Carcosa, Aldebaran, the Hyades, Hastur, and Other Terms from Chamber's The King In Yellow

Aldebaran (orange star, top left) amongst the Hyades and the Pleiades (blue cluster, right)

The first time I learned of Robert W. Chambers was while reading Lovecraft's essay Supernatural Horror in Literature about three years ago. I then learned that Chambers was one of Lovecraft's inspirations, but I did not really pay Chambers much attention until — like so many others, I imagine — I watched HBO's True Detective Season One, which makes a number of references to Chambers' iconic book, The King in Yellow: e.g. use of terms like Carcosa, the Yellow King, the sign, and saying things like, "Take off your mask."

Now, there is no real need to get into how True Detective uses these terms, names, and phrases in connection with The King in Yellow, as there are plenty of other blogs and forums that have tackled this fairly well. I, however, am concerned and wish to discuss what all those strange, vague, and ambiguous terms and names are in The King in Yellow — e.g. the King in Yellow, the Pallid Mask, the Yellow Sign, Carcosa, Hastur, the Lake of Hali, the Hyades, and Aldebaran — and attempt to define and describe them within the vague usage of those terms in the book. There definitions and meanings are strictly my own, and given with the utmost in-depthness and detail so far as I have been able to determine their meaning.

But firstly, a brief description of the book is in order. The King in Yellow is a series of ten short stories, the first four of which revolve around a fictitious play called The King in Yellow; the fifth story is a romantic supernatural tale (romantic in the sense of an amorous tale, and not in the same sense as Romantic fiction, though Chambers certainly is a preeminent Romantic writer); the sixth chapter is a set of eight whimsical and bizarre short prose writings; the last four stories are not like the standard Romantic horror fiction common of Chamber's early career or like the first four stories of The King in Yellow, but rather amorous Romantic writings that became common in Chamber's later career. But those strange terms that are iconic to The King in Yellow — and would later become a gold mine to other horror writers like H. P. Lovecraft, August Derleth, Stephen King, Donald Wandrei, et cetera who would use those terms — are only featured in the first four stories, with the exception of the name Hastur that is used in the fifth tale. So now to address those bizarre and vague terms and names, their usage, and probable definitions.

The King in Yellow refers to both a fictional play that drives its readers mad when they read it and a terrifying king in the play. The first story (The Repairer of Reputations) of Chamber's book is the one with the most information on the play: when the mad writer, whose name is not given, published the play it "spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent"; numerous governments and countries banned and confiscated copies of it, and was denounced by a number of media presses and "pulpits" (Repairer, I). Later it is rumored that the author killed himself, but at the same time it is said that he is still alive (Repairer, III). It is also regarded as book of great and monstrous truth: "I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth..." (Repairer, I); "...words understood by the ignorant and wise alike, words which are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, more awful than death!" (The Yellow Sign, III). The play, which is composed of two acts, is written is such a way that the first act leaves the reader uneasy and disturbed; once the reader begins the second act he or she cannot put the book down, and is driven insane (Repairer, I; The Mask, III; The Yellow Sign, III). The King in Yellow himself is described as powerful ("He is a king whom emperors have served," Repairer, II), possibly cruel ("...that bitter cry of Cassilda, 'Not upon us, oh King, not upon us!'" Mask, III), wears tattered clothes ("Where flap the tatters of the King" Cassilda's Song, preface poem; "...wrapped in the fantastic colours of his tattered mantle... ...like the scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow." The Mask, III; "...for  I knew that the King in Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and there was only God to cry to now." The Yellow Sign, III), and blasphemous ("...I heard the King in Yellow whispering to my soul: 'It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!'" In the Court of the Dragon). It is possible that the King in Yellow is not the rightful and lawful king of Carcosa, but we will return this possibility in the section on Hastur.

The Pallid Mask is a sickly, pale-white mask mentioned several times, and is worn by King in Yellow: Hildred Castaigne, the insane protagonist of The Repairer of Reputations, believes he is the successor to the throne — presumably of the throne of the King in Yellow — and claims "The city, the state, the whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the Pallid Mask" (Repairer, III). Again in The Mask: "...I thought of the King in Yellow and the Pallid Mask" (Mask, III); and again in The Yellow Sign: "...but still we murmured to each other of the King and the Pallid Mask..." (Yellow Sign, III).

The Yellow Sign is the mark of the King in Yellow, and is probably worn on his tattered robes — Mr. Castaigne in The Repairer or Reputations puts on articles of clothing that he believes are royal articles, but in fact are rubbish, one of which is a "white silk robe, embroidered with the Yellow Sign" (Repairer, III). It seems anyone who receives the Yellow Sign is maddened and enslaved to the King in Yellow: "...every man whose name was there [in a ledger] had received the Yellow Sign which no living human being dared disregard (Repairer, III). It also appears to be a mark or symbol that is not of any known language: "... a clasp of black onyx, on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any human script" (The Yellow Sign, II). It appears to be a symbol that is both valued and greatly feared by all who gaze upon it: in The Repairer of Reputations Castaigne hands a beggar a piece of paper with the Yellow sign on it, and the beggar "folded it with what seemed to me exaggerated care and placed it in his bosom" (Repairer, III), but remember Castaigne is mad; in The Yellow Sign Mr. Scott and Tessie argue over discarding the Yellow Sign on the onyx piece, but Mr. Scott cannot bring himself to do so, and a man that has been terrifying the two — in their dreams and waking life — is coming for the Yellow Sign. But at the same time it seems the Yellow sign is meaningless to some — presumable those who have no read The King in Yellow — such as Castaigne's cousin, Louis, who "flung the paper marked with the Yellow Sign to the ground" (Repairer, III).

Carcosa is a city that is ruled by the King in Yellow, and resides along the shores of a lake called the Lake of Hali. Descriptions of the city are few and vague, but those given paint the city as being surreal and dark: "The twin suns sink behind the lake, / The shadows lengthen / In Carcosa. / Strange is the night where black stars rise, / And strange moons circle through the skies, / But stranger still is / Lost Carcosa. / ... Dim Carcosa" (Cassilda's Song, preface poem); "Carcosa where black stars hang in the heavens; where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the Lake of Hali" (Repairer, I: — essentially a dark city where shadows lengthen in the afternoon, as opposed to shorten); "...the dim streets of Carcosa" (Repairer, III); "...the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa..." (Repairer, III); "...I saw the towers of Carcosa behind the moon" (Mask, III — essentially the surreal city has towers that are so tall they are seen behind the moon or moons); "...the towers of Carcosa rose behind the moon" (Court of the Dragon). Chambers actually borrows the name Carcosa from a short story written by Ambrose Bierce entitled The Inhabitant of Carcosa. Bierce probably derived the name Carcosa from a medieval city in southern France called Carcassone (or Carsac by the town's ancient Celtic inhabitants, and later Carcaso in Latin when the Romans turned it into a trading post). There is essentially no connection between Chambers' use of Carcosa and Bierce's, other than that Chambers probably just liked the name.

Hastur appears to be either a person or a city in the vague context of the play The King in Yellow, though the name Hastur is used as the name of a person in another one of the short stories, The Demoiselle D'Ys (part I), in book The King in Yellow that is actually completely irrelevant to the first four stories that center around that insane play. My opinion is divided as to whether Hastur is a person or a place, as the references to Hastur are extraordinarily vague. Chambers borrows the name Hastur from another short story by Bierce, Haita the Shepherd; Hastur being a benevolent deity of shepherds. In The Yellow Sign Hastur is mentioned with another person: "We spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda..." (Yellow Sign, III). In The Mask Hastur is simply mentioned among a list of places and objects: "Aldebaran, the Hyades, Alar [unknown what exactly Alar is], Hastur..." (Mask, III). It is in The Repairer of Reputations that much can be gathered to speculate on what Hastur is. It is my opinion that Hastur is some sort of rival to the King in Yellow, who may not be the rightful king of Carcosa. Hildred Castaigne, the insane protagonist, identifies with Hastur in his madness: "...I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition..." (Repairer, III). Mr. Castaigne often parades in private wearing a crown he believes is made of gold and inlaid with jewels, but his cousin, Louis, tells him it is only made of brass, along with a silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign (Repaier, III). He also comes to believe his cousin to be a king — presumably the King in Yellow — and demands Louis renounce the crown to him (Repairer, III). Castaigne also has an unhealthy obsession with a book called The Imperial Dynasty of America, written by an equally insane friend of his, Mr. Wilde, who is the repairer of reputations (Repairer, II). If Hastur is some sort of rival to the King in Yellow, and if the King in Yellow does not rightfully rule Carcosa, then Hastur might also be a descendant of one of Carcosa's ancient dynasties or imperial families: "He mentioned the establishment of the Dynasty in Carcosa... the King in Yellow must hide Yhtill forever... the Imperial family, to Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of Truth, to Aldones, and then... he began the wonderful story of the Last King" (Repairer, III). He will later refer to himself as "the son of Hastur" and then call himself "Hildred-Rex (Repairer, III). When he reaches the pinnacle of his madness, Mr. Castaigne says: "At last I was King, King by my right in Hastur, King because I knew the mystery of the Hyades" (Repairer, III). It is this last example in which Hastur might be viewed as a city (given the use of the preposition in), possibly a rival city that opposes the King in Yellow. Though doubtful, I have speculated to myself that Hastur could be the name of the planet that Carcosa resides upon: "...the lakes which connected Hastur, Aldebaran and the mystery of the Hyades" (Repairer, III) — Aldebaran being a star, the Hyades being a star cluster, and the "lakes" being the space between those stars, perhaps Hastur is a planet orbiting two of these stars (remember there are "twin suns" which sink into the Lake of Hali). Hastur could also very easily be the name of a person, a city, and planet simultaneous (I'm certain there is at least one person named Charles lives in Charleston; or the fact there exists simultaneously the goddess Athena, Athens in Greece, and Athens in Georgia). All of this is my own conjecture and interpretation; certainly Hastur is one of the more vague names given in The King in Yellow.

The Lake of Hali is simply a lake which Carcosa resides next to. There is not much more to it than that. It appears from previous descriptions cited in the portion on Carcosa that the twin suns that set over the Lake of Hali are seen from the shores next to Carcosa. I imagine the Lake of Hali experiences typical whether patterns we experience on Earth, as it is mentioned as being still and calm in part III of The Mask ("...I saw the Lake of Hali, thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to stir it..."), and as windy in The Court of the Dragon ("...the wet winds from the Lake of Hali chilled my face."), and a bit more dramatic in part III of The Yellow Sign ("...the cloud waves roll and break on the shores of Hali." — similar to the preface poem). It's pretty straight forward. The name Hali is another name borrowed from Bierce's An Inhabitant of Carcosa; Hali being a fictitious author, an excerpt of whose work is given in the preface, and whom the protagonist comes to contemplate.

The Hyades are cluster of stars in the constellation of Taurus. They are the nearest cluster of stars to Earth, as are they one of the most easiest cluster of stars to view with the naked eye. There is another nearby cluster of stars called the Pleiades, which are mythologically related to the Hyades. In Greek mythology the Hyades are sisters whose number varies; they are rain nymphs, and are the children of Atlas and Pleione (or Aethra). Atlas had seven daughters (also nymphs) with Pleione; they are represented as the other nearby star cluster, the Pleiades. Chambers makes several mentions of the Hyades in The Repairer of Reputations, The Mask, and The Yellow Sign. It seems that the planet Carcosa resides upon orbits a set of binary suns either in the Hyades or in close proximity to them. It is possible that the Hyades are the "dark stars" regularly mentioned hanging over Carcosa. There are two mentions of what is called the mystery of the Hyades in part III of The Repairer of Reputations and part III of The Yellow Sign; exactly what is the mystery of the Hyades is rather vague and mysterious in its own right. Exactly why Chambers uses the Hyades in The King in Yellow is a bit of mystery: perhaps he liked the star cluster as I like the Pleiades (they are my favorite constellation); perhaps he liked the name. There could be an astrological significance — when the sun rises in the constellation of Taurus (April) it is spring time, a time of renewal and birth, but this esoteric association would be irrelevant to one lives on a planet that resides amongst the Hyades themselves — but this too is extraordinarily speculative.

Aldebaran is a red giant star in the constellation of Taurus, and appears to be amongst the Hyades, but is actually not apart of that star cluster. The name Aldebaran comes from the Arabic, Al-Dabarān, meaning "the follower" (i.e. follower of the Pleiades — perhaps because it appears to follow the Pleiades across the night sky as the Earth revolves). Chambers makes several mentions of Aldebaran in The Repairer of Reputations, The Mask, and The Yellow Sign. It is possible the planet Carcosa resides upon orbits Aldebaran, but this is doubtful given that the planet has twin suns, and Aldebaran does not have another star in its orbit. Exactly why Chambers uses Aldebaran is as mysterious as his use of the Hyades; if the planet is in the Hyades, then Aldebaran would not hold a prominent position in the sky, as it would be significantly dimmer than it is to us on Earth (Aldebaran is about 65 light years from earth and about 90 light years from the Hyades; and as to whether or not Chambers knew this, or even cared for that matter, is unknown). It is possible that, like the Hyades, he might have just liked that star and its name.

There are, of course, other names and terms Chambers uses in The King in Yellow that are vague and mysterious; so much so that it is difficult to know what to make of them. There are two female characters in the play The King in Yellow, Cassilda and Camilla, but very little is known about them: Cassilda has a song, which is given in the preface poem; Camilla screams in the streets of Carcosa (Repairer, III); Cassilda pleads with the King in Yellow (Mask, III)... that's about it for those two. Part III of The Repairer of Reputations gives a number of names that appear to be imperial families (e.g. Uoht, Thale, Naotalba, Aldones), as well as a few others that are too vague to comment in any depth: Demhe, which appears to be some sort abyss or lake ("...sounded the cloudy depths of Demhe..." — compare to "...sounded the depths of the Lake of Hali."); Yhtill, which is possibly a place of exile or banishment ("...the King in Yellow must hide Yhtill forever..."; the Phantom of Truth, which is mentioned with the imperial families, but who or what it is is too vague. Then there is Alar, which is mentioned in part III of The Mask with Aldebaran, the Hyades, and Hastur, but as to what is Alar is indecipherable.

In short, the King in Yellow, who wears the Pallid Mask and bears the Yellow Sign, rules in a city called Carcosa, which is on the shores of the Lake of Hali. The King in Yellow has an enemy named Hastur, who is either a person or a city or both. Carcosa and and the Lake of Hali reside on a planet that orbits a binary star system in the star cluster in the Hyades, or possibly, though less likely, the red giant Aldebaran.

That about sums up the mysterious names and terms in The King in Yellow.

Further Reading:

Bierce, Ambrose. Can Such Things Be? 1886.

Chambers, Robert W. The King in Yellow. 1895.

Overturning Architecture: Douglas Darden's Frontispiece, Lequeu, Duchamp, Piranesi, and Melville

Frontispiece to Douglas Darden's Condemned Building

About four years ago I first introduced to Douglas Darden's "Oxygen House", a theoretical design of his for a man to die in. I did not think much of Darden at the time, but a couple of years later I was privileged to have met and taken several classes with Peter Schneider, former curator of Darden's work, at UC Denver. Through Peter I was fortunate to be able to look at some of Darden's original sketches for his unpublished but completed "immodest proposal" for Sex Shop (omitted from his book Condemned Building for its controversial subject matter) and another unpublished design called Killing Mountain.

Very little has been written about Darden, though he is very well known in certain architecture circles. I personally have only ever been able to gather fragments of his biographical details, so I suppose I should write the very little that I actually know about the man: Douglas Darden was born in October 1951 in Denver, Colorado. He graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Colorado at Boulder in 1974 with a degree in English and psychology. He attended Parsons School of Design in New York City for two years before studying architecture at Harvard Graduate School of Design from 1979 to 1983. Darden's final year at the GSD he took a studio with Stanley Tigerman, whose idiosyncratic approach to architecture and architectural criticism would greatly influence Darden. Shortly thereafter Darden returned to Colorado to teach at the University of Colorado. The Director of Graduate Studies at UCD's College of Architecture and Planning, my former professor, Peter Schneider, was the one who hired Darden. Peter once told me that Darden had sent his resume to him, which was typed on an old typewriter — Peter said he thought this was so cheesy that he discarded it; Darden later came by Peter's office to speak with him, showed him a single graphite drawing he had done, and Peter was so impressed by that one drawing that he hired him on the spot to teach media and drawing. Darden was — from what Peter has told me about the man — eccentric and intense, to say the least. Darden apparently would wear sets of primary colored suits, i.e. one day of the week he would wear a primary blue shirt, blue tie, blue jacket, belt, slacks, shoes, and socks, and all the exact same hue of blue, and then the next day it would be the same thing but this time yellow, then the next day red, et cetera. But his level of intensity is both something to admire and to abhor: Darden would never assign the same studio project twice; between semesters he would think up a new project, then spend two weeks working and refining and finalizing his design proposal for his project, and if he could not do it in two or three weeks, then he would not assign it to his students to complete in eighteen weeks. He would usually work on the project again or work on a side-project of his with his students each semester. But his studios were so work-intensive and controversial that some students' physicians would sternly suggest they drop Darden's studio — that is correct: his classes were physically and mentally detrimental to students' health. Some studio projects were controversial and dark: for instance one project was to design a hospice, a place to die in, and the one-week warm-up project was to design one's own grave or crypt; another project, Killing Mountain, was to design a structure for Jewish priests to sacrifice cattle per Old Testament prescriptions and rites (pictured below). His personal intensity went well beyond academics, art, and teaching. In 1991 Darden was diagnosed with lymphoblastic leukemia. Peter told me in one our talks about Darden that Darden, being Darden, took up exercises and activities that would increase his white blood cell count, namely snowboarding (something he had never done before) and tennis (also something he had never done before). When he started snowboarding he did not just start with the bunny hills; no, he had to start with some of steepest and more dangerous slopes he could find in Colorado. He once broke several bones in his body — practically broke his body — when he ran into a tree. Darden was more intense with tennis than he was with snowboarding. He practice everyday for a year straight, and the next year he entered and won nearly every amateur tennis match he could find in the state of Colorado. That is the intensity that was Doug Darden. In 1988 Darden was awarded the Prize for Architecture from the American Academy of Rome. In 1993 he published his defining work: Condemned Building (dedicated to his parents and Standley Tigerman), a book of ten theoretical architectural proposals, including his infamous "Oxygen House". Over the course of five years of battling leukemia, undergoing chemotherapy, going into remission, then the disease coming back, Darden remained as intense as ever in his work. This is not to say he never rested; he was a apparently a well rested man. I have read that when he would fly somewhere for a lecture or exhibition of his work, he requested a day to rest, as traveling took a lot out of him. Ultimately the leukemia his life in April 1996. He was 44 years old.

Working drawing for studio project, Killing Mountain, Red Rocks, Colorado

There is a long tradition in literature have a frontispiece that artistically illustrates the book in a single image. Giambattista Vico's New Science has a fantastic frontispiece that is heavily symbolic and sums up New Science in a single image. I personally feel that a frontispiece should stand on its own, and Vico felt compelled to give a lengthy explanation of every last object in his frontispiece, which I regard as not only redundant, but unnecessary. A well known frontispiece that stands on its own is the primitive hut frontispiece to Marc-Antonie Laugier's Essay on Architecture. But I must admit that Darden's frontispiece to Condemned Building not only stands on its own, but is immensely rich, enigmatic, and a personal favorite of mine (I personally have a copy of it printed out and hanging up on my wall over my computer where I am typing this). It is this frontispiece that I would like to dedicate this post to: how it encompasses Darden's ideas, how it represents the book it prefaces, and some of inspirations and homages Darden alludes to in its rendering.

Il Est Libre, ink wash rendering by Lequeu

Firstly, Darden was inspired by one of the strangest architects in the history of architecture: Jean-Jacques Lequeu. If Lequeu had to be summed up in a single word, that word would be: insnane. Not much is known about Lequeu: we know he gave up on becoming a professional architect after the French Revolution, and therefore he never built anything, and instead became a draftsman for various government offices, and spent his spare time and the latter part of his nomadic life producing a portfolio of architectural designs for a work entitled Architecture Civile, along with a number anatomical and pornographic drawings. He spent many of his latter days living in a brothel. He was probably deranged and neurotic, and that is greatly reflected in his work, especially his self-portraits.

Lequeu with breasts dressed in women's clothing

One of Lequeu's greatest renderings, Il Est Libre, an ink wash rendering, depicts what appears to be a woman — who is in fact Lequeu with breasts — lying in an archway. This is actually one of my favorite images, as I feel it speaks more to architecture than most buildings. There are two reasons we know this is Lequeu with breasts: firstly, the text written below the lintel between the heads reads: ιλ εςτ λιβρε, which is really il est libre ("he is free") transliterated into Greek letters. Secondly, Lequeu was probably a crossdresser, or at least he liked to draw himself with breasts and in women's clothing from time to time.

To say Darden was inspired by Lequeu is, in my opinion, a bit of an understatement. Peter Schneider was the one who introduced me to Lequeu, and when I went to the library to peruse the book Lequeu: An Architectural Enigma, Peter saw that I had checked it out, and asked if it was the copy Darden had drawn in. Apparently an old copy of Lequeu was in the Auraria Library that Darden would regularly check-out and write and draw in. Sadly the resource librarian of the rare and antique books collection and I never located this copy, but we did find a 19th Century copy of Paradise Lost that was Darden's.

Il Est Libre turned sideways; Duchamp's Fountain, a urinal turned on its side

Duchamp holding his Water Mill within Glider

Darden makes two significant homages to Lequeu's work in the frontispiece of Condemned Building: firstly, Darden takes the archway of Il Est Libre and turns it sideways (like Marcel Duchamp's Fountain, a urinal turned on its side; Duchamp being another influence to Darden) — possibly so that the archway looks like the letter D (it was not uncommon for Darden to work the letter D, and even DD, into his drawings and writings as a reference to his name). At the same time the turning of the archway is probably a simultaneous homage to Duchamp's Water Mill within Glider, a photograph made by Duchamp of himself holding a piece of framed glass with an image of a water mill on the glass; the sculpture itself is supposed to mount onto a wall, but the print of Duchamp holding the sculpture is supposed to be turned ninety-degrees counterclockwise. Darden is simply turning over what Duchamp had already turned over (i.e. normalizing the image)..

The turning of the arch sideways is emblematic of the primary ideological motive of Condemned Building, namely to invert, and "turning over" architectural ideas to examine and understand what truly makes architecture Architecture (with a capital A). This can best be understood with the turtle shells in the frontispiece: the top turtle shell is fixed to a set of cables and is showing its underbelly, while the turtle shell that is hanging from a single cable from the upside-down turtle is showing its topside. The imagery of the turtles is explained in a prose writing of Darden's given on the Contents page:

I am inclined while watching the
turtle to turn it over and study its
underbelly. From this unnatural
position I see how this platonically
solid creature makes its way
through the world.

Dweller by the Dark Stream

The theme of overturning is taken further with the overturning of gender: as mentioned, Lequeu would often depict himself in drag and with breasts; likewise, Darden depicts himself with breasts in his frontispiece, but with that other great homage to Lequeu, namely Darden directly copies Lequeu's ink wash Et Nous Aussi Nous Serons Meres, Car.........! ("And We May Also Be Mothers, Because.........!") — in which a nun is depicted lifting up her habit to reveal her breasts — but with Darden's face imposed upon the nun's body. It is not unlike Duchamp's quasi-alter ego in which Duchamp dresses up as a woman and calls himself Rrose Sélavy (a pun, which sounds like Eros, c'est la vie, in French, which translates as "Eros [sexual love], that is life").

Et Nous Aussi Nous Serons Meres, Car.........!; Duchamp dressed a woman

This overturning of gender and sex is actually a matter of examining and understanding what gender and sex is. This is the case particularly with Lequeu, who — like Charles Le Brun's studies in physiognomy — believed that a persons personality is dictated or influenced by their physical characteristics (i.e. physiognomy). Lequeu did a number of physiognomical studies in which he tried to demonstrate what the geometry and proportions of the ideal person looks like — down to the exact curves and measurements of the ears, distance between the eyes, the exact shape of the nose, et cetera. Using this geometrical datum Lequeu thought he could discover what kind of a person someone was based on how they diverged from his perfect image (hence why the breasts are perfect hemispheres). Thus personality and character would be the perfect union of masculine and feminine personalities if one were a hermaphrodite; hence Lequeu, and ultimately Duchamp and Darden depicting themselves in drag and with breasts.

Pornographic illustrations by Lequeu (trust me these are not even the worst of them)

Lequeu took the study of physiognomy pretty far. Not only were a number of his pornographic illustrations an extension of his physiognomy studies, but so were a number of his self-portraits; sometimes they were as simple as how character changes when "making a face" (e.g. frowning or winking), but can be as subtle and off-putting as having an extra tooth in the center of the upper jaw.

Self-portraits of Lequeu (note middle tooth in the right portrait)

For Darden overturning does not just occur in images, but in words and phrases. Lequeu's il est libre is overturned in Darden's frontispiece, written sideways and overturned into a question: Is he free? Darden would continue to overturn architectural notions and design around those anti-architectural concepts throughout Condemned Building. He used ten overturned architectural notions; they are described by Darden to be like a plow overturning the soil for further growth and cultivation, and are presented as such:

The ten works of architecture cited in this book were constructed from a particular canon of architecture that has persisted throughout the centuries and the varieties of architectural styles. The buildings are a turning-over, one by one, of those canons. Like the action of the plow, this was done not to lay waste to the canons, but to cultivate their fullest growth. The canons and their reversa are as follows:

Architecture posits the authentic.
Architecture posits the fake.

A monument is for remembering.
A monument is for forgetting.

Architecture domesticates our fears.
Architecture locates our fears.

Light is the revealer of form.
Darkness is the revealer of form.

Architecture is the reconciliation with nature.
Architecture is the irreconciliation with nature.

Architecture takes possession of a place.
Architecture displaces.

Architecture is accommodation.
Architecture is confrontation.

Architecture fulfills desire.
Architecture objectifies desire.

Man is at the center of divine creation.
Man is off-center of divine creation.

A house is for living.
A house is for dying.

 

Title illustration of Condemned Building

In tandem to the theme of overturning is the theme of decapitation. It is subtle in the the frontispiece, but more prominent in the title image. In the frontispiece, just behind Darden is a cable, which presumably connects to the cables above, which in turn connect to what is probably a guillotine. The guillotine is depicted far more prominently in the title illustration, as the metal blade bears the inscription for the title and subtitle of the book. The guillotine hangs over a broken concrete wall with steel reinforcement protruding jaggedly; the concrete ruin even has a rustic channel for the neck to rest upon as the blade falls, and seen just behind this concrete ruin is a metal pan for the head to fall into. Above the guillotine is what is presumably a vaginal-shaped beehive (the vagina might be a reference to Lequeu's pornographic works), half natural and half artificial. Inscribed into the right montant is written (sideways, like Is he free?) the following:

How many, think ye, have fallen into Plato's honey head and sweetly perished there?

The passage is from the 37th chapter, "Cisterns and Buckets", of Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, a very beloved book of Darden's. Peter once told me that Darden had numerous copies of Moby-Dick, each one of which was heavily written in, drawn in, dogeared, unlined, and highlighted; apparently Darden would read and work in a copy until it was so full that he would have to buy a new copy and do more. Darden even dedicates one his ten architectural designs in Condemned Building to Melville, simply called "Melvilla". Darden writes in the introduction to the Melvilla: "The building honors Moby-Dick as the greastest novel in American history."

The passage from Moby-Dick is one of Melville's critiques of Platonic philosophy, as it is a reference to Plato's Republic, Book VIII. 552c: "Shall we, then, say of [the beggar] that as the drone springs up in the cell, a pest of the hive, so such a man grows up in his home, a pest of the state?" Exactly what is Melville's meaning in this and why Darden uses it is somewhat of a mystery to me, and is now getting beyond the scope of this writing. I digress: Plato's honey head seems to be allegorically depicted as the beehive situated atop of the guillotine, a device used for taking off heads. (It is also possible that the vagina shape in the beehive is a reference to the hole in the sperm whale's head that Tashtego falls into in Moby-Dick).

Piranesi's Carceri, Plate IX

Two last things about the title image before returning to the frontispiece: in the background behind the guillotine is a heavily darkened copying of Giovanni Battista Piranesi's Carceri (Prisons), Plate IX. Other than Piranesi being an aesthetic and design inspiration to Darden, there really seems to be no other deeper reason for Carceri IX to be in this image. Lastly, the blocks of wood at the bottom with letters carved into them simply denote the names of the ten projects in Condemned Building (e.g. TF = Temple Forgetful; OH = Oxygen House; M = Melvilla; et cetera — interestingly enough, the only block that is not wood is veined marble and is inscribed MI = Museum of Imposters).

Understanding the title images's use of the guillotine as an emblem of the theme of decapitation-overturning, some of the subtle decapitation elements become more recognizable in the frontispiece: Lequeu's nun is decapitated and the head replaced by Darden's head; the four heads supporting the lintel from Lequeu's Il Est Libre has been removed and replaced by two turtle shells; and, finally, the oddly shaped object at the top connected to a series of cables and pulleys can be understood as being some strange modification of a guillotine.

For what it is worth, this does not even begin to sum up Darden — all I have done is give an analysis and interpretation of his frontispiece through his inspiration from Lequeu, Duchamp, Piranesi, and Melville. His work is dark and deathly — but not morbid (the last project in Condemned Building is "Oxygen House", which must have been personal to Darden and reflected his own suffering with leukemia, was designed to be a house to die in) — it is erotic, inhuman, but still very much human, and borderlines on the deranged and insane. The man Darden was intense and eccentric, but I also understand he was kind and warmhearted. A close look at any of his drawings and anyone will realize that not only did he know where every nut and bolt in his designs were, but he even thought about what angle the groove in a flat-head screw is turned. But through the eccentricities and intensity, through the dark and erotic — I would very much like to end on a lighter note — Darden concludes in the Afterwords "Six Aphorisms Envisioning Architecture":

I      Architecture is the meditation on finitude and failure.
II     Architecture is the symbolic redistribution of desire.
III   Architecture is the execution of exquisite barriers.
IV   Architecture is the fiction of the age critiqued in space.
V    Architecture is the history of a place told in broken code.
VI   Architecture is carried out by a resistance to itself.

Further reading:
Darden, Douglas. Condemned Building. Princeton Architectural Press. 1993.
Duboy, Philippe. Lequeu: An Architectural Enigma. The MIT Press. 1986.
LaMarche, Jean. "The Life and Work of Douglas Darden: A Brief Encomium", Utopian Studies, Vol. 9, No. 1. 1998.
Schneider, Peter. "Douglas Darden's 'Sex Shop': An Immodest Proposal", Journal of Architectural Eduction, Vol. 58, No. 2, November 2004.
Schneider, Peter and Ambach, Barbara. "Douglas Darden's 'Sex Shop': Digital Reconstruction of the Situation of Architecture's Dream', 9th Iberoamerican Congress of Digital Graphics (Lima, Peru) No. 2, November 2005.
Neveu, Marc J. "On the Uselessness and Advantage of Studio", Strange Utility Conference (Portland, Oregon), March 2013.
Chapman, Michael and Oswald, Michael J. "The Underbelly of an Architect: Discursive Practices in the Architecture of Douglas Darden", 21st Annual Conference of the Society of Architectural Historians Australia and New Zealand (Melbourne, Australia), Vol. 1. 2004.

The Vitruvian Man: Erections

Cesare Cesariano's Vitruvian Man from his translation of Vitruvius' De Architectura

Everyone is familiar with da Vinci's iconic sketch, The Vitruvian Man. The sketch is so famous, in fact, that by referring to the Vitruvian Man most people simply think of da Vinci, though there is a whole tradition of study around the geometry and proportions of the human body — da Vinci just so happened to have done an extraordinarily well done drawing of the geometry and proportions of the human body as described by Vitruvius. I have a significant digital collection of Vitruvian Men done by artists, architects, and scholars throughout the centuries, many predating da Vinci and many that came after him: Cesariano, Giocondo, di Giorgio, Taccola, Agrippa, Dürer, Fludd, Cataneo, Martin, Caporali, Barbaro, Sagredo, Le Corbusier, and the list goes on.

In all the Vitruvian Men I have found over the years there are three oddballs, namely Vitruvian Men that appear to have erections. Firstly there is one of Cesare Cesariano's Vitruvian Men — from his Italian translation of Vitruvius' De Architectura (the first instance of translating Vitruvius into a vulgar language), which he also illustrated with woodcuts — which depicts a man in a square, arms raised up and legs spread out so that the hands and feet touch the corners of the square, and then inside of a circle (pictured above). Cesariano's translation and illustrations were published in 1521. Upon close inspection one will notice that the penis appears erect.

Giovanni Caporali's Vitruvian Man

In 1536 a similar image (more than likely copied from Cesariano's) was produced and published by Giovanni Battista Caporali in a newly illustrated printing of De Architecture (but in Latin). This one, like Cesariano's appears to have an erect penis.

This type of posing of the human body with the legs spread and arms up inside of square is not unique, as Agrippa did a similar image in his Three Books of Occult Philosophy in 1533, but Agrippa's illustration does not have an erect penis. But there is a third Vitruvian Man by an anonymous writer — possibly a certain Giocomo Andrea da Ferrara, who very little is known about, but was a familiar of da Vinci's — in an illustrated manuscript of De Architectura found in Ferrara, Italy, in which a figure stands next to a set of meters that demonstrate Vitruvius' descriptions of human proportions and measurements (i.e. six feet make the height of a man, et cetera); this figure, too, has an erection.

Vitruvian Man from the Ferrara Manuscript

It is this last Vitruvian Man that, in my opinion, actually has an erection. I am in agreement with Sgarbi ("Newly Discovered Corpus of Vitruvian Images" Anthropology and Aesthetics, Vol. 23, Spring 1993) that the above Vitruvian Man from the Ferrara Manuscript was probably drawn using a live person. Another Vitruvian Man from the Ferrara Manuscrupt depicts a man in a circle and a square that bears a striking resemblance to da Vinci's (it actually predates da Vinci's — Sgarbi concludes that da Vinci may have copied it), but whose eyes are closed, so was probably a cadaver. Exactly why this Vitruvian Man has an erect penis — for it most certainly is a standing figure with an erection — is uncertain; it is possible that the author simply wanted to illustrate that this was a living figure. Sgarbi writes: "It is possible that while the compiler digested the first paragraphs of Book III [of De Architectura], two complementary but polarized images formed in his mind: one of a moving, living man, with an erect penis, and the other of a man with his eyes closed, possibly dead, crucified and fixed in tripartite perfection."

I personally have a simpler solution, and it comes straight from Vitruvius. Vitruvius writes in Book III (Chapter I.3) of De Architectura: "For if a person is imagined lying back..." and then he proceeds to describe the whole circle and square aspect of the human geometry. A person lying on his back. That is, in my opinion, more or less the key to whole erect penis ordeal in both Cesariano and Caporali's Vitruvian Men. It would seem difficult to measure and draw a person standing upright and posing as Cesariano or Caporali depicts it, so the logical conclusion would be that the person or cadaver was probably lying on his back. Penes do not always hang downward when a man is lying on his back, but if the legs are spread, then the testicles may fall in between the legs and the penis may rest upon them... it is a gravity thing — note that the penis in Caporali's Vitruvian Man lies off to the side, where Cesariano's lies in the center; penes tend to lie as such when lying on one's back, for they do not always hang downward toward the testicles. At the same time, the penis in either image does not appear enlarged or engorged as would be expected of an erect penis (neither does the Ferrara Manuscript image), at least no more enlarged or engorged than the penes in their other Vitruvian Man images. Thus the logical conclusion is that the persons or cadavers used in these two Vitruvian Man studies were lying on their backs and gravity was doing what gravity does to flaccid penes when posed as such.

Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa's Vitruvian Man from his Three Books of Occult Philosophy, Book II

On the other hand there is Agrippa's Vitruvian Man in the same pose has the penis hanging downward, which would lead one to conclude that Agrippa's model was standing upright. Possibly, but I have speculated the contrary to myself. Without getting too far afield in the esoteric sciences, the lines that overlay the body form a version of a geomancy board, and the signs of the zodiac would further this argument. The sign Aries is above the man's head, and give how geomancy boards are laid out (i.e. Aries is laid in the east, which means, from the perspective of the geomancy board — no one ever said the esoteric arts were simplistic or wholly comprehensive — the east is on the left-hand side of the board; that is the left-hand side of the board from the perspective of someone looking at the board), this person should be turned ninety degrees counterclockwise, which is absurd unless the person is lying on his back. So why then is the penis hanging downward? Well, either Agrippa did not care how the penis points (highly unlikely, in my opinion), he wanted consistency with his other five Vitruvian Men who also have their penes hanging downward, some strange and obscure esoteric reason, or the fact that penes do sometimes point downward when lying on one's back and the legs are spread.

Clearly in in the past three years I have spent researching and collecting Vitruviuan Men I have had some time to think about these three Vitruvian Men and their erections — in particular, why are they erect? Thoroughly revisiting Vitruvius over a year ago more or less gave me what I feel is the most logical answer (i.e. they are lying on their backs). Revisiting the subject in general recently has led me to some researchers who appear to think that there was some sort of phallus fixation amongst the Renaissance artists and thinkers (see Jill Burke's blog), but I am inclined to disagree. With the Vitruvian proportions illustrations of the Ferrara Manuscript, all the other Vitruvian Men appear to be nothing more than anatomical and philological study (i.e. they were simply reading Vitruvius and drawing from living or dead people). They are no more penis-fixated in their art than their Greek and Roman predecessors left them — ever noticed that the penis is usually tiny and never erect except in the case of phallic deities? (Freud and the Victorians sure did leave a mess of human sexuality in society, especially in how we interpret ancient art). I even found a blog somewhere were someone proposed da Vinci's Vitruvian Man has an erection, but it is pointed directly at us (I would rather not link to that article, as I find it to be utter hogwash).

I am certain that, with the exception of the one illustration from the Ferrara Manuscript, that none of the Vitruvian Men have erections, and even then I am not sure if the Ferrara Manuscript image has an erection at all.

Further reading:

Vitruvius. The Ten Books of Architecture.

Sgarbi, Claudio. “Newly Discovered Corpus of Vitruvian Images,” Anthropology and Aesthetics, Vol. 23, Spring 1993.

Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius. The Three Books of Occult Philosophy.

A Change of Heart: The Candor of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa

Anyone who has ever beheld a copy of De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres (The Three Books of Occult Philosophy) by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa — that infamous 16th Century German magician and alchemist — knows that it is a very lengthy tome. It is a sort of encyclopedia or compendium to all that was known at that time, at least to Agrippa, about occult magic, divination, astrology, and alchemy. He began work on the tome sometime in 1509 to 1510, and sent an early draft of it to his mentor, the great Johannes Trithemius — that other great German occultist and scholar. Agrippa was only twenty-four years old. The first book of the three was published in 1531, and the rest published two years later in 1533; just two years before his untimely death at the age of forty-seven. It is quite a lengthy tome, so needless to say I have not read the whole thing, though I do pick it up from time to time to peruse certain chapters and sections. Just recently I was reading the last few chapters — excerpts he added into The Three Books from a polemic of his on science of that time, entitled De Incertitudine et Vanitate Scientiarum atque Artium Declamatio Invectiva (Declamation Attacking the Uncertainty and Vanity of the Sciences and the Arts, published in 1526 — that I wish to discuss. In particular it is Agrippa's almost complete change of heart on magic, and his candor is something I find to be very admirable.

There is a quote that is often misattributed to John Maynard Keynes (actually I don't even know who said it originally), but I like it anyway and it is appropriate here: "When my information changes, I alter my conclusions."

Agrippa did just that: he worked on, revised, and published his canonical work, The Three Books of Occult Philosophy, and after nearly twenty years of working on it he rejected much of what he had written before. It is at the end of the final installation of his three books that Agrippa recants much of what he said:

"But of magic I wrote whilst I was very young three large books, which I called Of Occult Philosophy, in which what was then through the curiosity of my youth erroneous, I now being more advised, am willing to have retracted, by this recantation; I formerly spent much time and costs in these vanities. At last I grew so wise as to be able to dissuade others from this destruction.
"For whosoever do not in the truth, nor in the power of God, but in the deceits of devils, according to the operation of wicked spirits persume to divine and prophesy, and practising through magical vanities, exorcisms, incantations and other demonical works and deceits of idolatry, boasting of delusions, and phantasms, presently ceasing, brag that they can do miracles, I say all these shall with Jannes, and Jambres, and Simon Magus, be destined to torments of eternal fire."
—De Occulta, Book III, Chapter IXV (originally from De Incertitude et Vanitate, Chapter XLVIII): Of Juggling or Legerdemain

Now, Agrippa did not reject magic in its entirety, but he does believe that a great number of magicians and sorcerers were frauds and charlatans: he came to call them "jugglers" and legerdemains (someone who is crafty and deceitful with their hands). Many of the great magicians he had so greatly admired throughout his life he had come to regard as frauds: Paseton, Numa Pompilius, Pythagoras (yes, the mathematicians, who was also a notable sorcerer), and even the Thrice Great Hermes Trismegistus. He regards all things they and others like them have done to be "according to appearances only":

"...these things which are supposed to be juggled or bewitched, besides imagination, have no truth of action or essence. The end of these is but to hold forth things to the imagination according to appearance, of which there presently remains no footsteps or signs. Now by what hath been said, it is manifest that magic is nothing else but a collection of idolatry, astrology, and superstitious medicines."

It is not apparently in the chapter Of Juggling or Legerdemain that Agrippa still accepts some forms of magic, but in a few preceding chapters this is abundantly clear. For the most part magic was superfluously flooded with superstition, and much of practical magic was either juggling or the work of devils and evil spirits. Cabala, that ancient study of Jewish mysticism, becomes a point of heavy attack by Agrippa, who seeing it as mostly a secretive oral tradition with no real practice or operation, claims it to be "a mere rhapsody of superstition... nothing else than a most pernicious superstition" (Of Cabalie).

Concerning geotia (black magic) and necromancy (literally divination and magic performed with the assistance of the spirits of the dead) Agrippa believed these to be real magic, but only by the assistance of evil spirits: "...it doth not yet appear that these arts are fables... and why do the geotians use those evil spirits only, but because good angels will hardly appear expecting the command of God, and come not but to men pure in heart, and holy in life: but the evil are easily called up, favouring him that is false and counterfeiting holiness are always ready to deceive with their craft, that they may be worshipped and adored" (Of Geotia and Necromancy) But concerning theurgia (white magic) Agrippa simply agrees with Porphyry: "...by theurgical consecrations the soul of man may be fitted to receive spirits, and angels, and to see God: but he [Porphyry] altogether denies that we can by this art return to God... many such like superstitions, which are so much more pernicious, by how much they seem the more divine to the ignorant" (Of Theurgia).

These two forms of magic, i.e. geotia and theurgia, are part of what Agrippa called ceremonial magic, and while he believed them to be the actual work of devils or angels or other spirits, there is one other form of ceremonial magic that Agrippa believed possible to be performed by mortal magicians: namely, enchantment. He demonstrates: "...also those things which do accompany nature... motions, numbers, figures, sounds, voices, concents [i.e. musical harmonies], lights, affections of the mind, and words. So the Psylli, and Marsi called together serpents, and other things depressing to them, put them to flight. So Orpheus repressed the tempest of the Argonauts with a hymn; and Homer relates of Ulysses that his blood was restrained with words. And in the law of the Twelve Tables [of Roman Law] punishment was ordained for them who enchanted the corn" (Of Enchanting Magic). His examples are not exactly empirical, but Agrippa believed it, and that is all that is under scrutiny here.

Much of what would be called miracles and magic were in Agrippa's mature opinion to be works of God, his angels, or devils. He was a very religious man, so he believed the Holy Scriptures to be the infallible word of God, and as such he quotes and demonstrates via examples from scripture frequently. For instance, transmutation, such as lycanthropy or other modes of shapeshifting, he believed to be possible, but only through the will of God; the example he uses is King Nebuchadnezzar's transformation into a cow until he returned to the mercy of God. He cites another example of transmutation from Saint Augustine in which wicked women transformed men into cows for the purpose of making them carry those women's stuff, then changed them back — certainly Agrippa would have regarded this as work done via the assistance of devils, as he refers to those women as being "like Circe"... Circe, that ancient Greek goddess that turned Odysseus' men in swine, who Agrippa later suspects — like all women (in Agrippa's opinion) — achieved magic via evil spirits.

To the mature Agrippa there is really only one true magic: what he calls natural magic:

"It is thought that natural magic is nothing else but the highest power of natural sciences, which therefore is called the height of natural philosophy, and the most absolute consummation thereof, and that which is the active part of natural philosophy, which by the help of natural virtues, from a mutual, and opportune application of them, brings forth operations even to admiration...
"...from thence arise wonderful miracles, not so much by art as by nature, to which art becomes an assistant whilst it works these things.
"...making use of those things which are prepared by nature, by applying active things to passive, produce oftentimes effects before the time ordained by nature, which the vulgar think are miracles, which indeed are natural works..."
—Of Natural Magic

Yes, what Agrippa calls magic — and the only real magic able to be performed by men without the aid of spirits or devils — is what we would call science. Of course, Agrippa still believed stones could heal people and effect one's fate, and that astrology was still useful, but then again it was the 16th Century and bloodletting and vomiting were advisable medical practices. On a practical level Agrippa was still caught in the same superstitions and mystical techniques of his time, but philosophically he was — like his contemporary Paracelsus — a head of his time.

Really, his ability to study and master his chosen vocation, i.e. magic and alchemy, and still not be enslaved to it was Agrippa's greatest merit; more especially he was not enslaved to what he had written before. His candor and forwardness toward the end of his short life is something to be admired. He felt no need to justify his previous writings (as so many authors tend to do), but rejected them forthwith and advised others to not follow those writings (sadly this is an admonition that few have followed in latter centuries, as his work is still followed).

There is a passage from Emerson that I think is appropriate to conclude that I feel best expresses Agrippa's change of heart:

"Meek young men grow up in libraries believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke and Bacon were young men in libraries when they wrote those books."
—The American Scholar, §2.

Further reading:
Agrippa, Heinrich (Henry) Cornelius. The Three Books of Occult Philosophy. 

The Orders of Architecture: Race and Politics

Any student of Classical architecture or simply someone who has perused Vitruvius is familiar with the anthropomorphic associations of the Orders. According to Vitruvius the Doric Order is a robust male warrior, the Ionic Order a mature matron, and the Corinthian a young female. But the associations between the Orders and various things become as diverse, convoluted, and arbitrary as those strange associations made between planets, days of the week, metals, plants, minerals, and the likes found in alchemy and magic and other esoteric arts. John Shute associates the Orders with various Greek deities (seen in image above): the Doric is Herakles, Ionic Hera, and Corinthian Aphrodite. H.V. de Vries associated the Orders with times of the day (e.g. Composite Order - sunrise; Corinthian - morning, et cetera). Vredeman de Vries (unrelated to H.V. de Vries as far as I can tell) associated the Orders with the five sense (e.g. Doric - hearing; Ionic - smelling; Corinthian - tasting; et cetera). George Hersey demonstrates in depth how most of the elements of the Doric Order are sacrificial in symbolism and the Ionic ceremonial in nature. Then comes the associations made between the Orders and plants: the various myths of the primitive hut (save for Alberti's version) claim that the idea of the column came from trees, and even the Corinthian Order resembles in a tree; Egyptian columns were often modeled after lotus and papyrus plants. The associations and connections keep piling up, and some authors will make associations that conflict with another author — just like in alchemy — and thus confuse the whole matter to the point of futility in the search for solidarity.

But probably the one association between the Orders themselves and some other idea that isn't often discussed is the use of the Orders in nationality and race. They are called the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian Orders after all — the later being a city rather than a region. Sometime around the 18th Century countries began to develop their own "Orders" of architecture to express ideals of nationality: James Adam (brother of Robert Adam) developed the British Order; Benjamin Latrobe developed the American Order (several, actually), one of which was later modified by Alexander Jackson Davis; Edwin Lutyens developed a Delhi Order for the British Empire in India; there were a variety of French Orders, with one of the first being developed by Claude Perrault; et cetera. Certainly there is an idea of nationality and politics in architecture, and especially in the forms it takes — countries have been using architecture for political ends for century, take for instance Mussolini and Hitler; the British also made good use of architecture for the exhibition of political power in India; Louis Kahn contributed to the political power of architecture in Dhaka, Bangladesh; even King Solomon's Temple was a political move, as well as Herod's motion to rebuild it; and so forth — it stands to reason that the ancient Greeks would be no different; and they were not any different. I believe it was Philip Johnson who once say, "All architecture is politics; politics is sometimes architectural" (I don't know if he actually said that; a professor once told me that — whatever the case may be, it's worth reiterating here).

 

 

Map of the dialects of ancient Greece and their cities and territories

Up until the Greco-Persian Wars architectural styles throughout the Hellenic world did not mix very much — actually we see practically no examples of Ionic architecture in mainland Greece, nor Dorian architecture in eastern Greece (western coast of modern day Turkey — in fact it was the opinion of many Dorians in Archaic and Classical Greece that the Ionians were not even actual Greeks). The mainland Greeks tended to building relatively austere and robust limestone structures, while the Ionians and Aeolians tended to build more slender, daintier and ornate marble structures. Before the Persian conquest of Greece and Turkey there was not a very strong sense of opposition in nationality among various Hellenic cultures: Dorians didn't really hate Boeotians or Ionians because they were not Doric, rather being a Dorian or Aeolian was a matter of pride in one's culture, dialect, and art — the pride was much the same as Northerners and Southerners pre-American Civil War, in which it was a pride of one's culture, and with little animosity or aggression just because the other has a different dialect. The animosity between Dorians and Ionians really arises when the Persians began to invade the Aegean Sea area: the Dorians resisted the Persians while the Ionians surrendered.

The resistance of the Aegean Greeks against Persian conquest begins in the funding of the Athenian Empire in Attica, which was primarily a fund for the expansion and maintenance of naval fleets in the Aegean Sea. Like any political fund, these funds were not always used for their primary purpose. Out of the fund began a series of building projects that included the the rebuilding of the Parthenon and other monuments in the mid-5th Century BCE. This is just about the time period in which Ionic architectural styles begin to spring up in mainland Greece. Turn back the clocks about fifty years: four decades after the Ionians surrendered to the Persians several Ionic city-states revolted against Persian rule beginning in 499 BCE; the revolt was started by Miletus and Aristagoras, two native Ionian tyrants who failed to conquer Naxos, and, fearing being removed as rulers, revolted against the Persian king, Darius. The revolt ended in 495 BCE, but the spirit of ending Persian rule in the Aegean sea persisted. In 480 BCE the Persians were defeated at the battle of Salamis, and retreated from mainland Greece back to Asia Minor. Subsequent naval battles within the next year — such as those at Plataea (Boeotia) and Mycale (Ionia) — against the Persians eventually liberated much of Ionia from Persian rule (most especially the battle of Mycale). Much of these naval victories could not have been possible without the alliance of Greek city-states and the funding of Athenian fleets.

Shortly after the liberation of Ionia from the Persians the Athenians built the Stoa of the Athenians next to the Temple of Apollo in Delphi (Boeotia), which was built using the Ionic Order. This stoa was dedicated by the Athenians for their naval victory against the Persians. This stoa really being the first real example of the Ionic style in mainland Greece, it is reasonable to presume there was a political motive behind the use of the Ionic; quite probable a Panhellenic political ideal (i.e. an alliance or gesture of friendship of the Dorians with the Ionians), and at the very least a commemoration of the the liberation of Ionia with Athenian aid. Within a decade of the Athenian Stoa in Delphi another Ionic building was erected in Attica: that of the Temple of Athena in Sunium — it has been speculated that the L-shaped Ionic portico that faces the Aegean sea may haven been a friendly gesture to seafaring Ionians visiting Attica. Aside from these two structures most Athenian building projects remained in the native Doric style. It would be a few more decades before Athenians began using the Ionic Order again, and when they did it was used for interior purposes.

  

Temple of Athena at Sunium (left) and Stoa of the Athenians at Delphi (right)

The ambition of a Panhellenic alliance really gains notoriety with Pericles (5th Century BCE Athenian statesman — often called the "first Athenian citizen"), and with the Panhellenic alliance comes the move for Athens to be the center. According to Thucydides Pericles wished Athens to be the "school for the whole of Greece." He wished Athens to be a perfect cultural union of virile Dorian ideals and relaxed, luxurious Ionian ideals: "We [Athenians] pass our lives in a relaxed way and, yet, are no less ready to face equal danger [to that of the Spartans]... [we] love beauty without extravagance, and love wisdom but without softness" (Thucydides, History, II.39-40). As such, new Athenian building projects that utilized both the Doric and Ionic Orders would then typically use the Doric on the exterior to symbolize masculinity (i.e. outside is where masculine activities are done, such as exercising, fighting, building, et cetera — Spartans and other Doric warrior cultures dressed in an austere fashion or wore armor), and the Ionic on the interior to symbolize femininity (i.e. activities performed inside, such as eating, philosophizing, and other luxuries were regarded as feminine — Ionians, followed by Athenians, wore robes and luxuriant clothing).

Two of the first major Athenian building projects to utilize both the Doric and Ionic Orders were the Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens and the Temple of Apollo in Bassae (Arcadia); both were built around the same time period, and both are attributed to Pericles' beloved architect, Ictinus. The Parthenon uses the Doric Order on the exterior peristyle, a two-story Doric interior peristyle in the cella, and four Ionic columns in the rear cella (obvious not for structural purposes given the span of the main cella). The rear Ionic chamber of the Parthenon was likely used as a treasury. It is also interesting to note that one of the arms of Athena in the Parthenon was supported by a small Corinthian column.

The Temple of Apollo at Bassae is an enigmatic structure unto itself. Its design and construction preceding the Parthenon (according to Pausanias the temple was built c. 421 BCE, but modern scholars date it around 450 BCE — Parthenon built c. 438 BCE), it is actually the first structure to utilize both the Doric and Ionic Orders, and includes the birth of the third: that of the Corinthian Order. There are examples of what are the so-called proto-Corinthian columns, namely at the Treasury of Massilia in Delphi (c. 530 BCE) — these proto-Corinthian capitals could be called Aeolian capitals, since Massilia was an Aeolian-Ionian city. (I personally hesitate to call these proto-"Corinthian" simply because they do bear some similarities with proto-Ionic capitals — commonly called Aeolian capitals — with their leafy volutes; dating around the 6th and 7th Century in Turkey). But Bassae is really regarded as possessing the first example of the Corinthian Order. It is a single column (called an axial column) flanked by two Ionic columns at the end of the cella — it actually has more prominence in the cella than the statue of Apollo. The architrave above the Corinthian column is a continuation of the surrounding Ionic peristyle.

Furthermore concerning Ionian influence in western Greece can be found at Bassae: a bronze manumission was foun at the site (dating to the 4th Century BCE) that use the Arcadian alphabet, but with several alterations, namely utilizing Ionian letters (see Cooper Temple of Apollo, chapter II).

  

Sectional views of the Parthenon in Athens (left) and interior perspective of the Temple of Apollo at Bassae (right)

It was Vitruvius who esoterically said that the Corinthian was born from the "union" (literally procreation) of the Doric and Ionic (De Architectura, IV.1.3). It is difficult to know whether or not Vitruvius had the Temple at Bassae in mind when he wrote that, for he never actually mentioned the Temple at Bassae.

There is a third structure that was built a couple of decades later that utilizes the Doric and Ionic Orders: the Propylaea, which is the structure that provides the entrance onto the Acropolis. On the outside stands the Doric Order, but once under the canopy the columns become Ionic, and on the other side on the Acropolis the columns are Doric again. There are two reasons for doing this: one, masculinity goes on the outside; and two, there is a change in elevation, so the Doric on the on top of the Acropolis is several feet above the Doric Order at the entrance (hence the two pediments when viewed in elevation) — the Ionics align with the upper Doric columns, thus providing a rather clever segue between the two elevations.

Propylaea longitudinal section (note the height variation)

Well, Pericles died in 429 BCE, and the ambition of a Doria-Ionic alliance began to deteriorate. Athens became increasingly dependent on the Ionians, and their architecture would continue to reflect a strong Ionian alliance with alienation towards to Dorians. As such, many Athenian building projects began to use the Ionic and Corinthian Orders without the Doric. Firstly, there is the Temple of Athena Nike, a purely Ionic temple, which is directly next to the Propylaea and figures prominently when entering the Acropolis. Then comes the Erechtheion, which seems to change everything.

The Erechtheion is primarily Ionic in style the exception of the Porch of the Maidens, which uses one of the most famous examples of Caryatids (columns sculpted like humans) — the Caryatids (as Vitruvius so named them) are not the first example of anthropomorphic columns: the Treasuries of Siphnos and Cnidus at Delphi also used Caryatids on their porticoes. What makes the Erechtheion the prime example of Athens' alienation from the rest of Doria and resting solely on their Ionian allies is the myth of Erechtheus that was weaved and perpetuated by Euripides in his play Ion (and probably as well as in a lost play of his, Erechtheus): Erechtheus was an actual king of Athens, and is mentioned in the Iliad, but became a mythic character, so much so that it is hard to differentiate between the actual king and his legendary self. Euripides wrote Ion around 414 BCE, and mythologizes how King Erechtheus fathered Ion, who would go on to colonize and build Ionia.

Erechtheion reconstruction

Plays and works of poetry were rarely written in ancient times without political motive, either by a king or the author trying to become favorable with the king (Vitruvius did this with Caesar Augustus, as is evident in the prefaces of De Architectura) — take for instance Virgil's The Aeneid, which mythologizes how Aeneas fled burning Troy, eventually ended up in Latinum, and Julius Caesar and Augustus were progeny of Aeneas, whose mother was Venus. It is highly probably that the Erechtheion and Ion are testaments to Athens' loss of alliance with the Dorians and an attempt to strength their relation to their Ionian friends; even if it meant mythologizing that the two nations were actually kin.

On the other hand we have the Dorians, who continued to use their robust Doric Order for sometime until after the death of Pericles, who then began to utilize the Corinthian in their interiors instead of the Ionic. This is probably a shunning of the Ionians who had over a century before hand surrendered like cowards to the Persians. The anatomy and proportions of the Corinthian Order should be indicative of this: according to Vitruvius the Corinthian is simply the Ionic column in which the Ionic capital has been removed and the taller Corinthian capital has been placed on top (note that at the Temple in Bassae the Corinthian column is slightly thinner than the Ionics, possibly to account for the slightly taller Corinthian proportions). In a way the Dorians simply removed those much hated Ionians' capital and replaced the capital with one of their own — they kept the fluted shaft and the Attic base, but used a feminine capital that was Dorian. Corinth is after all a Dorian city neighboring fairly close to Attica on the Peloponnesian Peninsula.

As to why that Order is called Corinthian is a bit of a mystery, as it was not developed in Corinth, but Arcadia. There are two possibilities: one, that the slender proportions and dainty ornament of the Order reminded the Greeks of a young girl (the anthropomorphic argument), and so they called it kore (κόρη), "maiden", which in turn came to refer to Corinth (root word: kore), a city known for its sacred prostitutes; the other reason being that the first Corinthian column, i.e. at Bassae, was of such intricate and delicate design that it was more than likely marble covered in bronze ornamentation (we don't know the exact properties of it because it was lost while in Zakynthos during the 1953 earthquake, all we have are 19th Century archaeology drawings) — the bronze ornamentation may have reminded the Dorians of Corinth, which was known for its beautiful and well-crafted bronze vessels. That's about all Corinth was known for: sacred prostitutes to Aphrodite and bronze works.

In a way, the use of the Corinthian instead of the Ionic could be seen not so much as a shunning of the Ionians, but as introducing the newly developed, pretty, leafy Corinthian column, and to avoid any racial or political overtones. At the same time it seems to have racial overtones.

Thus we find Dorian architecture in the late 5th Century through the late 4th Century BCE using the Corinthian instead of Ionic. The tholos (a round building) sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidauros (c. 360 BCE) used the Doric Order on the exterior peristyle and Corinthian on the interior peristyle (this use of the orders may have esoteric overtones). Similarly in Epidauros is the Temple of Artemis (c. 330 BCE), which also has a Doric portico and interior peristyle of Corinthian columns. Those are really the two major Dorian-Corinthian structures. For the most part the Dorians kept with their robust Doric columns.

Sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidauros

But even with the Dorian animosity towards Ionia, it seems that nearly two centuries after the Greco-Persian Wars that such animosity might have died down. On the other side of the Peloponnesian Peninsula in Olympia the tholos Philippeion utilizes the Ionic Order on the exterior peristyle and the Corinthian on the interior. But then again, even in Epidauros the Temple of Aphrodite (c. 320 BCE) uses the Ionic Order on the portico and a Corinthian peristyle on the interior.

It is really around this time that the Orders begin to be used more for aesthetics and possible esoteric-symbolic purposes (such as the anthropomorphic reason). It seems reasonable that after a few hundred years with these architectural styles that the ancient Greeks would begin to mythologize them and make esoteric-symbolic associations with them. This becomes evident with certain Corinthian monuments at Delphi, such as the acanthus column.

Whatever the case, it should be clear that the Orders did not always have esoteric associations, though those associations certainly must have existed, but were far more subtle than the racial associations with the Orders. These racial and political overtones with the Orders were used in the decades following the Greco-Persian Wars, and symbolized alliances, as well as alienation with certain Hellenic races. 

One thing is for certain, and that is that the great Greek Classical Era is significant architecturally for the refining, development, and experimental use of the Orders; but as can be seen, this experimentation was largely politically motivated, rather than aesthetic. We may not have those great architectural works such as the Parthenon, the Temple of Apollo at Bassae (a personal favorite of mine), the Erechtheion, the Sanctuary of Asclepius at Epidauros, the Athenian Stoa at Delphi, the Propylaea, and the likes — at least not as we known them today — were it not for such racial and political tension that occurred in Greece during the aftermath of the Greco-Persian War.

Further reading:
Herodotus. The Histories.
Thucydides. The History of the Peloponnesian War.
Pausanias. Description of Greece.
Onians, John. Bearers of Meaning. Princeton University Press. 1988. <<Refer to Chapter 1 for political and racial uses of the Orders>>
Rykwert, Joseph. The Dancing Column. The MIT Press. 1996.
Cooper, Frederick A. The Temple of Apollo at Bassai. Garland Publishing, Inc. 1978.