 So today, we're going to be talking about Greece proper. And when I mean Greece proper, I mean Hellenic Greece. This is where the Minoan civilization was headquartered on the island of Crete down here. The ancient Bronze Age civilization of Mycenae was located on the Peloponnesian Peninsula, more or less here. And we have a kind of expansive territory for Hellenic Greece. And Hellenic Greece basically means the Greeks that developed into the civilization that gave us Periclean Athens and Greek philosophy and Greek drama and so forth. Let's look before we look at the architecture at some of the other artifacts that were produced in ancient Greece. There's a progression if we look at the pottery styles and there's a progression as we look at the sculpture styles. And I think both of us brings us away from a sensibility that we saw characteristic of, say, Egypt and brings us nearer to a very different sensibility that is typical of ancient Greece. So this is an amphora. An amphora is simply a description of the shape of this piece of pottery. An amphora from around 800 BC. 800 BC is more or less a date that described the time that Homer was writing his great epic poems, The Iliad and the Odyssey. And if you look at the ornamental pattern here, well, we can't see it very closely, but here's a little detail of it. It's very geometric. So some smart guy got the idea of calling this the geometric style. But in its geometric abstraction, it kind of reminds you of the way Egyptian ornament is applied. There are bands of things. Figures are not closely observed from nature, but rather stylized according to a formula. But already a few hundred years later, and this is quite contrary to the way the arts moved in Egypt, where for 3,000 years you had a elaboration of a decorative program that remained more or less consistent. Here, by 300 years later, you have quite a different sense of what it is to observe the world, what it is to represent the figure. You see these kinds of battle scenes, and they're really, really great. It's astonishing how much kind of muscular energy and specificity and dynamism and action they manage to get into this linear drawing. We see here two different characteristic styles of Greek pottery. And from the point of view of an architect studying space, it's interesting. Well, these are red figure vase, and this is a black figure vase. And the difference is what makes the figure and what makes the ground. And in architecture and in art, everything that you see is difference against a field. So for example, you see here my bag on a table, fabulous. It's an object. This isn't a very good example, but you see here the space contained in my coffee cup. So this is a void described by a solid edge. So that's the technique of making the different kinds of pottery. The clay is basically red. So anything that you see that's red in Greek pottery is the clay. The black is essentially lacquer. So in red figure pottery, the figure is left void and the edges around the figure are painted in with lacquer, with some incised lines. And the opposite technique happens here. The figure is painted in and the background is left void. Sometimes you find a piece of Greek pottery where it switches fairly effortlessly from red figure to black figure within the same image. And at those moments, it reminds me of stuff that MC Escher, the 20th century artist did systematically over the course of all of his work, where he would play with something and let's say this more or less looks like a field of things that are evenly disposed between the black and the white. And you untangle the figure and the ground until ultimately pure figure, the birds in the sky emerge. Or here you move from something that looks like a white flying fish on a black ground, shifting, shifting, shifting to a black fish on a white ground. Anyhow, that's the pottery. But what's really important about the pottery is the way in which nature and the physical world and form are being looked at in a way that is much, much more attentive to the specificity of the human figure than anything we saw in ancient Egypt. If you look at the sculpture, it becomes even more clear. This is our old friend, Ranafer, an old kingdom Egyptian guy. And we know all about him. What makes him so Egyptian looking? Who would like to help me out with that? Danielle. Right, he's static. He's not moving. He's almost like that block of stone that he's engaged with. What else is so Egyptian? Yes. It's incredibly frontal. In fact, there isn't even a back. He is embedded in the stone. So the only experience you really get of this is looking at it straight on. There is no benefit to walking around the figure and understanding it as an object in space. It's the same guy that you see for 3,000 years in Egypt. And right next to him, we have a chorus. A chorus is simply the name of a figure of a young man in Greek sculpture. Might mean young man, I don't know. It's archaic. And archaic just means it's an early moment in Greek sculpture. This is about 600 BCE. And there is a clear cultural connection between the Egyptians and the Greeks here. And we know that the Greeks were visiting Egypt even at this period, even before Alexander the Great ultimately conquered Egypt and instituted the Ptolemaic rulers. But you see basically the same position, basically the same guy with the difference that this is now a figure in the round. You can walk around him and it's a nude figure. So there is a celebration of the human body rather than the ritual wardrobe going on. And by the time we get to this figure, which is just 550 BCE, it's not simply a figure, but it's a fully kind of muscled figure. We're beginning to see the body as something that's not simply columnar, but talked with a kind of latent energy. And the facial expression becomes slightly different too. There's this thing called the archaic smile, which is a really creepy smile. We see it here and we see it also here. This kind of smirky little weird guy thing. So if we take the example of the transformation of the male figure just a little bit further, and by a little bit further, I mean 80 years or so, 100 years further, we come to the critios boy. And by the time we get to the critios boy, we're starting to look at a real classical Greek sensibility. We're seeing one really strong difference in how this figure is positioned in space. And that is that he's not frontal anymore. There is this torque in his body. It's called contraposto, easy Italian word. And it simply means contrary posture. The torso is going one way, the shoulder is going another way. And the contraposto begins to enforce a sort of turning in space. It begins to spatialize the field around the figure and render the figure fully plastic. Now the word plastic in everyday parlance in Columbus, Ohio means something that everything you own is made out of. But plastic in its true sense means three dimensional. So if you talk about something that's a plastic entity, it's something that you can experience as an object in space in a complex way. So a critios boy is fully plastic. Ronifer, the Egyptian guy, is frontal. And not fully released as an object in space. In addition to the way the contraposto begins to activate the figure and the space around him, there's also a study of geometry that's quite different from the Egyptian canon that we observe when we talk about Egyptian stuff. The Egyptian canon was more or less modular. You had a series of repeated units. The proportional system favored by the Greeks is geometric. And geometric doesn't simply recapitulate the same dimension again and again and again and again. But geometric progressions unfold over space so that you get a kind of hierarchical range of difference. But they are nonetheless locked together in a kind of mathematical rigor that confers meaning to them. Because after all, mathematics and meaning give order to the world and explain the universe. And you get all kinds of little snippets of antique thought that begin to make you think this is really important. This is not simply me drawing swirls all over the credious boy. For example, Protagoras says man is the measure of all things. But I think even more interesting is the notion that beauty consists of many numbers. This is this little fragment of ancient thought that comes down to us. And if you think, well, what do they mean by beauty consists of many numbers? You think, well, maybe that means ratios. Maybe things like geometric progressions begin to organize things. And the correspondence between a mathematical beauty and a physical beauty makes this thing transcendent. Well, I'll get back to that in a second. I just want to tell you a little bit more about the golden rectangle. Is anybody familiar with the golden rectangle? Good. Lucky you. I'm gonna put a link on Carmen to a movie called Donald in Mathemagic Land. Or maybe I'll show it in class. It's such a good movie. Have any of you seen that? Good. It's great. I mean, it's all about the golden rectangle or it's all about how mathematics and nature lock together. But the basic principle of the golden rectangle is that there's a ratio between the width and the length of the system. And the ratio constantly recapitulates itself as you decompose the system into another ratio of width to length. That's the same as this width to length to this width to length to this width to length. And you always get a square and a golden rectangle. It spirals down infinitely. And it's also the same kind of spiral you might get in a shell or in a pine cone or in a flower. So it's magic. Donald Duck admired it and you should too. So here's the golden rectangle. The reason things like the golden rectangle are important has a lot to do with Greek philosophy and how people viewed information that could be apprehended through the senses versus information that could be apprehended through reason. Like if you look at something and you think, wow, beautiful flower. I adore this flower. Or great-looking cridious boy. Very handsome fellow. Your senses are misleading you. Your senses are deranging you. Your senses are subjective and leading you away from truth. What you want is an objective truth that's knowable to all people and verifiable to all people and not corrupted by the senses. And therefore you have things like mathematics. Plato in the Republic gives you the allegory of the cave. It's the philosopher's cage. And he talks about a philosopher sitting in a cave with his back toward the opening of the cave. And his entire knowledge of the world has to do with shadows that get cast on the wall of the cave from things passing in front of the opening that he's not looking at. So his senses tell him something about the world based on these shadows. And the shadows are so reduced based to the richness and the complexities of things outside the cave. But that's his only knowledge of it. He turns around and looks at the opening of the cave. There's so much knowledge that he's blinded. So it's a difficult thing. Reason becomes a tool. Mathematics becomes a tool that begins to allow individuals on earth to have some knowledge of real truth rather than the subjective truth given to them through the senses. So here's a fabulous Critios boy. And here is Polyclitus's Doriferus. And Polyclitus gave us that little snippet of information called Polyclitus's Canon. Beauty consists of many numbers. One of the great Greek sculptors. If you look at Polyclitus's Canon compared to the Critios boy, poor old Critios boy looks almost Egyptian. Now you see this transformation toward things that become more and more plastic, more and more spatialized, more and more activated in the space around them. Like we were giving Critios boy lots of credit for Contrapasto, for this little bit of torque. We see in the Doriferus this fully liberated Contrapasto where not only the torso, but also the arms and the legs are beginning to enclose space and activate the entire terrain. Polyclitus is Doriferus, probably muscled, like that beautiful bull that we saw last time. And part of the reason that he's so hyperarticulated, I think, is that Polyclitus really wants to show all of these mathematically connected subdivisions of the human form to mathematical form. And so you get these amazing definition of each pectoral or each, you know, I don't know the names of muscles. I know pectoral. Give me credit for that. So you see how the golden rectangle begins in an incredibly specific way to explain the differences in the Doriferus. And the same kind of thing happens with female figures. We go from quite early archaic things that look a lot like something that we might have seen in Egypt, columnar, stiff, ritualized hair and headdress to a chore. And chore is simply the Greek word for female figure or statue. Archaic chore, also like a column, not like a person, not turning in space. And eventually, moving us toward that Canadian Venus by Creccitalis, this amazing hypercontrapostal twisting figure who not only is articulated to reveal the geometry of the figure, but also things like her drapery are not simply ritualized folds, but things that seem to be affected by the weight of gravity. So things are changing in pottery. Things are changing in sculpture. And things are also changing in architecture in a big way. Sadly, we don't have all the texts we really want to have from antiquity. We just have fragments. We have this pathetic little cannon that says beauty consists of many numbers. And we have almost less from architecture. There are no treatises on architecture from Greek antiquity that remain to us. But some bits of that theory were incorporated into a treatise written by a Roman called Vitruvius. And Vitruvius talks about this myth that explains the origin of architecture. And that's the primitive hut. So Vitruvius says that the original act of architecture was really the twining together in the forest of branches, of trees. And lo and behold, when you do that, when you make a primitive hut, you're doing something really essential. You're not being subjugated to the style of the Egyptians and recapitulating that. This is a real, authentic, original act. Yet you get something that looks a lot like a temple, that looks a lot like the kind of temple you would have had in ancient Greece. You also begin to get something else happening early in archaic Greek temple architecture. And that is the orders, the formalization of the orders. And the orders is simply the word to describe this system of columns and horizontal, spany elements called and tablatures or architraics. In Greece, there are three orders, Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. And the orders, it's important to remember, are not simply the column. They're not simply the column capital, but it's all about ratios. It's all about the space between things. It's all about the diameter with respect to the height. It's all about inter-columniation, the space between the columns. So when you look at the orders, it's an easy mistake to say when you look at a capital, oh, well, it must be Doric because there's a lot more going on than that. Primitive hut, ha. Primitive hut, one of the things that Vitruvius implies in his description of the primitive hut is that a lot of the stuff we see in Greek architecture, like these elements in the Doric freeze, these little stripey, three stripey things are called triglyphs, which means three stones. And any time you see a Doric freeze, you'll see triglyphs. And the idea is that triglyphs carry within the memory of this earlier timber architecture. They carry within the memory of a primitive hut. And this is just some shed primitive hut, or contemporary primitive hut. And you can see the ends of the beams coming out here and giving you something out of timber architecture that in a very crude way begins to suggest the kind of rhythmic marking of the Doric freeze with triglyphs. This is maybe a better view of what these Greek orders look like. Doric, and the Greek orders are all anthropomorphized. Anthropomorphic means in the shape of a human being. So if something is anthropomorphized, there is kind of latent within the column the idea of the human being. So you have things like capital, which describe the top of a column, and kaput, which is Latin for head. So the capital and the head are the same. The shaft of the column is the body of the column. The column bases the foot of the human being, the foot of the column. So every column is latently anthropomorphized. And these are the characteristic capitals. The Doric has this sort of round, splaying torus. It's masculine according to Vitruvius. It's the stoutest. It's got the most robust proportions. The ionic is matronly. And by matronly, it would be a good order, say, to use if you're making a temple to Hera, kind of mother goddess, Jupiter's wife, or Zeus's wife. And the Corinthian is maidenly. So if you're making a temple to one of the maiden goddesses, like Artemis or Athena, that would be a good one to use. Not that they are rigorous about this, but this is at least the description that Vitruvius gives us. These orders also have to do with different regions in Greece. We have the Doric area being more or less in through here, and the Ionian area being more or less close to the Turkish coast. So there is a kind of regional preference for ionic in the area of Ionia and Doric in the Doric region. And Corinthian is just this little area right in through here. So the Greeks had an amazing sphere of influence in their heyday. They were great maritime people, great builders of boats, great builders of cities, and all of this red stuff clustered at the edge of the Mediterranean shows you places where the Greeks had thriving civilizations and trading posts. So what's astonishing and interesting about this is that you frequently find some of the best preserved Greek sites, not in Greece at all, but off here in Italy. Some really great Greco-Roman, we say, Greek but yet Roman sites. Archaic Greco-Roman sites are in Sicily and near Naples in Paesto. So let's talk more about the orders as a system of relationships. What kinds of things do you need to have? Mostly, it's a relationship between the horizontal and the vertical. You have to make that work somehow. If you look at these drawings here, we're seeing Ionic and Doric. And they're cutting the column because they don't have enough paper to make the whole column in there. But you're supposed to understand that there's some big old shaft in here. And what you might notice immediately is that something strange is going on. The top part of the column and the bottom part of the column are not uniform. It's not a column that is a kind of extended cylinder like you would find, I don't know, in concrete architecture today, in Noltenhall, in a Corbusian villa. But rather, it's an architecture that tapers. And it tapers in a very specific way. It doesn't simply taper up continuously, but it bulges. There's a one-third bulge in the middle. You'll see the word written, but I'll spell it for you right now. It's called antesis, E-N-T-A-S-I-S. And that has to do with this bulging of the column, which is considered to be one of the optical corrections of Greek architecture. The truth of the column is transformed to make the subjective appreciation of the column stronger. So when you look at these columns with antesis, you begin to see something that almost looks like a muscle bulging, as if the column is expressing the load that it's bearing through the bulging of the muscle, through the bulging of the antesis. There are a couple of other things that are worth noting here. The ionic freeze is kind of up for grabs. If you have an ionic temple, you can put any kind of sculptural program that you want up there. But the Doric freeze, and the freeze is the stuff on the architrave, this kind of decorative stuff, the Doric freeze is highly ritualized. The Doric freeze is going to be this kind of rhythm of triglyphs. Both of these are deeply flawed orders. We'll talk about that later on. I'll first show you a few archaic temples before I tell you why the Doric is so terrible. We've spoken a lot about type as something that helps us organize ideas about variations in different buildings. And many of the types we've discussed, such as funerary temples or pyramids, are ones that really don't have that much currency today. We don't see a lot of them when we walk around. But the temple is a type that has endured. And one reason it has endured is that its form alone begins to symbolize things that we associate with a grandeur of Greece, things like the birthplace of the democracy, or things like the birthplace of high cultural institutions, a place where art and architecture and theater came into their own, a place where philosophy flourished. And so it's not surprising that we see banks formed like temples or academic buildings with temple pediments slammed in front of them. So let's look for a moment at a temple, at an archaic temple, a very early, early temple. This is the second temple of Hera in Samos, mid-7th century. Proportions are wacky. If you look at this thing, it barely looks like a temple. The eaves rake too sharply. There's a column in the middle. You might almost be inclined to think that it's more like a picture of the primitive hut that we looked at earlier on when we were describing the mythical origins of architecture than what has come to be defined as a more gentle slope to the typical temple front. But even with all of its roughness and its primitive elements, like these kind of strangely organized columns running right down the middle of the cellar so that it really becomes difficult for any kind of ritual activity to take place in there, or even the columniation at the center where you would expect entry to take place, there's a column. Very primitive variation on the theme, but it has all the pieces that you need to make it a temple. It's got the type. It's got the things you need. A cellar, a colonnade or Tehran, a platform or a stylobate, a pediment, albeit a kind of funny-looking pediment. In towards a new architecture written in around 1919, the great modernist architect Le Corbusier looks at Greek temples and he looks specifically at archaic temples. And he uses this as a way to think about how architecture progresses. This is a page from his book, and it's a funny page. And what's funny about it is that things are paired that you wouldn't think you could pair together. An archaic temple in Peistum and a kind of kalunky old, I don't know, Duesenberg. And over here we have the Parthenon, considered by many and certainly considered by Le Corbusier to be the greatest of all the Greek temples. And he pairs it with a snazzier car, more streamlined, more chic. Let's call it a Bugatti. Now the argument Le Corbusier is making is that the architect should think like the engineer. The architect should identify a problem, identify the questions that need to be solved. And once that has happened, like the engineer, like the automotive engineer, refinement can take place. Once you ask the question, you can begin to find the answer. Corbusier says, once a standard is established, competition enters in at once and violently into play. It is a fight. In order to win, you must do better than your rival in every way. And so he's thinking of architecture as a struggle, as a struggle toward perfection or toward the best possible solution to the problem posed. And if we compare the Duesenberg and the Bugatti, we can see things that Le Corbusier would be interested in. For example, the Duesenberg is additive. It seems like anytime the engineer got an idea, he just slapped it on, like a seat would be good, let's put one there. Another seat would be good, let's put one there. How about a steering wheel? Oh, we better get a steering wheel. Let's put one there. What about a fender? Let's put one there. And the car becomes an assemblage of these odd ideas and they're all good ideas, but the design has not yet taken form. In the Bugatti, there's a idea, there's a formal idea. It is this bar-like element that's been carved and manipulated. And all of these good ideas, like front seat, back seat, fender, steering wheel, find their locus within this strong form. And Le Corbusier would say here, in Paestum, the archaic temple, the germ of the idea has been identified. Get some columns. Make the columns muscular. Give them some emphasis. Develop a style of eight or a platform. But then, the refinement has to take place. The proportions, the detailing, the systemization of all these ideas into a large overarching idea. And you can see that the march from Samos Temple toward the Parthenon was not a quick one or a univocal one. This is just a collection from Sir Banister Fletcher's comparative history of architecture. And it shows you how ranging the variation of temple types can be. You can have two rows of columns surrounding things. Dipteral, you could have one row of columns surrounding things. You could have, it seemed as though two rows of columns are surrounding it, but really just one, pseudo dipteral. Or the columns can actually not be in play, but you can simply extend porches in both directions. So these are all variations on the theme. And the theme is so strong that it can sustain all this variation. This is a little Megaron, our friend from Mycenae, as a point of comparison. Topologically, they're kind of different, which is to say this has a hole in the middle, a little atrium, and this does not. But if you forget about that, typologically, they're not so different. Insofar as there is a portico kind of antechamber or mouse and a main chamber, that procession through a series of spaces that's already established in the Megaron finds its way into a highly formalized and highly variable system by the time we get to the temples. And again, these are the pieces that you need. You need a cellar. That's where you put your cult statue. You need a platform, because this is sacred ground that you're occupying. And so you want to carve off a piece of that ground and make it distinct. You need the colonnade. You need a porch or pronouns. And you need a cult statue. Somebody like this, a cult statue. So I'm just showing you here where the cellar would be, and this is a section. And these sections are all speculative. Speculative based on archeological evidence. This would have been 19th century archeological evidence. So probably better images of the Athena statue in the Parthenon would be conjured up today, but this is a spectacularly dramatic one. Again, here we see the cellar and the cellar in section again in the Parthenon. Another really interesting thing about the constituent pieces of the temple are these columns that surround it on all sides. Because it's surrounded on all sides by columns, it really begins to operate in a way that's quite different from, say, the Egyptian temples. And that is, it begs to be viewed obliquely. It begs to be viewed in the round. The same sensibility and longing toward plastic understanding, let's say three-dimensional understanding, that we saw in the advancement of Greek sculpture with a contra-pasto, forcing an oblique view, forcing you to move around it, happens here too with the way the columns are organized with respect to their site. This is a archaic temple in Agrigento, the ancient site of Acragas in Sicily. The proportions you see here are stout. These archaic temples are great-looking because all of these elements, like the triglyph on the Doric Frees and the pediment and the columns, they're all here but they're extra stout and extra robust. And the same is true of the temple of Hera II in Paestum, where the columns almost look like cartoon drawings of columns. And the spleen out of the column capital almost looks like a mushroom growing up on top. These are just some plans. This is the Hera temple that we just looked at, which is the temple with the giant mushroom column capitals. And you can see in plan how robust those capitals are. This is another temple in Paestum we didn't look at. And so another element that's going on with all these temples is the whole idea of optical corrections. On one level, the temple is hyper-idealized. The proportions are set. The disposition of parts are set. The sequence through it is set. But the ideality comes into conflict with the perceived world and the building makes adjustments for that. So one of the adjustments is a curved stylobate which makes it seem to hug its side. Another adjustment is the flare of entices which we've talked about before and the bowing of the architrave. This is a little drawing by William Dinsmore where he speculates on what a temple would look like if you actually had all those optical corrections exaggerated so that they could actually be perceived. But the fact is they're very subtle. You barely see them at all. Or if you see them, you see them as a kind of flexing or expansion or yielding of the building to the pressures of the site and the pressures of gravity experienced by carrying its own load. Probably the most extraordinary thing about Greek architecture is the whole idea about the site. There is this notion of genius locus or spirit of the place that is a guiding principle in organizing sites. The notion is that architects don't simply impose a geometric order or some kind of civic system of organization on a site. But rather, the site is already sacral. The site is already inhabited by spiritual presences and the task of the architect is to make visible and to house the sacrality already there within the site. So this is Segesta. It's a site in Sicily and you can just get a sense of what's going on by looking at the landscape. And this is Delphi, Delphi, Sanctuary of Apollo, on follows of the earth, the navel of the earth, the world collects together here and organizes itself around Delphi, according to the Greeks. And you can see how the mountains begin to well up and ring this space and that the theater positions itself in a powerful way to make understandable that organization. It's interesting also, I think, to compare Greek space to the space of the Romans, which we'll get to later, but you could say the space of a lot of people because Greek space is really quite special. This is a drawing by Le Corbusier, again, from towards a new architecture. Le Corbusier just loves the Greeks. He thinks they're doing everything right. And part of that is that they're not too dictatorial. They're not too driven by rules. I think Le Corbusier loves the optical corrections and loves the shifts and the specific engagement with the site in a way that, say, architects 200 years before or even 100 years before wouldn't have understood. So here's a drawing where he's comparing the entry to the acropolis to a form, the form of Pompeii in Roman culture. And the argument that Le Corbusier is making here is that the primary way that you engage these Greek temples is as objects in the round. You see them obliquely. Not only do you see them obliquely, and this is the Parthenon. We see it over here. This is just the sketchiest little edge of the Erechtheon, another temple. We see it over here. But they don't simply make local adjustments, but they make broader adjustments. Cult Statue of Athena here and a mountain range, a sacred mountain behind it that gets framed by the splaying of these two things. So if the Greek architecture is all about figural objects that begin to activate the space around them, a very different condition is going on here in Roman architecture. Here we have temples, and if we were to look at the facades of the temples frontally, we'd see pedimental buildings with columns looking very much like our friend the Parthenon. However, they function primarily as edge and not as object. They are frontal. They are not fully plastic. They have an engagement with a figural space and they surrender their own figureality toward that end. Again, here's a drawing of the Shrine of Apollo. And there are all kinds of interesting things going on. This is the Athenian treasury. This is a very, very important shrine. We said it's the navel of the universe. Better be good. And all the city-states, or many of the city-states, have little treasuries here where offerings from their city could be placed to propitiate Apollo. When you move up through the site, here's the big Apollo temple, here's the theater, and notice these strange lines. Those lines don't exist in space. Those lines are part of a diagram drawn by an architect, actually a city planner called Constantinus Duxiatis. Originally in 1937, quite a long time ago. Quite a long time ago to be a city planner, but Duxiatis embraced the spirit of modernism, moving forward, getting Greece out of the village culture, building cities. But at the same time, he was nervous about what city planning had become already by the middle of the 20th century. What he was nervous about was that city plans, modernist, functionalist, avant-garde city plans, were being deployed in a fairly relentless formulaic way. Here's a building, here's a building, here's a building, here's a building, here's a road, here's a road, grid, grid, grid. And you would get a density and you would get traffic moving smoothly. But somehow, the specificity of the place would be lost, it would be erased in this action. And so Duxiatis began to look at Greek sites, ancient Greek sites, and he wrote this book, Architectural Space in Ancient Greece. And one of his big ideas has to do with these radio lines. And the argument that he's making is that Greek space is organized very, very differently from the Egyptian space that we looked at earlier, whether Manoan space or the Mycenaean space, and also quite differently from Roman space, which we got a little glimpse at when we looked at Pompeii. Rather, it's organized based on special viewpoints, idea of the plastic object turning in space, places from which this can be viewed. So here we are in the theater of Delphi, looking down, and all the buildings arrange themselves in such a way as to be viewed obliquely as fully plastic objects, and also to help us see and understand the landscape beyond. It's hard to get a good understanding of how the Apollo temple works now because this is all that remains of it. You just wish everybody would build up the old ruined things. Just a few views of Greek sites to give you a sense of how powerful they are. Segesta in Sicily. Again, it's this kind of curved bowl of mountains surrounding this thing in three directions with views out toward the sea in another direction. This is the lower, sacred way of Delphi. And Daciatus performed this analysis on a number of sites. This is the sanctuary of Olympia. And Daciatus was really not an archaeologist, and so archaeologists would probably find these drawings to be difficult, but he was a planner. And what he wanted to do with his analysis of historical evidence was get good ideas to make the work that he did in his own period as vital and important as the work that the ancients did. So we've been talking a lot about type. We're gonna keep talking about type. Well, we're gonna keep talking about type through antiquity and then pretty much all the types get set. And the type we're talking about now is theater. Different kind of theater than the ones you go to at the multiplex. Greek theater is a kind of partial circle organized around an orchestra, which is where the action takes place with a kind of stage back behind it. This is one of the best preserved Greek theaters, the theater at Epidaurus. This proscenium has been eroded over time, but it wouldn't have been so tall that you wouldn't have been able to see the landscape beyond it. And so one of the things that's so powerful and so important about these Greek theaters is that they, like the temples, they find a place in the landscape that needs to be clarified in its power and made visible in its power and its geometry. So here in Delphi, we looked at it briefly before, we see how the theater locks into the natural geometry of the site and makes possible a stronger understanding of how important this point is. And the same is true here in Epidaurus, where the theater built into the natural declivity of the hill makes visible organizations that would otherwise be lost. Of course, theater was really important to the Greeks. And one reason theater was so important to the Greeks is that it wasn't simply entertainment, it was part of their religious beliefs. Friedrich Nietzsche, who was a great 19th century philosopher, wrote one of his treatises specifically on this topic, The Booth of Tragedy, The Origins of Theater. And for Nietzsche, and also for other people, but again, Nietzsche is more poetic than historical, so he's more fun to read. For Nietzsche, the origin of tragedy, the origin of theater had to do with a battle between rival cults. In the most ancient days, Greece was ruled by Cthonic deities. Cthonic is a funny word, C-H-T-H, one of the few words you'll ever find that starts that way. And the Cthonic deity, one of the Cthonic deities was Bacchus, or in Greek Dionysus. And Dionysus was a god of drunkenness and revelry and dance and also dismemberment, which would make you a little bit alarmed. You see this pretty lady here? She's probably one of the main ads. And the main ads were these best friends or let's say a group of followers of Bacchus or Dionysus who would go into a frenzy. They would drink themselves into a frenzy with wine. And when they were in a frenzy, they would find goats and tear them apart. And it's been speculated, people have speculated that this notion of dismemberment is not maybe literal, but it has more to do with the notion of the dissolution of the individual into nature. It's becoming one with a natural continuum rather than the focus on one's own self. And in opposition to the god of drunkenness, you have Apollo, the god of light, the god of reason. So in Nietzsche's birth of tragedy, it is a history of Greece or in a history of philosophy and a history of ways that people engage the world based on the rivalry between the Dionysian and the Apollonian ways of being. You pick which one you like better, this one or this one. But even in Greek drama that comes down to us, we can see aspects of the Dionysians, these ecliptonic gods who were overtaken by the Olympian gods. We can see the trace of the ecliptonic deities in the idea of the chorus. And the chorus of chorus is multiple rather than singular. So you have the hero, the tragic hero, let's say, an Olympian figure and the chorus, a pre-Olympian or Catholic deity figure and they come together in drama.