 Welcome, everybody, to the third session of today's 25th Anniversary Conference on Graduate Art of History for the Mid-Elect Atlantic Region. I'm Jonathan Katz, and it's my great pleasure to introduce our panel today. We're going to be ranging across the entirety of the 20th century today, especially looking at art in Europe. And we're going to be specifically looking at the question in three very different iterations of why or how art is related to governing schemas. Essentially, what we're looking at here is the sort of disciplinary affect of various taxonomies of understanding how art fits into certain systems. And although they're very, very different, all three papers negotiate that problematic. So I'd like to first introduce our very first speaker, Hannah Shaw. I'll be just mentioning the title of her talk, Negotiating Cultural Landscape in Third Reich Germany on August Sander's photo book, The Eiffel. And she will be introduced by her advisor, Andres Zervinov. Hi, my name is Andres Mario Zervigón, and I'd like to introduce Hannah Shaw, a doctoral student in the Rutgers Art History Department. Hannah's very accomplished already, having published an article in photo researcher on the trouble with August Sander's censorship. She has also had a one-year grant at the DAAD and a Getty Foundation Library grant. In addition, she's been working on the MoMA-Zanda project, which has been an ongoing initiative for a number of years now. She is currently, in addition to being a PhD student in our program, a graduate curatorial assistant at the Zürich Art Museum, where she has curated and co-curated multiple exhibitions, including, it's just a job Bill Owens and Stets Turkel on working in the 1970s America, and Tiananmen Square, 1989. Photographed by Chiang H. Hai. Please welcome Hannah Shaw. Hi. Thank you so much, Dr. Zervigón, for that kind introduction. And Dr. Katz, for moderating this panel. And lastly, to everyone at the Barnes who's made this day possible. I'm looking forward to it. Okay, let's see here. In fall 1933, a local publisher invited the German photographer August Sander to create a series of small photo books devoted to the landscape, built environment, cultural artifacts, and people of different regions in Western Germany. With its focus on the intersection between nature and human civilization, the series fell while within this established category of cultural landscape. While the genre was not new, it had become ideologically charged since the Nazis seized power earlier that year. The concept of cultural landscape overlapped with many core principles of the regime, among them blood and soil and laban's realm or living space, as well as programs aimed at strengthening the folk's command shaft or people's community through tourism and access to nature. Yet it was also a genre that had intrigued Sander since the Weimar period, likely contributing to his desire to accept the offer. In a radio lecture delivered in 1931, for example, he explained how physiognomic studies could be constructed, conducted through landscape photography. Quote, man puts his own stamp on the landscape with his works. We can see the human spirit of a particular age expressed in the landscape and we can comprehend it with the camera. It is the same for architecture and industry and all other large and small human works. The landscape within a particular language boundary expresses the historic physiognomic image of a nation. This was analogous to the approach he pursued in his famous sociological study of Germany begun in the 1920s called People of the 20th Century. Although never finished, the project and the photo book that emerged from it face of our time have earned Sander a place among the fathers of modernist photography. This paper focuses on the series first volume De Eiffel about the mountainous region along Germany's western border with Belgium and Luxembourg. De Eiffel displays a heightened resistance to the ideological aims of the regime, as well as an engagement with the methodology that guided people of the 20th century. If resistance with Sander's aim however, some of his strategies backfired and ultimately reified the propagandistic utility of the volume. In formulating his approach to cultural landscape in De Eiffel, Sander avoided contemporary discourse by deferring to the values and rhetoric of the Natuerschutz or Nature Conservancy movement as it existed before 1933. Specifically he focused on the Eiffel Forine, a nature appreciation and preservation organization devoted to the region. As historian Thomas Lankin has compellingly argued during the Weimar period, Reinland Natuerschutz organizations like the Eiffel Forine tried to manage rather than deny modernization advocating a balanced approach to issues like technological intervention and tourism. In the Third Reich by contrast, tourism was not only fully embraced but also treated as a means to enhance the unity and submissiveness of the German folk through programs like strength through joy. After 1939, tourism became a strategy to metabolize newly colonized territories to the east. Public works projects like the Autobahn likewise prioritized the Nazi strategic goals over ecological concerns. Echoing the Weimar era calls for restraint, the dangers posed by overtourism appears as a leitmotif in Sander's two-page introduction to de-Eiffel. Pointing to the recent influx of automobile traffic generated by the construction of a race track in the 1920s, Sander wrote that, quote, the concern now is growing that contemporary achievements in technology and civilization may destroy the image of the landscape whose unique beauty was only so recently recognized, end quote. What was at risk, Sander suggested, was a cultural landscape defined by a special harmony between nature and culture. To articulate this idea, Sander included a lengthy passage written by the 19th century founder of the Eiffel Ferein Adolf Drunke. Describing the view from the highest mountain in the region, Drunke recounted, quote, the plateau is bejeweled with the fresh green of beachwoods. Here and there lie friendly villages surrounded by countless conical mountains, partially crowned with the remains of grand castles, the seats of high noble lineages. Out of the valleys flow the mist, which in the light of sunrise assumes fantastical shapes and over everything in the north one sees the lovely shapes of the Siebengeberge and the and the rich Rhine Valley, out of which the Cologne Cathedral emerges. In this description, the built environment not only fits seamlessly into the natural one, but the two are symbolically intertwined with humble villages nestled into valleys, noble castles on mountain peaks, and the Rhine's most famous mountains, the Siebengeberge, standing in parallel with its most famous building, the Cologne Cathedral. These sentiments and those of the Weimar era preservationists who sought balance in the face of modernity's pressures are woven throughout the volume's photographs and photographic juxtapositions. The first two pages of the volume, in fact, seem to recreate Drunke's account showing a medieval church juxtaposed with two mountain vistas, the first of which notably displays the integration of homes, fields, transportation infrastructure, and even castle ruins into the mountainous environment. Shot from a low angle, the imposing Abbey Church of Maria Laach mirrors the mountains on the opposite page. Its three towers now appearing not unlike mountain peaks. During the 1920s, the Abbey monks partnered with the Eiffel Farine to block a public works project that threatened the ecosystem of neighboring Laacher Lake. They succeeded leaving the lake undisturbed and so it appears calm and vast against a dark mountain ridge as the fourth photograph in De Eiffel. A completed public works project, the Eiffel Dam, is featured later in the volume. Its harmony with nature is illustrated within the photograph through color resonances and composition. By occupying a mere quarter of the frame, the dam appears as just one element of the natural setting rather than a force controlling it. In the full spread, the arc of the dam, turned on its side in the volume's vertical format, repeats the curve of the tree on the facing page. Built around the 20th century, the dam provided power and water to the Eiffel region, but also helped create an ecologically advantageous reservoir. Given this, the dam was likely seen by Weimar-era preservationists as an example of responsible technological intervention into the landscape. The final page of De Eiffel offers another comparison between a man-made structure and a natural one. In this case, the Caucasus Cave and a medieval moded castle located nearby. A coherence between the two structures is implied again through formal resonances between the photographs. You can see kind of this curving S-shape in both of them. In his treatment of the region's people and social environment, Sander looked not to the Eiffel Throne, but to the comparative methodology he used in people of the 20th century. In this approach, Sander focused on how his subjects were shaped by profession and social class. Indeed, the volume's portraits display a sensitivity to both social class and regional variation, suggesting in the process that there was not one essential type of Eiffel farmer. Moving from the denborn farmer on the upper left to the gamoon farmer below, the subjects progress from the hard scrabble to the bourgeois. In a gesture typical of Sander's photography, these class distinctions are underscored by the subject's attributes. All three men are holding a pipe, but the denborn farmers is wooden and presumably handmade, while the gamoon farmers is enameled with gilding. The men's hats, or lack thereof, play a similar role as does the presence or absence of a spouse. Near the middle of the volume, Sander presented three types of dwellings that existed in the region. Apartments tightly packed together along the banks of the Ruhr River, a traditional straw-roofed farmstead and a more modern farmstead comprised of stately multi-story buildings. The differences in construction suggest again that class and even cultural variation existed among the region's people. On the one hand then, D'Eiffel trained the reader to see the viewer like a Weimar era preservationist rather than the more strident Nazi ideologue who understood the German soil as a source of racial purity. The volume also fostered a view of the social character of the region as dynamic and varied rather than essentialized and earthbound. This stood in contrast to the work of photographers like Anna Lendevide Dirksen who used their photo books to visually underscore the regime's claims about the folk's fundamental connection to their land. On the other hand however, Sander's deferral to the Eiffelverein heightened the volume's utility as propaganda in other ways. By underscoring the harmonious and relatively undisturbed nature of the region, D'Eiffel participated in one of the chief propagandistic functions of the medium as described by Rolf Sachse. In his influential 2003 book The Education to Look Away, Sachse argued that photography helped instill a sense of peace and happiness in the population that encouraged them to ignore the true horrors of the regime. As others have noted, apolitical and amusing entertainment also played a significant role in propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels' framework for controlling the population through media. An account of the origins of the cultural landscape series by Sander's son Günther supports the idea that the regime could find propagandistic potential in the volumes even if they eschewed references to party dogma. As Günther recalled, quote, pictures of the German countryside were in much demand from in magazines and books. A well-known Rhineland publishing firm suggested that Sander should provide the illustrations for a series of small booklets on the German countryside. The German or right chamber of literature was in agreement and suggested the continuation of the series. Another issue arises from the political orientation of the Eiffel Ferein at the time of the volumes publication. The organization was quick to affiliate itself with the new regime broadcasting its allegiance and shared outlook at the organization's general meeting in June 1933. Eiffel Ferein preservation campaigns now incorporated Nazi officials and rhetoric. For example, at a rally held in August 1933 against the disfigurement of a local volcanic lake by private development, a Nazi functionary delivered one of the event's main speeches. In his remarks, Joseph Boozley assured the crowd that his superior, the regional governor Heinz Hacke, stood, quote, shoulder to shoulder with the Eiffel Ferein to protect this incredible place, end quote. He ended his remarks by exclaiming that the preservationist efforts were an expression of Adolf Hitler's will and cited a relevant passage from Hitler's recent post-dom day speech in which he said, quote, we want to cultivate in humble awe the great tradition of our people, their history and their culture as inexhaustible resources of real inner strength and the possibility of renewal in dark times, end quote. In the end, Sander's close engagement with the Eiffel Ferein may have been motivated primarily by financial interests, among them the hope of securing future contracts with the organization. In fall 1934, Sander was especially successful in this regard. He had contributed to the organization's publication since the early 1930s, likely on the recommendation of his friend, the regionalist writer Ludwig Matara, who is very involved with the organization. But in September, his work appeared for the first time on the cover of the Eiffel Ferein's monthly periodical. Within the issue itself, editors included D. Eiffel in the periodical's recurring section on high-matte literature. The editor's pithy description offers no indication that the volume was at odds with the organization's current configuration, calling it simply, quote, a neat little volume that captures the characteristic features of the Eiffel landscape and its man-made cultural monuments and invites you to visit the green border region in an inconspicuous manner, end quote. Sander's work appeared again on the cover of the periodical's November 1934 issue. In a gesture of self-referential humor, the photograph shows an elderly couple pouring over the September issue during their Vesper hour. The photograph appeared to be a reworked version of one Sander stage with an issue of the radio periodical Verag that featured the same photograph of a moded castle on its cover. The prominence of the radio in the frame and existence of additional photographs from the session that included the Verag issue suggest that this version came first. It appears never to have been published during Sander's lifetime, but it was included in the first reconstruction of people of the 20th century published in the early 1980s, and this image on the screen is taken from that. The stage photographed offers an intriguing moment of intersection between the Eiffel Farine, so prominent in De Eiffel, and the periodical Verag, which enters the story of the cultural landscape volumes in a significant way in later volumes, or the series in later volumes. While Sander's approach to cultural landscape in De Eiffel was rooted in the Beimar period, the political context in which it appeared and the volumes engagement with the Eiffel Farine molded its final meeting and potential as propaganda. Sander's openness to incorporating ideas from regime-aligned organizations and publications would lead subsequent volumes to be more ideologically oriented. Indeed, in the series Final Volumes, Sander's approach to cultural landscape shifted further in the direction of the regime as he came into greater dialogue with the visual and literary culture of the Third Reich, including the radioperiodical Verag and the regionalist writer Ludwig Matar. Thank you. Wonderful. Thank you so much, Anna. And I'd like to now introduce our next speaker, Marika Antonotti. And Marika is at Johns Hopkins University and she will be giving a talk on Marxism and its discontents, and she'll be introduced by her advisor, Molly Warnock. I'm delighted to introduce Marika Antonucci. Marika is an exceptional PhD student in history of art at Johns Hopkins University. There she is in the advanced stages of researching and writing a dissertation on conceptions of community and collectivity and Italian art of the 1960s and 70s. Marika holds a BA in history of art and French from New York University and an MA in history of art from the University of Pennsylvania. While at Penn, she began laying the groundwork for her current project, writing a carefully researched thesis on the Italian Pavilion at the 1976 Venice Biennale. During her time at Johns Hopkins, Marika has received various internal awards, including a Dean's Teaching Fellowship for the coming fall. She has also won a number of highly competitive external honors, including her current pre-doctoral fellowship at the Center for Italian Modern Art in New York City. She comes to this position following several years at the Bibliotheca Herziana Max Planck Institute for Kunstgeschichte in Rome, where she participated centrally in the new research initiative Rome Contemporary. Marika's dissertation considers the vicissitudes of art in Italy during the so-called years of lead, as artists and workers question the existing social order and at times joined forces in demanding sweeping structural transformations. Uneasily bound in a wider reevaluation of central tenants of Marxist thought, as manifest in the emergence of autonomous currents, this unrest also saw artists rethinking the legacies of the avant-garde, trying out new and often volatile conceptions of individuality and collectivity, and interrogating variously formulated connections between formal and material innovation and social progress. Drawing upon sustained archival research and extensive visual analysis, Marika addresses a combination of canonical and historically under-recognized figures, enabling us to grasp the manifold ways in which different objects and practices take over and transform new conceptions of community. She speaks to us today about a pivotal moment in the art and reception of the Italian painter Renato Guttoso. Please join me in welcoming Marika Antonucci. Thank you very much for that very kind introduction. I'm very happy to have the opportunity to share my research with you today. So I'll begin. Describing Guttoso's first Italian retrospective, held in Parma in late 1963, Critic Arturo Carlo Quintavalle described it as, quote, the most heated and perhaps even the most productive controversy of Italian culture after the extremely violent ones on realism in the years between 1950 and 1955, end quote. Guttoso, the preeminent painter of the Italian Communist Party, or Piccii, had been a central figure in those post-war controversies which had been ignited by his party's increasingly divisive rebuke of abstraction in support of a readily legible Soviet-style figuration known as realism. As a result, during the 1950s, the party shunned avant-garde techniques such as expressive color, collage, and spatial disruption, considering them elitist and at odds with a materialist conception of history. The Italian art world was soon polarized into bitterly opposing camps as artists were forced to choose between aesthetic experimentation and political commitment. Despite Guttoso's public condemnation of the party's interference beginning in 1948, he swiftly jettisoned the modernist visual strategies that had characterized his output until then. Thus, the tightly compressed pictorial space, redolent of cubist flattening and fragmentation, bold expressive colors, and jagged, heavily abstracted contours that monumentalized the grueling realities of female labor in Cucci Trice or Seamstress of 1947, quickly gave way to more veristic spatial coordinates and color palettes as Battaglia del Ponte della Miraglio illustrates. In this modern-day history painting, Guttoso commemorates a battle central to the Risorgimento, the 19th-century Italian struggle for unification. Italian communists mobilized the Risorgimento as a symbolic predecessor for the democratic ambitions of the anti-fascist resistance to which many Italian communists took part. Guttoso's work aligned so completely with the party's ideology that its leader, Palmiro Togliatti, commissioned the artist to produce a second version of the work for the party's Institute for Communist Studies in Frattocchio. Though perhaps the most well-known moment of Guttoso's career, this phase only lasted a few years. By the second half of the 1950s, his brushstrokes regained expressivity as he reconsidered his previous rejection of the internationally dominant trend of gestural art-making known in Italy as informale and variously embodied by artists like Alberto Burri, Willem de Kooning, and Hans Hartlum. His numerous texts and interviews of the period reveal his candid reflection on realism's shortcomings and his desire to create an art that spoke to the new experiences of advanced capitalist society. Guttoso embraced new subject matter such as city dwellers exploiting expressive gesture and fervent inspired color to convey capitalist estrangements. His party too was dealt a major blow as it fumbled its responses to the revelations of Joseph Stalin's repressive regime and the Soviet invasion of Hungary in 1956, events which set Western Marxism into a general crisis. Furthermore, the rise of more militant critiques challenged the party's complacency with capitalism and its reform-oriented approach. As preparations for Guttoso's retrospective began against this complex geopolitical and cultural backdrop, the artist was once again at the center of a debate between art-making and political ideology. At issue there was the artist's Marxism understood as problematic both by the exhibition's organizers and an increasingly divided leftist art press. Examining the Parma exhibition, I argue, yields two important insights. The literary narrative itself manifests the thorny relations between geopolitics and aesthetic canonization, while the reactions it generated signal that the question of a Marxist art in Italy was by no means settled or unquestionably accepted during the 1960s, a state of affairs consonant with the increasingly irreconcilable fractures plaguing the Italian leftist cultural sphere during the 1960s. Surprisingly, Roberto Longhi, the formalist, critic, and art historian best known for his studies of the Italian Quattrocenzo and of Caravaggio, here headed the organizational committee of Guttoso's retrospective. The exhibition displayed much of Guttoso's polemical realist work, such as the 1949 occupation of the uncultivated lands, which depicted the plight of landless peasants in southern Italy, an issue dear to the Italian Communist. However, this aspect of Guttoso's oeuvre was minimized within the catalogue. Alongside two previously published texts by Longhi, additional essays by his associates Giovanni Testori and Franco Russolli presented similar readings of Guttoso that resonated with Longhi's earlier commentary, particularly in their discomfort with realism and insistence on Guttoso's dialogue with paradigmatic western art movements, and a clear preference for Guttoso's recent work. It was this last aspect of Guttoso's practice begun in the second half of the 1950s that these men most admired precisely because of its perceived resonance with informale, heralded as quote a marvelous recovery, unquote, the emergence of expressive brushwork and a flirtation with abstraction both absent during the artist's realist phase were seen to compellingly address newly urgent post-war existential anxiety, underscoring the curatorial support for this latest stylistic shift, an image of the artist himself seated in front of an unfinished, largely abstract portion of canvas appeared beside the catalogue's title page. Likely an early stage of one of his nudes of the period, such as Grande Nudo Trasversale, the cropped canvas recalled the paint handling of prominent artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning. Together, the exhibition's depolitization of Guttoso's practice and its emphasis on his most recent, more gestural work spoke to broader Cold War era anxieties about the artist's legacy as a Marxist artist. In a socio-historical climate newly destabilized by the events of 1956, in which details of Joseph Stalin's repressive regime came to light and the Soviet army invaded Hungary, Guttoso's communist leanings likely appeared troublesome for critics like Longhi, downplaying Guttoso's politics and aligning him with discourses of international gestural painting that were implicitly coded as liberal, neutralized this threat by allowing an alternative, more palatable account of Guttoso to emerge. Thus, by 1963, Guttoso's canonization into the Italian artistic tradition had come at the expense of his ideological commitment, a stance that immediately incensed the Picci E press. While some voices close to the party only moderately criticized the depolitus, the depoliticized presentation of Guttoso's oeuvre, critic Antonello Trombadori penned a much more confrontational response for the party's weekly Villanueve. From the argumentative title, polemical guide to the exhibition of Guttoso in Parma, the impassioned humanism of Renato Guttoso, both the party's scorn for the exhibition's historical revisionism and its own official view on Guttoso were both startingly evident. Objecting to the exhibition's devaluation of Guttoso's realist phase and more broadly of its refusal to accept Guttoso's political commitment as an interpretive key to his multi-decade practice, Trombadori instead presented his fellow Picci E comrade as an indispensable agent in the orthodox Marxist revolutionary cause. Underpinning the persuasive nature of Guttoso's oeuvre for Trombadori was the artist's firm belief in human progress, his humanism as he defined it. This faith in subjective agency to direct the course of history towards a socialist future, an idea central to Picci E orthodox Marxism, defined the artist's significance and importantly set him apart from his contemporaries. Trombadori saw this faith in human progress at work in both Guttoso's realist works and importantly in his more recent output. To state his point clearer, Trombadori looked to Francis Bacon for an illustrative foil. Without denying Bacon's importance, the Picci E critics viewed Bacon as trapped in isolated existential anguish. Guttoso, on the other hand, mobilized a similar artistic gesture towards what he saw as progressive political ends. Though sensitive to current problems of society, he argued, Guttoso's work manifested the potential of a new socialist society founded on quote, a reconstitution on new foundations of the unity of man, end quote, of view dear to the orthodox majority of the Picci E. Yet it was precisely this optimism and the unquestioned efficacy of its attendant pictorial lexicon that alarmed younger Marxist commentators. Part of a new generation of thinkers sensitive to the profound and wide-ranging effects of advanced capitalism, informed by the philosophical currents of Operaísmo, or workerism, and later autonomous Marxism, these figures no longer saw revolution as a self-evident certainty. In their view, the confident attitude of their elder comrades seemed at best naive and at worst evidence of capitalist collusion. In the face of capitalism's unceasing encroachment into everyday life, if art had any chance of fostering critical consciousness, these critics believed, it had to do so through radical experimentation. For Alberto Boazzo, the first dissenting voice, Gutuzzo's practice fell short of such ambition. Taking aim at Gutuzzo's most recent works, which combined painting and collage, Boazzo questioned the progressive thrust of Gutuzzo's visual vocabularies. Focusing on Mattino nello studio, morning in the studio, the young critic noted that the painted elements, the straw chairs, the painter's tools, and architecture depicted a, quote, rustic, artisanal, and pre-industrial reality, end quote. While the collage portions, such as the article fragments in the newspaper being read by the man in the foreground, and the scraps of letters and papers on the table in front of him, spoke to the current industrial reality. The problem, Boazzo lamented, was the way in which these two different artistic media interacted in Gutuzzo's composition. Because Gutuzzo manipulated the collaged elements to suit the needs of his painted composition, for example, the way in which the pasted newspaper elements correspond to the spatial coordinates dictated by the artist's painted outline, the painting preserved, rather than undermined pictorial logic, despite its mixed media nature. In so doing, Boazzo lamented, morning in the studio, nostalgically and problematically imagined a world that was felt to be increasingly incompatible with the new realities of advanced capitalism. Critics associated with more radical publications close to militant activism like Quaderni Piacentini offered a similar assessment. Although its editorial board lamented the insufficiently critical party endorsement of Gutuzzo's work, they were hardly surprised. It would have been naive to expect something different from the usual celebratory chorus of our official criticism, they wrote, justifying the review by the painter Claudio Olivieri, which followed. Olivieri also challenged the relevancy of Gutuzzo's stylistic choices, particularly his appeals to cubism and expressionism, which he understood to function as stylistic conventions rather than experimental, and thus potentially critical spark. In his words, instead of being surprises in the act of modifying the real, Gutuzzo's gestures simply add themselves and overlap. The charges leveled by Blasto and Olivieri regarding the static nature of Gutuzzo's art paralleled the broader challenge to official communist orthodoxy being mounted at that time by younger, more militant activists and thinkers. In so doing, Sorny ideological battles were once again transposed into the artistic arena. At that time dissident communists associated with the intellectual currents later codified under the banner of autonomous Marxism began chastising the party for what they perceived to be a reformist and inadequate agenda focused on wage bargaining. In their view, progressive gains for workers failed to question the inherently exploitative nature of capitalist accumulation more generally. Rejecting cooperation with government institutions advocated a forceful break from capitalist production and its attendant social inequalities through wildcat strikes and other disruptive tactics. Capitalism in their view could not be salvaged in any way, only a radical reorganization of social life was possible. The charges leveled at Gutuzzo by more radically oriented critics like Blasto and Olivieri transposed the intellectual assumptions and tactics of autonomous Marxist thought into the sphere of artistic language. Much like the Communist Party itself, Gutuzzo was understood by these figures to be too reformist and his artistic approach was similarly felt to be incapable of responding to the current reality because it did not sufficiently interrogate the visible world. The effects of his stylistic choices like collage and expressive color paralleled those of wage bargaining. Both were seen as stale and powerless to change fundamental horizons, whether visual or social. The party's response to these criticisms of Gutuzzo further aligns with the way in which the P.G.E. itself reacted to such growing internal resentment and critique by more militant Marxists. Writing for the P.G.E. newspaper Rinascita in April 1964, Alessandro del Guerccio, a young critic of roughly the same age as Blasto, tackled the charges his comrade had leveled regarding Gutuzzo's spatial logic. Other works in Gutuzzo's he argued disrupted spatial relations to a larger degree than the examples Blasto highlighted, adding that plenty of well respected artists like Giacomezzi employed somewhat traditional spatial relations without compromising their reputation as advanced artists. More broadly, del Guerccio disputed Blasto's pessimistic understanding of contemporary reality as, quote, conditioned by the power of machines and of industry, end quote. In the end, del Guerccio dismissed Blasto's reading without taking its essential claims into consideration, a stance that many figures associated with the P.G.E. adopted in light of the mounting challenges to Gutuzzo's work. A similar attitude characterized the positions of other figures close to the party during a roundtable discussion hosted by another party publication Il Contemporaneo. It is not possible to discuss that event at length here, but the conversation generally shared del Guerccio's defensive focus on refuting minor points aimed at discrediting the challenge to Gutuzzo's socially engaged aesthetics. Thus, despite the critiques advanced by the younger leftist critics, the party itself proved to be unwilling to consider whether Gutuzzo's current output successfully manifested a sufficiently developed Marxist critical awareness, and, relatedly, whether it most effectively represented current socio-historical contingencies. Such a dismissal resonated with the ways in which the P.G.E. generally refuted the ideological challenges mounted by more radically oriented thinkers, whom it pushed out without much room for debate. As a result, the leftist sphere fractured as various radical revolutionary groups such as Proteto Perayo and Lotta Continua grew in popularity. Tensions would eventually come to a head at the end of the decade during the so-called Hot Autumn of 1969, when a wave of wild cat strikes supported by these militant groups threatened to destabilize Italy's industrial production and its society more generally. Examining Gutuzzo's first retrospective reveals the ways in which geopolitical and ideological entanglements, both domestic and foreign, underpinned the construction of his legacy. The crumbling critical consensus surrounding Gutuzzo within the leftist cultural sphere mirrors the broader irreconcilable ideological fissures that developed within the Italian left during the 1960s. Moreover, the politics of the exhibition itself speak to art's entanglement with Cold War-era anxieties. From both inside and outside his party, Gutuzzo's status as a Marxist artist, along with his reputation, were far from settled. Returning to the specific debates reveals a radically contested environment that complicates any easy definition of a Marxist art within post-war Italy. Freshly elucidated, the terms of these debates reshape our understanding of the slippery relations between ideology, artistic form, and canonization. Thank you. Thank you very much, Marica. Now I want to introduce our final speaker, Zoe Koepmann from the University of Maryland. She will be speaking on dismantling the Christ face, the human and the inhuman in Henry Tonk's Faces of War, and she will be introduced by her advisor, Anthony Cuolantuono. Greetings. I'm Anthony Cuolantuono, professor and director of graduate studies in the Department of Art History and Archaeology, University of Maryland College Park. Before all else, I would like to thank the organizers of the symposium for all that they have done to create this experience for our speakers amidst the trying circumstances of the COVID-19 pandemic. This opportunity to introduce my graduate advisor, Zoe Koepmann, reminds me how privileged we are as professors as we get to know and work with the best and brightest young scholars in their formative years. I first encountered Zoe when she was not a graduate at the University of Maryland, College Park, receiving her bachelors as a double degree major in art history and psychology, summa cum laude, in 2015. In addition to teaching Zoe at College Park, I was also fortunate to have her in my education abroad course on Baroque Rome, where she stood out, both as a top performer under the very challenging conditions of study in a foreign country, and as a remarkably steady and mature presence, an example of discipline and virtue for her fellow students. As an undergraduate, Zoe had in fact emerged not only as a genuine leader among her peers in the undergraduate art history community, but also as one of the most unique and original thinkers ever to come through the program, earning numerous awards and honors upon her graduation. I'll make special mention here of the Dean's Senior Scholar Award among the other highly competitive honors. After completing her undergraduate studies, Zoe went on to do an MA in the history of art at University College London, earning her degree with distinction in November 2019. She then returned to the U.S. and entered the PhD program at the University of Maryland in fall 2020, with both a graduate assistantship and the highly competitive University-wide flagship fellowship awarded by the University's graduate school. What has struck me about Zoe's current approach to the history of art is the way that both her selection of research topics and the terms of her inquiry are guided by a unique sense of humanity and a deep empathy for the predicaments of both artist and subject, particularly in the field of portraiture. I think this will be apparent in her lecture titled Dismantling the Christ Face, the Human and the Inhuman in Henry Tock's Faces of War. Thank you. Thank you, Dr. Colom Torneau, and thank you to Dr. Katz for your introductions and all those at the Barnes for their amazing help to make this conference happen. My title, Dismantling the Christ Face, comes from a very specific theory put forth by the losing guitarie in a thousand plateaus in which they propose that the Christ Face, or the Euro-American image of Christ, is a machine that over-determines subjects' identities. So when we in Western societies are faced with another, we determine who that person is based on how much they deviate from our image of Christ as a white cis male. And Deleuze and Gattari propose art as a means of dismantling this machine, or Christ Face, offering even Francis Bacon as just one example. This presentation asks an alternative question though, what of the face not dismantled by art but by war? Working with the plastic surgeon Harold Gillies from 1916 to 1918, the artist Henry Tonks composed 75 pastels of facially wounded World War I soldiers. Along with detailed diagrams, plaster casts, and photographs, Gillies commissioned these pre and post surgical pastels for facial reconstructive purposes. As such, they are medical illustrations of individuals with distinct though disfigured physiognomies. Since the online publishing of the Tonks pastels in June 2007, the works have been exhibited at numerous locations. The Welcome Collection, University College London, and the Hunterian Museum just to name a few. Rested from their original context and left to the devices of the art world, the illustrations have been reconfigured from instructive tools to artistic portraits. Yet in the wake of this new found attention, the literature predominantly focuses on the subjectivity then inherent in such works, that of the artist, his sitters, and their new voyeurs. Their genre has also been questioned by scholars like Emma Chambers, but their definitive classification is still unresolved. Existing in a liminal sphere between art and science, the pastels challenge our preconceived art historical categories. As portraits, they invoke a sense of lost identity. As medical illustrations, they serve as aids in the reconstruction of that very loss. No matter which category though, the pastels serve as mediators, transitions between an inhuman and a human face. The works are often classified as medical portraits, but what exactly is a medical portrait? The medical portrait is to the individual disease as the portrait is to the individual body. But as medical illustrations are essentially visual images marking deviations from a standard physiology, the implication of a medical portrait is that the human body that we are viewing is a deviation from standard physiognomy and even humanity. That is, it's the very deviation from the Christ face. Using the Tonks Pastels as a case study, I aim to divulge how pathologies are transferred onto their human canvases and how this very transfer is used in medical visual resources to justify and preserve whiteness as standard physiology. Before their lives as artworks and galleries, the Tonks Pastels remained relatively removed from prying eyes. Tonks did display these slightly less than life-size illustrations on his office wall here at Sid Cup, but they're viewing from the outside world undeniably disturbed the artist. In the midst of creating his pastels in 1917, Tonks received a letter from the Ministry of Information asking to use his work as propaganda. Tonks was less than enthusiastic on the subject, stating, they are I think rather dreadful subjects for the public view. Importantly, even though they are referred to as a whole as faces of war, this title is a contemporary addition. Each pastel was its own entry with an individual function. Tonks himself classified them as technical illustrations and they later took on an archival function in Harold Gillies' Plastic Surgery of the Face. Published in 1920, Gillies book is a compendium of the plastic surgeon's work at Sid Cup, in which Gillies explains his procedures and their implications for the medical field. Drawing on medical atlases of old, Gillies employed the pastels to illustrate details the camera failed to pick up on, like in Case 8, where the illustration highlights a mucus membrane. He also used the pastels as replacements when the negatives were missing from a patient's profile, like in Case 244. On the page, these pastels are treated like any other clinical representation. Tonks' name is absent with only Gillies' curt captions of healed condition and after operation. The only indication that these were not standard practices comes in the way Gillies adamantly explains the role of Tonks and other artists in his process. Along with the pastels, Gillies commissioned wax models to help in his own understanding of the modeling of living facial tissue. The tactile quality of both wax and pastel emphasizes Gillies' own understanding of the malability of the face. However, what also becomes clear throughout the text is Gillies' lack of interest in his patients as individuals. In line with the history of medical illustrations, Gillies commissioned representations were not of men, but of their deformities. Such is evident in the case of Private Edward Palmer. Initially admitted to Cambridge Military Hospital at Aldershot on October 19, 1916, Private Palmer underwent several operations with Gillies to reconstruct his nose, lips, and portions of his upper jaw. The cause of Palmer's wound is unclear from his case description, focusing instead on the complications of his surgery and the reason for their unsatisfactory results. Gillies may have reconstructed the faces of Palmer and his fellow soldiers, but is the rheumatologist Andrew Bomjie's recent work that has restored the identities of these men. From Bomjie's research, one learns that after his discharge from Aldershot, Private Palmer served during World War II and he would live through both World Wars to the age of 86. Bomjie also provides the small, yet intimate detail that Palmer had enlisted under age by using the name and the date of birth of his older sibling who had died in infancy. Private Palmer was originally not Edward Palmer, but Herbert Palmer. When exhibited at the Hunterian Museum in 2014, Palmer's pastel displayed him with the name he had used to enlist Edward. In the context of the exhibition, the man needed a name, any name. Nevertheless, it is only through Bomjie's research that museum goers could even be made aware of either of his identities. For Gillies, he was Case 111. In following the medical paradigm since the late 18th century, Gillies largely dismisses his patients' identities. Case numbers replace names, biographical details are interspersed occasionally, but only if they relate to a particularity of a wound, not a patient. As Susanne Berenoff notes, Gillies' language is often emotionless when it comes to these disfigured faces of war. And Berenoff equates this to the ways in which British society approached the disfigured face in general. Unlike their amputee counterparts seen here who were often used in propaganda campaigns, these faces of war were relatively absent from public view. However, just because the civil sphere did not actively see the disfigured face of war, did not mean they were not aware of it. During this time, the town of Sidkup painted some of their park benches blue, designating them for those with facial deformities, not for the sake of the soldiers, but for those who might find them too distressing to behold. Across the UK, a beauty and the beast trope emerged, stories of beautiful nursemaids reviving the spirits of deformed men, wives standing by their now hideous husbands, and uninhibited children fleeing before their grotesque fathers. They all took over the collective imagination. The media's image of the soldier may have remained a youthful, Christ-like man sacrificing self-for-nation, but the image of those who's sacrifice entailed losing their representation of self par excellence. They were forced to the margins of British society and then even linked to a pathological other. In the years leading up to World War One, plastic surgery increasingly turned from mere functional repair to cosmetic adjustment. Playing to a pervasive discourse surrounding morality and aesthetics, plastic surgeons now saw it as their moral imperative to correct ugliness. Gillies was no exception. Towards the end of plastic surgery, he portrays the book's overall objectivity when he launches into a discussion of how his surgical work on war-torn soldiers will help repair deformities in the civil sphere. As he states, turning to syphilis as the principal peacetime destroyer of the nose, the author has not yet seen a case which is not amenable to the methods evolved by him during the war. The old physiognomy as syphilis was near one and the same as the new physiognomy of war. And in the chapter in which Private Palmer's case falls, injuries of the nose, this relationship is divulged much less objectively. The distinct syphilitic pug nose as Gillies goes on to describe it could also be summed up by the French in their saying, before he was horrible, now he is ridiculous. During World War One, syphilis was still an incurable disease associated with moral degeneration, especially that of the prostitute. Within the collective imagination, a damaged face was not only a grotesque face to flee from, but it was also the face of aberrant sexuality. Unlike Private Palmer's wound and its close affiliations with syphilis, Private Smith's injury is minimal in comparison. Yet Tonks' approaches for the pre- and post-illustrations of such a small surgery only serve to amplify their transitory state. In Private Smith's before image, the light falls on the side of his chin, highlighting the area of subject, the damaged jaw. Shot during a campaign in Mesopotamia, Private Smith was sent to elder shot where his lip was reunited and he was given a dental prosthesis. Surgery still afresh, his after-image is strikingly similar to his before. Still, there is a critical difference. The light no longer falls purely on the wound, but equally over the entire face. The artist's touch emphasizes this shift in attention too, whereas the first drawing is composed of smudged gradations of reds and browns with only clear delineation around the wound itself. The second outlines the whole face in black. Effectively, the post-surgical image takes that which was little defined in its pre-surgical incarnation and solidifies it, making the entire face a stable and permanent whole. This fixidity imparted within such an ephemeral medium is amplified when we examine yet another portrait of a soldier with a wounded jaw. Along with the rest of the pastels, Tonks drew Case 906 in 1917. His file details that the subject had returned to Nigeria fitted with a temporary prosthesis. Though the man had already undergone several surgeries, having lost the totality of his lower jaw, Gilly scheduled several more upon the patient's return. However, there is no record that the man ever did. The archive is only left with his pre-surgical portrait and photographs, and Case 906 is also missing from Gilly's compendium, classic surgery of the face. Moreover, the archive has not yet updated Banji's rediscovery of this man's identity. Known only as head of a Negro in UCL art collections, Case 906 is actually Private Williams. In contrast to Private Deeks, whose damaged jaw is clearly delineated and defined, Private Williams' wound completely blends into his neck and skin. The lips and sides of his face outlined in that same hard black charcoal hardly give detail to the man's deformity. Even the red of his mouth is perplexingly vacant of substance. Where the tongue should meet the deformed chin, there is simply a smudge of brown that extends down the patient's neck. The same attention that is given to the patient's side, where the deformity seems to begin, is lacking when it comes to its most important feature, the missing lower jaw. Here the photographs of the case do more to describe the detail of the sitter's features. The pastel for all its transience imparts that the deformity and the patient's skin are one. This revelation is not to say that Tonks intended the sparseness simply because Private Williams was black. However, it is reasonable to propose that Tonks, as a draftsman that mainly studied white bodies, did not have the same approach when it came to sitting and confronting a black patient. This is not just a failing of Tonks' education, but the entire medical field. The troubling erasure of black and brown bodies for medical visual resources is all the more disturbing with the knowledge that generally those bodies dissected in the name of Western medicine were not white. A lithograph of a black man's dissected torso shown here serves as a rare example of this reality. Standard medical illustrations of tranquil white subjects truncated to display inner physiology are neither human nor inhuman, but a liminal being existing between the two. What Richard Barnett proposes as the abhuman. And this is a preferable term, as the abhuman here implies that the subject is not entirely inhuman, but in transition to becoming such. This abhuman quality is even emphasized by the medium of pastels, which preserves this transitory state through its own impermanence. As abhuman or transitory, there is an implication that these men may transform back into their former identities through the use of surgical operation, that is for the white soldier. The same cannot be definitively said for Private Williams. Again unlike with Private Deeks, where the eye constantly transfers between the exterior face and the interior body, with Private Williams the viewer is left only with the soldier's mangled exterior. Here the face is no longer in transition, it is no longer abhuman, but has fully crossed into the domain of the inhuman, fixed into a state of pathology for its extreme deviation from the prescribed standard of all medical portraits. The Christ Face. When met with medical portraits the likes of Henry Tonks's pastels of wounded soldiers, the impulse is to repair the surface, re-territorialize that which has been de-territorialized from a body back into a face. To put plainly, we attempt to transform the figures before us from objects or medical illustrations to subjects or portraits. The mangled face of war though deemed initially grotesque and inappropriate for public view was seen as nevertheless a rectifiable trait or rather a trait that could be surgically repaired through medicine. Whilst the white pastels become portraits of men with clearly defined individual characteristics and identities, Private Williams remains an illustration where the body and the surface still mingle as one. And as with other medical illustrations depicting deformity on a human surface, the body is also rendered as if the pathology and the person are one. Acting as a counter to the rest of the series, Private Williams draws attention to the value we place on the surface and the construction of identity. If we were to reverse this relationship and show the interior and the exterior as one on the white body and face, the absurdity of conveying one's skin as wound is exposed. The face and the body are of course not one. If anything Tonks pastels prove that what is inhuman is not the grotesque face nor certainly the black soldier but the trauma imposed upon all these men. These disfigured faces of war render visible that which lies beyond the surface of the face. It's secret. The secret is that there is no secret. The grotesque or the other may manifest on the exterior of the body but is only skin deep. Thank you. Thank you very much and now we're going to sort of engage in a series of conversations, questions about the papers and what I'm going to hope to do is sort of kick things off with some questions for each of you and then we're going to open it up to a general audience questioning. So I want to begin with a question for Marika. Specifically concerning the idea of the easel-scaled painting and it's one would presume rather ironic relationship as a medium of Marxist ideology given its long history as a commodity form and how that was negotiated. That's a great question and it's sort of a strange dualism in Goutouza's work because he is at once in the 50s at least producing these kind of large tableaus that have these scenes that are close to what the party is very interested in and at the same time he's also on the market selling these large and small sort of easel type paintings that are clearly like you said functioning as commodities and it's quite interesting in the 60s he's also profiled in sort of mass media publications and described as sort of one of the funny headlines that I read one time in an archive was Goutouza and a communist artist that is that is liked by the bourgeoisie which kind of tells you sort of this interesting dynamic and in the fact that he's both producing for the party he's sort of ideologically loaded paintings and also producing small portraits and things that don't have that much overtly to do with the the sort of ideological tenor of his work and the exhibition itself had that fully on display that was a contradiction that some younger commentators obviously you know seized upon but these sort of people closer to the party chose to sort of gloss over this sort of very evident contradiction and thank you for pointing that out it's a sort of kind of both there at the same time and lots to think about and what would have been the case that all of the realists were sort of bigger than easel painting scale that were they were more mural scale and thus more public or he made some of those images smaller he did he they were most of them were quite large but he also made a series of drawings that were very close to that a lot of anti-fascist symbolism that were then sort of published as artist books and the party sort of republished them to be bought by you know people who who wanted to and also subscribers to party publications so he also did do sort of smaller format more ideologically loaded works mainly I'd say for for large scale distribution with drawings and prints and then a few paintings as well but the that the realist paintings are sort of these large tableau like paintings like you said very large scale history type paintings thank you so I wanted to ask Hannah about the contiguity between the very specific project you described and the larger Nazi investment in taxonomy and classification and to ask whether you understand this project in some as a notification if you will uh inherently that seem to be sort of wanting to come out but never quite explicitly pressed in the paper a notification of the German landscape itself yeah no um it's a very good question uh I think that I mean this is I had tried to convey in this it's a complex book and there's really it's really sort of a bridge book between the his Weimar era practice and this new or sort of this emergent cultural visual landscape which was still like very much in flux which didn't really get into in the especially in the early 1930s when they come or the after 1933 when they come to power um I think it's a really I think it's a hard question I don't think that this is necessarily I don't think this volume is not to find the German landscape but I think that it's hard to produce a cultural landscape during this period that doesn't have certain undertones to it especially in the way that this is sort of presenting this idyllic view of Germany which was such an important aspect of propaganda to sort of see Germany as like harmonious and happy and complete but you know there is a big difference between how he treats his subjects and focusing on class instead of Germans as one unified Volksgemeinschaft which is the negation of class and profession instead of seeing Germany as one sort of group so I think that that difference in class is very important in distinguishing it from projects that were really focused on sort of creating this not to find landscape but something that I'm interested in and this is just about the first volume is how Sander kind of changes over the course of this the books especially when he comes into greater dialogue with figures like Ludwig Matar who I mentioned and how he comes to see the landscape in a more sort of essentialized way and the farmer as a more essentialized figure so I think certainly when you look over the course of the series you can see that the first one is very much like dealing with Weimar era ideas of the landscape but still especially with the Eiffelverein complicated in terms of its relationship to propaganda in the regime great thank you so Zoe I wanted to ask you about about contemporaneous developments in the avant-garde at the time of Tonks' painting and because Tonks was himself a professor of art to what extent do you think there is either an implicit commentary on the facial deformities of the avant-garde which I'm presuming by the time he did these works he would have been able to find in the UK and if not that then is there any kind of self-consciousness on his part at the sort of formal symmetry going on between these two very very different morally and and of course formally distinct works thank you Dr Katz yeah that's a great question I can't really answer the abstract part I have read some of his correspondences with others while he was working on these pastels and he was interested in not just conveying realistically or naturally rather these individuals as he was facing them and encountering them in a in that very intimate situation of making a portrait of someone uh he also talks about the aesthetics of them and kind of the beauty of sculpting the face and he compares a lot of these sitters actually with Greek sculptures and talks about some of those with like Edward Palmer who has our missing noses he compares that to fragmented bodies and our seeing of Roman busts without noses and how we are when we're confronted with those images it's we don't have the same response and that equation of the disfigured face with the sculpted face is just very interesting the way that Tonks is very is extremely empathetic towards these men's situations thank you um so we're open now to uh questions from the audience I don't see any yet so I will take advantage of and ask another question but uh should they come in please please do so soon um so um Marika I also wanted to ask you about the relationship in Italy to popular front politics such a big thing in the United States it was the cause for huge debates within the left-wing world and especially the popular front idea that a self-critical art was in fact the way to prevent the excesses of Stalinism and um and safeguard the purity of a true revolution it's a it's quite a complex uh debate that's that's had in the Italian Communist Party at the time because uh Toliatti is in fact quite close to Stalin and Stalin asks him to be the head of the common form and he declines um but he is you know in close contact with Stalin for you know the entirety of his life basically and he's also in exile in Russia during the war so he he has to sort of walk a very fine line between uh you know being close to a very soviet line and being kind of openly close to what the what the soviets are saying and also uh realizing that in Italy um any type of socialist agenda has to be very very reformist and parliamentarian and uh transitional in a very democratic way and he he calls it the the third way the terza via socialismo so um it's it's a quite contradictory situation that he finds himself in and even after 1956 publicly he's always on the side of Stalin and he says you know you stay by your side even when that side makes a mistake and he sort of does not really give in to uh any type of on the culture side any type of revisionism of any type of concepts that are not socialist realism in in literature and in art even when it's very clear that the artists themselves are not very interested in in doing any of that and the public is also not reacting so well and they sort of perceive it as kind of a uh a very strong you know pressure on artistic creativity so it's a debate that is not very much present in in the central committee within the party and it it is very obviously present outside in artists who choose to either leave the party and you know join more militant uh positions or artists who are just isolated at the time during the 1950s who really feel like they want to you know remain ideologically connected to the party but feel completely isolated from what uh the party is saying and it's not really until the end of the 1950s which is also when we see Guttuzel kind of backtrack and say okay you know this didn't this wasn't really working and we need to kind of think about a new type of cultural expression but but again even even Guttuzel never really goes as far as to say you know let's let's rethink everything and do something totally experimental it's it's always exactly thank you um and uh and Hannah I wanted to ask uh you know if you feel that there was a misreading of um Zander's earlier work by Nazi officials in the act of the initial commission which is to say that they took his famous uh taxonomic project and understood it in line with their own ideology as opposed to his understanding of class and social differential yeah well I think that this right I mean it was really well I oh so like I think are you referring to the section where um they approve that the Nazi that they um write the literature chamber sorry approves the commission for the works is that what you're asking specifically whether in approving the works they were looking at his earlier work and saw him as a kind of proto-nazi in his excavation of the Deutsche Volk yeah okay no very interesting question yeah I think that I think that that question really brings up an important point about sort of the reception of Zander and how we've come to understand face of our time the famous book as this very um anti-nazi book because it shows these parts of German society that were um were not approved of by the new regime but really the idea that that book was so at odds with the regime isn't very accurate even though it was um censored in 1936 which I think was probably because of the introduction that was written by a Jewish author Alfred Dublien so I think that there wasn't the understanding of Sander and his work as at odds with someone who could continue to create a project um that was in line with the regime and so I think that I don't know I don't necessarily believe that there was a reading of face of our time as explicitly in line with sort of these racial ideas but I do think that there was not a sense in which there was that he couldn't adapt his work and his practice to something that was more appropriate which essentially is what the um landscape series is so I think that there was a clear difference between the racialized books and ideas of the Nazi period but face of our time in Sander's practice is not um as at odds or as alarming as we maybe think of it now um and and has it's been received since um you know in recent times. Thank you very much. Yeah we have an we have an audience question um and this is Elliot for Zoe and hi Zoe I'm I'm just a little familiar with photographs of deformity and I'm thinking about just how much more abrupt or confronting Tonks pastels were could you talk about both the work's relationship to photography and to his use of bright colors. Yeah that's a great question and I hope I'm interpreting it correctly um definitely when you're faced with the pastels to different experience entirely than with the photographs not just in terms of the tactility but as you mentioned with color the pastel and color forces you to confront the interior in ways you do not have in a black and white photograph so almost obviously we are able to see beyond the skin to the bodily fluids to um the muscular beneath in ways that is really like I said it confronts you because of that color it's really potent and this brings into question ideas of the abject and how we not just our understanding of the face being disfigured but also our understanding that what we are looking at is also beneath our skin and so I definitely agree with you that there's a relationship there that's it's hard for a lot of people to look at but I think that what it's worth looking at these pastels and in some ways I think the pastels almost honor these individuals in ways that the photographs do not. Photographs are often very in especially medical photographs are always in this sort of perspective that we need to cure the individual that we're looking at a specimen and there's something about the pastels because they're so affiliated with portraiture and they have that color and that vibrancy and that ephemeral quality of pastel that seeing these men in conditions of portraiture we link them as individuals and not just specimens um all right let me see if I have that's really well we don't have more questions from the audience so I think we're going to call it a day and and I'd like now to introduce uh Martha Lucy with some cool. Hi everybody um thank you so much for joining us today um it has been a really stimulating day thank you so much to all of our students um for nine excellent papers thank you so much to our moderators Jonathan Katz and Carl Walsh thank you to all the advisors for you know guiding these students and for your lovely introductions thank you to our amazing AV team Gillian Thomas Stephen Frank thank you to Aliyah and finally thank you to our co-organizing institutions Temple Brynmar and the University of Pennsylvania next year when we do this we will hopefully all be in person but I think we did a good job of adapting this year so um everybody have a very good weekend and over and out