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Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations The Graduate School

2018 Book Illustration and Intersemiotic Translation in Early Modern England Taylor Clement

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COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

BOOK ILLUSTRATION AND INTERSEMIOTIC

TRANSLATION IN EARLY MODERN ENGLAND

TAYLOR CLEMENT

A Dissertation submitted to the Department of English in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

2018

Taylor Clement defended this dissertation on March 19, 2018 The members of the supervisory committee were:

A. E. B. Coldiron Professor Directing Dissertation

Stephanie Leitch University Representative

Gary Taylor Committee Member

Bruce Boehrer Committee Member

The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members, and certifies that the dissertation has been approved in accordance with university requirements.

ii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my doctoral committee for their guidance, time, and instruction as I worked to complete this dissertation. Thanks especially to Dr. A. E. B. Coldiron for her rigorous training in Renaissance Lyric and History of Text Technologies, and her invaluable assistance and bright encouragement from the beginning stages of this project to the finished work. Thanks to Dr. Stephanie Leitch for her contagious enthusiasm and for teaching me to Rethink the Renaissance. Thanks also to Astrid, whose marker-board portrait of Man Behind a Window (c. 2014) inspired my research on portraiture. To Dr. Bruce Boehrer for suggesting readings about fowling and mousetraps, and to Dr. Gary Taylor, who has shaped my understanding of collaboration in the early modern period.

I’m grateful to my family, especially to Lisa, for their love, support, and kindness.

Special thanks to The ACLS/Mellon Dissertation Completion Fellowship and the Florida State University Kingsbury Fellowship for the time and funding to complete this research.

iii TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ...... v

ABSTRACT ...... viii

1. DISPLAYING THE MAP: AN INTRODUCTION TO VISION AND VERSE ...... 1

2. MOVEABLE TYPES: THE DE-INDIVIDUATED PORTRAIT IN THE AGE OF MECHANICAL REPRODUCTION ...... 10

3. IMAGE REPRODUCTION AND TRANSLATION IN ENGLISH EMBLEM BOOKS ...... 42

4. INTERSEMIOTIC TRANSLATION IN A THEATRE FOR WORLDLINGS AND THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER ...... 78

5. INTERSEMIOTIC UNTRANSLATABILITY IN THE FAERIE QUEENE ...... 116

6. “WHY [GRAPHIC] LYRIC”: TRANSLATING SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS IN PANELS ...... 146

7. RETRACING LINES OF INQUIRY: THE CONCLUSION ...... 169

REFERENCES ...... 178

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... 208

iv LIST OF FIGURES

2.1 "A Man in Armour" in Christopher Marlowe. Tamburlaine the Great. London: Richard Jones, 1590. F2v|F3r. STC 17425...... 37

2.2 "Woman with Flowing Hair" in Christopher Marlowe. Tamburlaine the Great. London: Richard Jones, 1597. F5r. STC 17427...... 37

2.3 "Single Head" in Bartolommeo della Rocca and Thomas Hill, A brief and most plesau[n]t epitomye of the whole art of phisiognomie. London: John Waylande, 1556. A3v. STC 5468...... 38

2.4 "Hair Straight and Wavy" in Bartolommeo della Rocca (Cocles), Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae Compendium Argentinae. Strasbourg: Ioannem Albrecht, 1533. A5r ...... 38

2.5 "Hair Straight and Wavy" in Bartolommeo della Rocca (Cocles) and Thomas Hill. A brief and most pleasau[n]t epitomye of the whole art of phisiognomie. London: John Waylande, 1556), A4v. STC 5468...... 39

2.6 "Man in Doublet" in Thomas Hill, The Contemplation of Mankinde. London: Henry Denham for William Seres, 1571. I6v|I7r. STC 13482...... 39

2.7 Thomas Deloney, A most joyfull Songe. London: Richard Iones, 1586. STC 6557.6...... 40

2.8 Frontispiece for A True Report. London: Richard Iones, 1588. Title Page. STC 25229 ...... 40

2.9 "A Man in Armor" in George Whetstone, The honorable reputation of a souldier. London: Richard Jones, 1585. Title Page. STC 25339 ...... 41

3.1 Sebastian Brant, Appologi sive Mythologi cum quibusdam Carminum et Fabularum additionibus Sebastiani Brant. Basel: Jacob Wolff of Pforzheim, 1501. L2v...... 74

3.2 "Dolos in Suos" in Geffrey Whitney, A Choice of Emblems. Leiden: Francis Raphelengius for Christopher Plantyn, 1586. D2r. STC 25438...... 74

3.3 “Embleme LIIII,” in Thomas Combe, Theater of Fine Devices. London: Richard Field, 1613. E1r. STC 15230...... 75

3.4 “Embleme LIIII,” in Le Théâtre des Bons Engins. Paris: Denis Janot, 1539. H3v...... 75

3.5 “Embleme LIIII,” in Le théâtre des bons engines. Lyon: Jean de Tournes, 1545. D8r...... 76

3.6 "Dolus in Suos" in Alciato, Emblemata Liber. Lyon: Macé Bonhomme for Guillaume Rouille, 1548; rpt 1550). D5v ...... 76

v 3.7 Emblem CXIII, Alciato and Jeremias Held, Liber Emblematum/Kunstbuch. Frankfurt am Main, 1566/67. L7v...... 77

3.8 Georgette de Montenay, Emblemes ou devises chrestiennes. Lyons: Jean Marcorelle, 1567/1571. A1r...... 77

4.1 "Epigram 1," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B2r. STC 18602 ...... 112

4.2 "Epigram 3,” Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B5r. STC 18602 ...... 112

4.3 "Epigram 5" in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B6r . STC 18602 ...... 113

4.4 "Sonnet 2," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C1r. STC 18602 ...... 113

4.5 "Sonet 4," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C3r. STC 18602 ...... 114

4.6 "Sonet 5," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C4r. STC 18602...... 114

4.7 "Februarie," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. A3r. STC 23089...... 115

4.8 "March," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. B4r. STC 23089...... 115

4.9 "Maye," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. D4r. STC 23089...... 115

5.1 "St. George and the Dragon" in Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene. John Wolfe for William Ponsonby, 1590...... 144

5.2 Thaumotrope...... 144

5.3 Multistable Image of the Duck/Rabbit...... 145

5.4 Multistable Image of the Old/young Woman...... 145

6.1 Comic Poem by Walter Craghead...... 167

6.2 Robert Berry and Josh Levitas, “Sonnet 18” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 412...... 167

6.3 Detail of Robert Berry and Josh Levitas, “Sonnet 18” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 415...... 168

6.4 Aidan Koch, “Sonnet 20” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 419 ...... 168

vii ABSTRACT

Book Illustration and Intersemiotic Translation in Early Modern England establishes new terms for assessing the effects of woodcut image reproduction on literary meaning in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century printed books. Specifically, this project considers the recycling of illustrations in England and across continental Europe that afforded vernacular readers a transnational advantage of shared visual language. As early modern printers and illustrators traced, copied, and reprinted images, translators shifted verbal signifiers for new audiences. Each chapter examines the ways in which illustration can inflect form and genre in emblem, lyric, and epic poetry, respectively. Drawing on critical methods of literary and translation studies, book history, and illustration, this project contributes to an interdisciplinary understanding of illustrated poetry and the ways in which the production of pictures significantly affects textual reception.

viii

CHAPTER 1

DISPLAYING THE MAP: AN INTRODUCTION TO VISION AND VERSE

Art historian and literature professor W. J. T. Mitchell writes that word and image are

“like two countries that speak different languages but that have a long history of mutual migration [and] cultural exchange.”1 While verbal texts communicate through written symbols, visual texts “speak” the language of images, which Mitchell describes as “the semantic, syntactic, communicative power of images to encode messages, tell stories, express ideas and emotions, [and] raise questions.”2 If the domains of word and image are like two countries, then the illustrated page is a contact zone.3 Readers constantly navigate the illustrated text, translating between verbal and non-verbal sign systems in a process similar to what Roman Jakobson calls intersemiotic translation.4 Verbal and visual sign systems have been most commonly understood

1 W. J. T. Mitchell, “Word and Image,” Critical Terms for Art History, ed. Robert Nelson and Richard Shiff (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 49. 2 W. J. T. Mitchell, The Language of Images (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974; rpt. 1980), 3. 3 I am using Mary Louise Pratt’s definition of “contact zone” as “social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other…” See Pratt, “Arts of the Contact Zone,” Profession 91 (1991): 34. 4 Roman Jakobson, “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation,” On Translation, ed. R. Brower (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 233. For other studies on intersemiotic translation, see Claus Clüver, “On Intersemiotic Transposition,” Poetics Today 10, no. 1 (1989): 55-90; Leo H. Hoek, “La transposition intersémiotique pour une classification pragmatique,” Rhétorique et Image Textes, ed. L. H. Hoek and K. Meerhoff (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995), 65–80; G. Kress and T. Van Leeuwen, Reading Images: The Grammar of Visual Design (New York: Routledge, 1996); G. Kress, Before Writing: Rethinking the Paths to Literacy (New York: Routledge, 1997); Umberto Eco, Experiences in Translation, trans. Alastair McEwen (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), 99-126; Peeter Torop, “Intersemiosis and Intersemiotic Translation,” Translation Translation, ed. Susam Petrelli (Amsterdam; New York: Rodopi, 2003), 271-296. Eva Martha Eckkrammer, “Drawing on Theories of Intersemiotic Layering,” Perspectives On Multimodality, ed. Martin Kaltenbacher, et al. (Amsterdam; Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2004), 214; Kai Mikkonen, “The Paradox of Intersemiotic Translation and the Comic Book: Examples from Enki Bilal’s Nikopol Trilogy,” Word and Image 22, no.2 (2006): 101-117; Ira Torresi, “Advertising: A Case for Intersemiotic Translation,” META: Translators’ Journal 53, no.1 (2008): 62-75; Nilce M. Pereira, "Book Illustration As (Intersemiotic) Translation: Pictures Translating Words," META: Translators’ Journal 53, no.1 (2008): 104-119.

to co-operate in illustrated books when words describe or clarify depicted images in an ekphrastic relationship, and/or when visual images re-present verbal language through illustration. My dissertation project, Book Illustration and Intersemiotic Translation in Early

Modern England, expands the common understanding of word-image relationships beyond the ekphrastic and illustrative to consider the role of image reuse in intersemiotic translations.

This dissertation introduces and develops a new vocabulary for assessing the effects of mechanical image reproduction on literary meaning in sixteenth- and early-seventeenth-century printed books. Early modern printers’ and illustrators’ practices affected the relationship between literary texts and pictures in various ways, and the repetitions occasioned by early modern image production technology developed a particular set of conventions and effects. In certain cases, printers and technicians devised illustrations to represent the written text through “reverse ekphrasis,”5 but in many other instances, printers copied or imitated images already in circulation, potentially raising additional subtexts for readers and complicating the meaning of any given page. Early modern illustration often involved the repeated printing of one image in a single book, or alternatively, the printing of one image multiple times in multiple, subsequent, different books. These two kinds of image reproduction, which I term “plural reproduction” and

“afterlife reproduction,” respectively, significantly influenced readers’ comprehension of words and images on the page, and thus affected the broader reception of literary texts. Illustrators of translated books created many illustrations through what we might now consider “visual paraphrase”: copying, tracing, or redrawing existing illustrations to carve new woodblocks.6

5 Garrett Stewart, The Look of Reading: Book, Painting, Text (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 86. 6 Eco, Experiences in Translation, 117-120; Göran Sonesson has also developed the term “intrapictorial translation,” in which a translator exchanges one drawing for another. See Sonesson, “Translation and

These (re)production habits, which to modern eyes could seem repetitive or illogical, in fact created a pan-European discourse community by giving French, Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, and English readers the same visual signs by which to consider their poetry in its several versions.7 The particular uses and reuses of illustration afforded vernacular readers a transnational advantage of a shared visual language, and translators shifted verbal signifiers to meet the demands of new audiences. In subsequent editions, new translations alongside afterlife reproductions tended to complicate the meaning and relationship between word and image in early printed books. Printers’ reuse of illustrations created what I call a widespread “culture of the copy” across Europe that reinforced early modern transnational readerships. My definition of copy culture extends A. E. B. Coldiron’s concept of Renaissance “reprint culture”8 and focuses on drawing/tracings, reprints, and copies of images in illustrated books. Studying these complex practices enhances modern scholarly understanding of European discourse communities, word and image relationships, and the signifying practices of woodcut illustration.

In recent years, image production and transmission patterns have become easier to detect and analyze through the use of digital facsimiles and databases of early modern printed books.

Digital library collections (e.g. Bibliothèque Nationale de France’s Gallica, the British Library

Digital Collections, and Bayerische Staatsbibliothek’s MDZ, among many others) and databases

other Acts of Meaning: In Between Cognitive Semiotics and Semiotics of Culture,” Cognitive Semiotics 7, no. 2 (2014): 267. 7 Stephanie Leitch addresses the ways in which the circulation of prints “penetrated borders and thus frustrate anachronistic nationalistic and/or geographic distinctions.” See Leitch, “Cosmopolitan Renaissance: Prints in the Age of Exchange,” The Globalization of Renaissance Art: A Critical Review, ed. Daniel Savoy (Leiden; Boston: Brill, 2017). 8 A. E. B. Coldiron, “Caxton, Translation, and the Renaissance Reprint Culture,” Printers Without Borders: Translation and Textuality in the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 35-106; especially 35-40.

like Early English Books Online provide further opportunities to answer questions about the functions of early woodcut illustrations. Emblem scholar Peter Daly has emphasized the need for scholars to study early modern image production, noting, “the one thing that I now do not find

[in emblem studies] is an adequate account of the role of the publisher/printer and illustrator”;9 my dissertation responds to this call. Although modern eyes may see frequently reprinted images as illogical at first, when re-examined in light of early modern image production habits and methods, many of these pages generate new possibilities for understanding. Reproduced or copied pictures can develop particular affiliations and accumulated meanings over time. Drawing on critical methods used in literary studies, translation studies, book history, and particularly on the history and technology of illustrations, this project aims to offer interdisciplinary insights not usually available when the visual and verbal are considered separately, or when poetry is considered apart from its production methods or readerly experiences. This study spans roughly

1530-1620; I analyze illustrated works printed after those catalogued in Edward Hodnett’s

English Woodcuts, 1480-1535, and before the texts Christina Ionescu discusses in Book

Illustration in the Long Eighteenth Century.10 The dissertation focuses mainly on poetry but

9 Peter Daly, The Emblem in Early Modern Europe (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2014), 27-28. The few essays concerning emblem production and illustration are either a survey of emblems in one particular language, or are limited to one particular work. They include: Alison Saunders, The Seventeenth-Century French Emblem: A Study in Diversity, (Genève: Droz, 2000); Stephen Rawles, “Corrozet’s Hecatomgraphie: where did the woodcuts come from and where did they go?” Emblematica 3, no. 1 (1988): 31-64; Alison Adams, “The Translator’s Role in Sixteenth-century Editions of Alicati,” Bibliothèque d'Humanisme et Renaissance 52, no. 2 (1990): 369–383; Alison Saunders, "Picta Poesis: the Relationship Between Figure and Text in the Sixteenth-Century French Emblem Book," Bibliothèque d'Humanisme et Renaissance 48, no. 3 (1986): 621-652. 10 For more on early modern illustration, see Edward Hodnett, English Woodcuts, 1480-1535 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1935); Edward Hodnett, Francis Barlow: First Master of English Book Illustration (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Edward Hodnett, Image and Text: Studies in the Illustration of English Literature (Scolar Press, 1982); Edward Hodnett, Five Centuries of English Book Illustration (Scolar Press, 1988); Martha Driver, The Image in Print: Book Illustration in Late Medieval England and Its Sources (London: British Library, 2004); Michael Hunter, Printed Images in Early Modern Britain (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010); Christina Ionescu, Book

includes relevant prose treatises and dramatic verse, considering the works of Christopher

Marlowe, Andrea Alciato, Guillaume de La Perrière, Georgette de Montenay, Geffrey Whitney,

Thomas Combe, Edmund Spenser, and William Shakespeare.

Description of Dissertation: Chapter Outline

The chapters in this dissertation provide a chronological outline of early modern image production, beginning with early printed images in physiognomies and emblem books in the

1530s and tracing woodcut illustration into the late-sixteenth and early-seventeenth centuries.

The first content chapter, “Moveable Types: The De-Individuated Portrait in the Age of

Mechanical Reproduction,” presents the terms I propose to define illustration reuse in early modern printed books and demonstrates the methods used in the rest of the dissertation. The

“Moveable Types” chapter establishes the broader applicability of image reuse in early modern texts, examining portrait reuse in plays, broadsides, physiognomies, and history books. The remainder of the dissertation examines the effects of image reuse and (re)production methods on word-image relationships and is thus significant for better understanding literary creation and early modern poetics in general. Four chapters follow, each one a case study of a different early modern poetic genre, showing how illustration (particularly the production of illustrations) inflects the particular work in question.

Chapter Three, “Image Reproduction and Translation in English Emblem Books,” traces the reproduction of continental European images in two of the first English emblem books,

Geffrey Whitney’s A Choice of Emblems (1586) and Thomas Combe’s The Theater of Fine

Devices (1593 [lost]; 1613). Since the publication of Alciato’s Emblemata in 1531, emblem

illustration in the Long Eighteenth Century: Reconfiguring the Visual Periphery of the Text (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2011); Katherine O. Acheson, Visual Rhetoric and Early Modern English Literature (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT Ashgate, 2013); Megan Walsh, The Portrait and the Book: Illustration and Literary Culture in Early America (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2017).

books had been the most popular and most widely printed vehicle for illustrated poetry in the

Renaissance, and the genre communicated through the interplay of word and image. This chapter examines afterlife reproduction and the visual paraphrase of emblem illustrations. For example,

Whitney and Combe printed illustrations for their fowling emblems – respectively “Dolus in

Suos” and Emblem LIII – that had been circulating in Paris, Lyon, Frankfurt, and Basel since the early sixteenth century. This chapter touches on selected vernacular translation practices that made continental images accessible to English readers.

The fourth chapter, “Intersemiotic Translation in A Theatre for Worldlings and The

Shepheardes Calender,” examines the first illustrated lyric sequence in England,11 Edmund

Spenser’s translations of Clément Marot and Joachim Du Bellay in A theatre wherein be represented as wel the miseries & calamities that follow the voluptuous worldlings (1569). The illustrator of A Theatre, unidentified in the text, merged two scenes into one frame, utilizing the implied three-dimensional space within the frame to express temporality on a continuum that reaches back to the horizon in the picture plane.12 For example, the illustration of Epigram Three

(Fig. 4.2) displays two different trees in the landscape: one lively with chirping birds, the other dead and burned by lightning. Spenser’s lyric poem redefines the image by connecting the two scenes as a series of events; as the reader looks to the background of the image, he or she is also looking “forward” in time. When paired with Spenser’s poetry, continuous-narrative illustration changes readers’ perceptions of narrative time, it creates indeterminate or uncertain spaces on the picture plane, and it complicates deixis and perspective within the lyric. Many scholars have

11 Edward Hodnett, Gheeraerts the Elder (Netherlands: Haentjens Dekker & Gumbert, 1971), 43-44. 12 Michael Bath, “Verse Form and Pictorial Space in Van der Noot's Theatre for Worldlings," Word and Visual Imagination: Studies in the Interaction of English Literature and the Visual Arts, ed. Karl Josef Höltgen, Peter M. Daly and Wolfgang Lottes (Erlangen: Universitätsbund Erlangen-Nürnberg, 1988): 73- 76.

argued that Spenser’s translations of Marot and Du Bellay in A Theatre influenced his later works in various ways.13 In The Shepheardes Calender (1579), Spenser’s poetry pairs with continuous-narrative illustrations to emphasize the power of storytelling; imaginary or fable worlds come alive on the landscape. This chapter contributes to a new understanding of how intersemiotic translation between images and poems animates not only Spenser’s early work in A

Theatre, but also the use of continuous narrative ten years later in The Shepheardes Calender.

Chapter Five, “Intersemiotic Untranslatability in The Faerie Queene” extends the analysis of continuous narrative illustration to Spenser’s epic poem, The Faerie Queene, which includes indeterminate spaces in narrative scenes that are intractably unillustratable, or beyond visual depiction. Particular moments of Spenser’s narration are intersemiotically untranslatable; indeterminate or multiple descriptions prevent readers from imagining a cohesive image or representing a singular narrative through imagination or illustration. Spenser invites readers to visualize opposing features –darkness and light or beauty and repulsiveness – within a single character or setting. Characters appear to be simultaneously alive and dead or visible and invisible; creatures change abruptly and entirely, and contrasting sensory experiences occur. I argue that Spenser’s verbal images are impossible to depict visually, but this unillustratability is actually a resource for the poet. Spenser’s contradictory descriptions of objects and characters

13 E.g. Anne Lake Prescott, French Poets and The English Renaissance (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978); G. W. Pigman, "Versions of Imitation in the Renaissance," Renaissance Quarterly 33, no.1 (1980): 1-32; Margaret W. Ferguson, "‘The Afflatus of Ruin’: Meditations on Rome by Du Bellay, Spenser, and Stevens," Roman Images: Selected Papers from the English Institute, ed. Annabel Patterson (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982); A. Kent Hieatt, “The Genesis of Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Spenser’s Ruines of Rome: By Bellay,” PMLA 98, no. 5 (1983): 800-814; Anne Lake Prescott, “Spenser (Re)reading Du Bellay: Chronology and Literary Response,” Spenser’s Life and the Subject of Biography, ed. Judith Anderson, Donald Cheney, and David Richardson (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 1996), 131-45. A. E. B. Coldiron, “How Spenser Excavates Du Bellay’s Antiquitez,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 101, no. 1 (2002): 41-67; Hassan Melehy, The Poetics of Literary Transfer in Early Modern France and England (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010).

generate multiple imaginative possibilities for readers. The verbal language pushes the limits of the mind’s eye and extends readers’ imaginative engagement with the words. The concept of unillustratability offers important interpretive challenges and scholarly opportunities, and it is analogous to the concept of verbal untranslatables, which has garnered recent attention in translation studies and comparative literature.14 Just as an untranslatable word or concept requires further signifiers to convey meaning in another language,15 unillustratable descriptions do not result in a one-to-one relationship of conversion, but rather engender a rhizomatic engagement with language, image, and perception.

The sixth chapter, “‘Why [Graphic] Lyric’: Translating Shakespeare’s Sonnets in

Panels,” looks beyond the dissertation project’s chronological limits to view the intersemiotic affordances of medium and genre. This chapter analyzes two illustrated adaptations of

Shakespeare’s Sonnets within Russ Kick’s The Graphic Canon (2014). Contemporary artists represent or translate lyric form through color, line, shape, and other elements like perspective, size, and image repetition. Some of the same conclusions in previous chapters apply: intersemiotic translation grounds these visual adaptations of lyric, and production technology can change the ways in which visual and verbal meanings co-operate. However, these particular illustrations are productions of modern technology; illustrators employ digital scanning, imaging, and color printing, and such differences also connect this project to contemporary issues in the digital humanities. This work invites scholarly and creative communities alike to rethink the ways that Renaissance poetry and its afterlives remain vibrant in contemporary culture. This final

14 Barbara Cassin, Emily Apter, Jacques Lezra & Michael Wood, Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon (Princton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014); Emily S. Apter, Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability (New York: Verso, 2013); David Damrosch, “Review of Against World Literature,” Comparative Literature Studies 50, no. 3 (2014): 504-508. 15 Apter, Against World Literature 31-4 (Chapter 1: “Untranslatables: A World-System”).

post-chapter also introduces discussion of new ways that contemporary technologies help shape, color, and line signify alongside poetry, establishing new potentials in graphic lyric.

Book Illustration and Intersemiotic Translation considers how illustrations interact on the page with rhymes, metaphors, allusions, assonance, dissonance, and other genre conventions of poetry. Early modern word-and-image relationships are shaped and reshaped by reprinting, adaptation, collaborative production, and copying. Together, the following case studies investigate how poetic language works in tandem with imagined or imprinted images.

CHAPTER 2

MOVEABLE TYPES: THE DE-INDIVIDUATED PORTRAIT IN THE AGE OF MECHANICAL REPRODUCTION16

In the first printed edition of Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine (Richard Ihones,

1590),17 a woodcut image of a man in armor labeled “Tamburlaine, the great.” lies hidden in the middle of the book, at the Part II page opening, within quire F (Fig. 2.1; [F2v]).18 The pictured soldier facing the Part II title has short curly hair and a trimmed beard; he is dressed in armor and wears a sash over his shoulder. In contrast to portraits in many other printed books of the period, this one does not appear in the volume’s frontispiece. Instead, Jones situates the image in the very middle of the book, dividing Tamburlaine Part I and Part II.19 The woodcut portrait appears on the verso across from the title page opening of the second part, visually marking a dramatic transition between Tamburlaine’s beginnings as a “Scythian Shepearde” in the first part and the violent military action of the sequel.20 At the point of encounter with this image, the reader

16 An earlier version of this chapter has been published in Renaissance Studies. See Taylor Clement, “Moveable Types: The De-Individuated Portrait in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Renaissance Studies 31, no. 3 (June 2017): 383–406. doi:10.1111/rest.12223. 17 Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great Who, from a Scythian shephearde, by his rare and woonderfull conquests, became a most puissant and mightye monarque. And (for his tyranny, and terrour in warre) was tearmed, the scourge of God. Deuided into two tragicall discourses, as they were sundrie times shewed vpon stages in the citie of London (London : Richard Ihones, 1590). Jones also printed Tamburlaine in 1593 and 1597: Marlowe, Tamburlaine the great... (London: [R. Robinson for] Richard Iones, 1593); Marlowe, Tamburlaine the great... (London: Richard Iohnes, 1597). 18Ruth Samson Luborsky and E.M. Ingram identify the woodcut image in Tamburlaine as “A Man in Armor” in A Guide to English Illustrated Books 1536-1603 (Tempe, Ariz: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1998), 445. All woodcut images mentioned in this chapter will be identified by the catalogue labels in English Illustrated Books. 19 In the Huntington Library copy of the 1590 edition of Tamburlaine, this image appears in the middle of quire F, not tipped in but continuously signed, which means that Parts I and II were planned and printed so as to appear together. Tamburlaine was entered into the Stationers Register on 14 August 1590. 20 The placement of the image in the middle of the book works in conjunction with Jones’s presentation of the title pages. The text on the title page of Part I asserts that the play is “Deuided into two Tragicall Discourses.” The division is key: Jones emphasizes Tamburlaine’s pastoral beginnings in the first play by

begins to develop a concept of the martial Tamburlaine, and this portrait marks the shift in the protagonist’s status, as well as subtly marking a generic shift between pastoral and epic modulations of the drama.21

The functional, if unusual, placement of this portrait did not harm the work in the marketplace: illustrating Marlowe’s play appears to have been a successful venture. After Jones printed “A Man in Armor” in the first two editions in 1590 and 1593, he then added a second portrait illustration to the third edition of Tamburlaine in 1597, also in the middle of the book between Parts I and II ([F5r] and [F5v]). An image we now identify as “A Woman with Flowing

Hair” (Fig. 2.2) represents Zenocrate, alongside “A Man in Armor” representing Tamburlaine, she on the recto, he on the verso, both unlabeled. The absence of labels suggests that through repeated printing of “A Man in Armor” in Marlowe’s play, along with the popularity of

Tamburlaine on the English stage in the 1590s,22 readers might well have recognized the portrait as Tamburlaine and could make the attribution for themselves, rendering verbal identifications of both characters unnecessary.

printing “Scythian Shephearde” in large Italic print on the title page. The title page of Part II calls attention to Tamburlaine’s military combat with “The Bloody Conquests” in large type alongside the image of “A Man in Armor.” 21 On Marlowe, genre, and the two-part structure of Tamburlaine see Helen L. Gardner, “The Second Part of Tamburlaine the Great,” The Modern Language Review 37 (1942): 18-24; G.I. Duthie, “The Dramatic Structure of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, Parts I and II,” Drama Criticism 1 (1948): 101-126; Samuel Schuman, “Minor Characters and the Thematic Structure of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine II,” Modern Language Studies 8, no. 2 (1978): 27-33; Lisa Hopkins, “‘Dead Shepherd, Now I Find Thy Saw of Might’: Tamburlaine and Pastoral,” Research Opportunities in Renaissance Drama 35 (1996): 1-16; Sara Munston Deats and Robert Logan, Marlowe’s Empery: Expanding his Critical Contexts (Delaware: University of Delaware Press, 2002), 85-132. 22 Henslowe’s Diary records twenty-one performances of Tamburlaine between the years 1594 and 1595. Although this number is not conclusive for the Admiral’s Men Repertory, we can assume that Tamburlaine was staged with relative frequency in the 1590s.

Many studies of Tamburlaine analyze Jones’s editorial choices and attempt to understand the extent of his excisions of what he considered superfluous in the printed text.23 For one thing, the first edition of Tamburlaine is important to early modern drama because it is the first extant printed playbook of Marlowe’s work.24 In addition, Jones’s editorial strategies have been the subject of much debate, especially regarding his preface, which claims to omit “fond and friuolous Iestures” from the staged version of Marlowe’s play. Lukas Erne, for example, uses

Jones’s preface as evidence for his argument that Jones was a publisher who “[drove] a wedge between page and stage.”25 What is less often discussed is that Jones also added printed portraits that did not appear in the copy-text of Marlowe’s play, and that his pictorial additions re-link the page to stage by creating visual signifiers of characters. The woodcut portraits give corporeality to the warrior and to his wife, ultimately forging an indirect link between the printed text and the bodies and faces that “were shewed in London upon the stage” (A2).

These images, now known as “A Man in Armor” and “A Woman with Flowing Hair,” had been circulating in print for years before Jones assigned them to Marlowe’s characters, and

Tamburlaine is their last extant presentation.26 The story of Tamburlaine’s and Zenocrate’s portraits begins with their initial printings as anonymous portrait illustrations twenty years earlier in Thomas Hill’s physiognomy, The Contemplation of Mankinde, printed by William Seres in

23 On the critical discussion of editorial intervention in Marlowe’s printed plays, see David Bevington, From Mankind to Marlowe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962); Fredson Bowers, Complete Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973; rpt 2008), 71-77; and Kirk Melnikoff, "Jones's Pen and Marlowe's Socks: Richard Jones, Print Culture, and the Beginnings of English Dramatic Literature," Studies in Philology 102, no. 2 (2005): 184-209. 24 See Melnikoff, “Jones's Pen,” 185. 25 Lukas Erne, Shakespeare as Literary Dramatist (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 49. 26 Luborsky, 445.

1571.27 The recasting of anonymous figures from Contemplation as “portraits” of individuals or characters in printed books like Tamburlaine invites a reconsideration not only of the use of portraits in characterization and in physiognomies, but also of the very definition of portraiture in the Renaissance. Art historian John Pope-Hennessy’s foundational work on Renaissance portraiture ascribes agency to the Renaissance master who can capture the “personality” of the sitter, noting Botticelli’s concern with the “essence of an individual.”28 Pope-Hennessy builds his argument in accordance with Jacob Burckhardt’s theories of Renaissance individualism in The

Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (1860). Burckhardt’s chapter, “The Development of the

Individual” is arguably the source of many contemporary notions of individuation and self- fashioning in the English Renaissance, spanning from Stephen Greenblatt’s 1980 Renaissance

Self-Fashioning to Katharine Maus’s 1995 study of inwardness on the English Renaissance stage, and well beyond.29

Not all portraits are representations of fashioned individuals, however. Contrasted with the individuated traits of English Renaissance portrait miniatures, the faces in printed portrait books have neither defined identity nor fashioned personality. Aristocratic patronage motivated

27 Jones printed “A Man in Armor” to illustrate: The honorable reputation of a souldier (London: Jones, 1585) and Gerard Prouninck, A shorte admonition or warning, vpon the detestable treason (London: Jones, 1587). There are no extant reuses of “A Woman with Flowing Hair” between the first printing in Contemplation in 1571 and her debut in Tamburlaine in 1597. See Luborsky, 445. 28 John Pope-Hennessy, The Portrait in the Renaissance (New York: Bollingen Foundation, 1966), 3-63.

29 For information about Renaissance self-presentation, see, among others, Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-fashioning: from More to Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980, rpt 2012); Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (Harvard University Press, 1989); Harry Berger, "Fictions of the Pose: Facing the Gaze of Early Modern Portraiture," Representations (1994): 87-120; Katharine Eisaman Maus, Inwardness and Theater in the English Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995); Joanna Woods-Marsden, “Self-Fashioning in Life and Art,” Renaissance Self Portraiture: The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the Artist (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 13-19; and Bronwen Wilson, “The Confusion of Faces,” Making Publics in Early Modern Europe: People, Things, Forms of Knowledge, ed. Bronwen Wilson and Paul Yachnin (New York: Routledge, 2010), 177-192.

the painter of the portrait miniature, while printers printed most illustrated books “on spec,” and therefore strove to make smart and conservative economic choices.30 The portraits also had different purposes in different media; court limners painted the portrait miniatures under the direction of the sitter and prospective recipient, whereas printers, apprentices, and craftsmen created or selected woodcut illustrations to fit the imagined needs of the imagined readers of the text-to-be-illustrated, a rather less direct impetus. Court painters used varied blends of colors to create an image of the sitter’s complexion and costume, but craftsmen who carved woodcuts for printers utilized a different set of materials. Each new woodcut is a carved image in relief; artisans or apprentices used metal gouges to scrape outlines and hatching for shading and used black sticky ink to create the image.31 The process of carving a woodblock with fine lines and nuanced detail was time-and-labor-intensive and required a skilled and steady hand. Paper was the most expensive part of production, and illustrations took up a great deal of page space.

Because of this technology, some woodcut portraits of individuals, especially portraits of authors and translators, possess an individuation that is further aided by placement and accompanying verbal signifiers. Thomas Hill’s own author portrait in Contemplation ([¶¶8v]) provides an example: the initials T.H. accompany his image in the wreath frame. This image, in contrast to

30 Martha W. Driver, "The Illustrated de Worde: An Overview," Studies in Iconography 17 (1996): 351. 31 Between 1470 and 1550 printers and craftsmen developed wood engraving and intaglio illustration methods that allowed for more tonal gradation (lines, dots, and hatchings). English printers began using metal engravings in the 1540s. Most book illustrations are relief prints; books illustrated with metal engravings require a double printing process: a hand press for the movable type and a rolling press for engraved illustrations. See David Landau and Peter Parshall, The Renaissance Print (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994), 1-6. Anthony Griffiths, Prints and Printmaking: An Introduction to the History and Techniques (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 13-21; 56-70; Bamber Gascoigne, How to Identify Prints: A Complete Guide to Manual and Mechanical Processes from Woodcut to Inkjet (New York, NY: Thames & Hudson, 2004), 1a-1c; Edward Hodnett, “Book Illustration in England before 1700,” in Francis Barlow: First Master of English Book Illustration (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 35-56; and Edward Hodnett, Five Centuries of Book Illustration (Aldershot, England: Scolar Press, 1988), 3-41.

the other faces in the book, is individuated, personal, particular, with specific agency articulated in the paratext. But physiognomy faces lack such identifying paratext and therefore become versatile illustrations, reusable in a variety of texts and contexts. The parade of anonymous heads in sixteenth-century physiognomy books presents us with the paradox of what I am calling de- individuated portraiture.

Part of what de-individuates portraits in printed books is their reiterability, and early modern printers’ practices contributed to this. The re-use of woodcut portraits in different contexts in printed books happened as a matter of course, as it did for other kinds of illustrations, but the reuse of portraits had complex, broad effects. Here I am identifying two basic kinds of portrait reuse: what I term plural reproduction and afterlife reproduction. Plural reproduction is the use of the same anonymous portrait to illustrate different narratives or textual examples within a single text. A printer creates plural reproductions when he or she repeats an image without employing xylographic factotum printing (a practice in which the printer identifies the image with text carved into the woodblock).32 Because plural reproduction occurs within a single codex, readers are more likely to notice the repetition of illustrations. The reuse either results in a close association between portraits (i.e., the same face links certain facial features as it illustrates chapters on, for instance, both the chin and nose) or causes cognitive dissonance within a reading experience when one image represents radically different narratives. In an afterlife reproduction, on the other hand, a single image is reprinted in multiple books and broadsides over time, making visual connections among texts separated in time and space. Afterlife reproduction results from one of two methods: either the printer printed a previously used woodcut in a new book, or the craftsman traced or redrew previously printed illustrations for the making of new

32 Driver, 377; 380.

blocks. Cost-effective early printing practices often included afterlife reproduction via

“composite illustration,” in which the compositor placed multiple recycled woodcuts together in the forme to create a “new” pictorial scene.33 Many of the portraits in physiognomy books in

England enjoyed long afterlives in print as they were recycled in other works. While plural reproduction links narratives within gatherings and bindings, afterlife reproduction is less likely to be noticed immediately, but has the potential to generalize features and typecast certain kinds of faces over time.

The practice of repeating a single woodcut for multiple illustrations, whether via plural or afterlife reproduction, is a creative strategy for cost-effective book illustration. Martha Driver’s study of Wyknyn de Worde’s recycling of woodcuts demonstrates that early illustrated-book printers made use of what I am calling plural and afterlife reproduction alike for both economic and aesthetic reasons.34 Stock images that represented characters or authors suggest “a casual approach to early portraiture,”35 or certainly an approach that does not insist on individuation in the same way later engraved author portraits or portraits painted in oils and watercolors do.

Although the examples in Driver’s article cover only the first fifty years of English printing, later sixteenth-century printers continued to reproduce the same woodcuts for practical and economic reasons.

Maria Loh, too, has challenged traditional views of the portrait as the “model of the

Renaissance individual” and says that the faces produced by Renaissance artists contributed to developments of normative facial stereotypes.36 Although Loh considers portrait and

33 Driver, 377; early pieced borders are familiar examples. 34 Driver, 385. 35 Driver, 359. 36 Maria H. Loh, “Renaissance Faciality,” Oxford Art Journal 32, no. 3 (2009): 348.

physiognomy books to be agents that changed visual and facial categories, she does not explore the ways in which reproducibility via the printing press may have influenced the social construction and interpretation of faces. In what follows, I aim to add to Loh’s theory of faciality by examining the anonymous and often reproduced portraits in English printed physiognomies, and to connect these to the broader matter of early modern print culture, with its technology of re-iteration, and to the cultural agenda of early modern individuation and portraiture. In these books, the faces and bodies are not representations of a sitter’s mind or of an individual nature.

Instead, the prints create duplicates of faces that are then sent into multiple contexts, such that they can be defined and redefined only by the textual inscriptions that may accompany them. The differences between painted and printed portraits also expand the usual understanding of the

Renaissance as chiefly an era of self-fashioning or a time of the development of the individual.

The mass-social-character-typing and flexible fungibility of anonymous and recycled printed portraits demonstrates further complexities of identity and selfhood in the Renaissance, where character typing and other de-individualized notions of personhood are also actively at work.37

The faces of early modern English physiognomy books give us ample opportunities to explore the functions of de-individuated portraiture via plural and afterlife reproduction. The first

English book to deal exclusively with physiognomy is Thomas Hill’s A Brief and Most Pleasaut

Epitomye of the Whole Art of Phisiognomie (London: Waylande, 1556; STC 5468).38 Hill’s Brief

Epitomye is a translation of Bartolomeo della Rocca’s (Cocles’s) Physiognomiae &

Chiromantiae Compendium (Strasbourg: Johannes Albrecht, 1533),39 the most widely read

37 This chapter addresses anonymous woodcut portraits, not the title-page images of authors, printers, or translators mentioned above. 38Martin Porter, Windows of the Soul: The Art of Physiognomy in European Culture 1470-1780 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, rpt 2008), 160. 39 Cocles’s unillustrated Chyromantie ac Physionomie Anastasis was printed in Bologna in 1503 and

physiognomy treatise in Europe.40 Almost all of the xylographic illustrations in A Brief Epitomye are portrait comparisons41 and several of them are afterlife reproductions of the original faces in

Cocles’s Compendium.42 Fifteen years after Hill’s Brief Epitomye, William Seres printed Hill’s new work, The Contemplation of Mankinde (1571), in which he repeated all of Waylande’s facial comparisons and added new original bust portraits. Both Waylande’s faces and Seres’s bust portraits, like “A Man in Armor,” are later reused throughout the sixteenth century. The recycling of images and the similarities between printed portraits in various translations and revisions of Cocles indicate a larger, transnational exchange within early modern textual and visual cultures, connecting English portraiture to a pan-European circulation of images forming a transnational discourse.43 That transnational discourse is largely outside the scope of this essay;

1504. Cocles died in 1504, but the posthumous publication of the Compendium in 1533 gained popularity in the sixteenth century. Each edition inspired by Albrecht’s 1533 Compendium, not counting the English editions, has 27-29 portrait illustrations that are copies or adaptations of Conrad Schnitt’s woodcuts, discussed below. Books that contain reprints of Schnitt’s woodblocks include: Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae (Strasbourg: Albrecht, 1533, rpt 1536); Ein Kurtzer Bericht der Gantzen Phisionomey vnnd Ciromancy (Strasbourg: Albrecht, 1534); Phisionomi vnd Chiromanci (Strasbourg: Cammerlander, 1540); Physiognomiae epitome (Strasbourg: Cammerlander, 1541); Le Compedion & Brief Enseignement de Physiognomie & Chiromancie (Paris: Pierre Regnault, 1546); Le Compendium, et Brief Enseignement de Physiognomie… (Paris: Pierre Drouard, 1546, rpt 1560); Physiognomie und Chiromanty (Augsburg: Stayner, 1546); Barptolomaei [sic] Coclitis bononiensis (Strasbourg: Georg Messerschmidt, 1554); Brief Epitomye (London: Waylande, 1556); and Contemplation (London: Seres, 1571). French and English printers also used Albrecht-inspired illustration for editions of Johannes Indagine’s Chiromantia. Some of these include: Johannes Indagine, Chiromantia (Paris: P. Drouart, 1546); Fabian Withers’s translation of Johannes Indagine’s Chiromantia; Withers, Briefe Introductions … vnto the Art of Chiromancy (Ihon Daye, for Richard Iugge: London, 1558).

40 On the popularity of Cocles’s physiognomy in Europe, see Porter, 108. I will refer to these texts in their abbreviated forms, A Brief Epitomye and Contemplation, throughout. 41 Portrait comparisons occur when portraits are printed side by side to contrast facial features. 42 Waylande copied images “Eyes, Prominent and Deepset,” “Single Head,” “Chins Receding and Jutting,” and “Hair Straight and Wavy” from Albrecht’s source text. See Luborsky, 293 and Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae [A4v], A5r, [A7v], and [B2v]. 43 The discourse of physiognomy spreads horizontally and vertically; it is far-reaching and deeply embedded in early modern consciousness. See Porter, 27-28; Stephanie Leitch, “Visual Acuity and the Physiognomer's Art of Observation," Oxford Art Journal 38, no. 2 (2015): 187-206; Valentin Groebner, "Complexio/Complexion: Categorizing Individual Natures, 1250-1600," The Moral Authority of Nature

for our purposes, the crucial point is that these portraits circulated so often, in both plural and afterlife reproductions, as to constitute a set of visual discourses and facial stereotypes for

English readers.

I offer three case studies here to demonstrate the ways that the discourse of facial stereotypes created by printed faces – reprinted and recycled, recontextualized and reinterpreted

– complicate our ideas about Renaissance representations of individuality. First, I compare the illustrations of two English physiognomy texts, A Brief Epitomye (Waylande, 1556) and Briefe

Introductions … vnto the Art of Chiromancy (Day, 1558),44 with Cocles’s Latin edition of

Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae (1533), printed in Strasbourg by Johannes Albrecht. Next, to demonstrate the destabilization of identity that occurs due to plural reproduction within a given text, I examine an illustration of “A Man in a Doublet” as it reappears in Contemplation (Seres,

1571). Last, I trace the afterlife reproductions of the portraits in A Brief Epitomye and

Contemplation as they are reprinted in non-physiognomic documents, tracing them in broadsides, criminal tracts, and finally returning to the images of Tamburlaine and Zenocrate in

Marlowe’s play.

Continental Copies: English Physiognomy Portraits in Transnational Discourse

A twenty-first-century scholar who examines the digitized facsimiles of sixteenth- century editions of Cocles’s physiognomy printed in Latin, German, French, and English might

(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004): 361-83; and Stephanie Leitch, "Burgkmair's Peoples of Africa and India (1508) and the Origins of Ethnography in Print" Art Bulletin 91, no. 2 (2009): 134-159. Thanks to an anonymous reader for the journal Renaissance Studies for reminding me of the “all- pervasive” nature of physiognomy; the full exploration of physiognomic references in broader European cultures invites future study. 44 Johannes Indagine and Fabian Withers, trans. Briefe Introductions … vnto the Art of Chiromancy, (Ihon Daye; Richard Iugge: London, 1558). STC 14075.5. This book on palm reading is an English translation of Johannes Indagine’s Chiromantia (Ioan Schottus: Argentoratum [Strasbourg]), 1541.

think that he or she has stumbled upon an early modern cloning experiment. At least fourteen books, printed by eight different printers in Strasbourg, Paris, and London, contain images of faces that appear almost identical, but have slight variations. Hundreds of these anonymous heads and faces share a genealogy: they are prints or imitations of woodcuts made by prominent

Basel artist and printmaker Conrad Schnitt in the early 1530s.45 Schnitt carved twenty-nine faces for Johannes Albrecht’s Latin edition of Cocles’s physiognomy, entitled Physiognomiae et

Chiromantiae (Strasbourg: 1533). Another Strasbourg printer, Jacob Cammerlander, was one of the first to copy Albrecht’s illustrations in his own edition of Cocles’s physiognomy (1541).

Cammerlander’s illustrations are recognizably similar to Schnitt’s woodcuts but appear in mirror image, suggesting that Cammerlander traced or copied the original pictures to make new blocks for printing. After Cammerlander, other printers in Strasbourg, Paris, and London reused the images as well; it seems that copying and recutting woodblocks for physiognomy books became a common practice for printers of Cocles’s physiognomy books between the years 1530 and

1560.

When it comes to early modern physiognomies, categories of nationhood quickly become blurry; like emblem books, physiognomies became a transnational phenomenon. Martin Porter’s attempts to quantify, calculate, and create a bibliographical mapping of extant physiognomy books uncovers the difficulty in delimiting the geographic distribution of texts.46 Physiognomic works from one country crossed borders and circulated widely in other countries, because book

45 On Schnitt’s contribution to Albrecht’s 1533 compendium, see note 22 above and notes for Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae in New York Public Library (Spencer Coll. Ger. 1533). Schnitt is most known for his contribution to early mapmaking, especially his work for cosmographer Sebastian Münster. See Edward Rosen, Copernicus and his Successors (Rio Grande: Hambledon Press, 1995), 173-181. 46 Porter, 79-83.

buyers, according to Porter, often preferred foreign physiognomies.47 Vernacular language difference was certainly not a barrier to cross cultural exchange;48 not only did physiognomic printers share images, but they also shared a common discourse, read physiognomy texts produced in countries outside their own, and translated the treatises of Cocles, Johannes

Indagine, and Michael Scot into multiple languages. We might ask whether the vast spread of physiognomic texts caused early modern people to see themselves as different from those in other nations, political factions, and religious groups, or if the reuse of images created a pan-

European identity. The answer may be that physiognomies did both: textually, these works asserted at least some individuation through verbal translation, but ultimately they forged cross- national human similarities through identical or quasi-identical visual images. Afterlife reproduction and the sharing of images in early sixteenth century physiognomic texts is a result of and a sustainer of this continental community of publishers and readers, where treatises were printed in one location or country, and dispersed, purchased, and/or translated in another.

Two English books are included among the Cocles-inspired physiognomic portrait books in early modern Europe. The first is Thomas Hill’s A Brief Epitomye (1556), which contains copies and adaptations of Schnitt’s woodcuts, and the second is Fabian Withers’s translation of

Johannes Indagine’s Chiromantia, printed with a new English title, The Art of Chiromancy

47 Porter, 82. More recent models of such simultaneous, multilingual, and multinational circulation appear in Edward Wilson-Lee and José Maria Pérez-Fernández, eds. Translation and the Book Trade in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014) and A. E. B. Coldiron, “‘Bastard alone’: Radiant Translation and the Status of English Letters,” Printers Without Borders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 107-159. 48 Porter, 36-37; 81. Porter asserts that the first physiognomy treatise in English was published in France (1503) and imported to England. Porter does not identify the book, but he might be referring to The Kalendayr of the Shyppars (Paris : A. Verard, 1503) STC 22407, since the work is a translation into a sort of Scots dialect, and Porter considers The Kalendayr as one of the notable astronomical and physiognomic texts in early modern Europe.

(1558), which features eleven illustrations based on the continental prints. As mentioned above,

A Brief Epitomye is the first English physiognomy devoted almost exclusively to reading the signs of the face and body, and many of the book’s illustrations are based on the images from continental editions of Cocles’s Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae. Like Cammerlander and other printers, John Waylande took part in the international reuse of physiognomic illustrations by tracing existing images and re-cutting woodblocks for A Brief Epitomye (1556).49 Out of nineteen woodcuts that Waylande employs, four are clearly copies of continental illustrations, and others have varying degrees of similitude. For example, the image identified by Luborsky and Ingram as “Single Head” (Fig. 2.3), featuring a man in profile with thick, straight hair, is a precise copy of an illustration often found in continental physiognomies, including

Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae.50 Some of Waylande’s illustrations are copies that contain adapted elements. The image now known as “Hair Straight and Wavy” ([A4v]) features a facial comparison of two men, one with a straight sunburst-pattern hairstyle and the other with wavy hair and beard. The facial shapes, features, and lines of shading appear similar to the illustrations on A5r in Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae, but Waylande’s craftsman made adjustments to the costumes of the pictured men (Figs. 2.4 and 2.5). The bearded man appears wearing a buttoned cap, which replaces the old-fashioned peasant’s coif cap shown in the original illustration.51

49 There are two possible source texts for A Brief Epitomye. Waylande could have used Albrecht’s Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae (1533 or 1536) or Cammerlander’s Physiognomiae Epitome (1541). Although the title matches Cammerlander’s Epitome, my examination of the illustrations and mise-en- page reveals more similarities between A Brief Epitomye and Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae. For evidence that Hill translated a Latin edition of Cocles’s compendium in 1556, see John Considine, “Hill, Thomas (c.1528–c.1574),” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; online edition, ed. Lawrence Goldman (Oxford: OUP, 2004); and Francis R. Johnson, “Thomas Hill: An Elizabethan Huxley,” The Huntington Library Quarterly 7, no.4 (1944): 329-351. 50 Compare pages [A4v] in Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae and [A3v] in A Brief Epitomye. 51 On sixteenth-century German and English headwear, see Hilda Amphlett, Hats: A History of Fashion in Headwear (Chalfont St. Giles: Sadler, 1974), 68-69; Michael Harrison, The History of the Hat (London:

Many new additions feature similar adaptations of the source material and changes in gender presentation.52 Despite such changes, overall, English audiences encounter almost identical or lightly adapted afterlife reproductions of several continental images that have been re-set in a new context. Through adaptation and translation, the French and German faces become English, gaining new identities in their afterlives.

The reuse and adaptation of continental illustrations is a significant mode of appropriation that Hill and Waylande employ in an effort to make an English physiognomy for

English readers. Thomas Hill’s mission to translate Cocles’s popular text into English is part of a broader attempt to “english” important continental trends. Such attempts have been analyzed recently by scholars such as A.E.B. Coldiron, who explains that translation was “instrumental in responding to a persistent sense that English letters lagged behind those of the continent.”53 This lag is evident in Hill’s Preface to the Reader, as he laments, “For there are fewe other nacions but have in theyr own tounge diuerse treatises therof set furth in print, wheras we (so farre as I haue seen), have neuer a worde thereof.” 54 Hill’s preface reveals a sense that England has been left behind in the popular culture and physiognomy market, surpassed by “other nacions.” The use of the second person singular pronoun “we” indicates a collective desire to keep up with the continent. To supply England with a physiognomy, Hill devotes his work to “turne into Inglish,

H. Jenkins, 1960), 85-86. The English illustrations are the only images that have this buttoned cap, which is consistent with English provincial style during the 1520s and 1530s. The German and French books keep the coif: a fifteenth-century style that older men wore into the 1550s and 60s. Both the coif and the buttoned cap are old fashioned and indicate that the wearer is an unsophisticated country-dweller. 52 Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae contains several images of women, but A Brief Epitomye removes all women from the book, replacing them with angular-jawed, thick-bearded men. 53 Coldiron, Printers Without Borders, 13; on “englishing” see 1-34; on her concept of “Radiant Translation,” see 107-159. Her work focuses on the conjunction of printing and translation for the formation of English literature in multiple genres, and explores what it means to “english” a text. 54 This passage appears on a page that is unsigned and unpaginated; fourth page recto.

that whiche I haue founde in other tounges.” Hill’s reference to “other tounges” suggests that he and other English readers have encountered various editions of Cocles’s text in multiple translations. The language of using found material and turning it into English is not simply a remediation for the prose, but also means a transformation of the source text illustrations. Through

Hill’s acknowledgment of his translation or “turning” of other nations’ physiognomies, English readers were aware that they encountered Continental “types” in A Brief Epitomye, but much like the verbal signifiers that Hill transformed and translated into English, the bust portraits in the book also received identity transformations as they are “englished” in the reprint.

In 1558, two years after Waylande’s A Brief Epitomye hit the booksellers, John Day printed several of Cocles’s illustrations in The Art of Chiromancy. One of the implicit ideas behind the wide use of afterlife reproduction in The Art of Chiromancy is that people and physiognomies are the same everywhere. The continental xylographic images become further removed from their original context in Cocles as they illustrate a translation of one of Johannes

Indagine’s chiromancy and physiognomy books.55 Like Parisian printer Pierre Drouard, the craftsmen in John Day’s print house redrew and adapted the images for the production of

Indagine’s treatise.56 Day printed two versions of The Art of Chiromancy in 1558. The first only explains palm reading, character divination, and astrology; the second contains a “newely added”

Part II about physiognomy with title-page description that advertises the inclusion of “lively

55 Pierre Drouard printed both Cocles’s physiognomy and Indagine’s book on chiromancy, and he reused his own woodblocks to illustrate both texts in 1546. Compare Le Compendium, et Brief Enseignement de Physiognomie... (Paris: Pierre Drouard, 1546, rpt 1560) and Johannes Indagine, Chiromantia (Paris: P. Drouart, 1546). 56 In 1566, new foreign labor laws allowed Day to employ more skilled illustrators from the continent who may have influenced his illustrations. Elizabeth Evenden, “Day’s Technical Achievements” Patents, Pictures, and Patronage: John Day and the Tudor Book Trade (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008), 95-100.

pictures.”57 Out of eleven “lively” portrait comparisons in the book,58 three are clear copies of

Cocles’s illustrations, and five others are afterlife reproductions of illustrations in continental editions of Chiromantia.59 Day’s textual production of English faces includes visual content from two major European physiognomies. Unlike the afterlife reproductions in A Brief Epitomye, which gained new English identities through imitation and adaptation, almost all of the printed illustrations in Day’s The Art of Chiromancy remained unchanged. The recycled illustrations are clear examples of contextually re-identified afterlife reproductions. Not only are the images disassociated from their original context as illustrations of Cocles’s physiognomy, but also the illustrations pictorially represent a multitude of early modern faces, regardless of nationality or language.

The reproductions of continental illustrations in A Brief Epitomye and The Art of

Chiromancy provide two examples of ways in which printed portraits were re-appropriated in early modern Europe, and particularly how they were re-imagined in England. By means of afterlife reproductions in A Brief Epitomye, Waylande rewrites or re-individuates the portraits by copying the faces and adding English costumes and other adaptations.60 The portrait

57 Luborsky, 474. This book has a continuous register; Parts I and II were planned and printed together. For more on Renaissance “liveliness,” see Mary Hazard, “The Anatomy of Liveliness as a Concept in Renaissance Aesthetics,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 33, no. 4 (1975): 407-418.

58 Luborsky, 447. 59 Luborsky, 447. Images “Forehead, craggy and round” ([G8r]), Hair, thick and thin” ([H1v]), “Eyes, Prominent and Deepset” ([H7v]) are based on editions of Cocles. Compare “Noses, Large and Small” ([H2v]), “Mouth, half closed and open” ([H4r]) “Chin, Long and Pointed” ([H5r]), Ears, Large and Small (I2r), and “Chests, Full and Normal” ([I3v]) with continental editions of Chiromantia, including gatherings f and g of Johannes Indagine, Chiromantia (Argentoratum [Strasbourg]: Schottus, 1541). 60 Outside the scope of this chapter but likely to prove fascinating is a comparison between contemporary costume books and apparel in physiognomy books. A well-known early English anthropology and costume book is Andrew Boorde, The fyrst boke of the introduction of knowledge. (London: Wyllyam Copland 1555; rpt. 1562) STC 3383; 3385. The first chapter states that new fashions are the primary concerns of English identity (A3v). For more about English costumes, see Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press

reproductions in the reprint of Indagine’s treatise, however, are de-individuated, repeated unchanged, and therefore representative of a pan-European “Everyman,” apparently suitable also in England without further “englishing” or adaptation. The heads in physiognomy books were supposed to diagnose individual conditions, yet this method of adaptive reuse frustrated that attempt. In each of these cases, the “essence” of the portrait yields to the technicians in the printing houses and technologies of the press. Repeated reproduction fractures or erases individuality, such that the pictured person’s identity is dependent upon the visual signifiers, such as redrawn articles of clothing, or verbal language that accompanies them on the page.

Plural Reproduction and the Physiognomic Portrait

Through physiognomies like A Brief Epitomye and Chiromantia, English readers encountered a greater variety and greater number of portraits. Almost every page opening In A

Brief Epitomye contains a “lively” image. John Waylande employed plural reproductions in the text, printing duplicates of 47% of his woodcuts. A Brief Epitomye is one of the only translations of Cocles that employs multiple plural reproductions, since many of the other editions include the same images as the source text, which has no plurally reproduced images. Waylande’s reproductions in the text, repeating images like “Chins Receding and Jutting” to illustrate both a chapter about noses and a passage about chins, set the stage for excessive plural reproduction in later English physiognomies.61 By the time William Seres prints Hill’s new physiognomy,

Contemplation in 1571, Seres repeats comparative portraits like “Foreheads: Low and High” a

2000; rpt 2002), especially the Introduction and Part I. Thanks to an anonymous reader for this exciting idea. 61 Waylande might have utilized plural reproduction to illustrate A Brief Epitomye because he lacked the resources to replicate of all of the original pictures. There are other possible reasons as well; Waylande’s technician omits many androgynous or female faces. Perhaps Waylande only wanted to include masculine portraits in his edition. All of this, however, is speculative, and further evidence would be needed for a stable claim.

total of six times within the text. While the afterlife reproductions potentially rewrite identities for a new translation or erase national distinction by implying that all European faces are similar, the plural reproductions continue to break down individual traits by reprinting the same faces to illustrate conflicting or incongruent narratives.

Fifteen years after publishing his translation of Cocles’s physiognomy in A Brief

Epitomye, Hill compiled his physiognomic research in a new edition, The Contemplation of

Mankinde.62 Hill’s Contemplation claims to have it all: the title page advertises the text as a treatise that records and analyzes “all the partes of man … in a more ample maner than hitherto hath beene published of any.” Contemplation is amply illustrated as well; the book contains new, never-before-seen portraits and also reprints several images from Hill’s 1556 translation of

Cocles. William Seres printed Hill’s new physiognomy text with both a deep investment in illustrations as well as a commitment to economical printing – not an easy mixture. He not only reused all of the woodcuts from Waylande’s book, but also selectively repeated the same woodcuts to illustrate different passages. That is, Seres creates the Contemplation illustrations by using both afterlife and plural reproduction. In most cases, he uses plural reproduction in smart and effective ways, conservatively choosing when to employ the appropriate image for the text.

For example, he repeats the image “Bust with Baggy Eyes” with a passage about good-natured men who have large eyes and then reuses the picture to illustrate passages about eyelids and eyelashes ([*7v]; [H8v]). Other times, he repeats the same image to represent two disparate narratives with the same image. For instance, “Woman with Flowing Hair” first illustrates an

Italian courtesan with parted red lips that showed “unshamefastness” and “the great desire unto

62 On the importance of The Contemplation in England, see Sibylle Baumbach, Shakespeare and the Art of Physiognomy (Tirril, Penrith: Humanities-Ebooks, 2008), Chapter 2.

the veneriall acte” (R.1[r]), but later she is re-cast as a perfect, fearful, obedient, and faithful woman ([U3v]), before ending up representing Marlowe’s Zenocrate.63 If readers were unaware of previous editions and thus of afterlife reproduction in these works, they nevertheless could not have missed the plural reproduction within the volume itself.

We should not mistake the reiterative plural and afterlife reproductions for dull, broadly accepted, or transparent representations; the images were in fact quite controversial. Some early modern readers and lawmakers considered physiognomy an experimental science,64 in contrast with, for instance, James VI’s Daemonologie (1597), which deemed it an “art of divination” that

“delud[es] … the senses, and in no waies true in substance” (22); important enough for royal censure. An Elizabethan decree in 1598 prohibited physiognomy, with the punishment that a person “fayning themselues to haue knowledge in Physiognomie … or pretending that they can tell destinies, fortunes, or such other like fantasticall imaginations” would “bee stripped naked from the middle vpwards, and shall be openly whipped vntill his or her body be bloudy.”65 Hill’s treatises were printed twenty to forty years before these edicts, and although a Papal edict on the continent banned physiognomy books in 1559, printers and readers largely disregarded the prohibition. In his prefatory letter to the reader, Hill addresses physiognomy’s reputation directly, saying, “The arte of divination by the Starres, the face and hande is … grounded upon long experience, and reason: and therefore not so wicked and detestable as some men do take and repute these” (Contemplation ¶¶.3[r]). Hill acknowledges that many men cast doubt upon arts of divination, but he defends physiognomy as a philosophical method of self-protection;

63 See Luborksy, 445. 64 Baumbach, Ch 2. 65 England and Wales (Elizabeth 1). An acte for punishment of rogues, vagabonds and sturdie beggers. (S.l.: Deputies of C. Barker, 1598).

through reading and examining illustrations, readers could supposedly recognize and correct their own vices and wicked natures and also “consider and vew all the partes of man … so shall they be sure not to be deceived” (Contemplation ¶¶.4[r]).66

Because the physiognomy book attempts to decode the body through experimental science, some illustrations that accompany the text guide the reader in an informational way, while others are pseudo-applicable, waiting for textual decoding that does not always fully resolve itself. In a discussion of reading early modern illustrations, Stephen Orgel explains that when images “primarily convey information” as in herbals and anatomies, the images guide the reader and provide visual illustration.67 Yet, some illustrations are inserted into the text for the sole apparent purposes of visual entertainment and economic profit, since pictures have the potential to make books more attractive to potential buyers.68 Images that entertain the reader may be confusing and illogical because they are only partially relevant and they “depend on narrative explication.”69 The facial comparisons hold visual referents for readers of physiognomy to see big ears or crooked noses, but the individual images of faces and bodies require further reading and searching to understand why they belong with the passage of text to which they are attached. In this respect, some of these portraits act on the reader in ways not unlike the extremely popular emblem books: they invite interpretation, and provide partial verbal commentaries, but often elude final or fixed meanings.

66 Although many portraits in the books lack individuality, Hill’s letter indicates that some early modern readers viewed physiognomies as a tool for moral scrutiny of the self and of others. Porter, 168-171. 67 Stephen Orgel, “Textual Icons: Reading Early Modern Illustrations,” The Renaissance Computer: Knowledge Technology in the Age of Print, ed. Jonathan Sawday and Neil Rhodes (New York: Routledge, 2000), 58. 68 Orgel, 58. 69 Orgel, 58.

Orgel’s ideas about recursive reading and the textual decoding of images provide a framework for analyzing the inclusion of the bust portraits of noblemen, men in armor, and women in Hill’s Contemplation. The “A Man in a Doublet” ([I7r]; Fig. 2.6) illustration is one example of plural reproduction; it features a portrait of a man wearing a double-slashed doublet with a ruff around his neck; he is set in an arched frame that crops his upright torso. This conventional gentleman, “A Man in a Doublet,” is repeated four times throughout

Contemplation, but he illustrates different narratives or examples in each appearance. The first time the image appears in the text it accompanies a passage that reads,

The Phisiognomer [has] judged many, which after were hanged. Of these one the lyke,

was the sonne of M. Julianus de Pontremulo, brought up and trained couragiouslye (from

childe age) under a valyaunt and pollitike Captayne, named Francesco Rouerso

(Contemplation [I7r-I7v]).

The narrative goes on to state that Pontremulo’s son was hanged four years later for either theft or deception. The illustration represents the hanged man, since the narrative is concerned with the physiognomer’s accuracy and asks the reader to “read” the face for signs of treachery.

While he hangs in this chapter, “Man in Doublet” is resurrected later in quire N, on pages

[N.3.v] and N.4.[r], in a chapter titled “Judging of the Face and Countenance.” In the second appearance, he appears with the story of an occurrence in which the physiognomer Cocles

“judged of a person, named Petrus Capreolus; who succeeded, and came unto the like estate, as the skilful Physiognomer Cocles had prognosticated of him” (N.3.v). This time, the illustration does not correspond directly to descriptors in the text, appearing in a passage that discusses the various shapes and features of the countenance. But the plural reproduction is clear: the same woodcut image stands for both the successful Petrus Capreolus and the hanged son of de

Pontremulo. The “A Man in a Doublet” illustration first accompanies stories or narratives of

“real” people, and Seres reprints the image two additional times: once to illustrate the formation of the beard and later to illustrate broad and strong shoulder points. “A Man in a Doublet” is an adequate illustration for general traits such as prominent shoulders and a shapely beard, but what would the reader have made of the pictured man as he represented both Petrus Capreolus and

Pontremulo’s son, both successful and fatally treacherous? Seres’s cost-effective printing strategy results in a destabilization of identity and even of characteristics that form identity. One face, standardized and stamped, has the potential to represent multiple and contradictory identities and, furthermore, to dismantle or question the notion that external features can adequately represent one’s internal characteristics, personality, or nature.

Making a Transfer: The Afterlife Reproductions

If the plural reproduction of prints erases the distinction between individuals who are hanged and those who are successful, afterlife reproductions subject the faces depicted in physiognomy books to further deracination when they leave the text in which they are first published. Sometime around 1580, Richard Jones, Tamburlaine’s printer, inherited or purchased all of the woodcut portraits Seres used to print Contemplation and began to reuse them for non- physiognomic publications. Jones acquired Seres’s portraits either after his move to a new printing house in 1580 or after Seres died in 1578.70 Many of these portraits from the 1556 and

1571 physiognomy books have afterlives in patriotic broadsides, chapbooks about criminals, and

English playbooks.71 This diaspora of faces not only erases particularized identity just as the other types of reproduction do, but the repetitions also begin to create patterns and facial

70 Kirk Melnikoff, “Richard Jones (1564-1613): Elizabethan Printer, Bookseller and Publisher,” Analytical and Enumerative Bibliography 12 (2001): 155. 71 Luborsky, 293-294; 442-446

stereotypes that sometimes betray their origins in physiognomic literature. The faces from

Contemplation unsurprisingly become the signifiers of treason because, as Hill’s letter to the reader asserts, the physiognomy book is a tool with which to recognize human immorality and deception. As Jones reuses the woodcuts to represent criminals and traitors, facial (stereo)types for moral flaws develop.

Jones first reprints some of the faces from the 1556 Brief Phisiognomie in Thomas

Deloney’s broadside titled “A most joyfull Songe” (1586; Fig. 2.7). This crowded sheet of paper contains a printed ballad that tells of “the great joy, which was made in London at the taking of the late trayterous conspirators, which sought opportunity to kyll her Maiesty … and by soveraigne invasion to overturn the realms.”72 Jones uses composite printing, sloppily imposing the sets of faces close together in the formes. “A most joyfull Songe” reuses anonymous portraits from the physiognomy: the fourteen faces, seven in each row, frame the title. The physiognomy book itself would support a “traitorous” interpretation, as the purpose of the printed physiognomy is to aid in the identification of deceitful signs in the human face. Because of the reuse of the same woodcuts in two editions of Hill’s physiognomy fifteen years apart, the recycling of physiognomic illustrations may have conditioned a generation of readers to see these images a certain way. They were thus perfect to portray the conspirators involved in the

Babington plot of 1586.73

72 Luborsky, 294. 73 Anthony Babington and his Jesuit co-conspirators planned to assassinate Queen Elizabeth, restore Catholicism to England, and put Mary Queen of Scots on the English throne. Babington and the other men were arrested and executed for treason in September of 1586. See John Wagner, “Babington Plot,” Historical Dictionary of the Elizabethan World: Britain, Ireland, Europe, and America (Phoenix, AZ: Oryx Press, 1999; rpt New York: Routledge, 2013), 21.

In 1588, only two years later, Robert Waldegrave (printing for Jones) reused three singular bust portraits from Hill’s 1571 Contemplation of Mankinde to create a composite frontispiece for A True Report of the inditement, arraignment, conviction, condemnation, and execution of John Weldon, William Hartley, and Robert Sutton, who suffered for high treason

(Fig. 2.8).74 Again, the physiognomy images from Contemplation illustrate a document about transgressions against the crown. The men’s faces, like the images in “A most joyfull Songe,” frame the text of the title, but these portraits are not anonymous as they are on the broadside.

Rather, the portraits are captioned as named historical figures directly. Weldon, Hartley, and

Sutton were Catholic priests who were tried and executed for treason after the defeat of the

Spanish Armada in 1588. The priests were jailed when they refused to conform to Anglican religious principles. Despite the efforts of the sheriffs and preachers (unnamed in the publication) to convince the men to turn from Catholicism, all three priests refused to repent and were executed for treason.75

Waldegrave and Jones seem to have reprinted the illustrations of these particular men in

A True Report because their faces had accompanied passages about dangerous criminals and traitors in The Contemplation of Mankind. Reading from left to right in the images and text of A

True Report, readers might identify the portraits as “mug shots” of Weldon, Hartley, and Sutton, respectively. The Weldon portrait appears in Contemplation with a description that reads, “A certaine person that [Cocles] noted … was knowne to be evil tongued, and unpacsent”76 ([H7v]).

He has a round frame around his face and shoulders; he has cropped hair and an open mouth, and

74 Luborsky, 445. 75 Donna B. Hamilton, A Concise Companion to English Renaissance Literature (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2006), 40. 76 “unpacsent” is probably “impatient”; OED s.v. impatient

an upturned nose. The same face also illustrates a passage later in the book that describes shifty eyes that indicate “an enuious nature, and sometimes a murderer” (Contemplation [K6r]). The faces printed beside the Weldon portrait are no better in character. Before Waldegrave and Jones printed the Hartley image, Seres used the woodcut to signify stupidity and dullness of wit in

Contemplation, manifested in the large nether lip and “stopped” nostrils ([B7r]). Lastly, the printers represent the Sutton image with a portrait of a man with large eyes, a ruffled collar and a high-necked jacket (D.2[r]). He appears several times in Contemplation, but the most elaborate story he accompanies is one in which sly secretaries deceive the noblemen or princes whom they serve (D.2[r]). In most of the late sixteenth-century reprints of the physiognomic images, Jones re-casts Seres’s woodcuts as criminals or unsavory characters.

But the dubious faces found other kinds of publicity as they were further re-cast as dramatic characters or people on frontispieces and in playbooks. “A Man in Armor” first appeared in Seres’s Contemplation (2G1[r]) two decades before he became the face of

Tamburlaine in 1590. When Jones obtained the soldier’s portrait, he reprinted the image twice before printing Marlowe’s play. First, Jones included the “A Man in Armor” bust portrait as a title-page illustration in a text written by George Whetsone entitled The Honorable Reputation of a Souldier (1585; Fig. 2.9). This book enumerates the virtues necessary for being a good soldier and also includes a list of great and honorable warriors of the past, even including the historical

Tamburlaine as an example of a “valiaunt” soldier (Whetsone B2[r]). Yet, only two years later,

Jones reprinted “A Man in Armor” on the frontispiece of another book entitled A Shorte

Admonition or Warning, a translation of a Dutch treatise printed by John Cornelissoon. The short, seven-page booklet warns against treason. Like the “A Man in a Doublet” reproductions, the same bust portrait of “A Man in Armor” illustrates two disparate narratives: one of honor and

one of treason. (Indeed, honor and treason mark the character of Tamburlaine as well). When

Jones placed the portrait in the middle of the first edition of Tamburlaine, he linked the

Tamburlaine text to his previous mention of Tamburlaine in The Honorable Reputation. Jones first defined the image with verbal signifiers, but as noted above, by 1597 audiences recognized

Tamburlaine’s “portrait” without the printed label, suggesting that his image assumed the identity of the main character in the printed playbook. Jones’s work has thus created a parallel between the physiognomy book and the theatre; the anonymous, de-individuated portraits are suitable for illustrating printed plays, because, due to the verbal language of the script, the identities of actors playing parts are as flexible and malleable as these unidentified printed faces are. Both must visually illustrate the words that accompany them; the printed portrait “plays” in the printed text as the actor plays the appropriate identity for the given cue script of the performance. Embodiment on stage, like facial images in a book, is understood not as individuated but as impersonated, as representative of an ever-shifting characterization based on performance and presentation.

***

In the age of mechanical reproduction, the woodcut portrait is like a large piece of moveable type, in that it is a received visual sign that can be moved from page to page or work to work so as to create new meanings in each reprint. These early modern “clip art” images are unstable signifiers that depend on the surrounding cues in text and paratext. As seen above, the portraits cross borders, they appear repeatedly in texts produced on the continent and in England, and the various duplications create a transnational discourse of anonymous yet unanimous early modern faces. Easily reproducible images of anonymous bust portraits question the idea of

“selfhood” (a selfhood they never actually had) through multiple iterations in print, in a

phenomenon similar to the way in which, as Walter Benjamin claims, aura is lost in mechanized reproduction of artwork. If aura is the “presence,” or individuality of the original work of art, then we could say the same about so-called “personal essence” in reproductions of woodcut portraits, when the same image acts as an illustration of multiple contradicting assertions or descriptions. Jones’s reprinting of the physiognomy portrait to make the generic soldier signify the warrior “Tamburlaine” is an indication of the parallel between the theatre and facial character types, but it is also a sign of the audience's familiarity with the character-typing and de- individuation that the physiognomy genre generated. Plural and afterlife reproductions of images offer flexible, strategic options to recast or overwrite characters’ presence or person-ality with visual and verbal signifiers.

Figure 2.1 "A Man in Armour" in Christopher Marlowe. Tamburlaine the Great. London: Richard Jones, 1590. F2v|F3r. STC 17425.

Figure 2.2 "Woman with Flowing Hair" in Christopher Marlowe. Tamburlaine the Great. London: Richard Jones, 1597. F5r. STC 17427.

Figure 2.3 "Single Head" in Bartolommeo della Rocca and Thomas Hill, A brief and most plesau[n]t epitomye of the whole art of phisiognomie. London: John Waylande, 1556. A3v. STC 5468.

Figure 2.4 "Hair Straight and Wavy" in Bartolommeo della Rocca (Cocles), Physiognomiae et Chiromantiae Compendium Argentinae. Strasbourg: Ioannem Albrecht, 1533. A5r.

Figure 2.5 "Hair Straight and Wavy" in Bartolommeo della Rocca (Cocles) and Thomas Hill. A brief and most pleasau[n]t epitomye of the whole art of phisiognomie. London: John Waylande, 1556), A4v. STC 5468.

Figure 2.6 "Man in Doublet" in Thomas Hill, The Contemplation of Mankinde. London: Henry Denham for William Seres, 1571. I6v|I7r. STC 13482.

Figure 2.7 Thomas Deloney, A most joyfull Songe. London: Richard Iones, 1586. STC 6557.6.

Figure 2.8 Frontispiece for A True Report. London: Richard Iones, 1588. Title Page. STC 25229.

Figure 2.9 "A Man in Armor" in George Whetstone, The honorable reputation of a souldier. London: Richard Jones, 1585. Title Page. STC 25339

CHAPTER 3

IMAGE REPRODUCTION AND TRANSLATION IN ENGLISH EMBLEM BOOKS

In 1531, Heinrich Steyner published the first emblem book, an “unauthorized” version of

Andrea Alciato’s emblem collection, titled Emblematum liber. This first edition of Emblematum is considered unauthorized because Alciato did not play a role in the production of the book. The emblems first circulated in manuscript in an unillustrated format, and Alciato’s friend Conrad

Peutinger commissioned the woodcut illustrations and requested that Steyner publish the book.77

Scholars consider this first publication to be inferior to the later “authorized” edition because the mis-en-page does not set one emblem per page and the images do not always adequately match the poems. When Parisian printer Chrestien Wechel printed Alciato’s emblems in 1534, the dedicatory letter claims that Alciato himself helped to prepare the publication, and the page layout presents readers with one emblem per page.78 Additionally, the woodcut images were revised and replaced. Since the authorized 1534 edition, Alciato’s emblems underwent more than a century of reprinting and translations, and many artisans and craftsmen have copied, revised, and retraced the woodcut illustrations in the process.

77 For more on the first edition of Emblematum Liber, see Henry Green, Andrea Alciati and his Book of Emblems. A Biographical and Bibliographical Study (London: Trübner, 1872), 2; John Landwehr, German Emblem Books 1531-1888. A Bibliography (Utrecht: Haentjens Dekker and Gumbert, 1972), 23; Bernhard Scholz, 'The Augsburg Edition of Alciato's Emblemata: A Survey of Research', Emblematica 5 (1990), 213-254. 78 On Wechel’s Paris edition, see Alison Adams, Stephen Rawles, Alison Saunders, A Bibliography of French Emblem Books, 2 vols (Geneva: Droz, 1999-2001): entries F.001-072 cover early French editions of Alciato; this edition is entered as F.001; Alison Adams, 'The Role of the Translator in Sixteenth- Century Alciato Translation', BHR 52.2 (1990), 369-383 (on revisions to woodcuts); Michael Bath, 'Two Early English-owned Alciato Editions in Glasgow University Library', Emblematica 2 (1987), 387-388; Stephen Rawles, 'Layout, Typography and Chronology in Chrestien Wechel's Editions of Alciato', in An Interregnum of the Sign: The Emblematic Age in France: Essays in Honour of Daniel S. Russell, volume edited by David Graham (Glasgow: Glasgow Emblem Studies, 2001), 49-71.

Although we know the circumstances surrounding the publications of Alciato’s first emblem books in print, later translations and adaptations of these emblems and new emblem books are more difficult to determine. Scholars do not know the exact practices of emblem illustration because few extant manuscripts, illustrator attributions, or printing records exist. In many cases, we do not know whether emblematists wrote poems to interpret pictures or if printers assigned woodcut images to each verse after the poems arrived at the printing house in manuscript. Although Daly reiterates the necessity of further scholarship on image creation, he later writes, “In one sense [the question of illustration] hardly matters since readers will respond to a printed book comprising both texts and pictures.”79 This assertion suggests that the production of emblem illustrations is somewhat irrelevant to textual reception and readership because readers have approached and will approach the text in an already-assembled format. But

I would argue that the production and transmission of emblems in early modern Europe matters a great deal to reception, and the study of these methods can revolutionize Daly’s theories about the circulation of emblems. The creation of woodcut illustrations significantly alters the ways in which readers perceive and understand the text, especially in the case of emblems in translation.

One of the many ways that we can better account for the role of the publisher and illustrator in the study of emblems is to analyze the patterns of transmission and translation of printed emblem books. Some printers produced emblem books through a practice that A. E. B.

Coldiron calls “radiant printing,” in which “one work is translated and printed in multiple

79 Daly, The Emblem in Early Modern Europe, 28-29. Daly’s full quotation reads: “The one thing that I now do not find is an adequate account of the role of publisher/printer and illustrator. … [Schone’s] comments on the textual parts and their relation to the picture occasionally seem to assume that they interpret the picture (putting the cart before the horse in terms of creation), whereas we now tend to believe that the publisher received the written texts from the emblem writer. The publisher then provided the illustration; the illustrator usually working for the publisher. In one sense it hardly matters since readers will respond to a printed book comprising both texts and pictures” (28-29).

languages at roughly the same time, radiating outward from one culture into several others.”80

But other printers and emblematists remediated, translated, retranslated, adapted, and anthologized the verbal material in emblem books to such an extreme degree that no single pattern can describe emblems’ transnational transmission.81 Yet despite the complex verbal translation and remediation patterns of emblems, in many translated collections illustrators and printers did not design figurae by following the cues of the verbal text, but instead imitated images already in circulation.82 Printers often used afterlife reproduction methods to create emblem illustrations, and these patterns of repetition afforded vernacular readers a shared visual language. Image reuse could have been popular with translators and printers for a number of reasons. First, it was a convenient and cost-effective means to produce pictures. Second, images were relatively flexible. The same or similar copies of woodcuts or engravings created a pan-

80 A. E. B. Coldiron, Printers Without Borders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 108. 81 In an unpublished chapter removed from Printers Without Borders, A. E. B. Coldiron considers complex pattern of translation and transmission of emblem books, Bibles, and editions of Ovid. She describes this "multi-reticulated" transmission as “a network: … it is multi-directional, subsuming and including all other possible patterns, it's vast, it covers a long period of time, and it signals the major importance of a work (such as the Bible) across Europe." (Coldiron, correspondence May 2016). 82 This phenomenon is well documented by Hodnett, English Woodcuts 1480-1535 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1934); Edward Hodnett, Aesop in England (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1979), E. H. Gombrich, The Image and the Eye (Cornell: Cornell University Press, 1982); Martha Driver, "The Illustrated de Worde: An Overview." Studies in Iconography 17 (1996): 349-403; Ruth Samson Luborsky and Elizabeth M. Ingram, A Guide to English Illustrated Books, 1536-1603 (Tempe, AZ: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1998); David Davis, "Images on the Move: The Virgin, the Kalendar of Shepherds, and the Transmission of Woodcuts in Tudor England," The Journal of the Early Book Society for the Study of Manuscripts and Printing History 12 (2009): 100. In Aesop in England, Hodnett notes that in early modern Europe, a “body of similar illustrations evolved as artists and unoriginal craftsmen copied, rearranged, and re-created [image] prototypes,” but does not examine patterns that emerge in image evolution or ways that readers may have encountered this body of illustrations (20).

European discourse community by giving French, Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, and English readers the same visual signs by which to consider their poetry.83

Printers and illustrators often practiced afterlife reproduction by tracing or redrawing existing illustrations to carve new woodblocks. Emblem illustrators in particular created figurae through re-drawing and approximate copying, a practice best theorized by Umberto Eco’s concept, “intrasemiotic interpretation,” which is translation within a non-verbal sign system.84

The intrasemiotic interpretation of images often results in minor changes in size and content, and because repeated tracing or hand-copying can potentially skew or slightly alter the original image prototype over time, illustrations in European emblem books did not appear exactly the same, but they had significant design similarities that reveal patterns of likeness.85

Any number of emblematic tropes would illustrate this phenomenon of image reproduction, but in this chapter, I survey the image of the fowling net.86 Nets for fishing, hunting, and trapping frequently recur in the emblem tradition; they appear in the books of

83 All emblem books printed in England during the sixteenth century are translations and adaptations of continental texts. For more information about emblem transmission and fiscally conservative printing practices in England, see Rosemary Freeman, English Emblem Books (Chatto and Windus, 1948). For more about continental transmission, see Theo Hermans, “Translation and Genre in the European Renaissance: Emblem Books,” Traduction: Encyclopedie internationale se la recherché sure la traduction, edited by Harald Kittel, Julianne House, Brigitte Schultze (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2004), 1447. 84 Umberto Eco, Experiences in Translation, trans. Alastair McEwen (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000; rpt 2008), 100-103. See Eco’s distinction between “intrasystemic” and “intrasemiotic” translations (100). 85 These patterns of likeness are difficult to measure; as Keri Kraus notes, we can never reach a complete comparison of two hand-copied images, but we can examine their points of agreement, their manner of production, their modes of dissemination, and connections to the original. See Kraus, “Picture Criticism: Textual Studies and the Image,” Cambridge Companion to Textual Scholarship, ed. Neil Fraistat and Julia Flanders (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 236-256. 86 Other scholars have examined similar thematic trends in emblem books; See Judith Dundas, “Arachne's Web: Emblem into Art,” Emblematica 2, no. 1 (1987): 109-137; Luís Gomes, “An Emblematic Vision of the Sea: Claudie Balavoine on Spanish Marine Emblems,” Emblematica 18 (2010): 289-293; John T. Cull, “Calderón's Snakes: Emblems, Lore and Imagery,” MIFLC Review 3 (1993): 97-110.

Alciato, La Perrière, Montenay, Sambucus, as well as Whitney and Combe. Additionally, emblematists’ practices and terminologies for their own inventions – “engins” and “devices” – are similar to the vocabulary used to discuss technologies for trapping fish and fowl in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Jessica Wolfe has established that Renaissance mechanical vocabulary not only described contraptions of metal, wood and rope, but also encompassed a larger range of meanings, used to classify emblems, epigrams, and other clever mottoes or advice.87 The similarities between emblems and “engines” are not only semantic; early modern emblem readers were also “textual poachers” who actively read emblematic texts and subsumed them into their own remixes, poetry, manuscript copia, and translations.88 This “textual poaching” is apparent in emblem book paratexts that reference reading, imitation, and the early modern emblem network.89 In this section, I argue that textual poaching practices, in conjunction with afterlife reproduction, created a reticulated pattern of early modern emblem transmission, which in turn developed a shared visual language in European interpretive communities.

Scholars often note the intertextual verbal content of emblems, but imitatio and remix also drove illustrators’ production practices. This section provides a detailed assessment of the evolution of

87 See Jessica Wolfe, Humanism, Machinery, and Renaissance Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 2004), 8. 88 Although Henry Jenkins first uses the term “textual poaching” to discuss modern fandom and remixes, this terminology can apply to Renaissance emblem writers. Jenkins writes that the move from spectator culture to participatory culture is one of the central characteristics of fandom. Emblem readers were players and re-writers of the same game, and emblem productions are both “entertainment and analysis; original and derivative” (Hellekson 20). See Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse, “Part I: Fan Fiction as Literature” in Fan Fiction Studies Reader (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2014), 20; Henry Jenkins, Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Cutlure (London; New York: Routledge, 1992). For more on what I call early modern emblem fandom, see Peter Daly, Literature in Light of the Emblem (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998). 89 See introductory paratexts in La Perrière, Le Théâtre (Paris: Janot, 1539), A3[r]-[A5r]; Montenay, Emblemes ou Devises Chrestiennes (Lyon: Jean Marcorelle, 1567/1571), A4[v]; Whitney, A Choice of Emblemes (Leyden: Raphelengius for Plantyn), [**3v-**4r]; and Combe, Theater of Fine Devices (London: Richard Field, 1614), A3[r]-[A6r].

sixteenth-century emblems, traces transmission and image reproduction, and finally considers the effects of shared visual language in selected translations and adaptations.

The anonymous engravers in the workshops of Denis Janot, Macé Bonhomme, and

Guillaume Rouille carved the illustrations of the fowling emblems in two major European emblem books: Andrea Alciato’s Emblematum Liber (1531; rpt 1548) and Guillaume de la

Perrière’s Le Théâtre (1536 [unillust]; rpt 1539 [illust]). These illustrators borrowed from the design of an early-sixteenth-century picture in Aesop now known as “The Birdcatcher,” which illustrates the fable of the deceptive decoy in Sebastian Brant’s Esopi Appologi siue mythologi

(1501; Fig. 3.1).90 Although the fowling depictions in Alciato, La Perrière, and Aesop are not completely identical, they have many design similarities. The images have a wide-angle perspective and triangulated layout: the fowler appears in a corner, the net stretches out upon the foreground at the bottom of the image, and the birds fly above the net, scattered against the sky and trees in the background. The image of the fowling net underwent more than one hundred years of complex reticulation in print, appearing in various adaptations, radiant (re)printings, and translations of Emblematum Liber and Le Théâtre. Geffrey Whitney and Thomas Combe introduced emblem books to English readers in the late sixteenth century, and fowling emblems appeared in Whitney’s translation of Alciato’s “Dolus in Suos” in A Choice of Emblems (1586) as well as in Combe’s translation of La Perrière’s Emblem LIIII in The Theater of Fine Devices

(1593 [lost]; rpt 1613) (Figs. 3.2 and 3.3).91 Both English emblematists reprinted and hand-

90 Hodnett, Aesop in England, 19-20; 82-83. Hodnett notes that printers often recycled fable illustrations, but I have observed that this practice applies to emblem figurae and other illustrations in print as well. Printers produced emblems and fables around the same time in the same printing houses, and seemed to make connections between fowling emblems and fables as they illustrated them in some of the same ways. The illustration for Aesop’s “Decoy and the Fowler” also underwent complex reticulation, much like fowling emblems in La Perrière and Alciato. 91 An explanation of the illustrations’ production and transmission patterns follows in section II. The fowling emblems in La Perrière and Alciato appear so alike that emblem scholar Henry Green’s 1866

copied illustrations from their sources, reproducing images that had been circulating in Europe since the early sixteenth century.

In many depictions of fowling in fables and emblems, the image of the fowler illustrates passages about deception. Early modern writers deemed traps and nets subversive technologies that enabled sly and cunning humans to trick and capture unsuspecting creatures, gaining more power by exerting a sly kind of force. Many texts, from Italian treatises to English-French dictionaries, suggested that mechanical technologies like fowling nets had the potential to overturn traditional systems of power; individuals set traps to achieve tasks with the aid of subtlety or deception rather than by direct force. Wolfe cites fifteenth-century humanist Giovanni

Tortelli’s explanation of the class difference between hunting and fowling. In his Orthographia dictionum e graecis tractarum (1471), Tortelli asserts, “While hunting is the preserve of the wealthy, fowling is practiced by the commoners … it is the nature of the poor to employ trickery and the rich to employ force.”92 Sixteenth-century emblems of nets on the continent and in

England perpetuate this view of the bird catcher: the image of the woven snare not only depicts the story of the hunt or predator and prey, but also symbolizes sly, cunning behavior and signifies the presence of lower-class tricksters, whores, drunks, false flatterers, and other subversive types. 93

edition and facsimile of Whitney’s Choice incorrectly listed “Dolus in Suos” as one of the emblems inspired by Le Théâtre. See Alison Saunders, “The Théâtre des Bons Engins through English Eyes (La Perrière, Combe, and Whitney),” Revue de literature compare 64, no. 4, 1990, pp 653-673 (specifically 661). 92 Wolfe, Humanism, Machinery, and Renaissance Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 2004), 10-11; Wolfe translates this quotation from Giovanii Tortelli, De Orthographia dictonem e graecis tractarum (Rome, 1471): “Ut sciamus verum esse quod Aristoteles &alli quidam scripscrunt pauperum propium esse cum mali sunt dolo uti: divitum vi: ideoque alterum vulpeculae: alterum leoni componatur.” See Wolfe, 9 and note 21 on page 244. 93 The first net in the emblem tradition is a fishing net that appears in Alciato’s “In Amatores Meretricum” in Emblematum Liber (Augsburg: 1531), B5[r]. Animal, human, and gender boundaries blur

Stylistic similarities in books printed in early modern Europe suggest that printers and illustrators created a “visual vocabulary” by reprinting emblem figurae. The images remained constant from translation to translation, and avid readers may have indeed recognized iconography across emblem books. Art historian E. H. Gombrich asserts that to perceive the

“right” reading of an image, viewers need “the code, the caption, and the context.”94 In certain cases, however, observers can correctly discern the meaning of images without the verbal

“caption” if they understand the correct context and have prior experience with the signifying practices around certain types of images.95 Afterlife reproduction methods, as we have seen in the previous chapter, have the potential to condition viewers to recognize visual symbols in emblematic contexts; readers could correctly read the image if they had the context and previous knowledge of emblem books and other literary sources that used similar visual language.

Complex reticulation and afterlife reproduction created a context for the fowler and net as a visual symbol of deception for readers of emblems on the continent, and translators like Whitney and Combe helped readers to navigate and decode the recycled image when it entered vernacular

English culture.

In this chapter, I develop a two-part argument. First, the production of emblem illustrations and the repetition of images over time create a visual vocabulary for emblem readers

in this emblem: a fisherman disguises himself in a she-goat skin and seduces the passionate sargus into his net. The fisherman cross-dresses, both in terms of his gender and species, to trick the fish, and the emblem warns readers to see the sargus as an example of the perils of “unwholesome love.” 94 E. H. Gombrich, The Image and the Eye, 142. 95 Gombrich uses the example of basic restroom, medical, and telephone signs at the 1968 Olympic Games in Mexico, which were easily read by international viewers who understood the context and had previous experience with these kinds of signs. Erwin Panofsky also discusses readers’ recognition of iconographic data based on readers’ knowledge of other sources in Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1939), 1-15.

in early modern Europe. Second, as Whitney and Combe transmit emblems for a wide audience of English readers – some of whom might not have the crucial context or experience of the continental emblem figura tradition – they adjusted the verbal language to enable new audiences to interpret the material. Whitney included further emblem explications and clarifying paratext, while Combe simplified the word-image relationship to make his images more depictive and less enigmatic. Through these strategies, both translators changed the ways in which the emblem signified, such that English readers could more easily decipher the texts and interpret emblematic visual vocabulary.

To explore the transmission and iconography of the fowling net in early modern emblems, I first trace emblem illustrators’ transmission practices, examining the ways in which the text and illustration of Aesop’s “The Duck and the Decoy” informed the emblems of La

Perrière, Alciato, and later translations and adaptations, including Georgette de Montenay’s adaptation of “Dolus in Suos” in her Emblemes ou Devises Chrestiennes (1567/1571). In Section

II, I examine the afterlife reproductions, translations, and paratextual apparatus of Whitney’s

Choice of Emblemes and Combe’s Theater of Fine Devices. These examinations demonstrate that the production and repetition of emblem illustrations matter not only to the way that translators produce emblem translations and other verbal material, but also to the ways in which readers navigate the visual and verbal language of the text.

Complex Reticulation of the Fowling Net

The fowling net in the emblem tradition first appeared in one of the first major vernacular emblem books, Denis Janot’s illustrated edition of Le Théâtre des bons engins in 1539-1540

(Fig. 3.4). La Perrière dedicated his book of emblems to Marguerite de Navarre, hoping to

provide her with entertainment and “honest recreation” (A4[v]).96 Although the book was printed for a public audience, many of the emblems in Le Théâtre emphasize the importance of good, cautious, and virtuous rule for princes and lords. Several fowling nets appear in the collection, but Emblem LIIII is a verbal and visual adaptation of Aesop’s fable “The Duck and the Decoy”97

Aesop’s original fable features a fowler-decoy team that tricks birds into a net, but La Perrière adapts the story to cast the fowler as the deceptive character:

Aesop, “The Decoys and the Doves” 98 La Perrière, “Emblem 54”99 A bird catcher laid out his net, tying some Qvand l’oyseleur veult force oyseletz prendre, tame doves to the net as decoys. He then stood Il fainct sa voix auec quelque instrument off at a distance, waiting to see what would Au son duquel vers luy se viennent rendre happen. Some wild doves flew up to the tame Par ce moyen les prent facilement. doves and became entangled in the knots of Flateurs [sic] de court sont tout semblablement, the net. When the bird catcher ran up and Pour attirer les princes en leurs laqs: began to grab them, the wild doves got angry Car pour co[m]plaire & leur donner soulas, at the tame doves, since the tame doves had Cent fois le iour changent de contenance: not warned them about the trap even though Mais quand le prince est contrainct dire helas: they were all members of the same species. Il est trop tard d’en auoir congnoissance The tame doves replied, 'Nevertheless, it is better for us to protect the interests of our [When the fowler wants to take birds masters than to please our relations.’ He feigns his voice with some instrument

96 The first publication of La Perrière’s Le Théâtre (Lyon: Denis Harsay, 1536) was unillustrated. La Perrière’s dedication to Marguerite de Navarre also appeared in the 1536 edition. 97 Fables and emblems have often merged – as Alison Saunders mentions, Janot and Tournes both printed fable books and emblem books. In the 1540s and 1550s, fable books and emblem books often had similar mise-en-page, shared woodcuts, and shared content. See Alison Saunders, The Seventeenth-Century French Emblem, 56-58. 98 This is a modernization/translation of Aesop’s “The Decoys and the Doves” in Laura Gibbs, Aesop’s Fables (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 24-25 (Fable 44). See Aesop and B E. Perry, Aesopica, (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1952), 238. A compilation of Perry's index to the Aesopica can be found in the appendix to his edition of Babrius and Phaedrus (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1965). Many versions of fowling fables exist. Another version is titled “Of a Fowler and a Partridge” and it appears in Arthur Golding’s manuscript A Moral Fabletalk (c. 1580). The manuscript of Golding’s translation is held in the Columbia University Rare Book and Manuscript Library. For transcription and more information, see Liza Blake and Kathryn Vomero Santos, Arthur Golding’s 'A Moral Fabletalk' and Other Renaissance Fable Translations (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 2017), 278. 99 Transcribed from Le Perrière, Le Théâtre des Bons Engins (Paris: D. Janot, 1539), H4[r].

The same is true about household servants: At the sound of which they come towards him they should not be blamed when their By this means, he takes them easily. devotion to the master of the house causes Court flatterers do similarly, them to set aside any loyalty to their kinfolk. To attract the princes in their snares: In order to please and to give them solace, One hundred times a day they change their countenance: But when the Prince is constrained (alas!) It is too late to realize it]100

Although La Perrière shifts the perspective of Aesop’s fable and casts the prince as the victim of courtier’s feigned voices, some elements from Aesop’s tale cross over: the fowler, a deceptive technology, the focus on social class, and the tricking of birds, whether by decoy or by duck call.

In both tales, the lesson invites cross-species identification and sympathy; good and virtuous readers should shun the human character and lament the plight of the tricked animal. Janot’s illustrator further links Emblem LIIII to previous productions of the fables by borrowing from the fowling iconography in Sebastian Brant’s translation of Aesop published in Basel in 1501

(Fig. 3.1).101 In both images of the fowling net, the fowler, outspread net, and the birds appear on the picture plane in a triangular relationship. The birds are clearly visible in mid-air, but the triangle also visually demonstrates an interconnectedness between the three agents/objects.

Janot’s illustrator established an early link in the chain of shared illustrations; he not only

100 Thanks to Dr. Coldiron for her assistance with this translation. 101 The Birdcatcher illustration has a long medieval manuscript tradition, and the image first appears in print in Sebastiani Brant, Esope appologi siue mythologia cum quibusdam carminus et fabularum additionibus (Basel: Jacob [Wolff], 1501). In England, Caxton printed the Historyes and fables of Esope (Caxton, 1484), and Caxton’s craftsmen copied 186 illustrations from Johann Zainer’s Vita Esopi et Fabulae (1476). In 1501, Jacob Wolff (Basel) printed an expanded edition of Aesop’s fables in 1501, and the illustrator cut 138 new woodcuts. The “Dolus in Suos” emblem originates from Part II of the 1501 edition. When Janot began printing both Fables and Le Theatre, he had access to illustrations in both the 1476 and 1501 editions of Aesop. English audiences did not have the decoy fable in English editions until 1651-1666; see Concordance and Bibliography in Hodnett, Aesop in England, (4-5; 67-68).

borrowed from other images in early print, but also provided a template for later editions and translations of emblems and fables about fowlers.102

Janot reproduced the image of the fowler in four more editions of Le Théâtre until his death in 1544.103 Lyon printer Jean de Tournes began to publish editions of La Perrière’s emblems in 1545. Tournes’s illustrator, Bernard Salomon, copied Janot’s woodcut illustrations to create new woodblocks (Fig. 3.5). Salomon’s copies differ slightly from the originals: in Janot’s edition, an ornamental decoration frames the image, and the fowler wears blousy sleeves, hose, and appears to be cross-gartered. De Tournes eliminated the ornate borders, while Salomon simplified the image and streamlined the clothing. He added a purse and exchanged the flat beret for a brimmed hat and feather.104 Despite these changes in ornamentation and costume, Salomon replicated the original picture’s proportions and layout; he depicted the crouching fowler, the outstretched net, and the birds flying overhead. Janot and Tournes produced eight editions between 1539 and 1550, continually recycling woodcuts and iconography.105 This frequent re- iteration of the image via afterlife reproduction resulted in a shared visual language over time

102 Janot printed Aesop’s fables two years later in Les fables du tresancien Esope Phrygien, trans. G. Corrozet (Paris: Janot, 1542); the fowling and hunting illustrations are similar but not the same as Emblem LIIII in Le Théâtre. 103 After Janot’s death, Etienne Groulleau printed two copies of Le Théâtre: one in 1548 and the other in 1551. See Saunders, The Seventeenth-Century French Emblem, 56-58; Stephen Rawles, “The Earliest Editions of Guillaume de la Perrière’s Théâtre des bons engins” Emblematica 2, no. 2 (1987): 381-6. 104 This costume change appears to make the fowler more fashionable and includes current trends in headwear; see Ann R. Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000); Hilda Amphlett, Hats: A History of Fashion in Headwear (Chalfont St. Giles: Sadler, 1974). 105 Additionally, Tournes printed the Birdcatcher illustration he used for La Perrière’s Théâtre to illustrate the fowling fable in Les Fables d'Esope in 1547. See Bernard Salomon’s illustration in Aesop, Les Fables d'Esope Phrygien, mises en Ryme Francoise, trans. Gilles Corrozet (Lyon: Tournes, 1547).

and geographical distance. Readers saw stylistically similar images in books of fables and emblem books printed in geographically disparate locations and in multiple languages.

The image of “The Birdcatcher” circulated in French emblems in Le Théâtre in the early

1540s, but the fowling emblem did not appear in Alciato’s Emblematum Liber until the sons of

Aldus Manutius published the Aesop-inspired emblem, “Dolus in Suos,” in Venice in 1546, along with eighty-six new emblems (Fig. 3.6). Alciato’s fowling emblem is a much closer adaptation of Aesop’s fable. I repeat Aesop’s fable for convenience here:

Aesop, “The Decoys and the Doves”106 Alciato, “Dolus in Suos”107

A bird catcher laid out his net, tying some Altilis allectator anas, & caerula pennis tame doves to the net as decoys. He then Adsueta ad dominos ire redire suos, stood off at a distance, waiting to see what Congeneres cernens volitare per aera turmas would happen. Some wild doves flew up to Garrit, in illarum se recipitque gregem, the tame doves and became entangled in the Praetensa incautas donec sub retia ducat. knots of the net. When the bird catcher ran up Obstrepitant captae, conscia at ipsa silet. and began to grab them, the wild doves got Perfida cognato se sanguine polluit ales, angry at the tame doves, since the tame doves Officiosa aliis, exitiosa suis had not warned them about the trap even though they were all members of the same [The well-fed decoy duck with its green-blue species. The tame doves replied, wings is trained to go out and return to its 'Nevertheless, it is better for us to protect the masters. When it sees squadrons of its interests of our masters than to please our relations flying through the air, it quacks and relations. joins itself to the flock, until it can draw them, off their guard, into the outspread nets. When The same is true about household servants: caught they raise a protesting clamor, but she, they should not be blamed when their knowing what she has done, keeps silence. devotion to the master of the house causes The treacherous bird defiles itself with related them to set aside any loyalty to their kinfolk. blood, servile to others, deadly to its own kind.]

While La Perrière’s emblem focuses on the deeds of the fowler, Alciato’s poema diminishes the fowler’s agency to create a bird-centric narrative. The poem describes a well-trained duck, but

106 Gibbs, 24-25. 107 This Latin transciption and English translation are both from “Emblematum Libellus (1546) Venice,” Alciato at Glasgow, 2017. http://www.emblems.arts.gla.ac.uk/alciato/emblem.php?id=A46a080

does not mention the fowler setting the trap or training the decoy. To visually translate this emphasis on the fowl, illustrators of various editions108 minimized the bird catcher’s role and brought readers’ attention to the decoy by depicting large birds and an expansive fowling net to draw the viewer’s eye. This particular shift in emphasis from the fowler to the birds seems to be an appropriate visual translation of the text, which emphasizes the betrayal of the decoy rather than the sound of the hunter’s whistle or the mechanism of the net.

Another iteration of “The Birdcatcher” illustration entered the Alciati collection when the production of Alciati moved mainly to Lyon. Printers Macé Bonhomme and Guillaume Rouille began to produce editions of Emblemata [sic] two years after the Venice edition (1548).

Bonhomme and Rouille’s illustrator, Pierre Eskrich, crafted an illustration for “Dolus in Suos” based on the triangulated fowler image.109 The printers repeated the same illustrations as they produced a Spanish, Italian, and two Latin editions of Alciati in a three-year period (from 1549-

1551).110 Later emblematists and printers continued to reprint or recopy Salomon’s images and

108 In the University of Glasgow Digital Collections alone, the fowling emblem appears in Alciato, Emblematum libellus (Venice: Aldus, 1546); Alciato, Los Emblemas (Lyon: Macé Bonhomme for Guillaume Rouille, 1549); Alciato, Emblemata (Lyon: Macé Bonhomme for Guillaume Rouille, 1550); Alciato, Diverse Imprese (Lyon: Macé Bonhomme for Guillaume Rouille, 1551); Alciato, Liber Emblematum/Kunstbuch (Frankfurt am Main, 1566/67); Alciato, Emblemata (Paris, Jean Richer, 1584); Alciato, Emblemata (Leyden: Officina Plantiniana, 1591); Alciato and Diego Lopez, Declaracion magistral sobre las Emblemas de Andres Alciato (Najera, Juan de Mongaston, 1615); Alciato, Emblemata (Padua: Petro Paulo Tozzi, 1621). Printers all over Europe printed at least a hundred editions of Alciato’s emblems, and it is likely that early modern printers reprinted the fowler image in many other editions. 109 These patterns of image reuse that we see in Janot’s and Tournes’s productions become much more obvious when placed in comparison with books that do not reuse images. The fowling illustration within the Venice edition (1546) differs from the others: instead of the triangulated pattern that appears in the 1501 Aesop woodcuts or La Perrière’s Théâtre, the Venice illustration incorporates a completely different perspective; the birds appear larger and stand against a background of a woven net. The illustration does not appear to be based on previous Aesop illustrations. 110 The illustration for “Dolus in Suos” does not appear in Bonhomme and Rouille’s French edition of Emblematum Liber (1548); further research is needed for an explanation of why the woodcut is missing from this particular French edition.

created a visual language by reusing iconography and visual symbols repetitively.111 These printers and emblematists created a frequently used “character” of the fowler;112 the pictured man is not only a fictional flatterer or traitor in the anecdote, but he also is a pictograph or ideogram of deception. The pictographic character of the fowler, like his parallel “character” in verbal language, can be arranged in various ways to gain new meanings. After around thirty years of radiant reprinting, the image of “The Birdcatcher” began to deviate, merge, interchange, and provide material for visual spin offs and other translations. Thus, two different but interrelated phenomena occur because of image reuse in emblem books: the first is cross- illustration, or the ability for one image to substitute for another, and the second and more common occurrence is image adaptation, in which artists and emblematists use the often- reproduced image as a template, and elaborate upon or alter certain details of the picture. The properties of visual language make both cross-illustration and image adaptation possible: images can be recognizable characters to visually literate readers but also are mutable when re-defined

111 Bernard Salomon’s 113 woodcuts in Clarissimi viri D. Andreae Alciati Emblematum Libri Duo (Lyon: Tournes and Gazeium, 1547) were often reused; see Paul Finney, Seeing Beyond the Word (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing, 1999), 240; John Manning “A Bibliographical Approach to the Illustrations in Sixteenth-century Editions of Alciato’s Emblemata,” Andrea Alciato and the Emblem Tradition, ed. Peter M. Daly (New York: AMS Press, 1989), 127-176. 112 The character of the deceptive man coincides with other character types enumerated in The Characters of Theophrastus (The Flatterer, the Grumbler, the Arrogant Man, etc.). Readers in England at the turn of the century began to read Theophrastus after François Le Preux published Isaac Casaubon’s Latin translation Characteres Ethici (Lyon, 1592/3). Fascination with characters grew in seventeenth-century England, with John Healey’s English translation of “Theophrasti Characteres Ethicae” printed in Epictetus manuall. Cebes table. Theophrastus characters (London: George Purslowe for Edward Blount, 1616) ("Theophrasti Characteres Ethicae" has separate pagination; register is continuous). Other English character books include Joseph Hall, Characters of Vertues and Vices in Two Bookes (London: Melch. Bradwood for Eleazar Edgar and Samuel Macham, 1608); Thomas Overbury, New and Choise Characters (London: Thomas Creede, for Laurence Lisle, 1614); John Earle, Micro-cosmographie. Or, A peece of the world discouered in essayes and characters (London: Printed by William Stansby for Edward Blount 1628). For more on Theophrastus in early modern print and theatre, see Benjamin Boyce and Chester Noyes Greenough, The Theophrastan Character in England to 1642 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947); Wendy Griswold, Renaissance Rivals: City Comedy and Revenge Tragedy in London Theatre (Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 1986), 38.

by a verbal caption. Emblem woodcut reproduction creates genre-specific iconography, but the images are also flexible enough to illustrate different translations or adaptations.

The fowling illustrations in La Perrière and Alciato appear slightly different in terms of the size of the fowlers and birds, but in some cases of afterlife reproduction, printers saw these pictures as interchangeable. For example, printers Georg Raben and Simon Hüters reproduced a fowling illustration from Le Théâtre for Jeremias Held’s German translation of Alciato in Liber

Emblematum/Kunstbuch (1566/67; Fig. 3.7). The closely-focused perspective of the image renders the fowler and birds large and clearly visible. The fowler crouches and holds a whistle in his mouth, as he grasps the ropes of the trap in his right hand. Despite their differences in design and origins, the image from Le Théâtre resembles the Alciati figurae enough to cross-illustrate.

According to the title page, Held intended the emblem illustrations to serve as copy patterns for craftsmen, which might explain why illustrators devised a larger and clearer image for the audience. This paratext in the Kunstbuch also demonstrates that some printers designed emblems to be copied, and this copying and transmission perpetuated a “visual vocabulary” in the emblem tradition.

The proliferation of illustrations that accompany emblems about treachery and deception begin to create a repository of adaptable images for emblem creators. Emblematists like

Georgette de Montenay and her engraver Pierre Woeiriot used pre-existing visual models upon which they devised new emblems and illustrations. Montenay incorporated the fowling emblem in both French and Latin editions, Emblemes ou Devises Chrestiennes (1571) and Emblematum

Christianorum Centuria (1584; Fig. 3.8). In her letter to the reader in Emblemes, she acknowledges in verse that Alciato’s Emblematum Liber inspired her to participate in the

emblem community and to develop her own emblems.113 Both verbal and visual elements of

Montenay’s “Sic Fraudibus Scatent Eorum Domus” resonate with intertextual links to previous fowling emblems:

Comme d’oiseaux les cages sont remplies, Ainsi aussi les maisons des peruers, D’iniquitez, fraudes, fureurs, folies, Remplies sont, troublans tout l’vniuers. Ils vont guettans les iustes de trauers Pour les surprendre & leur porter dommage: Mais Dieu les tient dessous sa main couuers, Et tost cherra sur les malins orage.114

[As the cages are filled with birds Thus also the houses [are filled] with the perverse, With iniquities, frauds, furors, and follies Filled they are, disturbing the whole universe They go [about] the just To surprise them and bring them harm: But God holds them covered underneath his hand And soon storm will fall upon the evil.] 115

Although the poema alone does not indicate that this emblem alludes to “Dolus in Suos” or

Emblem LIIII, the engraving mimics the visual design of the fowling image and links the

113 Montenay, Emblemes, ou Devises chrestiennes, composees par damoiselle Georgette de Montenay (Lyon: Jean Marcorelle, 1567/1571). Montenay writes, “Alciat feit des Emblémes exquis,/ Lesquels voyant de plusieurs requis,/ Desir me prit de commencer les miens,/Lesquels ie croy ester premier chrestiens…” [Alciato made exquisite emblems, Which seeing many, necessarily,/ desire overtook me to begin my own/ which I believe to be the first Christian ones.] ([A4v]). See Martine van Elk, “Courtliness, Piety, and Politics: Emblem Books by Georgette de Montenay, Anna Roemers Visscher, and Esther Inglis,” Early Modern Women and Transnational Communities of Letters, ed. Julia D. Campbell (Farnham, UK: Ashgate 2009), 189.

114 Transcription from Georgette de Montenay, Emblemes ou devises chrestiennes (Lyon: Jean Marcorelle, 1567/1571), A1[r] on“French Emblems at Glasgow,” Glasgow Unviersity Emblem Website 2017, http://www.emblems.arts.gla.ac.uk/french/emblem.php?id=FMOa085. A. E. B. Coldiron notes that this line is from Psalm 37; widely popular in French Bibles and in the psalms of Marot, the phrase goes very far back, retaining an OF verb, cheoir, and would have been commonplace for French readers. Samuel de Tournes, descendent of Jean, prints this Psalm with music in 1684 in Geneva (correspondence, February 2017). 115 Thanks to Dr. Coldiron for her assistance with this translation.

emblem to La Perrière’s and Alciato’s emblems. Woeiriot used the basic design of “The

Birdcatcher” as a template for imitation and innovation; he designed the fowling emblem to correspond to a wide-angle perspective triangulated view of the fowler, the net upon the ground, and birds flying above. Woeiriot depicts the final image of the poem, in which God’s hand prevents the birds from flying into the net. This illustration may appear similar to the previous fowlers in La Perrière and Alciato, but Montenay’s emblem negates the danger with divine protection. In the top left corner of the image, a new symbol emerges: a benevolent hand comes out of a cloud that seems to release the birds into the air. The large hand of God in the image counters the fowler’s outstretched hand at the bottom left corner of the frame, creating a parallel in which the benevolent hand appears to triumph because of its massive size. While previously printed fowling images depict birds or decoys trapped beneath the net, the net and birdcages in

Emblems Chrestiennes are empty. These empty grids are a visual signifier of the success of divine power to protect the birds from frauds and deception.

Readers could comprehend Montenay’s emblem on its own terms without any previous context, but for those who had previously read La Perrière’s Théâtre and Alciato’s emblems that circulated in Paris and Lyon for more than twenty years, Montenay’s figure of the fowler, birds above, and the grid of the outstretched net in a triangular pattern indicated the symbols of treachery. Her adaptation expands upon the traditional iconography to create a new emblem, one that may have appeared familiar to readers, but with new additions that correspond to her rhetoric of divine love and protection. Building on the characters of visual language, Montenay and Woeiriot create a new meaning using the template of the traditional fowling emblem.

Translating the Emblem into English

Just as Montenay and Woeiriot adapt Alciato’s emblem and image for new readers and contexts, Whitney and Combe copy the image but adapt verbal content or word-image relationship for new rhetorical purposes to suit sixteenth-century English audiences. Whitney’s

Choice and Combe’s Theater were two of three English emblem books printed in the sixteenth century, and both translators employed afterlife reproduction to bring continental emblems to audiences in England.116 Multilingual English readers who could read Aesop, La Perrière, and

Alciati in French, Latin, and/or other languages would have recognized the recycled image of the

Birdcatcher and the “Duck and Decoy” fable, but English readers who did not have this expertise or experience approached the text with untrained eyes. Allison Saunders argues that Combe and

Whitney both simplify the moral messages of the poems because English printers did not produce any vernacular emblem books until the late sixteenth century and English readers were not as familiar with continental emblem tradition.117 Caxton’s The Fables of Aesop (1484) and

Richard Pyson’s reprints in 1497 and 1502 were translations and copies of the Zainer Ulm

Aesop, which did not include the particular “Birdcatcher” fable from which Alciato and La

Perrière derived their emblems. Whitney and Combe both undertook to introduce new English viewers to an iconography with a history of more than forty years of continental reuse and reproduction. Both emblematists employed new paratexts and further explanations to increase accessibility, introducing new readers to the visual language of emblems. The addition of

116 The third English emblem book is Claude Paradin, The heroicall deuises of M. Claudius Paradin Canon of Beauieu. Whereunto are added the Lord Gabriel Symeons and others. Translated out of Latin into English by P.S. (London: William Kearney dwelling in Adlingstreete, 1591). I am not including this emblem book because it does not contain a net of any kind. 117 See Saunders, “The Theatre des Bons Engins through English Eyes,” 654-655.

explicating language changes the “riddle” function of the emblem as Whitney and Combe develop a clearer association between the motto, picture, and poem.

In both Choice and Theater, the translators, as well as the printers controlled the production of the illustrations in their emblem books. Whitney first designed his collection in manuscript for the Earl of Leicester, and when he printed his book in Leiden, he chose woodblocks from the stock of two hundred available blocks in Christopher Plantin’s printing house. The image for “Dolus in Suos” in Whitney’s Choice is the same that appears in Plantin’s edition of Alciato (1577; 1591).118 Combe exerted even more control; his images are reversals of

Salomon’s illustrations in Tournes’s 1583 edition, and he seems to have hand-copied the illustrations from Le Théâtre and carved new blocks.119 Although many translators did not draw and create their own illustrations, Combe seemed to be confident in his own artistic abilities; he described himself as an emblematist and an “aprentice in poetry, professor of painting … and the

118 Whitney chose to reprint the same woodblocks that Plantin had printed for Alciatio and Sambucus, Plantin’s shop had no pre-existing copies of La Perrière’s blocks, so the technicians had to recreate these illustrations. In addition to copies of La Perrière’s figurae, Whitney also commissioned seventeen original woodblocks to accompany his newly-devised emblems. Mason Tung, “Whitney’s A Choice of Emblems Revisited: A Comparative Study of Manuscript and Printed Versions,” Studies in Bibiliography 29 (1976): 50-52. 119 The illustrator of The Theater is not named in the publication, and scholars debate image creation and attribution. Alison Saunders argues that printer Richard Field either created or commissioned the illustrations in the printshop, but Mary Silcox asserts that Combe both translated the verses and copied the illustrations himself. I agree with Silcox’s hypothesis that Combe wrote and illustrated both The Theater and The Anatomies. See Silcox, “The Translation of La Perrière’s Le Théâtre des bons engins into Combe’s The Theater of Fine Devices” Emblematica 2 (1987): 61-64; To view Combe’s other illustrated diagrams and emblem, see John Harington and Thomas Combe, “The Anatomies” in Metamorphoses of Ajax (London: Richard Field, 1596).

handmayd of all the muses.”120 Unlike many other emblem books, these two translations have a well-documented history of authorial control over image production.121

As Whitney and Combe brought emblem books to English readers by copying images and providing extensive verbal commentary, they changed the “traditional” signifying practices of the emblem. Despite the difficulties in assessing the genre due to the vast number of extant books and textual variants, Daly and other scholars assert that generally, the emblem is a three- part-text in which “the manner of communication is connotative rather than denotative.”122 Early modern readers would likely have had to interpret unstated connections between the three parts of the emblem to solve the riddle between the motto and the image.123 When translators narrated or provided further verbal interpretation of images, the practice of riddle-reading changed based on the amount of verbal information to which the reader had access. In the paragraphs that follow, I analyze Whitney’s and Combe’s fowling emblems and argue that the translators relied more on verbal language to bring an established iconographic tradition to new readers.

Ultimately, this emphasis on verbal language shifted the emblem sign system and gave English readers a different emblem-decoding experience than their continental counterparts.

Although Whitney reprints the Plantin woodblocks for the edition, his rhetorical strategy in A Choice brings a new meaning to the emblems he translated. A Choice has several agendas,

120 John Harington and Thomas Combe, An anatomie of the metamorpho-sed Aiax (London: Richard Field, 1596), L1r. 121 For more on the manuscript, Whitney’s revisions, and his work in the Plantin press with Francis Raphelengius, see Tung, “Whitney’s A Choice of Emblems Revisited,” 50-52, and John Manning, “Whitney’s Choice of Emblemes: A Reassessment,” Renaissance Studies 4, no. 2 (1990): 156-169. For Combe’s contributions, see Silcox, 61-64; Leon Voet, The Golden Compasses: a History and Evaluation of the Printing and Publishing Activities of the Officina Plantiniana at Antwerp (Amsterdam: Van Gendt; New York: Abner Schram, 1969). 122 Daly, Literature in the Light of the Emblem (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), 8. 123 Coldiron, 115-16.

but two of them are particularly important to the examination of Whitney’s translation practices.

First, Whitney aimed to introduce continental emblems to English readers, and second, his work promoted England’s involvement in the Dutch-Spanish war and catalogued Whitney’s friendships at home and abroad. John Manning argues that Whitney’s Choice is simply propaganda for the English war effort, saying that his work was “part of the current concerted effort to publicize Leicester’s campaign … and to create a climate of opinion, both in England and Holland, which would render the English ‘invasion’ of the Low Countries acceptable.”124

While Whitney’s anthology can be understood as hyper-masculine militaristic propaganda, the anthology is also concerned with friendship and social networking, featuring hundreds of dedications within the book. The printer set small messages to Whitney’s friends and acquaintances at the tops of the pages where emblems appear. Many early modern emblem readers used printed editions of Alciati to compile friendship books, and other scholars consider

Whitney’s paratext to be a kind of “reverse album amicorum.”125 The album amicorum, as its name suggests, was typically a private manuscript collection, but as Whitney’s printer sets the acknowledgements in type, the dedications and social networking become part of a public document. Through translation and adaptation, Whitney attempts to make the emblems accessible to both continental readers and to an English reading public.

Whitney printed A Choice at the University of Leiden, and his emblem book accommodates both the intellectual community at the university and readers perusing an English emblem book, some of them possibly for the first time. In his Letter to the Reader, Whitney

124 Manning, “Whitney’s Choice of Emblemes: A Reassessment,” 162. 125 William Barker, “Alciato’s Emblems and the Album Amicorum: A Brief Note on Examples in London, Moscow, and Oxford,” Alciato’s Book of Emblems: The Memorial Web Edition, December 2002, https://www.mun.ca/alciato/album.html

defines the emblem for English readers who had limited or no experience with emblems, explaining that the text is “obscure to be perceiued at the first, whereby, when with further consideration it is vnderstood, it maie the greater delighte the behoulder” (**4[r]). Whitney also describes the three kinds of emblems: “Historicall, Naturall, and Morall,” and he directs unlearned readers to peruse other emblem books by Alciato and La Perrière for a more thorough understanding of the genre, saying “I referre them that would further inquire therof, to And.

Alicatus, Guiliel Perrerius, Achilles Bocchius & to diuers others that haue written therof, wel knowne to the learned. For I purpose at this present, to write onelie of this worde Embleme: ...

Bicause it chieflie doth pertaine vnto the matter I haue in hande, wherof I hope this muche, shall giue them some taste that weare ignorant of the same” (**4[r]). This elaborate definition and introduction to emblems in English suggests that Whitney addressed new emblem readers to acquaint them with an anthologized selection of emblems and their signifying practices.

In addition to his guidance for English readers, Whitney also incorporated citational paratexts; his emblems feature marginal notes that direct both English and non-English readers to sources in Alciato, La Perrière, Sambucus, or Paradin, among other sources. According to the

“Letter to the Reader,” these paratexts serve to guide non-English readers, or to “helpe and further some of my acquaintaunce wheare this booke was imprinted, who hauinge no taste in the

Englishe tonge, yet weare earnestly addicted to the vnderstandinge hereof” (**3[v]). Whitney’s

Choice gave readers abroad a “taste” of English language, but provided a diverse sampling of emblems for the less-experienced English emblem reader. He not only provides marginal Latin paratexts for those who need assistance with the verbal language in the book, but also includes additional verbal language to help those who were unfamiliar with visual language in the illustrations.

Concerns for both accessibility and alliance/friendship merge in Whitney’s translation of

“Dolus in Suos.” Unlike other translations of Alciati, Whitney’s emblem gives an extended explanation of the connection between symbols and moral meanings. Typically, emblem poemae were too short to provide an in-detail moralized explication; readers were expected to make intertextual and symbolic connections themselves. Whitney expands the length of his translation and uses the second stanza to further explain the allegory of the first:126

Alciato “Dolus in Suos” Whitney, “Dolus in Suos.”

[The well-fed decoy duck with its While nettes were sette, the simple fowles to take, green-blue wings is trained to go out Whoe kepte theire course alofte, and would not and return to its masters. When it sees lighte, squadrons of its relations flying A tamed duck, her hoame did straighte forsake through the air, it quacks and joins And flewe alofte, with other duckes in flighte, itself to the flock, until it can draw They dowtinge not, her traitorous harte at all them, off their guard, into the Did flie with her, and downe with her did fall. outspread nets. When caught they raise a protesting clamor, but she, knowing By this is mente, all suche as doe betraie, what she has done, keeps silence. The Their kindred near that doe on them depende, treacherous bird defiles itself with And ofte doe make, the innocent a praie, related blood, servile to others, deadly By subtill sleighte, to them that seeke theire ende to its own kind.] (English translation Yea unto those, they shoulde most friendshipe showe from Alciato at Glasgow) They lie in waite, to worke theire ouerthrowe.

Whitney’s translation of “Dolus in Suos” and marginal references to Alciato appealed to the intellectual community at the University of Leiden, but Whitney adapts and expands Alciato’s poema to clarify the emblem for readers. Both stanzas add more detail to the original Alciato emblem, and Whitney’s new addition of the second stanza provides further explanation and interpretation of the first verse. While the Alciato emblem only designates the final lines for the moral or punch line of the emblem, Whitney uses the second stanza to explain (perhaps to over-

126 Coldiron suspects that Whitney is able to include two sixains on each page because of Plantin’s commercial successes and the ability to spend on larger sheets of paper (correspondence February 2017).

explain) what is “mente” by the first: all people who behave as the tamed duck betray their kinsmen.

In the context of political and wartime alliances of the Anglo-Spanish war, this emblem takes on a distinct meaning not found in Alciato. Whitney’s diction in this emblem is martial – the decoy has a “traitorous harte” as do humans who “overthrowe” or defeat innocent people.

Whitney’s text departs significantly from the source text to communicate a context-specific message about friendship and caution during the religious wars. Like Montenay, Whitney adapts the emblem for his own devices, but unlike other emblematists, he employs other tools to ensure that his message reaches the intended audience. The recombination of the original Alciato motto and figura, combined with new paratexts that note the source in the margins, as well as a lengthier poem, create a new kind of emblem that appears like an annotated edition to help readers learn how to interpret emblems, or learn to interpret English, or both.

Like Whitney, Combe also brought old emblems to new English audiences. Combe redrew and reprinted the illustrations from the Lyon edition of Le Théâtre, but his method of translation recontextualizes La Perrière’s French text for members of his English audience that were less familiar with emblems. Mary Silcox and Alison Saunders assert that La Perrière’s emblems had already become more simplified and didactic than the 1539/40 edition by the time

Combe translated them into English, but Combe’s adaptation further enhances the moral messages by simplifying the French text, reducing satirical content, and replacing classical references with English proverbial allusions.127 For example, in Emblem 29, Combe strays from

127 Silcox, 61-94; Alison Saunders, “The Theater [sic] des bons engins through English Eyes (La Perrière, Combe and Whitney),” Revue de Littérature Comparée 64 (1990): 653-73. Combe uses the French Théâtre as a guide and adapts much of the content, but remains relatively close to the original text when compared with Whitney’s adaptations of La Perrière’s emblems in A Choice of Emblems (1586). See Silcox, 61; 71 and Saunders, 661.

La Perrière’s poema and mentions Robin Goodfellow in an emblem about the fickleness of

Fortune.128 Although Le Théâtre circulated in print for over forty years before the English version, Combe’s translation strategies suggest that he imagined an English audience that lacked the context or previous knowledge of La Perrière’s book. Combe’s poemae explain to readers exactly how to interpret the symbols; his verses have more direct and explicit language.

Educated readers of Le Théâtre would likely have noted intertextualities between Aesop’s fables and other emblematic nets and, through socio-cultural context or explication, could infer the association between nets and trickery. When a net appears in Le Théâtre, Combe often narrates the image with variations of the word “deceive.”129 His poems deliberately explicate the relationship between picture and epigram, and thus alter what scholars consider to be the

‘traditional’ enigmatic or riddle-like relationship of words and image within the emblem.

Combe’s democratization of the emblem may have been a strategy to increase English readership and book sales, but his own social class and status may have also influenced his appeals to a broad English audience. Combe was John Harington’s personal servant, and occupied a liminal space between household service, friendship, and artistic apprenticeship.

Three years after the 1593 publication of The Theater, Harington and Combe produced a collaborative work, The Metamorphosis of Ajax, in which Combe wrote and illustrated a short chapter titled “The Anatomies.”130 Within this chapter, Combe writes about his work in service

128 See Combe, The Theater of Fine Devices, C4[v] 129 e.g. “deceive” [Emblem 2; A7r]; “deceived” [Emblem 36; C8r]; “deceit” [Emblem 54; E1r] 130 See Sir John Harington, A nevv discourse of a stale subiect, called the metamorphosis of Aiax (London: Richard Field, 1596). Combe’s chapter is titled “An anatomie of the metamorpho-sed Aiax” (L2[r]-L8[r]). It should be noted that this book teaches readers how to build a valve water closet (the precursor to the modern toilet). According to Luborsky and Ingram, Harington printed this book of potty humor under his servant’s pseudonym, so it is unclear just how sincere this purported relationship actually was. See Luborsky, 423.

for Harington and for a scholar at Oxford; he also reports that he and his master were remarkably close. Combe writes that they are “of the same complexion” and the same age; they read the same books, and traveled together.131 As Whitney bridges the geographic and linguistic disparities between the Low Countries and England, Combe’s goal in The Theater seems to be to create a translation that would bridge the divide between his highly educated audience and those who did not have the opportunity to read emblem books in the halls of Oxford or Cambridge.132

In the introductory paratext of The Theater, Combe first translates La Perrière’s “Epistle

Dedicatory,” reiterating La Perrière’s description of the signifying practices of emblems:

It is not only in our time that Emblemes are in account and singular regard, but it hath

bene of ancient times and almost from the beginning of the world: for the Egyptians …

before the use of letters, wrote by figures and images, as well of men, beasts, fowles, and

fishes, as of serpents, thereby expressing their intentions… (A4r-[A4v]).

By translating La Perrière’s epistle, Combe reiterates the original assertion that emblematic images function pictographically, somewhat like Egyptian hieroglyphics.133 This comparison of

131 John Harrrington and Thomas Combe[?], An anatomie of the metamorpho-sed Aiax (London: Richard Field, 1596), L7v. This relationship might not have been common, but it was not unusual. For more on early modern service, master-servant relationships, and servants’ social mobility, see Mark Thorton Burnett, Masters and Servants in English Renaissance Drama and Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press: 1997), 1-15. 132 Gabriel Harvey reported that students at Cambridge neglected Aristotle and their other readings in favor of emblem books. See E.N. Thompson, Literary Bypaths of the Renaissance (New Haven: Yale UP, 1924) and Corbett and Lightbrown, The Comely Frontispiece (London; Boston: Routledge and K. Paul, 1979), 12-14, 19. 133 For more information on emblems as hieroglyphics, see Daniel S. Russell, "Emblems and Hieroglyphics: Some Observations on the Beginnings and the Nature of Emblematic Forms," Emblematica 1, no. 2 (1986): 227-43. Brian A. Curran, The Egyptian Renaissance: The Afterlife Of Ancient Egypt In Early Modern Italy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). Balavoine, Claudie, “Hiéroglyphes de la mémoire: Emergence et métamorphose d’une écriture hiéroglyphique dans les Arts de Mémoire du XVIe et du XVIIe siècle,” XVIIe Siècle 158, no. 1 (1988): 41-50.

emblem figurae to pictographic writing systems suggests that the images were thought to constitute a language of visual signs that work in conjunction with the poema and impresa.

Although the images in Le Théâtre and The Theater are almost identical copies,134

Combe’s rhetorical appeals to the “common” reader change the functions of the images. His

Letter to the Reader includes further instructions for English readers that then alter the signification system of the emblem. His introductory epistle suggests that the images in the

English translation function less like pictograms and more like word-image pairings in a picture book; he describes the pictures as “lively and actuall” depictions or representations of the verses

([A5v]).135 Combe asserts that this kind of image will aid the reading comprehension or

“common understanding” for the less-educated members of his audience:

Where oftentimes feeling and effectual words … do passe the Reader without due

consideration, pictures that especially are discerned by the sense, are such helps to the

weaknes of common understandings, that they make words as it were deeds, and set the

whole substance of which is offered before the sight and conceipt of the Reader (A5r-

[A5v]).

Combe’s letter to the reader describes an illustrated text that is much different from La Perrière’s hieroglyphics. His paratext guides the readers to view the illustrated book as a “theater” or a

134 Combe modifies the images in two instances: 1) In Emblem 15 he changes the painting from a full- nude to half-nude; 2) In Emblem 55 Combe changes the fool’s cap to feathers. Silcox, 65. 135 For more on Renaissance “liveliness,” see Mary Hazard, “The Anatomy of Liveliness as a Concept in Renaissance Aesthetics,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 33, no. 4 (1975), 407-418; See also A. E. B. Coldiron’s discussion of “true and lively pictures” in her chapter, “Bastard Allone,” in Printers Without Borders, 140-45. Combe’s emblem book often functions more like a figure book than an emblem book, and his assertion that his pictures are “lively and actuall” seems to be related to Renaissance “engagement with the Aristotelian and Horatian theories of representation” (Coldiron 144).

place of seeing,136 where words become “deeds” or actions within the frames of the images above the verses. Later he asserts, “If the verse be anything obscure, the pictures make it more actuall.”137 In the “typical” function of the emblem, the impresa and figura established a riddle that readers could solve by reading and interpreting the poema. Combe’s Letter instructs readers to see a reverse relationship where pictures animate or elucidate the verbal language. In Combe’s

Theater, the figura is the key to understanding the poema.

The fowling net in Emblem LIIII of Combe’s Theater emphasizes the deception of the fowler, and presents a subtle lecture that warns readers not to become unwise victims of the flatterer’s bait. Combe’s translations are much closer to the late editions of Le Théâtre in terms of the size of the poem, the mise-en-page, word choice, and content, but he deviates from the source text in key moments, expanding and elaborating with adjectives and new turns of phrase.138 Combe’s fowling emblem reads:

La Perrière, Le Théâtre (1583)139 Combe, Theater of Fine Devices (1613) Qvand l’oyseleur veult force oyseletz prendre, The Prince that would beware of harme, Il fainct sa voix auec quelque instrument Must stop his eares to flatterers charme Au son duquel vers luy se viennent rendre Par ce moyen les prent facilement. When the wise birder meaneth to entrap The foolish birds within his craftie traine,

136 The OED lists two definitions for “theatre” in place at the time Combe translated Le Théâtre. The first is “A place constructed in the open air, for viewing dramatic plays or other spectacles” (in use 1374- 1840). The other is “an edifice specially adapted to dramatic representations; a playhouse” (in use 1577/8- 1911). 137 Guillaume de la Perrière, The Theater of Fine Deuices Containing an Hundred Morall Emblems, trans. Thomas Combe (London: Richard Field, 1593; rpt 1614), A4[r] and [A5v]. 138 This is not the overall translation strategy in Combe; his work varies, sometimes deleting and sometimes adding details. The fowler emblem is only one example in which Combe creates a new metaphor and adds more descriptors. Alison Saunders argues that Combe tries to give his English audience something as near as possible to the original. See Saunders, “The Theatre des Bons Engines” 654; Silcox, 66. 139 This transcription comes from the 1583 edition printed by Jean de Tournes in Lyon. It is based on the text of the 1539 edition, but has variations in spelling and punctuation. Mary Silcox argues that Combe worked from the 1583 edition (Silcox 65).

Flateurs [sic] de court font tout That he may get more of them at a clap, semblablement, With prettie pipe his voice he learnes to faine. Pour attirer les princes en leurs laqs: So flatterers do not display the map Car pour co[m]plaire & leur donner soulas, Of all their drifts in termes and speeches Cent fois le iour changent de contenance: plaine Mais quand le prince est contrainct dire helas: But with sweet words they cover their deceit Il est trop tard d’en auoir congnoissance Lest princes should perceiue & shun their bait

[When the fowler wants to take birds He feigns his voice with some instrument At the sound of which they come towards him By this means, he takes them easily. Court flatterers do similarly, To attract the princes in their snares: In order to please and to give them solace, One hundred times a day they change their countenance: But when the Prince is constrained (alas!) It is too late to realize it]

While La Perrière’s flatterers are fundamentally changeable, Combe’s flatterers are conniving and do not reveal the force behind their motivations. Combe adds adjectives and implies more value judgments about mental capacity, knowledge acquisition, foolishness, and wisdom. In previous French editions of this emblem, the birds are innocent victims of the fowler’s guile, but the birds in Combe’s emblem are “foolish,” commenting on the foolishness of princes. The poem suggests that if the birds were smarter, they could perceive the danger and shun the flatterer’s bait. While La Perrière’s poem says that the fowler simply feigns a new voice, Combe’s emblem says the birder is crafty, “wise,” and “learnes” to simulate a bird’s voice. The English emblem emphasizes neuroplasticity or the ability to gain new knowledge and act accordingly. Combe’s poema forewarns readers to be cautious, to look for the “map,” and to discover the geography of flattery.

Combe’s paratext and his translation strategies suggest that he imagined an audience that would require additional guidance to decipher his emblems. Combe’s translation comes closer to

a kind of image-and-word intersemiotic translation that appears in depictive narrative illustrations, in which the verbal language describes visual signs in the illustration. Combe’s

Theater seems to have two levels of access guided by the paratext: individuals who had already read Alciato in Latin or La Perrière in French (or any of the other continental emblem books so widely available) could transfer their previous knowledge and readily comprehend the iconographic and pictographic language of the emblems.140 New readers, on the other hand, could understand the emblem book as a picture book, as the images could also be seen as simple visual depictions of Combe’s poems. The paratext guides readers in a new way – instructing them to see the fowling net as both a pictograph of deception but also as a depiction of the fowler in the poem.

When Whitney and Combe introduce the emblems of Alciato and La Perrière to English audiences, the new contexts of their emblems bring new meanings and interpretive strategies to recycled images. The production of illustrations, especially the complex reticulations and afterlife reproduction of woodcut prints, has numerous effects on textual reception. Experienced readers could likely mark patterns within images, and new readers relied on the verbal captions of images to learn the visual language to make later intertextual connections. Emblem translations became somewhat like fandubbing or subtitling. Especially in English, the emblems gain new kinds of meanings when given new contexts and interpretations. English readers receive adaptations with new political agendas, lengthy explanations, and attempts from the translator to create community and appeal to “common understanding.”

140 Medieval and early modern readership was fluid and varied; see D. A. Trotter (ed), Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain (Rochester, N.Y. : D.S. Brewer, 2000); Margaret W. Ferguson, Dido's Daughters: Literacy, Gender, and Empire in Early Modern England and France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); Nicholas Orne, Medieval Schools: From Roman Britain to Renaissance England (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2006).

Although early modern readers bought and read these books in an already-assembled format, their visual resemblances to previously printed, and perhaps previously read, books create a reticulated pattern of image sharing and translation in addition to the reticulated patterns of printing and translation. This repetition of images created emblem books that were not only intertextual in terms of their verbal content and the epigrams and morals that they shared, but also in terms of a shared visual language. The copying, tracing, and reproduction of emblem figurae established a pan-European visual discourse that provided material for further adaptation and transformations. These practices shed light on emblem reception: reproduced images, broadcast over hundreds of miles across linguistic, ideological, and political boundaries, potentially raised additional subtexts for readers and complicated the meaning of any given page.

Figure 3.1 Sebastian Brant, Appologi sive Mythologi cum quibusdam Carminum et Fabularum additionibus Sebastiani Brant. Basel: Jacob Wolff of Pforzheim, 1501. L2v.

Figure 3.2 "Dolos in Suos" in Geffrey Whitney, A Choice of Emblems. Leiden: Francis Raphelengius for Christopher Plantyn, 1586. D2r. STC 25438

Figure 3.3 “Embleme LIIII,” in Thomas Combe, Theater of Fine Devices. London: Richard Field, 1613. E1r. STC 15230.

Figure 3.4 “Embleme LIIII,” in Le Théâtre des Bons Engins. Paris: Denis Janot, 1539. H3v.

Figure 3.5 “Embleme LIIII,” in Le théâtre des bons engines. Lyon: Jean de Tournes, 1545. D8r.

Figure 3.6 "Dolus in Suos" in Alciato, Emblemata Liber. Lyon: Macé Bonhomme for Guillaume Rouille, 1548; rpt 1550). D5v.

Figure 3.7 Emblem CXIII, Alciato and Jeremias Held, Liber Emblematum/Kunstbuch. Frankfurt am Main, 1566/67. L7v.

Figure 3.8 Georgette de Montenay, Emblemes ou devises chrestiennes. Lyons: Jean Marcorelle, 1567/1571. A1r.

CHAPTER 4

INTERSEMIOTIC TRANSLATION IN A THEATRE FOR WORLDLINGS AND THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER

“I haue brought in here twentie sightes or vysions, [and] caused them to be grauen, to the ende al men may see that with their eyes, whiche I go aboute to expresse by writing, to the delight and plesure of the eye and eares.” – Jan Van der Noot, A Theatre for Worldlings141

Jan Van der Noot’s first chapter in the English edition of A Theatre for Worldlings (1569) concludes with the notion that the collaboration of words and images enhances learning, understanding, and memory. A Theatre is an audiovisual production: first, readers find two gatherings of full-page illustrations and poem-meditations at the beginning of the book, then encounter fifteen gatherings of Van der Noot’s didactic prose, lecturing readers to resist the covetousness of the material world and to set their sights on the “everlasting joyes and eternall glorie” of “Christian libertie.”142 The “twentie sightes or vysions” that Van der Noot mentions present readers with a “theatre” of illustrations alongside Edmund Spenser’s first verse translations in print. Seventeen-year-old Spenser wrote English translations of Clément Marot’s

“Le Chant des Visions,” translated from Petrarch’s Canzone 323, “Standomi un giorno,” and

Joachim Du Bellay’s Songe from Antiquitez … plus Songe (1558).143 Spenser composed six

141 Jan van der Noot, A theatre wherein be represented as wel the miseries & calamities that follow the voluptuous worldlings (London: Henry Bynneman, 1569), [F2v]-F3[r].

142 E1[r]-[E1v]; For information on the theological foundation of Van der Noot’s treatise, including Calvinist and Familist implications, see Alexander C. Judson, The Life of Edmund Spenser (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1945), 20-23; J. A. Van Dorsten, The Radical Arts: First Decade of an Elizabethan Renaissance (Leiden: The University Press for the Sir Thomas Browne Institute, 1973), 28-29, 78; Carl J. Rasmussen, “Quietnesse of Minde”: A Theatre for Worldlings as a Protestant Poetics,” Spenser Studies 1 (1980): 3-27, especially 4-8; and Stewart Mottram, “Spenser’s Dutch Uncles: The Family of Love and the Four Translations of A Theatre for Worldlings,” Translation and the Book Trade in Early Modern Europe, ed. Pérez, Fernández J. M, and Edward Wilson-Lee (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 164-184. 143 Andrew Hadfield, Edmund Spenser: A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 42-43.

proto-sonnet “Epigrams,” mostly twelve lines each,144 from Marot’s poems, adapting an English sonnet rhyme scheme developed by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. In the second grouping of fifteen poems, the “Sonets,” Spenser translated Du Bellay’s poems in fourteen lines of blank verse.

Almost half of the illustrations in A Theatre depict unusual timescapes and optical illusions that allow readers to see a great change unfold before their eyes.145 The vision poems of Marot and Du Bellay contain instances of disaster, including shipwrecks, lightning strikes, and apocalyptic visions of the earth yawning to swallow unsuspecting humans. The illustrator depicts these various calamities through the viewing lens of a window, marked by a frame that encloses the image and represents a portal to the outside world.146 He utilizes the three-dimensional space in the image to express temporality on a continuum that reaches back to the horizon. In other words, as the reader looks “back” in to the background of the image, he or she is also looking

“forward” in time. Michael Bath calls this type of representation “spatial coding,” but most art

144 Epigrams 1 and 3 have fourteen lines. 145 Eight out of twenty Theatre illustrations contain continuous narrative: Epigram 1 (B.ii.[r]), Epigram 3 (B.iii.[r]); Epigram 5 ([B6r]), Epigram 6 ([B7r]), Sonnet 2 (C.ii.[r]), Sonnet 3 (C.iii.[r]), Sonnet 4 (C.iiii.[r]), Sonnet 5 (C.v.[r]). 146 The viewing portal of The Theatre has led many scholars to discuss spectacle and spectatorship in the sonnet sequence, the activity and passivity of the lyric speaker, and Spenser’s understanding of the window as a place where one can not only look out, but also be seen by others. Jonathan Crewe links the window to Spenser’s position as a young poet hoping to gain recognition. See Crewe, Hidden Designs: The Critical Profession and Renaissance Literature (New York: Methuen, 1986), 99; Hassan Melehy, The Poetics of Literary Transfer in Early Modern France and England (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2010), 103-104. Melehy’s comparison of the translations indicates that Spenser’s first line of the poem reproduces the Dutch translations in the first two lines. Melehy notes that Spenser makes his vision more passive than the previous translations, saying “So many strange things hapned me to see” while all of the other translations use the active voice (“sach ick,” “vy” and “vedea”): Spenser’s passivity becomes active as he masters the view. For further exploration of Spenser’s choices in the English translation, see Melehy, 105-106.

historians refer to the strategy as continuous narrative.147 Lew Andrews defines continuous narrative as the technique of “combining individual scenes … into a unified context of some kind, usually indicated by a frame.”148 That is, two different scenarios or plot points of narrative exist within one still image. Continuous narrative radically alters the way that the picture plane functions: the image is no longer a snapshot of a singular point in time; instead it becomes a spatially arranged map of scenes where action and drastic changes occur within one frame. The illustration appears to have real-world verisimilitude in its construction of three-dimensional space, but the displayed scenes defy that verisimilitude in order to depict the passage of time.

Many scholars have argued that Spenser’s translations of Marot and Du Bellay in A

Theatre influenced his poetry in The Shepheardes Calender, Complaints, Amoretti, and The

Faerie Queene.149 The thematic and formal elements of these early translations influence

147 Continuous narrative is a style of representation used in medieval manuscripts and sixteenth century English and Flemish fable books. See Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, The Laocoön and Other Prose Writings of Lessing, ed. W.B. Ronnfeldt (London: W. Scott, 1895), 90f; Miriam Schild Bunim, Space in Medieval Painting and the Forerunners of Perspective (New York, Columbia University Press, 1940); E. Souriau, “Time in the Plastic Arts,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 7 (1949): 294-307; Otto Pächt, The Rise of Pictorial Narrative in Twelfth-Century England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962); R. Brilliant, “Temporal Aspects in Late Roman Art,” L’Arte 10 (1970): 65-87; J.L. Ward, “A Piece of Action: Moving Figures in Still Pictures,” Perception and Pictorial Representation, ed. C.F. Nodine and D. F. Fisher (New York: Praeger, 1979), 246-71; S. L. Friedman and M.B. Stevenson, “Perception of Movement in Pictures,” The Perception of Pictures, ed. M.A. Hagen, (New York: Academic Press, 1980), 1: 225-255; M. Kemp, The Science of Art: Optical Themes in Western Art from Brunelleschi to Seurat (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990); Jeoraldean McClain, “Time in the Visual Arts: Lessing and Modern Criticism,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 44, no. 1 (1985): 41–58; Lew Andrews, Story and Space in Renaissance Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995): 1-18. 148 Andrews, 120. 149 For more on the influence of translation on Spenser’s career, see, among others, Anne Lake Prescott, French Poets and The English Renaissance (Yale University Press, 1978), 10-12 and 39-52; Anne Lake Prescott, “Spenser (Re)reading Du Bellay: Chronology and Literary Response,” Spenser’s Life and the Subject of Biography, ed. Judith Anderson, Donald Cheney, and David Richardson (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1996), 131-45; A. E. B. Coldiron, "How Spenser Excavates Du Bellay's Antiquitez: Or, the Role of the Poet, Lyric Historiography, and the English Sonnet," Journal of English and Germanic Philology 101, no. 1 (2002): 41-67; Hassan Melehy, The Poetics of Literary Transfer in Early Modern France and England (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2010); Stewart Mottram, 164-184.

Spenser’s later poetry, but Spenser’s contribution to an illustrated book with deep investment in visual design also affects his poetics. Both John Bender and Ernest Gilman assert that Van der

Noot’s visual investment in A Theatre transfers to the young Spenser, and either inspires his focus on the visual or causes fundamental dilemmas for Spenser’s iconoclastic imagination.150

Gilman argues that Spenser’s contradictory descriptions of visual elements demonstrate both an

“urge to depict and [an] urge to deface,” as the poet navigates “the split struggles between iconoclasm and rhetoric.”151 Bender, on the other hand, thinks that A Theatre “marks the direction Spenser would take, for much of his subsequent writing … is firmly rooted in the tradition of iconic and ekphrastic poetry.”152 While both Bender and Gilman stress the importance of A Theatre to Spenser’s later career, they say nothing about what specifically makes the book’s woodcut illustrations different or remarkable, and neither spends much time analyzing the visual elements or production of the illustrations. A close analysis of these word- image translations can yield a better understanding of the ways that visuality, space, and narrative time operate in A Theatre, and thus perhaps how they work more broadly in other parts of Spenser’s oeuvre. 153

150 John Bender, Spenser and Literary Pictorialism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972); Ernest B. Gilman, “A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings (1569) and the Origins of Spenser’s Iconoclastic Imagination,” Imagination on a Long Rein: English Literature Illustrated, ed. Joachim Möller (Marburg: Jonas 1988), 45-55. 151 Gilman, 52. 152 Bender, 153. 153 Spenser revises and re-uses optical illusions for some twenty years after he first translates Marot and Du Bellay, exploring visions, doubling, paradox, fantasy, and memory in his later works. Spenser’s early work on A Theatre influences the visuality of his illustrated work, The Shepheardes Calender (1579), and the visually rich language he brings to the revisions of Marot and Du Bellay in the unillustrated Complaints (1591). Although a full exploration of Complaints is outside the scope of this essay, Spenser revises the poetry from A Theatre and the revisions are published as Visions of Bellay and The Visions of Petrarch (Formerly Translated) within the 1591 Complaints. The Complaints omit illustrations from A Theatre and incorporate visuality as lyric-inspired imaginative or cognitive reflections. See A. E. B.

Ten years after Spenser contributed to A Theatre, he published illustrated poems in The

Shepheardes Calender (1579). Andrew Hadfield argues that A Theatre “undoubtedly had an influence on [The Shepheardes Calender], a text that, like Van der Noot’s, was multi-layered in style and conception, and which was eager to highlight its careful combination of traditions and translations.”154 The Calender is similar to Van der Noot’s Theatre not only in terms of its translations and multi-layered poetry, but also in its graphic design and traditions of illustration.

First of all, both texts feature image dominance in terms of page architecture: the viewer encounters the image before the poem, argument, or eclogue. Second, illustrations in the

Calender also depict multiple scenes in one still frame; continuous narrative occurs within the illustrations of “Februarie,” “March,” “Aprill,” “Maye,” “October,” and “November.” Spenser’s concerns are similar to Van der Noot’s agendas of imaging and rhetoric, but they differ in purpose. While A Theatre treats the inconstancy of the world, Spenser’s Calender focuses instead on the constancy or staying power of storytelling and poetry. The frame stories in

“Februarie,” “Maye,” and other months feature detailed descriptions of fictional characters and objects that appear on the picture plane near the storytellers that exist in “real” time.

Both A Theatre and the Calender use continuous narrative as an illustration strategy, but the timescapes in the works differ. Within A Theatre, the landscapes and cityscapes exist in a paradoxical blend of linear Aristotelian and omnipresent Augustinian time.155 By this I mean that

Coldiron, "How Spenser Excavates Du Bellay's Antiquitez,” 42-43; Prescott, “Spenser (Re)reading Du Bellay,” 131-35. 154 Andrew Hadfield, “Edmund Spenser’s Translations of Du Bellay in Jan van der Noot’s A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings,” Tudor Translation (2011): 150. 155 For more about Augustinian time and spatial infinity in Renaissance literature, see John S. Hill, Infinity, Faith, and Time: Christian Humanism and Renaissance Literature (Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1997).

the illustrations not only represent time as a before-and-after chronological sequence, but also present a “God-time” view of the situation with past, present, and future in one conceptual and visual space. The paradoxical image produces multiple possibilities for the intersemiotic interplay between the image and poem, as we shall see. In the Calender on the other hand, time does not function in a linear, before-and-after arrangement; instead, the illustrations depict the frame-narratives of the eclogues in various places around the picture plane. Scenes from the shepherds’ dialogues come alive both in background and foreground. Despite their differences, illustrations in both A Theatre and the Calender encode time and memories within the space of the picture plane, and Spenser’s poems help readers decode the various scenes on the landscape.

When paired with Spenser’s poetry, continuous narrative can change readers’ perceptions of narrative time, it can complicate deixis156 and perspective within the lyric, and can create indeterminate or uncertain spaces on the picture plane.

This article traces the development of continuous narrative in A Theatre and its effects on the production and reception of Spenserian poetics. First, I examine the multifaceted and complex development of the illustration program in A Theatre, and the effects of continuous narrative on intersemiotic translation within the book.157 Second, I consider the innovative relationship between word and woodcut within A Theatre, analyzing the ways that Spenser’s translated poetry guides readers through time and space on the picture plane. In the final section,

156 For a full exploration of deixis in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century poetry, see Heather Dubrow, Deixis in the Early Modern Lyric (New York: Palgrave, 2015). 157 Michael Bath argues that Van der Noot and the illustrator sourced the illustrations for the Marot translations from an illuminated Huguenot manuscript titled Theatre des Vices et Vertus (currently University of Glasgow Library MS SMM 2 (vellum, 18 leaves, 13x13 cm). The catalogue dates this manuscript 1549-1650. See Michael Bath, “Verse Form and Pictorial Space in Van der Noot’s Theatre for Worldlings,” Word and Visual Imagination: Studies in the Interaction of English Literature and the Visual Arts, ed. Karl Josef Höltgen, Peter M. Daly and Wolfgang Lottes (Erlangen: Universitätsbund Erlangen-Nürnberg, 1988), 73-76.

I trace the use of continuous narrative illustrations in The Shepheardes Calender, in which

Spenser’s illustrator employs continuous narrative to represent an otherworldly pastoral landscape of storytelling and memory. Spenser’s poetic contribution to A Theatre influences his broader oeuvre, but this essay examines the particular ways that continuous narrative and visual images matter to the imaginative spaces of Spenser’s pastoral poetry. Spenser and his illustrators reuse continuous narrative in The Shepheardes Calender as a strategy for expressing the importance of memory and storytelling in a magical real landscape. The illustration techniques

Spenser encountered in his work for A Theatre play a significant role in understanding how space, time, and word-image relationships operate in the Calender.

Collaborative Production and Illustration in A Theatre

Jan van der Noot supervised the production of several illustrated translations of A Theatre in French, Dutch, English, and German.158 John Day printed the French and Dutch translations in

London in 1568, Henry Bynneman oversaw the printing of the English translation in London in

1569, and Van der Noot traveled to Cologne where Gottfried Cervi printed the German translation in 1572.159 Van der Noot is the agent that connects these productions across three printing houses in two countries. All four translations include similar mise-en-page and illustrations; printers set aside an entire page opening, printing the images on the recto pages and poems on the verso pages. In England, Day illustrated the French and Dutch editions with twenty metal engravings, and Bynneman printed the English editions with twenty woodcut prints.

158 In this very much like the “radiant” pattern of translation and transmission A. E. B. Coldiron identifies in Printers Without Borders; Jean de Tournes is her chief example. See Printers Without Borders: Translation and Textuality in the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 107-159. 159 For more information on the German edition of A Theatre, see Jan van der Noot, Theatrum das ist (Cologne[?]: Gottfried Cervi, 1572); Michael Bath, 108; Anthony Harper, “On the Development of a Poetic Language in Northern Europe: Jan Van der Noot’s Apocalyptic Sonnets and their English and German Translations,” Strathclyde Modern Language Studies 1 (1981): 47-60.

Michael Bath speculates that Van der Noot may have owned the woodblocks for A Theatre, either commissioning them himself or borrowing/purchasing them from Bynneman before traveling to Cologne in 1572.160 Van der Noot’s journey from England to Cologne with the woodblocks, and his multi-lingual reprinting of A Theatre demonstrates his investment in polyglot and international, visual and verbal renditions of the text.

A Theatre is one of the landmarks of early modern poetry and sixteenth-century English book illustration. The fine lines of detail, shading, and crosshatching in the prints presented

English readers with what was then a “high-tech” encounter with illustration. Edward Hodnett claims that A Theatre set a new precedent for Tudor book illustration, saying “Tudor readers … were getting for the first time from a book printed in England a sense of illusion hitherto limited to single paintings and drawings.”161 The etched images and the woodcuts surpass many sixteenth-century English illustrations in terms of execution and naturalistic depiction.162 A

Theatre’s engravings and relief prints are an integral part of each edition; each image is not only large enough to fill an entire page, but each also has privileged placement on the recto of each page opening of the sequence.

A Theatre’s extravagant illustrations and its status as the first Tudor book to include sophisticated images have resulted in many contested theories of its illustration history. A

Theatre fosters an active and ongoing scholarly debate about image attribution. 163 Like many

160 Michael Bath, “Verse Form and Pictorial Space in Van der Noot’s Theatre for Worldlings,” 82 161 Although Hodnett attributes the illustrations to Gheeraerts, his ideas about the sophistication of the images are accurate, no matter who developed and executed the images. Edward Hodnett, Gheeraerts the Elder (Netherlands: Haentjens Dekker & Gumbert, 1971), 43-44. 162 Edward Hodnett, Aesop in England (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1979), 7. 163 Scholars not only argue about engravers, but also about the order of production. Bath asserts that Gheeraerts carved woodblocks before copperplates, while Ruth Samson Luborsky believes that another craftsman in Bynneman’s printing house made the woodcuts after de Heere incised the engravings.

early modern illustrated books, there are no illustrators’ names listed in paratexts, colophons, title pages, or anywhere else in any of the three editions. Edward Hodnett and Michael Bath claim that Flemish illustrator Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder made the copperplate engravings.164

These scholars base their theory on an acquisition record for one of the French editions that names “Marc Gerard” as the engraver.165 The other theory, devised by Louis Friedland and re- iterated by Ruth Samson Luborsky and others, is that artist and poet Lucas de Heere engraved the illustrations because his dedicatory poetry appears within the Dutch and French editions on the introductory pages.166 Andrew Hadfield suggests that both/either Gheeraerts and/or De Heere created the woodblocks for A Theatre.167 This debate demonstrates that most scholars have only considered one technician to be the designer and illustrator of the book; only Hadfield seems to be willing to consider collaborative illustration. But collaboration may be key to understanding A

Luborksy compares the work in A Theatre to another book that Bynneman printed in 1569 with woodcuts that copy engravings: Pierre Boaistuau, Certaine Secrete Wonders of Nature, trans. E. Fenton (London: Bynneman, 1569). See Luborsky, “The Illustrations to the Shepheardes Calender,” 51; Luborsky and Ingram, English Illustrated Books, v.1 (Tempe, AZ: Medieval and Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1998), 603. 164 Gheeraerts the Elder (ca. 1520-ca.1590?) was one of the first engravers to use needlepoint and burin metal engraving almost exclusively for book illustration. He fled religious prosecution in Bruges and relocated to England in 1568. According to Edward Hodnett, Gheeraerts arrived in England in March 1568, and had enough time to engrave the illustrations by September (or shortly after) when Day printed Dutch and French editions. See Edward Hodnett, Gheeraerts, 41; Hodnett, Aesop in England, 6-7; Bath, 73-105; and Elizabeth Evenden, “Day’s Technical Achievements: Improvements in Book Illustration,” Patents, Pictures and Patronage: John Day and the Tudor Book Trade (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2008), 95-118. 165 This acquisition record is recorded in the Catalogue of the Printed Books and Manuscripts (Oxford, 1840), p. 199, col. 1. Louis S. Friedland claims that this record is erroneous. See Friedland, “The Illustrations in ‘The Theatre for Worldlings’,” Huntington Library Quarterly 19, no. 2 (1956): 110. 166 See “Lucas d’Heere, op de Visioenen van myn Heere VanderNoot” in Het Theatre (London: John Day 1568) [unpaginated: on the second verso of the introductory paratext]; in the French edition, Le Theatre (Day, 1568), the poem appears on [A3v]. 167 Andrew Hadfield, “Edmund Spenser’s Translations of Du Bellay,” 149.

Theatre; the single-illustrator model discounts the richly complex ways that illustrators and printers produced pictures in the early modern period.

Characteristics of both De Heere’s and Gheeraerts’s engravings appear in the images, and stylistic similarities to the work of both artists may indicate that the work was collaborative. Van der Noot, Gheeraerts, and De Heere relocated to London within a span of two years (1567-1568); they shared a language, and it is quite possible that they worked together on the project, consulted one another, and also exchanged design ideas. Several cuts of Sambucus’s Emblemata

(1564), designed by de Heere and others, bear similarities to the style of the illustrations in A

Theatre.168 Also, the depictions of continuous narrative in A Theatre resemble Gheeraerts’s illustrations of Aesop’s Fables in P. de Clerck’s edition of De Warichtighe Fabulen (1567).169

Gheeraerts and De Heere had already worked closely together in Bruges before moving to

London; both contributed to De Fabulen a year before the publication of A Theatre.170

With evidence of the previous collaboration between Gheeraerts and De Heere, we might consider the illustrations in another way that accounts for Van der Noot’s investment in the

168 Five years before Bynneman printed A Theatre, De Heere had designed 168 illustrations woodcuts with Pierre Huys and Pieter van der Borscht for printer Christopher Plantin’s Emblemata (1564). Several illustrations within Sambucus’s Emblemata appear similar to the woodcut illustrations in A Theatre. See Joannes Sambucus, Emblemata (Antwerp: Christophe Plantin, 1564), and compare the image of the dogs in Epigram 1 to Sambucus’s emblem “Sobriè Potandum” (C5r; p 41) and “Voluptas aerumnosa” (H8v; p 128). Also compare the “birde” flying toward the sun in “Sonet 6” with the “eagle” and sun in Sambucus’s emblem “Nimium Sapere” (B8v; p 32). 169 Several illustrations in De Warichtighe Fabulen contain continuous narrative. See Aesop and Marcus Gheeraerts, De Warachtighe Fabulen der Dieren (P. de Clerck: Bruges, 1567) (Lucas De Heere also contributed to the introductory paratext of this book). Compare the continuous narrative of the deer in the scene on pg. 122 with Epigram 1 in A Theatre. 170 In 1577, Gheeraerts enrolled his son in the Artists’ guild at St. Luke, Antwerp under the tutelage of Lucas de Heere. See Louis S. Friedland, “The Illustrations in ‘The Theatre for Worldlings’,”118, note 38; Friedland cites Biographie Nationale de Belgique (Bruxelles, 1876), V, 160, col. 2.

collaborative nature of early modern textual production.171 We know that Van der Noot collaborated with translators like Spenser and Theodore Roest, and he might have also consulted or employed both artists (and possibly other technicians) to produce the illustrations. A collaborative illustration process might have been more advantageous than sole invention and craftsmanship of the plates and woodblocks. Illustration in the early modern period was a collaborative venture, and De Heere had previous experience illustrating collaboratively.172

Cooperative book design does not necessarily mean that multiple people engraved the illustrations; artisans can potentially cooperate in many ways, including but not limited to consulting, discussing, drafting, and retouching. I will continue to refer to an anonymous

“illustrator” as the agent who developed woodcuts and engravings in A Theatre, but by this I mean that the illustrator could be one or more artist(s).

171 Gary Taylor, “Why Did Shakespeare Collaborate?,” Shakespeare Survey 67: Shakespeare’s Collaborative Work (Cambridge University Press, 2014), 1-17. Taylor marks some distinct advantages that collaborative authorship offered, specifically that plays could be finished faster and may have “increased the quality of the product” (6-7). Cooperative production was not only a playwriting phenomenon; collaborative artisanship could potentially explain the significant amount of work on twenty copperplate engravings and twenty woodcuts in quick production while maintaining aesthetic integrity. Gary Taylor defines this kind of artisanal work as “artiginality,” in which craftsmen and artisans transform “already existing text-things… into recognizably new text things.” See Gary Taylor, “Artiginality: Authorship after Post-modernism,” New Oxford Shakespeare: Authorship Companion, ed. Gary Taylor and Gabriel Egan (Oxford University Press, 2017), 3-26. As Coldiron’s chapter on Quadrins shows, collaborative translation and illustration were habitually joined in the large printing houses of Europe; her example is Jean de Tournes, who worked with several translators and also with many artists including engraver Bernard Salomon and Hans Holbein. See Coldiron, “Bastard alone”: Radiant Translation and the Status of English Letters,” Printers Without Borders, 6-7; 119-122. 172 De Heere worked with Pierre Huys and Pieter van der Borscht for printer Christopher Plantin’s Emblemata (1564). Plantin did not find De Heere’s illustrations suitable, and employed Pierre Huys to retouch or remake eighty of the designs. For more on collaborative illustration and the list of graphic artists employed in the Plantin house, See Leon Voet, The Golden Compasses: a History and Evaluation of the Printing and Publishing Activities of the Officina Plantiniana at Antwerp (Amsterdam: Van Gendt; New York: Abner Schram, 1969), 194-243, especially 198; Friedland, 119; Max Rooses, Catalogue du Musée Plantin-Moretus (Anvers, 1881), 75.

Although we have no direct evidence that Spenser ever saw the illustrations in A Theatre,

I argue that Spenser likely viewed these pictures at some point either during his work on the translations or after Bynneman printed his poems in 1569. Many scholars have speculated about

Spenser’s connection and collaboration with Van der Noot during the production of A Theatre.

Andrew Hadfield and Stewart Mottram both assert that Spenser’s upbringing in the East

Smithfield neighborhood brought him into contact with a diverse early modern social network that included many Dutch immigrants and refugees. W. J. B. Pienaar argues that Van der Noot supervised Spenser’s translations, and Hadfield claims that Spenser “probably worked with an assistant who knew Italian and Dutch.”173 Stewart Mottram argues that “Spenser may have been more intimate with Van der Noot and the Flemish community” than scholars have previously thought.174 If Spenser worked with Van der Noot directly, it is possible that he knew about the

French and Dutch editions of The Theatre published in 1568, and saw the mise-en-page and illustration program before his poems appeared in print. If Spenser did not see the engravings in the French and Dutch editions, he might have seen his own work in print, and would have at least noted the unusual word-image relationship between many of the pictures and poems.

Continuous Narrative and Word-Image Relationships

Although I am less concerned here with the reasons for the use of continuous narrative than for its aesthetic consequences – its connections to Spenser’s poetics and its effects on his readers – there are many potential reasons for the use of continuous narrative in A Theatre. One

173 W. J. B. Pienaar, “Edmund Spenser and Jonker van der noot,” English Studies 8, no. 1-6 (1926): 38; Hadfield, “Edmund Spenser’s Translations of Du Bellay in Jan van der Noot’s A Theatre for Worldlings,” 149. Pienaar claims, “With a mind stored with his own previous renderings, V. d. Noot assisted his young collaborator, who would naturally cling to the French” (38).

174 Stewart Mottram, “Spenser’s Dutch Uncles,” 166.

is economic: it is simply cheaper to commission two scenes in one woodblock, which enables the printers to conserve expensive paper, woodblocks, and other materials. Additionally, the page layout, which features a large illustration and a full-length poem, might be compromised if the printers used two small illustrations and/or printed the poem across two pages.175 The other, more interesting reason Van der Noot may have desired continuous narrative is that space-time encoding is a rhetorically effective and daring expression of apocalypse. To use Van der Noot’s own words, the style can “sette the vanitie and inconstancie of worldly and transitorie thyngs, the liuelier before your eyes.”176 No more tracking vision over swaths of blank page to see what happens next; the fate of the inconstant world is ever present and vivid within the same image, a few centimeters into the background. This simultaneity of vision in the illustrations reinforces the poems’ obsession with memory. All of the epigrams shift from past tense to present tense in the final lines, and the poem presents us with a retrospective – a looking back at what the lyric speaker once saw, and the present tense makes the scene uncomfortable, immediate, and pressing in the now. The residual images remain through illusory palinopsia, or afterimage, and allow time to freeze it in its continuum – readers watch the past in suspended animation or cryonic preservation. These visual tricks demonstrate the effects of the “worldliness” about which Van der Noot teaches.

The continuous narrative illustrations in A Theatre operate in either an unfolding progression or an omnipresent time depending on perspective and the viewer’s ocular focusing.

If we look at the image as a whole, every object and scenario is in clear view and the “present” and “future” exist simultaneously. But the more closely we look, using the accommodation or

175 Thanks to an anonymous reader from Spenser Studies for this observation of the way that different illustration programs might drastically affect the mise-en-page. 176 Van der Noot, [F2v].

focusing feature of the human eye, we begin to see this image through a visual effect similar to the cinematic technique of rack focusing. The lens focuses on an object in the foreground and blurs the background, then the camera changes focus to clarify the vision of background, and the foreground blurs (or vice versa). As soon as we concentrate our focus on one position pinpoint on the topography of the image, the other viewpoint becomes peripheral. Spenser’s translations interact with this feature of human vision, and the poems present challenges or opportunities for the meanings of these images. Despite the poems’ role in guiding the viewer’s eye, the double vision in the illustrations continues to create interpretive indeterminacy.

The illustrations in A Theatre gain more stable meaning through recursive reading, but because of the double timescape, a complete, or closed, one-to-one relationship between the text and image cannot occur. The use of spatial coordinates to display the passage of time results in interpretive uncertainty because the image holds multiple iterations of an object. The poem clarifies the images somewhat, but despite verbal clarification, the pictures always contain dilemmas of multiplicity, such as creatures or plants that are simultaneously alive and dead.

While moments in the Epigrams clearly correspond to action/bodies/objects on the recto, other parts of the poem are difficult or impossible to locate in space or time. Uncertainty in these poems causes dilemmas, a viewing lens that must focus or fixate on two objects at once.

Spenser’s verse translations are a crucial element for readers’ understanding of the images, but limits of intersemiotic translation continue to affect the reception of the word-image pairing.

Continuous narrative illustrations produce a complicated word-image relationship for readers because they contain more semiotic possibilities than single scenes do. Although images with continuous narrative can stand alone, they are less precise in semiotic meaning without a verbal inscription (or previous knowledge of the represented figures). In other words, the picture

has many interpretive possibilities, and the verse assigns a more stable meaning by explication, spelling out a narrative progression. Both verbal and visual texts reach a more restricted meaning in tandem. For example, the illustration of two deer and four dogs on the landscape in Epigram I

(Fig. 4.1) could potentially generate many interpretations of the portrayed objects and movement. This could be a snapshot of a single moment in time, in which one deer narrowly escapes the dogs’ sharp teeth in the foreground, while another deer falls to the ground as two different dogs attack. Spenser’s translation on the verso page narrows interpretive possibilities for the image; pronouns and their antecedents connect the two scenes and establish the continuous narrative. The muscular dogs snarling at the deer in the second quatrain become the same dogs devouring the same deer a short distance away. The illustrator imagines the scene for us, but the poet specifies.

Alternatively, the pictures may enhance or create more nuanced understanding of the poems. Spenser may primarily perform interlinguistic translations of Marot and Du Bellay, but his printed poems are in constant interaction with images on the page. Illustrations provide a visual depiction of the imaginary world of the poem, and these depictions change the spatial qualities of the poetry as the deictics and navigational language guide readers to literal places on a picture plane. Whether Spenser is conscious of the word-image relationship as he translates, or he understands the interaction between his own poetry and image after publication, the word- image relationship is crucial to the meaning of the poems in A Theatre. Spenser’s poems guide the viewer through the space of the image with deictics, and these roving visions correspond to the persistence of memory in a landscape in which various moments of the past continue to linger on the picture plane.

Spenser’s translations help readers to decode various scenes within the images, incorporating clarifying pronouns, cue words, and other locating deictics that aid in spatial awareness. Heather Dubrow argues that deixis in lyric (and in other genres, too) requires us to construct a space of the poem within our imaginations, but it also requires us to determine where exactly “here” or “there” is in relation to lyric subjectivity or to ourselves. 177 In the illustrated sonnets and epigrams of A Theatre, deictics are further complicated because the illustrator has imagined and constructed the scene for us, narrowing the possibilities of “here” or “there” in the world of the poem. These deictics also incorporate time and are materially navigational; they indicate actual places on the visual plane of the illustration – a place on the page where readers can literally point an index finger or draw a manicule.

Deictics can be helpful in decoding continuous narrative illustrations in A Theatre, but they can also be confusing when the verbal language inconsistently marks a place in the foreground (this, here) or background (that, there), or when the illustration creates paradoxical doubling. For example, in Epigram I, some lines correspond to specific points in space-time, but others direct our vision to an indeterminate or intermediate space.

Van der Noot and Spenser, A Theatre (1569) Van der Noot, Le Theatre (1568)

Being one day at my window all alone, Vn iour estant seulet à la fenestre So many strange things hapned me to see, Vy tant de cas nouueaux deuãt mes yeux As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon. Que d’en tant veoir fache me conuient estre. At my right hande, a Hinde appeared to me, Si m’apparut vne bische à main dextre, So faire as mought the greatest God delite: Belle pour plaire au souuerain de Dieux, Two egre Dogs dyd hir pursue in chace, Chasee estoit de deux chiens enuieux. Of whiche the one was black, the other white. Vn blanc, vng noir, qui par mortal effort

177 Heather Dubrow, Deixis in the Early Modern Lyric, (New York: Palgrave, 2015), 36-37.

With deadly force so in their cruel race La gente beste aux flans mordoint si fort, They pinchte the haunches of this gentle beast, Qu’au dernier pas en brief temps l’ont menée That at the last, and in shorte time, I spied, Cheoir soubz vng Roc, & la, la cruaulté Under a rocke, where she (alas) opprest, De mort vainquit vne grande beauté, Fell to the grounde and there untimely dide. Dont souspirer me feit sa destinée. 178 Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie, Oft makes me waile so harde a destinie.

The deictic in line 9, “this,” points to the nearer deer in the foreground, not that one in the distance, but the image that clearly shows the dogs “pinching” the deer’s haunches is located in the background. For readers, line 9 either resides somewhere in both foreground and background, goes back and forth, or has no corresponding image on the plane. The perspective shift of the epigram does not guide our vision to the background until lines 10 and 11, “That at the last, and in shorte time, I spied, / Under a rocke.” The geolocator “under a rock” leads us to the background and into the more-recent past, where the fallen deer rests “there” far from the viewing portal. Although the word-image relationship is not perfect or complete, the translation offers viewers sufficient keywords to guide their eyes from foreground to background to understand the narrative situation on the picture plane.

The imperfect word-image relationship that occurs in Epigram 1 is due to Spenser’s translation of Marot’s poetry. When translating the douzains, Spenser alternates between twelve line proto-sonnets (Epigrams 2, 4, 5 and 6) and Surrey-style English sonnets (Epigrams 1 and

3).179 As Spenser expands Epigrams 1 and 3 from twelve to fourteen lines, he experiments with

178 Van der Noot, Le theatre (London: John Day, 1568), B1v. 179A. E. B. Coldiron notes that we see in the sonnets of A Theatre an early instance (early for England, that is) of assigning a 14-line form to the term “sonnet,” a term that usually just means “short poem” until much later, even into the 1590s when formal experiments with 18-line sonnets and couplet-sonnets and so on were still in play. The word takes on the formal restriction earlier in Italy and France; in France by the

turning points and the opportunities that the space of translation affords. Bath argues that

Spenser’s unconventional voltas are a sign of his struggle to translate. He writes, “the one thing

[Spenser] finds impossible to achieve … is to adapt the six and six line pattern of Marot’s verse- form, which is so beautifully illustrated in the Glasgow [SMM 2] manuscript, to the octave-and- sestet structure of the Italian sonnet.”180 Spenser’s volta experimentation could be a problem of inexperience, but he might not be aiming to mimic the Italian sonnet; instead, the unusual turns in the poems seems to be related to his translations of the original French poetry. 181 In the 14- line poems, Spenser expands each sixain to seven lines each, but employs the English ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme. Therefore, Epigrams 1 and 3 have the three quatrains and couplet of the conventional sonnet, but they have unconventional shifts in content. Spenser’s translation strategy produces strange sonnets, but despite (or maybe because of) their unusual construction, they interact with the visual image, creating turning points that correspond to the shifting timescape of continuous narrative.

For example, audiovisual oddities occur in Epigram 3 as the language of the lyric creates a paradox in the perspective of vision (Fig. 4.2). The pictured trees appear to be two different trees in the landscape: one lively with chirping birds, the other dead and burned by lightning. But in reading we find that they are the same tree, both living and dead, separated by one line of ink,

1540s. Sonnet also continues to suggests something that rings out (diminutive of suono sound). (Coldiron conversation 2017); see also "sonnet, n.". OED Online. December 2016. Oxford University Press. (accessed March 02, 2017) and Cathy Shrank,"'Matters of Love as of Discourse': The English Sonnet, 1560-1580," Studies In Philology 105, no. 1 (2008): 30-49. 180 Bath, 79 181 This is only if we assume that the intention for this poem is to follow a Petrarchan plan. If Spenser does not follow the prescribed sonnet form, then the poem might be an example of what Coldiron calls "poetic alternatives to Petrarchism" (unpublished lecture, 2015).

signifying a single “horizon” of the foreground. In the shift, strange visual phenomena occur once again. The shift in Epigram 3 requires double vision as the shift unfolds: there seem to be two points of perspective in the vision:

Van der Noot and Spenser, A Theatre (1569) Van der Noot, Le Theatre (1568)

Then heauenly branches did I see arise, Apres ie vy sortir divins rameaux Out of a fresh and lusty Laurell tree D’un Laurir [sic] ieune en ung nouueau Amidde the yong grene wood. Of Paradise boscage, Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see, Et me sembla veoir vng des arbrisseaulx Suche store of birdes therein yshrouded were, De paradis, tant y auoit d’oseaux [sic] Chaunting in shade their sundry melodie. Diuersement chantans à son ombrage, My sprites were rauisht with these pleasures Ces grands delitz rauirent mon courage, there, Er [En] ayant l’oyel fiche sur ce Laurier, While on this Laurell fixed was mine eye, Le ciel entour commence à varier The Skie gan euery where to ouercast, Et à noircier, dont la fouldre grand’erre And darkned was the welkin all aboute, Vint arracher celluy plant bien heureux, When sodaine flash of heauens fire outbrast, Qui me faict estre à iamais langoreux And rent this royall tree quite by the roote. Car plus telle ombre on ne recouure en Which makes me much and euer to complaine, terre.182 For no such shadow shal be had againe.

The volta in this epigram certainly could occur between lines eight and nine, when the “Skie gan euery where to ouercast,” marking a shift in the sunny day. In the un-illustrated poem, readers can imagine a darkening of the sky in the peripheral vision. But in the illustration, the dark thundercloud rests at the top right corner of the image, far from the foreground. The lyric speaker fixes (or focuses) his eye on “this” laurel nearby, but the eye also roves to the “welkin” that

182 Jan van der Noot, Le theatre (London: Day, 1568), np.

hovers in the top right corner of the image.183 The lyric speaker seems to have monocular focusing, similar to a chameleon; one eye remains fixed while the other rolls around the corners of the frame and into the distance. Again, the lines of verse that occur between the “perfect world” and the disaster point the eyes to multiple places in the image. As in Epigram 1, we must view both foreground and background simultaneously. This strange double vision is a result of

Spenser’s fusion of the douzain and the English sonnet, but the result is an innovative word- image interplay, enhanced by the multiple scenes within the illustrations.

In addition to optical illusions, both image and poem also play on the memories of both speaker and viewer. Epigram 5 and its illustration both focus on memories of poems past/passed, as the words and images recount the fate of the Phoenix (Fig. 4.3). Spenser’s translation reads:

I saw a Phoenix in the wood alone, With purple wings and crest of golden hew, Straunge birde he was, wherby I thought anone, That of some heauenly wight I had the vew: Untill he came unto the broken tree And to the spring that late deuoured was. What say I more? Eche thing at length we see Doth passe away: the Phoenix there, alas Spying the tree desroyde, the water dride, Himselfe smote with his beake, as in disdaine,

And so forthwith in great despite he dide. For pitie and loue my heart yet burnes in paine.

The poem and illustration are multi-layered. With the enjambed lines “What say I more? Eche thing at length we see/ Doth passe away...” the illustration and the poem become metatext, addressing the things that we have read and seen that have “passed” with the flip of a page. Like

183 Welkin is an old English word meaning “cloud,” but in the early modern period it also meant “the apparent arch or vault of heaven overhead,” and “the sky, the firmament or the upper atmosphere; the region of the air in which the clouds float, birds fly, etc.” See definitions 1, 2a, and 3 for "welkin" OED Online, June 2017, Oxford University Press.

the Phoenix, we have also “spied” the tree burned with lightning and the spring devoured. In fact, we are still seeing the remnants of these images within the illustration for Epigram 5. The deictic “there” points viewers to the background of the image where the Phoenix self-destructs.

When we arrive “there” in the distance, we see a broken tree under the bird’s feet, the cracked earth below, and a wide expanse of water behind the phoenix. This image places us in the vicinity of the other poems, right in the same landscape in which we have previously seen shipwrecks, falling trees, and earthquakes. Epigram 5 not only incorporates the before-and-after timescape of poem, but also layers the illustration onto depictions of past poems, incorporating further memories of visions that came before.

While the suffering and destruction in Marot’s “Chant” occur in mid-ground or mid- epigram, some of the verses in the Songe translations turn at the final couplet, delaying the disaster. When a shift occurs in the middle of the poem, the illustrator establishes more space in the background for exploration, and when the shift occurs in the final lines, the object in the foreground stands larger and occupies more of the picture plane. The first three illustrated sonnets spend eleven lines describing the edifice, spire, or triumphal arch, and only three lines at the end of the poem to sum up the sudden catastrophes. When the verses spend extended space and time describing an object in detail, the illustrator creates images in reverse ekphrasis184 to correspond to the intense focus.

184 I am using Garret Stewart’s term “reverse ekphrasis” to denote visual depiction of verbal description. See Stewart, The Look of Reading: Book, Painting, Text (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 86. Stewart investigates the visual translation of verbal text and coins the term “reverse ekphrasis” to understand the “painted experience of reading” (82). See also Carmen Lara-Rallo, “Ekphrasis revisited,” Rational Designs in Literature and the Arts: Page and Stage, Canvas and Screen, ed. Rui Carvahlo Homem (New York: Rodopi, 2012), 97-108; especially 106-108.

For instance, in Sonnet 2, the lyric speaker recounts an enormous and monumental structure with eleven lines of description. The illustrator creates an image that incorporates this intense focus on the building; the massive edifice with sharp edges, thick lines of columns and hard diamond facades overwhelms the picture plane (Fig. 4.4). In the previous images, we could see miles of pastoral views with vast expanses of soft grass, small flowers, foliage, and trees. The change in viewing perspective of the “Sonets” is radical: suddenly, the viewing lens zooms in uncomfortably and the entire building does not fit within the frame. Unlike the other illustrations that came before, this particular image has no horizon line, no discoverable spatial future.

Instead, as the building reaches to the horizon, the farthest point of the roof and balcony in the image, broken pieces hover in mid-air – in mid-destruction. Fragmented columns crookedly collapse to the ground. This image is the first of its kind in the book – the destruction is almost an afterthought, and this corresponds to Du Bellay’s poetry. The end is swift: a “sodein earthquake” throws this building to the lowest stone, but we are not privy to that final scene just yet; we catch the disaster in mid-crumble.

To further explore this space and time phenomenon, a comparison of Sonnets 4 and 5 illustrates the ways in which the illustrator depicts sudden and gradual changes in A Theatre. The image of the triumphal arch in Sonnet 4 begins like the previous poems: eleven lines of description catalogue the arch’s alabaster and crystal friezes, the golden winged nymphs, and the high triumphing statue atop the structure (Fig. 5). Like the previous sonnets, the destruction is delayed, and the “sodaine falling” breaks the arch to dust and rubble. Like the sharp spire, the triumphal arch disintegrates right beside the original structure. Although the block upon which the arch stands begins in the foreground nearer to our sight, it spans to fill two thirds of the image. The decapitated horse, broken columns, and the fragmented arch lie in a pile that appears

to rest in the same spatial distance that the arch spans. Again, the sudden destruction is depicted in a closer spatial relationship – the change does not happen over a lengthy amount of time.

A turn of the page presents a different scenario – villains chop down the Dodonian tree, and the poem gives more narrative time to the blows of the wedge and the slow groan of the trunk (Fig. 4.6). Because of the gradual change, the illustrator allots more space in the image to correspond to the lengthened time – the tree in the background is far from our viewing portal. In the near foreground, pieces of rubble, perhaps from the previous frame, lie in the grass and flowers. The pre-disaster tree stands tall in the midground, and the final “disordered heap” of tree stands deep in the background, separated by several lines and different textures: the dark shading of the shadow, the wavy lines of the “streame” and the flat ground where the humans cut the tree at the root. Although the foliage of the tree spans to fill some of the space between the foreground and background, the root of the tree stands far from the foreground, and the tiny human figures stand only a little taller than the buildings on the horizon. This difference in space and scale is reflected in the events that unfold in the poem. This particular sonnet, in contrast to the previous sonnets, devotes five lines to the description of the tree’s fall. This sonnet is like the

Marot translations in its depiction of an expanded disaster scene after the delayed turn.

By the end of the visions meditations, Van der Noot strays from Du Bellay’s sequence and writes his own sonnets that turn drastically toward apocalypse. The last four sonnets no longer use continuous narrative; instead the illustrator crowds the picture plane with elaborate creatures and apocalyptic scenes from The Book of Revelation, eliminating horizon lines and overwhelming the viewer. While Du Bellay’s speaker wakes up from the dream, Van der Noot’s nightmare doesn’t end; he continues the horrific visions of seven-headed beasts and the whore of

Babylon. Van der Noot’s sequence ends with a restoration of peace after God’s army destroys

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the beasts, and the last sonnet allows us to “beholde the bright abode of God and men.” The

“Citie of the Lord” casts away the “worldly” empire, and the illustrations offer an aerial view of expansive horizons and the holy cityscape. Space and landscape are important signifiers for Van der Noot and the illustrator; the white spaces of the rolling hills convey messages about temporality, disaster, and eventual peace in the City of the Lord.

Space and open terrain are also important to Spenser in The Shepheardes Calender. The expanses of the pastoral hills and landscapes are opportunities for fantastic representation.

Spenser continues to participate in collaborative intersemiotic text translations and revisits the continuous narrative in later works, especially in The Shepheardes Calender (1579). Although the Calender takes many of its pictorial cues from almanacs, astrology treatises, and other pastoral illustrations, it is also stylistically similar to A Theatre in that it includes continuous narrative to explore memory and temporality within the pictured landscapes. Both the Calender and A Theatre reject “realistic depiction” and both use three-dimensional space to encode narrative progression, resulting in doubling and residual images of memory or fantasy. 185

“The time was once and may againe retourne”: Storytelling and Depictive Illustrations in The Shepheardes Calender

“…The olde man telleth a tale of the Oake and the Bryer, so lively and so feelingly, as if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appeare” –“Februarie,” Shepheardes Calender (1579)

In The Shepheardes Calender, the paratext that introduces the “Februarie” eclogue emphasizes the lively images that appear “before our eyes,” similar to Van der Noot’s concern with vision in A Theatre. Like Van der Noot and his illustrator, Spenser experiments with

185 Spenser is not only concerned with poetic memory within the content of the Calender, but he also reaches back into his own memory while re-reading and imitating Marot, even if Marot is once again imitating another poet – this time, Virgil. Annabel Patterson, “Re-opening the Green Cabinet: Clément Marot and Edmund Spenser,” English Literary Renaissance 16, no. 1 (1986): 44–70.

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doubling and constructs fictions that take place on an otherworldly time and space continuum.

While the illustrations within A Theatre display what the lyric speaker sees, the Calender illustrations embody what the pastoral speaker says. Spenser’s pastoral poems correspond to spatio-temporal depictions of poetic unfolding (from beginning of poem to end) and storytelling temporality (recounting or depicting memory and fables). The illustrations in the Calender incorporate many scenes, not only of before-and-after plot points, but also of complex frame stories. Readers must carefully read the poetry and observe the images to fully understand what is represented on the picture plane. The multi-scene illustrations require more guidance from the poet to help readers navigate these complex scenes.

In addition to the images’ spatio-temporal complexity, the illustrations vary in type and mode of representation, so verbal language in the poems and paratext assist readers in narrowing the interpretive possibilities of the images. Luborsky classifies the Calender’s woodcuts into three main categories. 186 The first is symbolic: illustrations contain visual symbols, buildings or landscapes within the image that symbolize the poet-figure’s ideas (“Januarye,” “October,”

“December”).187 The second is depictive: illustrations depict one or more actions described in the eclogue (“Februarie,” “March,” “Aprill,” “Maye,” “August,” “Nouember”).188 Last is attributive: illustrations contain “pictured attributes that identify characters” (“June,” “Julye,” and

“September”).189 Because the illustration types switch between symbolic, narrative, and attributive every few months, readers decode the images in The Shepheardes Calender by

186 Luborsky, “Illustrations to The Shepheardes Calender,” 26-28. 187 Luborsky, “Illustrations to The Shepheardes Calender,” 26. 188 Luborsky, “Illustrations to The Shepheardes Calender,” 26. 189 Luborsky, “Illustrations to The Shepheardes Calender,” 26 and 28.

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reading the poem and paratext. The illustrations and text in the Calender create a recursive reading experience, but the length of the pastoral poems brings us farther from the illustrated page and sends us reeling back again. The reading experience of each month is a five-steps- forward, five-steps-back progression: after reading the poem that may stretch for pages, the reader might flip back to revisit the image to enhance understanding. If the illustration contains continuous narrative, we cannot know until we read the poem to its completion in order to decode the picture. 190

No definitive evidence proves that Spenser commissioned or gave instructions for the design of woodcuts for the Calender. 191 As in the case of many illustrated books of the early modern period, the paratext does not name illustrators or technicians. There is no proof of designer selection, no textual clues to the identity of the illustrator, nor any record of the payment of craftsmen. While many book historians claim that printers were responsible for selecting and employing craftsmen to cut woodcut programs, there are some cases in which early modern authors drew their own illustrations, helped to design woodcuts or engravings, instructed technicians, and took a more active role in illustration development.192 Luborsky suggests that

190 This is somewhat a visual analogue for Stanley Fish’s readings of Paradise Lost. Stanley E. Fish, Surprised by Sin: The Reader in Paradise Lost, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997).

191 If Spenser did control the development of the woodcut program, he chose an antiquated and unusual method of verse illustration. Most new poetry in the latter half of the sixteenth century did not include woodcut programs. As Luborsky says, “None of the poets writing during Spenser’s time nor the earlier Tudor poets published works that were [depictively illustrated] – not Googe, not Gascoigne, not the poets included in Tottel’s Miscellany.” Luborsky, “Shepheardes Calender,” 16-18. Luborsky also records that the illustrations in the Calender are the “last depictive woodcuts specially made to accompany new imaginative poetry until Bewick’s work in 1795.” (18). 192 Edward Hodnett’s studies on sixteenth-century illustrations shaped much of book history; he argues that early modern illustration production was, “usually initiated, financed, and managed by the publisher. Therefore the publisher makes decisions crucially affecting the character of the illustrations in his book” (Image and Text, 27). Scholars generally study printers’ production methods because almost all illustrators were anonymous (except, of course, in cases when there is evidence that artists, authors, or

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Spenser intentionally planned the woodcut illustrations to create a work that appears to be quaint and old-fashioned, to correspond to the outdated language in the eclogues.193 S. K. Heninger also argues that Spenser, Gabriel Harvey, and/or E. K. played an active role in the illustration process

– commissioning cuts that appear similar to Sannazaro’s Arcadia, printed in Venice in 1571.194

Spenser incorporates a large range of literary predecessors within his eclogues, and the illustrations also contain allusions to illustrations that came before, especially mirroring pastoral images in Sannazaro’s Arcadia (1571), The Kalendar of Shepardes (1503-1613), and the medieval stylization of fable illustrations.195 The continuous narrative within the illustrations of

translators produced their own illustrations). See Elizabeth Evenden, “Day’s Technical Achievements: Improvements in Book Illustration,” Patents, Pictures and Patronage: John Day and the Tudor Book Trade (Ashgate 2008), 95-118. Martha W. Driver, "The Illustrated de Worde: An Overview," Studies in Iconography 17 (1996): 349-403. For evidence that some authors also helped to plan illustration programs for their books, see Luborsky “Shepheardes Calender,” 47; note 21. Luborsky cites John Foxe and Jerome Nadal as examples of authors who designed or drew illustrations for their printed works.

193 Luborsky, “Shepheardes Calender,” 19; 46 n. 20. I agree with Luborsky’s hypothesis that Spenser planned the illustrations. Although we have no direct evidence of Spenser’s involvement in the Calender’s visual design, the use of woodcuts seems to be an intentional choice. By the late sixteenth century, metal engravings became so popular that woodcuts had to be outsourced to craftsmen outside the printing shops. The 1579 Calender’s illustrations appear like Flemish pre-mannerist designs in book illustration that first appeared in Lyon in the 1540s and 50s and then spread to the Low Countries. The woodcuts correspond to Spenser’s retro aesthetic, and he may have worked with Thomas Creede or John Harrison to oversee the Calender’s production. 194 S.K. Heninger Jr. argues that “The similarities between the physical appearance of The Shepheardes Calender and Sansovino’s Sannazaro [Arcadia 1571] are unmistakable, and whoever designed Spenser’s volume intended that to be the case” (35). See Heninger, “The Typographical Layout of Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender,” Word and Visual Imagination: Studies in the Interaction of English Literature and the Visual Arts, ed. Karl Josef Höltgen, Peter M. Daly, and Wolfgang Lottes (Erlangen 1988), 33-71, especially 35. 195 The Kalender of Shepherdes has a long and complex history in early modern culture and is certainly an influence on Spenser’s Shepheardes Calender. French printer Antoine Vérard printed the first Kalender of Shepherds for English readers (a translation into a Scots dialect from the French) in 1503, and after this, English printers continued to reprint editions of The Kalender until 1631. Richard Pynson’s illustrations from the 1506 edition are adaptations of Vérard’s 1503 edition, and printers reprinted the same or similar images until at least 1631. Pynson’s images like “Half Kneeling Shepherd,” (Hod. 1511) and “A Shepherd with a Bagpipe” (Hod. 1513), among others, appear very similar to the cuts in the Calender. For more information about these almanacs, their astrological, and anthological modes of representation, see

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the Calender might provide further circumstantial evidence that Spenser worked collaboratively with the illustrators to incorporate a familiar style or styles of illustration. Based on woodcut style and technique, it appears that various craftsmen carved the woodblocks for the Calender. 196

Despite the distribution of labor, the woodcuts for “Februarie,” “March,” “Maye,” “August,” and

“Nouember” all contain two or more scenes in them, either using linear perspective and background like Van der Noot’s images, or exploring a triangulation of “real world” or “first frame” pastoral scenes with imaginary scenes of fables and storytelling. This consistency or pattern suggests either that Spenser had a hand in developing the woodcuts’ designs, or that the eclogues alone inspired continuous narrative representation to the printers or various illustrators.

Without definitive proof we might nevertheless reasonably speculate that the production of the illustrations originates from Spenser’s previous experience with continuous narrative illustration and/or stems from the multi-scene and/or astrological imaging that occurs in The Kalendar of

Shepardes.

While the narrative depictions of A Theatre produce a straightforward movement from

“present” to “future” actions, asking the reader to connect scenes in a linear way, the Calender does not always pictorially represent time through linear perspective alone. Instead, it asks the readers to look around; it depicts cyclical time and circular movement around the picture plane.197 Spenser’s illustrators continue to use the foreground and background of the image to

Martha Driver, “When Is a Miscellany Not Miscellaneous? Making Sense of the “Kalender of Shepherds,” The Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003): 199-214. 196 Luborsky thinks that Spenser or printer Hugh Singleton “farmed out” the woodcut commissions. Based on style and technique, she claims that one technician cut “Januarye,” “Februarie,” and “March;” a second cut “Julye,” “Nouember,” and “December;” a third cut “Aprill” and “Maye;” and several others might have carved “June,” “August,” “September,” and “October.” See Luborsky, “Shepheardes Calender,” 18.

197 See Donald Cheney, “The Circular Argument of The Shepheardes Calender,” Unfolded Tales: Essays on Renaissance Romance, ed. George M. Logan and Gordon Teskey (Cornell University Press: 1989),

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depict narrative time, but the verbal text does not lead our eyes in a straight line. Instead the shapes, lines of hills, and characters lead us in dynamic circles around the topography of the image. Unlike the illustrations in A Theatre, the Calender’s woodcuts do not maintain consistent rules about “foreground time” and “background time.” Only through recursive reading can readers begin to pinpoint the “past” (or imaginary past) and the “present.” Perhaps the recycling of continuous narrative leads critics like Rawdon Wilson to observe that Spenser’s characters in the Calender exist within “moments of present time that are inextricably rooted in the past while irreversibly emerging into the future.”198 The characters are rooted in the past through Spenser’s archaic language, and even the retrofitted woodcuts, but the illustrations show an intertwining of the past with the present on the same landscape. The literal and imaginary images of the past exist on the picture plane with the characters in “present” time. Spenser’s readers are also

“rooted in the past” as they “emerge into the future” – navigationally speaking.

The Calender’s focus on poetry, fiction making, and storytelling creates a new kind of vision poem. Although the frame stories, or the tales the characters relate, do not happen in “real time,” the illustrator makes the story within the story lively and present within in the image. For instance, in “Februarie,” Cuddie and Thenot stand in the foreground. Cuddie appears in his ragged clothes and Thenot with his wrinkled hands and long beard (Fig. 4.7). The illustration captures Thenot’s storytelling, after he demands that Cuddie “listen a while, and hearken the end” (101). The older man’s hand is in an open or giving gesture, while Cuddie’s is turned in a receiving gesture. In the distance, far to the right, a man lifts his hatchet to chop down a tree at

137-161; Alison A. Chapman, “The Politics of Time in Edmund Spenser's English Calendar,” Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900 42, no. 1 (2002): 1–24. 198 Rawdon Wilson, “Images and ‘Allegoremes’ of Time in the Poetry of Spenser,” English Literary Renaissance, 4 (1974), 56-82; See also Hill, 100-103.

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the trunk.199 Cuddie and Thenot do not mention the presence of the lumberjack during their interaction or conversation about the weather. The tree in the background comes into clearer focus when we encounter the old oak tree of Thenot’s fable. After the tiny “brere” complains of the uselessness and festering cankers of the ancient oak, the husbandman takes his hatchet to the tree. The background illustration shows a figure with a raised hatchet, and the treetops of the old oak reach up out of the frame. The tree trunk already bears the “wounds” from the blade; this image captures the moment when Thenot says, “to the roote [the husbandman] bent his sturdy stroke / And made many wounds in the wast Oake” (201-202). Beside the ancient oak, a wispy young plant stands crookedly in front of a large bovine creature. This small scene illustrates the final lines of Thenot’s tale: “That now upright he can stand no more;/ And being down, is trode in the durt/ Of Cattel, and brouzed, and sorely hurt.” (234-236). The tale comes to an end as

Cuddy interrupts Thenot, but the oak and the “brere” remain fixed in the background behind them. The scene from the fable is a vision of storytelling, an imaginary fantasy. It is an illustration not of the future or of the literal past, but of the “once upon a time.”

In almost all of the depictive illustrations, the narrative appears in counter-clockwise motion. The “March” eclogue incorporates three scenes, two of which are scenes from a frame story (Fig. 4.8). The illustration features Willye and Thomalin in the foreground, when Willye asks Thomalin to “tell [them] what he hast seene” (60). Thomalin relays his story of hunting

Cupid, which is represented in the image in the distance on the right side of the picture plane, and Willye tells his story of his father catching Cupid in a fowling net. This image is set on the left, only slightly further in the picture plane toward the horizon. The image-making works two

199 Anne Lake Prescott links the tree in “Februarie” to the Dodonian tree in Du Bellay’s Songe and Spenser’s verse translation in The Theatre. See Prescott, “Spenser (Re)reading Du Bellay, ”131-45.

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ways: One is that each of the narrators has his story behind him; the other way is that images lie on the picture plane that unfold like the narratives in the story unfold. The two shepherds are the focal point. The poem encourages us to follow the narrator to the scene of Thomalin hunting

Cupid, then the capture of Cupid in the net. The poem connects these disparate moments, guiding the movement of the eye in the illustration clockwise, from bottom-center to right side, (perhaps to the Capricorn in the clouds) to far left side, back to the image of Thomalin and Willye. Again, we see a double vision of Cupids due to storytelling; the shepherds’ narratives become so lively that they are pressed onto the landscape permanently. The images of the frame tale become part of the depicted environment.

“Maye” incorporates five scenes within one landscape (Fig. 4.9). It is perhaps the most difficult to decipher because it holds three disparate narratives within the picture plane. The image begins in the far left, where Piers and Palinode stand as they debate. The depictions of the men are disproportionately sized; they stand as tall as a tree in the same length of distance.

Luborsky and Hodnett blame the ineptitude of the technician(s) for the disproportionate size of the shepherds,200 but the landscape of the Calender does not rely on realism. This is one of the images in which the storytellers take the background (perhaps because the numerous figures in the foreground are too complex to shrink). The increased size of the storytellers puts them at odds with the picture plane. They look out of place, since they are the size of the foregrounded dancers. The illustration moves from the shepherds to the foreground as Palinode says, “Sicker this morrowe, ne longer agoe, / I sawe a shole of shepheardes outgoe … Whereto they dauncen

200 This is an old-fashioned aesthetic judgment that the illustrations are bad in the Calender – so bad that they aren’t worth talking about or considering the choices that the illustrators made because the technicians were dumb or inept. Certainly, they are not as refined and naturalistic as some books of the period, but the fascinating magical-real scenarios within the images worth our consideration.

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eche one with his mayd” (19-20; 24). At this moment, the focus of the image moves from the two men in the top left corner and swings around the loop of the country dancers and their maids.

Palinode heard the joyful celebration, and the music and dancing “[makes his] heart after the pype to daunce” (26). But Piers warns him that reckless shepherds celebrate the worldly things while their flocks go “unfedde” (44). Piers turns the story around after saying, “The time was once and may againe retourne,” and reverses the direction of the movement in the image, beginning with a fable that begins to move clockwise again.

Palinode’s name means “countersong,” and the intersemiotic translation of Piers’s argument presents us with “countervision.” If we match the direction of the image movement to the text, Piers’s contradiction or scolding of Palinode, “Such faitors, when their false hearts bene hidde, / Will doe, as did the Foxe by the Kidde” (170-171), begins the literal reversal of the movement and the turning of the story to another point of view. At this point in Piers’s narrative, the Kidde and his mother stand in the foreground on the right, facing one another, and the direction of the image flows around the dresses and dancing legs to the left side of the image, where the fox fools the kid:

It was not long, after shee was gone,

But the false Foxe came to the door anone:

Not as a Foxe, for then he had be kend,

But all as a poore peddler he did wend, ... (235-38)

The final image in the sequence appears near Palinode and Piers. Unlike the “March” eclogue, the guidance of narrative leads our eyes in a large C shape and back again, from the storytellers to the crowd, and from the right side of the image back to the storytellers who finish the tale and the debate.

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The “Maye” image, unlike the other images, places the viewer in the visual experience of the debate between Piers and Palinode. The image is like a page of Where’s Waldo? – it presents a “Where’s the Kidde?” activity page that asks the reader to seek and find the contents of the eclogue. The focal point of the image is the jumble of motion and commotion that occurs in the center of the foreground. Unless the reader is careful, she might miss the three small vignettes of the Foxe and the Kidde that are hidden around the picture plane. The Foxe, leaping and scrambling away with the Kidde, is small and positioned deep within the landscape. He is almost as tiny as the miniscule buildings set far away near the horizon line. To make full meaning of the image, the reader must look carefully for the kid and the fox – practicing a reading experience that mirrors Piers’s warning: if you pay too much attention to the worldly festivities, you will lose the goats! A careless reader might glance over the illustration and only see the jumble of dancers and the tall shepherds in the corner. This illustration requires the readers to closely

“regard” the image – to look out for the sheep and to keep watch. Spenser and his collaborators also share Van der Noot’s agenda – to teach readers through vision and recursive reading.

While Van der Noot’s illustrator employed continuous narrative to show ruin and destruction over time, the Calender is concerned with related memory: the ways in which we hold stories, songs, fables, and loves ones within the landscape of re-collection. The characters, remembered scenes, thoughts of Rosalind, and personified animals are embodied and collected on the picture plane, made “lively” by the descriptions and songs of the shepherds. The pastoral is an open space for the cultivation of stories – and the vast expanses of grass in the illustration become open spaces for depictions of narrative. Despite the Calender’s differences from A

Theatre, Spenser returns to continuous narrative imaging again to illustrate his pastoral poems.

Van der Noot and Spenser both are interested in memory – one interested in remembering the

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past as we move to a future of ruin, the other interested in making memories come alive through storytelling and subsequent illustration.

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Figure 4.1 "Epigram 1," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B2r. STC 18602.

Figure 4.2 "Epigram 3,” Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B5r. STC 18602.

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Figure 4.3 "Epigram 5" in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. B6r . STC 18602

Figure 4.4 "Sonnet 2," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C1r. STC 18602.

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Figure 4.5 "Sonet 4," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C3r. STC 18602.

Figure 4.6 "Sonet 5," in Jan van der Noot, A Theatre for Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. C4r. STC 18602.

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Figure 4.7. "Februarie," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. A3r. STC 23089.

Figure 4.8 "March," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. B4r. STC 23089.

Figure 4.9 "Maye," in Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender. London: Hugh Singleton, 1579. D4r. STC 23089.

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CHAPTER 5

INTERSEMIOTIC UNTRANSLATABILITY IN THE FAERIE QUEENE

Among the hundreds of pages of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (1590 & 1596), only one illustration appears tucked away between Books I and II. John Wolfe, who published the first three books in 1590, and Richard Field, completing the work by printing Books 4-6 in

1596, both reproduced the woodcut depicting St. George’s battle with the Dragon on the verso of the Book II page opening (See Fig. 5.1).201 St. George and his horse fill a large portion of the page; the plumes and armor loom large over the defeated dragon, which cowers on its back while a sword pierces its neck. The illustration appears at the end of the Book I, an entire canto after the reader has traversed the stanzas in which Redcrosse Knight battles and conquers the dragon.

Readers encounter the image of St. George and the dragon apart from the passage it illustrates; it is an intersemiotic translation “in absentia,”202 as it does not visually correspond to a part of the narrative on the same page or page opening.

201 Wolfe owned the woodcut of St. George and used it to illustrate G. D., A Briefe Discouerie of Doctor Allens seditious drifts (London: Wolfe, 1588), STC 6166, and I.B., A Mirror to all that love to follow the wars (London: Wolfe, 1589), STC 1041.7. Wolfe also used this cut to represent France’s Henri IV in news pamphlets printed in 1592: Anonymous, A discourse of that which is past (London: Wolfe, 1592), STC 11270; Anonymous, Nevves lately come on the last day of Februarie 1591 (London: Wolfe, 1591), STC 11283; Anonymous, The continual follovving of the French king vpon the Duke of Parma (London: Wolfe, 1592), STC 13130; A true relation of the French kinge his good successe (London: Wolfe, 1592), STC 13147. For more information about the news pamphlets printed in 1591-92 and the effects of these reproductions on English readers of The Faerie Queene, see Paul J. Voss, "The Faerie Queene 1590- 1596: The Case Of Saint George," Ben Jonson Journal: Literary Contexts In The Age Of Elizabeth, James And Charles 3 (1996): 59-73.

202 See Umberto Eco, Experiences in Translation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), 119. Translations made “in absentia” are those that appear in the absence of the original text. Eco defines translations “in praesentia” as those “with the original text on the facing page” (119). The Faerie Queene’s illustration program is similar to the arrangement of the portrait of Tamburlaine in Richard Jones’s playbook in that it appears at the end of the play/poem content, after readers have already imagined (or, in Tamburlaine’s case, seen) the characters.

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The placement of this image allows readers to imagine the dragon before they encounter the illustration, and a discrepancy emerges between Spenser’s depiction in the poem and the figures pictured on the page. In Canto 11, Spenser describes the dragon as the size of a “great hill,” with a tail that encompasses the entire landscape. Its “cruell claws” snap the knight’s spear like a toothpick, and when Redcrosse manages to injure the creature, enough blood pours fourth from the dragon’s wounds to drive a water mill (1.11.8-22).203 Spenser describes the dragon’s massive body in terms of giant natural landforms and gushing rivers. Obviously, the woodcut illustration does not represent the characters to scale, and its appearance and placement leads some critics to consider the woodcut “pointless” or “inadequate.”204 The dragon appears small and feeble beneath the hooves of the horse and, as Alexander Judson notes, the dragon in the woodcut is “no larger than a mastiff, … [and] is no kin to the fire-breathing colossus of

Spenser’s imagination.”205 Although the woodcut is a full-page image, the picture overflows the space of the woodblock and appears cramped. The illustration, limited to the two-dimensional space of the page, does not replicate the expansiveness of Spenser’s description.

Readers might be quick to notice the disparities between the image and poem because the verbal description of the fight between Redcrosse and the dragon is highly pictorial. Spenser’s vivid poetry exemplifies the qualities of enargeia, lifelike description, and energeia, the description of movement, and the smoky and violent battle becomes “lively” in readers’

203 Edmund Spenser and A C. Hamilton, The Faerie Queene (Harlow: Longman, 2006). Unless otherwise noted, this chapter will quote from Hamilton’s edition. Quotations will be cited parenthetically in the text. 204 Alexander Judson, The Life of Edmund Spenser (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1945), 140-141; Voss, 59-61. Edward Hodnett, Five Centuries of Book Illustration (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988). Hodnett considers the image to be “appropriate,” but asserts that its placement makes the image futile, saying the “gesture” of placing the woodcut was “so pointless that it might better not have been made at all” (42). 205 Judson, 140-41.

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imaginations.206 In addition to this high-definition description, Spenser’s poetry also incorporates what John Bender calls “visual focusing.”207 Focusing is a style of description in which a writer imitates the perception of vision by producing a flood of adjectives, adverbs, and figurative language around moments of complexity. The extensive use of detail disrupts the narrative and slows time, forcing the reader to re-view the scene and “deal with the same visual experience over and over again.”208 Spenser’s passage describing Redcrosse’s battle with the dragon is an example of visual focusing. Spenser spends almost twenty stanzas describing the struggle between Redcrosse and the dragon, and the descriptions and figurative language create mental images through a process somewhat like silent intersemiotic translation. When we compare the intense visual imagery of the poetry in Canto 11 to the relatively small woodcut, we experience a bit of illustrative dissonance. The illustration seems to serve a metonymic function; it represents the idea of Redcrosse and the battle and does not depict the described scene in the poem.

The question remains: given the disparity of size between Redcrosse and the dragon, plus the abundance of detail in Canto 11, how can an illustrator portray the epic battle scene?

Although the visual focusing and recursive and ekphrastic imagery209 helps us to imagine the

206 See Jean Hagstrum, The Sister Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958), 12 for more extensive definition of enargeia and energeia. Hagstrum argues that Plutarch and Philostratus help to establish definitions and conventions for these techniques, and the tradition of lively description emerges in Renaissance paratexts of the Ars Poetica (59-61). See John Bender’s overview of enargeia and energia in Spenser and Literary Pictorialism (Princeton: Princeton University Press: 1973), 4-10. The notion that “poetry is a speaking picture” began in the writings of Greek poet, Simonides of Ceos, and was furthered in Horace’s assertion “ut pictura poesis.” This idea informed writing about poetry in Renaissance aesthetics, including Philip Sidney’s assertion that wisdom will lie dark “if [it] be not illuminated or figured forth by the speaking picture of poesy” ([D3v]) in Philip Sidney, Defence of Poesie (London: William Ponsonby, 1595). 207 Bender, 41. 208 Bender, 40-41. 209 The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (NPEPP) defines ekphrasis as a “detailed description of an image, primarily visual; in specialized form, limited to description of a work of visual art.” The NPEPP also asserts that in classical rhetoric, speakers used ekphrasis to “amplify emotions, with

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scene, the logistics of the passage are perplexing. If we were to attempt to depict the enormous dragon in battle with Redcrosse, the monster might not fit within the frame of the image, or the elfin knight would appear as a tiny speck on the horizon. Representing the purported disparity of size between the man and reptilian beast might prove troublesome without high-resolution zoom.

Spenser’s descriptive language creates a fragmented dragon in a monstrous blazon; he constructs an imaginary creature that is not (and perhaps cannot be) replicated on the handheld page.

John Bender argues that Spenser’s perplexing images cause readers to slow down and ponder the complex description, which in turn mimics the process of vision. Bender builds his argument on E.H. Gombrich’s “Moment and Movement in Art” and Art and Illusion, in which

Gombrich argues that seeing and perception of the visual world is not a passive process, but a recursive, interactive, and time-intensive activity. Viewing requires the interpretation of visual signs, revisiting the image to reinterpret what we have seen, and then making sense of ambiguous or contradictory symbols and information.210 Bender asserts, “Visual perception … is a process of mediation between familiar schemata and confusing sensory data,”211 and argues

the rhetor lingering over key aspects of an image in order to persuade his audience (Cicero, De oratore; Quintilian, Institutio oratoria). Ekphrasis in this regard is often conflated with *enargeia, Aristotle's term not just for visual detail, but for tropes of animation (Rhetoric 3.11.2)”. Here, I am using the term to mean highly detailed and lively description. For more information on ekphrasis, including its complex definitions and use, see Alex Preminger and T V. F. Brogan The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics edited by Roland Greene, Stephen Cushman, and Clare Cavanagh. 4th ed. (Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 1993); Joel Altman, “Ekphrasis,” Early Modern Theatricality, ed. Henry S. Turner (Oxford University Press 2013), 270-290; Ruth Webb, “Ekphrasis Ancient and Modern: The Invention of a Genre,” Word and Image 15, no. 1 (1999): 7-18; Leonard Barkan “Making Pictures Speak: Renaissance Art, Elizabethan Literature, Modern Scholarship,” Renaissance Quarterly 48, no. 2 (1995): 326-351; Barkan, “The Beholder’s Tale: Ancient Sculpture, Renaissance Narratives,” Representations 44 (1993): 133-166; Murray Kreiger, “Introduction,” Ekphrasis: The Illusion of the Natural Sign (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), 1-28. 210 Bender, 25-28; see E. H. Gombrich, “Moment and Movement in Art,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 27 (1964): 293-306; Gombrich, A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (New York: Pantheon Books, 1960). 211 Bender, 28.

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that Spenser’s repetition of complex images simulates human processes of vision and perception.

Spenser’s intense descriptions and contradictory information halt the progression of narrative, and readers spend more time observing, interpreting, and re-interpreting a scene and its intricacies. This process of reading, Bender argues, reproduces essential features of vision and perception.

Spenser’s poetry may simulate the complex processes of perception and seeing, but sometimes those very contradictions and distorted scenes that Bender associates with Spenser’s pictorialism become so complex that they become virtually unillustratable. Despite the poem’s descriptive clarity and ability to appear in the “theatre” of our minds, the contradictory sensory information creates passages in the epic that are difficult, if not impossible, to depict in two- dimensions. For example, in Book I, scenes that describe Duessa’s appearance confound readers by creating descriptive information that does not produce a definite or clear picture. Fradubio recounts the moment that he spied Duessa bathing, and describes the shape of her body:

“Her neather parts misshapen, monstruous, Were hidd in water, that I could not see But they did seeme more foule and hideous Then womans shape man would beleeue to be” (I.ii.41). Fradubio’s eyesight guides his narration, but as he recounts his experience, the details become ambiguous. In the first line he describes Duessa’s misshapen and monstrous nether parts, but in the next line he claims that he “could not see” her body as it was hidden underwater. By line three, he describes Duessa’s shape once more, reporting that she “did seeme” foul and hideous.

Fradubio’s vision is uncertain; he uses the verb “to seem” to denote appearances that may be

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illusory or false.212 Although readers can vaguely imagine the underwater refraction of Duessa’s tail, an illustrator would experience difficulties when translating the diction of this passage into pictures from Fradubio’s point of view; one cannot illustrate a shape-shifting body that is both hidden and visible. This particular instance is one of several moments in The Faerie Queene in which Spenser explores optical illusions, contradictory visions, and shifting perspectives.

While literary critics like Bender praise Spenser’s intensely visual language,213 others question the pictorialism of The Faerie Queene, claiming that Spenser’s allegory resists illustration and is difficult to illustrate for reasons inherent in the poetry itself.214 Jane Grogan examines contradictory passages that describe the decorative gate that leads to Arcasia’s Bower of Bliss and Malecasta’s tapestries of Venus and Adonis, and she argues that Spenser’s

212 "seem, v.2." OED Online, Oxford University Press, December 2016. As seem in these uses may mean “a semblance or appearance; the notion of mere appearance as opposed to fact.” 213 Older opinions often include comparisons of Spenser’s allegory to Rubens’s allegorical paintings. See William Hazlitt, “Chaucer and Spenser,” Lectures on the English Poets, 3rd edition (John Templeman, 1841): 76; Frederic I. Carpenter, A Reference Guide to Edmund Spenser (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1923), 278; Hippolyte Taine, A History of English Literature, trans. N. Van Laun (Edinburgh : Edmonston and Douglas, 1871), 1, 293, 304, 319; Herbert E. Cory, Edmund Spenser: A Critical Study (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1917) 106, 109. For a critical history of Spenser’s pictorial style in The Faerie Queene, see Joseph B. Dallett, "Ideas of Sight in The Faerie Queene," ELH 27, no. 2 (1960): 87-121.

214 Rudolf Gottfried, “The Pictorial Element in Spenser’s Poetry,” ELH 19, no. 3 (1952): 203-213; especially 209. Donald Cheney also argues that Spenser constantly insists on the “ambiguity of images”; see Cheney, Spenser's Image of Nature: Wild Man and Shepherd in the Faerie Queene (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), 26. In recent critical conversations, scholars negotiate conflict by examining Spenser on a smaller scale: by analyzing ekphrastic description of art objects in The Faerie Queene or by exploring Spenser’s conflict with visual images and Calvinist iconoclasm. See Lyle Glazier, “The Nature of Spenser’s Imagery,” Modern Language Quarterly 16 (1955): 300-310; C.R. Sonn, “Spenser’s Imagery,” ELH 25 (1959): 156-170; Judith Dundas, “The Rhetorical Basis of Spenser’s Imagery,” SEL 1500-1900 8, no. 1 (1968): 59-75; Grogan, “‘So liuely and so like, that liuing sense it fayld’: Enargeia and ekphrasis in The Faerie Queene,” Word and Image 25, no. 2 (2009): 166-177; Jane Grogan, “Misreading Spenser” in Exemplary Spenser: Visual and Poetic Pedagogy in the Faerie Queene (Farnham, Surrey; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009), 1-26.

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descriptions of art objects in The Faerie Queene are “unvisualizable.”215 Grogan asserts that these moments are part of the enigmatic allegory, but their ambiguity “[transports] the reader sensually into Faeryland and then [jolts] him or her back out again, … marking the distance between reading and text.”216 Grogan accurately asserts that Spenser’s problematic and unvisualizable description of art objects is disruptive, and I would add that the dilemmas within the facades of art and architecture in the epic only constitute part of Spenser’s larger pattern of uncertainty and double vision.

The debate over Spenser’s pictorialism stems from deep contradictions within The Faerie

Queene; a close examination of the epic offers no resolution because at various points in the poem, the language is both pictorial and resistant to literal depiction. To navigate the contradictions within Spenser’s poetry, we might proceed another way if we reconsider the epic through the lens of intersemiotic translation. While readers may easily translate much of The

Faerie Queene into pictures or drawings, other moments of the epic are indeed unillustratable or intersemiotically untranslatable. Lines of sight directly precede lines of invisibility, creatures change abruptly and entirely, and contradictions prevent us from imagining a cohesive image or representing a single picture through illustration.

The term “untranslatable” is best known for its place on the spectrum of verbal translation; Barbara Cassin defines the untranslatable as a word or expression that requires further signifiers for translation into another language.217 An untranslatable term does not easily

215Grogan, “‘So liuely and so like, that liuing sence it fayld’: Enargeia and Ekphrasis in The Faerie Queene,” Word and Image 25, no. 2 (2009): 166-177; especially page 176. Grogan argues that Spenser disassociates readers from the heroic characters at the highest peak of absorption of the ekphrasis and destabilizes the reading experience (169). 216 Grogan, “Enargeia and Ekphrasis,” 169. 217 Barbara Cassin, Steven Rendall, and Emily S. Apter, Dictionary of Untranslatables: A Philosophical Lexicon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014). Cassin defines the unstranslatable as “[a term] one

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yield to interpretation by the other language or become clearly comprehensible through interlingual translation. Emily Apter asserts that the untranslatable has a kind of “militant semiotic intransigence attached to [it]… Often it can come off as non-sense that becomes strangely acceptable through the sheer force of grammar.”218 Although Apter’s work does not address intersemiotic translation or unillustratability, a clear parallel exists between the two types of non-translation. The unillustratable passage includes contradictory or difficult verbal descriptions that only become “strangely acceptable” to the mind’s eye or to depiction through the sheer force of a reader’s imaginative and analytical interpretations. Instead of translating to one single cohesive image in illustration, unillustratables may require various different visual depictions or illustrations that entirely negate each other, and these moments require us to devise multiple interpretations to make sense of the verbal language. These are paradoxical and complicated visuals; they put pressure on visual and verbal signification systems and produce a rhizomatic relationship between language, image, and perception.

In this chapter, I focus on eight unillustratable passages in The Faerie Queene to analyze ways in which Spenser explores the limits of word-image relationships. I argue that Spenser deliberately makes these verbal images impossible to illustrate, and presents moments of uncertainty, indeterminacy, and untranslatability in a strategy that can generate varied and multiple experiences of reading. He accomplishes this in many ways, but three that I will discuss in this chapter: first, Spenser creates unillustratable images through an exploration of linguistic plurality. That is, he explores the expressive powers of language by making use of the varied and multiple meanings of words. These contradictory verbal explorations create images that surpass

keeps on (not) translating” (xvii). See also Emily Apter, Against World Literature: On the Politics of Untranslatability (Verso, 2013). 218 Apter, Against World Literature, 34.

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the abilities of two-dimensional book illustrations. Second, Spenser presents readers with didactic ambiguity. Unillustratables often occur in passages of limited narration in which readers make mistakes and discoveries alongside the characters. These moments teach readers how to become better navigators of the text: to doubt, to read carefully, and to watch for signs of danger.219 Third, Spenser incorporates limited narration to produce radical changes in perspective within the poem. These moments occur when Spenser rapidly shifts from limited to omniscient narration and in doing so provides contradictory data from various points of view.

This narrative switching and other perplexing tactics contribute to what I am calling the

Spenserian Uncertainty Principle, in which characters within the narrative appear to be both simultaneously dead and alive, screaming and quiet, in darkness and light, and other impossibilities.

Untranslatability and the Paragone

Spenser’s unillustratable passages demonstrate poetry’s power over image by exaggerating the limits of visual semiotics. Illustrators might encounter difficulties depicting the nuances and subtleties of verbal language in the first place. Art historian E. H. Gombrich argues that despite pictures’ capacity for capturing viewers’ attention, the use of images for expressive purposes can be problematic because images, and especially uncaptioned pictures, “[lack] the possibility of matching the statement function of language.”220 Gombrich asserts that almost all

219 Judith Anderson, “A Gentle Knight was Pricking on the Plaine’: The Chaucerian Connection,” English Literary Renaissance 15, no. 2 (1985): 166-174; Stanley E. Fish, Surprised by Sin: The Reader in Paradise Lost, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997); Leigh de Neef, Spenser and the Modes of Metaphor (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1982); Anne Lake Prescott, “How to Read Spenser” in "How to Read The Faerie Queene: A Forum," Spenser Review 44, no. 3 (2015), Accessed Jan 12 2017. 220 E. H. Gombrich, The Image and the Eye: Further Studies in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982), 138-139.

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verbal statements are unillustratable; not only can artists not depict abstract concepts, but pictures cannot represent the subtleties of future tenses, past perfect tenses, articles, and other syntactical constructions. Spenser seems to recognize and utilize this syntactical incapacity of visual language to replicate poetry. His proem to Book III refers to the paragone – the competition between the sister arts of poetry and painting – and Spenser asserts that poetry has more expressive power than the visual arts.221

Spenser’s Proem in Book III concludes that only poetry could possibly capture “lively” and “true” representations of Chastity. He writes:

It falles me here to write of Chastity, That fairest vertue, farre aboue the rest; For which what needs me fetch from Faery Forreine ensamples, it to haue exprest? Sith it is shrined in my Soueraines brest, And form'd so liuely in each perfect part That to all Ladies, which haue it profest, Need but behold the pourtraict of her hart, If pourtrayd it might be by any liuing art.

But liuing art may not least part expresse, Nor life-resembling pencill it can paint, All were it Zeuxis or Praxiteles: His daedale hand would faile, and greatly faint, And her perfections with his error taint: Ne Poets wit, that passeth Painter farre In picturing the parts of beautie daint, So hard a workmanship aduenture darre, For fear through want of words her excellence to marre.

How then shall I, Apprentice of the skill, That whylome in diuinest wits did raine, Presume so high to stretch mine humble quill? Yet now my lucklesse lot doth me constraine Hereto perforce. But ô dred Soueraine

221 See W. Lee Rensselaer, “Ut Pictura Poesis: The Humanistic Theory of Painting,” Art Bulletin 22 (1940): 197-269; Mario Praz, Mnemosyne: The Parallel between Literature and the Visual Arts (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1970); Lucy Gent, Picture and Poetry 1560-1620: Relations between Literature and the Visual Arts in the English Renaissance (Hall, 1981)

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Thus farre forth pardon, sith that choicest wit Cannot your glorious pourtraict figure plaine That I in colourd showes may shadow it, And antique praises vnto present persons fit.

But if in liuing colours, and right hew, Your selfe you couet to see pictured, Who can it doe more liuely, or more trew, Then that sweet verse, with Nectar sprinckeled, In which a gracious seruant pictured His Cynthia, his heauens fairest light? That with his melting sweetnesse rauished, And with the wonder of her beames bright, My senses lulled are in slomber of delight.

But let that same delitious Poet lend A little leaue vnto a rusticke Muse To sing his mistresse prayse, and let him mend, If ought amis her liking may abuse: Ne let his fairest Cynthia refuse, In mirrours more then one her selfe to see, But either Gloriana let her chuse, Or in Belphoebe fashioned to bee: In th'one her rule, in th'other her rare chastitee.

Spenser writes that the “poets wit ... passeth Painter farre” (3.Proem.2) and the painter’s “life- resembling pencill” cannot express the highest virtue, and he predicts that even Zeuxis and

Praxiteles, the visual artists of antiquity famous for their representations of ideal feminine beauty, would falter and fail (3.Proem.2). Spenser’s comparison of the poet’s pen to Zeuxis’s pencil is key to understanding more about his pictorial aesthetic. According to Cicero’s story, when tasked with representing Helen of Troy, Zeuxis selected five virgins in Crotona to combine their features in his painting.222 This process of selecting several bodies and merging them into one image is exactly the opposite of Spenser’s method of imaging in Book III of The Faerie

222 Marcus Tullius Cicero, “Second Treatise on Rhetorical Invention II,” Orations vol. IV, trans. C. D. Yonge (London, 1894), 308. Marcus T. Cicero and Hodge H. Grose, Pro Lege Manilia; Pro Caecina; Pro Cluentio; Pro Rabirio Perduellionis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979); Jean Hagstrum, The Sister Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958), 14.

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Queene. Spenser takes one concept of chastity and disperses it into several different characters like the refraction of a single beam of white light through a prism. Spenser compares his poetry to a multi-mirror of reflected images. In the final stanza of the proem, Spenser writes

In mirrors more then one her selfe to see But either Gloriana let her chuse Or in Belphoebe fashioned to bee:… (3.Proem.5)223

According to this passage, the poet’s toolbox allows for further expression and exploration of avatars, metaphors, and metonyms. Spenser’s pen is able to depict a range of characters, separated in space and time: Gloriana, Britomart, Belphoebe, Amoret, among other women in the text. While reading, faire Cynthia can find her reflection in one or many of these depictions.

Despite the seeming inability of the “living arts” to render Chastity, Spenser’s strategy of representation evades a single image in favor of a multiplicity of illustrations, incorporating the

Renaissance aesthetic agenda of the copia and producing a multivalent and scattered picture.

Spenser continues to revisit the multi-picture in his poetry, setting forth a variety of images to express his allegory and the magical landscape of Faeryland.

Spenser’s use of the multi-picture comes into clearer focus in the context of his previous experience as a translator for Van der Noot’s A Theatre for Worldlings (1569) and his work in

The Shepheardes Calender (1579). The Faerie Queene features doubling and skewed space-time like the poems in A Theatre and Calender, but Spenser replicates the uncertainty of continuous narrative without the illustrations, forcing his readers to explore interpretations of the scene, the magical world, and the allegory without the aid of a picture. For example, at the beginning of

223 See Judith Anderson, “‘In liuing colours and right hew’: The Queen of Spenser’s Central Books,” Poetic Traditions of the English Renaissance, ed. Maynard Mack and George deForest Lord (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982), 47-66.

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Book I, Redcrosse “prick[s] across the plaine,” and three stanzas later, Una “rode him faire beside,/ Upon a lowly Asse more white than snow” (1.1.1-4). Literary scholars often cite this scene to challenge Spenser’s pictorialism because it presents us with an image of Redcrosse and

Una traveling together, but a close reading reveals that these characters are set far from one another in space. The lowly ass cannot keep up with Redcrosse’s “angry steede,” while the dwarf

“lags” on foot far behind Una and Redcrosse (1.1.1 and 6). This image is one of the first unillustratables, and it begins the book and guides us in multiple interpretive directions.

These varied readings lead us to consider time, continuous narrative, and the allegorical language and plural meanings of this passage. The first four stanzas of Book I do not locate the actions of Redcrosse and Una in narrative chronology, opening a possibility that an unspecified amount of time passes between stanzas one and four, and Redcrosse slowed to ride “beside”

Una. Perhaps the image functions as a continuous-narrative image, like the illustrations in A

Theatre, with multiple iterations of Redcrosse. The knight pricks across the plaine in the foreground, but in the midground he rides beside Una, and deep in the background the Dwarf lugs Una’s heavy baggage. But there are allegorical reasons for this distance between characters as well: the embodiment of “Truth” cannot be near Holiness when he is about to be overtaken by

Error. Rudolph Gottfried argues that this passage is one in which Spenser “subordinates the pictorial element to the moral allegory.”224 This paradoxical space-time relationship may cause readers to make mistakes in perception like Redcrosse does. While several images and interpretations can result from this passage, no single or unified image emerges from Spenser’s descriptive language.

224 Gottfried, 210.

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Barthesian theories of textuality and the pluralities of meaning that result from the decoding of linguistic signifiers might help us to better understand the unillustratable images in

The Faerie Queene.225 Readers can reason out some of Spenser’s contradictory images by extending their analytic engagement with the passage. For example, as Redcrosse and Una make their way in the wandering wood, readers must navigate Spenser’s contradictory wordplay to decipher the image of the woman-serpent, Error. As Recrosse and Una encounter Error, Spenser extensively and recursively describes her leaping and winding, her bulging knots, and the misshapen offspring that feed on her body. An illustrator who attempts to draw the half- human/half-serpent must navigate Error’s paradoxical corporeality. When Redcrosse first sees

Error in her cave, the narrator describes the scene, saying:

[Error’s] huge long taile her den all ouerspred Yet was in many knots and many boughtes upwound, Pointed with mortall sting … (1.1.15). Spenser depicts Error’s tail as enormous, slick-and-scaly, and ending in the pointed barbs of a

“mortal sting.” As Errour fights with Redcrosse, she rages in anger and paralyzes him in the grips of her lateral and anterior muscles. At this moment in the tale, the narrator laments that her serpentine body has no limits. The monster

Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine All suddenly about his body wound, That hand or foot to stirre he strove in vaine God helpe the man so wrapped in Errours endlesse traine (1.1.18).

225 Roland Barthes, “From Work to Text,” The Rustle of Language, trans. Richard Howard (Hill and Wang, 1986), 56-68. Barthes asserts, “The plurality of the text depends … on what we might call the stereographic plurality of the signifiers which weave it” (60).

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Her “traine” stretches forth to endlessness, to the limits of visibility on the horizon. Spenser’s opposing descriptions create a creature that is both ending and endless, and these disparate features of Errour’s body evade illustration. This unillustratability emerges as Spenser puns on the multiple meanings of the word “traine,” denoting both “the elongated body of a large snake or dragon” and also treachery, guile, [and] deceit, using the pluralities of verbal signifiers to produce doublespeak.

In cases when two-dimensional illustrations cannot represent the varied and complex images expressed in Spenser’s poetry, the untranslatable moments function somewhat like a moving picture produced by an imaginary thaumatrope (Fig. 5.2). As the disc turns in rapid succession, viewers’ persistence of vision causes two different images to appear as if they are superimposed. Spenser’s thaumatropic imaging can be seen, for example, in the above passages in which Duessa’s body is both hidden and revealed or Errour’s tail is limited and limitless.

These images of the characters superimpose to develop an illusion of simultaneous presence-and- absence and lack a clear and stable picture. Another example of thaumotropic imaging occurs in

Book VI when Sir Calepine rescues Serena from cannibals. The narrator reports a scene of obfuscated vision that is similar to the sight of Duessa’s visible and invisible body. Calepine approaches the gathering of men and, by the “uncertaine glims” of the stars and the campfire,

He mote perceive a little dawning sight Of all, which there was doing in that quire: Mongst whom a woman spoyld of all attire He spyde, lamenting her vnluckie strife (6.8.48).

In this passage, Calepine recognizes the woman’s plight because he “spies” her by the twinkling light. He rescues her from the crowd of “feends,” helps her to dress again, and gives her words of

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comfort. In the next stanza, the narrator says that Calepine does not know Serena until morning, because:

So inward shame of her vncomely case She did conceiue, through care of womanhood, That though the night did cover her disgrace, Yet she in so unwomanly a mood, Would not bewray the state in which she stood. So all night to him vnknowen she past. But day, that doth discouer bad and good, Ensewing, made her knowen to him at last: The end whereof Ile keepe vntill another cast. (6.8.51).

These two adjacent passages could have several possible explications: perhaps the light was too dim for Calepine to truly see Serena, or Spenser attempts to avoid voyeuristic tendencies by

“forgetting” Serena’s nakedness, among other possible explanations. Although multiple interpretations can be gleaned from these lines of text, in traditional illustration, artists would need to consider and choose one image to depict. The text describes the “dawning sight” of

Serena ‘by the twinkling of … fire,” but then later asserts that the woman was cloaked in darkness. In order to depict this scene as an illustration on the two-dimensional page with line, shading, and color, one of those descriptors must yield to the other; a single illustration cannot feature a body that is both “spied” and “unknown,” both visible and invisible.

Another uncertain and unillustratable moment occurs in the wordplay and obfuscatory language of Book V when Britomart discovers that the Amazon Radigund has imprisoned

Artegall. Radigund dresses her captive male knights in “womans weeds,” starves them, and forces them to spin flax for their suppers. The language surrounding her “tyrranous direction” and her abuse of Artegall is often contradictory. Allegorically speaking, Radigund unjustly detains and enslaves the personification of Justice, and to demonstrate this allegorical contradiction, Spenser continuously asserts and negates verbs, using the rhetorical strategies of

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antistasis and antanaclasis (refractio). By repeating the same words in their contrary sense,

Spenser produces a topsy-turvy effect. First, Artegall is “overcome yet not overcome” by

Radigund, indicating that he is “overcome” by her, but only overcome because he consciously submits to her power (5.5.17). Artegall’s yielding creates a domino effect of antanaclasis. When

Britomart learns that Artegall has been captured, she experiences continuous contradictions.

Spenser writes,

And then she in her wrathful will did cast, How to reuenge that blot of honour blent; To fight with him, and goodly die her last: And then againe she did her selfe torment, Inflicting on her selfe his punishment. A while she walkt and chaust; a while she threw Herselfe vppon her bed, and did lament: Yet she did not lament with loude alew, As women wont, but with deepe sighes, and singulfs few.

Like as a wayward childe, whose sounder sleepe Is broken with some fearefull dreames affright, With forward will doth set himselfe to weepe; Ne can be stild for all his nurses might, But kicks, and squals, and shrieks for fell despight: Now scratching her, and her loose locks misusing; Now seeking darkenesse, and now seeking light; Then crauing sucke, and then the sucke refusing. Such was this ladies fit, in her loves fond accusing. (V.6.13-14)

In the first stanza, Spenser ends line seven with the image of Britomart throwing herself upon the bed and lamenting, but continues the next line with “Yet she did not lament,” employing refractio not only by repeating the word “lament” in a contrary sense, but also by creating a distinction between private lamentation and the loud cries of sorrow. The language of this stanza first shows Britomart to be in control of her emotions; she “laments,” but does not wail like women do, but she expresses her emotions in a more “masculine” way, by sighing deeply. As

Spenser continues to describe her using an extended metaphor in the following stanza, the poetry

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presents an entirely opposite image. Britomart “kicks, and squals, and shriekes,” becoming inconsolable like an infant child. The fourteenth stanza lacks signifiers that situate the reader in narrative time. The other stanzas of this scene have many markers of time like “then,” “while,” and “when” to denote the progression of actions, but this particular stanza has no such marks of chronology. Instead, the simile again changes Britomart’s quiet expression of grief: first she

“laments,” then she “did not lament,” and suddenly she experiences a fit of loud and violent weeping.

The description of Britomart’s lamentation shifts from a “sigh” to a “fit” within an extended metaphor and not within the narrative itself, so it is difficult to pinpoint exactly when her actions changed. Because the signifiers of narrative time are absent, many interpretive possibilities arise. Perhaps the stanzas present a limited view of a moment-to-moment reaction, and Britomart’s quiet grief gives way to shrieks. Or, perhaps like the scene between Redcrosse and Una, no narrative time passes and Britomart is simultaneously quiet and screaming. This unpredictability and instability echoes the previous refractio that occurs in the cantos that describe this incident.

Spenser’s contradictory and unillustratable passages often foreshadow danger and signify that something is amiss in the narrative. In addition to warning readers that evil forces are at work, these complications also can change readers’ comprehension and navigational strategies.

These topsy-turvy moments cause readers to read recursively, actively, and attentively while navigating the text. In the next section, I will discuss Spenser’s aesthetic for creating horrific characters and encouraging readers to return to passages, learning and discerning as they traverse the text.

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Untranslatability and Didactic Ambiguity

Unillustratability is a resource for extending readers’ engagement with The Faerie

Queene, encouraging them to re-read and devise multiple interpretations. Intersemiotically untranslatable passages have multiple effects on reading comprehension and plot navigation.

This recursion and complex thinking may cause readers to become conscious of their own reading practices (or question what they read) and thus breaks the willing suspension of disbelief. Like the moments that jar audiences as they realize that characters are not quite what they seem to be, other paradoxical passages teach readers to discern by asking them to navigate and recursively explore difficulties, duplicities, and illusions. Grogan argues that Spenser’s unvisualizable passages work "to fashion virtuous readers” by helping them to learn from their mistakes, and encouraging them to continue to attend to the text despite the pushing and squeezing of the competitive illustrations.226 The reading experience is based on navigation and discovery as readers learn to recognize deceit. These ambiguous and heuristic moments

“fashion” readers, and teach them to realize that things are not as they appear. Difficult passages break categorical boundaries, creating oddities that instruct readers to rethink and explore the meanings of inconsistencies. Making errors and learning from mistakes is central to the process of reading The Faerie Queene. As Anne Lake Prescott writes,

“Misreading in Spenser’s text is vital to the narrative … we are often meant to misread at

first. That’s life. Otherwise how can we empathize with those bad readers in the text? Just

226 Grogan, 166. Grogan’s concept of “fashioning” builds on Stephen Greenblatt’s notion of Renaissance self-fashioning. For more on fashioning and Spenser, see Stephen Greenblatt, “To Fashion a Gentleman: Spenser and the Destruction of the Bower of Bliss,” Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare, (University of Chicago Press, 1980), 157-192; Jennifer Julia Sorensen has also written about this “squeezing” feature of contradictory language in the fiction of Henry James; see “Henry James experiments with print culture,” Modernist Experiments in Genre, Media, and Transatlantic Print Culture (Routledge 2017), 25-35.

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scorning them for their obtuseness will do us no good as readers ourselves. The

experience of error helps us read better.227

Spenser manages to create another world that readers can only navigate by exploring and mapping. The first reading of Spenser’s epic will include inevitable mistakes and puzzles, but once readers traverse the narrative, they are less likely to make the same mistake twice.

In The Faerie Queene, Spenser uses these unillustratable moments to teach readers to recognize instances of duplicity, falsehood, and error that protagonists encounter. Monsters and other malformed, contradictory creatures are harbingers of discord in the text; untranslatables ultimately remind readers not to rely on appearances. Irreconcilable differences often occur in

Spenser’s depictions of evil women and their monstrous bodies. Like the concept of Chastity that emerges rhizomatically228 in Cynthia, Belphoebe, Britomart, the concept of “Error” is also rhizomatic; even if Redcrosse defeats one form of “Error,” several more iterations of her await him and other protagonists later. We can recognize Errors in the text by noting unillustratable or impossible bodies. For example, Error and Duessa are physically interstitial; they are part human and part animal, corporally unified and incomplete, and simultaneously beautiful and repulsive.

Their bodies are difficult to illustrate and produce an unsettling reading experience through a strategy that Noël Carroll calls “categorical jamming.” 229 In his Philosophy of Horror, Carroll

227 Prescott, “How to Read Spenser.” 228 The Spenserian rhizome is slightly different from the Deleuzian rhizome. While Deleuze and Guattari define the rhizome as an interbeing that “has no beginning or end” (25), Spenser’s rhizomes have an origin point, but the original idea assumes different forms throughout the poem, extending in multiple directions and manifesting in various characters. Like the Deleuzian rhizome, Spenser’s rhizome also “operates by variation, expansion, conquest, capture, and offshoots” (21). Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 3-25. 229 Noël Carroll, The Philosophy of Horror, Or, Paradoxes of the Heart (Routledge, 1990), 44.

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defines this phenomenon as “the compounding of ordinarily disjoint or conflicting categories in an integral, spatio-temporally unified individual.”230 Category jamming often causes disgust, revulsion, and terror.231 The category jamming that Spenser employs signifies that a character is dangerous, and I argue, links untranslatability with malicious characters in the text.

Another character in Spenser’s narrative that demonstrates her discordant nature through unillustratability is Ate, a character Spenser borrows from Greek mythology and from Homer’s

Iliad.232 And although she appears as the force of discord in ancient myths and other narratives,

Spenser’s embodiment and high-definition description presents a new kind of complicated corporeality. Like Spenser’s other descriptions of disastrous women like Duessa and Error, Ate’s description is impossible to represent with a single illustration. Spenser first describes Ate as a character that outwardly shows “faire semblance” under the mask of “beauty and good grace,” but as he continues to describe her, she becomes her own opposite. The narrator says,

Her face most fowle and filthy was to see With squinted eyes contrarie wayes intended and loathly mouth, vnmeete a mouth to bee (4.1.27)

In the span of fifteen stanzas, we come to understand that Ate and Duessa are presenting as beautiful women, but their true form is “old and crooked.” Not only are Ate’s eyes “contrarie,” and her mouth “unmeete,” but her body also appears grotesque: her limbs, hands, and feet are

230 Carroll, 44 231 Carroll, 32. 232 Ate, the antithesis of peace and friendship, is the third member of the shape-shifting and discordant trio of foul characters (Duessa, Error, and Ate) in The Faerie Queene. Although the characters do not all appear together, they are linked by their creations. As Joan Heiges Blythe claims, “Ate was ‘raised’ by Duessa” and “Ate is ‘borne of hellish brood’ and had ... a monstrous shape [that] links her also to Error” See “Ate” in A. C. Hamilton, The Spenser Encyclopedia (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990), 76.

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deformed and one of her feet is turned around backward. As the loathly women ride along with

Blandamour and Paridell, Ate appears “As fresh and fragrant as the floure deleuce” (4.1.31). We can understand this description of Ate both metaphorically and physically. Her physical ailments and deformities can be read allegorically: her contrarie eyes and mouth indicating a skewed vision and speech; her twisted foot symbolizes her lack of movement toward progress or correctness. But readers can also imagine the physical layers of this character, and envision the foul face and forked tongue that rests behind the fresh and flowery facade. Illustrating Ate’s body with pencil or paintbrush might prove difficult. Choosing to represent one image of Ate automatically negates the other – and her character depends on this multiplicity. Without establishing a thaumatrope, film transition, or “lift-the-flap” book to allow viewers to see both

“sides” of Ate, traditional illustration methods force the illustrator to choose a single face and body to represent.

These unillustratable moments have an effect similar to what picture theorists like W.J.T.

Mitchell and others call “multistable images” in which opposing or different meanings “co-exist in a single image”233 Two well-known multistable images are the “Duck/Rabbit” image and the

“Old/Young Woman” illusion (Figs. 5.3 and 5.4). When viewers look at multistable images, they experience a “revelation” in which their perception shifts to see both pictures, and they return with fascination to the image that seems to be both changeable and also singular and definite.

Like multistable images, unillustratable passages involve a shift in cognition at some point in the reading/viewing process. Duessa’s singular body, for example contains multitudes: her constant disguising causes her to appear dainty, fair, monstrous, and ugly at different points in the

233 W.J.T. Mitchell, Picture Theory: Essays on Verbal and Visual Representation, (University of Chicago Press, 1995), 45.

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narrative (1.4.51; 1.8.48). Readers might not initially know the “ugliness” of Duessa despite

Spenser’s warnings that she is “false,” but as they traverse the text and return to re-read, the complexity of her character becomes apparent. Both unillustratable passages and multistable images create a “see-saw” effect, in which the text comments upon itself as a work of art or literature, holds viewers’ attention longer, and extends the readers’ engagement with the image or the language to interpret the text. Spenser’s contradictions and double vision describe characters that aim to harm or confuse the protagonists; in the battle of good and evil in The

Faerie Queene, unillustratability often signifies the latter. By the time readers approach Ate in

Book IV, they have already experienced the shapeshifting bodies of Duessa and Error, and they might recognize the signs of deception at work in the landscape before the characters do.

In addition to these multistable images, Spenser encourages recursive reading by melding or disguising characters through the use of undifferentiated pronouns. Spenser’s pronouns cause a visual puzzle that only further reading and the unfolding of narrative time can decode. Pronoun mysteries occur throughout the text. For example, in Book I Spenser refers to both Sansfoy and

Sansloy by masculine pronouns without giving clear antecedents (1.4.39), and uses ambiguous feminine pronouns when Belpheobe and the Turtledove encounter each other (5.8.9). This syntax causes the characters to appear un-individuated or double until they are pulled into focus through the poem and recursive reading. Spenser’s third-person narration and masculine pronouns disguise Britomart as a male knight in Books III and IV. Britomart first appears in the narrative at the beginning of Book III through Guyon’s perspective. Guyon first mistakes Britomart for a male knight and the poem unfolds from this erroneous point of view. As Arthur and Guyon ride across the plain, the text reads:

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They spide a knight, that towards pricked fayre, And him beside an aged squire there rode That seemed to couch under his shield three-square” (3.1.4; italics mine)

Readers who are not yet aware of Britomart’s gender-bending discover her true identity three stanzas later, when the narrator directly addresses Guyon after Britomart defeats him, saying

“weenest thou, what wight thee ouerthrew,” revealing that Britomart is a “damzell” (3.1.8).234

Spenser’s direct address with second person pronoun “thou” shifts the narrative and invites both

Guyon and the reader to discover more about Britomart and to change their perceptions. Once the reader “weens” the truth, he or she has the potential to use this lesson to navigate the text without making the same errors. For example, later in Book IV, when Britomart rescues Amoret, the narrative unfolds from Amoret’s point of view, and employs masculine pronouns to refer to

Britomart again, saying “His will she feard; for him she surely thought/ To be a man” (4.1.8).

After reading Guyon’s first encounter with Britomart and his/her mistaken identity, we remember Britomart’s previous gender ambiguity and may better understand why Amoret makes this error as well. The scenes that appear from multiple points of view in Spenser’s narrative are some of the most difficult to illustrate. In the case of Britomart, the character appears in a masculine state when seen from a limited point of view, but appears in a feminine state from the omniscient narrator’s re-adjustment. From the skewing of time and space to the shifting perspectives that leave characters in limbo, not everything in The Faerie Queene is what it first appears to be, and this narrative ambiguity seems to be a strategy that we see several times

234 Judith H. Anderson, "Britomart's Armor In Spenser's Faerie Queene': Reopening Cultural Matters Of Gender And Figuration," English Literary Renaissance 39, no. 1 (2009): 74-96; Donald Stump, "Fashioning Gender: Cross-Dressing In Spenser's Legend Of Britomart And Artegall," Spenser Studies: A Renaissance Poetry Annual 15 (2001): 95-119. John Henry Adams, "Assembling Radigund And Artegall: Gender Identities In Spenser's Faerie Queene," Early Modern Literary Studies: A Journal Of Sixteenth- And Seventeenth-Century English Literature 18, no. 1-2 (2015): 1-22.

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throughout the poem.

Spenserian Uncertainty Principle

In addition to didactic moments in which readers make discoveries as they traverse the text, Spenser uses multistable and unillustratable passages to help readers learn to read carefully.

The narrative continues to slip from omniscient to limited points of view at various moments and allows readers to make the mistakes that originate from limited perspectives, but returns to omniscient narration again after a trial period. The untranslatable moment creates a schism in the narration to show us a limited point of view, but when the narration returns to an omniscient view, the superposition ceases and the character returns to a definite state. Spenser creates this effect with inconsistent narrative strategies, shifting from omniscience to momentary myopia and back to omniscience once more.

Shifts from limited to omniscient perspectives within stanzas or between stanza breaks of

The Faerie Queene result in an effect that I call The Spenserian Uncertainty Principle, which can cause a character to appear dead from a limited perspective, but shown to be alive from the omniscient perspective. This produces an effect similar to Neils Bohr’s Copenhagen interpretation of quantum physics, which posits that physical systems can exist in multiple states until they are observed and then “collapse” into one state or another. Bohr claimed that sub- atomic particles could exist in more than one place at one time (superposition) until they collapse when a human eye observes and records them. Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger debated the validity of the Copenhagen interpretation by devising a thought experiment in which a cat and a small vial of poison exist in the same box. According to the Copenhagen interpretation, the cat would be simultaneously alive and dead until a human eye looks into the box to find the animal in one definite state. Schrödinger’s thought experiment challenges the Copenhagen theory by

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asserting that this system does not work: the cat will be dead at some point, no matter who is watching/not watching.235 But Spenser’s narrative presents an imaginary physical system in which the Copenhagen interpretation holds true from a limited perspective. Based on a single character’s point of view, other bodies in the text can present themselves as simultaneously dead and alive. The character might appear to be dead, but when the omniscient narrator observes and describes the scene, we find the character is alive. For a few moments, the true state of the character is suspended until the omniscient narrator, the ultimate observer, can correct our mistake or misweening.

A character’s apparent death first occurs in Book I of The Faerie Queene when Fradubio completes his story. Redcrosse patches the tree up with clay and turns to Duessa; the stanza ends with this line, “dead with feare her found” (1.2.44). The next stanza begins with a different story,

“Her seeming dead he found with feigned feare” (1.2.45). The syntax of these sentences results in some confusion, and this reading experience causes a quick perspective shift. In the last line of stanza 44, Duessa is dead to the inexperienced reader, but she comes back to life, faking her

“dimmed sight with pale and deadly hew.” Readers first experience the discovery from

Redcrosse’s limited point of view; when he turns back to Duessa she appears dead because he mistakenly believes that she is dead. The next line jars us back to the panoramic picture of omniscient narrative. This near-death experience stems from Duessa’s falseness, but the shock of finding Duessa “dead” seems to cause Redcrosse to forget Fradubio’s warning. When Duessa

235 “Schrödinger’s Cat, A Dictionary of Physics, 7th ed. Edited by Jonathan Law and Richard Rennie (Oxford University Press, 2015). Erwin Schrödinger, "Die gegenwärtige Situation in der Quantenmechanik (The present situation in quantum mechanics)," Naturwissenschaften 23, no. 48 (1935): 807–812.

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recovers from her near-death experience, Recrosse sets her on his horse and travels on with her once more (1.2.45).

Duessa is a perpetual problem in The Faerie Queene, showing up again in Book IV to cause further near-death experiences. Duessa re-emerges with Ate and reports to Scudamor that his beloved Amoret has been seen with another knight. In stanza 52, Scudamor loses his temper when Duessa tells him of Amoret’s wandering ways and curses him, and turns on Britomart’s nursemaid, Glauce:

[Scudamor] Staid not to answer, scarcely did refraine But that in all those knights and ladies sight He for revenge had guiltless Glauce slaine (4.1.52). The syntax of these sentences could cause a careless reader to think that Scudamor killed Glauce in revenge. Ambiguity persists around the liveliness of Glauce; she does not move or speak until stanza 54, when she looks up at the enraged knight. Even after this line, Spenser’s uncertain lines suggest that Glauce may not be alive, because she is described as “dead with feare” again in the next line (4.1.54). By the end of the stanza, Scudamor tries to kill her three times, but cannot bring himself to do it. Within the cogs of the reading mind, Glauce is slain, spared, seeing, and dead within a span of three stanzas. These rapidly changing images evade solid illustration. The limited narration from Scudamor’s point of view causes this unillustratable moment. Lesley Brill argues that Scudamor “suffers from willful and self-consuming jealous rage,” 236 but Scudamor’s jealous rage is not only self-consuming, it also commandeers and consumes the narrative perspective, bending the scene to his viewpoint. We imagine Glauce’s death with Scudamor, as he raises his hand four times with a desire to murder her. This image of heightened tension and

236 Lesley Brill, “Scudamor,” The Spenser Encyclopedia, 635.

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confusion seems to capture Scudamor’s boiling, irrational anger. Spenser allows Scudamor’s mindscape to merge with ours in the moment of great conflict, and perhaps links readers to

Scudamor’s imaginative thought as he attempts to control his violent jealousy. In these two cases, the poem expresses what illustration cannot – the subtleties of emotion that the characters feel, and the shift between limited and omniscient narration. If an illustrator were to draw a picture of these scenes where Duessa and Glauce die uncertain or false deaths, he could not replicate the simultaneous life and death that hovers over these characters, the reading that holds these characters in suspension, and the revelatory and recursive experience of discovery and resolution that occurs when we discover the characters to be alive once more, or never dead at all.

While Spenser’s images are pictorial as they make us reconsider, revisit, and recursively read the scenes to interpret them, some of the contradictions that appear in Faeryland evade depiction in two-dimensional book illustration. Using the concepts of untranslatability and unillustratability, we can come to a better understanding of the ways in which Spenser writes The

Faerie Queene to engage readers in interpretive challenges, lessons, and riddles. Unillustratable poetry does not necessarily indicate that a passage cannot be illustrated, but that its illustration is complex and the text creates limits on ways that it can be depicted in two dimensions, or from a single point of view. Spenser creates and enhances readers’ engagement with the text by involving them in interactive reading. Reading The Faerie Queene is an adventure that one takes without a map, and sees the magic of monsters that are too big to fit on the page, shape shifters, and near death experiences. Through all of this, we learn to navigate most of these shifts in narration, we learn to recognize evil bodies by their contrariness, and our second reading is never quite as surprising as our first. Spenser’s unillustratability spans far beyond selected cases of

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ekphrasis and includes outlandish visions of time and space, contradictory description, and complex metaphor.

Figure 5.1 "St. George and the Dragon" in Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (John Wolfe for William Ponsonby, 1590)

Figure 5.2 Thaumatrope

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Figure 5.3 Multistable Image of the Duck/Rabbit

Figure 5.4 Multistable image of the Old/Young Woman

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CHAPTER 6

“WHY [GRAPHIC] LYRIC”: TRANSLATING SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS IN PANELS 237

Russ Kick’s The Graphic Canon (2014) is a three-volume anthology of illustrated works in which artists have reframed canonical texts with vibrant illustrations, sequential panels, text boxes and speech bubbles. Out of fifty-six adaptations within this first volume, seven are illustrated productions of non-narrative poems, beginning with Sappho’s fragments and closing with Shakespeare’s Sonnets 18 and 20.238 Painter Robert Berry and graphic designer Josh Levitas collaborated to adapt Sonnet 18, and comics creator Aidan Koch designed watercolor and pencil sketches to remediate Sonnet 20. When compared to illustrated texts in previous chapters of this dissertation, the early modern sonnets in The Graphic Canon produce a different kind of reading experience. If the early modern illustrated page can be compared to a bilingual page where margins, white space, and gutters separate visual and verbal languages, then the mise-en-page of the sonnets in The Graphic Canon is similar to a page of mixed language, in which readers negotiate visual and verbal languages, rapidly switching from one to another as they explore the

237 I have reproduced (in facsimile) Sonnet 18 in Appendix B and Sonnet 20 in Appendix C. 238 Adaptations of Shakespeare’s Sonnets are only two examples of many remediations of Shakespeare’s works. For more information about comics and graphic novel adaptations of Shakespeare, see Michael Jensen “Shakespeare and the Comic Book,” The Edinburgh Companion to Shakespeare and the Arts (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011), 388-405; J.C. Finlayson, “The Boundaries of Genre: Translating Shakespeare in Antony Johnston and Brett Weldele's Julius,” Teaching the Graphic Novel, ed. Stephen E. Tabachnick (New York: Modern Language Association, 2009), 188-199; Douglas Lanier, “Recent Shakespeare Adaptation and the Mutations of Cultural Capital,” Shakespeare Studies 38 (2010): 104-113; Laura B. Wilson, “Layered Stories: Images of Shakespeare in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman,” Shakespeare Yearbook 11 (2000): 118-135; James P. Lusardi, “Iconic Shakespeare: Oscar Zarate's Othello,” Shakespeare Yearbook 11 (2000): 136-153; Ryuta Minami, “Shakespeare for Japanese Popular Culture: Shojo Manga, Takarazuka, and Twelfth Night,” Shakespeare in Asia: Contemporary Performance, ed. Dennis Kennedy and Yong Li Lan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2010), 109-131.

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text.239 In The Graphic Canon, the colors and shapes within the panels interrupt the lines of poetry, and expanses of white space do not separate word and image. Readers use a process similar to linguistic code-switching to decipher both image and text as the production constantly alternates between visual and verbal languages.240

The page and panel designs of Sonnets 18 and 20 in The Graphic Canon require readers to alternate between visual and verbal languages as they read snippets of poetry and view vibrant colors. The mise-en-page of both poems appear similar to the layout of a graphic novel or comic book, but these sonnet adaptations do not fit the usual definitions of what theorists argue that comics and graphic novels should be. Since cartoonist Will Eisner first described comics as a

“sequential art” in the 1980s,241 many scholars have considered chronological narrative to be a defining feature of the genre.242 Greg Hayman and Henry John Pratt assert that for a text to be

239 I say that readers rapidly switch from one language to another because the anatomy of the human eye does not allow an individual to focus with high acuity on two objects on the page at one time. Despite the close proximity of word to image, readers cannot see both objects with the same degree of precision. Readers of illustrated texts are receivers of intersemiotic switching, negotiating both visual and verbal languages in the context of a single page or panel. In addition to rapid switching described above, eye- tracking research also shows that different readers practice varied visual scans of the page. Some readers integrate the visual and verbal text by switching from text to image rapidly and repeatedly, while others have a less integrative method, looking at image, to text, and back to image. See Jana Holsanova, Nils Holmberg, and Kenneth Holmqvist, “Reading Information Graphics: The Role of Spatial Contiguity and Dual Attention Guidance,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 2, no. 2 (2008): 1-12; Lucia Mason, Maria Caterina Tornatora, Jana Holsanova, Henrik Rahm, and Kenneth Holmqvist, “Entry Points and Reading Paths on Newspaper Spreads: Comparing a Semiotic Analysis with Eye Tracking Measurements,” Visual Communication 5, no. 1 (2006): 65-93. 240 Code-switching occurs when a bilingual or multilingual speaker alternates between one or more languages in the context of a single conversation. See Penelope Gardner-Chloros, Code-switching (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Peter Auer, Code-switching in Conversation: Language, Interaction and Identity (London: Routledge, 1998). 241 See Will Eisner, Comics and Sequential Art (Tamarac, FL: Poorhouse Press, 1985), 122-138; Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (Northampton, MA: Kitchen Sink Press, 1993). McCloud builds upon Eisner’s definition and argues that comics are “juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or produce an aesthetic response in the viewer” (9). 242 In addition to Eisner and McCloud’s theories, see David Carrier, The Aesthetics of Comics (University Park: Penn State University Press, 2000); Jared Gardner, “Storylines,” SubStance: Graphic Narratives

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considered a comic, it must include juxtaposed pictures on a page that “comprise a narrative, either in their own right or when combined with text.”243 To create most comics and graphic novels, authors and illustrators fracture narrative into snapshots through a process Scott

McCloud terms “breakdown,” then draw the scenes within panels separated by lines or white spaces.244 Narrative panel sequences in comics and graphic novels often feature moment-to- moment, action-to-action, or scene-to-scene transitions between panels. The panels unfold in succession, and readers interpret the content by cognitively closing the gaps and re-creating narrative through a process McCloud calls “closure.”245 Narrative sequences are suited to the genre of sequential art forms like comics, but the changeable, porous, interstitial qualities of lyric are not immediately suited to conventions of narrative sequencing and dialogic speech bubbles.246

and Narrative Theory 40, no. 1 (2011): 53-69; Hans-Christian Christiansen, “Comics and Film: A Narrative Perspective,” Comics and Culture: Analytical and Theoretical Approaches to Comics, ed. Anne Magnusson and Hans-Christian Christiansen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2000), 107-121; Eric Berlatsky, “Lost in the Gutter: Within and Between Frames in Narrative and Narrative Theory,” Narrative 17 no. 2 (2009): 162-187. Silke Horstkotte and Nancy Pedri, “Focalization in Graphic Narrative,” Narrative 19, no. 3 (2011): 330-357. 243 Greg Hayman and Henry John Pratt, “What are Comics?” A Reader in Philosophy of the Arts, ed. David Golblatt and Lee Brown [Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1997 (rpt. London: Routlege, 2016)], 423. 244 McCloud, 60-67. 245 McCloud, 63; In contrast to McCloud, scholar Karin Kukkonen argues that readers probably do not construct in-between panels in detail; see Kukkonen, “Space, Time, and Causality in Graphic Narratives: An Embodied Approach,” From Comic Strips to Graphic Novels, ed. Daniel Stein and John Jan-Noël Pier (Berlin; Boston: De Gruyter 2013), 56. 246 Jonathan Culler, "Why Lyric?," PMLA 123, no. 1 (2008): 201-206; Culler, Theory of the Lyric (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2015). Alice Fulton, Feeling as a Foreign Language: The Good Strangeness of Poetry (Minneapolis: Greywolf Press, 1999), 7; Linda Gregerson, “Open Voicing: Wyatt and Shakespeare,” The Oxford Handbook of Shakespeare’s Poetry, ed. Johnathan F.S. Post (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 151-167.

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The adaptations in The Graphic Canon raise important issues in the interpretation of lyric. Many readers treat lyric poems as dramatic monologues, but the narrativization of lyric often neglects the metrics, the structural patterns, enjambments, couplets, voltas, and the performativity of lyric. Linda Gregerson argues that many lyrics have an aura of timelessness and refuse to present a coherent or consolidated back-story.247 Sonnets lack stable narrative and character because of what Gregerson terms “open voicing” or “the porousness of limned persona

[or implied character] that makes that lyric such a limber and profound instrument.”248

Although many still consider comics to be a narrative genre, Aaron Meskin suggests that artists might express non-narrative literature like haiku or lyric poetry in comic formats.249

Meskin does not support his argument with specific examples, but a new genre called “comics poetry” was on the rise in contemporary literature in 2007 when the Journal of Aesthetics and

Art Criticism published Meskin’s article. The literary journal Ink Brick publishes comics poems, and in an interview with The Huffington Post, Ink Brick’s editors, Alexander Rothman, Paul K.

Tunis, and Alexey Sokolin report that from 2005 to the present, they have seen a “groundswell” in creations of the genre.250 Despite its recent uptick in popularity, comics poetry is not a new phenomenon: in 1964, Joe Brainard and other New York School poets produced a collaborative comic poetry anthology titled C Comics that sought to reach the limits of abstract and narrativeless images sequences.251 Like their predecessors in C Comics, the illustrations in Ink

247 Gregerson, 161. 248 Gregerson, 151. 249 Aaron Meskin, “Defining Comics,”The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 65, no. 4. (2007): 369- 379. 250 Maddie Crum, “Holy Buckets, Batman: It’s Poetry for Comic Book Fans!,” Huffington Post, 11 May 2015, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/05/11/comic-poetry-ink-brick_n_7243610.html 251 See C Comics No.1 (New York: Lorenz Gude, 1964). Contributors included Joe Brainard, John Ashbery, Bill Berkson, Ted Berrigan, Robert Dash, Edwin Denby, Kenward Elmslie, Dick Gallup,

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Brick range from mimetic to abstract and expressionistic: the comics poems often feature a short utterance matched with expansive and elaborate illustrations. These word-image combinations are what W. J. T. Mitchell terms “imagetexts”: composite productions that combine image and text.252 Much like early modern emblems, the poems’ meanings are heavily reliant on visual graphics on the page. Dividing the visual and verbal components of the comic poem would undermine the meaning of the text. The poems lack strict lineation or rhyme, and they often emphasize the visual image over the aural experience of the poem.

Comics poetry extends and explores the visual elements of verse, sometimes at the expense of melody, rhythm, or orality of the poem itself. The editors of Ink Brick say that “some examples of ... [comics poetry] will naturally lend themselves to being read out loud, while for others it’s going to be hopeless.”253 If some comics poems are impossible to read aloud, then how might we define these texts in terms of genre: are they poetry, image and imagetext, or both? In one of Warren Craghead’s comics poems from Ink Brick, the verbal components read something like this: “This silly work. (sounds, seeds)” (Fig. 6.1). Craghead’s light pencil marks do not differentiate the scratches of pencil that create the images and the lines that make up the phonetic sounds of words. When one only transcribes the words and phonemes, this alliterative poem seems to focus on sounds, but the deconstruction of the poem into component letters alongside other sketches and scribbles undermines the ease of reading and thus the orality/aurality of the poem. And the layout of text creates words and punctuation that readers cannot easily decipher.

Barbara Guest, Kenneth Koch, Frank Lima, Gerard Malanga, Frank O'Hara, Ron Padgett, Peter Schjeldahl, James Schuyler, Johnny Stanton, Tony Towle, and Tom Veitch. 252 W. J. T. Mitchell, Picture Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 98n. 253 Crum, “Holy Buckets.”

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When creators of comics poetry emphasize a poem’s visuality at the expense of sound, they alter the typical form and melody of lyric poetry. This phenomenon can be better explored through Northrop Frye’s theories of the axes of musicality and visuality in poetry.254 In Anatomy of Criticism and in his notebooks, Frye repurposes Aristotle’s definitions of melos (sound patterning) and opsis (visual structure) in dramatic/tragic poetry. In Poetics, Aristotle describes the portrayal of objects on the stage through visual representation and the musicality of onstage instruments like the lyre or through the rhythm and meter of spoken poetry.255 Frye employs this terminology to describe lyric poetry as a genre that “appeals to the ear... and appeals to at least the inner eye.”256 Frye’s and Jonathan Culler’s mapping and theories of lyric structures may aid in our understanding of comics poetry as a genre. In Theory of the Lyric (2015), Culler continues to explore the notions of melos and opsis, and develops Frye’s definition of opsis as the “visual delineation of lines and stanzas ... [that] confers an identity as poem” and visually demonstrates the expectations and structural potential.”257 Culler argues that lyric poetry is a spatial domain that exists between the pictorial and the musical, and that melos and opsis form a “fundamental axis of opposition for the lyric, and each points toward one boundary of the genre (music and visual arts).”258 Sound and visual delineation are in balance when the poem has visible line

254 In Anatomy of Criticism, Northrop Frye lists various sorts of lyric poetry, attempting to classify different subcategories of lyric (e.g. epitaph, ode, panegyric, etc.). Robert Denham edited Frye’s notebooks and developed a diagram to map the types of lyric poetry that Frye categorizes. For more information about mapping the lyric, see Frye, Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957); Northrop Frye’s Notebooks for the Anatomy of Criticism, ed. Robert Denham, Collected Works, vol. 23 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2007); Culler, Theory of the Lyric, 247-250. 255 Aristotle, Poetics, trans. Anthony Kinney (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 17-18. 256 Frye, Anatomy of Criticism, 243-251. 257 Culler, Theory of the Lyric, 252. 258 Culler, Theory of Lyric, 257.

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breaks and stanzas as well as attention to rhyme and rhythm. In comics poetry, creators tip the balance toward the visual; in some productions, the comic image takes precedence over vocalization of the verse and the comics poem does not invite oral articulation.

Sonnets 18 and 20 in The Graphic Cannon are comics poems, but I argue that the adaptations might be better understood if we further classify them as comics lyrics or graphic lyrics.259 While “comics poetry” is a genre classification for all poetry illustrated in the form of a comic strip, I define the graphic lyric as a work of illustrated lyric poetry in which the illustrator attempts to visually translate, parallel, or represent sound patterning and turns of sonnets and other lyric formats. All graphic lyrics can be comics poems, but not all comics poems can be graphic lyrics. In this chapter, I argue that Sonnets 18 and 20 demonstrate potentials of a new genre of graphic lyric. Not only do these productions demonstrate visual representations or parallels of rhyme and meter, the development of illustrations and transitions between panels provide clues for the ways in which the illustrators have interpreted and re-imagined the lyric poems.

Like other comics poets, Berry, Levitas, and Koch re-arrange the visual delineation and structure of the lyric, or what Culler might call the traditional opsis that denotes the text’s status as a poem. But unlike the works in Ink Brick, the sonnets in The Graphic Canon are re-mediated lyric poems with a complex textual history. The illustrators of Sonnets 18 and 20 in the Graphic

Canon create an imagetext from an originally unillustrated text, and the works have a different word/image relationship. As the artists deconstruct Shakespeare’s poems, they also reconstruct them to create a more complex visual form, attempting to translate the sonnets into visual

259 Graphic novel OED definition is “full-length ... story published as a book in comic-strip format; "graphic, adj. and n.". (7. graphic novel) OED Online. March 2017. Oxford University Press. http://www.oed.com. ,” I define the graphic lyric as a lyric poem published in a comic strip format.

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images. In their adaptations, Berry and Koch transcribe Shakespeare’s lyric, maintain meter and rhyme, and use the space of the page and the panels to mimic the volta of the sonnet. The sonnet is easy to read aloud and Berry develops illustrations to control readers’ pace through the text, slowing them at important moments in the sonnet. Koch’s text, on the other hand, is much more difficult to read aloud, but she uses color and image repetition to translate sound patterning like meter, rhyming couplets, and quatrains. Contrasted, these productions are examples of what Eva

Zettelmann terms the lyric binary,260 or the narrative and non-narrative interpretation of lyric.

Berry and Levitas narrativize Shakespeare’s sonnet to create a dramatic monologue, recontextualizing the lyric as Berry’s own inner expression of feeling. Koch instead embraces what Culler terms the “nowness” of lyric,261 designing a narrativeless series of images.

Sonnet 18

Sonnet 18 in The Graphic Canon, illustrated by Robert Berry and Josh Levitas, is a collaborative work that uses a range of visual media and remediation in its production. In an interview with the Philadelphia public broadcasting station WHYY, Levitas describes the process of creating comics with Berry, saying that Berry first draws the comic in black-and- white ink and Levitas scans and prints the drawings on watercolor paper.262 Berry adds color washes to the printed illustrations and then Levitas scans the image again to adjust the colors and

260 Eva, Zettelmann, "Apostrophe, Speaker Projection, and Lyric World Building," Poetics Today 38, no. 1 (February 2017): 199. 261 Culler, “ Why Lyric,” 202 262 Michael O’Reilly, “Ulysses Seen on iPad” WHYY Friday Arts. http://www.whyy.org/tv12/fridayarts/art201011.html. Berry and Levitas have collaborated to create an online and e-reader comics rendition of Ulysses. See Ulysses “Seen,” 2009, http://ulyssesseen.com/landing/about-2/. Read more about the adaptation and Apple’s censorship of the ebook’s nudity and adult content here: Damon Brown, “A Publishing Tradition: Apple Censors Joyce's Ulysses -- a Century After the U.S. Did the Same,” CBS Moneywatch 2010, http://www.cbsnews.com/news/a-publishing-tradition-apple-censors-joyces-ulysses-a-century-after-the- us-did-the-same/

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to set the page layout of the production for print, web platforms, and e-readers. In many ways,

Berry’s and Levitas’s process of making illustrated texts is similar to the collaborative model of illustration and graphic design in early modern printing houses. Also, in the productions of these contemporary comics, as in the creation of early modern illustrations, repeated image reproduction (whether via tracing or via scanning) is a useful image-making technique.

As the designer of the comic’s illustrations and layout, Berry draws his self-portrait and reframes the Shakespearean sonnet as his own dramatic monologue. Berry reframes the sonnet’s context to address his memories of his mother after her death. The illustrations memorialize his mother and create a narrative that traces his transition from grief to acceptance. In the final panel of the comic, Berry draws himself as he sits at the drafting table and completes the illustration of the volta in line 9 (See Figures 6.2 and 6.3). A miniature drawing of his own drawing, with a woman in a dress standing beside a child, rests on the pictured desk. Berry places himself in the role of the lyric speaker, he re-iterates his own self-portrait in twelve out of fifteen panels, and he draws the lines of the sonnet in thought bubbles that emerge from his head. The self-referential illustration and the self-portraits with thought bubbles visually represent Berry’s interpretation of the lyric poem as an expression of interior thought and feeling. His approach to the adaptation is somewhat like Hegel’s theory of lyric poetry in Aesthetics. Hegel argues that “the poet ... communicate[s] to us his feelings, reflections, thoughts, and emotions, on the occasion of an object presented to him.”263 In this particular adaptation, Berry conceives of the lyric as an utterance of the author’s thoughts and feelings, but instead of placing Shakespeare into the speaker’s role, he depicts himself as the creator of the adaptation. Berry’s self-referentiality also

263 Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, An Introduction to the Scientific Study of Aesthetics, trans. W. Hastie (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd; London: Simpkin, Marshall, and co., 1886), 94.

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plays upon metatext and the references to the means of production that we see both in his contemporary work and in early modern lyric. This production walks a fine line between expressing the creator’s lyric interiority and replacing the original creator, which seems appropriate for an adaptation, stretched in the tensions between the original text and the new production. The entire graphic lyric follows Berry’s interior monologue, and he incorporates visual strategies that represent internal thought processes such as flashbacks of memory and free association.

Berry interprets the lyric as a verbal-visual expression of his character’s interior monologue. The artist transcribes all of the lines of the sonnet within thought bubbles and creates a radically disjointed narrative to mirror the speaker’s stream of consciousness. For example, panel 3 presents Berry at a window of his studio gazing upon a tree with no leaves on a winter day. Just below on the page, panel 4 depicts a young boy and his mother standing beneath a fully-foliated tree in mid-summer; the boy waves his hand at the ice cream truck in the distance.

Despite the repetition of the tree, these panels have no other similarities and appear to be completely unrelated. Only by reading further do readers discover that the young boy is a depiction of Berry as a child. The panel transition between panels 3 and 4 is what Scott McCloud calls aspect-to-aspect or non sequitur transitions.264 Berry creates a “wandering eye” that explores different places, ideas, or moods within sequential images, and these kinds of panels bypass a straightforward chronological timescape.265 By switching from past to present repeatedly, the comic visually represents the lyric speaker’s associative thought processes. Like readers of Spenser’s Faerie Queene, viewers of Berry’s production must connect the adjacent

264 McCloud calls these sequences “scene-to-scene” panel transitions; scene-to scene transitions require the reader to use deductive reasoning (71). 265 McCloud, 72.

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panels and they might also backtrack to re-interpret in the previous images of the comic with new understanding.

Berry and Levitas construct the panels and mise-en-page to emphasize the sonnet’s verse form, volta, and final couplet, slowing the reader at key moments in the poem. Berry places each line of the sonnet (with the exception of the final line) in its own panel and creates panels with various sizes that visually imitate the Shakespearean sonnet form.

Table 6.1: Diagram of Lines and Panels in Berry and Levitas, “Sonnet 18” in The Graphic Canon (2014). Line Panel Size266 Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Splash Page [r] a Thou art more lovely and more temperate Splash Page [v] b Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, ¼ Panel [r] a And summer’s lease hath all too short a date ¾ Panel [r] b Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines ½ Panel [v] c And often is his gold complexion dimm’d ½ Panel [v] d And every fair from fair sometime declines ¾ Panel [r] c By chance or nature’s changing course untrim’d ¼ Panel [r] d But thy | eternal summer | shall not fade Splash Page [v] e Nor lose possession of that fair thou art Splash Page [r] f Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade ½ Panel [v] e When in eternal lines to time | thou grow’st ½ Panel [v] f So long as men can breathe or eyes can see ¾ Panel [r] g So long lives this ¼ panel [r] and this gives life to thee. Splash Page [v] g

Within this layout Berry keeps the lines of rhyming quatrains on the same page, and new quatrains are often signaled by page flips. For example, the cdcd quatrain appears on an entire page opening, creating a singular unit of discourse for the layout of lines and rhymes. Not all the quatrains share a page opening because Berry creates full-page panels (or splash pages) at the

266 I have listed these panels’ sizes based on the standard full-page panel (also called a splash page). Panels that are smaller than a full page are listed in terms of the approximated fraction of the full-page space it occupies. For example, Lines 3 and 4 of the poem share a single page, but panel three (occupying ¼ of the page) is significantly shorter than panel four (occupying ¾ of the page).

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beginning of the sonnet in lines 1-2, at the turn in lines 9-10 and the final couplet in line 14.

Traditionally, the splash page serves as a starting point for comics and graphic novels, and Berry uses the full-page panel to begin his adaptation, but also uses the large designs to materially mark divisions in rhyme and slow the readers at important turns in the sonnet. Ink Brick’s editors argue that those who create comics poetry often use visual design to reduce the reader’s speed, noting that “comics tend to read much more quickly than other forms of writing. Cartoonist- poets often face the challenge of trying to slow readers down while still keeping them engaged.”267 Berry expands the sonnet by separating the lines of poetry, setting two lines per page (at the most) and encouraging viewers to read more slowly at important parts of the sonnet.

Berry and Levitas also break lines to control the reader’s speed through the poem. On the line 9 panel, Berry divides the line into three parts: “But thy | eternal summer | shall not fade.”

He sets each part in different text bubbles along the length of the page: The division of the line and the full-page panel slow the reader’s intake of information, thus encouraging viewers to spend more time at the turn of the sonnet. The reader’s navigation slows again at the end of the sonnet as Berry separates the last line with a page break. Although these two halves of line 14 might appear in different panels on different pages, they depict the same scene from two different perspectives. The viewing lens of the panel “zooms in” to the artist’s desk like the lens of a camera, and Berry visually translates the deictic in “so long lives this” by pointing directly to the image of the illustration that we viewed at the volta just three pages before. Berry re- interprets the lyric speaker’s focus on the sonnet as a means of monumentality; instead, his illustration points to his own adaptation as a vehicle for carrying the memory of both

267 Crum, “Holy Buckets,” http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/05/11/comic-poetry-ink- brick_n_7243610.html

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Shakespeare and his beloved family member. Readers pause slightly at the caesura in the last line as they turn the page to reveal the final panel. This last panel with full page illustration rich in detail, pattern, and yellow color requires even more time from viewers as they process complex visual images as well as the verbal caption.

Berry’s expansive translation strategies alter the ways in which readers interact with the sonnet. The new line breaks and large panels change the visual form of the sonnet and radically expand the text from a fourteen-line block of text that can easily fit on one page to eight full pages of text. Viewers not only interpret visual signs and verbal language in each panel, but they also recursively read the comic because the transitions between panels create a disjointed narrative sequence. To understand the narrative at work, readers must revisit previous panels in their memory or by physically re-turning the page, and this process of reading sends viewers backward and slows their progression. Berry represents this “turning back” motion in his final page when he draws the page of the volta within the illustration of the final couplet. The image- within-an-image is not only self-referential and metatextual, it also reminds readers that the graphic lyric encourages the re-reading and revisiting of previous panels.

Berry’s lyric is not only materially recursive, as it encourages viewers to re-read previous pages (either by flipping back or by viewing a page-within-a-page), but it is also recursive in its allusions to Shakespeare’s texts throughout his adaptation. In panels 2, 4, 9, 12, 13, and 15,

Berry draws a small hardcover book titled William Shakespeare in various locations within the frames. In some panels, the book rests on the floor and on the furniture of Berry’s studio space, and in others, Berry depicts himself or his mother holding and/or reading the book. The image of the collection of Shakespeare’s works continuously repeats throughout the text and visually connects the disjointed scenes of Berry in the present and his mother in the past.

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The repetition of the bound volume of Shakespeare’s poetry is a constant reminder of

Shakespeare’s text within the comic, and this repetition visually represents the lyric speaker’s concern with survival and monumentality. Berry re-imagines the sonnet as a eulogy as it begins with the scene of the hearse and graveyard and retrieves the speaker’s memories of his mother.

Berry gives “life” to Shakespeare’s sonnet by continuously alluding to the material text, by recasting the sonnet in terms of his own imagination, and the sonnet in turn “gives life” to the lyric speaker’s mother as Berry memorializes her through depictions and representations within the illustrated lyric.

Berry’s and Levitas’s adaptation re-imagines the lyric as a dramatic monologue, but

Aidan Koch’s adaptation of Sonnet 20 captures the non-narrative nature of lyric through a series of unconnected images. In contrast to Berry’s clean style and clear visual delineation of the volta and couplet in the sonnet, Koch’s adaptation of Sonnet 20 fractures the linear and stanzaic structure of the poem and disorients the reader. Like Craghead, Koch transcribes the lines of poetry in graphite pencil, a choice that causes the words to appear delicate and erasable, in contrast to the bold and permanent smears of paint on adjacent panels. The graphic lyric has no clearly defined lines to direct readers’ vision, so viewers have the potential to get lost in the maze of the mise-en-page, not immediately knowing whether to read horizontally, diagonally, or vertically. When beginning to read the text, some viewers might read the words in the panel that are closest spatially to the beginning of the sonnet, which would cause the reader to begin at an enjambed line 2: “Hast thou, the Master-Mistress of my passion; [sic].” The beginning of the inverted sentence and object of “Hast” in Line 1 appears on the far right of the page; this placement asks readers to deliberately seek the beginning of the sonnet. This deconstruction of the poem undermines the stanzaic and linear appearance of the original text (precisely the shape

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that signified its status as a poem). Koch unravels the woven lines of lyric so that she can reconstruct the poem as a text that privileges visual image over sound patterns, cohesive lines and meter, refashioning it with bold images.

Koch is not concerned with transcribing the poem in its original printed form or maintaining original line breaks. She deconstructs Sonnet 20 by breaking lines apart and other times fragmenting words themselves, undermining the orality of the lyric. For example, in line 8, she isolates the word “amazeth” into its own panel, and further breaks the word by spelling it in large letters and dividing the letters within the panel (ama| ze| th; See Figure 6.4). The word becomes so fragmented that readers cannot decipher the word at a glance. This technique creates a word that operates less like a verbal signifier and more like an image, and readers slow down as they reconstruct the phonemes of the letters. Although Koch typically inscribes one line per panel, she creates new line breaks (except in lines 4 and 14) in order to fit the lines into small square panels, and she creates a caesura in line 7 and breaks the line into two panels. Koch’s strategy of adaptation is to reconstruct the text in her own terms: rewriting some of the punctuation and appropriating the words of Shakespeare’s poem into her own design.

Koch builds her own production with vibrant colors, image icons, loose sketches, and the deconstructed leftovers of Shakespeare’s text. Koch’s visual reconstruction of the sonnet has many interpretive consequences, and her illustrations have the potential to change the emphasis of verbal signifiers and the meaning of the poem. For example, Koch’s color combinations and conscious use of paint not only call attention to the methods of production, but also cause readers to consider the ways in which colors correspond to words and figurative language, highlighting the lyric speaker’s meditation on androgyny. Additionally, her choice of illustrations draws attention to the gender-specific words of the sonnet, causing readers to focus on these particular

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parts or images of the poem. Much like the re-interpretation of Sonnet 18 in Berry’s and

Levitas’s production, Koch’s illustrations overwrite and further define the poem with images and colors, narrowing the interpretive possibilities. Readers negotiate both visual and verbal languages on the page, and they re-see or re-imagine the poem through Koch’s interpretive lens.

Koch translates the content of Shakespeare’s sonnet and expresses the concept of androgyny, opposites, and liminal space in the lyric through the use of color compositions that include subtractive color combination. For example, on the first page of the graphic lyric, Koch composes the red/orange/yellow splashes of color by mixing two primary colors to arrive at a secondary color. A combination of yellow and red pigments creates the orange around the portrait in the second panel. The combination of the two primary colors is a visual way to represent the “master-mistress” fluidity of the beloved. When viewers read from left-to-right, and up-to-down on the page, their eyes meet the orange hues around the portrait first, then meet the red panel, and finally see the yellow panel. The illustration, like Shakespeare’s sonnet, begins with a combination/liminal space, and then teases out each of the “hues” that create this combination.

Koch continues to employ subtractive color mixing on the following page to present viewers with a visual representation of androgyny. She uses the properties of color to visually translate Shakespeare’s line 7, “A man in hue, all hues in his controlling [sic].” She paints the second page of panels with red and green, using the complimentary colors to represent gender identities at opposite ends of the spectrum. On the far left, a light red color appears in blocky watercolor, and on the far right is the complimentary green color. Koch divides the line at the caesura and disperses the halves into two panels. Between the panels, she situates two blocks of dark-red, almost black color. Koch created these colors by mixing red and green to create a

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reddish-green (maroon) and greenish-red (brown-black) color. The combination of two complimentary colors does not create another color on the color wheel in the same way that blending primary colors does (e.g. red and blue create violet), but instead creates darker shades of the complimentary colors. This results in hues that become increasingly neutral until they appear to be dark black or brown. Although some viewers may assign negative connotations to these darker colors, these more neutral and dark colors are apt for marking the in-between-ness of gender fluidity, gender queerness, or androgyny.

Additionally, Koch’s repetition of colors, patterns, and shapes within her graphic lyric are a visual representation of sound and word repetition. In addition to the feminine rhymes at the end of each line, words also repeat: for example variants of the word “woman” appear six times in the sonnet, along with variations of the words hues (hews), thing/nothing, and love. Koch presents image repetitions in a way that visually corresponds to the reuse of words. Within her adaptation, we can find repetitions of images with slight variants: Rosebuds budding and blooming, frontal and profile views of faces, coiled snakes, and other shapes that appear more than once within the graphic lyric. She also uses color and line patterns to parallel the original poem’s sound patterning and rhyme. For example, the illustrations for the final couplet both incorporate a cool blue color not seen in any of the other panels. Color is a component of image that visually parallels sound, a component of word – the repetition of color is similar to assonance of sound in the poem.

Color and sound are similar not only because they are transmitted to our senses through wavelengths, but also because they are major component properties that artists, musicians, and writers use to represent the auditory and visual world (for those who can hear sounds and see color). In oral language, speakers, singers, or poets construct rhymes by repeating analogous or

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complimentary sounds. The sounds of verbal language are the tools in the poet’s toolbox, so to speak; writers and speakers combine fricatives or plosives to create alliterations or rhythm, and use vowel sounds to produce various high and low pitches. Color, on the other hand, is similar in that it is also a tool for visual representation. In visual images, paintings, and design, artists compose their works sometimes repeating color or using analogous or complimentary hues to create a visual analog. Like various sound combinations, colors’ placement, frequency of use, and tonal ranges can create a cohesive and pleasing composition. Alternatively, certain color combinations may create a disjointed and disorderly image. In some ways, color harmony is similar to assonance, and clashing colors produce a visual effect similar to auditory dissonance.

Koch’s designs invite comparison of visual image to the cognitive experience of lyric.

She translates lyric brevity with delicate lines and soft colors, which present the reader with dreamlike snapshots or visions. These vague and unrelated images correspond to readers’ mental representation of lyric poetry. When theorizing readers’ ability to envision lyric poems, Eva

Zettelmann asserts that readers are less able to imagine a “fictional world” in lyric poetry compared to other narrative genres; she notes:

“Less textual material [in the lyric] means less information on the communicative

constituents ... The resulting vagueness and sparseness of the fictional world gives lyric

illusion a fundamentally different, sketchier, and less immersive quality than the mimetic

effect produced by a novel.”268

Lyric’s “less immersive” quality invites a much greater range of image associations and individually imagined scenes. Koch produces these associative and less-immersive qualities by

268 Eva Zettelmann, "Apostrophe, Speaker Projection, and Lyric World Building." Poetics Today 38, no. 1 (February 2017): 197.

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drawing sequential panels that appear to have little to no logical relationship to each other. These unconnected panels with varied images – lines, yellow squares, flowers, and a cross, among others – are what McCloud terms non-sequitur transitions.269 But, as McCloud argues, the

“alchemy of the page” enables readers to find meaning and develop relationships between apparently unrelated objects in a sequence. In Koch’s production, the language of the poem facilitates a relationship between the disparate icons and the process of viewing images and words enhances the associative qualities of lyric poetry.

The illustrations and patterns develop loose and indirect associations with the verbal language. The adaptation presents readers with vague images of human faces and hair, which appear to correspond to images of “a woman’s face,” or the “master-mistress”; moon cycles that appear to translate the “rolling eyes” of women; images of blooming flowers to symbolize

Nature’s creation of femininity, a black and white California king snake represents the “pricking out” of the beloved. These images are not the kinds of intersemiotic translations that Nilce

Perriera specifies in her theories of the types of intersemiotic translation. The pictures do not often literally reproduce textual elements in the picture or emphasize parts of narrative (because, after all, lyric is not a narrative genre).270 Instead, Koch’s intersemiotic translation is an associative one: the moon cycle image is often associated with femininity but the moon is also round like an “eye rolling” depicted in the cycles. These icons function through pluralities of meaning and multiple interpretations, much like the language of lyric does. Because of their non- narrative, non-depictive qualities, the illustrations capture the abstract and imagistic qualities of the lyric poem.

269 McCloud, 72-73. 270 Perriera, “Book Illustration as Intersemiotic Translation,” META: Translators’ Journal 53, no. 1 (2008): 109-114.

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The colors and pigments that overflow the boundaries of panels may also correspond to the overflowing metrical structure of Sonnet 20. Each line of the sonnet is hypermetric, and

Koch’s drawn lines and paint strokes visually represent the broken boundaries of the poem. The panel divisions of Koch’s adaptation disintegrate into the page, bleed into one another, and extend beyond the boundaries of panel divisions. For instance, white paint bleeds over the edges of the panel that holds the line, “With shifting change as is false women’s fashion.” Additionally,

Koch painted several of the panels with a wet-on-wet watercolor technique, saturating the paper with water and then applying pigment to the surface. The color diffuses and spreads into the wet paper, leaving an uneven, bleeding, and softened hue. This technique visually demonstrates fluidity by diffusion, the spread of black ink into a wet white page creates gray areas within the panels. Much like the loosely sketched pencil marks that line the panels, these blotches and tiny lines of color that spread into the fibers of the paper again demonstrate the liminal spaces much like the beloved – the middle ground of the “master mistress,” and the suggestions of androgyny, combination, and fluidity.

Koch’s remediation of Sonnet 20 requires more navigation and closure from readers.

Viewers find their way through the maze of the mise-en-page, interpret the indirect associations in the illustrations, and piece together the broken lines of the sonnet. Despite Koch’s deconstruction of the sonnet, her adaptation more clearly represents the lyric without any narrative drive and with an allusion to the central idea of androgyny.

***

The two graphic lyric productions within The Graphic Canon reframe my discussion of intersemiotic translation and remediation in contemporary literature, and these adaptations reinterpret early modern texts for new audiences. Shakespeare’s Sonnets were unillustrated in their

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first printing, and the visual remediations show potentials and possibilities of vision that these poems produce. Berry and Koch intersemiotically translate the sonnets they adapt, but they do so in different ways. Berry illustrates the lyric with a specific setting, characters, and chronology.

Even without the addition of the Shakespeare’s lines, readers could likely piece together the narrative. Koch’s intersemiotic translation relies more on the words and lines of poetry to connect disparate images. These two productions represent two types of intersemiotic translation

– one in which the translation between word and image can stand alone but can gain more complex signification through combination with verbal language, and the other in which images are reliant on the decoding of verbal signs. But the artists do not simply design images to illustrate the words, they also design a page layout or use elements of design to correspond to other aspects of poetry like rhyme, repetition, and rhythm. Finally, these two contemporary examples of adaptation and remix show us that no matter the technologies of production – from woodcuts to digital scanners – artist and writers continue to remix and remediate word and image through translation, copying, and adaptation.

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Figure 6.1 Comic Poem by Walter Craghead

Figure 6.2 Robert Berry and Josh Levitas, “Sonnet 18” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 412.

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Figure 6.3 Detail of Robert Berry and Josh Levitas, “Sonnet 18” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 415.

Figure 6.4 Aidan Koch, “Sonnet 20” in The Graphic Canon, edited by Russ Kick (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2014), 419

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CHAPTER 7

RETRACING LINES OF INQUIRY: THE CONCLUSION

Like early modern printers and writers, illustrators also alternated between roles of creator, translator, and technician. Early modern illustrators became intermediators and negotiators as they created illustrations to depict poetic language, traced existing illustrations to duplicate images, and chiseled away curls of wood from the woodblock. These image production methods are complex and they are important for readers’ reception of the early modern illustrated page. Technology matters for these images and viewers’ interpretations of them; image reproduction via the printing press creates patterns of illustration that establish intertextual connections between and within books.

The production of illustrations in printing houses, the reception of such images in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and the images’ later reception in the twentieth and twenty- first centuries complicate the study of early modern book illustration. In other words, we find challenges to the study of sixteenth-century pictures in both the past and the present. First of all, imported/copied woodcuts and anonymous and/or foreign illustrators sometimes create unsolvable puzzles of authorship and collaboration. Second, many modern critics cannot seem to look beyond the seemingly slipshod aesthetics of early modern English book illustration. Edward

Hodnett began the first page of his introduction on The Catalogue of English Woodcuts by asserting, “England stumbles onto the book-illustration stage with some of the poorest cuts ever inserted between the covers.”271 Scholars who write about illustrated English books continue to concentrate on the “stumbling” English pictures; literary scholars have deemed several texts in this dissertation ugly, crude, or unoriginal. For example, Alison Saunders criticizes Thomas

271 Edward Hodnett, English Woodcuts 1480-1535 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973), 1.

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Combe’s emblems in The Theater of Fine Devices (1593; 1613), calling the pictures “slavish” reproductions with “rather crude decorative borders.”272 Louis Friedland characterizes the engravings and woodcut images in Jan van der Noot’s polyglot editions of A Theatre for

Worldlings as “slipshod,” “stillborn,” and lacking.273 Hodnett argues that the technicians who carved the woodblocks in A Theatre were unsophisticated “hacks” when compared with the work of Marcus Gheeraerts or other continental printmakers.274 The vignettes of The Shepheardes

Calender have been described as “poorly cut” and “of little worth,”275 and the illustration of

Redcrosse Knight and the dragon in The Faerie Queene deemed pointless.276 Of course, some of the woodcuts produced in England woodcuts are indeed unattractive; English illustrators often fail to incise realistic representations and their skills fail to compare with the fine dexterity of professional wood engravers from the continent.

Because scholars in the past have considered English illustrators to be unskilled copyists, they have largely overlooked the importance of the technician/illustrator in the book-making process. Unoriginal work produced by English craftsmen seems to be either accepted as a matter of fact, unquestioned, or dismissed as the creation of an unsophisticated and untrained work force. But copies as well as imperfections can reveal more about production methods and reception in England. Image replications can demonstrate the kinds of connections printers made in production, and imperfections can reveal clues about the anonymous illustrators who cut the

272 Alison Saunders, “The Theatre des Bons Engins Through English Eyes,” Revue de Littérature Comparée 64, no. 4 (1990): 653-673. 273 Louis Friedland, “The Illustrations in ‘The Theatre for Worldlings,’” Huntington Library Quarterly 19, no. 2 (1956): 107-120. 274 Hodnett, Gheeraerts the Elder (Netherlands: Haentjens Dekker & Gumbert, 1971), 43-44. 275 Hodnett, Francis Barlow: First Master of English Book Illustration (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 46; Alfred Pollard, Fine Books (London: Methuen, 1912), 256. 276 Alexander Judson, The Life of Edmund Spenser (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1945), 140-141; Paul J. Voss, "The Faerie Queene 1590-1596: The Case Of Saint George," Ben Jonson Journal: Literary Contexts In The Age Of Elizabeth, James And Charles 3 (1996): 59-61.

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blocks. Perhaps untrained artisans or apprentices cut the blocks and “chewed” them by scraping the wood and leaving softened fibers behind, or “hacked” woodcuts might show speed and less precision.277 Illustrators who produce woodcuts that depict human figures and landscapes without verisimilitude might have reasons for producing the illustration this way, and even if not, their rudimentary illustration certainly has effects on reception, either causing readers to dismiss the image, to observe it apart from the text, or to reconcile what they see with what they read (or some combination of the three). We should not use post-lithography standards to determine whether an early modern illustration is worth further study. Unsophisticated woodcuts, poorly drawn faces, and copies of other illustrations can be re-examined not for their aesthetic beauty or originality, but for the signs that they present to readers and the ways that they interact with the verbal text on the page.

Orgel suggests that methods of copying create “disjunctive” illustrations that are simply extraneous additions to printed texts. He asserts that printers employed these reproductions to sell more books, and as a result, early modern readers could only read disjunctive woodcuts as decorations.278 Economic sustainability is certainly a driving force behind image reproduction, but even if images are solely decorative, readers do make connections and find meaning even in the most unusual combinations on the page. Here, I am using Scott McCloud’s theory of non- sequitur illustrations in Understanding Comics. McCloud argues, “No matter how dissimilar one image may be to another, there is a kind of alchemy at work in the space between panels which

277 Hodnett, Image and Text: Studies in the Illustration of English Literature (Aldershot, England: Scolar Press, 1982), 19. 278 Stephen Orgel, "Textual Icons: Reading Early Modern Illustration," The Renaissance Computer: Knowledge Technology in the First Age of Print, ed. Neil Rhodes and Jonathan Sawday (London; New York: Routledge, 2000), 59-60. Orgel continuously approaches, but does not make, the claim that printers who frequently employ image reproduction are somehow incompetent, and “The repetition of illustrations strikes us as inept, an index to the inadequacies of printing...” (59-60).

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can help us find meaning or resonance in even the most jarring of combinations.”279 Although early modern illustrations are different from comics, the space of the page also has a kind of alchemy: readers continue to make connections between juxtaposed words and images, even if what they see might appear to be unrelated.

Book Illustration and Intersemiotic Translation in Early Modern England re-examines these image reproductions once deemed crude or insignificant: I have discussed the international copies of physiognomy portraits by which English readers judged their own faces, the widespread and tele-vised phenomenon of emblems, the object duplication within continuous narrative illustrations that encourage recursive reading, and the afterlife reproduction of a woodcut in The Faerie Queene that fails to represent the expansiveness and complexity of

Spenser’s verbal description. Many of the case studies in this dissertation feature afterlife reproductions and their role in illustrating emblems, illustrated lyric, and epic poetry. These cases are only a small sample of a larger trend of image reuse within early modern texts. We find image copies in Bibles, news broadsides, law books, herbals, physiognomies, geographies and astronomy books, almanacs, and various other early modern reading materials.

The diversity of illustrated texts, genres, materials, and the contexts of image re-use are crucial for our understanding of the ways in which illustrations signify. Just as reused illustrations are not all confusing or illogical, they are not always logical or sensible either. We must scrutinize each different illustrated text individually, examining the nuances of meaning produced when a copied image gains a new verbal translation and context, or ways in which a translated text may be accompanied by a slightly (or very) different image than the original text.

The terms I have developed for the production practices of these images offer possibilities for

279 Scott McCloud, Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art (New York: Harper Collins, 1993), 72-73.

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further study; we must closely analyze what kinds of verbal language is represented and how those images (even if they have been re-used multiple times) depict or correspond to the text.

Despite their anonymity, illustrators are crucial agents in early modern book production: they not only transmit and broadcast illustrations from the continent to English readers, but they also create images that connect with the visual language in literary texts and reshape the text’s meaning in various ways. The seemingly simple practice of carving a woodblock is itself a translation. The illustrator must “translate” or convert the drawn or printed image from two- dimensional space of the page to three-dimensional space of the block, using a subtractive carving technique. Printmakers must be literate in the methods of additive and subtractive creation, and easily switch from one to the other in the process of making a print. The practice of printmaking in the early modern printing house involved a negotiation between visual and verbal, between previously printed, repositioned images, between positive and negative space, and with constant intermediation between substrates. Illustrators, perhaps especially if they were technicians, made connections, considered intertext, and navigated subtleties in the substrates.

Revisions in Early Modern Illustration Studies

To better understand book history and the illustrated literature in collections, scholars could benefit from tactile and digital explorations of early modern illustrations and books. As

Hodnett argues, literary scholars who write about illustrated texts need to have some training in the technical production of woodcuts. He states, “No research into the illustration of English literature can be pursued for long without a dependable acquaintance with the technical matters involved in making illustrations” 280 Scholars must understand the physical processes of creating illustrations in the early printing houses in order to conceptualize the subtractive sculptural

280 Hodnett, Image and Text, 19.

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qualities of woodcuts. By this I mean that researchers and book historians should practice carving woodcuts or linocuts to understand relief printing, they should fully understand the ways that oil based ink sticks and smears, and should have a thorough understanding of how printers print woodblock prints and engravings. Through these kinds of tactile explorations and experimentation, literary scholars and art historians can gain a better idea of the ways in which craftsmen formed these images.

In addition to these three-dimensional, material concerns, digitized databases also make the study of early modern reproduction and image sharing much more accessible to researchers, but we have much more work to do in this field. Databases like Early English Books Online and

Early European Books have made the study of illustrated texts more accessible to scholars who can peruse digital copies of rare books from their own electronic devices. Examinations of

English book illustration inevitably lead to the discovery of international image-making networks, not only in the transmission of continental illustrations, but also in the influx of immigrants like De Heere, Gheeraerts, and many others, who worked in England to produce illustrations for books. Digital facsimiles allow scholars to compare images and text within books located in various libraries in different countries. This is particularly useful for the study of emblems: since the 1990s, emblem scholars have collaborated to scan, digitize, and catalogue facsimiles of emblem books.281 Groups of international researchers have contributed to projects

281 See reports on this project in Peter Boot, Mesotext Digitised Emblems, Modelled Annotations and Humanities Scholarship (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009); Peter Daly, The European Emblem: Towards an Index Emblematicus (Waterloo, Ont.: Laurier, 1980); David Graham, “The Emblematic Hyperbook: Using Hypercard on Emblem Books,” Hypermedia and Literary Studies, eds. Paul Delany and George Landow (Cambridge, MA.: The MIT Press, 1991), 273-86; Graham, “Personal Computers and Iconography: Issues and Lessons Arising from the Macintosh Emblem Project,” Iconography in Cultural Studies: Papers from the International Conference European Iconography East and West, ed. Attila Kiss (Szeged, Hungary: Attila József University, 1996), 203-212. Graham, “Putting Old Wine in New Bottles: Emblem Books and Computer Technology,” Emblematica 5, no. 2 (1992):

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at the University of Glasgow like Alciato at Glasgow and French Emblems at Glasgow; the

Universidade da Coruña’s Literatura Emblemática Hispánica; Digitalisierung von ausgewählten

Emblembüchern der frühen Neuzeit at the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek in Munich; and The

English Emblem Book Project at Pennsylvania State University, among others. The metadata technology compiles all images classified under a certain subject or motto, and allows researchers to filter searches to explore the circulation of certain images and texts. I used this function to understand the spread of emblem illustrations and to reconnect transnational readerships by comparing various editions and translations of illustrated books.

Future work in illustration studies should involve the cataloguing of images of the

Jacobean period and further work on the digitization of the entries that Hodnett, Luborsky, and

Ingram catalogued in order to make afterlife and plural reproduction more accessible and visible to twenty-first-century audiences. If researchers could access a database of catalogued information about illustrated texts in England, accompanied by an image and a link to similar illustrations, then tracing transmission would become much simpler and make way for literary scholars, historians, and art historians to analyze the data and gain more knowledge about trans- geographic readerships. This project would likely take a team of digital humanists and several

271-85; David Graham, “Three Phases of Emblem Digitization: The First Twenty Years, the Next Five,” Digital Collections and the Management of Knowledge: Renaissance Emblem Literature as a Case Study for the Digitization of Rare Texts and Images, ed. Mara R. Wade (Salzburg: Digicult, 2004), 13-18; Arthur Henkel and Albrecht Schöne, Emblemata Handbuch der Sinnbildkunst (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1967); Stephen A. Rawles, “Spine of Information Headings for Emblem-related Resources,” Digital Collections and the Management of Knowledge: Renaissance Emblem Literature as a Case Study for the Digitization of Rare Texts and Images, ed. Mara R. Wade (Salzburg: Digicult, 2004), 19-28; Els Stronks and Peter Boot, Learned Love: Proceedings of the Emblem Project Utrecht Conference on Dutch Love Emblems and the Internet (November 2006) (The Hague: DANS, 2007); Mara R. Wade, “Emblems in Context: From the Early Modern to the Post-Modern,” Transmigrations 14., ed. Laurence Grove and Alison Saunders (Glasgow: Glasgow Emblem Studies, 2011), 1-30.

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decades to complete, but this work would open new possibilities for mapping early modern prints to demonstrate the exchange of visual culture.

Additionally, new developments in image recognition software could provide useful methods for data collection and establishing networks among images. Vision Application

Programming Interfaces (API) have been developed by Google and Microsoft to enable devices and computers to detect objects and faces within images, distinguish between text and image with Optical Character Recognition (OCR), and classify images for certain features like color or facial expression.282 In December 2017, the Google Arts and Culture App used facial recognition to analyze visual features of the users’ faces and match smartphone selfies with their doppelgängers in paintings from various museums.283 These algorithms produced diptychs of smartphone selfies and fine-art paintings, and became a short-lived sensation on social media; users uploaded images of themselves and their painted look-alikes onto Twitter and Facebook.

These image recognition technologies may hold the key to tracing image reproduction patterns within a large sample of digitized pages.

By cataloguing digital facsimiles of early printed books within a searchable database, scholars and digital humanists could potentially generate a Vision API that could isolate woodcut illustrations with similar or identical content, not only providing a stemma or genealogy of image transmission, but also demonstrating how printers and technicians traced, excised, or cut the

282 Some of these interfaces offer sentiment analysis, text recognition, logo detection, facial analysis See “Cloud vision API” https://cloud.google.com/vision/; Amazon Rekognition https://aws.amazon.com/rekognition/; Microsoft Azure “Computer Vision API” https://azure.microsoft.com/en-us/services/cognitive-services/computer-vision/ 283 For more on the Google Arts and Culture App and the “Coded Gaze,” see Adrian Chen, “The Google Arts & Culture App and the Rise of the ‘Coded Gaze,’” New Yorker (NewYorker.com) January 26, 2018. Accessed 4 Feb 2018. https://www.newyorker.com/tech/elements/the-google-arts-and-culture-app-and- the-rise-of-the-coded-gaze-doppelganger.

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woodblocks to create new illustrations for various audiences. This exploration in early modern imaging would likely reveal complex methods of transmission, and show the intricate network of sharing and trade that occurred between borders and among readers. As Mitchell argues, the domains of word and image have a long history of migration and cultural exchange, and when trying to reconstruct these paths and patterns of migration and exchange in the early modern period, much remains uncharted territory. Investigations of word-image relationships in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England involve many factors, including verbal translation, image transmission, reprinting, and recycling. When we account for these complex methods of production, we can begin to understand ways that readers made cognitive connections between words and images on the page.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

A native of Louisiana, Taylor Clement is a PhD Candidate in Renaissance literature and History of Text Technologies at Florida State University. She received her master’s degree in English

Literature from The University of Tennessee. Taylor is a recipient of a 2017-2018 ACLS/Mellon

Dissertation Completion Fellowship for her project Book Illustration and Intersemiotic

Translation in Early Modern England, and a FSU Kingsbury Fellowship for her essay collection,

“In Pages and Pixels: The Relevance of the Book in the 21st Century.” Her article, "Moveable

Types: The De-Individuated Portrait in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," was published in

Renaissance Studies.

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