nature of death, the dead were to be honored and remembered, whether they were pagans or Christians. Indeed, it is significant to note that although Christians had a more defined understanding of what happened after death, they continued to practice some of the funerary customs of pagan Romans, such as the conclamatio (calling out the deceased’s name) and the funerary meal, such as the annual Parentalia (Rebillard 2003, 129). Ausonius of Bordeaux, a professed Christian, Roman poet, and tutor to the future emperor Gratian in 364 ce, wrote a poem about the Parentalia by the same name. In his dirge, Ausonius’ grief is expressed in the memorial words for his dead relatives, suggesting that for him the Parentalia remains a time for honoring the deceased and less a time for drunken delights. As Éric Rebillard points out, however, not all early Christian theologians, such as John Chrysostom, thought Christians should practice traditional mourning (2003, 132, 143). Tertullian, writing in the third century, is also often cited as proof that Christians did not participate in funerary banquets (De Spectaculis, 13.3–4), yet despite the censure of these notables, such practices evidently continued among Christians. In the fourth century, Augustine expresses his disapproval at their continued practice:
Rioting and drunkenness were considered so permissible and tolerable that they are practiced not only on holy days, when the blessed martyrs are honoured, — a lamentable sight to anyone who looks on such festivities with more than a carnal eye, — but even on any and every day.
(Letter 22.3 [LCL, Baxter])
That Christians continued to practice established, conventional funerary rituals well into the late fourth century is important for my argument, as Vilantia was buried in a mixed catacomb constructed in the mid-fourth century. This catacomb contains burial places for both pagans and Christians, along with pagan and Christian iconography. It is reasonable to argue that with such a mixture of images, visitors to the catacomb continued to participate in long-established Roman funerary rituals. Moreover, it is unclear what authority the church had at this time with regard to the Via Latina catacomb. We know that in the early third century Pope Zepherynus (195–217 ce) appointed Callistus, the future pope of Rome, to oversee burial operations, presumably over the catacomb which bears his name, the San Callisto (Nicolai, Bisconti, and Mazzoleni 2002, 13; Mancinelli 1981, 21). Antonio Ferrua, however, questions whether the church had any authority over the Via Latina, because of the catacomb’s diversity with regard to pagan images, e.g., Cleopatra or Hercules placed alongside Jesus and Paul. Ferrua claims that no ecclesiastic body would have permitted such a mixed repertoire of images (1960, 90). Rebillard agrees that the church had little or no role in the Via Latina catacomb but dismisses Ferrua’s claim, stating that the Via Latina and other mixed catacombs simply “escaped ecclesiastical control,” and are primarily evidence for pagans and Christians using the same catacombs (2003, 34).
Although there has been an increased interest in the area of ritual studies, when searching through the many books on early Roman death and memory one is hard pressed to find a definition of ritual. This not to say that ritual is absent from scholarly discussions, but rather the term is often used without a definition (see Morris 1992, 8). Hal Taussig provides a more developed statement of Roman era ritual, citing scholars such Bell, Smith, Bourdieu, Turner, and Douglas (Taussig 2009, 55–85). The opposite is true for anthropological studies, where there are many and sometimes competing definitions. In fact, trying to wade through the plethora of scholarly debates on ritual can be a daunting task, as no two scholars seem to agree on one definition. This problem is so pervasive that scholars such as Ronald Grimes or Bruce Kapferer note that coming to a precise definition of ritual is a lost cause (Kapferer 2005, 36; Grimes 2014, 186). Pascal Boyer writes with regard to the theory of religious ritual: “I do not propose to give a new ‘theory of religious ritual’; indeed, one of the main points of the argument is that there is no unified set of phenomena that could be the object of such a theory” (1994, 185). As a result, a proper definition of ritual and its function is not an easy task, as the term is often broadly employed and frequently left unclear in its usage.
Catherine Bell in her analysis does not attempt to provide a new theory of ritual, nor does she attempt to define ritual as a universal idea, since it exists within a highly structured environment and is given meaning through social agents who construct the environment, thus making it difficult to universalize. Rather, Bell provides a new framework in which to consider ritual’s usage. Rather than use the term “ritual,” she suggests we use the term “ritualization,” a process which allows for ordinary activities to be differentiated and contrasted to similar ritualized activities. She argues:
Semiologically speaking, just as a sign or text derives its significance by virtue of its relationship to other signs and texts, basic to ritualization is the inherent significance it derives from its interplay and contrast with other practices. From this viewpoint, there would be little content to any attempt to generate a cross-cultural or universal meaning to ritual. Likewise, this view suggests that the significance of ritual behavior lies not in being an entirely separate way of acting, but in how such activities constitute themselves as different and in contrast to other activities. … Acting ritually is first and foremost a matter of nuanced contrasts and the evocation of strategic, value-laden distinction.
(1992, 90)
An example cited by Bell is the distinction between the ordinary act of eating bread and that of eating Christian Eucharistic bread. For Bell, ritualization is a product of differentiation and the production of ritualized acts; that is, the act of ritualization sets apart certain mundane activities, and this act in turn has the ability to establish and contrast such activities as being more important or powerful than usual (Bell 1992, 90, 140). Moreover, ritualization and its significance for “social agents” is shaped by its environment, by the space in which it is enacted:
Ritualizing schemes invoke a series of privileged oppositions that, when acted in space and time through a series of movements, gestures, and sounds, effectively structure and nuance an environment. … This environment, constructed and reconstructed by the actions of the social agents within it, provides an experience of the objective reality of the embodied subjective schemes that created it.
(Bell 1992, 140)
Bell’s use of ritualization is important for interpreting Roman funerary meals, which are similar to that of the ordinary meal consumed at the domus, yet are eaten at the tomb (refrigerium) during the Parentalia; likewise with commemorative art, such as frescos found in catacombs, which function within the ritualized meal to promote the memory of the deceased.
In her analysis of ritual, Mary Douglas notes how external symbols affect the brain and body, “functioning as a mnemonic action of rites.” For example, an actor may intellectually know how to interpret his or her part but is unable to produce the desired action. When a prop is given to the actor, however, the symbol enables him or her to give a flawless performance (Douglas 2002, 78–79). This is significant. As Barry Stevenson points out, ritual is shaped not only within itself, as with the case cited above, but also by texts and other media, such as visual media (2015, 80–81). Douglas’ claim is, therefore, meaningful for my argument, as it is the fresco of the Samaritan woman that facilitates memorialization, and that process happens through the ritualization of this image during commemorative meals. The ritualized interaction with the image occurs as the mourners visit the tomb and gaze upon the fresco. This prompts the viewers to remember the deceased, associating her memory with the image of the SW from the gospel narrative.
In his search for a definition of ritual, Ronald Grimes characterizes ritual as embodied, condensed, and prescribed enactment, which works well for my argument. For Grimes, ritual is embodied since it is not simply a mental act, but involves both the mind and the body. It is condensed; that is, it is not every day ordinary behavior, but is “extraordinary” behavior that is “packed tightly” with meaning. It is prescribed in that there are right and wrong ways to perform rituals. Lastly, ritual is enacted such that it requires a special type of action, separate and distinct from ordinary action. Although it involves contrived activity, it is not to be mistaken for pretend such as the theatre, but is understood as somehow being real or true (Grimes 2014, 195–96).
Following Barry Stevenson and Ronald Grimes, who caution that a perfect and precise definition of ritual is fleeting at best, I define ritual as a type of communication expressed in action, which may be understood as a discourse that is verbal or nonverbal (Grimes 2014, 190; Stephenson 2015, 8). It requires a physical doing or participation in a repetitive activity that involves gestures, acts, and utterances, often embedded in rules and regulations, and it may or may not be rooted in religious activity. Ritual by this definition is situated in special places and during specific times, and often involves qualified people (Grimes 2014, 190, 194; Stephenson 2015, 8). This is a useful definition for my case study since my focus on ritual activity takes place at the tomb, and while there is no explicit set of actions for the participants during the funerary meals, there are particular established modes of action for remembering the dead, such as the offering of libations and gazing at images which represent the dead.
Rituals are also defined as a “means of sociocultural integration, appropriation, or transformation” (Bell 1992, 16), which raises the question of the function of ritual in regard to ritual participants, and more specifically how ritual influences the viewers when interpreting the fresco of the SW and how this image promotes the deceased’s social identity. The work of Coleman Baker is useful for my study, as he examines the way in which narratives shape social identity and social memory. This is of particular interest not only when it is applied to the narrative of the Gospel of John, specifically 4:1–42, but to the fresco of the Samaritan woman and Jesus, as both forms of communication, text and image, would have promoted social memory and identity. Baker builds on the work of Paul Ricoeur, who maintains that the narrative shapes the identity of reader/hearer, which is acquired via a threefold process: (1) prefiguration, which involves the readers/hearers bringing their own experiences and understanding to the text; (2) configuration, which allows for the author’s construction of the text as well as the readers’/hearers’ interaction within the narrative world of the text; and (3) refiguration, which brings together the world of the text and the world of the readers. The final process not only reinforces previous identity and memory but may also provide the occasion to reform or even create new identity as the readers/hearers assimilate the information acquired in the configuration process (Baker 2014, 105–106, 117–118).
As mentioned earlier in this chapter, the deceased (Vilantia) possibly knew of the SW through the Gospel of John, whether she read it for herself or heard it read aloud in a liturgical setting. Regardless of how Vilantia came to be aware of it, the narrative of the SW must have resonated with her on some cognitive level, such that she commissioned the painting of the SW for her tomb. Narrative theory is especially helpful to consider, as it draws attention to the relationship between the characters in the text and the audience, whether they are readers or hearers, “through interaction and revision” (Baker 2014, 114). This relationship is best expressed through Wolfgang Iser’s argument that reading/hearing a text is not a one-way process, but that in fact it is a dynamic and interactive process between the text and reader (Iser 1978, 107, 152). The reader/hearer does not passively receive information from the text but is actively engaged in the production of meaning. Indeed, the reader/hearer “interacts with the text by anticipating and revising its expectations/opinions and filling in the gaps in the narrative,” a relationship which in turn, as Ricouer has argued, facilitates the shaping of identity (see Baker 2014, 114). Moreover, narrative identity remains in flux, as it is constructed and reconstructed between the readers/hearers, “whose present identity has been constructed by [their] social memory, and the text, which reinforces previous identity and memory or seeks to counter and reform identity and memory” (Baker 2014, 115). This is also the case for historical narratives such as the gospels, which reflect group identity as well as connect individuals to the group (Baker 2014, 115). This is noteworthy for Vilantia, whose knowledge of the SW, as I mentioned above, would have been through the text of John. As such, the gospel narrative – specifically John 4:1–42 and the role of the SW – conceivably shaped her social identity and memory. When reading the gospel account, it is possible that the SW functioned as the prototype for Vilantia and her community, such that the SW exemplified the community and its ideals.
The fresco of the SW not only created an identity for the deceased, but also functioned in creating a larger group identity. Baker’s argument proves fruitful when examining how group identity is formulated and, in some cases, sustained. Significant to his argument are what social identity theorists (SIT) call prototypes, or leaders of recategorization. Citing Eliot R. Smith and Michael A. Zarate, Baker notes that a
group’s prototype can be a representation of a person[s] that embodies the identity of the group, though the prototype does not necessarily have to be an actual or current member of the group but rather an ideal image of the group’s character.
(Baker 2014, 109)
Aspects of group cohesion and identity are also examined by Steven Muir. In Muir’s analysis of group identity, the group identifies itself as a “distinct collective” by recognizing “some commonalties or similarities among themselves” (Muir 2014, 431–32), similarities that may well include a recognized prototype. Nor should the prototype be understood as a fixed character that group members are meant to imitate, but rather the prototype should be understood as being fluid or in flux, as later generations may reinterpret the prototype according to the group’s current needs. For Baker, this raises questions regarding the role of social memory in the process of recategorization, such that the previous group’s prototype must be “remembered and commemorated in meaningful ways for their prototypical status to remain effective” (Baker 2014, 109).
Following Jan Assman, Baker notes that social memory theory has two phases: first is communicative memory and is characterized by direct one-on-one circulation, often with eyewitnesses, a phase that can only last a few generations. The second phase takes place as the group distances itself over time from the original memories and is characterized by cultural memory; that is, the limitations of communicative memory forces the community to recreate the past through texts, images, and rituals which reinforce the society’s identity or self-image (Baker 2014, 110). If we apply these notions to the Via Latina fresco, it is possible that the SW functioned as a prototype for Vilantia and her community. The deceased may have been the community’s leader or teacher, or she may have had a significant missionary role in their community, fostering a larger collective identity.
Visual aids such as Roman portraits, more specifically funerary portraits, may also contribute to the shaping of memory and identity. The commissioning of portraits was not limited to the élite in society, such as emperors and the aristocracy, who had portraits of themselves erected in public areas such as fora and theatres (Zanker 1990). Those from the lower echelons also kept portraits in their homes or tombs. Often it was freedmen and freedwomen who wished to visually express their newly found social status on their tombs, emphasizing their upward mobility, success in business, intellectual interests, or wealth (Fejfer 2008, 110; Kampen 1993, 116). One well-known example comes from Pompeii, where a man and his wife who owned one of the local bakeries commissioned a portrait of themselves to be displayed in one of the reception spaces, room g, directly opposite corridor m, which leads from the bakery. The street entrance to the couples’ private dwelling is at number 6, entering into a large vestibule (a) which then opens into the atrium (b). The bakery is entered through number 3 and consists of rooms a through s. According to John Clarke, rather than positioning the portrait facing entrance a, which leads into their house, the shop owners purposefully chose room g so that those visiting the bakery would see the portrait (Clarke 2003, 261–62). Clarke also argues that this portrait is unusual, in that many portraits that are preserved from antiquity are sculptures, and those paintings that do exist are often idealized and depict only a few, if any, individual traits. This makes the Pompeian example even more remarkable as its subjects are shown in a realistic manner, gazing at the viewer in order to draw them into the image (2003, 262). Indeed, the couple depicted in the painting bear close resemblance to mummy portraits found in Roman Egypt, which are known for their realistic and sometimes haunting depictions of the patrons. In this Pompeian painting, both the man and the woman possess tools of literacy and learning: the wife holds a stylus and wax tablet used for writing and her husband a scroll, which may emphasize idealized values rather than any actual real literary skills. Regardless, the observer sees them as they wished to be remembered.
Most portraits served the function of honoring the lives of the living, their virtues, achievements, and benefactions; provided permanent votive memorials in sanctuaries; and conveyed power and authority (Stewart 2008, 77–78). The significance of portraits and the emotions they evoke is attested in the novel Callirhoe, in which Callirhoe laments her capture by slaves:
As she beat her breast with her fist, she saw on her ring the image of Chaereas, and kissing it, she said, “Chaereas, now I am truly lost to you, separated by so vast a sea. You are repenting in grief as you sit by the empty tomb, bearing witness to my chastity after my death, while I, the daughter of Hermocrates, your wife, have today been sold to a master!” So she lamented, and it was long before sleep finally came.
(Chariton, Callirhoe 1.14 [Goold, LCL])
Portraits, however, do not function only as a visual representation of the achievements and virtues of the person portrayed – in the example above Chaereas, the sitter – but also are a reminder for the viewer of the person depicted, such as the situation of Callirhoe whose portrait of Chaereas reminded her of his absence. Portraits, whether they are engraved on a ring, painted on a wall, or depict the living or the dead, all have the potential to embody meaning and evoke memory, to, as Elsner aptly puts it, “replace their subjects when the sitter is absent” (1998, 97; see Hope, 2011, 176–195). But the ubiquity of portraits in Roman art also suggests that they functioned as a means to establish and maintain identity throughout the Roman Empire (D’Ambra 1998, 93).
The funerary context attests to one the most abundant settings for Roman portraits; they are frequently found at tombs. These line the main streets leading in and out of Rome, Ostia, and Pompeii, as well as underground in the catacombs scattered around Rome, and could take the form of statues, busts, paintings and even engraved rings.
The earliest literary evidence of portraits being displayed in the Roman domus (household) is from the late third or early second century bce, and these texts usually describe them as being ancestral masks or imagines mairorum (Fejfer 2008, 90). Harriet Flower notes that the earliest Roman author to mention the imagines was Plautus in his Amphitryo (458–9), written around 190 bce (Flower 1996, 33, 46). In its technical usage, imagines mairorum refers to Roman wax portraits of male ancestors that were displayed in wooden cupboards (armaria) in the atrium of the Roman house and worn by actors in aristocratic funerary processions to evoke the deceased among the living (Flower 1996, 32, 37; Hope 2009, 74–77). Aristocratic funerals were often large, elaborate public events in which hired actors wore the masks of the deceased during procession (pompa). According to Polybius, the actors were expected to impersonate their subjects, and as such these masks were similar to those worn in the theatre, having eye holes and allowing the actor to breathe (Flower 1996, 37). For those who had little money, the funeral procession would have been modest and quick. Limited finances would have made hired mourners and musicians unaffordable (Hope 2009, 76).
It is important to note that imagines maiorum were wax masks or portraits made during the life of the person, and “had no role to play in cult or commemoration of the dead at the tomb” (Flower 1996, 2). This is not to say that imagines had no role in the formation of memory; indeed, they had an integral role in recalling the lives and deeds of deceased members of aristocratic families. Moreover, the imagines maiorum only represented those men who held at least the office of aedile, Roman magistrates who were responsible for maintaining city infrastructure such as roads and public buildings as well as maintaining public order. Since women could not hold public office, they could not be represented by the imagines (Flower 1996, 2). The masks were, therefore, primarily socio-political in their use and were only tangentially related to any beliefs about the afterlife. For example, Flower notes that when actors wore the masks during the funeral procession and for the eulogy, it was to politicize the event; that is, they were used to recall the individual’s life, deeds, and qualities, memorializing their service to the state (Flower 1996, 2, 11).
Yet, Flower also shows that the technical term imago was not a fixed term in the Roman art world and could be applied to paintings, gems, reliefs, busts, and shield portraits. It could also depict an exact likeness of the deceased or function as a reflection (Flower 1996, 33–35). For Plautus, the imago can mean both an exact likeness (Amphitryo 120–144), or it may refer to a portrait of a soldier on a ring: “For this reason the soldier has left a token here, his picture pressed into wax from his ring, so that the pimp would send me away together with the man who brought here a token similar to that one” (Pseud. 55 [De Melo, LCL]). Another example is found in the Casa del Menandro at Pompeii, where four busts of ancestors, most likely made from wood, were found at the back of the peristyle garden (Flower 1996, 42). Flower objects to Clarke’s claim (1991, 192–93) that these busts were “actual imagines.” Moreover, she points out that these busts should not be understood in the original sense of the meaning of imagines because they were not kept in the atrium and were associated with a family cult, which was not linked with imagines (Flower 1996, 43). This is not to say that the busts did not represent the ancestors; indeed, Flower notes that while they may not be actual imagines maiorum, they could “represent the … distant but famous ancestors of the owner of the house” (Flower 1996, 44).
In fact, it was not uncommon for freedmen and freedwomen to show funerary portraits of themselves in cupboards, mimicking the imagines maiorum. One example, an extant grave relief, depicts the portrait of a freedman and freedwoman in cupboards with open doors, acting as pseudo-imagines. As Flower remarks, these portraits are not true imagines but busts of the deceased, particularly since the portrait on the right is of a woman (Flower 1996, 7). Although the wax masks lost their significance during the early Roman Empire, alternative portraits such as busts began to appear in the funerary repertoire (Toynbee, 1971, 48; Fejfer 2008, 90). This was a concern for Pliny the Elder, who complained “the painting of portraits, used to transmit through the ages extremely correct likenesses of persons, has entirely gone out. Bronze shields are now set up as monuments with a design in silver, with only a faint difference between the figures” (Nat. 35.4 [Rackham, LCL]). Tondo portraits of mythical busts found in the atrium of the Villa of Poppea may have been one such instance which triggered Pliny’s criticism.
Outside of Rome, the Tomb of the Three Brothers in Palmyra (possibly painted around 160–191 ce) depicts nine tondo portraits of either male or female busts each supported by a Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory. Fejfer argues that the Palmyra tondo portraits were possible imitations of clipeatae imagines, “which were associated with the old-fashioned public honours in Rome” and that of the Roman emperor with the figure of Victoria (Fejfer 2008, 156). These portraits bear a striking resemblance to the portrait of the deceased, a young girl, in the Via Latina catacomb in cubiculum O. The Palmyra tomb, moreover, has decorative features similar to those found in the Via Latina catacomb (cubiculum N) and in the mausoleum of Santa Costanza in Rome.
The numerous extant portraits, whether they be on rings, shield portraits, or frescoes found on funerary monuments, attest not only to the significance of portraits for maintaining identity and social status, but also to the variety of ways that Romans utilized portraiture; that is, the imagines were not static but a dynamic medium used for remembering the living and the dead. The variety of portraits, furthermore, supports my reading of the fresco of the SW and its relationship to the tondo portrait of a woman painted immediately above it on the arch. The patron’s relationship to the SW is expressed through the tondo portrait, which evokes the ancestor masks used by elite Roman families. The tondo is not intended to be a direct likeness, since as mentioned earlier in this chapter the imago was a fluid term in Roman art, but rather is meant to evoke the presence of the deceased. By appropriating the use of these masks in the form of a tondo, the patron situates herself directly in dialogue with the SW through the tondo’s gaze.
The function of the gaze in artworks was important for those participants who honored the annual funerary rituals. Jaś Elsner, in his work on the gaze, emphasizes its role not only as a focalizer of the subject’s position, but also its influence on the external viewer (Elsner 2007, 109). In Elsner’s treatment of the mythological theme of Ariadne gazing out at Theseus’ ship as it departs for sea, he argues that the main subject in many Campania frescoes is the gaze (Elsner 2007, 100). For example, a painting from the triclinium (dining room) of the Casa di Cornelius Diadumenus depicts a multi-dialogical relationship between the protagonist, Ariadne, and the other spectators in the scene. As Ariadne gazes (with the intimate help of a winged female figure) upon Theseus as he sails off to Athens, Eros, positioned with his back to the ship, covers his eyes while weeping. To the right of the main image are two figures, a male with an oar looking up or at Ariadne, and a female gazing up toward Athena and another figure who is reclining. Elsner notes that depicting multiple gazes which focus on different objects and in different directions redirects the point of focalization back to the viewer, prompting them to question “what point of view, what hierarchy of significance, what object of the gaze they themselves will apply to this (or any) painting” (Elsner 2007, 100).
The role of the gaze in cubiculum F, the location of the SW and the tondo portrait, also evokes questions of internal looking, of focalizing the external viewer’s gaze to other areas of the painting, as well as evoking questions of viewer participation and memory. Moreover, the gaze raises questions as to how individuals or communities used art to construct and signify meaning such as: How are we to explain the relationship between the SW, the tondo, and the patron who commissioned the artwork? How do we explain the angle of the gaze of the tondo image in relation to the figure of the SW? Does the tondo portrait represent the female patron? More specifically, how do these two frescoes depict the patron’s perception of herself and how she wished to be remembered within her immediate community?
The gaze or the act of looking is an important feature for the artist(s) who painted cubiculum F and for his/her patrons, and one of its main functions is to include viewer participation in memorializing the deceased. Unlike street tombs, which often have epitaphs that recount the lives of the dead and evoke their memory, catacombs employ the gaze in order to evoke memory and create meaning; in other words, by using the gaze the artist is able to focus the external viewer’s attention not only onto him/herself, but is also able to use it to direct the viewer to other areas of the painting. An interaction of gazes takes place within the arcosolium that depicts the SW. She is the one who is both the object of focalization and the one who focalizes; that is, as the SW gazes at Jesus, she gestures with her finger towards him, who then forces the re-focalization back onto her, while the woman in the tondo, with her head tilted, looks down at the SW. This network of internal spectators directs the gaze of external viewers, prompting them to question the meaning of the fresco, particularly in reference to the deceased. The activity of looking is particularly significant when combined with commemorative activity, as it provides a way for the viewer to participate in the ritualized act of remembering.
The function of the SW fresco and the tondo portrait in cubiculum F is highlighted by the role these images play in association with funerary rituals. To put it another way, ritual is the performative action through which memory is stimulated, and the remembering of the dead occurs when the living visit graves to make offerings and to share a meal during the annual festivals. As mentioned above, when the living viewed the frescoes, the images acted as mnemonic devices, promoting the memory of the dead person in the mind of the viewer. Romans believed that the dead not only continued to reside in and around the tomb but could also affect other aspects of the lives of the living, becoming a potential threat (Ovid, Fasti 2.537–570). Indeed, when honoring the deceased, caution had to be exercised since the dead could wander among the living and cause harm. Ovid warns that during these rites it was an inauspicious time for weddings and honoring the gods (Fasti 2.560–570). Funerary rituals, therefore, provided the means to placate the dead as well as honor and remember them.
Roman funerary rituals occurred several times a year: the Lemuria, Caristia, and Parentalia. Possibly the best known and attested funerary ritual is the Parentalia, or dies Parentales, which takes place 13–21 February. The first few days were set aside for private family celebration but the last day, the Feralia, was reserved for public celebration (Toynbee 1971, 64). The Parentalia, as was the case with other festivals, was a time to communicate with the dead and remember them, a time to feast (refrigerium) and share a meal with the dead at the tomb. Ovid provides an excellent description of the festival, outlining the traditions and regulations. He notes that the dead require very little: “tile wreathed with votive garlands, a sprinkling of corn, a few grains of salt, bread soaked in wine, and some loose violets, these are offerings enough” (Fasti 2.533–545 [LCL, Goold]). It was important to observe this ritual. Ovid notes one occasion when it was neglected in favor of war, forcing the shades to punish the living for ignoring their obligation:
they say, though I can hardly think it, that the ancestral souls did issue from the tombs and make their moan in the hours of stilly night; and hideous ghosts, a shadowy throng, they say, did howl about the city streets and the wide fields.
(Fasti 2.550–54 [LCL, Goold])
As late as the fourth century, the period in which the Via Latina catacomb was constructed, it is worth reiterating here that some Christians continued to practice such funerary rituals, as previously noted by Augustine and Ausonius, and these rituals were also extended to the cult of the martyrs (Rebillard 2003, 142). Other funerary feasts included the deceased’s birthday, the Mania, festival of roses (in May and mid-July), and festival of violets (in March), when the tomb was decorated with flowers (Hope 2009, 98–99).
The Via Latina catacomb and the fresco of the SW provides an excellent case study by which to understand early Christian funerary ritual, to understand group social dynamics, and the function of memory. The purpose of these rituals, in particular the Parentalia, was to encourage family and friends to visit the tomb of the deceased, to share a meal with the dead, and most importantly to remember them. The group context coupled with the ritualized activity and the fresco provided an arena in which meaning was generated and perpetuated. For the woman buried in the Via Latina catacomb in cubiculum F, this ritual meant that family and close friends would view the image she chose for her tomb, an image which draws attention to her social status, beliefs, identity, and values, as well as reinforce group identity. These characteristics or values are communicated to the viewer through the gestures, glances, and poses of the figures, as well as through the narrative of the Samaritan woman from the Gospel of John. In this visual presentation of John’s story, Vilantia is the protagonist, situated between Jesus and the SW. Her position within the narrative is emphasized through the tondo’s gaze that falls directly onto the SW, who represents positive ideals such as leadership, intellect, and political activity, all ideals that the deceased shares with the SW and by which she wished to be remembered by her community.
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