Archaeology Baking I – Minoan Glyptic

Not that I’m competitive or anything, but not all the Classical baking round these parts comes from E Caucus and Cakemeister Judson. After the Sign of Tanit Plum Pie which featured in the Graduate Tea Ritual last term, I decided to stick with the medium of pastry for my next endeavour. Here’s what happened when I made apple pie this afternoon.

Aegean prehistorians will recognise a ‘Mistress of the Animals’ in flounced skirt, flanked by antithetical griffins in characteristic Cretan style. Hovering above her head is a double-axe installed between Horns of Consecration. The scene is thus clearly signalled as religious in nature, which is appropriate since the ecstatic behaviour and joyful dancing which seem to characterise Minoan cult in many ways parallel the experience of eating pie.

Here’s the original seal-stone the design was based on. Since the choice of design was somewhat last minute (I chickened out of attempting to recreate the Phaistos Disc in pastry) this came from a Google Image search, and further details about this seal weren’t forthcoming so I can’t tell you anything more educational. The pie therefore being unprovenanced and consequently of limited use to future scholars, I see little harm in allowing hard-working Classics grads to eat it.

Since I forgot to add cinnamon, it remains to be seen how successful this will prove in the eating, but iconographically I feel it was a great success, and certainly a worthy follow-up to the Minoan gingerbread I made at New Year 2011.

Finally, it’s worth mentioning that I also did a practice pie since this was a recipe I haven’t followed before (and also to ensure that I’m not left pie-less by hungry friends: for a northerner like me, that’s a traumatic fate). For this I went with a less elaborate but still Classical laurel-wreath design:

The Practice Pie was, I can confirm, yummy. All in all, Archaeology Baking went very well, and I hope this culinary escalation will be countered in kind by Linguistics-based rivals.

GIS 22/2/2013 – No Puns in Persian Punishment

Classics is all very well. I mean, who doesn’t like a nice bit of Greek stuff? Who won’t grudgingly admit that the Romans might have done something vaguely worthwhile? But the simple fact is that the earlier and the further east you go, the more interesting everything gets. Greeks are better than Romans; Mycenaeans are better than Classical Greeks, Minoans are better than Mycenaeans and Phoenicians are better than everybody. Once more people accept it, the happier everyone will be.

So the dose of Near Easternness in this week’s GIS was particularly welcome. Former leader (praetor?) Stephen Harrison, under whose benevolent rule the GIS prospered in the days before consuls, returned to present a paper entitled ‘No Puns in Persian Punishment’, or ‘Generic Title Slide’, as his Powerpoint alternatively proclaimed. Stephen talked about the Bisutun Inscription and relief of the Persian king Darius I. In particular, he was interested in how people characterised as rebels were punished. Stephen argued that the inscriptions portray punishment which was far less severe than we might expect. Revolts were portrayed as the people being led astray by the lies of individual wrong-doers, and while these black-hearted villains could expect the damn good impalement that was coming to them, most of the population did not share in their culpability or punishment. This was, Stephen argued, designed to preserve the ideological view that Persian imperial rule was founded not upon the imposition of hegemony by force, but on the voluntary support of the people themselves.

While many aspects of the Bisutun relief can be seen to draw heavily on earlier Mesopotamian and Near Eastern traditions, this leniency seems to be a Persian innovation. Indeed, Stephen suggested that a change in the rhetoric is apparent even in the relatively few years between the Babylonian and Old Persian inscriptions on the Bisutun Relief itself.

The paper stimulated an enthusiastic discussion among attendees, with topics including the influence of Persian religion and how much that can be reconstructed from later Zoroastrian beliefs; what the relationship was between the multilingual inscriptions and the pictorial relief and how they worked together, and what the intended audience for the monument was. There was also further discussion of Near Eastern traditions and parallels for monuments of this kind, and how they work within traditions of kingship.

For the second week running we had no formal Snippet, so we talked about the future of this very blog. If you’re reading this now, congratulations! You’ve found it. Now go and seek out the various weird and wonderful articles in our archives. Discussion centred around whether and how we should seek to widen the blog’s audience, and in particular how to attract more regular readers from outside Cambridge. While it was generally felt that at present the blog is working well and there’s nothing wrong with the kind of discussions it attracts, many people did agree that there were several relatively straightforward things we might do to widen awareness of it and better serve its original goal of being a form of outreach. These include better advertising, increased engagement with other parts of the internet where Classicists congregate, and thinking more about what kinds of things we want to say to the World Beyond. If you’re reading this and haven’t written for the blog before – or have, but only rarely – you’re heartily encouraged to take part. Hannah Price can set you up with access.

As usual, after the seminar we adjourned to the pub for further discussion in the more convivial setting of the Red Bull. Cheery topics of consideration included whether we should fear a repeat performance of the First World War next year (general consensus was ‘probably not’) and when it’s inappropriate to play Rachmaninoff.

This week’s award for outstanding achievement in post-seminar discussion again goes to Fran, for a delightful fairy-tale about a little book travelling through the big wide world.

GIS 15/2/13 – Curtius and the Swamp

Romulus (L) defeats Mettius Curtius (R) in this no-expense-spared dramatic reconstruction.

We’re going to be talking about swamps this week. It’s very tempting to make some pun about this being a bog-post, but I think there was probably enough of that kind of thing last time so today I’ll spare you and jump straight into talking about Hannah Price’s paper. Hannah talked to us about ‘Curtius and the Swamp’. She’s interested in the enigmatic feature of the Forum Romanum known as the Lacus Curtius, and the various stories the Romans told to explain its origins and its strange names. In particular, two narrative come to the forefront. In the first it’s named for the Sabine warrior Mettius Curtius. During his duel with Romulus at the time of the foundation of Rome, when the site of the future Forum was still a marshy bog, Mettius allegedly leapt into the waters to escape.

The second story concerns a Roman Curtius, Marcus. When a chasm opened up in the middle of the Forum, oracles determined that it was necessary to throw Rome’s most valuable possession into it to make it close. Marcus bravely – if somewhat egotistically – concluded that it ought to be him. Saddling his horse, he threw himself down into the fiery depths. It’s the second version Livy prefers, and it’s also that version which captured the imaginations of later artists. As Hannah pointed out, the bravery, virtus and patriotic pietas of Marcus fits well with the concerns of imperial Rome. But unlike on other occasions where Livy chooses one version of a story over others, but doesn’t bother to present the alternatives, here he – and other Roman writers – are at pains to portray the diversity of stories surrounding the Lacus. Hannah pointed out the ambiguity of Roman iconographic depictions of the story, and accounts such as Statius’s, which seem to include elements of both. She also talked about the importance of dead dignitaries underfoot in Roman traditions about the Forum, and how citizens of the Imperial period felt their city to have been literally built on the bones of their dead heroes. This becomes particularly apposite in the Forum, where earlier cemeteries are likely to have been disturbed by later building activities. It’s in this context that the Curtius myths should be understood, Hannah argued.

Discussion afterwards was interesting and ranged from mythological parallels – Polykrates and his ring and pseudo-Plutarch’s version of the Midas story – to discussion of the role of foundation-deposits in the beginning of building works and how these might have inspired mythological traditions. We also talked about whether the different versions of the myths were quite as well distinguished as they appear in the historians, or whether the realities may have been much more mixed up and intermingled.

We didn’t have an official Snippet this week. That’s your fault. Yes, yours. You should all feel very ashamed and guilty and try to make amends by volunteering in your droves in time for next week’s session. Instead we opened up the floor to general discussion. Fran brought up the topic of the Graduate Development Programme and asked for people’s experiences of it. Despite some significant reservations, people had some generally good things to say. It was, however, felt that training in teaching skills remains somewhat less than we would like, especially for those who have not come up through the Cambridge system. It was agreed that more communication between graduate supervisors might help, as well as more opportunities to sit in on others’ supervisions and see how it’s done. With this in mind, we intend to offer a round-table of sorts on issues to do with supervising in one of our Snippet slots later in the term. If anyone who wasn’t at this week’s GIS has things to say or questions to ask, we encourage you to come along when we do it, or else to contact your GIS consuls or Grad Rep.

Finally, we plugged this very blog, albeit less fully than we had intended because of time constraints. If you’re reading this, well done! You’ve found it! Now tell your friends and spread the word.

In a startling and controversial move several weeks in the plotting, this week we eschewed the traditional Granta location for post-seminar drinks in favour of the more convivial pizza-and-pub-quiz-equipped surroundings of the Red Bull. This initially caused some consternation among certain attendees, who regarded change – and the prospect of a slightly longer walk – with the traditional horror of the confirmed Classicist. Nevertheless, a good time seemed to be had by all. Topics of discussion included alternative past-tense verb forms in American English, board games, and how to wear tweed and a moustache without being mistaken for a hipster.

This week’s award for outstanding achievement in post-seminar discussion goes to Fran Middleton, for a virtuoso non-sequitur concerning Windolene.

The Lettuce of my Heart

Dear Res Gerendae reader. It feels as if we’ve come to know each other well these last few months. We’ve talked about current affairs and zombies and what films and TV we like. If there’s been a downward trend in the scholarliness of my posts, you’ve been gracious enough not to mention it. And if, from time to time, you’re tempted away by the lure of a linguistics-themed cake, I can forgive you that. We’re all only human, after all. I just feel I ought to say how much I’ve enjoyed your company.

So I hope you won’t think me too forward if, this Valentine’s Day, I serenade you with a love-song. It’s not new and I didn’t make it up myself, I’m afraid. On the contrary: it was originally written in Sumerian and hails from ancient Ur, around 2000 BC. I think you’ll agree it’s a work of strange and powerful beauty.

It’s called ‘My Hair is Lettuce’.

My hair is lettuce, planted by the water.

It is gukkal-lettuce, planted by the water.

It… is…

My nurse has… high

Has made my hair into a …

Has piled up its locks,

My attendant arranges it,

The attendant arranges my hair – which is lettuce, the most favoured of plants.

The brother brought me into his life-giving gaze,

Shu-Sin has called me to his refreshing…

…without end.

…

[About five lines missing]

You are our lord, you are our lord,

Silver and lapis lazuli – you are our lord,

Farmer who makes the grain stand high, – you are our lord.

For him who is the honey of my eye, who is the lettuce of my heart,

May the days come forth, may Shu-Sin…

It is a balbale of Inanna.

OK, to be honest, this probably isn’t the most appropriate song for me to be singing. It was in all likelihood originally sung by the lukur-priestess of Ur when she stood in for the love-goddess Inanna in her ritual hierogamy to the king, Shu-Sin. I’m not a priestess (I apologise if this shatters any illusions). I’m not even a priest. I’m going to level with you, dear reader: I only sang this song because I want to talk about the lettuce.

GIS 8/2/2013 – Pick-up or Protreptic: on Socrates’ First Speech in the ‘Lysis’.

Cambridge, Cambridge, Cambridge! This island of learning amid the bleak fenlands of ignorance. This citadel of the mind, where the brightest and the best can devote themselves to the study of the most arcane and rarefied of topics. Unchanging and untouched by the modern world.

That’s the stereotype, anyway. But sometimes even academics don their glad-rags and spend their Friday nights devoting some serious thought to pick-up techniques. And so it was at this week’s Graduate Interdisciplinary Seminar. Following the paramount success of last week’s double-barrelled Ovid headshot, this week we had another one-two hit of thematically-linked talks. This time we were musing on the parallels between ancient and modern advice on seduction.

Zombie Socrates is back! And he’s looking for boyyyyyss.

Our first likely lad was Michael Withey, who gave us the evening’s paper, entitled ‘Pick-up or Protreptic: on Socrates’ First Speech in the Lysis’. We all know what it looks like when boys try to pick up Socrates, but what about the other way around? How good were Socrates’ suggestions for how his friend Hippothales might win the heart of the boy Lysis? Physically, Socrates was famous for his lack of gorgiasness and his personality seems to have been about as irritating and unwelcome as an infestation of lice is; nevertheless he apparently had both a wife and lovers, so presumably he knew something about turning on the charm. Who knows, maybe he owned a medallion.

GIS 1/2/2013 – Is There a Cosmogony in ‘Metamorphoses’ 11?

I rocked up to the Faculty this morning all intent on writing another epic blog-post. Another 5000 words or so about Classics and War Films. Or Classics and Explosions. Maybe Classics and Really Loud Bangs. But would you believe it? As I was settling down in the Cast Gallery and opening up Word, who should appear to me but Cupid himself?

‘What d’you think you’re doing, you big wally?’ he asked (for he was in one of those moods). ‘Don’t you think people have read enough of your self-indulgent waffle for the time being? ’Ere, write something shorter, funnier. More polished. Write about that Ovid bloke. ’E knew what ’e was about. There was that seminar about him yesterday so it’s relevant an’ everything!’

So I laid aside my grand themes and lengthy word-counts and instead wrote this. Cupid’s favourite kind of Res Gerendae blog post* – the GIS summary.

It’s always fun to watch academic fashions come and go. I’m not referring to the day-to-day question of the Faculty bow-tie quotient or exactly how many people in the grad common room will be wearing brown cord trousers on any given day, but to what we all decide to study. And anyone who was present at the meet-and-greet sessions at the beginning of the year can hardly have failed to notice that Ovid is very much this year’s must-have specialisation among our new grad contingent. Never ones to fly in the face of popular opinion, or to miss an opportunity to chase attendance figures by giving the people what they want, this week your humble GIS Consuls** transformed the seminar into what – with the quiet dignity and scholarly moderation you’d expect from us – we’ve retrospectively decided to OvidPalooza 2013.

Our first paper this week came from Charles Northrop II, who asked ‘Is There a Cosmogony in Metamorphoses 11?’. As Charles explained, the themes and imagery of the creation of the universe at the beginning of the Metamorphoses’ first pentad are echoed in the story of Arachne and her tapestry at the start of the second. Should the structure not also then lead us to expect a third rehearsal of these ideas at the outset of the third pentad? Charles believes so, and took us through his idea that the beginning of Book 11 involves a kind of deferred cosmogony in which at first the demiurgic poet-creator figure of Orpheus is destroyed by the chaotic attack of the raging Bacchantes, only for order to be eventually restored by the foundation of Troy, paving the way for the final pentad’s prime focus – recent history culminating in Rome and the establishment of Augustan order.

Orpheus and the Bacchantes. Ovid must have forgot to mention the violin in his version…

Charles had a few reservations about his theory – why did the repeat of the motif of the four elements during the establishment of Troy exclude fire? And what are we to make of the fact that Troy’s foundation is separated from the Orpheus episode by the fairly lengthy story of King Midas? Many of those present had suggestions. Perhaps fire is implicit in the very idea of Troy because of the looming, ever-present knowledge of its destruction? And perhaps the Midas story itself is a kind of creation gone wrong? Could this not also be applied to Troy itself, with the entire pentad then being a series of abortive attempts at the final, mortal cosmogony until Augustus is finally able to provide it?