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Introduction.

This volume explores the ways in which vision and viewing were depicted and conceptualized by writers and artists in the ancient Greek world. Since the 1960s, a substantial amount of scholarship has appeared on diverse aspects of the subject of vision, some of it purely theoretical, and some seeking to apply the theory in specific contexts such as art history or film studies. Central to much of this work is the idea that the way in which we view the world is relative both to the cognitive processes of the individual viewer, and to the culture in which the viewer exists. This notion has given rise to the widely employed concept of visuality, the idea that cultural patterns and social discourses constitute a kind of screen through which people necessarily look at the outside world (e.g., Eisner 2007, xvi-xvii, following Bryson 1988, 91-2).

Scientific studies of visual perception carried out since the early 1960s have provided a firm foundation for this approach. The idea that information received via the senses furnishes us with ambiguous or incomplete evidence for external reality is widely accepted among cognitive scientists. Richard Gregory, for example, developed the theory that sense perceptions are similar to the predictive hypotheses of science--mental constructs devised to explain the available sensory evidence, which are then psychologically projected into external space and accepted as reality. For Gregory, visual perception is not a straightforward outcome of patterns of light that enter the eye, but rather a product of information based on our accumulated experiences, knowledge, and expectations about the world (Gregory 1977, 10-4). "[T]he senses do not give us a picture of the world directly; rather they provide evidence for the checking of hypotheses about what lies before us. Indeed we may say that the perception of an object is a hypothesis, suggested and tested by the sensory data" (Gregory 1977, 13-4).

The conclusions of cognitive scientists were at the same time being matched by the speculations of art historians. In the early 1970s, Michael Baxandall developed the notion of "the period eye," arguing that the skills that people employ in processing visual information are to a large extent culturally determined. Within any culture, Baxandall argues, shared experiences and ways of thinking, and the supplementary knowledge brought to any act of viewing, will help to determine which visual characteristics will most appeal to the beholders of an image:

We enjoy our own exercise of skill, and we particularly enjoy the playful exercise of skills which we use in normal life very earnestly. If a painting gives us opportunity for exercising a valued skill and rewards our virtuosity with a sense of worthwhile insights about that painting's organization, we tend to enjoy it: it is to our taste. (Baxandall 1988, 34)

To one degree or another artists will respond to these socially constructed tastes when creating art objects. "The beholder must use on the painting such visual skills as he has ... and he is likely to use those skills his society esteems highly. The painter responds to this: his public's visual capacity must be his medium" (Baxandall 1988, 40).

The cultural relativism underlying Baxandall's analysis was echoed in many contemporary studies. At the root of this thinking lay the age-old question (notably explored by both Greek and Enlightenment philosophers) about the extent to which we are justified in relying on our senses for our knowledge of external reality. If we are indeed compelled to turn to sense-perception for at least a part of our knowledge of the world, then which of the senses is the most useful? Is the eye necessarily our most valuable organ? In the 1980s Martin Jay coined the term ocularcentrism to describe the primacy that had been accorded to vision in modernist culture (Jay 1988a and 1988b). This privileging of sight had generated as its late twentieth-century antithesis a suspicion of the visual, which was expressed particularly strongly by French writers and thinkers in the post-war period. Critics such as Sartre, Lacan, Althusser, and Derrida challenged from various standpoints the supposed superior ability of the eye to provide us with knowledge of an objective reality (Jay 1993, 211-594). In this postmodern retreat from positivist values, "what is perceived by the senses and what makes sense are split asunder" (Jay 1993, 585-6). The distrust aroused by vision's failure to access the outside world was compounded by its deemed complicity in systems of oppression: Debord (1970) and Foucault (1977) have highlighted spectacle and surveillance as two long-term elements in the historical intensification of political and social control.

This reaction against the cultural dominance of vision occurred during a period when the defining media of the late twentieth century--photography, film, television, video, and the internet--were exponentially increasing our society's capacity for creating and disseminating images. At the same time, viewing was becoming a much more distanced activity. The question of agency--the degree of control the viewer has over the viewing process--has always been significant for theorists of vision, involving as it does a debate about whether the eye is a passive recipient of images or is more actively engaged in their construction. Ancient Greek optical theories, examined later in this chapter, had tackled this question on both the popular and the scientific level. Intersecting with this discussion was the issue of power relations: the notion that viewers were capable of exercizing a sometimes damaging amount of power over the people whom they viewed had likewise been a feature of the debate since the Greek era. But in the late twentieth century the physical distance between viewers and viewed objects created by the new media had the effect of greatly multiplying our opportunities for voyeurism, for seeing and potentially controlling others without being seen ourselves. "The physical distance between subject and object, and the agency afforded the viewer in the visual process, makes viewing a process of subjectification (of the viewer) and objectification (of the viewed). This leads to mastery, not mutuality" (Morales 2004, 30). This issue of objectification was a particularly urgent one for feminist thinkers who were concerned about the proliferation of images of women in the visual media.

In the United Kingdom, John Bergers television series and book Ways of Seeing (1972) explored on several levels how ideology and photographic reproduction determine what we see when we look at images. The section dealing with the issue of gender--where it was famously claimed that "Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at" (Berger 1972, 47)--was to have a long-lasting impact, and fostered many discussions about the role played by viewing in perpetuating existing gender hierarchies. The notion of 'the gaze' had already been brought into play by the psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, who linked it to the "mirror stage" of development, when a child first experiences herself as a visible object. In his later work Lacan extended his treatment of the topic to include the idea that any object of the gaze (even one that is inanimate) can have an alienating effect on the viewer, because it compels subjects to be aware of themselves as objects (Lacan 1977, 74-90). Michel Foucault has also used the term in analyzing the power dynamic that arises under systems of surveillance (Foucault 1977,200-7). But in the context of gender relations one of the most influential discussions is to be found in an article by Laura Mulvey (2010), who introduced the expression "the male gaze" into her application of Freudian and Lacanian psychoanalytic theory to the study of cinema spectatorship. Mulvey maintains that narrative films in the Hollywood tradition involve a form of voyeurism that objectifies female characters. Not only do such films focus on male protagonists, they also assume a male audience:

As the spectator identifies with the main male protagonist, he projects his look onto that of his like, his screen surrogate, so that the power of the male protagonist as he controls events coincides with the active power of the erotic look, both giving a satisfying sense of omnipotence. (Mulvey 2010, 204)

Thus, men are presented in these films as active, controlling subjects, while women are converted into passive objects of desire for both the men in the story and the men in the audience.

The cinematic dominance of this "controlling male gaze" (Mulvey 2010, 206) means that women in film are constituted by their "to-be-looked-at-ness" and are prevented from being seen as desiring sexual subjects in their own right. Later critics have challenged certain aspects of Mulvey's argument, in particular its denial of an active role to the female spectator, and its assumption that the male gaze is always a heterosexual one (Silverman 1980, Kaplan 1983, de Lauretis 1984, hooks 1992, Evans and Gamman 1995). In her subsequent work (1981), Mulvey herself has modified some of her assertions to take account of a greater range of spectatorial positions.

Mulvey's discussion of the male gaze remains fundamental, however, and may be seen as one of the most persuasive products of the anti-visual discourse of the 1970s. In its identification of vision with asymmetrical relationships and power dynamics, it can be compared with Luce Irigaray's contention that sight is inherently and essentially a phallic sense: "The predominance of the visual ... is particularly foreign to female eroticism. Woman takes pleasure more from touching than from looking, and her entry into a dominant scopic economy signifies, again, her consignment to passivity: she is to be the beautiful object of contemplation" (Irigaray 1985, 25-6). Later writers have taken the penetrative character of the gaze further, interpreting it as not just controlling but as positively assaultive (Clover, 1992). Clover also builds on Mulvey's work by introducing the notion of "the reactive gaze." While for Mulvey voyeurism is essentially sadistic, Clover explores the idea that masochism can be an element in a spectators response to "the horrified gaze of the victim" featured in horror films. In this context the spectator may identify with a victim because the latter acts as a surrogate "for one's own past victimized self" (Clover 1992, 175). In other studies, both geographical and architectural spaces have been identified as factors in the construction of the gendered gaze (Colomina 1992, Bell and Valentine 1995, Rendell et al. 2000). Other arenas for objectification have also been addressed, and "the imperial gaze" and its late twentieth-century adjunct "the tourist gaze" have both been analyzed in the context of the politics of race and of development (e.g., Kaplan 1997 and Urry 2002). Gender, however, continues to be the area where the concept of the gaze is most frequently deployed, and its overall relevance to studies of the visual media and of face-to-face communication is not generally disputed. The work of Mulvey and of those who have enlarged on her ideas provides material for a number of the discussions in this volume (Lovatt, Rabinowitz, Ruffell).

"Ocularcentrism" (Jay 1988a and 1988b), however, is not solely a feature of modernism. Ancient Greek ideas about vision have been regarded by many theorists as marking the starting point for the long-term privileging of sight in Western thought. Jay himself, for example, argues (1993, 28-9) that "the Greek celebration of sight," while not unchallenged in its own day, nevertheless played an important role in elevating the status of the visual in later Western culture. Writers such as Ludolf Malten (1961) and Walther Luther (1966), on the other hand, draw a sharp distinction in this respect between the Greeks and the modern West. On their view, the Greeks are the quintessential Augenmenschen, whose privileging of vision and the visual is to be contrasted both with the primacy of the word in biblical Judaism and with the priority of reason over vision in the Western, post-Cartesian tradition.

There are, however, good reasons to be skeptical about claims of this sort. Genuinely cross-cultural studies (such as Deonna 1965) demonstrate the importance of the eye as a symbol in a wide range of ancient and modern cultures. More fundamentally, the special importance of the eye as both instrument and target of visual attention in human social interaction is demonstrated by the unique evolution of the human eyeball, in which the whiteness of the sclera alerts conspecifics to the direction of the viewer's gaze to a degree that is not possible in other species (Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 241 and Boyd 2009, 96). The ability to share visual attention to which this feature attests is fundamental to human sociality; and the importance of the eyes in the very earliest stages of the development of the capacities that underpin sociality is very great indeed. The eyes of the new-born infant are the immediate focus of its mother's attention (Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 195), and this interest is reciprocated: experiments have shown that neonates of an average age of 43 minutes look for much longer at patterns that resemble the configuration of a human face than they do at others that configure the same elements in a different way (Johnson et al. 1991). By two days old, babies are able to distinguish between the faces of their mothers (which they look at for longer) and those of strangers (Bushnell et al. 1989). This pre-organized capacity to respond to others' faces undergoes constant reinforcement from the behavior of the mother and others from the beginning; remarkably, studies demonstrating the capacity of infants of two to three weeks old to imitate the facial gestures of other people (Meltzoff and Moore 1977) were replicated in neonates as young as 42 minutes old (Meltzoff and Moore 1983). This indicates, as Bruce and Young (1998, 251) observe, that "The baby must have some kind of 'map' to indicate which of its own facial muscles corresponds to those of another human being." (1) By the age of two months, babies are adept at reciprocating visual contact, and at three months they are able to use eye contact and other visual cues to initiate contact with other people. Very shortly after that, infants begin to use eye contact to regulate their own arousal in interactions: infants five to ten months old exhibit increased pulse rate on making visual contact with others, especially strangers, and control this by looking away. (2) The way that the infant makes, withdraws, then re-establishes eye contact with others is the origin of the characteristic ambivalence in human interaction between contact-seeking and contact-avoidance. This pattern remains with us for the rest of our lives; it is especially obvious in those situations, typical of many interactions, in which contact-initiative is accompanied by self-consciousness (Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 170-84, 335-7).

What emerges from this research is that the development of the human visual system, of gaze and mutual gaze, is from the outset (i.e., from birth) implicated in human sociality and intersubjectivity. (3) The new-born child is not an empty vessel or a blank slate, but comes equipped with innate social capacities that underpin the development of self-other understanding. Recent studies (Meltzoff and Decety 2003 and Decety and Meltzoff 2011) suggest that the capacity for imitation established by the experiments of Meltzoff and Moore 1977 is linked to the existence of the "mirror neurons" that have been identified in macaque monkeys and postulated (on the basis of analogous phenomena uncovered by fMRI scans) for human beings. Much current research focuses on the search for neurobiological underpinnings of a wide range of phenomena from emotional contagion and the spontaneous and even sometimes unconscious mimicry of others' gestures and facial expressions to the imaginative capacities of 'folk psychology' which allow us to represent to ourselves the mental states of others. (4) Mirror neuron research is suggestive not only because it provides a model for understanding at least the roots and neural substrate of intersubjectivity, but also because the model that it provides has so much to do with vision and visualization. Observing another perform an action seems to activate the same regions of the brain as would be involved in performing that action oneself: "A similar neural network is reliably activated during imagining of one's own action, imagining another's action, and imitating actions performed by a model" (Decety and Meltzoff 2011, 70; cf. Preston and Hofelich 2012, 29). Much work remains to be done on the relation between "mirroring" at the neural and somatic levels (e.g., mimicry of facial expressions), emotional contagion, and more developed forms of self-other understanding; (5) but it is at least clear that against this general background of research and scholarship, the capacity of imagination has re-emerged as a central focus of research into our interest in and understanding of the minds and lives of others and our responses to verbal and visual narratives. We shall return to this topic below.

If the importance of gaze and mutual gaze in social interaction depends on innate capacities, it will not be an entirely culturally specific phenomenon, though protocols of ocular interaction will of course be subject to contextual and cultural modification. It is not difficult to demonstrate that, notwithstanding the many differences between our societies in terms of how social status is performed and acknowledged, vision and visuality are as deeply implicated in the strategies and rituals of ancient Greek social interaction as they are in our own cultures. But a complete overview of the role of the gaze in ancient Greek interaction is a broader topic than this volume can aspire to address; (6) much less can we attempt a comprehensive account of the general importance of vision in Greek life and thought. Our purpose instead is to explore the conceptualization of vision and viewing in Greek art and literature, both in its own terms and against the background of the influential modern approaches discussed above, and to establish the extent to which this theoretical and interpretive tradition does and does not furnish useful models for the interpretation of our ancient Greek data.

To take the influential Mulveyan paradigm of the "male gaze" as a starting point: it is clear that opportunities for structured forms of viewing and spectacle that exposed women (or artistic representations of women, or equally of boys and youths as the objects of the desire of older males) to an objectifying male gaze were not by any means lacking in ancient Greek societies. Girls and women, as well as boys, youths, and men, appeared and performed in a variety of religious festivals (see, e.g., Calame 1997; Stehle 1997, 71-118; Dillon 2002); if 'respectable' female bodies were largely hidden from view, there were plenty of easily accessible counterparts among slaves, prostitutes, and kept women of various sorts. At Sparta girls as well as males took part in sports and exercise naked or at least partly unclothed (Pomeroy 2002, 25-7), while female as well as male bodies were represented and displayed in a variety of art forms, from vase painting to sculpture. These phenomena have already been the subject of studies by Hellenists influenced by the later twentieth-century theories outlined above (e.g., Frontisi-Ducroux 1996; Eisner 1996; Osborne 1994, 1996, 2011; Stehle and Day 1996; Stewart 1997).

There are, however, limitations and restrictions to the application of such approaches. No classical Greek form of drama, for example, permits the kind of viewing that Mulvey has identified as characteristic of the aesthetics of Hollywood cinema, for the reason that although tragedy, comedy, and the satyr play are full of female characters, female parts were played by men. (7) The forms of scopophilia and voyeurism postulated by Mulvey and others for Hollywood cinema have no direct analogue in the ancient theater; however male actors performed their female roles, (8) the knowledge that they were men must have made a difference in the eyes of the male spectator (Zeitlin 1990, 65 and Hall 2006, 123). Yet this does not rule out legitimate questions about the association between classical forms of performance and the eroticization and objectification of the female body in Athenian society. Indeed we learn something significant about the potential for and dangers of such eroticization and objectification from the very fact that the display of actual female bodies was not practiced. The visible 'woman' on the tragic stage is a woman in the mind's eye; and the male body that, behind mask and costume, supports that representation tells us something very significant about Athenian ideology regarding the display of women before the eyes of men.

But if the onstage female character is a woman at least in ideation, this is even more true of the offstage woman, the woman represented as the object of others' visual attention in diegetic rather than mimetic space. Polyxena, for example, will have been represented by a male performer for her onstage role in Euripides' Hecuba. But Talthybius's report of her death, offstage, as a sacrifice to the dead Achilles makes it clear how, in many cases, it is the offstage, ideational woman rather than her onstage, male-represented surrogate who is more truly the object of the male gaze. In this case, as Polyxena tears her garments to the navel and invites her executioner to strike her breast or her neck (Hec. 558-65), she is both a young female object of the desire of internal and external spectators (her breasts are "as beautiful as a statue's," 560-1) and a fantasized, heroized object of male admiration (579-81). (9) Talthybius was an eyewitness of this offstage spectacle; the narrative of his messenger-speech re-creates what he saw for the imagination of an audience that sees it at second hand. This is a function not merely of the tragic messenger-speech (de Jong 1991, Goward 1999, Barrett 2002, Dickin 2009), but of narrative more generally; the words of a narrator, enhanced as they often are by the focalization of viewers internal to the narrative as well as by the reported speech of the characters whose actions are narrated, perform in narrative functions analogous to the selection of detail and direction of audience response that are performed in film by all the various aspects of the film's design (lighting, coloring, composition, shot selection, focus on the faces of protagonist and observers, cutting and editing, etc.), which depend, ultimately, on the filmmaker's deployment of the camera. One might even think of the camera in its medium taking over, at least to some extent, tasks traditionally performed by the focusing devices of verbal narrative. At the least, it is unarguable that both cinematic and verbal narratives ask and require us to look. Accordingly, both in this volume and elsewhere in the wider body of existing scholarship on ancient Greek viewing, (10) much of the evidence that must be taken into account is to be found in texts that were not scripts for the performance of acts of seeing and being seen, looking and being looked at, but which rather describe and evoke such acts. The secondary seeing of readers and hearers is as important a topic as the direct viewing of the spectator; the language, and indeed the concept of vision and viewing, are not restricted to what is actually visual and visible.

The capacity to visualize unseen objects is also an element of our pan-cultural, pan-human heritage. The integration of vision and cognition in the human mind has endowed us all with the capacity to form mental images (even if these are images of objects that one has never seen, or even of objects that no one has ever seen). But it is vision that is our primary source of information about the world, which explains why knowledge is regularly spoken of in terms of sight rather than sight in terms of knowledge. The mechanism is one of cognitive metaphor (Lakoff and Johnson 1980), a process that typically maps the more immediate onto the more mysterious, the concrete onto the abstract, the physical onto the psychological, and the seen onto the unseen. The metaphor that knowing is seeing passes almost without notice in our modern languages and is clearly not unique to ancient Greek (Johnson 1987, 107-9). In ancient Greek, however, the difference between 'seeing' and 'knowing' amounts to no more than a shift in aspect of a single verbal root (albeit one that is then enmeshed in different patterns of usage and semantics). The cognitive metaphor that understanding is seeing is encoded in the forms of the verb itself. The metaphor is not uniquely Greek, but it may still be quintessentially so.

However that may be, the capacity to visualize what one does not see but merely hears or reads about, is exploited and developed from the earliest stages of Greek literature onwards. The Homeric poems were celebrated in antiquity and are still admired today for their enargeia, the quality of presenting a narrative in such a way as to engage the audience's capacity for visualization. Enargeia remained an aspiration of wordsmiths and a core term of the literary and rhetorical critic's art throughout antiquity. (11) A scholium on the famous passage of Iliad 6 in which Hector reaches out towards his baby son, only for the boy to shrink back in fear at his helmet, is a typical example: "Children do cling to their nurses and are hard to wrench away from them. But in this case the sight frightens him too. These lines are so full of enargeia that you don't just hear what's happening, you see it as well" ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]II. 6.467). (12) The fit between Homeric criticism and the poems' own implicit poetics is suggested by the presentation of song as something that derives from (II. 2.484-7) or at least resembles (Od. 8.491) eyewitness knowledge: Homer's Demodocus was not present at Troy, and neither witnessed the events he narrates nor heard about them from someone who did; but someone who was present, Odysseus, is able to offer a unique guarantee of the bard's powers of enargeia (de Jong 2001, 214-5; Serra 2007, 34; Halliwell 2011, 85-6). That both audiences and authors reveled in such capabilities is demonstrated by the pervasive tradition of ekphrasis, the vivid, quasi-pictorial representation of a scene, person, animal, or object (not just a work of art) that appears already as a deliberate tour de force in the Shield of Achilles in Iliad 18. Parallel to the theorization of enargeia (and related terms such as sapheneia and emphasis) in aesthetics, literary criticism, and rhetoric is that of phantasia (the faculty of imagination) in philosophy and psychology, as well as aesthetics; (13) and as Herrmann has shown us, in his 2007 monograph as well as in his contribution to this collection, it was ancient Greek that gave us the language of ideas, invisible objects of the mind's insight. Gorgias and Plato vie for the honor of being the first author we know of to deploy the explicit image of "the mind's eye" ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]: Plato, Symp. 219A; [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII], Resp. 533D; [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII], Soph. 254A), but the metaphor of cognition as vision is much older. For all these reasons and more, the concentration of some of our contributors on reported seeing, 'as if' seeing, on the verbal representation of sights, and on the notion of sight as insight is entirely legitimate in a volume of this nature--a book on ancient Greek viewing could not leave these themes out.

Ancient Greek authors regularly comment on the greater power and persuasiveness of what one sees with ones own eyes by comparison with what one merely hears about (Heraclitus B 101a DK; Herodotus 1.8.1; Xenophon, Mem. 3.11.1), but it seems to have been an implicit ideal of Greek narrative to efface the distinction as far as possible. There is thus ample room for verbal narratives to exploit in their audiences the scopophilia and voyeurism that drive the gaze of Mulvey's hypothetical male viewer, as we have already noted in the case of Euripides' presentation of the sacrifice of Polyxena; in fact, two of the three passages just cited use the trope of the superiority of autopsy over hearsay to elicit via a verbal narrative a visualization of the primary viewing experienced by a figure in the narrative. (14)

But if the legitimate extension of the notion of 'viewing' to include the phantasia exercized by the hearers and readers of verbal narratives extends the scope (to use another visual metaphor) of the 'male gaze' from primary viewing to secondary visualization, it also throws into higher relief the extent to which the forms of viewing and visualization suggested by that approach represent simply one possible mode among many. It must, surely, be beyond contestation that, in a wide variety of everyday scenarios, the male gaze can have the characteristics that are typically ascribed to it. Undeniably, too, such a mode of viewing is not only a possible response of the male cinema-goer, but also clearly exploited and explored in numerous products of mainstream cinema. (15) But it cannot be the only mode of viewing in which even heterosexual male cinema-goers actually engage. A wholly different (though not necessarily incompatible) approach to cinema's construction of the audience's visual attention emerges, for example, from David Bordwell's brilliant exposition of the way that the 'convention' of shot/reverse shot is both an invention of early cinematic technique and a non-arbitrary way of incorporating aspects of everyday ocular interaction which do not replicate either the interactants' or the observers' perspective (Bordwell 2008, 57-82). Empirical research into actual responses of cinema audiences--even among viewers of such prime Mulveyan suspects as Hitchcock's Vertigo--appears to reveal a wider range of reactions. (16) Films like Vertigo or (even more so) Michael Powell's Peeping Tom do clearly thematize the relation between cinema and voyeurism, but even in the case of Peeping Tom an audience will be (as audiences surely are) disturbed by its implication in the murderer's voyeurism and objectification of his female victims only if it also sympathizes with his victims in a way that he does not. The tension between scopophilia and deeper forms of interest in cinematic characters is further probed in works such as Michael Haneke's Cache or Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's Das Leben der Anderen. In the latter, the invasive, objectifying surveillance of the Stasi operative, spying on a playwright whose loyalty to the SED regime has become suspect, certainly implicates the audience. The tables are turned, however, when the Stasi operative himself comes to empathize with the targets of his surveillance in the way that a cinematic audience might (cf. Smith 2011, 114); detached, voyeuristic observation gives way to a more profound interest in the lives of others.

In this regard, cinematic and literary fiction appear to coalesce in the ways in which their narratives engage the imaginative and affective capacities of their audiences. The imagination, the capacity of phantasia, that allows us to enter vicariously into the minds and worlds of fictional characters appears to draw on very much the same capacities as allow us to imagine the minds and experiences of other flesh and blood human beings in everyday life. The phantasia that is engaged by the enargeia of ancient Greek narratives is equally diverse, both in theory and in practice; but its character, as emphasized by the author of On the Sublime 15.1-2, is typically emotional: one feels something like what a participant or an eyewitness would feel. (17) Josephus's narrative of the cannibalism of Mary (BJ 6.201-19) is a good example. During the siege of Jerusalem, a starving woman cooks and eats her own son in a desperate attempt to avenge herself upon the Jewish guards whose depredations have reduced her to this level. The guards who see what she has done are transfixed with horror at the sight ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]), (18) but as the news spreads through the city, all visualize and shudder at the event as if they had committed it themselves ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII], 213). The horror of the eyewitness is recapitulated in the response of an internal, listening audience that not only visualizes the act but also in some sense re-creates the horror of perpetrating such an act; both perspectives are available to guide the emotions of the reader (cf. Chapman 2007). (19) There is no absolute distinction here, in Greek literary and rhetorical theory, between the forms of viewing encouraged by direct visual spectacle and the visualization that verbal narratives excite in their audiences. Gorgias, for example, insists on the compulsive, emotive power of both logos (Hel. 8-14) and opsis (15-9), drawing a clear parallelism between the mental images created by speech ([section] 13, cited above) and those created by the objects of vision ([section] 17: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]). For Aristotle (Poet. 14,1453b1-12), the emotions that are characteristic of the audience's response to tragedy can be aroused by opsis, but should properly arise from the plot itself, and thus might be aroused just as effectively if not more effectively by a purely verbal narrative. Modern cognitive approaches to fiction similarly group audience response to visual and verbal narrative under the same head, and emphasize the link between both of these and the capacities for imagination, mind reading, and empathy that are activated in real social interaction and part of our mental equipment as a social species. (20)

Modern critical accounts of the fallibility and subjectivities of vision and of vision's implication in ideologies of gender, status, and power clearly stand in some relation to scientific or pseudoscientific theory; but ancient Greek constructions of vision and visuality also interact, at least in some cases and to some extent, with the folk and scientific models of the societies in which they developed. It is a legitimate exercise, undertaken by several of our contributors, to bring modern theoretical perspectives to bear on the ancient evidence as it relates, for example, to the erotics of seeing and to anxieties about the implication of vision in relations of dominance, hierarchy, and power. Yet many of these phenomena can also be illuminated by investigating their relation to ancient theory, a procedure that has the added advantage of highlighting what is distinctive about ancient cultural models, both of vision itself and of the other aspects of social and cultural values (e.g., those centered on sex, gender, and status) in which vision is implicated.

The Hippocratic treatise [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (De videndi acie or On Sight) is not, as might have been expected, on the subject of anatomy or sense perception, but on eye surgery (see Craik 2006). (21) Cutting, cautery, and scarification are extensively prescribed for conditions that include cataract, trachoma, and (vaguely all-embracing) 'ophthalmia.' From these therapeutic and surgical procedures, which aim to dissipate or evacuate peccant matter, the anatomical, physiological, and pathological presuppositions of the author can readily be reconstructed. These are seen to be in accord with views expressed or implicit in other texts from the Hippocratic Corpus, as well as in Aristotle and to a large extent in the later medical tradition of antiquity, extending even to Paul of Aegina.

Alcmaeon of Croton (cf. below) had put forward theories of sense perception and formulated concepts of psychophysiology on the basis of the existence of "ducts" (doubtless the optic nerves) observed to lead from brain to eye. (22) But anatomical knowledge in the classical period remained rudimentary, based primarily on dissection of animals. Physicians supplemented their limited anatomical knowledge with theoretical postulates, thinking primarily in terms of the flux and fixation of bodily fluids. The related theories of physiology--that optical well-being depended on the proper functioning of ducts that conveyed pure moisture to the healthy eye--and pathology--that the sight was affected if these ducts became blocked or flooded or conveyed peccant moisture to the diseased eye--can be seen pervasively in Greek medical texts of all eras. Such ophthalmological theories were allied with the common general theory in antiquity of a downward flux from the head to various parts of the body through various channels, including not only the superficial blood vessels but also deep conduits between the head and the lower body. (23)

In ophthalmology a distinction was postulated between noxious stuff (related especially to phlegm) localized in and flowing from the scalp above the skull and noxious stuff (related to vital fluids) localized in and flowing from the brain below the skull. Whereas the former was viewed as common and amenable to treatment by cutting or burning the flesh of the vertex or the vessels of the temples, the latter was thought serious and intractable, dangerously inaccessible in its course from brain to eye. Diseases presenting at other points in the body, especially at the arthra (joints), were similarly thought to be particularly difficult to treat when the causal flux was associated with deep inner pathways, rather than with more shallow outer passages in or from the head. The most important deep route was via the spinal fluid. Diseases where this was implicated were commonly associated with excess of sexual activity, semen and cerebrospinal fluid being seen as allied. An encephalomyelogenic theory of seminal fluid underlies the belief that infertility (not always impotence) would result if an incision were made behind the ears. (24) Such an incision was a recognized treatment for diseases of the hip joint, caused by a flux of peccant matter by the same route. (25). In women, this flux of peccant matter might affect the same joints as in men; in addition it might attack the genitalia and so, as in men, have an effect on fertility (Mul. 2.114 [= vol. 8, p. 246 Littre]).

Fluids in the eye and fluids associated with fertility are viewed in the same way. The supposition is made that in sex the eyes and genitals alike "sink" and are drained, contraction of the eyes forcing out stuff from the brain; the proof is that anointing the eyes is a treatment for infertity in women ([Aristotle], Pr. 4.2, 876a-b). This is to enhance production of (female) sperm. A related view is that in cases of uterine suffocation, the passages to the eyes are blocked (Mul. 2.201 [= vol. 8, p. 384 Littre]). Supposed signs of pregnancy are noted in the eyes, while a pregnancy test based on the result of applying a red substance to the eyes is recorded. (26)

It is probable that there was widespread popular knowledge of these medical beliefs. The common literary description of the eyes through the adjective hygros (moist) may refer not (as LSJ) to melting or languishing looks but rather to health, wellbeing, and sexual potency; the same description of limbs may refer not (as LSJ) to their suppleness but rather to similar traits of health and vitality.

At both popular and 'scientific' levels, ancient Greek optical theories typically presuppose some form of physical contact between the eyes and the object of vision. (27) Broadly, there are three categories into which these theories might be sorted: active, in which the eye sees by emitting rays or effluences; passive, in which the eye is the recipient of emanations from the objects of vision; and interactionist, in which the eye both emits and receives. The active (emissionist) theory--that the eyes see by means of the fiery rays which they cast on the external world--is common in early poetry; (28) it is apparent also in the notion that the sun is an all-seeing eye, (29) and finds expression in some scientific optical theories (e.g., those of Alcmaeon of Croton and Euclid). (30) Fire within the eyes also figures in the optical theory of Empedocles, where it coexists with a belief that the eyes receive physical emanations from objects. (31) The crucial question here is whether interocular fire is actually emitted from the eyes, or is rather the mechanism by which emanations are perceived once they have reached the eye. The former interpretation would suggest that Empedocles followed an interactionist theory (in which the rays emitted by the eye merge with emanations from the objects of vision) of the sort that appears in Plato's Timaeus. (32) Recent interpreters, however, place more emphasis on the eye's passive reception of emanations. (33) The approach of Democritus and the other atomists has traditionally been regarded as passive, emanationist, in which the eye is the passive recipient of impressions created by "images" (deikela or deikela, eidola) derived from the objects of sight; (34) but a recent reexamination by K. Rudolph (2011) makes a strong case for the combination of both active (emissionist) and passive (emanationist) elements. (35) The theories of the Stoics are clearly interactionist: vision involves a flow of pneuma from the hegemonikon to the eyes, whereupon a 'cone' of stretched air is formed between the eyes and the object through which contact is effected and information transmitted back to the hegemonikon. (36)

The apparent exception to the dominant view of vision as involving physical contact between perceiver and perceived was Aristotle, who decisively rejected the materialist, quasi-haptic theories of his predecessors. (37) In his view, perception in all its forms is a qualitative change in the subject, involving reception of the form but not the matter of the object. Nonetheless, his theory retains a notion that the object of vision, insofar as it is colored, effects a qualitative but still physical change, both in the transparent medium between object and perceiver and in the eye itself: our perception is of the shape of the apple and its redness, not of the apple itself, but there is still a material change both in the air that is the medium of perception and in the eye that receives it, a change caused by the qualities of the apple. This is suggested, above all, by an example not of vision (of the eyes undergoing a qualitative change) but of a converse process, the eye's causing a qualitative change. The reference here is to Aristotle's acceptance and explanation of the belief that the eye of a menstruating woman can cause discoloration of a mirror: this happens because the change in the transparent medium of the eye (believed to result from menstruation) affects that of the air and the mirror. (38) The change in the transparent medium is qualitative (i.e., color), but still material. Thus even Aristotle's passive and anti-materialist theory of vision can retain an active role for the eye in causing physical changes in the world (albeit not as an aspect of its activity of seeing). (39)

These folk and scientific models are important because in their different ways they are compatible with beliefs that the eyes may cause or lay one open to a variety of profound and often unwelcome physical changes. Such, for example, is the belief that diseases such as eye infections and epilepsy, and physical-cum-spiritual afflictions such as miasma (pollution), may be transmitted by sight. (40) They are also implicated in various scenarios of social interaction, especially those that involve emotions such as love and envy. For the ancient Greeks, as for us, the degree of intimacy between lovers is typically correlated with increased eye contact, while envy is regularly seen in terms of ones being the unwanted focus of others' visual attention. (41) The association between envy and the eyes was pervasive in antiquity. The personified figure of Envy (Zelos, Phthonos) is characterized by hateful or terrible looks in authors as widely separated in time as Hesiod (Op. 195-6) and Gregory Nazianzenus (Epigr. 8.121.5 = PG 38.25); it is an envious look from afar that Agamemnon fears as he walks to his death on Clytemnestra's crimson cloths (Aeschylus, Ag. 946-7); and Pindar contrasts the positive regard the victor should achieve with the gaze of the phthoneros who "rolls an empty thought in darkness" (Nem. 4.39-41). The fundamental feature of phthonos is its probing, malicious gaze, whose characteristic and unnerving feature is its tendency to be directed at its target without that persons perceiving it. The look of phthonos is thus not generally at home in one-to-one, face-to-face interactions; it is much more the reaction of the spectator on the sidelines--often no more than a projection of the subject's sense that her actions admit of evaluations on the part of their witnesses that differ from those of the subject herself. (42) Ancient anxieties about the malicious gaze of the phthoneros no doubt have the deep roots in our pre-human inheritance with which Burkert credits them (1996, 43, 86), but they also take on highly specific forms in theories of the evil eye, physiognomic lore on the identification of the envious, and the provision of spells and apotropaic devices, including eye amulets and other representations of the open eye, to neutralize its effects. (43)

Ancient Greek scenarios of love and envy, however, can also make use of the various 'haptic' theories of vision. In the case of love, the active (emissionist) theory makes its presence felt in frequent references to the fire, rays, or arrows that emanate from the eyes of the beloved. (44) This sense that the beloved's gaze can make her or him an active party to the interaction can be accentuated by imagery that presents the beloved as 'hunting' the lover by means of the arrows or snares of the eyes. (45) Typically, however, the beloved is not (or not yet) an active party to the relationship; his burning, melting looks incite desire, but do not express it, and indeed they incite desire whether the beloved is actively seeking to ensnare the lover, modestly resisting his advances (e.g., Anth. Pal. 12.99), or entirely unaware of or indifferent to the lover's intentions (e.g., Pindar, fr. 123.2-6, 10-2 Maehler) (46) Though this model of infatuation, in which the lover is affected by rays or glances from the beloved's eyes, makes transparent use of the active, emissionist model of vision, the stress is on the lover's helpless, passive experience of eros. The beloved may be casting rays from his eyes, but the look that is charged with emotion is that of the lover. In the Pindaric fragment just cited, the beloved's active eye is focalized throughout from the lover's perspective: rays from the beloved's eyes make the lover swell with desire (2-3), but to do this they must catch the lover's own eye. And though the fragment begins with the lover's susceptibility to looks from the beloved's eyes, it concludes with the effects of the lover's own visual attention to the beauty of the youthful male body as a whole ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] [But thanks to Aphrodite, I melt like the wax of holy bees bitten by the sun's heat, whenever I look on the new-limbed youth of boys, 10-2]). In this way, the 'active' model shades into a more passive conception, in which the lover is the passive recipient of emanations that come from the beloved's entire body and not just from the eyes.

The latter is the case in the celebrated account of eros in Plato's Phaedrus (251B-C), where the lover's desire is the result of the effluence (aporrhoe) of particles from the beautiful body that enter the lover's soul via his eyes. (47) This passive model is also the 'scientific' explanation of eros preferred in the Greek novel, as novelists employ the Empedoclean/Democritean/Platonic terminology of eiddla and aporrho(i)ai and describe the onset of love as a result of the influx through the lover's eyes of emanations from the object of the gaze. (48) The erotic model of vision can thus appropriate the emissionist point of view, but does so in a modified and asymmetric way: the beloved whose flashing rays melt the lover may sometimes intend this effect, but the effect is the same whether he does or not, and the counterpart of the (sometimes) active eye of the beloved is the passive, receptive eye of the lover. Though the lover's eye is a greedy eye that actively seeks out the beautiful, (49) it is at the same time the passive victim of the beloved's beauty and generally has no power to affect the object of its desires unless that individual happens to be subject to the same passive experience of falling in love. In the novelists, falling in love can be simultaneous and mutual, in the sense that the beauty of person A affects person B and vice versa, but the emotion expressed by person A's eyes does not excite emotion in person B; instead, each undergoes the same passive experience of being affected by the other's beauty. (50) The beloved's eye, even when dispassionate, is powerful, while the lover's, despite the ardor it expresses, is typically impotent.

Part of the reason for this is lies in the phenomenology of love in general and of eros in particular. Erotic infatuation, like many other emotions, can be experienced as a loss of control. (51) But a further distinguishing mark of Greek eros is its one-sidedness: the relevant relationships are seen as involving an active erastes and a passive recipient of that person's attentions, an eromenos or eromene. (52) This does not mean that such relationships can never be mutual (as they are in the heterosexual relationships portrayed in the novel), but only that my eros is conceived as something that happens to me as a result of my interest in another party who need not reciprocate that interest. To this there is a further ideological dimension, especially in pederastic relations between an older and a younger male, insofar as the rhetoric of the (active) lover's helpless enslavement to the passive eromenos involves meconnaissance of the hierarchical nature of these relationships. (53) Though the real power lies with the adult male citizen in pursuit, as an object of pleasure, of a boy who is not yet a citizen, the powerful represent themselves as enslaved to the object of their desires.

The power of this model--Konstan's pederastic paradigm (54)--and the influence it exerted upon the application of folk and scientific models of vision to the case of erotic seeing, are demonstrated by a further passage in Plato's Phaedrus, (55) In that dialogue, especially in Socrates' second speech (in which he recants his earlier agreement with Lysias on the superiority of the non-lover over the lover), much is made of the possibility of philia between lover and beloved (see Sheffield 2011). This mutuality, however, does not entirely extend to eros itself. The feelings of philia that the beloved experiences towards the lover do involve eros of a sort, but this is not the same as the lovers eros. Plato calls it anteros (255C-E), and its source lies in the eromenos himself: the stream of beauty that emanates from the beloved's body and so inflames the lover can be so abundant that it flows back into the beloved's eyes and infects him, just as one is infected with ophthalmia, with a form of eros that is a reflection ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII], 255D) or "image" (eidolon) of the desire that the lover experiences in a stronger and more regular form. This elaborate image clearly draws on the phenomenon of mutual gaze in intimate relationships--a phenomenon whose existence can be recognized as such in Greek sources (56)--but theorizes it in line with the dominant contemporary model of eros. Despite the attribution of eros, in some form, to both parties to the relationship, the passage still does not encompass a symmetrical relationship between two parties, each of whom loves the other in the same way for the same reason. (57) The ideology of erotic attachment exercises a decisive influence upon the ways in which models of erotic vision are deployed.

The supposed reality of the physical affections caused and undergone by the eyes in the case of love forms part of an argument used in both Plutarch and Heliodorus to convince a skeptical audience of the reality of the evil eye (baskania): if the eyes are the medium of a physical affliction in the case of love (which, it is assumed, everyone accepts), then so can they be in malicious emotions like envy. (58) Both these passages seek (Plutarch seriously, Heliodorus probably parodically) (59) to provide a supposedly scientific rationale for a belief that could be stigmatized as popular superstition but was clearly widespread. (60) The argument in both places requires the materiality of the gaze in the case of love to be assimilated as closely as possible to that of the evil eye; and at a certain level of generality there is indeed a parallel, for in both cases we can be affected (via our own eyes) by others' looks. But there is also a distinct lack of fit between eros and baskania as manifestations of the materiality of the gaze: the latter illustrates the eyes' supposed ability actively to infect others with the malicious emotional state of their possessor, whereas in the paradigm scenarios of eros the beloved's active eye typically does not express the emotion itself, and the lover's eye, which does express the emotion, is generally ineffective. The preferred optical theory of both Plutarch and Heliodorus is the passive one, but in both there is a tension between an active model (which suits phthonos) and a passive model (which suits eros): the Plutarch passage begins with the general truth that people can be harmed by being the target of others' looks (680D-F; cf. 681E). But the passage goes on to explain the harm caused by others' gaze in terms of a more or less passive optical theory in which the eyes are said to be an especially powerful source of the aporrhoiai that the whole body produces (680F-681A). (61) The analogy of eros is then introduced in a way that initially suggests that it too, like phthonos, involves the active emission of emotion-particles (681A-B): "Of love, too, which is the greatest and most violent passion of the soul, vision provides the beginning; so that the lover, when he looks upon the beautiful, flows and melts, as if pouring himself out towards them." It immediately becomes clear, however, that it is the vulnerability of the eye of the lover to the melting looks of the beloved which is being used as an argument for the eye's active ability to cause harm in baskania (681B-C):
   This is why we should be surprised, I think, that people believe
   that a person can be affected and harmed through sight, but not
   that they can act and cause harm. For the reciprocated gaze of the
   beautiful and that which is emitted by the eye, be it light or a
   current, melt and dissolve the lovers to the accompaniment of a
   pleasure that is mixed with pain, which they themselves call
   bittersweet. For neither by touching or hearing are they so wounded
   and affected, as by looking and being looked upon. Such is the
   communication and the inflammation that results from sight that one
   must consider altogether unacquainted with love those who wonder at
   Median naphtha when it catches fire at a distance from the flame.
   For the glances of the beautiful, even if they look back from a
   great distance, kindle fire in the souls of their lovers.


The disanalogy between phthonos and eros is highlighted by the fact that in phthonos it is the agent of the gaze who is in the grip of a pathos of the soul (681D-E) while in eros it is the recipient (681A-C).

Heliodorus's 'malarial' account of phthonos is more consistently passive, but the same tension between the active character of phthonos and the passivity of eros is still apparent: when someone looks with phthonos at what is beautiful, he fills the surrounding air with his malign quality (3.7.3); but in eros the affection enters the soul via the eyes as a result of what the lover has seen, a sign of the eyes' receptivity to aporrhoiai (3.7.5). The passive model of vision is credited with quasi-active emotional powers in the case of phthonos, but not in that of eros. The look of a lover is unlikely to transmit the lover's eros, and there is an asymmetry between the evil eye (in which others' eyes can straightforwardly transmit what those individuals are feeling and achieve the desired effect on their target) and eros (in which neither party straightforwardly uses the eyes to transmit emotion). Although in very general terms similar beliefs in the physical consequences of seeing and being seen can be used in the explanation of both phenomena, the preferred optical theory conditions, but does not determine, the presentation of the two emotions; the independent folk theories of the emotions in question, even when they come into contact with optical theory, remain in different ways resistant to absorption into a single, overarching theory.

In the case of these emotions a concept of vision as a process of physical contact is clearly activated, and there genuinely is a sense that the eye has the potential to send or receive emotions that have powerful physical effects on their target. In other cases, however, this potential is very often ignored. The angry can occasionally be credited with the power to harm which is more often attributed to the envious (e.g., Apollonius of Rhodes, Arg. 4.661-73), but this potential cannot be generalized. (62) There are numerous passages from Homer on in which a character's eyes express anger. (63) Yet while part of the definition of anger (as the Greeks understood it) is that the patient of the emotion desires to inflict retaliatory harm on its target, and the Homeric poems, for example, are full of angry looks, we have no instance in which the scowls, frowns, blazing eyes, or evil looks of the angry individual have any harmful effect on the target of her or his anger. In fact, a belief in the eye's power to harm would on occasion be incompatible with typical scenarios of social and ocular interaction; for if there were a consistent and universal belief that looks could kill, no angry individual would use visual cut-off (that is, deliberately look away) as a way of punishing an offender's lack of respect. (64)

We cannot, therefore, generalize from the physical efficacy or vulnerability of the eye in some scenarios to an all-encompassing universal belief in the physical effects of seeing and being seen. These models of vision are enlisted in support of cultural models of emotion where they fit, modified where they fit less well, and ignored when they do not fit at all. Though models of vision as a haptic process are doubtless intended to be applied across the board, their intersection with the protocols of ocular interaction in everyday life is limited to a few special cases. The notion of the physicality of the gaze cannot, then, be said to permeate Greek models of ocular, emotional, and social interaction.

In the cases of eros and baskania, where cultural models of vision and emotion intersect, the phenomenology of the emotions concerned (eros as a passive experience, baskania as a danger posed by the eyes of others) plays a significant role in subordinating the visual to the emotional model; but so too do questions of status, hierarchy, and ideology. In other cases such as the role of the eyes in the expression of anger, the relevant interpretive frame is not the 'haptic' model of vision, but specific Greek understandings of the expressive, emotional, and social role of the eyes in ordinary social interaction. These are issues that impinge on the role of the gaze in a much wider range of emotional scenarios and social contexts, for the part played by the eyes in the expression of demeanor and deference in interaction ritual was as fundamental for the Greeks as it is for us. The delicate task of negotiating the balance between respect for self and others, of projecting one's own status and acknowledging that of others, was, as far as we can tell from the texts and images that ancient Greek communities have left us, as deeply dependent on strategies of the gaze as in our own societies.

The role of the eyes in interaction ritual is a large subject that cannot be pursued in detail here, but some pointers may be given. In a wide variety of everyday social scenarios, the degree of looking and eye contact in a face-to-face interaction manifests and defines the status of the interactants. Intense looking can indicate positive regard (examples in Cairns 2005b, 131-2), but it can also be invasive and entail a claim to superiority or a failure of deference (Cairns 2005b, 129-30). Equally, looking away can express a sense of one's lower status vis-a-vis the other (with primary focus on either the superiority of the other or one's own inferiority: Cairns 2005b, 134-5) and can deny the other the status of interactant altogether (Cairns 2005b, 135-6). These phenomena entail a delicate balance in the reciprocity of seeing and being seen which is typical of human interaction in general, but also characteristically Greek (cf. Frontisi-Ducroux 1991, 10, 169-70; 1995, 20, 25-6). Looking carries a claim to status that may or may not be validated, and its validation or otherwise is manifested in the gaze of others. Looking away can downplay one's own claim but also constitute a refusal to validate the claims of the other, since both the right to look and the right to display oneself are part of the definition of status in social interaction. Typically, both rights were denied in Greece to individuals (slaves, boys, women, kinaidoi) defined as inferior to free men and forfeited by free men of impaired status. These patterns, and their implication in strategies of demeanor and deference in everyday social interaction, are familiar in general terms, originating in the ambivalence between contact-seeking and contact-avoidance in early infant development to which we referred above. Yet they are also embedded in a specifically Greek framework of semantic categories, social roles, practices, norms, and values. As the construction of the roles and status of individuals, the protocols and display rules that define those roles, and the nature of the social emotions expressed in these scenarios all differ between Greek societies and our own, so the specifics of ancient Greek vision and viewing must be seen in the concrete detail of the norms and practices of Greek societies.

Let us now turn to the chapters in this volume. The first three contributions explore from different angles the interface between written texts and the viewing of material objects. Deborah Steiner in her essay, "Swallow This: A Pelike within Late Archaic Song and Visual Culture," offers a new interpretation of a late sixth-century pelike, a vase that presents an intriguing combination of words and images. Working with two existing sets of readings of the object--one focused on the pederastic element within the first of the vase's two scenes, the other on the activity of sign making--Steiner's differently oriented account discusses the role of the pot within the sympotic culture for which it was produced. By drawing on a series of texts concerned with the deciphering of bird signs (the activity shown on one side of the pelike) and on contemporary swallow lore, this reading demonstrates how artist and potter together construct the vase as a riddle that challenges its sympotic audience and invites them to participate competitively in the painted scenes. Critical here are also social relations, both those between the makers of the pot and their elite audience, and those between the symposiasts who view the pelike at their collective gathering. By virtue of the invitation to engage in the images on the pelike, the audience is further prompted to reflect on relations between the visual and verbal spheres and on their respective powers and limitations.

In the next two articles, the authors engage with written accounts of the viewing of art objects. Melissa Haynes's essay, "Framing a View of the Unviewable: Architecture, Aphrodite, and Erotic Looking in the Lucianic Erotes," provides a multilayered analysis of a description of the temple of Aphrodite at Cnidus and of the statue of the goddess which it once housed. The debate presented within the Greek text--What is the correct focus for male sexual desire?--is provoked by the bivalent erotic stimulus of the goddess's body, which hinges on whether the viewer approaches the statue from the front or the back. Whereas other accounts of the sanctuary emphasize the possibility of viewing the figure from all angles, the author of the Erdtes depicts a temple with only two doors: in order to view the goddess from the back, the visitor must be admitted by a guard through a rear door. In her article, Haynes argues that this unique description of the sanctuary is the product of a conscious literary strategy aimed at presenting an architectural map for a dialogue on the eroticized body. For Haynes, the directed viewing in the text projects the body, gendered alternatively female and male, onto the experience of the architectural space. This new reading sites the viewing of a celebrated statue firmly within the ancient author's complex literary approach to architecture, sexuality, and the intersection of the two.

Michael Squire, in his "Apparitions Apparent: Ekphrasis and the Parameters of Vision in the Elder Philostratus's Imagines," investigates a more conscious writerly perspective on the interface between text and image. It examines "the symbiotic rapport between voice and vision" in a Greek text that bridges the classical and the late antique periods. Philostratus the Elder's Imagines describes a make-believe collection of 65 paintings in a gallery on the bay of Naples, and poses questions about the way in which texts may function as images, and images as texts. This account taps into a long-running Greek debate about which medium is the more meaningful: 'pictures for viewing' or 'words for reading.' Squire uses Philostratus's narrative as a basis for considering the relationship between the theorizing of viewing and the theorizing of the parallel processes of writing and reading. He discusses the impact on contemporary thinking of Greek rhetoricians' notions of ekphrasis, and relates this to Philostratus's own complex and self-conscious exercises in "bringing about seeing through hearing." The problematics of viewing are probed and explored in a section in which issues of visual subjectivity are seen to be intertwined with larger questions about authenticity and falsehood. Finally Squire considers how the Imagines fits into a broader cultural history of Greek viewing, and flags up the idea that Philostratus's games with the mental imagination of his readers may be supplying them with the means to bypass the material world altogether.

Ancient Greek narratives that explore the power of the male gaze are the subject of the next two articles. In her essay "Hesiod and the Divine Gaze," Helen Lovatt compares the handling of the themes of vision and the gaze across the Hesiodic poems, and sets them in the context of their treatment in Homer and later epic poetry. Lovatt demonstrates that in Hesiod's poetry, in particular the Theogony, the monolithic visual power of Zeus holds sway in contrast to the more fractured and complex visual economies of other epic poems. The Titanomachy and the struggle against Typhoeus are both interpreted as battles of the gaze; here Lovatt makes use of the work of Carol J. Clover in arguing that Hesiod's Zeus possesses the assaultive gaze par excellence. Lovatt believes that in the Works and Days, despite the poem's different narrative frame, the visual field continues to be dominated by the figure of Zeus. In the 7heogony and Shield, Zeus is also shown to be the subject of a predatory erotic gaze; and in the two versions of the story of Pandora that Hesiod produced, the first woman, like other mythological females, is seen to be characterized as a visual object who generates desire. Finally Lovatt argues that Hesiod employs the theme of vision to reflect on poetic functions and practices, adopting Zeus himself as the guarantor of his own visual power.

The narrative mode of the Greek novel features in Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones's "'Empire of the Gaze': Despotism and Seraglio Fantasies a la grecque in Chariton's Callirhoe." Llewellyn-Jones addresses the complicated relationship between gender, power, and the gaze, in analyzing Chariton's text in the context of ideas about Achaemenid Persia, in particular the invisibility of its aristocratic women. He argues that the novel, composed long after the fall of the Persian Empire, was written so as to arouse erotic feelings in its male readers by granting them access to what was not to be seen; but the fantasy of the seraglio was then fed back into historical conceptions of Achaemenid rule. According to Llewellyn-Jones, Chariton works consciously to move his novel ever deeper into Persia, ultimately into the women's quarters and even the space of a carriage. Throughout the novel the Greek woman Callirhoe is visualized through the eyes of ever more powerful men. This fantasy had an important place in subsequent Greek views of the East, and this is explored by Llewellyn-Jones using the concept of orientalism developed by Grosrichard. The representation of Callirhoe becomes part of the cliche of the erotic and exotic East.

The tragic drama of classical Athens drew heavily on mythological narratives, which themselves provided vivid accounts of the processes of looking and being looked at. But performances of tragedy and comedy also furnished opportunities for real-life spectatorship, involving both the internal viewing that the characters engaged in, and the external viewing that Athenian audiences were able to experience. Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz in her article, "Women as Subject and Object of the Gaze in Tragedy," focuses on how the ideology of the gaze is deployed within the plays, rather than on the structure of seeing for the audience. She looks specifically at the ways in which female characters are represented as powerful and/or powerless through their adoption of different viewing positions. In this overview of tragedy Rabinowitz questions Berger's and Mulvey's assertions about the ways in which viewing is constructed, with powerful men looking at powerless women; she develops a much more nuanced picture of the different positions that women may occupy in the viewing spectrum. In particular she identifies four different modes of viewing with respect to women in the tragedies: women who are represented as 'to be looked at'; female characters who are represented as looking; and sacrificial heroines who court the gaze and are represented both as to be looked at and as looking. Rabinowitz concludes by pointing out that possessing the gaze does not grant power to the powerless, and questions how we might learn from these plays today.

Chiara Thumiger in "Vision and Knowledge in Greek Tragedy" discusses the viewing position of the audience. She examines the interaction between theatrical viewing and a number of significant elements in classical Athenian culture: the tragic emphasis on knowledge and learning; the relationship of seeing to the theatrical experience; and, most importantly, the epistemological discussion taking place in Athens during the same period. As Thumiger points out, a questioning of the relationship between sense perception and knowledge had been sparked off in the early fifth century by the ideas of the philosopher Parmenides and was still of crucial concern to Plato at the end of the century (Theaetetus, Parmenides, Sophist); for these thinkers, reaching a secure definition of 'real knowledge' and 'real being' was primary. Thumiger, examining tragedy in the context of these philosophical debates, maintains that there is a trajectory of ideas from the early to the late plays. She argues, for instance, that when the imagery of light is used in Aeschylus's Oresteia the prevailing light/dark binary is not questioned but rather deployed--hence the position of the subject is not at issue; in contrast, later playwrights writing contemporaneously with the Sophistic movement challenge the security of this ideology. Sophocles makes viewing a personal experience of the subject (Ajax and Oedipus Tyrannus) and thus questions the reliability of characters' perceptions and knowledge. Euripides goes further, in particular problematizing in the Helen the very existence of an objective reality.

Ian Ruffell explores in his "Humiliation? Voyeurism, Violence, and Humor in Old Comedy" the ways in which the (male) audience of Aristophanes' plays would have experienced the visual humiliation of some of the characters. Looking at the plays in the context of comic theory, he hypothesizes that comic violence is concerned with political stratification and defamiliarization, as much as with the reinforcement of feelings of superiority in the audience. Using the work of Laura Mulvey and Kaja Silverman, he then addresses the question of whether comedy remasculinizes the audience, or whether it might not rather raise their anxieties. Ruffell observes that the visual elements in comedy sit awkwardly with the "big political issues and self-proclaimed ambitions" that dominate one kind of reading of the plays (Clouds, Acharnians, Wealth, Peace, Birds). Even the sexual humor is treated more often from the perspective of the obscene language than from that of the plays' action. Ruffell intervenes in those discussions by focusing on the question of spectacle. After arguing that the spectacle of violence is anxiety-producing and is related to the overarching questions about power and authority that the plays raise, he addresses the representation of humiliation as it impacts on masculinity (Frogs, Thesmophoriazusai, Lysistrata, Ecclesiazusai). He then connects masculinity back to the issue of political power.

The final two articles explore different aspects of vision when it operates as a route to enlightenment. In "'Blessed Is He Who Has Seen': The Power of Ritual Viewing and Ritual Framing in Eleusis," Georgia Petridou examines the vital role that viewing played in the Eleusinian Mysteries. She argues that in trying to reconstruct the process of mystic initiation at Eleusis we need to focus not on what the initiates actually saw, but on the nexus of sociopolitical and cultural discourses that shaped their gaze. Here she makes use of Jas Eisner's notion of "ritual-centred visuality" in order to reflect on the way in which ritual framing may have enabled the mystai to see sacred visions beyond the constraints of secular visuality. The sources' emphasis on 'spectacle' and 'experience' is, Petridou believes, the key to an understanding of how "a culturally nuanced visuality of the sacred" may have provided a framework for the initiates' encounter with the Other, in this case with the two goddesses. Through her sensitive analysis of literary and pictorial evidence Petridou leads us to an appreciation of how the cultural conditions of initiation may well have persuaded participants that they were genuinely experiencing a confrontation with the divine.

Finally, Fritz-Gregor Herrmann examines the philosophical implications of the language of vision, beauty, and desire in Plato's dialogues. In the aristocratic, homoerotic world in which dialogues such as Lysis and Charmides are set, much is made of the passivity of vision and the compulsion exercized by physical beauty. Vision generates desire (for the beautiful youths who are the focus in Lysis and Charmides; for looking at naked corpses in the case of Leontius in Republic 4), which leaves its subject a helpless, passive victim. At the same time, these and other dialogues operate with a contrast (explicitly metaphorical in nature) between what is visible to the eye and what is visible to the mind or the soul, between physical and spiritual beauty. Using metaphors of intellectual vision that reveal the influence of the mystic forms of viewing discussed by Petridou (above), the Symposium's account of the Ascent, the Chariot Myth of the Phaedrus, and the image of the Cave in the Republic all prescribe a move from the apparent beauty of objects in this world to beauty itself as an eternal object of knowledge. In making this move, the philosopher is freed from the compulsion exercized by the sight of visible beauty in this world--but perhaps not from that exercized by the absolute and objective truth: "The greater and more extensive one's acquaintance with the forms, the less room there is for divergent thought or opinion. Ultimately, all those who see the truth become identical, and identically determined in their thinking." Having established this position, Herrmann immediately proceeds to question it, using the Timaeus in particular to suggest "a new understanding of the dynamics of the metaphysics of both intellectual vision and the physical gaze in Plato's thought." Beyond the metaphorical language and allegorical stories, there is, Herrmann argues, a notion of the dialectician as one who is capable of giving a rational, mathematical account of the universe and its goodness. "[T]he true philosopher will ... strive in his mind and with his soul for the vision promised Socrates by Diotima," but that vision will no longer have "a restricting and determining force.... [A] vision and understanding of what is beautiful because it is good enables the human being who is capable of dialectic thinking to make sense of the world in the way exemplified by the demiurge of the Timaeus'.'

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Notes

(1.) Or, as Meltzoff and Moore themselves put it: "The hypothesis we favor is that this imitation is based on the neonates capacity to represent visually and proprioceptively perceived information in a form common to both modalities. The infant could thus compare the sensory information from his own unseen motor behavior to a supramodal' representation of the visually perceived gesture and construct the match required." On the implications of these findings and for further developments, see Meltzolf 2007a and 2007b and Decety and Meltzoff 2011. For an overview, see Bruce and Young 1998, 221, 250-5 and Gregory 1998, 160-7.

(2.) See Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 173, 205-6, 560 and Pinker 1998, 444-5. On early reciprocal eye contact as an index of the mother-child bond, see Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1989, 195-6, 206, 567.

(3.) On humans' "innate primary intersubjectivity," see Trevarthen 1979, 1998; cf. Dissanayake 2000, passim.

(4.) On mirror neurons, see esp. Iacoboni 2008 and 2011; for doubts about the interpretation of the data in macaques and the investigation of homologous mechanisms in humans, see Dinstein et al. 2008, Jacob 2008, Hickok 2009.

(5.) The divergent views of contributors to Coplan and Goldie 2011 (e.g., Iacoboni 2011, 46,51, 56 versus Carroll 2011, 178-80) are indicative; cf. Preston and Hofelich 2012 and Stueber 2012, 57-9.

(6.) For an attempt at a more general overview, see Cairns 2005b. For more on status, hierarchy, dominance, and deference, see below.

(7.) This raises an issue about the possibility that women (even naked women: Aristophanes, Vesp. 1326-86) were used for nonspeaking parts in comedy: in favor of this view, see Wilamowitz 1927 ad Lys. 1114; against, MacDowell 1971 on Vesp. 1326. But even if comedy featured the sexualized and exposed female performers that were common in other performance contexts (e.g., symposia), the fact that female speaking parts were played by men presents a complication that does not apply to Hollywood.

(8.) For a (speculative) reconstruction, with comparative evidence especially from Japanese Kabuki theater, see Llewellyn-Jones 2005.

(9.) Cf. Zeitlin 1996, 199-201, 205; Hall 2006, 128-31; Rabinowitz, this volume. On the comparison of Polyxena to a statue, see Steiner 2001, 197, 206; on the visual arts and the thematization of spectacle in Euripidean tragedy more generally, see Zeitlin 1994.

(10.) See, e.g., Zeitlin 1994, Goldhill 1994, 1996, 1998, 2001; Hubbard 2002; Morales 2004 and 2011; Hall 2006, 99-141.

(11.) See, e.g., Zanker 1981, Otto 2009, and Webb 2009; cf. Squire, this volume, with further references.

(12.) Cf. Richardson 1980,277-80, with further examples; Snipes 1988 on similes; Bakker 2005; Slatkin 2007; Graziosi and Haubold 2010, 23-4.

(13.) On ekphrasis, enargeia, memory, and phantasia, see Webb 2009; cf. also Squire, this volume. On phantasia, see Rosenmeyer 1986, Watson 1988, Manieri 1998, Serra 2007.

(14.) On the Xenophon passage, cf. Goldhill 1998.

(15.) Though there do exist numerous studies of the differential arousal of men and women in response to explicitly erotic visual imagery (for recent reviews, see Rupp and Wallen 2009; Chivers 2010; older studies in Murnen and Stockton 1997; cf. Scott and Cortez 2011 on erotic narratives), we have not as yet found an empirical study that tests Mulveys hypotheses for male and female viewers of mainstream Hollywood cinema.

(16.) For accessible references to a number of relevant psychological studies, see Gottschall 2012, 60-4; Oatley 2012, 22, 49, 55, 101-3.

(17.) For the complex issues regarding how far and in what ways ones own emotional reaction might at least approximate to that of another human being, see the essays in Coplan and Goldie 2011.

(18.) [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (found in one MS and printed by Niese) occurs only here; all other MSS (and testimonia) have [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII].

(19.) For recent discussion of various forms of emotional contagion, emotion-sharing, and perspective-taking in response to both real and fictional scenarios, see the various articles collected in Coplan and Goldie 2011; for ancient Greek poetic perspectives on the emotional engagement of readers and audiences with poetic texts and performances, see most recently Halliwell 2011; cf. Oatley 2012 on modern fictional narratives.

(20.) See, e.g., Plantinga 1999; Tooby and Cosmides 2001; Nettle 2005; Boyd 2006, 2007, 2009; Coplan 2006; Zunshine 2006, 2007; Dutton 2009, 103-34; Lopes 2011; Smith 2011; Oatley 2012, esp. 91-103, 154-62, 171-9.

(21.) The Greek term opsis may connote 'vision or 'viewing' and 'seeing' or 'sight' in the abstract, or alternatively in a concrete sense 'the organ of sight' or the eye(s), with particular reference to the central 'seeing part' of the eye, that is, the iris with the pupil or the pupil alone (though for the latter the word kore too is available). The term can be used also of a 'dream,' a particular 'vision.'

(22.) Alcmaeon of Croton 24 A 5 DK = Theophrastus, Sens. 25.

(23.) For what follows, cf. Craik 2008.

(24.) Aer. 22 (= vol. 2, p. 76 Littr6); Genit. 2 (= vol. 7, p. 472 Littre); Loc. Horn. 3 (= vol. 6, p. 282 Littre); cf. Plato, Tim. 91C.

(25.) Epid. 6.5.15 (= vol. 5, p. 320 Littre); cf. Epid. 7.122 (= vol. 5, p. 468 Littre).

(26.) Nat. Mul. 99 (= vol. 7, p. 416 Littre); Superf. 16 (= vol. 8, p. 484 Littr6).

(27.) See Beare 1906, Van Hoorn 1972, Simon 1988.

(28.) See, e.g., Homer, Od. 4.150, 19.446; Hesiod, Theog. 826-7; Horn. Hymn. Dem. 45, 415; Aeschylus, frr. 99.13, 243 Radt; Sophocles, Aj. 69 (cf. 85), fr. 157 Radt; Euripides, Andr. 1179-80, Hec. 367-8, 1104 (cf. 1035, 1067-9), Heracl. 130-2, Phoen. 1561-4, Rhes. 737.

(29.) For the sun as an eye that looks with rays, see, e.g., Horn. Hymn. Hel. 31.9-11; Horn. Hymn. Dem. 70; Sophocles, Trach. 606; cf. Mugler 1960,63,66-9; Malten 1961,39-45. For the Sun as a model for the human eye, see Pindar, Pae. 9, fr. 52k. 1-2 Snell-Maehler: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] Sun's shaft, what is your plan, much-seer, ye mother of eyes); Aristophanes, Thesm. 17: [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (the eye that imitates the sun's disc).

(30.) Alcmaeon of Croton A 5 DK; Euclid, Frag. Op., introd. On the continuity between poetic and scientific models of vision, see Mugler 1960. We should perhaps beware of assuming that Alcmaeon's theory was straightforwardly emissionist; see Beare 1906, 11-3.

(31.) See Empedocles A 86-8, 90, 92, B 84, 89, 109a DK.

(32.) Plato, Tim. 45B-D (cf. Hit. 156A-B); Aristotle mentions Empedocles and Tim. together at Sens. 2, 437bl 1-2; for the interactionist interpretation, see Aristotle, Gen. corr. 324b26-35, Theophrastus, Sens. 7-8 (perhaps; cf. Beare 1906, 19-20); cf. [Plutarch], Placit. 901B (= Diels, Doxographi graeci p. 403).

(33.) See Long 1966, 260-4; O'Brien 1970, 140-6 and 1999, 7-10.

(34.) See Leucippus A 29-30 DK; Democritus A 77, A 135, B 123 DK; cf. Epicurus, Epist. 1.4950 and Lucretius 4.26-468. On Theophrastus's account of Democritus's theory of vision, see Taylor 1999, 208-11.

(35.) Unlike, say, Alcmaeon, Democritus is not generally viewed as a 'doctor,' but many of his works have titles the same as, or similar to, several which are transmitted in the Hippocratic Corpus; it seems Democritus wrote on the nature of man or on flesh, on humors and on dietetics (A 33 DK [= Diogenes Laertius 9.45-9]). Accordingly, there are affinities between his account of visual perception and the medical theories of the physiology of the eyes discussed above. According to Theophrastus (Sens. 50 [= A 135 DK]), seeing happens because an image is formed in "moist" eyes, the moisture in the eye itself being "thick and fatty." In Hippocratic texts the same nexus of descriptive terms is applied to cerebrospinal fluid in its various manifestations (cerebral, spinal, and seminal), and also to the fluid present in the eye.

(36.) See Chrysippus, SVF 2.836, 856, 861, 863-71; cf. the implicit and explicit criticism of the Stoics in the (still interactionist) account of Galen, PHP 7.5 (= vol. 5, pp. 618-28 Kuhn). See Siegel 1970, 37-117, esp. 39, 71-8; cf. Ierodiakonou, forthcoming.

(37.) Aristotle, De an. 2.7, 418a26-419b3; Sens. 2, 437al9-438bl6 and 3, 440al5-20.

(38.) See Aristotle, De insomn. 459b27-460a26.

(39.) For the physicality of Aristotle's "qualitative change in a transparent medium," cf. Everson 1997, 98-9; contrast, e.g., Johansen 1998, esp. 288.

(40.) Sophocles, OT 1384-5 (pollution), 1424-9 (pollution); Euripides, Hipp. 1437-8 ("deadly exhalations" threaten the eye of the goddess Artemis); Heracl. 1153-62 (shame and pollution); Or. 512-5 (shame; cf. 459-69); IT 1217-8 (pollution); Theophrastus, Char. 16.14 (the superstitious man spits into his bosom when he sees a madman or an epileptic); Heliodorus 3.7.4 (eye disease and plague); cf. 3.8.1 (on the beneficial gaze of the bird charadrios), 3.8.2 (the harmful gaze of the basilisk); [Alexander of Aphrodisias], Pr 2.42 (eye disease; cf. and contrast [Aristotle], Pr. 7.8, 887a22-7) and 2.53 (rays from the viewers eyes reflected back from corpses affect the viewers soul).

(41.) For more detail and references on both love and envy, see Cairns 2011.

(42.) For the sign of envy in the eyes, cf. Euripides, fr. 403 Kannicht (Ino); Suda, s.v. [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]. For the face of the phthoneros, see Lucian, Calumnia 5 (cf. Plutarch, Quaest. conv. 5.7, 681D); Adamantus, 1.12 (= vol. 1, p. 324 Foerster), 1.21 (= vol. 1, p. 344 Foerster); [Polemo] 75 (= vol. 1, p. 428 Foerster); Anonymus Latinus 86 (= vol. 2, p. 116 Foerster). See Dunbabin and Dickie 1983, 7-37; Roscher 1884-1937, vol. 3.2, col. 2472; more generally Rakoczy 1996, passim.

(43.) On these apotropaic devices, see Malten 1961, 52-8; Deonna 1965, 113, 184-93; Rakoczy 1996, 153-5.

(44.) E.g., Aeschylus, Ag. 742-3; Sophocles, fr. 157 Radt; Anacreontea 26; Anth. Pal. 5.36.3-4, 5.96, 12.63, 12.72, 12.93.9-10, 12.110, 12.144. On the arrows of love (both generally and as emissions from the eyes of the beloved) see Pagan Canovas 2011.

(45.) E.g., Anth. Pal. 12.101.1-3, 12.109, 12.113.

(46.) On which see Hubbard 2002 and Cairns 2011, 42-3. On the emissionist model in Pindar, see Adorjani 2011.

(47.) See esp. [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (For once he has received the effluence of beauty via his eyes he becomes hot ... Whenever [the soul] looks towards the boy's beauty and receives the particles that it emits and that flow from it ... it is moistened and warmed); cf. Plato, Cra. 420B. It seems that atomist eidola, like the aporrhoai of the Phaedrus (but probably unlike those of Empedocles) could bear an emotional and ethical charge: see Plutarch, De def. or. 17, 419A and Quaest. conv. 5.7.6, 682F-683B and 8.10.2, 735B; Sextus Empiricus, Math. 9.19.

(48.) E.g., Achilles Tatius 1.9.4 ("efflux from the beautiful"), 5.13.4 and Heliodorus 3.7.5. On the influence of the Phaedrus model of erotic vision on the novel, see Morales 2004, esp. 50-60, 130-5; Repath 2007; Ni Mheallaigh 2007.

(49.) Sophocles, Trach. 548-9; Xenophon, Symp. 1.8-10; Anth. Pal. 5.100.2 (the lover hunts with his eyes, but is a slave to Love) and 12.92 (the lovers eyes actively hunt boys, but are set ablaze by the sight); Heliodorus 1.2.5 (the lover is compelled to look), 7.7.5, 7.7.7.

(50.) Chariton 1.1.6, Xenophon of Ephesus 1.3.1, and Achilles Tatius 1.9.4.

(51.) For the fundamental conception of (some, many) emotions as forces to which a person succumbs in the cultural models of a variety of languages, see Kovecses 2000; on the phenomenology of erds, esp. in the novel, see esp. Maehler 1990, 1-12; Letoublon 1993, 137-48; Morales 2004; Moreno Soldevila 2011; cf. Cairns 2013.

(52.) See most recently Davidson 2007, 23-32.

(53.) This can be the case in heterosexual relationships too; but where (as in the novel) both the male and the female become infatuated, the status hierarchy is maintained by the female's helpless devotion to the male, and disguised only when the male proclaims his passive subordination to the female.

(54.) See Konstan 1994, 26-30.

(55.) For a fuller account, see Cairns 2013.

(56.) See, e.g., Sophocles, fr, 474 Radt (with Pearson 1917 ad loc.); Euripides, IA 584-6; Xenophon, Hier. 1.35 ([TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII]); Plut. Quaest. conv. 5.7, 681B-C; Chariton 1.1.6; Xenophon of Ephesus 1.3.1; Achilles Tatius 1.9.4 (with Goldhill 2001, 168-70 and Morales 2004, 130-5); Heliodorus 3.5.5.

(57.) So, rightly, Calame 1999, 189-90; cf. Ferrari 1987,162, 176 and Price 1989, 86-7. Contrast Halperin 1989, 62-8 and Foley 1998, 49.

(58.) Plutarch, Quaest. conviv. 5.7, 681A-C and Heliodorus 3.7.5. On the question of the relation between Plutarch and Heliodorus, see Dickie 1991, 17-29 and Rakoczy 1996, 186-212. For the typical explanation of the evil eye in terms of the active expression of a concentration of malign emotion via the eyes, see, e.g., Apollonius Rhodius, Arg. 4.1661-73 and [Aristotle], Pr. ined. 3.52 Bussemaker; [Alexander of Aphrodisias], Pr. 2.53 Ideler.

(59.) See Dickie 1991,21-4, 26-9.

(60.) See most recently the comprehensive account of Rakoczy 1996.

(61.) Note esp. [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (the body emits aporrhoiai, esp. via the eyes).

(62.) That the notion of the material power of the gaze to harm is implicitly present in descriptions of angry looks, etc., is the view of Rakoczy 1996, passim (esp. 33, 42-52 on Homer); cf. Lonsdale 1989.

(63.) See Homer, Il. 12.466, 15.607-8; of anger: Il. 1.101-5 (1.103-4 = Od. 4.661-2), 19.16-8; cf. the expression [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII] (looking from under [the brows]): Il. 1.148, 4.349,4.411, 5.251, 5.888, 10.446, 12.230, 14.82, 15.13, 17.141, 17.169, 18.284, 20.428-9, 22.260, 22.344, 24.559; see further Cairns 2003.

(64.) For visual cut-off as a strategy of taking offence, see (averted gaze) Il. 3.216-20, 3.426-7, 21.415; Euripides, Phoen. 457-8; (veiling) Horn. Hymn. Dem. 40-2; Herodotus 6.67; Euripides, Med. 1144-5; Aristophanes, Ran. 911-3 (cf. Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, s.v. "Achilleus," nos. 440-2,444-5, 453, 448,464; s.v. "Aias 1," nos. 81, 84; s.v. "Briseis 1," no. 14). Withdrawal is in fact typical of anger (Il. 6.325-31) and is central to Achilles' strategy of retaliation in the Iliad: 1.306-7, 327-30, 348-50, 488-92; 9.356-63, 428-9, 650-5, 682-92; 16.61-3. See Cairns 2001, 18-32. Cf. the aversion of the gaze as an expression of divine disapproval/rejection: Hesiod, Op. 197-200; Tyrtaeus 11.1-2 West; Aeschylus, Supp. 172, 811, Sept. 664-7, Ag. 776-9; Pindar, Pyth. 4.145-6; Euripides, IT 1163-7.
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Title Annotation:viewing and vision in early Greek literature
Author:Blundell, Sue; Cairns, Douglas; Craik, Elizabeth; Rabinowitz, Nancy Sorkin
Publication:Helios
Article Type:Essay
Geographic Code:4EUGR
Date:Mar 22, 2013
Words:17995
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