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 FO U R

H I S TO R I C A L

DEFINITIONS OF

A R C H I T E CT U R E

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 FO U R

H I S TO R I C A L

DEFINITIONS OF

ARCHITECTURE

STEPHEN PARCELL

McGILL-QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY PRESS

Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2012

isbn 978-0-7735-3956-3

Legal deposit second quarter 2012

Bibliothèque nationale du Québec

Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free

(100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free

This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian
Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to
Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences
and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada

Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the
financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book
Fund for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Parcell, Stephen, 1954–

Four historical definitions of architecture / Stephen Parcell.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

isbn 978-0-7735-3956-3

1. Architecture—Philosophy. 2. Architecture—Europe—History.
I. Title.

na2500.p37 2012 720.1 c2011-905309-8

Designed and typeset by studio oneonone in Minion 10.2/14

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 Contents

Acknowledgments vii

1 Introduction 3

2 Architecture as a Technē 21

3 Architecture as a Mechanical Art 40

4 Hugh of St Victor and the Mechanical Arts 59

5 Architecture as an Art of Disegno 105

6 Alberti and the Arts of Disegno 122

7 Vasari and the Arts of Disegno 149

8 Architecture as a Fine Art 178

9 Boullée and the Fine Arts 220

10 Conclusion 248

Notes 255
Bibliography 309
Index 331

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 Acknowledgments

This book began as a doctoral dissertation at McGill University, completed

under the supervision of Dr Alberto Pérez-Gómez. I wish to acknowledge not
only his guidance and inspiration, but also the generous academic setting he
has provided for devotees of architectural history, theory, and philosophy.
Dalhousie University awarded sabbatical leaves for research, reflection,
and writing. I also wish to acknowledge my students and colleagues at
Carleton University (1984–87) and Dalhousie University (since 1987),
whose architectural projects raised questions that are pursued historically
in this book.
I am grateful to the Canadian Centre for Architecture for providing a
generous year-long residence as a research associate that enabled historical
core samples to be extracted from the depths of its collection.

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 FO U R

H I S TO R I C A L

DEFINITIONS OF

A R C H I T E CT U R E

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 1
Introduction

This book investigates four historical definitions of Western architecture:

as a technē in ancient Greece, as a mechanical art in medieval Europe, as an
art of disegno in Renaissance Italy, and as a fine art in eighteenth-century
Europe. These definitions situated architecture within larger classifications
of knowledge. They established alliances between architecture and other dis-
ciplines. They also influenced elements of architectural practice that we now
associate with three characters (the designer, the builder, and the dweller)
and three things (material, drawing, and building). The book examines
writings in these historical periods and focuses on the practical implications
of several texts: Hugh of St Victor, Didascalicon; Leon Battista Alberti, De re
aedificatoria, Book 1; and Étienne-Louis Boullée, Essai sur l’art. As a series,
these four historical definitions show how the concept of architecture and
the elements of architectural practice have changed. Even the word “archi-
tecture” has ambiguous roots.
Before embarking on a journey into architectural history, this intro-
duction pauses to reflect on circumstances in the present. It considers some
epistemological issues, raises some questions about current architectural
practices, and prepares an itinerary for the historical chapters. It also steps
briefly into a cognate discipline, music, that has shared some common
ground with architecture for several hundred years and has begun a critical
journey into its own historical definitions. Listening to philosophers of music
discuss their discipline enables light to be cast obliquely onto our own. This
musical preamble begins with a vivid institutional description by Chris-
topher Small, placed in a historical and philosophical context by Lydia
Goehr, and situated epistemologically by Paul Oskar Kristeller in a modern

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classification that includes architecture. This preamble is followed by an
equivalent circuit through current architectural conventions before depart-
ing for ancient Greece. This is the first of many interdisciplinary relation-
ships that will be formed or broken throughout the book.

A Musical Preamble
Musicking

In Musicking, Christopher Small analyzes a typical performance of Western

concert music.1 He focuses on first-hand experience – the setting, the event,
the characters, and their relationships – in a way that is both familiar and
remote, using critical distance and some wry humour to question what we
normally take for granted.
From outside, the concert hall is a grand building in the city, a beacon of
culture for the initiated. After passing through a large entrance, we arrive in
a grand foyer. It is decorated with chandeliers, statues, and mirrors, or is
distorted spatially with ascending stairways, sloped ceilings, and angled walls
that induce mild disorientation. This is a space for socializing and antici-
pating the performance to come.
Cued by a signal, we enter the auditorium and find the seats that have
been assigned. The inner space of the auditorium is even larger than the
foyer: a self-contained world with no vestiges of the city outside. There are
no windows through which daylight or views can enter. The auditorium is
also insulated from exterior sounds. Conversely, sounds inside the audito-
rium will remain contained. The decor of the hall is opulent but subdued,
suggesting wealth but also seriousness. All of the seats face the same direc-
tion: toward a raised platform. The floor is sloped to provide a sightline
from each seat. The seats are fixed and no one is permitted to move. Looking
forward, one cannot see faces, only the backs of heads. In the auditorium,
social activity among audience members is prohibited once the perform-
ance has begun. As the word “auditorium” suggests, this room is dedicated
to hearing. One’s experience of the performance must not be disturbed by
talking, coughing, foot-tapping, or humming. The performance is a form
of communication in which the listener receives but does not respond in
a noticeable way. The design of the auditorium and its accompanying
etiquette indicate that this is an event for many private individuals, not for

4 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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a social group. During the performance, an invisible threshold at the edge
of the stage separates the performers from the listeners. Physical contact
between the two groups is prohibited. The performers remain out of sight
before the performance and disappear soon after it finishes. The performers
and the audience also use separate doors to enter and exit the building.
The performance begins. Led by a conductor, the performers faithfully
follow the notations in the score from beginning to end. The composer
probably died long ago, so the score is now the sole authority. The musical
work is presented for its own sake. It is not an accompaniment to a social
event. The audience listens attentively to appreciate the musical work
through the performance. A stellar performance will let the work shine
through. Any emotions expressed by the performers suggest that the com-
poser felt similar emotions and wished to evoke them in the listeners. After
being performed thousands of times, this work has become part of the clas-
sical canon. By comparing this performance to others, listeners can discern
subtle differences and judge its relative merits. The audience marks the end
of the performance by applauding. The performers bow to the audience
and depart.
As Christopher Small and others have noted, we take this institution for
granted as the standard way of composing, performing, and listening to
music; however, it is barely two hundred years old and is European in origin.
Due to its formal etiquette, a classical concert with Mozart or Beethoven on
the bill provides the clearest example of this institution in action, but the
same relationships are evident in performances of popular music and even
recorded music.

The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works

In The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works, Lydia Goehr situates the con-
cert hall in a larger historical and philosophical context.2 She notes that
Western music had been composed, performed, and listened to differently
in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Composers were aware of
the occasion at which their music would be performed, then customized the
music to suit the particular instruments, place, and occasion. Their nota-
tions provided only basic guidelines for the performers, who improvised
accordingly. The composer also might be present to perform and keep time.
People attending a musical event did not merely listen but would applaud,

Introduction 5

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talk, or sing along. The music accompanied the social event; it was not val-
ued for its own sake. The person who commissioned the music was regarded
as its owner.
In the late eighteenth century, these elements of musical practice began
to transform into the institution described by Christopher Small. Goehr
associates elements of the concert hall with a pair of theoretical concepts –
das Werk (‘the work’) and die Werktreue (‘fidelity to the work’, ‘authentic-
ity’) – that developed in Germany and spread to other Western countries.
When composers started referring to their products as “works,” this was
not a benign change in terminology. The “musical work” concept defined a
new network of socio-political relationships involving the composer, the
performer, the listener, the sound, the performance, and the score. The com-
panion concept, die Werktreue, refers to the faithfulness with which musi-
cians perform the work by following the notations in the score, without
adding anything superfluous or inconsistent. It also refers to the faithful-
ness with which listeners attend to the music when it is being performed.
The musical work has a curious ontological profile: It is not a concrete,
physical object. It is not a private idea in the mind of a composer, performer,
or listener. It does not exist in an eternal world of ideal, uncreated forms. It
is not identical to any one of its performances. Its parts exist simultaneously,
not temporally. It is not identical to its score, but performances and the score
enable the work to be detected.
The musical work is also a governing concept that regulates a network of
practices and institutions. The composer is recognized as the creator of the
work and is entitled to ownership and copyright protection. The composi-
tion must be sufficiently novel to avoid plagiarism, even of a composer’s
previous work. The composer is expected to notate the work comprehen-
sively in a score. Once the work is notated, it can exist on its own, without
the composer. A musical work is not necessarily composed for a particular
event or particular performers. Once created, the musical work exists in a
virtual museum where it is fixed for posterity and may be brought out
periodically for performance. To perform a work faithfully, the performers
must follow the notation from beginning to end. If some characteristics
(such as tempo and dynamics) are not fully notated, the performers must
add them in a way that is faithful to the work. The listeners must pay close
attention so that the work can be recognized through the performance.

6 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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 These ontological and practical properties encompass not only “serious”
music but also popular music and even folk music.3 Goehr notes that some
individuals in the twentieth century composed or performed music in ways
that challenged a few of these properties but did not really abandon the
“work” concept or devise a comprehensive alternative.4 Like Christopher
Small, Lydia Goehr presents current musical conventions in a critical way,
stressing that their philosophical framework is not timeless and universal
but is only two hundred years old and European in origin. Alternatives are
invited but inertia is recognized.

The Modern System of the Arts

These two books by Small and Goehr focus strictly on music, but an archi-
tect who reads them may notice parallels in architecture. Mapping one dis-
cipline metaphorically onto the other relies on analogies between composer
and designer, performer and builder, listener and dweller, sound and mate-
rial, score and drawing, and performance and building. Parallels between
the concept of a musical work and the concept of an architectural work also
may be evident.
The larger framework that permits this mapping is an epistemological
classification, the fine arts, that has included both music and architecture
for the past 250 years. In his two-part essay “The Modern System of the
Arts,” Paul Oskar Kristeller notes that the five major fine arts (painting,
sculpture, poetry, music, and architecture) were rooted in ancient, me-
dieval, and Renaissance thought, but did not form a set until the eighteenth
century.5 Kristeller points out that concepts of taste, sentiment, genius,
originality, and creative imagination are associated with the development
of modern aesthetics in France, England, and Germany. He adds that the
fine arts still rely on these concepts, despite minor modulations.6
To present the fine arts as a historically limited field, the first half of his
essay surveys earlier eras in which these five arts were conceived differently
and were not necessarily associated with one another. The second half of his
essay discusses theoretical writings in the eighteenth century. As a scholar of
Renaissance philosophy, Kristeller recognized the historical limits of the
modern fine arts within a broader horizon. His essay is an implicit invitation
for others to investigate the changing historical definitions of particular arts.

Introduction 7

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 Epistemological Classifications

The present study accepts Kristeller’s invitation by considering four defini-

tions of architecture, each in a particular historical situation:

• architecture as a technē (ancient Greece)

• architecture as a mechanical art (medieval Western Europe)
• architecture as an art of disegno (Renaissance Italy)
• architecture as a fine art (eighteenth-century Western Europe)

Each definition (technē, mechanical art, art of disegno, or fine art) is an epis-
temological classification that includes architecture and two or more other
disciplines. Kristeller’s essay mentions these four definitions only briefly and
does not discuss architecture in particular.7 Although many writers have
studied architectural intentions and buildings in these historical periods, no
one has focused on these definitions of architecture. There have been brief
references to these classifications in publications on architecture; and brief
references to architecture in publications on these classifications.8
By pursuing the classifications that Kristeller mentions, this book con-
siders historical changes in the very definition of architecture. In each of the
four definitions (e.g., architecture as a technē), the word “as” points to a
larger classification where architecture is rooted during a certain period. It
does not suggest a theatrical role, as if architecture were a timeless, univer-
sal discipline that can wear different masks at will. Historical definitions of
architecture are not limited to four. One could also pursue ars contemplativa
and ars fabricandi, for example. The four definitions in the present study are
major classifications in significant historical periods.
Beyond our discipline of architecture, one of the academic contexts for
this study is the history of epistemological classifications. Epistemology
organizes human knowledge, usually in a hierarchic structure. When viewed
from the top down, a singular, all-encompassing subject (often philosophy)
is divided into a hierarchy of descending categories (e.g., fine art, science),
which in turn are divided into disciplines (e.g., music, architecture). When
viewed from the bottom up, many individual disciplines are assembled into
a hierarchy of ascending categories, which in turn are assembled into a
unified concept of knowledge. Each category (e.g., fine art) recognizes the
shared properties of its disciplines (e.g., music, architecture) but disregards

8 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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Detail of epistemological diagram from Francis Bacon, The Advancement of
Learning [1605], ed. William Aldis Wright (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1869).

their differences. Just as an individual member of a family is designated by

two names, the identity of a discipline is based on both its individuality and
the larger classification where it resides (e.g., architecture as a fine art). As
we shall see, disciplines in the same epistemological category share a family
resemblance but also a sibling rivalry. The concept of “discipline” comes
from Latin disciplina ‘instruction of pupils’.9 It encompasses various ele-
ments of theory and practice: principles, methods, terms, practitioners, an
authoritative canon, publications, courses, and communal events.10

Introduction 9

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 As the history of epistemology has shown, hierarchies, levels, categories,
disciplines, and subdisciplines are not timeless.11 This is evident from the
different classifications of knowledge in treatises and encyclopedias, as well
as the different assemblies of subjects in academies and universities since
1900. At the lower levels in the hierarchy, new disciplines and alliances are
frequently formed or dissolved, while the upper levels remain more con-
stant. From ancient Rome to the Renaissance, the “liberal arts” classification
(artes liberales), which typically included the trivium (language arts) and
the quadrivium (mathematical arts), provided a stable reference for many
disciplines, including architecture.12
Because disciplines are not timeless and universal, statements such as
“Architecture is …” and especially “Architecture has always been …” should
be qualified within historical and cultural limits to avoid projecting mod-
ern Western concepts beyond their horizon. Disciplines and classifications
are rooted in particular historical periods, so they operate at a scale that is
smaller than the philosophical context of Western civilization and the uni-
versal context of the human condition. As Chapter 2 will show, the ancient
Greeks had no word or concept that corresponds to “architecture.” The
word originated in ancient Rome. This philological detail suggests not only
that the definition of architecture is variable, but that the very concept of
architecture has historical limits. Therefore, attempts to define an archi-
tecture of Western civilization or an architecture of the human condition
may require deeper premises than what are available to us through the
word “architecture.” Conversely, the historical variability of “architecture”
suggests that the future is open to new definitions – and perhaps a recon-
stitution of the discipline in which the word “architecture” is retired in
favour of something new.

Current Elements of Practice

Another academic context for the present study is the history of architectural
practice. In the modern era, three characters (designer, builder, dweller) and
three things (material, drawing, building) are basic elements that mark out
a conventional field of practice in architecture. Each element has particular
properties and particular relations to the other elements. As Christopher
Small and Lydia Goehr have shown, similar elements have marked out a

10 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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conventional field of practice in music since the eighteenth century: three
characters (composer, performer, listener) and three things (sound, score,
performance).
Descriptions of architecture in current publications and lectures typi-
cally emphasize two elements of practice and let the rest disappear into blind
spots. Consequently, we are led to believe that designers produce buildings.
This oversimplifies and distorts the field of practice. Framing the field in this
narrow way promotes two beliefs: that the designer is a creator, and that the
building is an aesthetic object. This has several consequences: It marginalizes
the builders and the process of construction; it neutralizes the dwellers and
the social program for the building; it disregards the building’s materiality
and earthly context; and it skips over the representations with which the
design is developed. When these four other elements are recognized, the
field of practice expands once again. Acknowledging that designing, build-
ing, and dwelling are gradual processes rather than timeless states is also a
reminder that architecture is not just spatial but also temporal.
As Kristeller’s essay shows, modern premises did not necessarily exist
in earlier periods. Using modern concepts such as “designer” and “aesthetic
object” to interpret architectural work in ancient Greece, for example,
would misconstrue that distant field of practice. Conversely, ignoring
different elements of practice in history would shrink our own horizon.
Instead, this book takes a hermeneutic approach by weaving six elements
of current architectural practice across those historical periods. Anachro-
nistic juxtaposition is bound to cause ripples but also may challenge our
current conventions.
The motivation for this historical study is not to pursue history as an
antiquarian exercise but to understand current concepts and practices in a
broader context. In music, Small, Goehr, and others present historical analy-
ses but also critiques that question the conventional roles of the composer,
performer, and listener, along with the conventional concepts of sound,
score, and performance. They also question the current definition of the
discipline of music and the governing concept of the musical work.
To promote comparisons among historical periods, the template of
terms in the matrix below is a current “weft” that extends horizontally
through the “warp” of the historical chapters. The first term defines the
discipline. The next six terms are elements of practice. The final term is a
governing concept that regulates those elements. These eight current terms

Introduction 11

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Eight current terms and four historical definitions of architecture.

reappear differently in eight numbered subheadings in Chapters 2, 4, 6, and

9, which in turn are assembled in Chapter 10.
The typical concert hall event described by Small and Goehr is a com-
pact situation where most of the six elements of musical practice are pres-
ent and the tensions among them are experienced directly. Equivalent
elements in architectural practice are more dispersed, both spatially and
temporally, so relationships among them are encountered less often and
less vividly. The following description brings them together in a way that
is both familiar and remote, using the design, construction, and inhabi-
tation of a small, fictional workplace to illustrate basic elements and rela-
tionships in current architectural practice. Like Small’s critical account of
the concert hall, it presents the bare bones and ligaments of our conven-
tional system, without the flesh with which better projects cover its sharp
edges and articulated joints.

1 Architecture

It seems odd to refer to this small workplace project as “architecture.”

“Architecture” is an abstract noun. It is inherently singular and does not
designate particular things such as buildings. Recognizing architecture is
difficult because many different lines have been drawn between what is

12 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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and is not architecture: proportionate vs. non-proportionate, ornate vs.
plain, grand vs. humble, complex vs. simple, unique vs. typical, rich vs. poor,
sacred vs. secular, etc. The word “architecture” is now sufficiently am-
biguous to be adopted for novel domains such as “molecular architecture”
and “computer architecture,” in which the word designates a complex
organization.13
Conventions in education and practice have reinforced architecture’s
ambiguity. Since the mid-nineteenth century, the discipline of architecture
has been studied at a senior university level.14 It is now regarded as a com-
posite subject defined indirectly by the multiple facets it shares with other
subjects such as art, engineering, sociology, psychology, and history. Because
architecture has no presence in primary or secondary education, it is
assumed to be an esoteric subject with no roots in earlier experience. Apti-
tude for architecture is often assumed from a student’s talents in cognate
subjects such as drawing and mathematics, or from equal strengths in arts
and sciences. As a practice, architecture is defined by government legisla-
tion and regulated by professional bodies that determine who is and who
is not an architect. By law, only registered architects can make architecture.

2 Designer

In the simplest scenario, a designer is one person who receives a commission,

develops a design, obtains approvals, and notates instructions for a builder.
In a larger and more complex project, the designer would be divided into
multiple figures, such as a project architect, structural engineer, mechanical
engineer, interior designer, and cost consultant.
After receiving the commission and an initial fee, the designer meets
with the dweller to discuss the objectives and constraints for the workplace
project. The esoteric references they bring to the conversation induce mild
disorientation. This is a time for getting acquainted and anticipating the
building to come. The designer returns to the studio and composes a design
on paper, using lines to notate the edges of surfaces and volumes. The design
is mainly a composition of forms, assembled in a harmonious way. The
designer keeps certain internal and external forces in mind but does not
represent them explicitly. The design responds to the dweller’s objectives but
also expresses the designer’s own character and ambition. It is expected to
be unique, with a form that is somewhat different from all other buildings

Introduction 13

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in the world. The designer draws characteristics from previous designs but
does not analyze those designs rigorously and does not regard ancestors as
the ultimate authority. The designer does not believe that there is a single,
perfect design for this workplace that is waiting to be discovered. Instead,
designs are relative and the criteria for evaluating them are variable.
When the design for this new workplace is finished, the designer is
recognized legally as its author. The federal government grants the designer
copyright protection from others who might copy the form of this design.
One also cannot copy one’s previous work, as this would constitute self-
plagiarism.
The design represents the project in its finished state. All of its com-
ponents are notated before construction can begin. A clear line separates
the designer from the builder. The designer’s contribution ends with the
completion of the drawing. The drawing shows that the designer is only
generally aware of the materials that will be used and the abilities of the
builder who will acquire and assemble them. The designer’s awareness of
construction comes from books and perhaps from watching builders in
action, not from previous hands-on experience. Consequently, the drawings
include a few technical misunderstandings that the builder finds amusing.
The designer does not meet the builder during construction but obtains a
photograph of the completed workplace as soon as the builder leaves.

3 Material

From the earth’s point of view, materials remain constant. Nothing is really
created or destroyed. Human beings, like forces of nature, move materials
from one place to another or change their chemical composition. Before
commissioning this new workplace, the dweller concluded that the earth’s
current distribution of materials did not provide what was needed, and
assumed that materials could be redistributed to address the new objectives.
In accepting the commission, the designer implicitly agrees.
The designer’s drawing does not represent materials explicitly, but its
formal composition implies that certain materials will be used. The designer
believes that the form of the design is primary and its materials are a sec-
ondary resource. The design uses common materials with properties the
designer recalls from earlier encounters. The designer does not push the
properties of these materials beyond their normal limits so that the design

14 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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will not be compromised during the building stage. The design is developed
with an assumption that a typical builder will have the equipment and skills
to distribute the materials into the prescribed forms.

4 Dweller

The dweller can furnish a room but lacks the qualifications to design and
build a larger workplace. In the simplest scenario, a dweller commissions
the design of a building, monitors its composition, receives the finished
building, lives in it, and observes its relation to other things. In a larger and
more complex project, an individual dweller would be divided into multi-
ple figures, such as a client, regulator, financier, owner, tenant, and observer.
The dweller presents a simple program to the designer. Shelter is already
presumed, so the program focuses on additional objectives and constraints.
These conditions inform only a few characteristics of the design. The rest
come from the designer. The final workplace expresses the ambitions of both
the designer and the dweller. Both refer to it as “mine.”
The designer (or a hired photographer) photographs the workplace as
soon as the builder leaves but before the dweller begins to use it and alter it.
This photograph freezes the workplace in a state that conveys the maximum
influence of the designer. It is similar to the designer’s initial drawing of
the workplace, but now the image is more lifelike. This photograph may
be published later as an authoritative record of the designer’s creation.
The acceptance of photography suggests that the work can be appreciated
sufficiently through visual representations, without invoking other senses
or bodily experience.
As soon as the photograph is taken, the dweller can introduce other
furnishings and start using the workplace. However, because the design is
expressive and authoritative – and because the designer happened to be
famous – the dweller feels obliged to furnish the workplace in a way that is
faithful to the design.

5 Builder

The designer and the builder of this workplace project are separate figures.
Professional and union regulations prohibit designers from participating in
construction, but visual supervision is permitted. In the simplest scenario,

Introduction 15

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a builder receives the drawing, brings equipment, acquires the materials, and
assembles them into a building. In a larger and more complex project, an
individual builder would be divided into multiple figures, such as a general
contractor, foreman, tradesmen, and labourers.
The builder is hired after the design is completed, never meeting either
the designer or the dweller. The builder’s primary reference is the drawing,
which stands as a contract. If the drawing does not describe all of the details,
the builder would have to obtain clarifications from the designer or fill in the
blanks in a way that is faithful to the design.
Because this workplace is built only once, it is not possible to compare
different interpretations of it by different builders. Therefore, the builder
is regarded not as an interpreter who translates a drawing strategically into
a building, but as a transmitter who follows directions without making
mistakes. Consequently, the builder is less prominent than the two other
figures and does not receive public recognition. Still, the builder also refers
to the finished building as “mine.”

6 Building

This building is recognized as a singular form, even though it adjoins other

buildings. Because a design is expected to be unique, it cannot just blend
into the continuum of the city. The building does not have a name, only a
street address. The name of the dweller’s business is displayed on the front
of the building, but if the business ever moves to another location, the name
will move with it. The names of the designer, the builder, and the dweller do
not appear on the building, but the designer (and perhaps the dweller) will
be mentioned if the design is published.
The building is not a precise reflection of anyone’s expectations. The
designer cannot conduct full-scale rehearsals on-site and make adjustments
along the way. Therefore, some parts of the building seem larger or smaller
than expected, with some odd details that were not considered when pre-
paring the drawing. Certain parts of the building display an odd mode of
representation, as if they were geometric forms made with gigantic drawing
instruments rather than building elements made from materials. The prefab-
ricated items selected from catalogues also seem odd in their new setting.

16 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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Throughout the day and throughout the year, the building does not perform
quite as expected, so additional climate controls and partitions are installed.
This building displays a medium level of craft and finish. Particular types
of buildings do not necessarily warrant a high or low level of craft, based on
their civic importance or inherent longevity. The level of craft depends
largely on the funds that the dweller wishes to allocate to the design, the
building, and its subsequent maintenance. A high level of finish is never
expected in parts of a building that are hidden from view.

7 Drawing

The primary purpose of the drawing is to instruct the builder. The drawing
is notated fully because the designer departs as soon as the drawing is trans-
mitted. Because the drawing is flat, linear, and reduced in scale, it cannot
show everything and cannot serve directly as a template for construction.
By depicting the finished state of the building, the drawing serves as the
builder’s target. The builder has to interpret this synchronic drawing as a
diachronic series of steps that leads to completion. The designer does not
notate step-by-step instructions because only the final product is important
and it can be achieved in different ways that the builder knows better than
the designer. Any problems or opportunities that arise during construction
are suppressed so that the final building corresponds to the drawing.
In the simplest scenario, a drawing conveys the design to the builder. In
a larger and more complex project, this single drawing would be divided
into separate drawings or other representations: preliminary drawings for
discussion with the dweller, interim drawings for the designer to consider
options, explanatory or rhetorical drawings for obtaining approval, and
multiple drawings for everyone if the design is complex. The drawing is
productive and forward-looking. Any preliminary drawings that study
nature or precedents would remain within the private realm of the designer.

8 Architectural Work

The six elements described in this workplace project mark out a conven-
tional field of current practice. They could be articulated further into many

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more figures, items, and steps, but the six basic elements and their relation-
ships are sufficient to operate the system. These elements are easy to recog-
nize but the concept of “the architectural work” that governs them is more
elusive. Lydia Goehr’s ontological analysis of “the musical work” defines that
concept indirectly: by describing its secondary influences and by indicating
what it is not.
Several twentieth-century philosophers included architecture when
analyzing the ontology of works of art. Roman Ingarden (1893–1970) is the
most notable example. A quarter of his book Ontology of the Work of Art is
devoted to the architectural work.15 Ingarden’s philosophical analyses of
architecture, music, painting, and film attempt to be universal and timeless,
but his reliance on premises from the fine arts anchors his philosophy firmly
in late eighteenth-century Europe. Unlike Goehr, Ingarden’s ahistorical
approach considers only a few elements of practice and does not mention
different practices before the advent of the work concept.
Anticipating some of the curious ontological features that Goehr iden-
tifies in the musical work, Ingarden stresses that an architectural work is not
equivalent to a building.16 He might refer to the workplace above as a large,
solid object that should last for many years but is not the definitive version
of its architectural work. If a tornado demolishes this building and a new
version is built – even by the same builder – the result will be different but the
architectural work will remain the same. The builder constructs a building,
not an architectural work. Even the drawing made by the designer is not de-
finitive, as it is only a notation for the builder and a record of the designer’s
intentions. The designer may be credited as the author of the building but
is not the sole authority for the work. Once created, the work becomes
autonomous. This architectural work is not a workplace for a dweller; its
use is incidental. Visitors might observe the building attentively to appreci-
ate the architectural work. A stellar building would let the architectural work
shine through.
Ingarden’s ontological analysis begins to clarify the properties of an ar-
chitectural work, but a circuitous approach via music may be more effective.
The discipline of music was not mentioned in the workplace scenario above
but may have been lingering as a metaphor in the margins. The figures and
items in Small’s and Goehr’s descriptions of a modern concert hall can be
mapped onto equivalent figures and items in the architectural domain:
composer/designer, performer/builder, listener/dweller; sound/material,

18 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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performance/building, and score/drawing. As with any metaphor, each pair
of elements shares certain properties but not others. As Goehr has shown,
these six elements of musical practice are governed by concepts of “the
musical work” (das musikalische Werk) and “fidelity to the work” (die
Werktreue). Through induction, one would expect the six elements of
architectural practice to be governed by an equivalent concept, “the archi-
tectural work.”
Goehr traces the advent of the work concept in music to Germany in the
late eighteenth and early nineteenth century. This provides an obvious
starting point for pursuing an equivalent historical concept in architectural
theory; however, a concurrent paper trail of documents on the concept of
“the architectural work” is not evident. Still, it is possible that the work
concept governed the field of architectural practice but was not desig-
nated theoretically by that particular term. The phrase “architectural work”
that appears in earlier publications from the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries17 seems like a false clue because it relies on a much older meaning
of “work” that refers to physical labour and still resides in the terms “works
department” and “public works.” Therefore, the historical question remains
open: whether an equivalent concept in architecture developed alongside
the “work” concept in music.
On the legal front, the term “architectural work” has become part of
copyright law, but in the United States, for example, this did not occur until
1990. The Copyright Act defines an architectural work as “an original design
of a building embodied in any tangible medium of expression, including a
building, architectural plans, or drawings … The work includes the overall
form as well as the arrangement and composition of spaces and elements in
the design but does not include individual standard features or design
elements that are functionally required.”18 This legal definition indicates that
an architectural work is concerned with form but not function: a distinction
that Roman Ingarden would have supported. Copyright applies only to
formal compositions; an invention that is useful must be registered instead
as a patent.
The origin of the “architectural work” concept also might align with his-
torical changes in those six elements of architectural practice: designer,
builder, dweller, material, drawing, and building. Again, late eighteenth-
century Germany is the obvious place to start. Historical parallels between
elements in music and elements in architecture could provide clues; for

Introduction 19

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example, the first conductor appeared around the same time as the first
contractor.19 Unfortunately, there are few publications on historical elements
of practice in architecture. There are far more studies of historical elements
of practice in music.
Tracing the origin of the “work” concept in architecture would be one
project; identifying attempts to end it would be another. As Goehr notes in
The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works, the work concept in music faced
some challenges in the twentieth century.20 Some musicians departed from
conventions of practice: by merging the roles of composer and performer,
by making scores that cannot be performed conventionally, and by making
compositions that anticipate new ways of listening. However, within the
larger discipline, she notes that their efforts were fragmentary and their
products still were conceived as works. Meanwhile, some architects also
departed from conventions of practice: by merging the roles of designer and
builder, by making drawings that cannot be built, and by making projects
that anticipate new social programs and ways of dwelling.
With Kristeller characterizing the past 250 years as the period of the fine
arts for painting, sculpture, poetry, music, and architecture, some of these
current conventions will return in Chapter 8, “Architecture as a Fine Art.”
In this first chapter, the discipline of music has been serving as a metaphor
to illuminate the discipline of architecture obliquely, highlighting charac-
teristics that would be less evident if architecture were approached directly.
Throughout the rest of the book, music and other disciplines will play only
a supporting role, whenever direct comparisons are needed.
Equipped with the eight elements of practice that will run laterally
through the historical chapters, we can now investigate the four historical
definitions of architecture, starting in ancient Greece.

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 2
Architecture as a Techne-

Elements of Practice in Technē

In the first century bce, Vitruvius notes that his treatise on architecture was
preceded by other writings from ancient Greece that have not survived.1
Consequently, we must use secondary sources and philological details to
discern elements of architectural practice in ancient Greece. The Greeks had
no word that corresponds to what we now call “architecture” – or even “art.”
They also did not distinguish between what we regard as fine art (painting,
sculpture, etc.) and craft (carpentry, weaving, etc.). All of these endeavours,
including building, were encompassed by technē, a domain with particular
meanings and relationships. Technē was the cumulative set of abilities that
the Greeks had acquired during their development into a civilized culture.
Techne- was not merely a catalogue of technical skills for making products;
it was a larger realm of knowledge and intervention that encompassed not
only artisans but also patrons and ancestors. It relied on cultural memory,
empirical experience, and strategies for circumventing limits.
The domain of techne- existed in both archaic and classical Greece but its
circumstances were somewhat different in each period.2 Archaic Greece and
the age of the epics must be distinguished from classical Greece, the age of
the philosophers. Hellenistic Greece and Rome were different again. In the
present chapter, emphasis is placed on technē up to the fifth century bce, the
early classical period when the Parthenon was built, prior to the philosoph-
ical reconception of technē by Plato in the fourth century. The following
eight sections correspond to the template of terms from Chapter 1.

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 1 Abilities

Archaic Greece did not distinguish between craft techniques and feats of
magic. Homer indicates that artisans made not only objects for daily use but
also things that were exceptional in action or appearance: devices that
produce magical effects (thaumata) and finely crafted luxury items for
nobility (daidala).3 Their mentor was Daidalos, the mythical artisan who
made things that were even more wondrous, including a costume to seduce
a bull, a labyrinth to contain a minotaur, and wax wings to escape from the
labyrinth.4 Metal workers also looked to Hephaistos, the patron blacksmith
who could make magical objects that moved and spoke by themselves
(automata).5 Although the abilities attributed to Daidalos and Hephaistos
were superior to those of their human descendants, the difference was a
matter of degree, not of kind. They used the same type of intelligence and
sought similar effects. This continuity and rapport among gods, mythical
ancestors, and humans was prevalent in ancient Greece.
Techne- in archaic Greece encompassed a wide range of occupations,
including prophets, healers, legislators, builders, minstrels, carpenters,
blacksmiths, metal workers, potters, acrobats, cooks, navigators, and horse
trainers.6 Some occupations were more manual; some were more intel-
lectual. Techne- included subjects that our modern era would categorize
as sciences, crafts, and arts. It could result in a physical object (a house, a
painting), a performance (a song, a dance), or an altered condition (health
in humans, training in horses).7 Its activities could be done both inside and
outside the home, by both women and men. These diverse occupations may
suggest that technē encompassed every activity that requires skill or manual
labour, but it did not. Techne- did not include agriculture. A farmer releases
the earth’s natural fertility, whereas an artisan shapes natural substance into
a different form for human use.8
In archaic and early classical Greece, technē was a classification below
mousikē. Mousikē was a ritualized fusion of poetry, music, and dance that
relied on divine inspiration. The gods would breathe words into poets, song
into musicians, and motion into dancers.9 Unlike technē, mousikē was over-
seen by the Muses and inspired directly by the gods. A clear line was drawn
between them: “The poet … was animated by a divine spirit as an instru-
ment of those forces which direct the world and maintain order in it,

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whereas the [artisan] was merely one who preserved the stock of knowledge
inherited from his ancestors.”10
Poets relied not only on divine guidance, but also on skills they had
acquired from their ancestors, indicating that their discipline spanned both
mousikē and technē.11 Conversely, the building of a temple or a significant
civic structure required not just technē but also divine guidance. On behalf
of a patron or a city, an official envoy – called a theoros, the root of the
words theoria and theory – would be sent on a pilgrimage to consult with an
oracle at a location such as the sanctuary at Delphi.12 The theoros received
instructive words or signs from the oracle, then returned to the city to deliver
them. As a messenger between the divine realm and the mortal realm, the
theoros had to be an extremely reliable, high-ranking citizen. Meanwhile,
the architekton remained at home and was not involved directly in this
“theoretical” activity. Later he would receive divine instructions indirectly
from the theoros and the civic committee, to guide his activities in the realm
of technē.
Techne- did not include political action in archaic or early classical Greece.
The knowledge of one’s craft was unrelated to the knowledge of moral virtue
on which political action was based. Artisans remained within their domain
of expertise. Later, with the advent of democracy in classical Greece, arti-
san-citizens would participate fully in the polis along with all other citizens,
but this change was due to a redefinition of the political realm rather than
a recognition that manual crafts and politics were related in an intrinsic way.
These two activities later found themselves in the same category when the
Sophists expanded the boundaries of technē to include rhetorical speech
and political government as skills that can be taught.13 This new classical
definition of technē – any ability that can be described and taught – shifted
the earlier archaic definition that had emphasized the transformation of
nature and the magical revelation of its life force.
Each technē was defined by its specific source material (e.g., leather)
and/or its specific end products (e.g., shoes, bridles). Techne- did not include
a generic “sculpture” or “architecture” category to refer to a family of formal
objects or a general discipline, separate from its material, its production, or
its use. Making a statue in stone was fundamentally different from making
a statue in bronze. Each technē remained distinct because it required differ-
ent techniques and was done by a different group of tektonai (artisans). The

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word architekton, as a classical extension of the archaic tekton (builder),
referred to a particular individual and his relation to other builders. In turn,
the word architektonikos was an adjective that referred to the architekton.
The more abstract word “architecture” (άρχιτεκτονία; architektonia) did
not appear in Greek before the second century ce, after architectura had
appeared in Latin.14 The Greeks apparently did not conceive architecture as
a general category or discipline in its own right. Therefore, to speak of “the
architecture of ancient Greece” – or even “architecture as a technē” – would
be an anachronism. Instead of abstract nouns (e.g., sculpture, architecture)
and general nouns (e.g., building, temple), the ancient Greeks had nouns
for particular things with particular uses, such as domos (house, house of
a god), oikema (dwelling place, room), oikos (house), hedra (sitting place),
naos (innermost part of a temple), and topos (place).15
The original Greek word architekton had been assembled from two units,
each with its own meaning: tekton ‘builder’ and archi- ‘chief.’ The compound
architekton was formed from two of what the Greeks called onoma, the name
of a person or thing. Linguists now call this grammatical element a mor-
pheme, the smallest unit of meaning.16 The Greek language consisted largely
of linked morphemes, combined in a rich variety of ways. This structural
characteristic suggests a particular way of thinking about things, in which
relationships are described additively and their original sources remain
evident. To modern readers, adding a hyphen to highlight the hinge between
morphemes – a Heideggerian and Derridean practice – disrupts the smooth
surface of the written (transliterated) language and provides a graphic re-
minder of the individual “names,” their etymological roots, and their linked
structure: for example, archi-tekton. Greek existed as a spoken language, a
continuous chain of morphemes and meanings, long before it was a written
language of discrete compound words. In fact, the Greeks originally had no
word for “word.”17 Their affinity for linked parts rather than singular wholes
is evident also in the Propylaea on the Acropolis, which the Greeks in the
fifth century bce considered a great success, although to modern eyes its
heterogeneous forms and the joints between them seem irregular.18
Translating the word architekton from Greek to Latin was not a benign
move. The Latin word architectus appeared around 200 bce and had two
different meanings: master-builder and inventor.19 The first meaning re-
tained the Greek etymology but the second did not. In Vitruvius, De archi-
tectura (ca. 25 bce), the earlier role of the architekton (a chief builder who

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Etymology of the word “architecture” in Greek, via Latin.

directs other builders) is superseded by a different role that is more diverse

and less concrete but still inhabits the shell of the Greek word. The word
architectura (architecture), a derivative of architectus, is recorded first in
Cicero, two decades before Vitruvius.20 Its meaning is even more abstract
because it does not refer to a particular thing. The word architectura is
singular and indivisible. Adding a hyphen (archi-tectura) does not illuminate
its meaning. Detached from its Greek roots and no longer divisible in a
meaningful way, the Latin word architectura was free to make new associa-
tions and acquire new meanings.

2 Ancestors

Modern archaeology has determined that the Greeks were neither technical
inventors nor innovators. Their tools and technical knowledge had been
borrowed from the eastern Mediterranean and were not developed signifi-
cantly. Their myths about technē, however, tell a different story: Prometheus
stole fire from Athena and gave it to humans. Other gods provided tools.
Athena is credited with inventing the set-square and the line. Hephaistos,
the patron of metalwork, contributed the hammer and pincers. Daidalos, a
mythical human ancestor rather than a god, was credited with inventing the
saw, the axe, the plumb-line, and glue. In archaic Greece, tools were consid-
ered active collaborators that help bring an artisan’s work to perfection, step
by step.21 Both Hephaistos and Daidalos served as role models for artisans.
They used tools to transform natural materials into magical and well-crafted
objects for particular worldly desires. The intermediate steps, however, re-
mained a secret. In archaic Greece, technical secrets were kept within broth-
erhoods of artisans and were divulged only to initiates. The brotherhood
for builders was called Daedalidae (sons of Daidalos/Daedalus).

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 This still leaves the question, where did technē come from? Who dis-
covered how to work with these materials, and who discovered the models
for making objects that respond to worldly desires? According to mythol-
ogy, neither Athena nor Hephaistos taught artisans how to do these things.
Instead, artisans attributed these discoveries to the chain of ancestors who
had preceded them in their particular craft. Despite being prompted ini-
tially by gods, technē was largely a human development. Even Daidalos did
not invoke supernatural assistance to overcome obstacles; he relied on his
own abilities.
Techne- was acquired through apprenticeship, normally within a family.
A son observed and assisted his father, then followed in his footsteps. Even
Daidalos had learned his skills from his father and grandfather.22 Author-
ship in technē was essentially collective, not individual. On the occasions
when an artisan inscribed his name on a product, he typically added his
father’s name to acknowledge the ancestral chain of artisans. Inscribing
one’s name was an indication of pride in one’s inherited abilities, not a claim
for personal authorship.
Artisans attributed the development of their craft to a series of ancestors
who had refined their inherited techniques in response to the shifting
boundaries of worldly desires, not to individuals who set themselves apart
by inventing new techniques and new products for no particular purpose.
Tradition also provided a common ground for artisans within each technē.
Artisans shared the same basic concepts and practices and did not depart
significantly from their ancestral canon. Therefore, detailed on-site instruc-
tions were unnecessary.

3 Life Force

In archaic Greece, the principal materials used by artisans were wood from
trees, clay from the earth, leather from animals, and metal imported from
abroad. Stone came later. An artisan was defined first by the material in
which he worked and then by the things he made. Because his role involved
transforming nature into artifice, the particular material he obtained was
crucial to the product’s eventual success. An artisan either harvested and
prepared the material himself or inquired to understand its source: how
the timber had been harvested and cured, or where a piece of stone had been
situated in the quarry.23

26 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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Olive tree. Photograph by
Rodrigo Nuno Bragança
da Cunha, Wikimedia.

As one might expect in archaic Greece, natural substances had a certain

life force. Indra Kagis McEwen notes, “In preclassical Greece, hyle, as forest,
timber, or firewood, was part of a divine and deathless physis. Hyle, wood,
was cut up, probably with all the circumspection devoted to the cutting
up of a sacrificial victim, to be remade, in order that it might reappear in
another guise – as a boat or, even more magically, as flame.”24 Materials
belonged to nature and had to be sacrificed properly before they could reap-
pear in another form that would retain their original life force. If a similar
object was made by someone who had not been initiated in the technē, its
material would not retain this life force, would not be well crafted, and
would be considered essentially dead.
The archaic artisan was not a creator but a transformer who turned
something into something else. The etymology of technē indicates an anal-
ogy with birth: the root tec- refers to the act of making something appear.25
Several centuries later, Aristotle suggested that the processes of technē ex-
tend and imitate the processes of nature, and that these two processes share
a common purpose: “If a house were a natural product, the process would

Architecture as a Techne- 27

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pass through the same stages that it in fact passes through when it is pro-
duced by art; and if natural products could also be produced by art, they
would move along the same line that the natural process actually takes.”26

4 Patron

The patron, whether public or private, provided the primary motivation for
technē. The skills of the artisan – including those of Daidalos – led to a prod-
uct or action that extended the patron’s normal abilities. As Janet Atwill
notes, “In these ancient contexts, technē is never reducible to an instrument
or a means to an end. Instead, art intervenes when a boundary or limitation
is recognized, and it creates a path that both transgresses and redefines that
boundary. Fate and necessity may set temporary limits for invention, but
their boundaries are perpetually redrawn by technē.”27
By directing technē toward the patron’s abilities rather than the prod-
uct, the artisan had to respond strategically. Techne- therefore may be
characterized as the choice of a path; the making (poiēsis) of a product was
merely an intermediate step in the larger domain of technē. As Jean-Pierre
Vernant notes, “When considering a product, the ancient Greeks were less
concerned with the process of manufacture, the [poiēsis], than with the
use to which the article was to be put, the [khresis]. And for each piece of
work, it is this [khresis] that defines the [eidos] that the worker embodies
in matter. In effect, the manufactured object, like living creatures, is sub-
ject to final causes. Its perfection lies in its adaptation to the need for which
it has been produced.”28
One can imagine Daidalos and other artisans observing the patron in
action to find out if their strategy was successful. As with healers who used
technē to modify a patron’s health, the product was a means of changing the
capacities of the patron by employing the right action at the right time. An
innovative product would be developed only when the standard canon for
the craft could not satisfy a patron’s desires. An artisan in the technē tradi-
tion did not make innovative things for the sake of novelty.
An artisan also did not make things for the sake of self-expression.
Techne- was a collective domain. In archaic Greece, an artisan who worked
for the public good was designated as a demiourgos ‘public worker’ (demos
‘people’ + ergon ‘work’).29 Working for the public carried a responsibility
but also a certain prestige. Archaic artisans were paid nothing for their

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public work but received gifts when they worked for private clients. When
technē was performed for a city, it manifested the public realm. Without the
artisan making objects and performing actions, the public realm would have
remained imperceptible. Consequently, the artisan had a dual responsibil-
ity to produce and to reveal. This is the sense in which Martin Heidegger
defines technē as a “letting appear.”30

5 Architekton

To become proficient in a craft required five to ten years of apprenticeship.

By then, the apprentice would have learned the ancestral traditions of the
craft and acquired sufficient experience to act intelligently in diverse situa-
tions. The technē category included many different occupations – includ-
ing architekton – and all were at the same level. Techne- included “every skilled
worker whose labours contributed to the manufacture of objects in durable
materials, and who depended on the exercise of his craft for a living. De-
fined thus, the miner, the bronze nail-maker, the goldsmith, the jeweller,
the quarrymason, the sculptor, the architect, the tanner, the cobbler, the
harness-maker, the lumberman, the shipwright, the joiner and inlayer, the
potter, are all equally deserving of consideration. None was any more or
less a professional and a craftsman than any other.”31
Tekton initially designated a carpenter but eventually referred to a builder
in either wood or stone.32 In occupations involving wood and woodworking
tools, the term tekton covered a range of artisans, from those who make fur-
niture to those who make ships. Although the word tekton referred to both
wood and stone, a carpenter usually was not also a stone mason. Stone and
wood have different origins and properties. Working in stone also requires
different tools and skills.
Architekton designated a chief builder. In Greek literature, the word
architekton first appeared in the fifth century bce, when Herodotus refers
to Eupalinos directing the construction of a water tunnel in Samos, carved
out of rock: “The designer [άρχιτέκτων (architekton)] of this work was
Eupalinos, son of Naustrophus, a Megarian.”33 Herodotus later mentions
another architekton: “Having viewed the Pontus, Darius sailed back to the
bridge, of which Mandrocles of Samos was the chief builder [άρχιτέκτων
(architekton)].”34 The word architekton ‘chief builder’ made sense in the
technē tradition because it referred to an individual who directs others. A

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derivative word, architechnē, did not exist, as the notion of a “chief craft”
that directs other crafts would make no sense.
An architekton who directed the construction of a public building in
stone, wood, and metal did not have to be an expert in all of these technai but
had to know enough about them to converse intelligently with the artisans.35
Like other tektonai, his own technē was defined by material, but it included
more than one. The apprenticeship of an architekton was broader than for
other artisans, but still within the realm of technē. It involved the on-site
construction of public works, complemented by experience in the shops
of carpenters, metalsmiths, and stone masons. Belonging to a family with
expertise in several materials would have been beneficial for an architekton.
In addition to understanding materials and their traditions, an architekton
would have to be familiar with ancestral buildings and know how a new
building could extend the abilities of a patron or a polis. These types of ex-
pectations are consistent with the range of expectations for any artisan.
An architekton worked only on public buildings, not on houses. His-
torians have disagreed on whether this was because a temple, a theatre, or a
fortress involved many skilled artisans and needed someone to coordinate
them; or because a public building required someone with expertise in
geometry and ornamentation. The first option seems more credible in ar-
chaic situations, when technē was the prevalent mode of knowledge and
production. The second option would arise later, when Plato, Aristotle, and
then Vitruvius promoted a more theoretical mode of knowledge.
The distinction between tekton and architekton hinges on the meaning of
“direction.” A director can act in two ways: from the bottom up (to guide, to
keep something on a straight path, to regulate); and from the top down (to
order, to control, to prescribe).36 In the first scenario, a large group of tek-
tonai recognizes that coordination is needed and appoints one of its own
to step back from direct physical work so that he can direct them. In the
second scenario, an independent person establishes his own design and
directs the craftsmen to implement it. The first scenario is consistent with
the etymology of architekton, in which tekton is the common root and the
prefix archi- refers to a member of a group who assumes the elevated role of
chief or head. Other Greek words with this prefix also suggest an elevated
relationship, not a separate category.37 Along with architekton for carpentry
and building, the prefix archi- was applied in situations involving metal and

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stone – archikamineutes (head smelter man) and archilatomos (head quar-
ryman) – but not clay, bronze, or cloth.38
Wages for working on a public building did not indicate a higher status
for the architekton than for other tektonai. In fact, the opposite was true. The
financial accounts for the construction of the Parthenon indicate that the
masons who carved the pediment figures earned slightly more than regular
masons and carpenters, and twice as much as an architekton.39
With the rise of the theoretical mode of knowledge in classical Greece,
the status of the artisan began to decline, especially in crafts that required
more physical effort than mental effort. The growing attention to contem-
plative and democratic life led to rankings within the category of technē.
Xenophon explained it differently: “Banausic occupations leave no spare
time for friendship or for the affairs of the city.”40 Despite the pejorative
connotation of “banausic,” his remark suggests that the problem was not
technē itself, but the fact that its demands on one’s time prevented political
participation.
The technē tradition distinguished decisively between two levels: the ini-
tiated tekton (including the architekton) and the uninitiated workers (thetes)
whom a tekton might hire to provide manual labour.41 Plato’s Politicus
[Statesman], a dialogue on government, draws a line in a different place:
between the architekton and everyone else. “Now consider a master builder.
No master builder is a manual worker – he directs the work of others … He
provides the knowledge but not the manual labor … so he might fairly be
said to possess one of the theoretical forms of science … The master builder
must give the appropriate directions to each of the workmen and see that
they complete the work assigned.”42 Here the architekton is associated only
with the mind and is raised to a level above all others, while the tekton is
indistinguishable from manual labourers (thetes) and is associated only with
the hand. This is a major departure from the archaic technē tradition, in
which an artisan attended not only to the immediate product or action but
also to the ancestral tradition and the patron’s abilities.
Aristotle echoed Plato’s distinction between thinking and doing by
drawing an even clearer line between the architekton and the tekton and by
extending it to all technai, not just to building: “The master craftsmen
[άρχιτέκτονας] in every profession are more estimable and know more
and are wiser than the artisans, because they know the reasons of the things

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which are done; but we think that the artisans, like certain inanimate
objects, do things, but without knowing what they are doing.”43 Aristotle’s
doctrine of four causes distinguished clearly between the final cause (why)
and the efficient cause (how). As with Plato, the difference he describes
between the architekton and the tekton seems more like an illustration of an
emerging philosophical concept than a record of their traditional roles.

6 Construction

The Greeks distinguished clearly between the artisan and the item that was
made. They expected the finished item to respond perfectly to the patron’s
desires, but accepted that the artisan and the process of making could be
messy. When builders started using stone in the sixth century bce, the high
level of craft that had been attained in items made of wood, metal, and
leather was expected also in certain buildings. In general, public buildings
were highly crafted whereas private houses were not. Attention was paid to
craft from beginning to end, from the gathering of the natural materials to
the final polishing. As Alison Burford notes, “Soundness of construction,
exactness of detail, complete adequacy of function, ingenuity and boldness
of invention – the good craftsman’s best work displayed many if not all of
these qualities. With quite simple tools he could make a block of marble
exactly rectangular and perfectly level on every surface, which, where nec-
essary, would be polished smooth … The carpentry of the ships he built
would have the quality of cabinet work rather than boat-building, so fine
were the joints and so firm the resulting wall of wood.”44 Craft was not just
for the eyes. In public buildings, the stone in the underground courses was
dressed and joined just as carefully as the stone above ground.45 The same
level of craft was achieved throughout the building, regardless of visibility.46
Unlike a labourer who follows instructions and focuses on an immedi-
ate task, an artisan did not simply apply standard techniques. Because technē
emphasized the patron’s use of the product, the artisan had to customize it
accordingly. Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant have traced the rela-
tion between technē and mētis, a form of practical intelligence that uses cun-
ning and minimal effort to achieve its objectives: “In order to reach his goal
directly, to pursue his way without deviating from it, across a world which
is fluctuating and constantly oscillating from one side to another, he must

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himself adopt an oblique course and make his intelligence sufficiently wily
and supple to bend in every conceivable way and his gait so ‘askew’ that he
can be ready to go in any direction … to devise the straightest way to achieve
his end.”47 A tekton making a ship out of wood would use mētis to achieve a
construction perfectly suited to the patron’s desired abilities. An architekton
directing the construction of a public building also would use mētis to make
subtle formal adjustments (column entasis, varied modules, rising stylo-
bates, etc.) in response to local circumstances. As mētis invokes the metaphor
of a circuitous route, it might guide the construction of a single column or
an entire building. The architekton and the tektonai would not visualize every
part in advance but instead proceed one step at a time, confident that the
ancestral canon and their own wits would guide them to completion.48
In technē, any departures from the ancestral canon were small adjust-
ments to address the particular situation. Ancient Greek artisans, including
the architekton, were not innovators but could be strategic when necessary.

Parthenon, Athens (447–438 bce), exterior detail.

Photograph © Scott Gilchrist, stock.archivision.com.

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“In architecture one sees traditional forms undergoing slight but unmis-
takable changes in each new monumental structure; proportions differed
subtly, but without ever straying far from the path laid down in the imme-
diately preceding work, which in turn looked to the one before it, and so on
… At no stage did craftsman and patron start with an entirely blank page
before them.”49 “His techne depends upon fidelity to a tradition that is not
scientific; and outside this tradition any attempt at innovation would leave
him at the mercy of chance … There is no real experimentation.”50 “They did
not prize originality in art … Before Herodotus and Xenophon, nobody had
cited the names of artists. Even Aristotle had affirmed that an artist should
erase the traces of his person from a work of art.”51

7 Paradeigma

It remains an open question whether an architekton in ancient Greece used

drawings or models to visualize a building or to present it to a patron. The
few surviving scaled buildings and inscribed drawings seem to have been
made later for votive or funerary purposes, not for construction.52
Historical literature mentions three types of representations used in the
construction of public buildings. As soon as the patron and architekton had
decided on the size and general layout of a building, they specified the over-
all dimensions, materials, parts, and workmanship in a written inscription
(syngraphei).53 This construction contract enabled quarrymen to supply stones
that were reduced already to the approximate size and shape of each com-
ponent. A comprehensive set of drawings would not have been necessary.
As construction proceeded, the on-site architekton provided two other
types of representations to the builders to ensure that details in the finished
construction would be consistent.54 An anagrapheus was a full-scale flat
template that showed the profile of an extruded detail such as a molding. A
paradeigma was a full-scale volumetric sample of a more complex form,
such as a column capital.55 If the paradeigma had been carved in stone rather
than in wood, it could become part of the eventual building. Unlike mod-
ern representations, the anagrapheus and the paradeigma were not inter-
mediate steps from an ideal realm (a design) to a material realm (a building).
Instead, they remained within the material realm, where they enabled one
material detail to be replicated in another material detail. Coordinated by
the architekton, the builders worked out certain features as the building was

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constructed gradually from bottom to top. They were guided by the terms
of the contract and the ancestral canon, but did not reproduce a compre-
hensive set of details that had been drawn in advance.

8 Deathless Building

The Greeks made certain things, such as private houses, in an expedient way.
These items did not invoke the technē tradition, did not require highly skilled
artisans, and were not intended to outlast their immediate use. Other things,
such as public buildings, did invoke the technē tradition, did require highly
skilled artisans, and were made to last forever. Both sets of objects existed
and were used, but were ontologically different. Items that were finely crafted
by an artisan looked back in time to invoke ancestral sources and looked
forward in time to outlast their immediate circumstances. In effect, they
became deathless. This extended life gave them an elevated status on that
Greek sliding scale from humans to ancestors to mythical ancestors to gods.
As noted by Indra Kagis McEwen, “Generally speaking, Homeric eyes fill
with wonder on one of two occasions: first, when the spectacle suggests an
unseen divine presence, and second, when the sight beheld is of something
particularly well made. These two instances are not unrelated … Gods were
divine because they were athanatoi, deathless.”56
The Greeks had no concept of creation by humans. Creation presumes
independent action and the ability to create something from nothing.57
Instead, technē was an act of making (poiein) that transformed natural
matter. It made something from something. Greek cosmogonic myths from
Hesiod to Timaeus also relied on the transformative concept of birth to
explain the origin of the world.58
Techne- did not privilege an original moment of invention. Instead, it
presumed a continuing refinement toward perfection. It relied heavily on
the discoveries that ancestors had made, providing a canon of successful
techniques and examples from which all artisans could draw when making
new items. In ancient Greece, the concept of plagiarism was unknown.59 The
Greeks expected artisans to copy previous examples, demonstrating fidelity
to tradition. They believed that willful invention by an individual would be
detrimental to the collective goal of perfection.
Because technē draws from actual items made by humans, these earlier
items can be considered “ancestral paradeigmata”: particular examples from

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which subsequent particulars are made, similar to the physical paradeigmata
used by builders to replicate details for public buildings. This transfer from
particular to particular did not shift to an abstract mode of thought (such
as a general principle, a theoretical idea, or an ideal form) that is independ-
ent of the material and its use. Instead, it remained within the material world
of experience.

Beyond Technē

The ancient Greeks had no word that corresponds to what we now call
“music.” Mousikē was a more general category for inspired dancing and
singing, sometimes accompanied by instruments. Activities of mousikē
were patronized by the Muses, the goddesses of poetic inspiration. Dionysian
cults engaged in mimetic rites in an ecstasy of dance and song. Mousikē was
associated directly with the divine and therefore had a higher status than
technē, which invoked the feats of human ancestors and the ingenuity of
artisans.
Orphic sects in the sixth century bce introduced a more contemplative
understanding of music, distinct from the ongoing Dionysian rites. Privi-
leging the voice and the lyre, they focused mainly on words and pitch inter-
vals. In this tradition, Pythagoras (and/or his followers in the fifth century)
recognized that consonant pitch intervals correspond to simple numerical
ratios.60 Interpreting this empirical observation as a key piece of evidence
about the order of the world, the Pythagoreans inaugurated a search for
similar harmonic orders in other places and phenomena – including archi-
tecture – that would continue for several millennia. Music was only the
beginning of the search for harmony. “Given a world replete with internal
relationships, music can easily account not only for the mathematical mean-
ings of harmony, but for the entire generality of the term which develops
as part of a progressive musicalization of every aspect of experience … The
musician creates harmony in the pitch and duration of tone and in gesture;
man creates harmony in the conduct of his life; the statesman creates
harmony in society; the Demiurge creates harmony in the cosmos; the
philosopher creates the harmony of dialectic and the music of discourse.”61
The Pythagorean belief that the most important characteristic of music
is pitch, and that pitch can be reduced to number, eventually would imply

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that the sound of music is inconsequential. Aristoxenus, a follower of Aris-
totle, later recognized this implication and developed a more comprehensive
theory based on the human experience of sounds and rhythms.62 Meta-
physical concepts of harmony were developed separately from the ethical
use of music in the Greek polis. The most significant venues for music were
public rituals, especially dramas and religious festivals that extended the
Dionysian tradition. These performances were devoted to important cul-
tural matters, not just entertainment. Their integration of words, melody,
dance, costumes, and instrumental accompaniment epitomized mousikē.63
Dance was one domain in which music and building shared some com-
mon ground, especially in archaic Greece. Dance was an integral component
of most forms of mousikē. Building was associated with dance by providing
a place for dramatic performances of mousikē that invoked the earlier archaic
myths involving Daidalos. The ritual dance defined a space of performance
that would be concretized in the building of the labyrinth. The labyrinth –
and later, the agora and the theatre – became evident only when ritual
actions manifested the worldly orders that had remained latent until then.
Greek categories of phenomena also established an alliance between
dance and building due to their intrinsic temporality. As Edward Lippman
notes, “The Greek division of the arts was not into the categories temporal
and spatial, but into temporal and static.”64 This suggests that public build-
ings were imagined not as inert masses but as paused figures with a capac-
ity to become metaphorically animated.65 This temporal characteristic
negates modern attempts to interpret ancient Greek buildings retroactively
as spatial compositions or as aesthetic objects.
In classical Greece, music and building continued their collaboration in
dramatic rituals, although music (as part of mousikē) was overseen by the
Muses whereas building (as a form of technē) invoked human and mythical
ancestors. Certain types of music departed from the domain of mousikē and
were associated instead with technē. Music for public ceremonies was required
to follow standard practice rather than inspiration, situating it firmly in the
domain of technē. Instrumental music (melos) for domestic events such as
weddings, funerals, and banquets was regarded also as a form of technē, in
which instrumental skills were dissociated from poetry and employed mainly
for immediate pleasure and human use.66 Aristotle considered human voices
to be superior to musical instruments because they belong to creatures with
a soul.67 Plato regarded instrumental music as a form of technē, but believed

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that its status could rise in situations where music was used to promote moral
virtue.68 He called for the prohibition of certain modes because they would
encourage improper behaviour through imitation, suggesting that the effect
of bad music is like the effect of bad company.69
When the Pythagoreans discovered a mathematical analogue for pitch
intervals and harmony, this apparently universal property actually demoted
music in the eyes of the Greeks. Although musical harmony later became
extremely influential as the basis for universal analogies in the Pythagorean
and Neoplatonic traditions of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, in an-
cient Greece its association with rational knowledge rather than inspiration
led the Greeks to regard this property of music as a form of technē.70
The gods continued to permeate all of Greek life but the Muses did not
speak directly to artisans. Still, the artisans’ achievements rose far beyond
what we might associate with craft. The Parthenon has been glorified by our
modern era as the epitome of architecture, despite being produced within
the technē tradition that it shared with shoemaking and horse training.

The Demise of Technē

Some components of the technē domain began to erode in classical Greece.

Alongside the traditional model of apprenticeship, in which an ancestor
physically shows and describes a craft to a descendant, the Sophists described
the technē of rhetoric in written handbooks. In turn, this knowledge could
be taught to students without the physical presence of an ancestor. Separat-
ing the body of knowledge from the person and the setting was a first step
away from the immediacy of technē; however, these handbooks provided
examples of earlier successes, concrete advice for action, and guidelines on
how and when to use these skills. By emphasizing strategic action to trans-
form a worldly situation, they remained within the tradition.
The eventual demise of technē was anticipated by Plato, following the
lead of Socrates. The discussion of technē in Plato’s early dialogues gave way
to a discussion of theoretical knowledge and ideal forms in his middle dia-
logues.71 This new mode of knowledge continued to refer to the making of
human products but now devised an ideal, immaterial, eternal realm above
everything in the temporal world. Using dialectical induction, Socrates and
Plato sought first principles that would remain fixed. In turn, all worldly

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products – including everything that had been made by ancestors – would
be reconceived as imitations that point toward ideal models. Ancestors,
patrons, and artisans suddenly became subordinate. Time was no longer an
immediate present with a deathless potential.
The concept of “first principles” was foreign to the technē tradition; it
presumed a different epistemological model.72 Although Aristotle brought
back technē for discussion, he subjected it to Plato’s distinction between the
ideal and the real by separating those who “know how” (efficient cause) from
those who “know why” (final cause).73 This effectively drove a wedge into the
middle of technē and undermined the central role of the artisan. Aristotle
joined Plato in placing a knowledge of timeless and placeless principles
above all else: “Now induction supplies a first principle or universal, deduc-
tion works from universals … The wise man therefore must not only know
the conclusions that follow from his first principles, but also have a true
conception of those principles themselves.”74 When Aristotle ranked the
two best ways to devote one’s life – contemplating universals (θεωρία; theo-
ria) and doing politics (πραξις; praxis) – he was thinking only of free citi-
zens with leisure time. He dismissed those with wage-earning occupations,
retailers, and those who pursue vulgar arts (technai) by making things
(ποίησις; poiēsis).75 He regarded theoria, the contemplation of timeless
universals, as the highest human activity.
Several centuries later, Vitruvius applied Plato’s epistemological model
to an architectural setting. In this regard, Vitruvius is Socrates’ descendant.
Although Vitruvius provides plenty of advice on how to deal with particu-
lar worldly situations and often refers to Greek precedents, he too has left
behind the technē tradition. The presence of fundamental principles at the
beginning of his treatise, along with his general ambition to be comprehen-
sive and timeless, indicates that the Romans were operating with a different
type of knowledge.76 Although ancient Rome was still a culture of myth and
ritual,77 in Vitruvius’s treatise there are many new elements of architectural
thinking that resonate with our own, including theoretical principles, a
desire for a static body of knowledge, a liberal education to develop the
virtuous character of a free man, the invention of a building by an individ-
ual, ideas of representation, the elevated role of an architect, and the subor-
dinate role of a builder. This new epistemological model and its various
institutional components were accompanied by a new word: architectura.

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 3
Architecture as a Mechanical Art

“Mechanical arts” was not a separate category that replaced technē. Under
different names, it developed gradually for more than a thousand years. It
originated from a qualitative distinction within the ancient technē tradition,
was developed in different ways by ancient and early medieval philosophers,
and finally emerged as the mechanical arts in the ninth and twelfth centuries.
Instead of being an independent category, the mechanical arts and its fore-
runners in craft were contrasted with a higher and more divine category:
the liberal arts.

Liberal Arts and Vulgar Arts

Within the category of technē, the late classical Greeks regarded certain crafts
more highly than others. With their aristocratic tradition and their social
desire for the good life, they favoured intellectual activities that were free of
physical labour and contributed to the common good. Consequently, they
ranked their many crafts on a scale between “free” (eleutheros) and “banau-
sic” (banausos ‘mechanical’, ‘vulgar’).1 Despite this qualitative distinction, all
of these crafts remained within the category of technē, as actions or products
that drew lessons from ancestors to respond to the desires of a current
patron, whether public or private. The free-versus-banausic distinction was
secondary.
Banausic crafts that required physical labour were considered inferior
because they debased the mind and body and drew one’s attention away
from virtuous activities. In Republic, Plato referred to them not as technē, a

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General ranking of crafts within the technē tradition (Greece, fourth century bce).

neutral term with neither positive nor negative connotations, but as tas
banausias, a pejorative term.2 Aristotle made a similar comment: “The young
… must participate in such among the useful arts as will not render the per-
son who participates in them vulgar [βάναυσον (banauson)]. A task and
also an art or a science must be deemed vulgar if it renders the body or soul
or mind of free men useless for the employments and actions of virtue.”3
Metalworking was the most banausic craft because of its oppressive working
conditions and the physical strength needed to pound hot metal into shape.
The god Hephaistos, patron of metalwork, was imagined as a lame, mis-
shapen individual and a subject of ridicule. Woodworking, stone carving,
and building also required physical effort, so these technai were located near
the banausic end of the scale. Although performing music and painting
relied on manual skills, they required less physical effort and therefore were
located closer to the free end of the scale.
The wages for artisans typically corresponded to their place on the free-
to-banausic scale. In the construction of a public building, a painter earned
more than a carpenter. The wage for an architekton was similar to that of a
tekton, even though he may not have engaged directly in physical labour.4
Philosophers in Greece and Rome accepted the premise that crafts
should be classified and ranked from high to low, but they differed on which

Architecture as a Mechanical Art 41

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Hephaistos; detail of Skyphos, side A, by the Kleophon Painter (ca. 420 bce). Toledo
Museum of Art (Toledo, OH), purchased with funds from the Libbey Endowment,
gift of Edward Drummond Libbey, 1982.88. Photograph: Tim Thayer, Oak Park, MI.

criteria should be used to rank them. Wladyslaw Tatarkiewicz identifies

seven different schemes:5

1 The Sophists (from late fifth century bce) distinguished crafts accord-
ing to their objectives. Crafts for pleasure (e.g., painting) were ranked
higher than crafts for utility (e.g., building). This classification was com-
monly used.
2 Plato (427–347 bce) distinguished crafts according to their relation to
real things. Crafts that make use of real things (e.g., hunting) are the
highest. Crafts that produce real things (e.g., building) are in the middle.
Crafts that imitate real things (e.g., painting) are the lowest.6
3 Aristotle (384–322 bce) used Plato’s basic criterion but included only
two categories: Crafts that complete nature (e.g., building) are higher
than crafts that imitate nature (e.g., painting, sculpture, poetry).7
4 Cicero (106–43 bce), as a Roman orator, distinguished arts according to
their impact on society.8 Arts that produce a major effect of usefulness
or grandeur (e.g., politics, military arts) are the highest. Arts that pro-

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 duce a medium effect (e.g., sciences, poetry, rhetoric) are in the middle.
Arts that produce a minor effect are the lowest.9
5 Quintilian (35–95 ce), also a Roman orator, distinguished arts according
to their products: Some arts require no action and seek only under-
standing (e.g., astronomy), some arts produce actions (e.g., dance), and
some arts result in products that can be seen (e.g., painting).10 Like
Aristotle11 and the Pythagoreans before him, he called these three cate-
gories theoretical, practical, and productive, using not Latin but Greek
terms: θεωρητικη′ (theoretikē), πρακτικη′ (praktikē), and ποητικη′ν
(poetikon). Quintilian does not rank the arts explicitly. As an orator, his
primary intention was to situate rhetoric, which he locates mainly in the
“practical” category, alongside dance.
6 Galen (129–200), the famous anatomist and surgeon, distinguished lib-
eral arts (artes liberales) from vulgar arts (artes vulgares) based on the
physical effort they require.12 This continued the classical Greek distinc-
tion between free crafts and banausic crafts. Arts that require intellectual
skill (e.g., medicine, oratory, geometry, arithmetic, and astronomy) are
highest. Arts that require manual skill but no great strength (e.g., paint-
ing) are not quite as high. Arts that require physical toil (e.g., building)
are the lowest. Galen’s interest in medicine may have led him to include
it in his top category. This classification was commonly used.
7 Plotinus (205–70), the first Neoplatonic philosopher, distinguished arts
according to their degree of spirituality. Arts that are purely intellectual
(e.g., geometry) are the highest and closest to the spiritual world. Arts
that improve or ornament human action (e.g., rhetoric, politics, mili-
tary arts) are second. Arts that imitate nature (e.g., painting) are third.
The remaining arts are lower because they cannot reflect the spiritual
world. Arts that help nature (e.g., medicine, agriculture) are fourth. Arts
that produce physical objects (e.g., building) are the lowest.13 Although
a building cannot reflect the spiritual realm, it can reflect the internal
idea of the builder.14

In these seven classifications of technē, building was assigned a mediocre

status by Plato (2) and Aristotle (3). In the five other classifications, includ-
ing the two that were commonly used (1 and 6), building was placed at or near
the bottom of the scale. Clearly, the premises of these ancient classifications

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are quite different from our modern distinctions between art and craft and
between art and science.
As a free man, a Greek citizen was encouraged to obtain a general
education (έγκύκλιος παιδεία; enkyklios paideia) that would prepare him
to take an active role in the polis.15 The subjects of study were drawn from
fourth-century recommendations by Plato (who favoured mathematical
skills) and Isocrates (who favoured language skills). When the curriculum
stabilized in the Hellenistic era, it included seven liberal subjects: arithmetic,
astronomy, dialectic, geometry, grammar, music theory, and rhetoric. These
subjects were intended to develop a liberated mind rather than responding
to worldly needs. Although the curriculum had stabilized, its aims were more
ideal than achievable. Geometry and arithmetic focused on the abstract
principles and axioms that had been established by Euclid and Pythagoras,
rather than productive uses such as the measurement of land and the
calculation of debts.
This general education included no technai that were even remotely
banausic or manual, such as painting and music. Gymnastics, vocal music,
and instrumental music had been part of Greek education since the archaic
era, but they disappeared when the general education curriculum stabilized
in the late Hellenistic period.16 Technai involving materials, such as wood-
working, ceramics, and stone carving, were nowhere in sight.
In Rome during the first century bce, Vitruvius advised prospective
architects to obtain a general education in the liberal arts, to develop man-
ual skills in drawing, and to become familiar with other disciplines (history,
law, physics, medicine) that offered lessons to be applied later in practical
work.17 Despite his recommendation that architects ascend beyond the basic
level of the liberal arts and continue their education with additional studies
– what he called encyclios disciplina – no formal courses were available in
disciplines other than medicine.18 Education in these advanced subjects still
relied on ad hoc tutors and the apprenticeship model with which technai
had been conveyed since the archaic era.
These classifications of crafts may suggest a smooth transition from
Greek to Latin, in which technē (craft) became ars (art), and building con-
struction became architectura (architecture). The local activities of doing
and making continued much as before, but the epistemological model that
Plato and Aristotle had developed, placing universal theory above all worldly

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 Seven liberal arts (enkyklios
paideia) in late Hellenistic Greece
(mid-first century bce).

matters, resulted in a much different context for the crafts/arts. This would
clear the way for new institutions, roles, and beliefs.
The word “art” comes from the Latin ars ‘art, skill, craft’ and probably
from the root ar- ‘to fit’.19 Its Latin etymology can be traced further to San-
skrit -rtih ‘manner, mode’ and to the Greek adjectives arti ‘just’ and artios
‘complete’.20 Although it has become common to speak of “art” in ancient
Greece, the Greeks did not have such a concept. The Romans used ars to
refer to a broad range of human activities that follow conventions and can
be described and taught. Ars mechanica was a singular term that referred
specifically to the art of mechanics: how to make military devices, lifting
devices, etc. In ancient Rome it was not used in a plural form to encompass
a wider set of practices that included architecture. “Mechanical arts” would
appear later as a medieval term.21
The Greek distinction between free crafts and banausic crafts was recre-
ated in Latin as a distinction between “liberal arts” (artes liberales) and
“vulgar or sordid arts” (artes vulgares, artes sordidi). In Hellenistic Greece
and Rome, the liberal arts typically consisted of seven: arithmetic, astron-
omy, dialectic, geometry, grammar, music theory, and rhetoric.22 Three
notable writers – Varro, Cicero, and Vitruvius – proposed variations.
Marcus Terentius Varro (116–27 bce), a contemporary of Cicero, in-
cluded medicine and architecture as his eighth and ninth liberal arts.23

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His extensive Libri novem disciplinarum (Nine books of disciplines) has
not survived, so his criteria cannot be examined; however, his books did
influence others who referred to them during the next few centuries. Varro
was the only philosopher to identify architecture explicitly as a liberal art.
Vitruvius mentions that Varro wrote a book on architecture but does not
cite it as an influence on his own treatise.24 The fact that Varro chose to add
medicine and architecture may have indicated a special relation between
them, as well as with the seven other liberal arts. Because philosophers who
classified human knowledge used explicit criteria and considered a wide
range of subjects for inclusion or exclusion, Varro’s proposition for the lib-
eral arts would have been significant. We do not know of its status between
the second century bce and the fifth century ce, when it was refuted vehe-
mently by another philosopher.
In De officiis (On Duties), Cicero passed along abundant wisdom to his
errant son, including advice on choosing an appropriate occupation. A
general education in the seven liberal arts would be the best preparation for
a public orator. For gentlemen who are not of the highest class, he recom-
mends a second rank of occupations that require intelligence and/or benefit
society. As examples, he cites medicine, architecture, and teaching, along
with agriculture and large-scale wholesale importing.25 He does not recom-
mend occupations that require manual labour but not skill, nor any trade
that is carried on in a workshop, “for no workshop can have anything lib-
eral about it.” At the very bottom are occupations that provide sensual
pleasures, including cooking, performing, and dancing. In Cicero’s view,
architecture is not situated in the first rank of the liberal arts, but it is more
liberal than vulgar. Unlike Varro’s classification, Cicero’s was not rigorously
philosophical, as he was primarily an orator. It amounted to only a few
passing comments in books on other topics.
Vitruvius’s recommendation for architects to obtain a liberal arts edu-
cation has led at least one historian to infer that Vitruvius was declaring
architecture to be a liberal art.26 Vitruvius did not state this explicitly, nor is
it supported by the various classifications and criteria with which philoso-
phers were defining the liberal arts (described above): an art for pleasure
rather than utility; an art related directly to real things; an art requiring no
physical effort; an art that is non-productive; an art that causes a major
worldly effect; and an art that is strictly intellectual. To classify architecture

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 Nine liberal arts, after Varro, Libri novem
disciplinarum (first century bce).

as a liberal art would be a stretch. It would have to be divided and reframed

in a way that emphasizes theoretical issues and disregards its archaic roots
in nature and technē. Alternately, it would have to rely on a secondary mean-
ing of “liberal art” (invoked by Cicero and Vitruvius), in which architecture
is a suitable profession for a free man, a gentleman from an elevated social
class who is acquainted with a variety of subjects and directs builders
from above. This secondary meaning is concerned with the social status of
a practitioner, whereas the primary meaning of “liberal art” is based on
the universality of its knowledge.27
Meanwhile, music was encountering a similar ambivalence in its episte-
mological classification: It was divided into three categories and situated
at different levels. As mousikē in Greece, it was located in a higher realm
altogether, in a category above technē. As a mathematical subject, Pytha-
gorean music theory was undoubtedly a liberal art. As a manual craft, the
performance of instrumental music was treated merely as a skill for pleas-
ure or application, well below the qualifications for a liberal art but still
above the banausic and vulgar domain of building.

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 Martianus Capella and the Bridesmaids

The basic set of seven liberal arts was drafted in classical Greece, stabilized
in the Hellenistic era, and maintained as an ideal curriculum in ancient
Rome. It would become an occasional subject for debate during the next
millennium, as new criteria for classifications were introduced. This was a
period of consolidation more than development. Throughout the Middle
Ages, architecture consistently was excluded from the liberal arts, after being
judged decisively in a story by Martianus Capella.
In the late Roman Empire (early fifth century) Martianus Capella wrote
De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii (The Marriage of Philology and Mercury),
which would become the best known text on the seven liberal arts. Using a
courtship and wedding as an allegory, Martianus introduces the two main
characters: Philology, a mortal but learned woman, and Mercury, an
immortal man. Together, they portray the ancient liberal arts as a union of
human eloquence and divine knowledge. Philology, as a human, requires a
special cloak for protection on her journey to heaven and a special potion
to make her immortal, like her future husband. Their wedding is attended
by both gods and philosophers. Martianus characterized the seven liberal
arts – arithmetic, astronomy, dialectic, geometry, grammar, music theory,
and rhetoric – as Mercury’s gifts to his bride, Philology. Medicine and
architecture are maidens waiting expectantly alongside the seven others, but
their concern with earthly matters makes them unworthy to join the liberal
arts group. They do not belong at the wedding of human eloquence and
divine knowledge. “Jupiter … asked how many bridesmaids remained to be
heard from. The Delian [Apollo] suggested that Medicine and Architecture
were standing by, among those who had been prepared to perform. ‘But
since these ladies are concerned with mortal subjects and their skill lies in
mundane matters, and they have nothing in common with the celestial
deities, it will not be inappropriate to disdain and reject them. They will
keep silent in the heavenly company and will be examined in detail later by
the maiden herself.’”28
By inviting medicine and architecture to the festivities but then bluntly
excluding them, Martianus challenged Varro’s earlier set of nine liberal arts.
With medicine and architecture now out of the picture, Martianus devoted
one book to each of the seven remaining liberal arts. His association of
liberal arts and celestial deities was a new addition to the various criteria

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 Seven liberal arts, after Martianus
Capella, The Marriage of Philology and
Mercury (early fifth century).

proposed by his predecessors. Architecture still was excluded from the

liberal arts, but now on different grounds. Music qualified as one of the seven
bridesmaids, but only as a manifestation of Pythagorean harmony – not as
practical performance.
Manlius Boëthius (480–524), a Christian philosopher after the fall of
Rome, believed that the cosmos is based on number and that studying math-
ematics shows one how to contemplate things that are abstract and imma-
terial.29 To promote mathematical education, he translated Greek texts into
Latin. Boëthius focused on only four of the standard liberal arts – geome-
try, arithmetic, astronomy, and music theory – and designated them as artes
quadriviales, the quadrivium (four ways to knowledge).30 Until then, these
subjects had not been assembled explicitly as a set. The textbooks he wrote
would support liberal education for many centuries.
His treatise on music, De institutione musica (On the institution of
music), relied on Pythagorean principles and would become the standard
text on music theory throughout the Middle Ages. Echoing Pythagoras, he
declared that music is based essentially on number and not sound. “We
should not grant all judgment to the senses – although the whole origin of
this discipline is taken from the sense of hearing … Pythagoras, having

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 Four liberal arts of the
quadrivium, after Boëthius
(early sixth century).

abandoned the judgment of hearing, had turned to the weights of rules. He

put no credence in human ears, which are subject to change.”31 Boëthius
declared that a true musician is not a performer or composer, but a theorist
who can reach through a performance to detect the rational (numerical)
properties of the music. To promote the theorist, he demeaned the others:
“Those of the class which is dependent upon instruments and who spend
their entire effort there … are excluded from comprehension of musical
knowledge, since … they act as slaves … The second class of those practic-
ing music is that of the poets, a class led to song not so much by thought
and reason as by a certain natural instinct. For this reason this class, too, is
separated from music … The third class is that which acquires an ability for
judging, so that it can carefully weigh rhythms and melodies and the com-
position as a whole. This class, since it is totally grounded in reason and
thought, will rightly be esteemed as musical.”32
To us, this definition of music may seem odd, but it illustrates Boëthius’s
premise that the four liberal arts are forms of universal knowledge, not
expressions of human experience. By regarding the essence of music as
numerical harmony and not sound, Boëthius could assemble a comprehen-
sive set of analogies involving three types of music: cosmic, human, and
instrumental.33 This principle then could be applied to everything in which
the Pythagoreans recognized harmony: planetary motion, the seasons, the
human soul, etc. He added that the fast motion of the heavenly bodies must
produce sound but human ears are unable to detect it.
Cassiodorus (ca. 487–580), a friend of Boëthius, attempted to preserve
ancient culture after the fall of Rome. He valued the arts because they pro-

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 The trivium and the quadrivium
(ninth century).

vide us with rules. Cassiodorus returned to the standard seven liberal arts
from the Hellenistic era that had been reinforced by Martianus Capella, but
divided them into two groups: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric (language
arts, artes sermocinales); and geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, and music
theory (mathematical arts, artes reales).34 Together, these seven arts prepared
one to study the highest science: theology. This distribution of subjects
would influence the educational curriculum in medieval Europe.
Later, in the ninth century, the three remaining liberal arts from ancient
Greece and Rome – grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric – became known as the
artes triviales, or trivium (three ways to knowledge). Rather than being strictly
an ideal schema for philosophers, the trivium and quadrivium also provided
a model for childhood education. The linguistic subjects of the trivium
served as a foundation for the mathematical subjects of the quadrivium.
Meanwhile, other philosophers were proposing broader classifications
that ranked subjects from physical to intellectual, or from mundane to
divine.35 They resisted drawing a hard line between liberal arts and vulgar
arts that would reinforce an opposition between them. Instead they de-
vised intermediate gradations that later would become a new category: the
mechanical arts.
Philostratus the Athenian (170–247) established an intermediate level he
called “semi-learned”: “All the arts that exist among mankind have different

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spheres of action, but all aim at money, whether little or much, or simply
enough to subsist on. This includes not only menial arts, but all the others
too, the learned ones and the semi-learned ones alike, except for that of
true wisdom. By ‘learned’ arts I mean those of poetry, music, astronomy, or-
atory, and public speaking except of the forensic kind, and by ‘semi-learned’
those of painting, sculpture, of statue makers, of pilots, of farmers as long
as they follow the seasons, since these arts too are not far removed from
learning.”36 Philostratus also questioned the ancient tradition of mimesis by
suggesting that imagination is essential for painters and sculptors, not just
for poets. He said that imitation presents only what has been seen, whereas
imagination also presents what has not yet been seen.
Augustine (354–430), after converting to Christianity, associated theology
and aesthetics by proposing that beauty exists at two levels: the spiritual
realm, whose harmonious order is evident to the intellect, and the earthly
realm, whose rhythms of nature are observed by the senses as pleasant and
even beautiful. He regarded the earthly realm as a means for meditating on
the spiritual realm. In a similar way he recognized two levels of arts: not only
the eternal liberal arts but also a wide variety of earthly arts.

But not only do we have this capacity to live well and to achieve im-
mortal happiness by means of those arts which are called virtues …
In addition, there are the many great arts invented and exercised
by human ingenuity, some for necessary purposes and others for
pleasure. The mind and reason of mind shows great excellence in
contriving such things, even though they may be superfluous, or even
perilous and hurtful … How wonderful, how astonishing, are the
achievements of human industry in devising clothing and shelter!
… With what variety are his achievements in pottery, painting and
sculpture conceived and executed! … What of the many and various
means of communication and persuasion? … What of the delight
which the mind finds in … musical instruments and the various
kinds of melody which have been devised?37

Augustine recognized the value of human inventions but believed that their
potential for virtue and beauty is limited. He questioned the ancient prem-
ise that beauty exists solely in the object, proposing that it relies also on the

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capacity of an observer to recognize it. He believed that a harmony must
exist between the beautiful thing and the soul. Augustine also distinguished
between utility and beauty, saying that if we regard something merely as
useful, we will be unable to recognize its beauty.
Augustine’s writings introduced parallels between spiritual creation and
earthly creation. He developed a philosophical framework for the earlier
Christian notion of creatio ex nihilo (creation from nothing) that arose in
the second century ce when theologians first suggested that physical mat-
ter did not exist before God created the world.38 He also referred to God as
an architect, metaphorically applying a term from a familiar domain to make
an unfamiliar domain more intelligible.39
Isidore of Seville (560–636), like Boëthius and Cassiodorus, attempted
to preserve various elements of ancient culture. He recognized the primacy
of Boëthius’s four quadrivium subjects, “to free souls entangled by secular
wisdom from earthly matters and set them at meditation upon the things on
high.”40 As a Christian philosopher, he attributed the origin of the liberal
arts to earlier Hebrew sources, rather than to the Greeks.41 Not content with
the four arts of the quadrivium, Isidore elected to add three more to raise the
total once again to seven.42 Rather than reinstituting grammar, dialectic, and
rhetoric, he opted for astrology, mechanics, and medicine. He acknowledged
that these subjects deal with physical matters but declared that their reliance
on number qualified them to be included, although not fully as liberal arts.
This new two-level classification set the stage for similar developments
during the next few centuries.

Eriugena’s Mechanical Arts

Johannes Scotus Eriugena (ca. 810–77) was the first philosopher to use the
term “mechanical arts” (artes mechanicae). Eriugena was an Irish scholar
and a teacher in the court of Charles the Bald, grandson of Charlemagne,
during the latter years of the Carolingian dynasty.43 Believing that the liberal
arts could be used to achieve Christian wisdom, Charlemagne had instructed
every cathedral and monastery to open a school to teach the quadrivium
subjects. Eriugena was recognized as a master of the liberal arts and an
expert on Isidore of Seville and Augustine. From his education in Ireland

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he knew Greek texts: not Homer or the classical philosophers but writers
from the Byzantine Empire who combined ancient and Christian ideas.44
At the request of Charles the Bald, he also translated the mystical writings
of Dionysius the Areopagite into Latin.
One of Eriugena’s early writings was a commentary on Martianus Capella’s
Marriage of Philology and Mercury. It provided a line-by-line gloss on the text
but also extended the allegory of the wedding party by adding a new scene.
This time, after Mercury gave the seven liberal arts to his bride Philology, she
responded by giving him seven mechanical arts (artes mechanicas).45 “Me-
chanical arts” was a new term devised by Eriugena. He differentiated the two
categories by saying that the liberal arts come from divine sources and are
“understood naturally in the soul” whereas the mechanical arts arise from
“some imitation or human devising.” Architecture (architectoria) was the
only subject he named as a mechanical art.46 It seems that his priorities were
to establish the category, reserve seven matching places in it, and present
architecture as the most obvious art to be included. This new mechanical
arts category established a recognizable domain into which other subjects
could follow, without being demeaned as vulgar.
Eriugena does not define architecture or say why he selected it as a
mechanical art, except that it fits his criterion: “some imitation or human
devising.” As it appears in his commentary on Martianus Capella, Eriugena’s
reference to architecture probably came from this earlier textual source,
rather than from a fresh consideration of an entire set of arts that would
suit this new category. In turn, it invoked a series of Roman writers, includ-
ing Martianus Capella, Varro, and Vitruvius. Medicine, Martianus’s other
excluded maiden, is not mentioned, so architecture is left alone, waiting to
be joined by six other mechanical arts.
Eriugena believed that the liberal arts have an important role to play in
religion because they can assist one’s salvation. A knowledge of the arts,
especially grammar, helps one understand the scriptures, which in turn help
one understand Christian wisdom. He regarded the liberal arts as gifts from
God rather than as discoveries or inventions by the Greeks.47 At one time
they were innate in humans but had been forgotten after the Fall. By regard-
ing the immanent liberal arts as necessary steps in an ascent to a transcendent
realm, Eriugena applied a Neoplatonic idea to a Christian purpose.48
The mechanical arts, on the other hand, contribute nothing to personal

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 Liberal arts and
mechanical arts,
after Eriugena
(ninth century).

salvation. They are human inventions, not divine creations, so contemplat-

ing them would be pointless. According to Eriugena, “Arts that are learned
are said to be liberal, if they are acquired and learned for their own sake …
They are not taken from elsewhere, but they are understood naturally in the
soul. It is not so with the other arts which are achieved by some imitation or
human calculation, such as architecture and the others.”49
Eriugena’s hierarchical distinction between liberal arts and mechanical
arts was repeated by others in the ninth century but not developed in a
significant way. Remigius of Auxerre (ca. 841–908), a school master, wrote
a pedagogical commentary on Martianus Capella’s allegory that cited
architecture and medicine as two of the seven mechanical arts, reinstating
both maidens that Martianus had rejected.50 He declined to fill in the five
remaining arts but did suggest that mechanical arts “consist more in expe-
rience than in reason.”51
Modern publications that examine the medieval history of the mechan-
ical arts tend to trace the origin of the term to mechanics, the mathematical
science of force and motion that utilizes physical machines and mechanisms.
Mechanics in antiquity included various types of levers, machines for lifting
water,52 the magical automata made by Hero of Alexandria,53 etc. These
applications are consistent with the singular Roman term ars mechanica
(mechanical art) and the definition of the Latin adjective mechanicus ‘of or
belonging to mechanics’.54

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 The Greek etymology of “mechanical,” however, provides additional
meanings that are not necessarily associated with either motion or machines.
They come from the adjective µηχανικός (mēchanikos) ‘resourceful’,
‘inventive’, which in turn derives from the verb µηχανή (mēchanē), ‘make
by art or cunning’, ‘contrive’, ‘devise’.55 These meanings refer not to physical
machines but to human actions. Based on this definition, one could act
“mechanically” in situations that do not involve mechanics or machines.
This etymology of “mechanical” does not anticipate the modern pejorative
associations that the word has acquired, in which certain attributes of
machines (regulated, systematic, etc.) are opposed to certain attributes
of humans (expressive, thoughtful, etc.).
When Eriugena coined the term “mechanical arts” (artes mechanicae),
he probably had the Greek etymology of mēchanikos in mind. He was
fluent in Greek and familiar with Neoplatonic writings. His criterion for a
mechanical art, “some imitation or human devising,” is consistent with the
Greek etymology and does not refer directly to the Roman art of mechanics.
As a definition for an entire category and its eventual contents, associating
“mechanical” with “human invention” is appropriately general. It leaves
plenty of room for particular examples to be included. Limiting the contents
to various types of mechanics would be too restrictive for a whole category.
The Greek noun mēchanikos also appears in Byzantine architecture,
where it is distinguished from architekton. A treatise by Procopius (500–65),
De aedificiis (On buildings), praised the emperor Justinian as the patron
responsible for the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople and for other notable
buildings.56 Procopius admired this building not only for its structural
achievement but also for its magical effect: the dome “seems somehow to
float in the air on no firm basis.”57 The design of this large, innovative build-
ing was devised by Anthemius of Tralles, an expert in geometry, and Isidorus
of Miletus, an expert in physics. Procopius complimented their ingenuity
by calling them mēchanikos, suggesting an emphasis on innovation through
theoretical activity.58 Elsewhere in his book, Procopius also uses the term
architekton, but only to refer to physical acts of building in which the ar-
chitekton is a foreman who directs other workers (tektonai). This is consis-
tent with the earlier Greek notion that the work of the architekton is a technē.
His distinction between mēchanikos and architekton draws a line between
designing and building – a distinction that has become familiar to us – but
places the architect on the side that we would not expect.59 This position for

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the Byzantine architect is also evident in a Byzantine lexicon: “άρχιτέκτων:
supervisor of construction work; chief of carpenters (or builders); one who
fashions something with painstaking care.”60
The same distinction is evident in the preface to an earlier text on
mechanics by Pappus of Alexandria in the late third century.61 Pappus cites
five types of mechanics, some of which perform deeds that seem magical
and contrary to nature, such as lifting great weights and hurling objects great
distances using only a small amount of force. He describes the ideal educa-
tion for a mēchanikos (mechanician) that includes theoretical knowledge
(geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, and physics) and practical skills (metals,
house construction, carpentry, and painting). However, if one cannot learn
all of these subjects, he advises narrowing one’s ambition to practical tasks,
to become either an architekton or an inventor of mechanical devices.62 This
situates the architekton as a smaller, practical subset of mēchanikos. The same
relationship is evident in Eriugena’s classification of the arts, in which the
“mechanical art” category includes architecture as one of its seven compo-
nents. The distinction between mēchanikos and architekton has been traced
also in Carolingian architecture, contemporary with Eriugena.63
Because Eriugena did not explain the origin or meaning of his term
“mechanical,” others who followed may have been puzzled by its apparent
reference to mechanics. This ambiguity led subsequent writers in the ninth
century to speculate on its origin and make their own interpretations. One
line of thought devised an etymology that associated the mechanical arts
with adultery. This may have been prompted by the similar sounds of two
words: mechanikos and moichos (µοιχός; Latin moechus) ‘adulterer.’64 Dur-
ing the next three centuries other writers struggled to make sense of this
association between adultery and the mechanical arts. One explanation
suggested that the mechanical arts emphasize secrecy and hiding “like a man
who secretly pollutes the marriage bed of another. From ‘moechus’ we call
‘mechanical art’ any object which is clever and most delicate and which, in
its making or operation, is beyond detection, so that beholders find their
power of vision stolen from them when they cannot penetrate the ingenuity
of the thing.”65
This interpretation may have been reinforced by an additional, meta-
phorical meaning of moichos as ‘unfaithfulness to God’,66 referring to the
“corrupt” earthly realm and the dissociation of the mechanical arts from
the liberal arts leading to Christian wisdom. In the twelfth century, Hugh

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of St Victor introduced several other variations to explain why the mechan-
ical arts are “adulterate”: because they pursue merely human works; because
they are not nature but only imitative of nature; because they are concerned
with the works of human labour; and because their concern is with the
artificer’s product, which borrows its form from nature.67

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 4
Hugh of St Victor and the
Mechanical Arts

Hugh of St Victor (ca. 1096–1141) was born in Saxony and was educated
to become a religious cleric. Unrest in his home province led him to seek a
position at the Abbey of St Victor in 1115, when the population of Paris was
no more than three thousand. The abbey, located on the Left Bank, had
been inaugurated in 1108 and already had a reputation for learning. Later it
would become associated with the University of Paris. Hugh remained at
the abbey for the rest of his life, not as a monk but as a canon regular whose
responsibilities combined ascetic scholarship and community service. An
accomplished scholar and respected teacher, eventually he became head of
the school.

Hugh of St Victor’s Christian Ladders

Hugh wrote Didascalicon in the late 1120s, when the first European uni-
versities were being formed.1 He was not yet aware of the many writings by
Aristotle and Arabic scholars that would arrive in Europe during the
twelfth century. His setting was still monastic and his primary reference
was Augustine.
The title, Didascalicon, derives from διδασκαλικός (didaskalikos) ‘fit
for teaching’.2 It was intended as a comprehensive manual for readers, an
epistemological map with many details and directions. It instructed people
on what they should read, in which order, and in which manner. The first
three books of Didascalicon discuss the various arts and how they are re-
lated. The second book includes a substantial discussion of the mechani-
cal arts, placing seven subjects into the seven containers that Eriugena had

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Hugh of St Victor writing the Didascalicon. Drawing from Hugonis de S. Victore
Eruditionis didascalicae (Fulda manuscript, ca. 1176); Vulcanius collection
(Leiden University Library, ms vul 46, fol. 130r).

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established but not yet filled. The next three books of Didascalicon discuss
the Bible and how one should read it.
Like Eriugena’s commentary on Martianus, Hugh’s Didascalicon was
written for the benefit of Christians. His aim was both philosophical and
theological. Hugh regarded reading as a methodical way to help recover the
primordial knowledge that humans had lost after the Fall. He believed that
a latent imprint of this knowledge remains in the mind, waiting to be filled
in again when one encounters it. Although it may be prompted externally by
reading, the light it generates is essentially internal, restoring light that once
was present in the person rather than providing illumination to a person
who previously was in darkness. One does not look outside for what can be
found within.3 As Ivan Illich notes, “Enlightenment in Hugh’s world and
what is understood as enlightenment now are two different things … The
light, which in Hugh’s metaphoric usage illuminates, is the counterfoil of
the eighteenth-century light of reason. The light of which Hugh speaks here
brings man to a glow. Approaching wisdom makes the reader radiant. The
studious striving that Hugh teaches is a commitment to engage in an activ-
ity by which the reader’s own ‘self ’ will be kindled and brought to sparkle.”4
In Hugh’s time, reading was a bodily activity. The words on the page were
recited aloud or mouthed silently.5 Words possessed the reader’s body and
filled the room, along with any listeners who were present. They were writ-
ten not only for their meaning but also for their sound and rhythm, unlike
modern texts for individuals who read silently through the words to conjure
an idea or an author beyond the surface of the paper. From medieval read-
ing it is only a short step to medieval music. Plainchant also relied heavily
on the sound and rhythm of words. In the simplest form of plainchant, a
separate note was assigned to each syllable in the text. The words guided the
formation of the music; conversely, the music reinforced the words and
made them more memorable.6
The act of reading also might prompt one to add a written commentary
in the blank spaces of a document. As Illich notes, “Nothing which went
through the mind of the reader was deemed inappropriate as a commen-
tary to such a text. Texts then grew out of tangents appended to older texts,
which were slowly absorbed by them.”7 When the annotated document was
copied by another scribe, parts of the commentary might be incorporated
into it. This process presumed that wisdom is collective and cumulative.
Recording this wisdom was more important than preserving the document

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“The Fall of Man and Expulsion from the Garden of Eden,” from Limbourg brothers,
Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry (ca. 1412–16). Musée Condé, Chantilly.

in its original state. Scribes, mumbling the words aloud as they wrote, also
might paraphrase or omit phrases from a document, resulting in a long
historical series of manuscript copies with cascading differences. The notion
of an ideal original, reproduced in copies that are completely faithful, did not
exist in Hugh’s time.8 Only the Bible was truly authoritative and not subject
to revision.
Hugh’s primary frame of reference was the Bible. He believed that
humans once existed in a perfect Eden (described in Genesis), where they

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Ascension through the arts, as a preparation for reading the scriptures, after Hugh
of St Victor, Didascalicon (late 1120s).

could contemplate God directly. After the Fall, God banished humanity to
a world of linear time and mortality that would end only at the Apocalypse
(described in Revelation), when each human would be judged for re-
admission to God’s perfect world. Because this temporal world was divinely
created it had certain merits, but was wretched compared to the Garden of
Eden. God provided all creatures with the means to survive – except for
humans, who are born naked and helpless, and therefore must use their
ingenuity. Following Augustine, Hugh believed that humanity was now in
the sixth and final age of the temporal world, so the glorious Apocalypse
was bound to arrive soon.9 In the meantime, individuals could prepare for
Judgment Day by seeking salvation on their own: by studying the scriptures
and contemplating God’s workings from afar.
Hugh warned that simply diving into the Bible would lead to failure
because a reader would not be prepared to understand what was written.
Instead, he recommended a methodical process by which one first develops

Hugh of St Victor and the Mechanical Arts 63

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abilities in the various arts. “It is in the seven liberal arts … that the foun-
dation of all learning is to be found … These, indeed, so hang together and
so depend upon one another in their ideas that if only one of the arts be lack-
ing, all the rest cannot make a man into a philosopher.”10 Using the liberal
arts of the trivium and quadrivium as a starting point, Hugh formulated a
revised hierarchical scheme with a four-part classification that reorganized
and supplemented the liberal arts, incorporated seven mechanical arts, and
situated all of them in the domain of philosophy.11
At the bottom of the hierarchy are the mechanical arts to deal with the
necessities of life. In the middle are the practical arts (politics, ethics, and
economics) to understand morals. In the upper part are the theoretical arts
(theology, mathematics, and physics) to acquire knowledge.12 The language
arts (grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric) are situated alongside the three other
classes to assist all of them with communication and argumentation. To
remind the reader of the need to proceed methodically from bottom to top,
Hugh occasionally uses the incremental process of house construction as an
analogy: the mechanical arts provide the foundation; the superstructure is
added later. “It is not without value to call to mind what we see happen in
the construction of buildings, where first the foundation is laid, then the
structure is raised upon it, and finally, when the work is all finished, the
house is decorated by the laying on of color.”13 Like Eriugena, Hugh also
used the analogy of a ladder to illustrate how one can climb the arts, step by
step, to ascend from the earthly world toward the divine.
Didascalicon is the benchmark document for the mechanical arts in
medieval Europe. It not only provides the first comprehensive description of
the mechanical arts but also defines the principles on which they are based
and situates them in a larger philosophical and theological context. Other
medieval philosophers followed in Hugh’s footsteps. In the absence of any
medieval treatises on architecture, Didascalicon offers some glimpses of
how architecture was conceived – not on its own, but as part of a larger
philosophical scheme.
Didascalicon is neither a manual that provides instruction in the me-
chanical arts nor a promotional document that attempts to raise their
standing in relation to other types of knowledge or activities.14 It is more
like an epistemological map to guide Christians. Hugh recognizes that one
can approach the mechanical arts through either philosophy or execution.

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His approach is largely philosophical, although some of his remarks suggest
that he did observe artisans in action.
Hugh begins by referring to Eriugena’s ninth-century commentary on
the liberal and mechanical arts, which in turn was based on Martianus
Capella’s fifth-century allegory of the liberal arts, which in turn was a
response to Varro’s first-century bce recognition of architecture and
medicine as liberal arts. Once again, Mercury gives seven liberal arts to
his bride Philology, then she presents him with seven handmaids who
represent the seven mechanical arts. Eriugena had mentioned only one
mechanical art (architecture), but Hugh formulates a list of seven: fabric
making, armament, commerce, agriculture, hunting, medicine, and the-
atrics.15 Architecture itself is not listed, but it will appear soon. Medicine
has returned, after being included as a liberal art by Varro, evicted by
Martianus, and not mentioned by Eriugena.
Hugh relies on ancient authority to define the liberal arts, and to char-
acterize the mechanical arts in a mildly pejorative way that recalls the low
social standing of the banausic crafts in Greece. “These sciences are called
mechanical, that is, adulterate, because their concern is with the artificer’s
product, which borrows its form from nature. Similarly, the other seven are
called liberal either because they require minds which are liberal, that is,
liberated and practiced (for these sciences pursue subtle inquiries into the
causes of things), or because in antiquity only free and noble men were
accustomed to study them, while the populace and the sons of men not free
sought operative skill in things mechanical.”16
Departing from ancient precedent, Hugh develops a new set of princi-
ples that defines the mechanical arts in a Christian way. He notes that nature
provides most living things with coverings for their protection: “Bark en-
circles the tree, feathers cover the bird, scales encase the fish, fleece clothes
the sheep, hair garbs cattle and wild beasts, a shell protects the tortoise, and
ivory makes the elephant unafraid of spears … It is fitting that nature should
provide a plan for those beings which do not know how to care for them-
selves.”17 Unfortunately, nature does not do the same for humans: “Man
alone is brought forth naked and unarmed.” Consequently, humans devel-
oped the mechanical arts to provide remedies for their inherent weakness –
but beyond mere survival, these inventions prompted them to set their sights
higher: “From nature’s example, a better chance for trying things should be

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provided to man when he comes to devise for himself by his own reasoning
those things naturally given to all animals. Indeed, man’s reason shines forth
much more brilliantly in inventing these very things than ever it would have
had man naturally possessed them.”18
Unlike Eriugena, who formulated the mechanical arts category but
denied that it makes any contribution toward salvation, Hugh regarded it as
a necessary first level of philosophy: the foundation on which a superstruc-
ture can be built.19 As a series, these levels (mechanical, ethical, theoretical,
then scriptural) enable one to ascend toward that lost state of perfection. He
believed that a knowledge of the mechanical arts is not simply left behind.
It remains implicit and may be invoked as one acquires a knowledge of the
liberal arts and an understanding of the scriptures. Consequently, the
mechanical arts are not merely instrumental but are linked indirectly to a
mystical pursuit of the divine.
Ironically, after carefully filling in the seven mechanical arts and noting
that they correspond to the seven liberal arts,20 Hugh formulates a revised
scheme that supplements the liberal arts and reorganizes them verti-
cally into groups rather than leaving them as “horizontal” equivalents.
He expands the number of liberal arts from seven to nine by adding five
subjects (theology, physics, politics, ethics, and economics) and combining
the four quadrivium subjects (arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music
theory) under the single heading “mathematics.”21 Both schemes, vertical
and horizontal, are mentioned in Didascalicon without explanation, so it
seems that he does not consider them contradictory. Although Hugh is
obsessed with numerical correspondences elsewhere in his treatise, here it
appears that he cared more about establishing a new hierarchical ascension
of arts from the temporal world to the spiritual world than maintaining
numerical correspondence.
Hugh’s description of music as a mathematical liberal art follows the
conventional concept of Pythagorean ratios. Following Boëthius, he also
distinguishes three types of music: universal, human, and instrumental.22
Universal music is primary, of course, but he has good things to say about
human and instrumental music, which normally were excluded from the
liberal arts. He associates music generally with water and moisture, sug-
gesting an emphasis on the temporal flow of melody and rhythm, rather
than just the timeless ratios of harmony.23 He also notes that music imparts

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Liberal and mechanical arts, after Hugh of St Victor, Didascalicon.

motion and sensation to both the body and the soul, which are related
through a natural sympathetic friendship.24
After Hugh lists the seven mechanical arts, he divides them into two
groups. The first group includes three mechanical arts (fabric making,
armament, and commerce) that provide humans with external protection
from harm. As a series, they move outward from the body. He suggests that
this group mirrors the “external” nature of the three trivium subjects (gram-
mar, dialectic, and rhetoric) that are concerned with language, because
words also act externally beyond the body. The second group includes four
mechanical arts (agriculture, hunting, medicine, and theatrics) that provide
internal nourishment for the body. He says they are similar to the four
quadrivium subjects (geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, and music theory)
that provide internal nourishment of a different kind.
Fabric making (lanificium) is the first mechanical art. It is used to pro-
duce clothing and blankets (providing protection from cold), but also
carpets, curtains, nets, saddles, baskets, and other woven articles. Starting
with various materials (flax, fleece, hides, etc.), fabric making employs a
range of tools (hand, needle, loom, etc.) and a variety of actions (weaving,
sewing, and twisting).25

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 Armament (armatura) is the second mechanical art. During times of
war, breastplates, shields, and helmets provide an additional layer of
protection for the body. Like fabrics, they are made from certain materials
(primarily metal), using certain tools. Within this category, Hugh includes
both armour for protection and weapons for striking and firing. Following
his definition of the mechanical arts as remedies for human weakness, he
regards military arms as a strengthening of the bodily arms that one holds
up to fend off external threats. They are not offensive but defensive, intended
to neutralize an intruder or at least keep it at a safe distance. He mentions
weapons that one holds firm (sword, two-faced axe, and lance) and weapons
that are projected a long distance to create a zone of safety around the body
(arrows, spears, and missiles). To support this second notion, he mentions
the etymology of “protect”: protelare, ‘make long’.
Commerce (navigatio) is the third mechanical art.26 Along with fabric
making and armament, Hugh regards domestic and foreign commerce as a
form of external protection. To reinforce its association with the trivium, he
notes that commerce requires fluent skills in rhetoric and suggests an
etymological link between Mercury and “merchant,” each being fluent in
its own way. Hugh cares less about the monetary benefits of buying, selling,
and trading, and more about the ambassadorial potential for making
friends and avoiding future conflict. “Commerce penetrates the secret places
of the world, approaches shores unseen, explores fearful wildernesses,
and in tongues unknown and with barbaric peoples carries on the trade
of mankind. The pursuit of commerce reconciles nations, calms wars,
strengthens peace, and commutes the private good of individuals into the
common benefit of all.”27
Agriculture (agricultura) is the fourth mechanical art, and the first art in
the second group that attends to the nourishment of the body. Hugh is con-
cerned mainly with different types of land (arable, plantational, pastoral,
and floral) and the different uses to which they are suited. By starting from
the earth, he is focusing on the farmer. Nourishment from food remains
implicit here, but appears explicitly in the next subject. Agriculture is the
least developed of Hugh’s descriptions, suggesting that he did not research
it to the same extent as the others.
Hunting (venatio) is the fifth mechanical art. Hugh describes in detail
how creatures are caught on land and at sea, using various tools and tech-
niques: traps, spears, nets, encircling the game, etc. Within this subject he

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also includes food preparation (frying, boiling, baking, salting, etc.) and lists
products of various kinds: bread, side dishes (meats, vegetables, fruits),
seasonings, and drinks (water, wine, beer, mead). When considering the
needs of the individual, he points out that certain liquids (such as water)
moisten without nourishing, whereas others (such as wine) do both. Hugh
acknowledges that many of the foods he has mentioned are not associated
with hunting, but decided to retain this name to recognize that humans long
ago obtained all their food by hunting. “Hunting, therefore, includes all the
duties of bakers, butchers, cooks, and tavern keepers.”28
Medicine (medicina) is the sixth mechanical art. Hugh notes how the
body benefits from common “occasions” that preserve health: air, motion,
quiet, food, sleep, etc. He notes that certain emotions (wrath, pleasure) raise
the temperature of the body by different degrees, while others (worry, ter-
ror) lower it by different degrees. He then discusses interior operations that
attempt to return a body to health by introducing medicine (potions, emet-
ics, powders) through one of the body’s openings. He recognizes that food
and drink also can be regarded as materials for internal medicine, not just
as products of agriculture and hunting. In addition to internal medicine,
he notes that external operations can apply medicine to the skin and can
conduct surgery on the flesh or the bone.
Theatrics (theatrica) is the seventh and final mechanical art. Here Hugh
refers not to contemporary examples but to Greek and Roman prece-
dents: drama in the theatre, sports in the gymnasium, chariot races in the
arena, banquets with songs and instruments, dice games, etc. He empha-
sizes entertainment and amusement rather than ritual. As examples of a
mechanical art, each activity follows rules in its performance. He does not
regard entertainment as a frivolous pastime, but as a form of medicine that
maintains the well-being of individuals and groups: “They numbered these
entertainments among legitimate activities because by temperate motion
natural heat is stimulated in the body and by enjoyment the mind is re-
freshed; or, as is more likely, seeing that people necessarily gathered together
for occasional amusement, they desired that places for such amusement
might be established to forestall the people’s coming together at public
houses, where they might commit lewd or criminal acts.”29
To recast these ancient activities as forms of entertainment, Hugh had to
disregard their ritual meaning, assemble them under a single heading, and
interpret them as remedies for human weakness. In Hugh’s discussions of

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the seven mechanical arts, theatrics is the only one that refers solely to an-
other place and time. Invoking ancient authority may have been a defensive
tactic, anticipating that his contemporaries would question entertainment
as a basic human need. His six other mechanical arts were less controversial.
They sit comfortably in a medieval context but are described in a general
way that could apply to all human civilizations since the Fall.
Armament, Hugh’s second mechanical art, includes not only military
devices but also walls and carpentry, including wood framing for roofs. This
is where Eriugena’s original “architecture” category reappears in Hugh’s
mechanical arts: as a subset of armament.

Armament is of two types, the constructional [architectonicam] and

the craftly [fabrilem]. The constructional [architectonica] is divided
into the building of walls [caementariam], which is the business of
the [mason (latomos et caementarios),] and [carpentry (carpen-
tariam), which is the business of the] carpenter [and framer (car-
pentarios et tignarios)], and of other craftsmen of both these sorts,
who work with mattocks and hatchets, the file and beam, the saw and
auger, planes, vises, the trowel and the level, smoothing, hewing, cut-
ting, filing, carving, joining, daubing in every sort of material – clay,
stone, wood, bone, gravel, lime, gypsum, and other materials that
may exist of this kind.30

Both types of armament transform natural materials into durable items

for human use. “Constructional” armament is associated largely with
masonry and wood, and it involves actions that would be performed on site,
whereas “craftly” armament is associated with metal that is either forged or
cast, presumably in a separate workshop filled with heat, fumes, and noise
– the same conditions that had prompted the Greeks to regard metalworking
as the lowliest, most banausic of the crafts. “Craftly armament is divided
into the malleable branch, which forges material into shape by beating upon
it, and the foundry branch, which reduces material into shape by casting it
– so that ‘founders’ is the name for those who know how to cast a shapeless
mass into the form of an implement.”31
All of the military armour and weapons that Hugh mentioned earlier
would be made primarily of metal, so they would fall within his “craftly”
division. Some of the tools for building walls and doing carpentry also would

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Architecture’s position in the mechanical arts, after Hugh of St Victor, Didascalicon.

be made by metalworkers, but the remaining materials – clay, stone, wood,

bone, gravel, and lime – would be brought to a “constructional” building
site for assembly.
Although Hugh’s comments on architecture are brief, they clearly asso-
ciate architecture with the incremental process of construction. His lists of
materials, tools, and actions suggest that he had observed artisans at work
and inquired into what they were doing. His earlier “craftly” references to
shields, breastplates, helmets, swords, axes, lances, spears, and arrows pro-
vide the reader with some mental images of these products, along with a few
descriptions of how they would be used. His “constructional” references,
however, focus almost entirely on individual details, without explicitly men-
tioning larger building elements (other than walls and beams), building as-
semblies, products of carpentry, or their particular uses when completed.
Hugh’s scheme emphasizes protection over anything else that architec-
ture may offer. This is consistent with the primary intent of his mechanical
arts: to compensate for human weakness. As part of armatura, the building
of walls and roofs provides external protection for the body at an interme-
diate scale between clothing (lanificium) and negotiated commerce with
foreign lands (navigatio). In the early twelfth century, when castles and for-
tified towns were prevalent, and not long before the first city wall would be
built around Paris, Hugh’s association of walls and military defenses would
have been poignant. Perhaps architecture would have been allocated its own

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category, between armament and commerce on Hugh’s graduated scale, if
the scheme he had inherited from Eriugena provided not seven but eight
containers for mechanical arts, and not three but four mechanical arts for
external protection.
Although Hugh’s entire set of epistemological and theological categories
(mechanical, ethical, theoretical, and scriptural) is organized hierarchically,
there is no suggestion of a hierarchy within the mechanical arts. Armament,
including architecture, is comparable to the others. Fabric makers, theatri-
cal actors, medical physicians, metalworkers, carpenters, builders, farmers,
hunters, and merchants are all equal. There is no vestige of the ancient
distinction between free and banausic crafts, in which some artisans enjoy
a higher social standing because their work involves less physical labour,
better working conditions, or greater intellectual demands.
The mechanical arts would fit comfortably into the ancient category of
technē, with two exceptions: agriculture and theatrics. In ancient Greece,
farming was excluded from technē because farmers release the earth’s natu-
ral fertility, whereas artisans shape natural substance into a different form.
There is no such distinction in the mechanical arts, which regard farming
and hunting (along with food preparation) as arts of invention that respond
to the human need for food. The particular source of that food is secondary.
The emphasis on human need and invention takes precedence over any
consideration for nature as a living force in its own right.
In ancient Greece, Hugh’s concept of “theatrics” would have seemed
incongruous. Ancient instrumental music was a technē that requires skill
and relies on convention, but drama, vocal music, and poetry were inspired
forms of mousikē, overseen by the Muses. Sports were not just forms of
entertainment but also rituals with political and religious significance. The
way Hugh describes theatrics suggests that he was unaware of their ritual
dimension, perhaps because the relevant ancient sources had not yet reached
him in the early twelfth century. Alternately, associating theatrics with health
may have promoted a different understanding of sport: as curative enter-
tainments for individual bodies rather than as social rituals that bond indi-
viduals to their culture and ancestors.
In Hugh’s scheme, the needs for clothing, shelter, food, health, and
safety are essentially individual but could be addressed collectively in a
social situation: buildings for families, food for groups, etc. Commerce and
theatrics are less obvious as individual needs, but Hugh includes them as

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mechanical arts by defining them in larger circumstances. Commerce
operates in a broader context that encompasses people in distant places who
might become enemies if commercial negotiation did not promote friendly
relations. Theatrics operates in a longer time frame that encompasses
troubles in a person’s life that might threaten one’s well-being if occasional
entertainment did not restore emotional balance. Together, commerce and
theatrics begin to define a social setting in which individuals rely on others
to remedy weakness.
Although Hugh’s mechanical arts suggest some social situations, they
are not involved directly in the constitution of a public order, as in the
Greek polis. Hugh recognizes that one needs to know about politics to op-
erate intelligently in the temporal world but, unlike the ancient Greeks, he
does not regard politics as an especially important practice because it is not
associated directly with the spiritual realm. He includes it in the realm of
ethics, the lower level of his liberal arts, and makes no explicit connection
between politics and an architectural setting that would support it. There
is no agora in sight.

Elements of Practice in the Mechanical Arts

Eriugena, Hugh of St Victor, and subsequent medieval philosophers placed

architecture firmly in the mechanical arts. In turn, the mechanical arts were
situated within a hierarchical Christian framework, along with the liberal
arts and the scriptures. Together, they followed a teleological arc that began
historically with the Fall, continued in the temporal world, and was expected
to end soon with the arrival of the Apocalypse. In the meantime, humans
were encouraged to seek salvation by studying the arts and, more impor-
tantly, the scriptures. In this philosophical and theological context, archi-
tecture and the other mechanical arts were conceived as arts of utility that
provide remedies for inherent human weakness, but also support those more
elevated pursuits.
The medieval era left us no comprehensive treatise on architecture, only
residual documents (contracts, employment records, law suits), a few brief
texts (Villard de Honnecourt, Gervase), and features of the buildings that
still exist. There was also no comprehensive manual that presented archi-
tecture as a mechanical art. Based on the six books in Hugh of St Victor’s

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Didascalicon, the following interpretation sketches some practical implica-
tions of conceiving architecture as a mechanical art. It does not assume that
Hugh’s principles should be congruent with existing medieval buildings, nor
with medieval architectural practices. It is simply an interpretation that reads
the lines and, in some ways, between the lines to extend Hugh’s philosoph-
ical text into architectural territory. As in the earlier chapter on ancient
technē, this interpretive sketch of architecture as a mechanical art imports
the template of terms from Chapter 1 and lays it gently onto the terrain of
the mechanical arts.

1 Armament

The mechanical arts are human inventions that compensate for intrinsic
human weaknesses. Hugh observed that animals are self-reliant in their
natural habitat but humans (and therefore humanity) would not survive
without the mechanical arts. With its emphasis on armament and protection
to strengthen the human body, and its reference to the building of walls and
roofs, architecture would include walled fortifications to keep out enemies.
At a smaller scale, it would also include houses and other types of buildings
with solid, impenetrable walls to repel potential intruders. Regarding archi-
tecture as a form of military armament emphasizes protection from human
enemies and perhaps predatory animals. In the earlier section on fabric
making Hugh refers to clothing and blankets, so he is also concerned with
protection from inclement weather. A full building enclosure would offer
additional protection from rain, snow, direct sun, and cold air.
Hugh’s primary emphasis on the individual body suggests that domes-
tic buildings are the basic component of architecture. There is nothing in the
six books to indicate that architecture refers to buildings of a particular size
or a particular use. There is no suggestion that architecture is limited to large
buildings, public buildings, or religious buildings.32 As defense is his main
criterion, a large building or a fortification also could provide protection
and shelter – perhaps for everyone living in a local area; however, Hugh
does not place much emphasis on collective activities and does not explic-
itly mention towns as an urban formation. With architecture being placed
on par with the other mechanical arts that respond to basic human needs,
it might provide shelter and support for individuals who are active in fab-
ric making, armament, agriculture, hunting, and medicine, and who require

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a few constructed items: workshops for metalworking and carpentry, build-
ings for storing agricultural products that will be used for food and fabrics,
mills for processing grain, etc.33
With Hugh defining commerce and theatrics as basic human needs, the
carpentry division of architecture would be called on to build ships and
barges to carry people to distant places to develop friendly relations with
foreigners who otherwise might become enemies. In turn, the ships and
barges would bring back goods and perhaps transfer them to land vehicles
(also built by carpenters), which then would transport the goods to ad-
ditional buildings (built by masons and carpenters) for safe storage and
sale by merchants. Hugh’s commerce idea thus develops into a story with
architectural implications. Although Hugh mentions arenas for sporting
events and theatres for theatrical events, he consistently uses the past
tense to place them in an earlier era. The grand spectacles suggested by his
ancient examples – boxing matches, chariot races, etc. – are quickly subdued
by his subsequent comments about avoiding excess and maintaining an
even temperature in the body. His muted description of people “gathered
together for occasional amusement” and the need to provide “places for such
amusement” suggests that masons and carpenters in the mechanical arts
would not need to construct large Roman arenas and Greek amphitheatres
in the medieval world.
Although Hugh’s epistemological scheme was developed in a Christian
context, there is no mention of food, clothing, or any special artifacts being
used for religious purposes. Similarly, the mechanical arts category makes
no distinction between sacred and secular buildings. In the six books of
Didascalicon there are no references to churches, cathedrals, or monasteries.
It seems that the mechanical arts already have an important role to play
in Christian culture: to enable humanity to survive until the arrival of
the Apocalypse. The highest level in Hugh’s epistemological hierarchy, the
reading of the scriptures, is described as a private activity that would require
no more than a quiet place to read: “Quiet of life – whether interior, so that
the mind is not distracted with illicit desires, or exterior, so that leisure and
opportunity are provided for creditable and useful studies – is in both senses
important to discipline.”34 Consequently, Hugh’s mechanical arts would not
need a social place for sermons or other religious rituals. Likewise, there is
no suggestion that the scriptures should be accompanied by certain human
artifacts or views of nature to complement one’s reading. Based on what

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Hugh has written, his architectural requirements to support the reading of
the Bible would be even more minimal than what is portrayed in images of
St Jerome in his study. Hugh may need nothing but an enclosure to defend
against noise that would disturb the reader’s concentration.

2 Inventor

As a background for his expanded set of liberal arts, Hugh lists the historical
figures who were responsible for inventing an art or for writing the first
treatise on it.35 In theology he mentions three different people – Linus from
ancient Greece, Varro from ancient Rome, and Eriugena as a Christian from
his own time – presumably because their religions are different. Thales of
Miletus is credited with inventing natural physics. Pythagoras invented
arithmetic. Geometry was discovered in Egypt, and Euclid was the first
Greek to write about it. Moses designated Tubal as the biblical inventor
of music but the Greeks credited Pythagoras. Mercury, Linus, Zetus, and
Amphio also contributed to music. Cham, son of Noah, invented astronomy,
and Ptolemy later revived it. Socrates originated ethics, purportedly by
writing twenty-four books on the subject. The language arts are traced to
Moses, who transcribed the first written law. Grammar originated in Egypt
at the time of Osiris but the particular inventor is not known. Parmeni-
des invented dialectic (logic); Plato and Aristotle developed it further.
Demosthenes devised rhetoric for the Greeks.
In the mechanical arts Hugh presents a similar roster of inventors and
authors. Minerva introduced the Greeks to fabric making and designed the
first loom. She also taught Daedalus (Daidalos) about handicrafts. In the art
of armament, Tubal again gets the biblical credit but Vulcan was the first
metalsmith. No one is credited with inventing architecture but Vitruvius
wrote the first treatise, De architectura (On Architecture). In commerce
(navigatio) the discovery of the boat is credited collectively to the Pelasgians.
Ceres in Greece and Isis in Egypt both discovered the use of grain, and others
discovered how to cultivate corn, spelt, grapes, etc. Hesiod Ascraeus was the
first Greek to write about farming but the treatise by Palladius, De agri-
cultura (On Agriculture), is also noteworthy. No one is mentioned as an
inventor of hunting techniques but hunting’s food preparation division is
represented by Apicius, who devised an apparatus for cooking and later died
willingly from consuming delicacies. Daedalus contributed to the art of food

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preparation by making the first table and stool. Apollo discovered medicine
but it lapsed for a while and was revived later by Hippocrates. Theatrics is
credited generally to the men of Lydia who devised games and spectacles.
Later they were copied by the Romans, who acknowledged their predecessors
by referring to games as ludi.
From a modern standpoint, supported by abundant documents and his-
torical research, Hugh’s roster from the twelfth century includes some figures
and remarks that may seem odd and even amusing, but his general intent is
clear. He moves methodically through the lists of liberal and mechanical arts
to ensure that each one has a history. Most of his references are from the
Bible or from Egypt or Greece. Everyone is equally historical. Although his
list includes a few gods and a few borderline cases (Daedalus, for example),
most of the inventors and all of the authors are human. Whenever possible,
he highlights two significant events in the history of an art: its invention and
the recording of its principles or conventions in a treatise.
Hugh typically uses the word “invention” for the mechanical arts: “In-
deed, man’s reason shines forth much more brilliantly in inventing these
very things than ever it would have had man naturally possessed them.”36 In
Christian time, one can imagine the art being invented soon after the Fall,
when human needs in the temporal world suddenly became evident. “He
who first invented the use of clothes had considered how each of the grow-
ing things one by one has its proper covering by which to protect its nature
from offense.”37 This points to a single, momentous occasion, before which
the art did not exist.38 The invention of a mechanical art is attributed to a
single person, unlike the ancient technē tradition, where a series of ancestral
artisans gradually perfected their craft. Each mechanical art emerged long
ago, all at once, so present practices are merely applications of the original
invention. The temporal world does not change in any essential way, so there
is no need for additional inventions or innovation.
When it becomes clear that this art must be passed down to subsequent
generations so that humanity will survive, the principles or conventions are
written down, formalizing human activities into an art. “Before there was an
art of music, they sang; before there was geometry, they measured fields …
but then came the arts, which, though they took their rise in usage, none-
theless excel it.”39 Each art then remains relatively stable. Having been
recorded and preserved in a treatise, the art will not be lost, so humans are
protected from that prospect. There is no need for subsequent treatises

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because authoritative facts, unlike opinions and interpretations, are not open
to debate or renewal.
Apart from Hugh’s reference to “theatrics” in ancient Greece and Rome,
his liberal and mechanical arts are described in an almost timeless way,
responding to human weaknesses that are intrinsic and continuing. He
emphasizes original inventors and authors, but not subsequent inventors.
In Didascalicon, Christian time has an overall teleological trajectory but it is
progressive only in a spiritual sense (attempting to restore what was lost), not
in a material sense, so meaningful benefits cannot be gained by developing
new material things.40 Conversely, because the mechanical arts are not under-
stood as the epitome of craftsmanship, they are not bound to convention,
unlike in the technē tradition.41
Although Hugh refers to Vitruvius as the person who recorded the prin-
ciples of architecture, he does not elaborate on the contents of De architec-
tura.42 In fact, Vitruvius probably would contradict some of the premises
of the mechanical arts that are described or implied in Didascalicon. As a
philosopher and theologian, Hugh seems content to let others take respon-
sibility for their own subjects, assuming that the inventions in those arts are
universal and have proven over time to be effective remedies. Assuming that
the arts can sustain humanity until the Apocalypse, they will have fulfilled
their primary purpose.

3 Nature

In defining most of the mechanical arts, Hugh focuses first on the material
from which it is made: “[An] art … takes shape in some material medium
and is brought out in it through manipulation of that material, as is the case
in architecture [architectura].”43 As with technē, which could result in either
a material product or a changed condition, most of the mechanical arts work
primarily with natural materials: fabric making, armament, agriculture,
hunting (including food preparation), and medicine. Two of the mechani-
cal arts – commerce and theatrics – are associated more with actions than
with materials. Unlike with technē, products of the mechanical arts are not
regarded essentially as independent things for human use. In each case, they
are conceived primarily as external or internal remedies, and therefore are
bound to the body. It may be more appropriate to refer to the results of the

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mechanical arts as supplementary changes to the original state of the body:
“body with fabric”; “body with armament”; “body with food”; “body with
medicine”; etc. Because nature left the body in a state that is insufficient for
survival, the mechanical arts supplement or modify what nature provided.
They also must attend to the body throughout its lifetime. One cannot eat
just once. Similarly, medicine has to monitor the changing temperature of
the body and make adjustments if it is too warm or too cold.
Hugh identifies three operative realms – God, nature, and the mechan-
ical arts – and declares that they are essentially independent and separate:
“Now there are three works – the work of God, the work of nature, and the
work of the artificer … The earth cannot create the heaven, nor can man,
who is powerless to add a mere span to his stature, bring forth the green
herb.”44 Humans can use nature but cannot change how it operates. Nature
was created by God for humans to use while they are in the temporal world.45
Meanwhile, nature has its own work to do: “The work of nature is to bring
forth into actuality that which lay hidden, whence we read, ‘Let the earth
bring forth the green herb.’”46
Although Hugh believes that nature continues to be active, he does not
follow the Greek tradition in which nature has its own life force, with which
humans must negotiate to encourage natural growth or to harvest natural
material.47 He does not suggest that a carpenter must perform a sacrificial
ritual of some kind before felling a tree. Stone, wood, and other materials
are valued mainly for their potential application in the mechanical arts. A me-
dieval artisan is neither a transformer of nature (in the technē tradition) nor
a creator (in the divine sense, creating something from nothing). An artisan
turns natural materials into remedial supplements for the body. There are
two basic types of action in the mechanical arts: “The work of the artificer
is to put together things disjoined or to disjoin those put together, whence
we read, ‘They sewed themselves aprons.’”48 Hugh also says: “The products
of artificers, while not nature, imitate nature, and, in the design by which
they imitate, they express the form of their exemplar, which is nature.”49 His
main example is an architectural one, in which a house builder (perhaps
long ago, right after the Fall) recognized that the slope of a mountain could
be imitated in the pitched roof of a house so that it too would shed rainwa-
ter: “The builder who has constructed a house has taken into consideration
a mountain, for, as the Prophet declares, ‘Thou sendest forth springs in the

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vales; between the midst of the hills the waters shall pass’; as the ridges of
mountains retain no water, even so does a house require to be framed into
a high peak that it may safely discharge the weight of pouring rains.”50
This introduces an exception to Hugh’s earlier remark that the three
realms (God, nature, and the mechanical arts) are independent. Formal im-
itation does not affect nature – the mountain does not care if it is imitated
by a roof – but practitioners of the mechanical arts may wonder if other
lessons can be learned from the nature that God created. In Hugh’s larger
scheme of things, this rainwater example is rather elementary. It is limited
to a consideration of utility, without touching on any of the higher levels
in his hierarchy: ethical practice, theoretical understanding, or spiritual
contemplation. He briefly considers giving a fuller description of how the
various mechanical arts can imitate natural models but is daunted by the
prospect and declines to pursue it further: “How the work of the artificer in
each case imitates nature is a long and difficult matter to pursue in detail.”51

4 Body

Unlike the many different crafts in the ancient technē tradition, the seven
mechanical arts are not defined by their material (e.g., leather), their
techniques (e.g., tanning), their products (e.g., shoes), or their maker (e.g.,
leatherworker). Instead, they are defined primarily by intrinsic human
weakness. Nature did not provide an obvious solution, so human ingenuity
supplements what nature provided. As Hugh remarks, “The proverb says:
‘Ingenious want hath mothered all the arts.’”52
Both of these traditions, technē and the mechanical arts, make products
that respond to desires or needs of the user (e.g., foot protection), but there
is no indication that a practitioner of the mechanical arts aims to respond
perfectly to the needs of an individual or to extend the individual’s normal
worldly limits in a strategic way, as in ancient Greece. The mechanical arts
address general weaknesses of humanity, not particular weaknesses of an
individual in relation to a standard of some kind.
Simplicity and frugality are valued more than complexity and abun-
dance. The mechanical arts provide only enough for a person to rise to the
next level. Anything more would be superfluous and distracting. Hugh was
proud of his own frugality, and he recommends it to other teachers: “The

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inexpensiveness of your dress and the simplicity expressed in your counte-
nance, the innocence of your life and the holiness of your behavior ought to
teach men … You teach better by fleeing the world than by following after
it … Be content with slender means, that is, not to hanker after superfluities
… ‘A fat belly,’ as the saying goes, ‘does not produce a fine perception’ … I
know with what grief sometimes the mind takes leave of the narrow hearth
of a peasant’s hut, and I know, too, how frankly it afterwards disdains
marble firesides and panelled halls.”53
According to Hugh, the remedies provided by the mechanical arts will be
needed no longer when the temporal world ends. In the meantime, they
enable humanity to survive from generation to generation. Consequently,
the utility of the mechanical arts is not “utilitarian” in the narrow modern
sense. It also carries a religious significance. Therefore, artifacts in the
mechanical arts should be well crafted but need not be perfect or clever.
Making artifacts and addressing human needs are not ends in themselves
but means that enable an individual to survive and focus one’s attention
higher. “There are two things which restore the divine likeness in man,
namely the contemplation of truth and the practice of virtue.”54 The
mechanical arts, including architecture, are situated below these two upper
levels, so the mechanical arts by themselves have no restorative power for
salvation. They perform a supporting role. One cannot use them to gain an
understanding (intelligentia) of truth or a knowledge (scientia) of virtue.

5 Artisan

Words with the root “architect-” appear five times in Didascalicon. Three are
the noun architectura (architecture). One of these is a reference to De archi-
tectura, where Hugh credits Vitruvius with writing the treatise that records
the principles of architecture.55 Two other references are to the activity of
construction: “which is deployed with tools, like building [architectura] and
farming and other activities of this kind”56; “[an] art which takes shape in
some material medium and is brought out in it through manipulation of
that material, as is the case in architecture [architectura].”57
The adjective architectonica also refers to the activity of construction:
“Armament is of two types: the constructional [architectonicam] and the
craftly [fabrilem]. The constructional [architectonica] is divided into the

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building of walls [caementariam], which is the business of the [quarryman
and mason (latomos et caementarios),] and [carpentry (carpentariam), which
is the business of the] carpenter [and the framer (carpentarios et tignarios)],
and of other craftsmen of both these sorts.”58Although the adjective that
describes the activity is architectonica, Hugh associates it not with an
architect in the modern sense but with various artisans: quarryman, mason,
carpenter, and framer (of beams). The word architectus (architect) was
available in medieval Latin but the figure of the architect is absent from
Didascalicon. Hugh recognizes a wide domain for architecture, spanning
from Vitruvius’s record of timeless principles to the building of walls and
roofs in the present, but he implies that there is no significant work to be
done between these two events. Consequently, the role of the architect is
embedded in the activities of the artisans.59
Hugh refers to four different types of artisans but to only one of each,
perhaps indicating that they are constructing only a small building. Of
course, the definite article (the mason, the carpenter) also could stand
metonymically for a larger group. Still, the implied size of the building
remains small because there is no mention of a chief artisan who directs the
work of many others in the manner of the Greek architekton.60
Although Didascalicon is a didactic document, Hugh does not describe
how one learns the principles and techniques to perform a mechanical art.
His main ambition is to teach people how to read the scriptures, so the first
three books on the arts are a foundation for this activity. He refers to many
original treatises in the mechanical and liberal arts, but suggests that they
should be read only by philosophers, not by practitioners. He draws a clear
line between theory and practice: “For the same action is able to belong to
philosophy as concerns its ideas and to be excluded from it as concerns its
actual performance. For example, the theory of agriculture belongs to the
philosopher, but the execution of it to the farmer.”61 It appears that those
who practise the mechanical arts will acquire their knowledge empirically
through apprenticeship.62
As a general guide for a well-rounded education, Didascalicon sets out
a sequential curriculum: First, one should study the language arts for
eloquence and logic; second, the practical arts (politics, ethics, economics)
for virtue; third, the theoretical arts (theology, mathematics, physics) for
truth; and fourth, the mechanical arts (but Hugh does not say why).63 Given
the recurring “ladder” format in his hierarchy, by which one ascends step by

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step from the earthly realm (including the mechanical arts) to a spiritual
realm (the scriptures), this appearance of the mechanical arts as a final stage
of education comes as a surprise. Hugh adds that a knowledge of the
mechanical arts would be ineffective unless it is supported by a knowledge
of the previous subjects. This suggests that one can learn how to perform
the mechanical arts at the level of an artisan, responding to temporal need,
or one can study their principles at an elevated level in a context of logic,
virtue, and truth – similar to that Vitruvius laid out as a prerequisite for an
architect. This is Hugh’s only reference to a potentially elevated status for
the mechanical arts and it appears in an appendix he added later, perhaps
to be incorporated into a subsequent copy of the manuscript.64

6 Shelter

Hugh’s brief analysis of construction activities provides a rough sketch of his

exemplary building: “The constructional is divided into the building of walls,
which is the business of the [quarryman and mason,] and [carpentry, which
is the business of the] carpenter [and framer], and of other craftsmen of
both these sorts.”65 The building has walls made of stone and a roof structure
made of wood. The stone has been extracted from a quarry (not gathered as
fieldstone), then carved into blocks that are assembled by a mason. The
wooden beams and rafters probably are framed into a pitched roof, judging
from Hugh’s earlier comment about imitating mountain slopes to repel
rainwater.
The tools he mentions are all hand tools for one person: “mattocks and
hatchets, the file and beam, the saw and auger, planes, vises, the trowel and
the level.” The tools are mainly for woodworking and are used from the
beginning to the end of construction: from harvesting timber to planing it
smooth and setting it into place. These tools also could be used to make a
boat or a piece of furniture. His tools for stone masonry are less complete:
the absence of the hammer and the chisel is notable – perhaps the stones
were shaped back at the quarry – but Hugh does mention the trowel, which
might be used for filling gaps. A list of actions and additional materials
suggests that the building is completed in an expedient way, using whatever
is available to meet the basic needs: “smoothing, hewing, cutting, filing, carv-
ing, joining, daubing in every sort of material – clay, stone, wood, bone,
gravel, lime, gypsum, and other materials that may exist of this kind.”66

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 For walls, the use of stone – rather than a lighter wooden frame with
woven panels and layers of daub – emulates the solidity of military
fortifications and is consistent with Hugh’s priority that the weak human
body be sheltered. Because stone is durable, the building also would last as
long as it is needed. Although the stone and wood construction he describes
could be used to make a very large building – a church or a cathedral, for
example – there are no references to additional equipment that would be
needed: scaffolding, hoists, winches, centring, etc. He also makes no ref-
erence to water-powered equipment such as a sawmill for turning timber
into lumber, which was common in his day. The methods of construction he
describes could have existed when Noah built the ark.
In contrast to technē, Hugh does not suggest that any product of the
mechanical arts should be perfect. Seeking perfection in the temporal world
would introduce impertinent criteria and standards, beyond the basic
levels of health and utility that enable humanity to survive. There is also no
indication that cleverness or cunning is needed to deal with challenging
situations. Basic skills are sufficient.
In Hugh’s discussion of the mechanical arts there are no references to
beauty, nor references to the liberal arts of the quadrivium being applied to
the mechanical arts. In Didascalicon, geometry is presented as an ideal set of

Building the ark; detail from Hartmann Schedel, Registrum huius operis libri croni-
carum cum figuris et ÿmagibus ab inicio mundi (Nuremberg: Anton Koberger, 1493).

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principles and as a way to measure the nature that God has provided: ground
planes, heights of trees, and areas of spherical objects from an egg to the
universe67 – but not as a basis for the mechanical arts, which are human
inventions.68 Likewise, there is no suggestion that the scriptures should be
represented or symbolized in products of the mechanical arts. The only
reference to anything beyond the immediate realm of the mechanical arts
(or the bodies for which they provide remedies) is a general imitation of
nature: “The products of artificers, while not nature, imitate nature, and, in
the design by which they imitate, they express the form of their exemplar,
which is nature.”69 Of course, if one were to step outside the six books of
Didascalicon and consult the historical treatises that are included on Hugh’s
list, some rather different practices would be evident.

7 Model

A practitioner of the mechanical arts would rely on previous artifacts as

precedents. Because they are liable to be typical, drawings would not be
needed to develop a design from scratch or to show a design to a patron.70
As with technē, a diagram of some kind might help one calculate quantities
of materials. In building construction a paradeigma or an anagrapheus
would not be needed to ensure that certain formal details are consistent, as
Hugh’s description of the mechanical arts does not promote formal prop-
erties such as uniformity, symmetry, or proportion. Again, his references to
earlier treatises on individual mechanical arts (Vitruvius, for example) could
introduce different ideas involving representation, but there is no indica-
tion that Hugh studied these treatises or developed a position on any of their
principles. He merely lists the authors and titles.
Because the mechanical arts do not separate the roles of designer and
builder, there would be no prescriptive design to which a builder must show
fidelity. At his highest philosophical level, Hugh seeks “that Wisdom which
is the sole primordial Idea or Pattern of things,”71 but standard models are
sufficient in the mechanical arts. Artifacts with a typical form and use are
conveyed through recognizable names: for example, in fabric making:
“clothes, coverings, drapery, blankets, saddles, carpets, curtains, napkins,
felts, strings, nets, ropes.”72 Like the wheel, these artifacts were invented long
ago and there is no need for them to be reinvented or replaced.

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 8 Ark

In Hugh’s philosophical theology, the concept of the mechanical arts – espe-

cially architecture – might be symbolized best by the biblical ark. The ark
is the centrepiece of a story that includes many of the same elements: the
banishment of humanity from paradise, a hard-working artisan, materials
gathered from nature, the construction of a protective vessel for creatures in
the temporal world, a period of stormy weather, and the anticipation of an
eventual return to paradise.
Hugh was fascinated by Noah’s ark and he wrote a treatise on the sub-
ject, De arca Noe morali (On the moral interpretation of the ark of Noah).73
He also made a large coloured image of the ark that incorporated diagrams
of the earthly world, the zodiac, the months, the seasons, and various bib-
lical figures. This drawing did not survive but it is described in another
manuscript, De arca Noe mystica (On the mystic interpretation of the ark of
Noah).74 Hugh suggested that the ark can be interpreted in four ways, but
is essentially one ark: “The first is that which Noah made, with hatchets and
axes, using wood and pitch as his materials. The second is that which Christ
made through His preachers, by gathering the nations into a single confes-
sion of faith. The third is that which wisdom builds daily in our hearts
through continual meditation on the law of God. The fourth is that which
mother grace effects in us by joining together many virtues in a single char-
ity … Let us call the first Noah’s ark, the second the ark of the Church, the
third the ark of wisdom, and the fourth the ark of mother grace.”75
Noah’s ark is described first as a physical object, made from natural
materials and constructed with hand tools. Although the second ark refers
to the Church, Hugh does not mean a large church building but a commu-
nity of faithful humans: the same humans who receive support and protec-
tion from the mechanical arts. He adds that these first two arks are visible
and the two others are invisible.
Hugh’s interest in the biblical ark was not strictly allegorical. He believed
that the story also had to be interpreted as a historical event, so the ark must
function as a real vessel. At the same time, it had to follow the specifications
in the Bible because they are authoritative: “The length of the ark shall be
three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty
cubits. A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou

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finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with
lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it.”76
This description is rather basic and leaves plenty of room for interpre-
tation. Earlier commentators had visualized the ark as a stepped pyramidal
structure with a flat base, perhaps emulating other biblical structures such
as the Temple of Solomon. Hugh could not accept that Noah’s ark was
built in this shape because it would have had insufficient ballast below the
waterline to remain upright in stormy seas. “For it is indisputable that so
massive a structure, laden with so many and such large animals, and also
with provisions, could not possibly keep afloat when the waters came, un-
less the greater portion of its bulk were at the bottom; this fact we can put
to the proof today with ships that carry heavy loads.”77 Earlier writers such
as Augustine had been content to let God deal with the ark’s seaworthiness78
but Hugh felt obliged to apply lessons he had acquired empirically from the
mechanical arts of armatura and navigatio, perhaps by observing ships and
shipbuilders in action.
After rejecting that flat, pyramidal shape, he devised an alternative: a
“house on a hull,”79 with a lower half shaped like a directional hull and an
upper half consisting of three stepped levels with vertical walls on four sides
and a pitched roof on top. Interpreting the story of the ark as a historical
event also prompted him to imagine how Noah must have dealt with other
practical questions, including where to place the ark’s window and door,
where to store food supplies and animal dung, and how to keep the tame
animals safe from the wild animals.80 He believed that the ark he visualized
was faithful to the biblical description and would have enabled Noah and his
colleagues to survive – not only in the spiritual world of the scriptures but
also in the temporal world of sea voyages. His concept of the flood also
departed from earlier tradition. As Grover A. Zinn notes, “The Ark and
Flood had generally been interpreted in terms of ecclesiological and sacra-
mental typology, with the Ark signifying the hierarchic, sacramental Church,
outside of which there is no salvation. [Hugh’s] Ark treatises made use of the
allegory of the Ark as the Church, but it is not the abstract, static, hierarchical
Church which is symbolized. Rather it is a dynamic, historical conception of
the Christian community in transit between the creation and consummation
of all things … In contrast to the traditional interpretation, the Flood has no
saving quality. It represents chaos and destruction only.”81

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 Hugh’s graphic image of the ark, described in De arca Noe mystica, was
oriented along an axis from east to west.82 This route, from the primordial
paradise to the eventual Apocalypse, was the ark’s horizontal trajectory. Its
hull, including two levels below the waterline, provided a stable foundation
for its superstructure. The upper half of the ark included three stepped plat-
forms, each with four ladders to ascend to the next level.83 This was the ark’s
vertical trajectory. The dual role of the hull, with its horizontal and vertical
trajectories, corresponds to the dual role of the mechanical arts in Hugh’s
epistemological hierarchy.

Contemplation on the Seventh Day

Hugh’s six-book Didascalicon does not discuss sensible beauty nor any other
aesthetic issues. It does not dismiss beauty as inconsequential or evil but
implies that the mechanical arts have more urgent work to do. Beauty could
be an incidental quality in products of necessity but not an ambition in its
own right.
Didascalicon also does not suggest that liberal arts such as geometry and
music theory should guide the mechanical arts. Because the four mathe-
matical subjects ultimately come from a divine source, they would be foreign
in a lower realm that is concerned with bodily need. Importing them would
blur the separate levels in Hugh’s epistemological hierarchy. Likewise, Di-
dascalicon does not suggest that figures or events from the scriptures should
be portrayed in any of the mechanical arts. There are no references to bib-
lical emblems on clothing, armour, or buildings.
The only departure from the basic arts that Hugh acknowledges is what
he calls “appendages of the arts”: writings that are tangential to philosophy
and of no real consequence: “songs of the poets – tragedies, comedies,
satires, heroic verse and lyric, iambics, certain didactic poems, fables and
histories,” as well as “small matters” that philosophers discuss “in confused
discourses.”84
Painting and statuary are not mentioned in Didascalicon. They are not
forms of divine knowledge, so they would not qualify as liberal arts. They are
also not human inventions that compensate for weaknesses of the human
body, so they would not qualify as mechanical arts either. Musical perform-
ance fares a little better. Because music (as Pythagorean theory) has a firm

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place in the liberal arts, and because its harmonic-numerical proportions
were recognized empirically through perceived sound, Hugh acknowledges
that two other types of music – human and instrumental – have a natural
affinity to universal music, but he quickly reminds the reader that it is fine
to love one’s flesh, but one should love one’s spirit more.85
Clearly, Hugh established firm boundaries for the mechanical arts and
the hierarchical Christian model to which they belong. One can imagine a
world in which this is the sole operative model. It may even resemble certain
religious communities that once existed or perhaps still exist. However, it
does not align fully with the medieval world, where concerns with sensory
pleasure and beauty were prevalent.86 When Hugh was writing Didascalicon
in Paris in the late 1120s, he would have been familiar with Romanesque
churches, their geometric proportions, carved statuary, and colourful mu-
rals, but would not have experienced Gothic churches. Hugh of St Victor
(ca. 1096–1141) was contemporary with Pierre Abélard (1079–1142), Abbot
Suger (1081–1151), and Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153).
The sixth book of Didascalicon concludes in a definitive way: “And now
those things which pertain to reading have been explained as lucidly and
briefly as we know how. But as for the remaining part of learning, namely
meditation, I omit saying anything about it in the present work because
so great a matter requires a special treatise, and it is more worthy to be
altogether silent about a matter of this sort than to say anything about it
imperfectly.”87
The six-book Didascalicon clearly defines architecture as a mechanical
art. Like the other mechanical arts (and like the hull of the ark), it has a dual
role in the Christian world: to help humanity survive until the impending
Apocalypse and to provide a solid foundation for individual salvation
through a knowledge of the liberal arts and an understanding of scripture.
Architecture does its part in the restoration of perfection, from the bottom
up. The entire six-book Didascalicon is organized as a philosophical and
spiritual ladder to be climbed methodically. It presents a particular model
of the Christian world.88 However, this model would not generate a church
or a cathedral. Those other Christian constructions would transcend the
limits of the mechanical arts and belong to a different model.
The six-book Didascalicon is not a comprehensive representation of
Hugh of St Victor. Hugh wrote many treatises on a variety of subjects. One
of them, De tribus diebus [invisibilis lucis] (On the three days of invisible

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light), discusses contemplation and has acquired a somewhat ambiguous
status in his bibliography. In the earliest manuscript of Didascalicon and
in several subsequent editions it was incorporated as a seventh book.89
However, it was omitted from most other Didascalicon manuscripts and
from the two most recent modern editions, instead standing as a separate
treatise.90 Although this may seem to be a minor debate, of interest only to
theological scholars and librarians, it has important implications for the
definition of architecture as a mechanical art.
Wanda Cizewski, a professor of theology, is one who favours including
De tribus diebus as a seventh book of Didascalicon.91 However, rather than
simply incorporating it into a new, larger Didascalicon, she advises keeping
the first six books distinct from the seventh. Noting that Hugh was obsessed
with numerical symbolism, she suggests that the first six books in Didascal-
icon parallel the six days of creation. After creation is complete, the seventh
day shifts to a completely different mode: contemplation.
De tribus diebus, the “seventh book,” is organized not from the bottom
up but from the top down. Hugh notes that God cannot be observed directly
by humans in the temporal world but can be contemplated indirectly
through created nature, including human nature. In nature (and implicitly
in God) Hugh recognizes three complementary attributes: power, wisdom,
and goodness.92 These three attributes are evident in an elaborate nested
hierarchy of additional characteristics: immensity (multitude (similarity,
difference, mixture), magnitude (bulk (mass, weight), space (length, breadth,
depth, height))); elegance (situation (composition, order (place, time, prop-
erty)), motion (local (forward, backward), natural (growth, decay), animal
(senses, appetites), rational (deeds, counsels)), species (colour, shape), qual-
ity (sound, flavour, odour, smoothness)); usefulness (gratuitous, agreeable,
convenient, necessary).93 Hugh recognizes these characteristics in the uni-
verse, the earth, wind, rivers, the seasons, mountains, gems, flowers, fish, birds,
animals, and especially the human body, with its various parts and senses.
Hugh also believed that humans once contemplated God directly when
they dwelled in the primordial paradise. He regards both the scriptures and
nature as texts from God; one is manifested in words, the other is mani-
fested in things. Hugh reminds us to contemplate nature only as a means
for contemplating God. Treating it as an end in itself would lead to idolatry.
He also believed that one cannot contemplate nature as a whole, all at once.
Instead, he recommends using his categories as a guide to focus on one sub-

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ject or characteristic at a time; however, he does not prescribe a particular
route. At these higher levels of contemplation, one must find one’s own
way through the many characteristics of nature to recognize the three pri-
mary attributes of God.94 This is evident also in the three upper levels of his
biblical ark, which he imagined as steps of a contemplative ascent.95 The
ladders that are situated at their four corners enable these characteristics to
be contemplated along a variety of paths: upward, downward, and lateral.
Hugh regards humans as key figures on the “road of contemplation”
because of their dual nature: unlike other creatures, they have both a visible,
corporeal body and an invisible, incorporeal soul. He distinguishes between
the flesh and the spirit, but notes that these two properties are integrated
in each human. He also suggests that they have different origins: the flesh
is a transformation of preexisting matter, whereas the spirit is created by
God from nothing. One comes from the earth, the other comes from heaven.
Humans thus occupy a privileged position in the middle. Using a similar
but more complex argument, Hugh invokes Jesus as another figure poised
between earth and heaven. He suggests that readers can contemplate Jesus
as a step on the way to God and also as a model to imitate.
In all of these examples – nature, the upper levels of the ark, humans, and
Jesus – the aim of contemplation is to ascend toward divine wisdom. In a
complementary move, the final part of De tribus diebus reverses this trajec-
tory by considering how one might benefit from contemplation: “For what
does it profit us, if we recognize in God the loftiness of majesty, and gather
thence no usefulness for ourselves?”96 According to Hugh, after one has seen
the light, one brings back invisible light. He identifies this invisible light with
the first three days of creation, before there was a sun, a moon, or stars in
the sky – hence the title of the treatise, De tribus diebus [invisibilis lucis] (On
the three days of invisible light).97 With several additional arguments, he
associates this endeavour with the death, entombment, and resurrection of
Jesus.“So also Christ died on the sixth day, rested in the sepulchre on the sev-
enth, and on the eighth was raised up from the dead. In similar fashion,
power, in its day, first kills us to strong carnal desires; then wisdom in its day
buries us within the hiddenness of contemplation; finally goodness in its
day makes us rise again, revived by the desire for divine love. Hence the sixth
day pertains to work, the seventh to rest, but the eighth to resurrection.”98
His analogy with contemplation is even more direct when describing
what happens on the seventh day: “Christ is buried in the sepulchre and the

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reader in contemplation. Only on the octave, or the new day beyond
both work and contemplation, does Christ rise from the dead. With him,
the reader comes to life in a resurrection that is the work of the spirit.”99
Beyond contemplation on the seventh day is a promise of salvation and
paradise. The eighth day, invoking an octave metaphor from music, elevates
humans to a higher realm, where they can begin a new “scale.”
The distinction between Didascalicon and De tribus diebus is significant.
One is about study; the other is about contemplation. They presume two
different models: if the six-book Didascalicon is the bottom of a rigid ladder
standing on the earth, De tribus diebus is a rope ladder suspended from
heaven. Both enable humans to ascend, but their anchor points are in dif-
ferent locations and each requires a certain way of climbing.
Hugh articulates several additional levels between study and contem-
plation. As he noted at the end of Didascalicon, study (the first step) and
then meditation are the two activities involved in learning – but these two
steps are just the beginning. The second step is joined by a third and a fourth.
In turn, they may be followed by a fifth:

There are four things in which the life of just men is now practiced
and raised, as it were by certain steps, to its future perfection –
namely, study [lectio] or instruction [doctrina], meditation [medita-
tio], prayer [oratio], and performance [operatio]. Then follows a fifth,
contemplation [contemplatio], in which, as by a sort of fruit of the
preceding steps, one has a foretaste, even in this life, of what the
future reward of good work is … Of these five steps, the first, that is,
study, belongs to the beginners; the highest, that is, contemplation, to
those who are perfect. As to the middle steps, the more of these one
ascends, the more perfect he will be. For example, the first, study,
gives understanding; the second, meditation, provides counsel; the
third, prayer, makes petition; the fourth, performance, goes seeking;
the fifth, contemplation, finds.100

Hugh’s five-level, two-part scheme expects humans to be conscious of their

actions and rigorous in their engagement with the world. He defines each
level clearly and indicates what can be expected from it. This degree of
articulation attempts to avoid confusion and to rule out inappropriate tech-
niques and expectations at each particular level.

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 In Hugh’s scheme, meditation is an intellectual and discursive activity
in which one thinks carefully about what one has studied: analyzing it, re-
solving apparent contradictions, comparing it externally, discerning its
meaning, etc. Meditation (his second step) and contemplation (his fifth and
highest step) are different types of activities, based on two completely dif-
ferent models. Although we tend to conflate them, they have different
etymological roots.101 Hugh distinguished them explicitly:

Contemplation is the keen and free gazing of the soul at things

scattered in time and space. The difference between meditation and
contemplation seems to be that meditation always deals with things
hidden from our mind, while contemplation, by virtue of its nature
or our ability, deals with evident things; in addition, meditation
always concerns itself with one thing that is lacking, while con-
templation extends to many or even to all things. It is the liveliness
of the mind, which, having everything plainly before it, also em-
braces everything with its clear gaze. Because of this, contemplation
possesses to a certain extent what is sought by meditation … In
meditation, there is care, in consideration admiration, and in con-
templation sweetness.102

Meditation belongs to the “bottom up” model, along with study, prayer, and
performance. This model requires considerable effort to ascend its rigid lad-
der. Contemplation, on the other hand, belongs to the “top down” model.
It participates in the restoration of perfection by engaging in communion
with God through the temporal world of nature. However, contemplation
is an option only for those who have prepared for it by completing the four
lower steps.
Because God created nature, it is a subject worthy of contemplation, even
though it pales in comparison to paradise. “The shapes of things arouse ad-
miration in many ways: by their greatness or smallness, sometimes because
they are rare, again because they are beautiful, on another occasion because
they are suitably ugly, and occasionally because they are one shape in many
or diverse shapes in one.”103 Nature offers much to contemplate, using all of
the senses: “The kinds of harmony are so many that the mind can neither
run through them nor speech explain them easily, and they all serve the
hearing and are created for its delight. And it is similar with the sense of

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smell: incense, ointments, rose-gardens, flowering meadows, woods, groves,
and flowers have their fragrance, and all these things, in providing pleasant
smells and exuding sweet odours, serve the smell and have been created for
its delight.”104
Similarly, in describing various creatures, Hugh admires the visible
beauty of their shapes, colours, and features.105 He regards light as the most
beautiful part of nature because it illuminates all other natural things and
brings out their visible colours.106 Products of the mechanical arts, however,
are not appropriate subjects for contemplation. Hugh does not state this
explicitly but implies it in the levels and the properties he distinguishes in
Didascalicon. One could study products of the mechanical arts and perhaps
analyze them through meditation, but they offer nothing divine to contem-
plate. The only elevated status he permits in the mechanical arts is their
capacity to imitate forms and functions of nature: for example, when pitched
roofs shed water by imitating mountain slopes. However, this imitation is
one more step removed from God, so the mountains themselves would be
a better subject for contemplation.
As described in Didascalicon, these are the limits for products of the
mechanical arts. In De tribus diebus, however, Hugh introduces a completely
different model by stating that some products made by humans do not be-
long to the mechanical arts. He does this in a circuitous way: by inverting the
concept of utility that he presented in Book 2 of Didascalicon. Referring to
food and clothing (from the mechanical arts of agriculture, hunting, and
fabric making), he now distinguishes four ascending levels of usefulness:
“necessary” items for survival (bread and water; wool or skins); “convenient”
items for pleasure (wine and meat; linen and silk); “agreeable” items that
can be used but are no more convenient for their users (precious stones and
fabric with colourful dyes); and “gratuitous” items that are not suitable for
use but are delightful to behold.107 From the vantage point of the mechani-
cal arts, the useless “gratuitous” level (and perhaps also the superfluous
“agreeable” level) would seem absurd but Hugh recognizes them by shifting
the reference point from the earthly realm to the heavenly realm. He ex-
plains that gratuitous items that are beautiful can direct humans not to
earthly concerns but to the Creator, a source of “superabundant riches.” The
uselessness of these items makes their divine reference clearer. Of course,
uselessness in itself does not make an item worthy of contemplation; beauty

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is the primary criterion. As with nature, beauty in human products is not
valued for its own sake, as this would lead to idolatry. Instead, one must use
it to contemplate the divine realm: “Through the beauty of created things,
we seek this most beautiful of all beauty, which is so wondrous and ineffa-
ble that no temporal beauty, however true, can bear comparison with it.”108
Beauty is a concern not only for contemplation, but also for production.
According to Hugh’s principles, one could not make a product that is wor-
thy of contemplation without having prepared properly. One would have to
complete the lower steps (study and meditation), then contemplate the
“invisible light” of the divine realm and bring back some of that invisible
light to the temporal world, where it would “illuminate” the making of a
new artificial item. The production of artificial beauty thus would rely on
an individual possessing considerable knowledge, understanding, and expe-
rience, from the earthly realm to the divine realm. This source of authority
differs greatly from the tradition of technē, in which authority was accu-
mulated gradually by one’s ancestors, and an artisan who followed the
traditional craft would be assured of making a successful product. Making
a beautiful object in a medieval situation would be a daunting task for an
individual. First, one would have to know how to work with materials. Then
one would have to study the liberal arts, followed by the scriptures, and then
contemplate nature using Hugh’s divine characteristics to recognize the
three attributes of God. Although this would be a daunting challenge for
one person, it would be easier for a partnership in which one figure focuses
on the material realm and the other focuses on the divine realm, assuming
that they share enough knowledge at an intermediate level to achieve con-
tinuity.109 An individual who spans the entire range might be recognized as
a master craftsman but could not be elevated to a quasi-divine status, as this
would be a form of idolatry. The emphasis would have to remain on the
object’s anagogical capacity to draw one’s attention above the material realm.
Although Hugh used two different models to establish the two ends of
his scale, he did not simply polarize human products as being either “nec-
essary” (belonging to the mechanical arts) or beautiful and “gratuitous”
(for divine contemplation). His intermediate categories, “convenient” and
“agreeable,” suggest a graduated scale on which an item can be both useful
and beautiful. If one focused only on the object, this might suggest a messy
blurring of the two categories, mechanical arts and “contemplative arts,” but

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if one maintains Hugh’s emphasis on the beholder, these categories would
remain distinct. When engaging an object, one cannot use it, study it, and
contemplate it at the same time.
Hugh was faced with an even more extreme conflation of his categories
in the popular analogy of God as an artisan (or architect) who had made the
temporal world.110 This direct link between the lowly mechanical arts and the
divine realm threatened to bypass the hierarchical levels and the steps for
ascension that he had established so carefully. This analogy came originally
from Timaeus, in which Plato describes the role of the Demiurge (the god
who made the universe) by invoking the archaic concept of demiourgos (a
human worker who helped to materialize the public realm). For Plato, the
analogy between the Demiurge and the demiourgos relied on several paral-
lels: The Demiurge manifested the universe from preexisting matter and
form; the demiourgos manifested the public realm from preexisting matter
and form. However, the relation between the Demiurge and the demiourgos
was not entirely equivalent to the relation between the Christian God and
the medieval artisan. Hugh of St Victor and his contemporaries generally
were sympathetic to the Neoplatonic mystical tradition and its roots in Plato.
They accepted that Plato’s Demiurge was another name for the Christian
God, but despite their efforts to reconcile Christian and pagan traditions,
they could not accept that God merely shaped preexisting matter into pre-
existing forms, like a medieval artisan. Citing Genesis, Hugh declared God
to be a creator, not just a maker. “On this point our authors differ from the
philosophers … namely, the philosophers claim that God is only an opifex,
a shaping agent, and that there are three ultimate principles – God, matter,
and archetypal ideas; our authors, on the other hand, claim that there is but
one ultimate principle, and that this is God alone.”111
Hugh believed that creation and making are fundamentally different,
but his analogies among three different types of work – the work of God, the
work of nature, and the work of humans – invited confusion.112 Artisans’
products are durable things with matter and form; nature also has durable
things with matter and form. An artisan’s product might remind one of the
artisan who made it; nature might remind one of God who created it. The
logic is clear, but while some analogies work in both directions, the notion
of God as an artisan is unidirectional. It applies the familiar, material domain
of the artisan to interpret the unfamiliar, immaterial domain of God. The

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reciprocal notion, “an artisan (or architect) as God,” would not have arisen
during the Middle Ages, except perhaps in jest.
Robert Grosseteste (1175–1253), a Scholastic philosopher at Oxford, later
wrote vividly about how God gave form to the natural world. To illustrate
his description, he introduced a familiar scene involving house construc-
tion, but to align it with God’s actions, he divided the builder into separate
figures: architect and craftsman. One is associated exclusively with form, the
other with matter.

Imagine in the artist’s mind the design of the work to be made, as in

the mind of the architect the design and likeness of the house to be
built; to this pattern and model he looks only that he may make the
house in imitation of it … And imagine, even though it be impossi-
ble, that the will of the same architect wishing to build the house
were so powerful that this will alone need be applied to shape the
material into the house of the design in the architect’s mind, so that
by this application it will be fashioned into the house. Imagine also
that the material of the house is fluid, and cannot retain the form
which it has received if it is separated from the design in the archi-
tect’s mind, as water stamped with a silver seal, when the seal is re-
moved, immediately loses the form which is received. So imagine the
will of the craftsman applying the material of the house to the form
in the architect’s mind, not only that by this application he may fash-
ion it into the house, but also applying the material to the design that,
as long as the house remains in being, the house may be kept in being
in that form. In such a manner then in which its design, in the mind
of such an architect, is the design of the house, so is art, or wisdom
or the word of Almighty God the pattern of all creatures. For it is at
the same time both the model and the producer, and what forms,
and what keeps in the form given, while creatures are applied to it
and removed from it.113

This analogy was unidirectional, as it was intended to direct one’s attention

toward God, not toward architects and craftsmen, but one can imagine how
such an analogy might seep back into the temporal world and influence how
the role of the human architect (or master-builder) is understood. However,

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the word “architect” (Latin architectus, architector) was used rarely during
this thousand-year period.114 Instead, builders were designated by terms such
as caementarius, mason, magister operis, magister fabricae, maitre des oeuvres,
and Werkmeister.115
On at least one occasion Hugh may have been involved directly in the
making of a “contemplative art.” Conrad Rudolph has suggested that Hugh
was the principal advisor to Abbot Suger on the art program for the twelfth-
century renovations to the Church of St-Denis, near Paris.116 This would
place Hugh at a key moment in the history of medieval art and architecture:
“the birth of the Gothic.”
Otto von Simson already had identified Hugh as a close friend of
Suger.117 Rudolph notes that the art program of sculptures in St-Denis is
“most original and highly organized,” but these qualities are not evident in
Suger’s own background, nor in his three documents on the renovations to
St-Denis.118 Suger attempted to justify these renovations by making tradi-
tional arguments – that art should honour God and the saints, and that art
should develop a benevolent reciprocal relationship with God119 – but he
does not discuss the qualities of St-Denis that historians consider most sig-
nificant. As Conrad Rudolph notes, “The writings of Suger are marked by a
lack of originality, by the virtual absence of a readily identifiable system of
organization, of any discussion of geometry, of any substantial theological
argument, and of any comprehensive presentation of Pseudo-Dionysian
thought. It is no coincidence that it is on precisely these points that Hugh
of St-Victor, the contemporary Parisian theologian, excelled.”120
To present the case that Hugh is the missing link between Suger and the
art program at St-Denis, Rudolph offers several pieces of evidence: Hugh’s
body of writing includes discussions of symbolism in art; Hugh made his
own intricate drawing to illustrate his thesis about Noah’s ark as a multiva-
lent symbol; Hugh’s theology of creation and restoration is evident in the
imagery on the bronze doors of St-Denis; and the imagery throughout St-
Denis relies on a literal use of scriptural sources and a structured, literate
approach to interpretation and contemplation, for which Hugh was known.121
The art program at St-Denis does not simply present beautiful images
to be admired nor biblical figures to be revered. Instead, it uses images as a
complement to the scriptures.122 Contemplation is possible only if the two
are combined. This aligns with Hugh’s recommended approach to contem-
plation, described in De tribus diebus: One must have the prerequisite knowl-

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edge and then gradually contemplate various characteristics of material
things to reach the three primary attributes of God.123 In De tribus diebus,
the (spiritual) light that Hugh describes as the ultimate aim of contem-
plation is (physically) present in abundance in the new choir of St-Denis.
Symbolizing the glorious Apocalypse in light would become a new ambition
for architecture.124 Although Hugh does not discuss architecture explicitly
in this way, one can imagine how architecture and scripture could play
complementary roles in theological contemplation.125
Relying on a “top down” model, “architecture as a contemplative art”
would be quite distinct from “architecture as a mechanical art.” Both
models are manifest in matter and form, but their intentions and their
circumstances of production and reception are completely different. In
a contemplative mode, a religious building would not be understood as a
product of the mechanical arts that has been increased in size, with geom-
etry and ornament added as upgrades. Instead, it would be approached as
a material complement to the scriptures, to assist individuals in a gradual
contemplation of the divine.126 However, the difference between contem-
plative art and mechanical art cannot be polarized as “sacred vs. secular,” as
both are Christian models. Judging from Hugh’s discussion in Didascalicon
and De tribus diebus, both play an important role in the medieval world and
must be recognized.

Mechanical Arts After Hugh

Hugh’s Didascalicon was copied “in nearly a hundred manuscripts of the

twelfth through the fifteenth centuries, preserved in some forty-five libraries
stretching across Europe from Ireland to Italy, from Poland to Portugal.”127
As Elspeth Whitney notes, it also influenced subsequent writers in the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries.

By the end of the twelfth century … Hugh of St Victor’s idea of the

mechanical arts had been absorbed into the mainstream of medieval
thought … The view of crafts as necessary aids to salvation devel-
oped by Hugh and his twelfth-century followers continued to be in-
fluential … Hugh’s classification of the mechanical arts appeared
over the last half of the thirteenth century in the works of Bonaven-

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 ture (1221–74), Vincent of Beauvais (d. 1264), Robert Kilwardby (d.
1279), Albertus Magnus (1206–80), John of Dacia (fl. 1280), Nicholas
of Paris (fl. mid-thirteenth century), John Duns Scotus (ca. 1265–1308)
and Raymond Lull (ca. 1235–1315).128

Bonaventure (1221–74), a theologian writing a century later, was content

to repeat Hugh’s seven mechanical arts and provide similar criteria: “Every
mechanical art is intended for man’s consolation or for his comfort; its
purpose, therefore, is to banish either sorrow or want.”129 Out of respect for
Hugh, he keeps theatrica on the list but distinguishes it from the others
because it is for consolation and amusement rather than for the comfort
and betterment of humans. In discussing the armatura category, Bona-
ventura focuses on its military features and lets Hugh’s secondary reference
to architecture fade away: “In the matter of covering, if it provides a soft
and light material, it is weaving; if a strong and hard material, it is armour-
making or metal-working, an art which extends to every tool or implement
fashioned either of iron or of any metal whatsoever, or of stone, or of wood.”130
Bonaventura’s primary aim was to show that the various arts are included in
theology, rather than to think again about the mechanical arts.
Robert Kilwardby (ca. 1215–79) was a more active respondent. He was a
master of arts in Paris with access to all of Aristotle’s writings, and eventu-
ally became Archbishop of Canterbury. Kilwardby revisited Hugh’s me-
chanical arts and their criteria as part of a larger review of the arts within the
new universities.131 Like others, he singles out theatrica as different from the
rest, even declaring that it is detestable. The only part of theatrica he retains
is instrumental music because it has curative qualities and therefore can be
included in medicine. With theatrica gone and a spare category now avail-
able, Kilwardby promotes architectonica from its secondary position as a
subset of armatura to a mechanical art in its own right, no longer associated
with military equipment. Like Hugh, he conceives architecture as construc-
tion, in both stone and wood.
Kilwardby also refines some of the names that Hugh had used to desig-
nate the mechanical arts.132 He changes lanificium (fabric making) to ves-
titiva (garment making). This brings the cloth closer to the body and
emphasizes its use rather than its first stage of production. In a similar way,
he changes venatio (hunting) to cibativa (food preparation). He also changes
navigatio (navigation, shipping) to mercatura (commerce), emphasizing the

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negotiation between individuals that Hugh had intended, rather than the
incidental activities of navigating ships and shipping foreign goods. Kil-
wardby’s systematic revisions suggest attention to Aristotle’s distinction
among the four different causes. Like Hugh, Kilwardby indicates that some
mechanical arts operate inside the body while the rest provide the body with
external protection.
Despite these name changes and their associated changes in emphasis,
Kilwardby’s modifications remain faithful to Hugh’s definition of the
mechanical arts as remedies for human weakness. However, unlike Hugh,
he did not consider them as a first step toward salvation but as practical
sciences of the body, alongside ethics as the practical sciences of the soul.133
As an aside, Kilwardby wonders why the mechanical arts should be limited
to seven, as their numerical correspondence to the seven liberal arts is
superficial, and because many more could be included. He also notes that
the mechanical arts could be distinguished in many different ways, but he
is reluctant to “wander uselessly among those subjects which modern
philosophers consider of little importance.”134
In Kilwardby’s hierarchy, the mechanical arts are situated at the very bot-
tom (the realm of the contingent, which requires only a knowledge of the
particular), with ethics placed slightly higher. Metaphysics and mathemat-
ics are situated at the top (the realm of abstract and universal knowledge),
with physics slightly lower.135 Despite the lowly position of the mechanical
arts, he raises their status by noting that the carpenter and the stonecutter
work with the liberal art of geometry. “We see, therefore, that the speculative
sciences are practical and the practical sciences are speculative.”136 This
merging of hierarchical levels was a new development for the mechanical
arts. In his classification, Hugh had identified various levels of arts but kept
each level distinct. Kilwardby still believed the mechanical arts are only pro-
ductive and not theoretical, whereas the speculative sciences could be both
theoretical and productive. He ranked the various arts according to their
degree of abstraction and their scope, without assigning them to a fixed
place in a hierarchy leading to salvation.137 Consequently their status might
vary, depending on how they were being used at a particular time.
In other situations the scriptural-liberal-mechanical arts model was
taken seriously. Medicine – which had sat alongside architecture when
Varro included both in the liberal arts and when Martianus Capella subse-
quently excluded them from the wedding party – was considered again in

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the twelfth century, when universities were opening. Classifications of
sciences distinguished between practical medicine and speculative medi-
cine.138 Regarding the body as a subject for human invention (including
surgery) was a mechanical art, whereas contemplating it as a divine natural
subject was a liberal art.
Geometry had a similar dual status. As a liberal art in the quadrivium, it
included only the theoretical principles and methods of Euclidean geome-
try. Geometry also might be recognized as the formal armature that God
used to create nature, as shown in some of Villard de Honnecourt’s drawings.
Alongside this divine geometry was a long tradition of practical geometry
for measuring land and other natural features that dates back to ancient
Egypt and was developed and applied across Europe by the Romans.139
Surveying was not included in the curriculum when geometry was taught as
a quadrivium subject.

Mechanical Arts versus Liberal Arts

Throughout this long period, the liberal arts provided a benchmark for
classifying disciplines; however, the definition of the liberal arts was not
fixed. In ancient Rome they were understood as arts that a free man should
know, so that he could participate intelligently in the public realm. This
meaning survives in the modern concept of the liberal arts as components
of a broad education.140 After Boëthius designated four arts (geometry,
arithmetic, astronomy, and music theory) as the quadrivium, they became
the core of the liberal arts, associated with divine knowledge. The three
other liberal arts (grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric) that were associated
with human discourse remained important, but after the Roman emphasis
on oratory subsided they were considered preparatory or secondary sub-
jects. Throughout this period the word “art” did not mean what it means
now. It was understood as a field of knowledge or a set of skills with prin-
ciples or conventions that could be taught. It did not connote exemplary
quality or personal expression.
In historical classifications of knowledge, architecture was designated as
a liberal art by only one philosopher, Varro, in a treatise that is now lost.141
Vitruvius did not refer to architecture as a liberal art, but some have assumed
that his recommendation to study liberal arts before studying architecture

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implied that architecture is part of the set.142 The fact that Vitruvius had
assembled architectural principles in a treatise did not qualify architecture
automatically as a liberal art. Other non-liberal arts such as agriculture also
had treatises, as Hugh of St Victor had noted.
During the centuries when the liberal arts were the only significant dis-
ciplinary category, architecture always was excluded. It found a stable home
only when a second category was established: the mechanical arts. Although
the mechanical arts paralleled the liberal arts in number, they were defined
in a different way: as arts of human invention. Throughout this time the
definition of architecture was relatively constant: it referred mainly to the act
of building. The Romans, represented by Vitruvius, had adopted the Greek
term architekton but blurred its original meaning when they transformed
it into architectura. Eventually this would lead to confusion about the defi-
nition of architecture and the role of the architect, but throughout the
ancient and medieval eras, architecture remained grounded in material
substance and physical labour. The liberal art of geometry was invoked when
a building had to serve as a subject for contemplation, but this did not turn
architecture into a liberal art. Instead, architecture formed a partnership
with geometry. Through the intermediaries of geometry and arithmetic,
architecture also developed an indirect association with music theory.
Throughout this period, music theory maintained its undeniable status
as a liberal art, based on the numerical ratios of pitch intervals that had been
identified much earlier by Pythagoras or his followers. The consonant
sounds of octaves, fifths, and fourths on the monochord seemed to demon-
strate the universality of simple ratios to the senses, providing empirical
proof of Pythagorean principles and universal order in the world.143 As a
liberal art, “music“ was strictly music theory. A medieval musician was not
concerned essentially with sound. “The music taught as one of the subjects
of the Quadrivium was exclusively theoretical. Studied as a purely specula-
tive science it was entirely mathematical in its character … In fact through-
out the middle ages the singer or the performer on an instrument was not
a musician within the strict meaning of the term … It was only with the
Renaissance that the term ‘musician’ began to mean one who possessed a
knowledge both of the science and of the art.”144
In the practice of religious music, plainchant was based on Pytha-
gorean principles of the scale. It was sung in unison, with the human voice
developing a quasi-divine status when it brought music to the words of the

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scriptures. The monophonic melody of plainchant followed the rhythm
of the words, while pitches were restricted to particular intervals. Certain
musical modes were considered appropriate for particular types of religious
expression, enabling music to develop a minor association with rhetoric as
part of the trivium.145 On the other hand, popular songs and instrumental
music had no higher ambitions and were free to experiment with more
complex melodies and rhythms. Such patterns were deemed inappropri-
ate for religious music because they would “stir lascivious sensations in
the loins.”146

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 5
Architecture as an
Art of Disegno

Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture

The term arti del disegno (arts of design) appears in Le vite de’ più eccel-
lenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani (Lives of the most excellent Italian
architects, painters, and sculptors), published in 1550, the first edition of the
biographies of Tuscan artists by Giorgio Vasari (1511–74).1 It is mentioned in
the dedication to Cosimo I de’ Medici, Duke of Florence: “Seeing that your
Excellency, following in this the footsteps of your most Illustrious ancestors,
and incited and urged by your own natural magnanimity, ceases not to
favour and to exalt every kind of talent, wheresoever it may be found,
and shows particular favour to the arts of design [arti del disegno], fondness
for their craftsmen, and understanding and delight in their beautiful and
rare works.”2
As the title of Vasari’s book indicates, there were three arts of design:
painting, sculpture, and architecture. Vasari was not the first to write about
these three arts as a set, but his survey of practitioners is a benchmark from
which one can look back on earlier developments during the previous 250
years.3 Vasari also was largely responsible for establishing the Accademia del
Disegno in Florence, the first academy for the amalgamation and advance-
ment of these three arts.4
As described by Vasari, painting, sculpture, and architecture have a com-
mon foundation: disegno.

Seeing that Design [disegno], the parent of our three arts, Architec-
ture, Sculpture, and Painting, having its origin in the intellect, draws
out from many single things a general judgement, it is like a form or

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 idea of all the objects in nature, most marvellous in what it com-
passes, for not only in the bodies of men and of animals but also in
plants, in buildings, in sculpture and in painting, design is cognizant
of the proportion of the whole to the parts and of the parts to each
other and to the whole. Seeing too that from this knowledge there
arises a certain conception and judgement, so that there is formed
in the mind that something which afterwards, when expressed by the
hands, is called design, we may conclude that design is not other than
a visible expression and declaration of our inner conception and of
that which others have imagined and given form to in their idea.5

The various thoughts that Vasari strings together in this passage centre on
the concept of disegno. Vasari’s disegno has been translated as both “drawing”
and “design.” Disegno is an Italian word that had acquired various meanings
by 1600: “1. (a) Intention, purpose; (b) plan, scheme; (c) proposal of plan or
scheme. 2. A graphic representation, typically by means of (a) lines or (b)
lines and tones. 3. A graphic scheme, model, ideation, diagram of something.
4. (a) The activity of doing (2) (graphis) and/or (3); (b) drawing or compo-
sition as a part of painting, as opposed to, say, colour; (c) the quality of (2)
and/or (3), a virtus of the visual arts and crafts.”6
This set of definitions includes both nouns and verbs, products and
actions. It also suggests that there are two domains for disegno: first, a
“drawing” domain that focuses only on the drawing; and second, a larger
“design” domain that includes three components: an artist, a productive
drawing, and an eventual product. The same pair of domains is evident in
other languages that translated disegno into “design” or an equivalent.7 The
second domain suggests that the role of an artist is to prepare a design for a
product, using drawings in a productive way. These two domains can be
represented diagrammatically as “disegno 1” and “disegno 2”:

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 Although these two domains are evident in Renaissance writings on dis-
egno, when taken out of context and viewed from a modern standpoint, they
distort the historical meaning of disegno. At face value, they are indistin-
guishable from modern industrial production. In Renaissance Italy, however,
drawing and design were understood differently. They relied on an equally
important earlier phase in which the artist uses drawings to study natural
forms and recognize natural laws. This phase is evident in the quotation
above from Vasari. Its three components present a different sequence:

Here, the role of drawing is not productive but imitative. Instead of

“pushing” a design toward production, it “pulls” a design out of nature. This
aligns with a secondary meaning of “drawing” that involves a pulling action,
as in “drawing blood.” When this earlier phase is linked to “disegno 2,” the
five components present a broader domain, “disegno 3,” that characterizes
Renaissance practice more fully:

It also presents a different role for the artist: not as the creator of a
product, but as a mediator who faces in two directions and uses drawing in
complementary ways to “imitate” nature. The artist observes nature, recog-
nizes its laws and its ideals, and makes new compositions based on them.
This follows the Renaissance premise that human artists imitate the nature
that God has created. This dual orientation of disegno is also supported
by its Latin etymology, in which there is no particular directionality or pro-
ductivity in the verbs signare ‘to indicate’ and designare ‘to mark out, trace
out, describe, designate, define, delineate, design, depict’, etc.8
The roots of Vasari’s arti del disegno are not obvious. The Lives does not
present a philosophical framework in which the arts of disegno are situated.
During the Renaissance no theoretical or philosophical treatise focused on
this set of three arts – painting, sculpture, and architecture – or placed it in
a comprehensive epistemological context.9 Therefore, the next best option
is to consider how this concept played a role in other theoretical writings

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and how it played out in practice. Although the concept of arti del disegno
is associated with Vasari and the sixteenth century,10 this chapter and the
next two trace various properties of disegno that were already evident in the
fifteenth century – especially in Alberti’s treatises – as well as in the late four-
teenth century. This period coincides with the 250-year span of subjects in
Vasari’s Lives. The extended history of the arti del disegno is more evident
when the broader domain, “disegno 3,” serves as a framework. The history
of disegno is large and complex – especially in painting and sculpture – so
these chapters focus mainly on two issues that are relevant to architecture:
its alliance with painting and sculpture; and the presuppositions and impli-
cations of conceiving architecture as an art of disegno.
To us, it may seem self-evident that painting, sculpture, and architecture
constitute a set, but this notion did not arise until the Renaissance.11 In the
ancient and medieval eras, these three arts were pursued separately and
belonged to different epistemological classifications. As noted in Chapter
2, ancient Greece did not conceive “sculpture” as a form-based category that
encompasses different materials: stone, wood, metal, clay, wax, etc. To the
Greeks, the material and the artisan were primary. Each material required a
different set of tools and techniques, so its technē was distinct from the others.
Painting, as another technē, relied on a completely different set of skills.
Ancient Rome, on the other hand, did conceive sculpture as a formal
category but regarded it as a manual art that requires labour. Painting was
considered a manual art when it was practised by artisans to earn a living,
but was regarded more highly as a recreational pastime for gentlemen to
appreciate its principles. The ornamental products of both painting and
sculpture were associated with human pleasure. Unlike the liberal arts, they
were neither forms of divine knowledge (geometry, arithmetic, astronomy,
and music theory) nor universal components of human language (gram-
mar, dialectic, and rhetoric). Writers in ancient Rome, such as Pliny and
Cicero, offered mild praise for lifelike paintings by Parrhasius, Zeuxis,
Apelles, and others.12
In medieval philosophical treatises that categorized many endeavours
within a context that included God, nature, and humans, architecture had
been classified as a mechanical art and was not associated with ornamenta-
tion or pleasure. Painting and sculpture, on the other hand, were neither
liberal arts nor mechanical arts. Although paintings and statues might be
incorporated into religious buildings and might represent liberal art con-

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cepts or scriptural figures, this did not affect the epistemological position
of these two arts. They were not liberal arts because they were not forms of
divine or universal knowledge. They were also not mechanical arts because
they were not remedies for human weakness. Instead, they were two of many
arts that remained unclassified. Today there is a common belief that me-
dieval philosophy operated according to a simple, two-part “high/low”
dichotomy between liberal and mechanical arts, as if all arts that did not
merit liberal status must have been classified as mechanical, but in medieval
philosophy, with its roots in the Bible and theology, the social status of prac-
titioners of the various arts was not a concern.
Some historians have stated that painting and sculpture in the Middle
Ages were classified as mechanical arts and were associated with architec-
ture. They cite Hugh of St Victor erroneously or make a general statement
without substantiating it.13 In fact, as defined philosophically by Hugh and
others, the mechanical arts was not simply a category for non-liberal left-
overs. Its criterion for membership was more specific: a mechanical art must
provide a remedy for intrinsic human weakness. Hugh does not include
painting and sculpture in this category, nor does he mention them in his
description of theatrica as forms of entertainment that help maintain
emotional equilibrium. Philosophers after Hugh also did not include them
in the mechanical arts.
From the various epistemological classifications in ancient Greece,
Rome, and the Middle Ages, it is evident that painting and sculpture were
never classified philosophically as liberal arts – not even by Varro, who had
included architecture. Even the highly accomplished stone sculptures in
ancient Greece were produced within the technē tradition. Painting and
sculpture were regarded as pleasant diversions, as representations of human
virtue, or as imitations of God’s creations. Their makers were artisans,
comparable to those in the other productive arts. These artisans could rise
to a level of excellence but would not be considered independent creators.

Humanist Poetry and Painting

The first signs of the broader domain of disegno appear in the fourteenth
century, when humanist scholars devised a new relation to their ancestors.
Humanism in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries was a scholarly

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effort to cultivate knowledge in support of culture and literary expression.14
It presumed that humans are essentially the same at all times, so one can
learn from earlier eras and bring this knowledge to one’s own place and time.
Led by Petrarch (Francesco Petrarca, 1304–74), the humanists regarded the
nine centuries since the fall of Rome as a dark age and sought to recover
ancient texts that would offer guidance on how to live virtuously and glori-
ously in their own time. As Christians, they did not attempt to revive pagan
culture or religion but rather to understand the concepts and forms of ex-
pression in classical literature and, when appropriate, to apply them to their
own situation. Although humanism was pursued through language-based
studies, the topics discussed in classical texts introduced the humanists to
many different subjects that had been unavailable to medieval scholars.
The humanists’ influence was most evident in their role as teachers,
especially in the trivium subjects of grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric, along
with moral philosophy and history. All these subjects were derived from
ancient Greek and Roman sources.15 The basic language subjects were
taught in grammar schools and private schools, as well as in some churches
and monasteries. Two more advanced subjects, poetry and eloquence, were
taught in the universities, with ancient models guiding the composition
of new poems and speeches. Some humanists served as secretaries and
speechwriters for powerful religious and political figures, and were well
placed to offer advice to their patrons on educational, architectural, and
artistic programs.
Because fourteenth-century humanists emphasized language-based sub-
jects, they had only an indirect influence on painting and other non-literary
arts. For example, Petrarch’s writings on ancient Rome prompted some
painters to represent ancient scenes.16 The major impact of humanism
was the intellectual framework it established: an integration of classical
knowledge and Christian beliefs. In turn, this intellectual framework could
be brought to disciplines that did not rely on written or spoken language.
This enabled humanist subjects, scholastic philosophy, and other fields of
knowledge to exist side by side throughout the Renaissance because they did
not compete for the same territory.17 Humanism eventually would become
one of the preconditions for the establishment of the arti del disegno.
Humanist subjects were taught primarily in classical Latin, which was
being revived from ancient Roman literature. Classical Latin was free of the
baggage of medieval Latin, did not promote Christian theology, and did not

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have to deal with the practicalities of daily life in Italy.18 The humanists
demeaned medieval Latin as a corruption of classical Latin, but they valued
the vernacular Italian language because it complemented what classical Latin
offered. Their bilingual options enabled them to discuss a wide variety of
subjects and to develop complementary relationships between theory and
practice, ideal and real.
Humanist studies were not limited to a small, elite ruling class. They
introduced classical thinking to members of a larger middle class who sought
a virtuous life and were destined for intellectual occupations: “princes and
statesmen, churchmen and businessmen, and even artists, poets, philoso-
phers, theologians, jurists, and physicians.”19 Meanwhile, other schools in
Italy relied on the local vernacular and were attended by students with fewer
academic needs who would become artisans, businessmen, etc.
Public speaking and poetry remained the core of humanism. Although
the humanists and their patrons did not enjoy a political context that would
merit Cicero’s oratory skills, they showed off their knowledge of ancient
models, their speechwriting abilities, and their eloquent public speaking
at weddings, funerals, commencements, political events, and institutional
gatherings. They made similar tributes in writing: histories of cities and
ruling families; biographies of princes, saints, and statesmen; etc. They also
made public eulogies to praise a particular government and disparage its
enemies. Similar eulogies were made on behalf of particular arts: to glorify
them and to demean their rivals. These tributes typically were commissioned
by those who sought public favour.
Both eloquence and poetry grew out of the three liberal arts of the triv-
ium: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. As an art in the traditional sense,
humanist poetry was based on rules that could be taught and learned: a set
of skills for writing standard sentiments in Latin verse. It did not embody the
modern Romantic notion of the creative poet.20 Due to its association with
the long-standing heritage of the trivium, as well as its new position as a
scholarly subject in the Italian universities, poetry in the fourteenth century
became recognized popularly as a liberal art. This was only a small extension
of the standard seven liberal arts of the trivium and the quadrivium, but it
opened the door to subsequent changes to the concepts of both liberal and
mechanical arts.
Humanist poetry also retained a legacy from medieval theology. Petrarch
suggested that the words of the poet are like a translucent veil that is expe-

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 Liberal arts, expanded
by humanists to include
poetry and eloquence
(fourteenth century).

rienced by the senses. Hidden truths can exist beyond this veil of words.
Those who know how to recognize these truths are privileged. This distin-
guishes two classes of observers, according to whether they can “see through”
the sensory features and recognize deeper intellectual truths beyond.
This reconception of poetry established several new principles for a
human art: a poet has access to divine truth (recalling the ancient Greek be-
lief that the poet is inspired directly by the Muses); a poet is able to mani-
fest this truth in a hidden way; a first class of observers can distinguish
sensory features from intellectual truths; a second class of observers recog-
nizes only the sensory features; and a poet should hide intellectual truths
from the second class by providing embellishments for the senses. The veil
metaphor suggests that everyone can touch that foreground layer but not
everyone can see through it. Consequently, sight is privileged over touch.
Petrarch’s promotion of the esoteric may seem consistent with Hugh
of St Victor’s expectation that one should be properly prepared before
attempting to read the Bible. However, Hugh encouraged all people to be-
come prepared, whereas Petrarch disregarded the masses in favour of those
who were inherently discriminating: “The task of the poet is to embellish the
truth with beautiful veils that it might be hidden from the undiscriminating
crowd.”21 Hugh’s ladder metaphor was for climbing; Petrarch’s veil metaphor
was for filtering.
Although humanist poetry imitated ancient models, it also inspired new

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work. From the standpoint of the traditional liberal arts, poetry was an
extension of the trivium, but from the standpoint of the productive arts,
poetry had managed to acquire legitimacy in a realm previously unavailable
to it. As writing poetry became a respectable activity through which an in-
dividual could achieve praise, the liberal arts gradually became associated
with public recognition and social status. This began to shift the responsi-
bility for defining the liberal arts from philosophers to the educated public.
Poetry’s dual context, as both a liberal art and a productive art, eventually
would lead practitioners of other productive arts to argue for their own
membership in the liberal arts.
Referring back to Horace’s Ars poetica (The Art of Poetry), which included
the dictum ut pictura poesis (“a poem is like a picture”22), Petrarch began to
consider similarities between poetry and painting. Of the three principal
parts of rhetoric (inventio, dispositio, and elocutio), he recognized the first
two in painting.23 Plutarch had provided another ancient precedent: “Si-
monides calls painting wordless poetry and poetry verbal painting … Artists
with colours and lines, and writers with words and phrases, represent the
same subjects, yet they differ in the material and manner of their imitation;
but the underlying aim of both is the same.”24
Of all the arts, painting was in a prime position to be compared to
poetry. Random sounds in the air and random pigments on a surface do
not say much in themselves, but when arranged in a certain way they can
evoke small worlds elsewhere. Painting relies on the eye, while poetry relies
on the ear and the mind’s eye.25 Sculpture, on the other hand, is more
material and tangible than painting, so comparing it to poetry would have
been a mismatched exercise. In the exchange of praises during the fourteenth
century, painters were described positively as poets, while poets were de-
scribed positively as painters.26 This analogy between poetry and painting
enabled the humanists to praise Giotto (ca. 1266–1337). They regarded him
as the first “modern” painter because he departed from the traditional iconic
representation of figures and moved toward a more lifelike depiction. Two
centuries later, Vasari told a story about Giotto’s ability to depict nature: “It
is said that Giotto, while working in his boyhood under Cimabue, once
painted a fly on the nose of a figure that Cimabue himself had made, so true
to nature that his master, returning to continue the work, set himself more
than once to drive it away with his hand, thinking that it was real, before
he perceived his mistake.”27

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 Just as Petrarch’s veil metaphor distinguished two different depths that
poetry can present, his references to painting suggested that it can do the
same. Lifelike subjects depicted in a painting would appeal to everyone’s
senses, but an educated person would regard the painting merely as an at-
tractive veil through which deeper truths can be recognized. In a rather one-
sided dialogue, Petrarch responds to a character who says that he is delighted
by paintings: “You take delight in the pencil strokes and colors which please
because of price and skillfulness – their variety and artistic composition.
And you are fascinated by the lifelike gestures, the movement in these inan-
imate and immobile pictures, the faces jutting out of posts, and the portraits
that seem about to breathe and make you think that they might utter words
… Great minds, in particular, are captivated by these things – and what a
peasant will pass off with brief enjoyment, a man of intellect may continue
to venerate with sighs of admiration.”28
Petrarch’s reference to veneration recalls earlier religious settings in
which paintings were an anagogical means of contemplation and spiritual
ascension, but his intention here may have another side. Although Giotto
represented wondrous religious stories from the scriptures, the “sighs of
admiration” that Petrarch describes may have been prompted also by a new
cultural awareness in which the lifelike nature of the paintings resonates
with the humanist ambition of the observers.
From ancient Rome through the Middle Ages, “art” (ars in both classi-
cal and medieval Latin) had referred neutrally to all human endeavours that
relied on skills or rules that could be taught. Some were defined further as
either liberal or mechanical, but they still remained within the arts category.
During the fourteenth century the word ars developed a mildly pejorative
connotation and a qualitative distinction began to open up. As Michael
Baxandall notes,

Ars was a word that had very crisply defined relationships with
certain other categories. One of these was ingenium … As ars was
the skill or competence that was learnt by rule and imitation, so
ingenium was the innate talent that could not be learnt … By 1400
to praise a man for his ars, simply, was not much short of suggest-
ing that he had no ingenium, and so the binary ars et ingenium or
some subsuming word like scientia is almost always the thing that is
praised … Ars had become by antithesis more exact in its reference:

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 skill capable of teaching and learning from rules and models. Inge-
nium brought with it a powerful set of associations which presented
themselves in the form of issues about the genius and imagination
of the artist.29

The demotion of ars to a lower level may seem odd, as we now associate
“art” with a higher level in opposition to “craft,” but the more important
point here is the very distinction between two qualitative levels. In the same
way that elite observers were distinguished from ordinary observers by their
ability to recognize the deeper meanings of poetry and painting, artists with
innate ingenium began to be distinguished from ordinary artisans by their
ability to present deeper meanings behind that sensory veil.
Filippo Villani (1325–1407), a Florentine humanist and historian, wrote
in 1382: “Many people judge – and not foolishly indeed – that painters are of
a talent no lower than those whom the liberal arts have rendered magistri,
since these latter may learn by means of study and instruction written rules
of their arts while the painters derive such rules as they find in their art only
from a profound natural talent and a tenacious memory.”30 Villani’s com-
ment was included in a chapter on painting in his biographies of thirty-five
noteworthy Florentines, including poets, scholars, and painters. Following
Petrarch, he draws a parallel between the revival of painting and the revival
of poetry, both recovering from many centuries of ignorance and neglect
during the Middle Ages. In poetry he credits Dante. Anticipating Ghiberti in
the fifteenth century and Vasari in the sixteenth, he credits Cimabue and
Giotto for inaugurating the new naturalistic art of painting, in which pic-
tures achieve a lifelike resemblance to their subjects.31
In praising the achievement of a particular painter, Villani added,
“Stefano, nature’s ape, imitated nature so effectively that in human bodies
represented by him the arteries, veins, sinews, and every most minute
lineament are accurately disposed as by physicians: so much so that, as
Giotto himself said, his pictures seem only to lack breath and respiration.”32
By associating lifelike representations with painting’s claim to liberal art
status, Villani anticipated arguments by Alberti and Leonardo da Vinci,
among others.
The concept of “art as imitation” has a long history dating back to dis-
cussions of mimesis by Socrates, Democritus, Plato, and Aristotle.33 By the
fourth century bce, “mimesis” referred to reproductions of the appearance

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or operation of the visible world. Socrates is reported to have said that
imitation is the basic function of painting and sculpture. Plato extended
mimesis to include poetry but subsequently demeaned all imitative arts as
distractions from truth. Aristotle extended mimesis even further to include
music and theatre. He also opened a new avenue by suggesting that an im-
itator can represent the world not as it is, but as it should be. The theory of
imitation went through several other variations in ancient Rome and the
Middle Ages, then became a central concept in the arts of the Renaissance.34
Along the way, different subjects for imitation were recognized. In the
third century, Plotinus had encouraged artists to imitate not just the visible
forms of nature but the ideas that underlie them. This expanded the poten-
tial range of subjects that could be drawn from nature. In the early Renais-
sance, ancient products by artisans were recognized as excellent examples
of earlier imitations of nature, thus adding to the range of possible subjects.
Renaissance artists eventually believed they were imitating nature when
drawing from a variety of sources: forms of nature, underlying principles
of nature, numerical principles in theoretical treatises, forms of ancient
artifacts, and underlying principles of ancient artifacts.35 When an artist
adjusted worldly examples to discern their latent ideal and/or to make a new
composition, this added further complexity.36 Still, these different tactics in
the Renaissance shared the premise that imitation was a conscious decision
by the artist, unlike the ancient tradition of technē, in which following in
the footsteps of one’s ancestors was an intrinsic part of the craft.
In the mid-fourteenth century, two hundred years before Vasari used the
term arti del disegno, Petrarch recognized similarities in the arts of painting
and sculpture. He also identified drawing as the foundation of these two
arts.37 “Painting and sculpture are really one art or, as I said, if different
from each other, so spring from a single source, namely the art of drawing,
and without any doubt are equal in age and flourished at the same time.”38
Petrarch’s comment was based on an earlier account by Pliny that refers to
the mythical act of tracing the outline of a man’s shadow as the first stage in
the origin of painting.39 Pliny extends this story to describe how the potter
Butades shaped clay inside the drawn outline of a shadow to make a relief
of an absent man, suggesting that the act of drawing was also the mythical
origin of modeling and, by extension, sculpture.40 Consequently, several
roots of Vasari’s arti del disegno can be traced back to ancient Rome.

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 Still, Petrarch was apprehensive about sculpture and other productive
arts due to the banausic conditions in which their materials are prepared
and their products are made. “I do not understand how in gold, even if
Phidias had shaped it, there could be any true pleasure or true nobility –
gold, yes, bright yellow but a metal deposit of the earth, worked with anvil
and hammer, [tongs], coals, and the wits and dirty hands of an artisan.”41
Despite certain resemblances, Vasari’s arti del disegno do not map fully onto
Petrarch’s humanist concepts.
One important difference is that Petrarch does not mention architec-
ture. In discussing poetry, painting, and sculpture, he emphasized their man-
date to produce a recognizable likeness of a subject. Architecture did not
belong to this set of representational arts and was not part of the humanist
intellectual framework during the fourteenth century. However, some of the
categories that Petrarch used to analyze and discuss painting and sculpture
would be applied later by others to architecture. These categories focused
on various distinctions: between the ancient era and the present; between
a discriminating observer and a non-discriminating observer; between
pleasure gained through the senses and pleasure gained through the intel-
lect; between form and matter; and between art and nature.42
Meanwhile, alongside the development of humanism and the theoreti-
cal discussions of the humanists, the practical realms of painting, sculpture,
architecture, and other arts in fourteenth-century Florence were governed
by an articulated set of twenty-one guilds.43 Since at least the late sixth cen-
tury, many artisans who worked on buildings throughout Italy belonged to
the Guild of Comacine Masters, which in turn was part of the international
Order of Freemasons. This guild included master masons, master carpenters,
stone cutters, bricklayers, wood carvers, carpenters, joiners, painters, gold-
smiths, and mosaic-makers.44 It was one early venue in which architects (as
master masons), sculptors (as stone cutters and wood carvers), and painters
had been associated, although not as an exclusive set of three.
In the late thirteenth century, Florence established a new guild structure
that assigned these occupations to different civic guilds. If an artisan had
expertise in different arts, he could belong to more than one guild.45 The
painters joined a guild that had been established originally for doctors and
apothecaries, the Arte dei Medici e Speziali e Merciai. The painters obtained
their pigments from apothecaries, then each group ground its respective

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substances into powder for either medicinal or ornamental purposes.
Although this bond was based on material, the same guild presided over
the activities of a wide variety of other artisans, including barbers, beret-
makers, glass-blowers, rope-makers, paper-makers, booksellers, mask-
makers, potters, and makers of catgut for musical instruments,46 so there
was no single common ground that distinguished the artists in this guild
from those in other guilds.
Sculptors and architects belonged to the Arte di Maestri di Pietra e Leg-
name, the Guild of Masters of Stone and Wood. Again, their association
was based on materials and techniques. They also worked alongside one
another on building sites. This guild included five types of masters: capo
maestro (senior master-builder), maestro di pietra (master sculptor in vir-
gin stone), maestro di legname (master scaffold- and roof-builder), maestro
d’intaglio (master carver or inlayer of wood), and maestro del disegno (master
of design).47
The guilds presided over a full range of practical activities, including
education for novices, apprenticeship, examination of prospective masters,
assignment of jobs, inspection of materials, payment of workers, and in-
spection of workmanship. A branch of the guild, the compagnia, had a
charitable mandate to support disabled workers and their families and,
if necessary, to pay for its members’ funerals. The individual guilds were
not entirely independent. They were governed by a single court, the Uni-
versità della Mercanzia, that regarded all these activities as forms of civic
commerce.48

Cennino Cennini’s Apprenticeship

Theory in the arts did not advance during the first few decades of the fif-
teenth century, but achievements in practice were quite noticeable. Citizens
of Florence witnessed new sculptures by Ghiberti and Donatello, along with
the completion of the cathedral dome by Brunelleschi.
Although Vitruvius’s De architectura had been known to scholars since
the ninth century, its rediscovery in 1414 in the library of Monte Cassino was
a momentous event. As the only surviving ancient treatise on architecture,
it was regarded much more highly now that humanism was in the air.
Vitruvius’s characterization of the ancient Roman architect as a broadly

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educated man who knows about both theory and practice also would
become influential. This distinction between the hand and the mind was
reinforced by the 1421 discovery of Cicero’s Orator, which suggested that
accomplishments in art can be ranked, and that only some artists can attain
the highest level.49 This notion that different standards exist within an art
eventually would lead to tensions within the guilds, which until then had
presumed that its members occupied a single, common ground.
Cennino Cennini (ca. 1370–ca. 1440) wrote Il libro dell’arte (The Crafts-
man’s Handbook) for painters. Various dates between 1390 and 1437 have
been suggested for the writing of his book. General consensus has placed it
around 1435, the same year as Alberti’s De pictura (On Painting). Cennini’s
book consists largely of practical advice on materials and techniques: pig-
ments, fresco painting, oil painting, glues, varnishes, etc. Some of his com-
ments suggest an awareness of humanism, but he was primarily a painter
writing for other painters.
The first section, mainly on drawing, includes some opening remarks
about the role of painting in human knowledge. Cennini begins with the
Bible, describing how Adam and Eve had to find ways to survive in the
temporal world – perhaps invoking Hugh of St Victor’s mechanical arts – but
he quickly shifts his attention to human occupations in the present that
emphasize not survival but theory. “Man afterward pursued many useful
occupations, differing from each other; and some were, and are, more
theoretical than others; they could not all be alike, since theory is the most
worthy.”50 To suggest that painting has a theoretical dimension, he says that
its purpose is not only to represent visible nature but also to reveal what is
hidden, following Petrarch’s earlier description. “[Painting] calls for imagi-
nation, and skill of hand, in order to discover things not seen, hiding them-
selves under the shadow of natural objects, and to fix them with the hand,
presenting to plain sight what does not actually exist. And it justly deserves
to be enthroned next to theory, and to be crowned with poetry.”51
The premise that painting can present not only appearances but also
natural principles placed it alongside poetry as a productive art based on
universal rules. This was the first argument that had been used earlier
to recognize poetry as a liberal art. To promote painting as a liberal art,
Cennini also uses poetry’s second argument about invention, but he
disregards Horace’s advice that imagination should remain within natural
limits. “The poet, with his theory … is free to compose and bind together,

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or not, as he pleases, according to his inclination. In the same way, the
painter is given freedom to compose a figure, standing, seated, half-man,
half-horse, as he pleases, according to his imagination.”52 Following this brief
theoretical presentation, the rest of Cennini’s book is a discussion of mate-
rials and techniques. He remains silent on other issues, such as geometry,
composition (figures, groups, settings), ancient precedents, and conduct
(working with a patron). Consequently, his book provides only a partial
theory of painting.53
Although Cennini’s book could be regarded merely as an incomplete
presentation of theory or as a collection of practical tips for painting, it
deserves to be considered in another way: as a thoughtful discussion of the
broader domain of disegno. In fact, Cennini was the first writer to mention
disegno.54 Although painting is the primary subject of his book, drawing is
described as the “entrance and gateway” to painting. He regarded drawing
as the primary means for understanding nature and as the basis for all sub-
sequent work in painting. Therefore, drawing (disegno) has a dual meaning
and a larger role to play.
Cennini discusses drawing by describing an extended apprenticeship
during which a novice studies with a single master for as long as possible. At
first the novice learns how to prepare materials for drawing, then gradually
learns to draw from nature by copying something every day. He must pro-
ceed methodically through several stages, starting with a silverpoint stylus
on a small wooden panel that has been primed with powder from ground
bones. After a year he may be ready to draw with a quill pen and ink on
paper. Later, he may learn how to draw on tinted paper. After a long period
of copying nature and copying the masters, he will be “capable of much
drawing out of [his] own head.”55 Cennini’s description of apprenticeship in-
dicates that one must become proficient in recognizing and imitating nature
before exercising one’s imagination in drawing. He thus conceives disegno as
having two different trajectories: the first is associated with discovery; the
second (which comes later) is associated with invention.
Although Cennini’s book tends to be dismissed as a residual product of
medieval sensibilities due to its emphasis on materials and techniques and
its sketchy presentation of theory, his description of apprenticeship provides
a structure for the concept of disegno that seems clearer, more complete,
and more balanced than what others would present later. He recognizes that
drawing can perform two roles: the recording of one’s observations of

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nature, and the projection of one’s inventiveness in a new composition.
The person who makes the drawings is the hinge between nature and art.
The artist assembles and internalizes many observations of nature, using
induction to understand the ideal that underlies their particularities. In turn,
that ideal is invoked when the artist is faced with a new task that requires
inventiveness. Cennini’s aim in studying nature for so long is to develop an
authentic understanding (through drawing) that can be directed later
(through drawing) toward the making of something inventive. In each case,
drawing is what joins nature and artist, then artist and art. His series of five
components (nature … imitative-drawing … artist … productive-drawing
… art) constitutes the broader domain of disegno. Therefore, Cennini’s
presentation of disegno may serve as a benchmark when encountering sub-
sequent writings that define disegno as simply a drawing or a design.

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 6
Alberti and the Arts of Disegno

Lorenzo Valla (ca. 1406–57) was a humanist scholar who made a small but
significant contribution to the prehistory of the arti del disegno. In 1435–44
he wrote Elegantiarum linguae latinae (Of the elegance of the Latin lan-
guage), which argued that Latin should be purged of its medieval cor-
ruptions and returned to its classical origins. In the preface, he notes that a
similar return to classical excellence is now occurring in several arts:
“No more do I know why those arts that most closely resemble the liberal
arts – painting, carving, modelling, architecture [pingendi, scalpendi, fin-
gendi, architectandi] – became so degenerate for so long and were along
with literature nearly dead, or why at the present time they are raised up
and come to life again: so great a growth now springs up both of good crafts-
men and of good writers.”1

Leon Battista Alberti and the winged eye; medal by Matteo de’ Pasti (1450–55).
© The Trustees of the British Museum.

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 Although his primary concern was the humanist restoration of classical
standards, his incidental comment that painting, sculpture, and architec-
ture are close to liberal art status is significant in several ways: it recognizes
the traditional liberal arts; it identifies painting, sculpture, and architecture
as a set of arts; and it places these three arts not within the liberal arts but
just alongside them. In the fourteenth century, Petrarch associated poetry
and painting but was reticent to include sculpture. Having witnessed the
practical achievements of artists in the early fifteenth century, Valla decided
it was time to include painting, sculpture, and architecture.

Three Treatises by Alberti

Like his contemporary Lorenzo Valla, Leon Battista Alberti (1404–74) was
a humanist with a moral commitment to raising the standard of his
fellow citizens toward that of the ancients.2 The treatises he wrote on a
variety of subjects, including the family, surveying, painting, sculpture, and
architecture, indicate the breadth of his ambition for the entire culture, not
just individual components. His treatises were written mainly in Latin for an
audience educated in humanist subjects. Some of these treatises praised a
particular art for its importance to society but did not follow the earlier
humanist practice of demeaning other arts. Alberti did not argue explicitly
that certain arts should be recognized as liberal arts, but this ambition is
implicit in the prologues to his treatises on the three arts.
Lorenzo Valla mentioned painting, sculpture, and architecture in the
same sentence, but Alberti wrote a separate treatise on each. These three
treatises provide benchmarks for the arti del disegno in the sixteenth cen-
tury.3 The following discussion focuses on two complementary topics: a
comparison of the three treatises, and the concept of disegno in Alberti’s
treatise on architecture.
On Painting usually is considered the first of the three treatises. The Latin
version, De pictura (1435), was followed shortly by an Italian version, Della
pittura (1436). The content of the two versions is almost the same.4 Both
versions include three books in which the main topics are perspective
geometry, the composition of figures, and the role of the painter. The first
section is noted for being the first theoretical account of perspective.

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 On Sculpture (De statua) is very short and is not divided into separate
books. It focuses on a single topic: how to record the measurements and
gestures of the human body. This treatise probably was written between
1443 and 1452.5 The earliest surviving manuscript is dated 1466 (which
might place it third in the series), but some have suggested that it predates
On Painting (which would place it first). Placing it second in the series
would enable certain issues in On Painting to provide a background for the
narrower focus of On Sculpture and would compensate for their absence
from the second treatise. As Cecil Grayson notes, “[The] range and treat-
ment [of De statua] appear to suppose principles it was unnecessary to
explain … It is difficult to imagine Alberti approaching the arts for the
first time with De statua; it is far easier to see him later on, in the context
of other technical works, applying his practical mathematical talents to a
particular aspect of sculpture.”6
On the Art of Building (De re aedificatoria) is much longer than the
others. It was written between 1447 and 1452 but not published until 1485.7
It includes ten books: on lineaments, materials, construction, public works,
the works of individuals (i.e., programs for people of different classes,
occupations, and needs), ornament, ornament for sacred buildings, orna-
ment for public secular buildings, ornament for private buildings, and the
restoration of buildings (mainly about how to deal with water). Alberti did
not state explicitly that painting, sculpture, and architecture constitute a set
of three arts, as Vasari would do a century later, but he makes connections
among them and discusses them in similar ways.

Sculpture and Architecture in On Painting

In a single sentence, Alberti establishes a direct relationship between paint-

ing and sculpture: “Painting and sculpture are cognate arts, nurtured by the
same genius … The ancient writer Trismegistus believes that sculpture and
painting originated together with religion.”8 They are like siblings or even
fraternal twins who belong to the same family and share a family resem-
blance; however, Alberti makes a qualitative distinction between them: “I
shall always prefer the genius of the painter, as it attempts by far the most
difficult task.”9 This comparison recognizes that sculpture normally does
not involve a change in mode; an original subject in the round is represented

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as a sculpture in the round. Painting, on the other hand, typically requires
a change in mode from volumetric to flat. A painter also may have to repre-
sent the figures in a spatial setting and render light and colour in a con-
vincing way. Each of these actions requires intellectual judgement.
When discussing reliefs, which exist in a mode that is somewhere be-
tween the flatness of a painting and the roundness of a sculpture, Alberti
admits that they are rendered with more certainty in sculpture than in
painting, as sculpture deals explicitly with depth.10 He advises painters to
study the relief of their subject so that it may be painted well and not in a
ridiculous manner. This hint of tactility and depth is a departure from his
earlier emphasis on linear outlines and measurements that indicate the
edges of forms and their locations in perspective. Recognizing that linear
outlines alone are not sufficient for painters to produce a convincing like-
ness, he advises them also to consider subtle features in relief: “For many
inexpert painters the outlines of surfaces are vague and uncertain, as for
example in faces, because they cannot determine at what point more par-
ticularly the temples are distinguished from the forehead.”11
As an alternative to measuring depth directly, Alberti suggests introduc-
ing an oblique source of light to render the complex surface of a subject as
faceted areas of light and shade. Together, the visual rays from the observer
and the light rays from the light source generate a recognizable relief with
different tonal areas that are precise enough to be defined with additional
outlines. Using tonal values to measure depth enables the artist to rely solely
on vision and to maintain his distance from the subject.
In On Painting there are several explicit references to architecture. The
Italian edition, Della pittura, is dedicated to architect Filippo Brunelleschi,
whose dome for the cathedral in Florence was being completed in the
same year, 1436. Alberti does not mention another notable achievement
by Brunelleschi: that he already had demonstrated the basic principles of
perspective in a practical experiment, using a painted panel, a mirror, and
a view of the baptistry.12 Dedicating this first theoretical treatise on per-
spective to Brunelleschi may have been an implicit acknowledgment of his
achievement and a silent credit for what Alberti was about to present.
Alberti cites Vitruvius twice in On Painting: once to criticize his use of the
foot as the proportional unit for measuring human height – Alberti favours
the head but admits that it is roughly the same dimension – and once for his

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reference to geographical sources of various pigments for painting, which are
not relevant to the topics in Alberti’s treatise.13 Both references are inciden-
tal and could have been omitted, so it seems that Vitruvius was on Alberti’s
mind for other reasons.
A further reference to architecture is more significant. It proposes that
painting was the historical source for the ornamentation of buildings. “Is it
not true that painting is the mistress of all the arts or their principal orna-
ment? If I am not mistaken, the architect took from the painter architraves,
capitals, bases, columns and pediments, and all the other fine features of
buildings … Painting is the flower of all the arts.”14
This allegory assigns painting an ornamental role. Because painting is a
mistress for all the arts, her bond with architecture is not exclusive. Con-
versely, Alberti’s comment presupposes a mythical time when architecture
was devoid of ornament, before it had met painting. This threshold, before
and after the arrival of ornament, also invites us to conceive architecture in
two states: without and with ornament. The notion that architecture “took”
ornament from painting suggests direction and volition, perhaps in response
to a perceived need to be dressed appropriately in the classical orders for
civic functions. Ornament is the only substantial link between painting and
architecture in On Painting. Alberti also makes a general statement that
painting is the foundation of most arts: “The stonemason, the sculptor and
all the workshops and crafts of artificers are guided by the rule and art of the
painter. Indeed, hardly any art, except the very meanest, can be found that
does not somehow pertain to painting. So I would venture to assert that
whatever beauty there is in things has been derived from painting.”15 This is
a reminder that painting was the first art that the early humanists compared
to poetry and considered for membership in the liberal arts.
In On Painting, Alberti observes subjects in a way that recurs in his later
treatises on sculpture and architecture.16 He emphasizes the exterior outline
of a figure (in Latin circumscriptio; in Italian circonscrizione or circon-
scriptione)17 and takes great pains to distinguish this outline from everything
inside it, which he considers subordinate. In the perspective portion of the
treatise on painting (Book 1) he refers to visual rays that connect the eye to
the surface of a figure: “These rays, stretching between the eye and the
surface seen, move rapidly with great power and remarkable subtlety,
penetrating the air and rare and transparent bodies until they encounter

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something dense or opaque where their points strike and they instantly
stick.”18 He then stresses that the rays striking the visible edge of a figure
(extrinsic rays) are fundamentally different from those that strike the inside
of the figure (median rays). He consistently downplays not only the internal
folds of a figure (where one surface meets another surface), but also the
physical qualities of those surfaces (colour, texture, etc.).

But there is a difference between these rays which I think it essential

to understand. They differ in strength and function, for some reach
to the outlines of surfaces and measure all their dimensions. Let us
call these extrinsic rays, since they fly out to touch the outer parts of
the surface. Other rays, whether received by or flowing from the
whole extent of the surface, have their particular function within the
pyramid of which we shall presently speak, for they are imbued with
the same colours and lights with which the surface itself shines. Let
us, therefore, call these median rays … Quantities are measured by
the extrinsic rays. A quantity is the space across the surface between
two different points on the outline, which the eye measures with the
extrinsic rays rather like a pair of dividers. We use these extrinsic rays
whenever we apprehend by sight the height from top to bottom, or
width from left to right, or depth from near to far, or any other di-
mensions … It is perfectly true that no quantity can be seen without
such a triangle [defined by two extrinsic points and the eye] … Fur-
thermore, the extrinsic rays, which hold on like teeth to the whole of
the outline, form an enclosure around the entire surface like a cage.19

However, in practical painting, Alberti advises painters to render these

circumscribed edges as lightly as possible: “I believe one should take care
that circumscription is done with the finest possible, almost invisible lines
… Circumscription is simply the recording of the outlines, and if it is done
with a very visible line, they will look in the painting not like the margins of
surfaces, but like cracks. I want only the external outlines to be set down in
circumscription.”20 These outlines should be conceptually strong but graph-
ically weak. The outlines “designate” an object (and its position relative to
other objects) without actually depicting it. In Pliny’s account of the origin
of painting,21 the residual outline of a shadow on a wall reminds the lover of

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the absent figure, but someone else who walks by later and sees this line
would be unable to fill in the blanks. The difference is memory: one person
has it but another may not.
Memory of another kind is implicit in Alberti’s concept of perspective.
When one looks at a perspective that represents a gridded pavement with
orthogonal objects, then imagines walking around in this virtual space, one
is importing memories of walking at a uniform pace with one’s feet and
tracing horizontal lines with one’s hand.22 These bodily memories “correct”
the irregular features on the surface of a perspective drawing: the grid that
is not orthogonal or uniform, and the receding lines that are not horizon-
tal. If a completely amorphous subject (without repetition, orthogonality,
or familiarity) were represented in perspective, it would invoke no bodily
recognition by the observer and therefore no virtual space. This points to
a difference between two meanings of disegno: ‘designation’ and ‘drawing’.
Alberti’s approach in On Painting emphasizes disegno as designation. The
drawing has no presence of its own. It relies on memory and can represent
only what has been experienced before.

Painting and Architecture in On Sculpture

Alberti addresses On Sculpture to both painters and sculptors, reinforcing his

earlier statement in On Painting that these two arts have a cognate relation-
ship. “I wish this work of mine to be familiar to my painter and sculptor
friends, who will applaud my advice, if they take heed.”23 The first few para-
graphs of On Sculpture declare that painting and sculpture share a common
origin: the diligent observation of nature. He then declares that they also
share a common goal: “Those whom I have mentioned all aim, though by
different skills, at the same goal, namely that as nearly as possible the work
they have undertaken shall appear to the observer to be similar to the real
objects of Nature.”24 Bonded by a shared origin and a shared goal, the only
differences are their modes of working and the skills involved.
At the very end of On Sculpture, following a long series of body meas-
urements, Alberti presents a curious exercise that associates sculpture and
painting through the body. He imagines enclosing a figure in a cylinder,
then dividing it into two halves: a front surface that is visible to an observer,
and a back surface that is invisible. This divided figure is described first as a
frontal relief for sculptors. Then a light from the observer’s eye is projected

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Finitorium device, from Leon Battista Alberti, Della statua, ed. Rafaelle Du Fresne
(Paris: Giacomo Langlois, 1651).

toward this half-figure so that its silhouette is cast as a shadow onto a wall
behind it. This flat shape is intended for painters. The painter and the
sculptor share one linear element in this odd scenario: the outline of the
half-figure, the “vertical horizon” between what is visible to the observer and
what is invisible.
In On Sculpture, the only explicit reference to architecture occurs in the
opening dedication: “I hope that you will read with pleasure this third work,
which concerns the painter as well as in many ways also the skill of the
architect, for it enquires into and shows how one may construct a colossus
from certain known measurements.”25 For sculpture, Alberti measures
lengths and thicknesses of the elements of a body; similar measurements
can be recorded in buildings. The apparatus and technique that he uses to
map the surface of a sculpture are similar to those he uses in another trea-
tise, Descriptio urbis Romae (Delineation of the city of Rome), to survey the
surface of the earth.

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 One other feature of On Sculpture seems to be carried over into archi-
tecture: Alberti advises sculptors to study bodily gestures. He introduces
a pair of theoretical terms to indicate the body’s static and dynamic states:
dimensio and finitio. For the dynamic state, his awkward finitorium device is
intended to measure these expressive gestures by meticulously recording the
positions of the limbs and the torso.26 In Alberti’s treatise on architecture a
similar distinction might be made between the first half of the treatise, which
presents an intrinsic “static state” of architecture, and the last half of the
treatise, where ornament enables the building to participate dynamically in
civic situations.

Painting and Sculpture in On the Art of Building

In the first half of On the Art of Building there is just one passing reference
to painting and sculpture, in a section on various types of openings: “There
is one particular type of opening [a niche] that adopts the same positioning
and form as doors and windows; it does not cut right through the whole
thickness of the wall, however, but is carved out like a shell, and provides a
dignified and appropriate setting for statues and paintings.”27 Painting and
sculpture are not discussed as arts, but simply mentioned as sources of
ornamentation. Painting has a much greater role in the second half of On the
Art of Building, where Alberti discusses how ornamentation is used in vari-
ous situations. He says that these books may give great delight to painters.28
Indeed, painting is described frequently in Books 7-9 as an intrinsic part of
the architectural setting. “It is surely most appropriate for a portico or a
dining hall to be painted or sculpted with scenes of bravery by the citizens,
portraits and events worthy of recollection … but I would not have a wall
overwhelmed with statues and reliefs, nor overcrowded with historiae.”29
Like earlier humanists, Alberti also associates painting and poetry,
noting that painting is not merely for pleasure but also has a moral purpose:
“I look at a good painting … with as much pleasure as I take in reading a
good story. Both are the work of painters: one paints with words, the other
tells the story with his brush … [Paintings] should instruct us on how to
make ourselves more just, modest, and frugal, and to equip ourselves with
every virtue and make ourselves more acceptable to the gods above.”30
On the Art of Building mentions sculpture less frequently, usually along-

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side painting. Discussing dignity and decorum, Alberti states that a sculpture
should not be simply an autonomous object but part of a larger setting that
engages the observer. “I myself am undecided as to which material is best for
statues of the gods. It might well be said that they ought to be made of the
most dignified material, and that scarcity is the closest thing to dignity …
You will find that if any statue, once the object of considerable veneration,
is moved elsewhere, people will treat it as bankrupt, withdraw their credit,
and no longer invest their votive offerings there. Each statue, then, should be
allotted its own dignified position, and should remain there.”31
In On the Art of Building, Alberti discusses painting, sculpture, and
architectural ornamentation in similar ways, offering similar advice: “Within
the temple I favor detached painted panels rather than pictures applied
directly to the walls, although I would prefer reliefs to paintings … I feel
that those absurd garden statues of scarecrow gods would hardly be appro-
priate … I do not approve of turrets and crenellations on the houses of
private citizens; such elements are foreign to peaceful citizens and the well-
ordered state: they belong rather to the tyrant.”32
To Alberti, ornament is a necessary part of architecture but, like painting
and sculpture, it remains somewhat separate from the rest of architecture,
including utilitas and firmitas, the subjects of the first half of his treatise.
Indeed, he seems to have regarded the first five books as a distinct and
separate project. At the beginning of Book 6, the first book on ornament, he
looks back at the first five: “We have dealt with all this in the five preceding
books … As heaven is my witness, it was a more demanding task than I could
have imagined when I embarked on it … Of the three conditions that apply
to every form of construction – that what we construct should be appro-
priate to its use, lasting in structure, and graceful and pleasing in appearance
– the first two have been dealt with, and there remains the third, the noblest
and most necessary of all.”33
Throughout all three of these treatises by Alberti – on painting, sculp-
ture, and architecture – the explicit references among the three disciplines
indicate a consistent pattern: Painting and sculpture are closely related and
share a further alliance with architectural ornamentation; however, they
are distinct from the rest of architecture. These relationships suggest that
Alberti did not believe that all three arts are bound together as closely as
Vasari’s arti del disegno.

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 From Lineamentum to Disegno

Vasari declared that disegno is the common foundation of painting, sculp-

ture, and architecture, so any references to disegno in Alberti’s treatises could
be instructive. As an Italian word, it did not appear in his Latin treatises, but
it does appear three times in Della pittura, the Italian edition of On Paint-
ing, along with several derivatives of disegno.34
Alberti does not define disegno but does use it in apposition: “No com-
position and no reception of light can be praised where there is not also a
good circumscription – that is, a good drawing [disegno] – which is most
pleasant in itself.”35 The second appearance of disegno characterizes it again
as a linear outline, as opposed to a relief representation that shows subtle
variations in depth: “I say the learned and the unlearned praise those faces
which, as though carved, appear to issue out of the panel, and they criticize
those faces in which is seen no other art than perhaps that of drawing [dis-
egno] … I prefer a good drawing [disegno] with a good composition to be
well coloured.”36 The third appearance of disegno again distinguishes it from
relief: “Perhaps it will be more useful to practise relief than drawing [disegno].
If I am not mistaken, sculpture is more certain than painting. He who does
not understand the relief of the thing he paints will rarely paint it well.”37
Tracing these three passages back to their equivalent passages in Alberti’s
earlier Latin edition, De pictura, provides mixed results. For the first passage
there is no equivalent Latin phrase, indicating that Alberti added the disegno
phrase later to the Italian edition. In the second passage, he uses lineamentis
and conscriptam as synonyms for disegno. In the third passage, he uses pic-
tura where disegno would appear in the Italian edition. Della pittura uses the
word disegno in a limited way that refers only to line drawing. As Alberti’s
treatise focuses mainly on perspective geometry and composition, this is
appropriate. He does not use it like Cennini, who stresses the use of drawing
to understand nature and then to generate new compositions.
Elsewhere in On Painting, Alberti indicates that an understanding of
the outlines and properties of surfaces is “the first foundation of the art for
unlearned painters.”38 Although this statement does not mention disegno
explicitly, it aligns with Vasari’s premise that drawing is the foundation of
painting. In fact, Alberti’s treatise on painting is concerned primarily with
drawing: in particular, line drawing for establishing perspective and for

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composing figures and scenes. It does not discuss materials or techniques
of painting, and it mentions colour only briefly.
To pursue the concept of architecture as an art of disegno, the following
section focuses on Book 1 of De re aedificatoria.39 Book 1 in this original
edition is entitled “De lineamentis” (On the lineaments). As the treatise was
written in Latin and not Italian, the word disegno does not appear in the
original Latin text.40 In the first Italian edition (1546), translated by Pietro
Lauro, Book 1 is entitled “De i lineamenti, e de la loro forza e ragione.”41
Lauro imports the word lineamenti from Latin into Italian.42 In a subsequent
Italian edition (1550), translated by Cosimo Bartoli, Book 1 is entitled “De
disegni & della possanza, & regola loro.”43 The imported Latin word linea-
menti is replaced by the Italian word disegni. This smooth transition from
Latin to Latin-Italian to Italian suggests a close equivalence between linea-
mentum and disegno – an equivalence that is reinforced by Alberti’s own
translation from lineamentis to disegni in the second passage from Della pit-
tura quoted above. Coincidentally, the 1550 Bartoli edition was published in
the same year as Vasari’s first edition of the Lives, which presented the three
arti del disegno. Subsequent Italian editions relied on Bartoli’s translation
and retained disegni in the title of Book 1.44 The word disegno would not
have been out of place in architectural discussions in Alberti’s time. It had
been used in architecture as early as the fourteenth century.45 The verb
disegnàre also appears in the late thirteenth century,46 and derivatives of
the related Latin word designo (but not designo itself) appear frequently in
Vitruvius.47 Therefore, the general equivalence of lineamentum and disegno
enables the roots of Vasari’s arti del disegno to be pursued in the first book
of Alberti’s De re aedificatoria.
Of all Renaissance treatises on architecture, De re aedificatoria is perhaps
the most comprehensive and the most deliberately organized. The first three
books of the treatise constitute a subset of the treatise that is organized in a
particular way: “The hand of the skilled workman … fashion[s] the mate-
rial according to lineaments.”48 In this single sentence, Alberti makes sev-
eral clear distinctions among the first three books: Book 1 is on lineaments
(disegni), the realm of the designer; Book 2 is on material, the realm of na-
ture; and Book 3 is on construction, the realm of the builder. Taking Alberti
at his word, Book 1 alone should provide a carefully framed presentation of
his understanding of disegno. As Book 1 is only one of ten books, his under-

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standing of architecture certainly is broader than disegno, but the limits of
Book 1 should indicate where he draws the line between disegno and the rest
of architecture. As this is the best theoretical discussion of architecture as
an art of disegno in the Renaissance, the following section considers it more
closely and reintroduces the template of terms from Chapter 1 as a rough
interpretive guide.

Elements of Practice in the Arts of Disegno

1 Edification

Alberti avoided the Latin word architectura (architecture) in the title of his
treatise, preferring re [res] aedificatoria (the subject of building). Although
he does not explain his decision, a subsequent complaint about Vitruvius’s
hybrid Greek and Latin terms may apply also to the hybrid word architec-
tura.49 “For I grieved that so many works of such brilliant writers had been
destroyed by the hostility of time and of man, and that almost the sole
survivor from this vast shipwreck is Vitruvius, an author of unquestioned
experience, though one whose writings have been so corrupted by time that
there are many omissions and many shortcomings. What he handed down
was in any case not refined, and his speech such that the Latins might think
that he wanted to appear a Greek, while the Greeks would think that he
babbled Latin … As far as we are concerned he might just as well not have
written at all, rather than write something that we cannot understand.”50
As a humanist, Alberti may have been troubled by the awkward etymol-
ogy of the word architectura. He maintains his resistance to Vitruvius’s lin-
guistic impropriety, frequently using the term architectus (architect, derived
from the Greek architekton) but using architectura (architecture) only three
times in the entire treatise.51 Instead, he relies on the indigenous Latin term
aedificatio ‘act of building’, referring to a physical object, aedificium ‘edifice
or building’.52 An alternate title for the treatise, De aedificiis (On Building),
could have established a symmetry with De pictura and De statua, but it
seems that he preferred to recognize the larger realm suggested by De re aed-
ificatoria. However, others did not follow in his linguistic footsteps, instead
using Vitruvius’s architectura and the Italian equivalent architettura to title
their later editions of Alberti’s treatise.53

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 Book 1 frames architecture within a humanist agenda. Although Alberti
is providing recommendations in the present, he presumes continuity
between ancient Rome and his own time. He writes as if Rome had not fallen
and the thousand-year medieval period had not happened. Because the
writings of the ancients have survived, he is able to converse with them. He
implicitly endorses much of their advice and simply passes it along to the
reader; however, many of their statements are accompanied by phrases that
subtly question their reliability: “or so it is said”; “whether this theory we
report is correct”; “according to the naturalists”; “Pliny tells us that”; “it is an
ancient poetic legend that”; “Plato believed that.”54 Some of the statements
he forwards from the ancients are contradictory but he does not attempt to
reconcile them. For example, “Cicero says that Syracuse was sited so that
there was not a single day in the whole year on which the inhabitants could
not see the sun … If there are no strong reasons or grounds for avoiding it,
it is the location to be sought in preference to any other”55; and “Consider the
quality and angle of the sun to which a locality is exposed, so that there is no
excess of sunlight or shade; the Garamantes cursed the sun at its rising and
setting, so scorched were they by the excessive persistence of its rays.”56
Occasionally, however, he confronts ancient sources with his own expe-
rience: Caligula wanted to build a city on a ridge of the Alps; Alberti him-
self would not do this. Varro and Caesar describe wilderness; Alberti would
not build there. Aristotle was pleased by a site with difficult access; Alberti
would not criticize him, but would look for public benefit first.57 Sometimes
he steps out of this transhistorical discussion by commenting on ancient
buildings he has seen with his own eyes: “I cannot recall having come across
any building of the ancients that has a polygonal area.”58
Elsewhere in his treatise, Alberti blurs the historical context of his audi-
ence by interspersing ancient and modern concepts: Sacred buildings are
temples, not churches. There are many gods, not just one.59 He mentions
youths riding chariots in circuses and hunters pursuing beasts in amphi-
theatres – all in the present tense.60 Meanwhile, modern Christian rituals
are projected back into ancient Rome.61 He frequently cites ancient writers
but almost never introduces biblical references.62 These literary tactics situ-
ate the reader in a temporality that is ahistorical and ideal.
The epistemological standing of architecture in Alberti’s time was un-
certain because the authority for defining the liberal arts was no longer

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held exclusively by a small number of philosophers and theologians. The
humanists were becoming a second authority to whom one could make
rhetorical arguments.63 Alberti does not state explicitly that architecture is
a liberal art or should be recognized as a liberal art. He would have known
that philosophers still regarded architecture as a mechanical art. Instead,
he appeals to a general audience when he glorifies the role of the architect:

nor does [architecture] rank last among the most honorable of the
arts … The security, dignity, and honor of the republic depend
greatly on the architect: it is he who is responsible for our delight,
entertainment, and health while at leisure, and our profit and ad-
vantage while at work, and in short, that we live in a dignified man-
ner, free from any danger. In view then of the delight and wonderful
grace of his works, and of how indispensable they have proved, and
in view of the benefit and convenience of his inventions, and their
service to posterity, he should no doubt be accorded praise and re-
spect, and be counted among those most deserving of mankind’s
honor and recognition.64

In Book 1, Alberti indicates that architecture involves several of the liberal

arts, so its status would be elevated by association. For example, in several
chapters he emphasizes that architecture uses geometry: “Every outline is
made up of lines and angles … The curved line, which we called a part of a
circle, will be known as an arc or bow (because it resembles one) to us
architects.”65 He also invokes music theory when discussing harmonic
relations among the components of a building: “Just as in music, where deep
voices answer high ones, and intermediate ones are pitched between them,
so they ring out in harmony, a wonderfully sonorous balance of proportions
results, which increases the pleasure of the audience and captivates them.”66
The humanists already had recognized the nobility of their own poetry
as an extension of rhetoric. Alberti’s brief discussion of ornamentation in
Book 1 provides an obvious parallel: “Although other famous architects seem
to recommend by their work either the Doric, or the Ionic, or the Corinthian,
or the Tuscan division as being the most convenient, there is no reason why
we should follow their design in our work, as though legally obliged; but
rather, inspired by their example, we should strive to produce our own in-
ventions, to rival, or, if possible, to surpass the glory of theirs.”67 At a time

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when Scholasticism had identified moral philosophy as a branch of theol-
ogy and had installed it as a university subject even higher than the tra-
ditional liberal arts, Alberti’s description of architecture as providing a
healthy environment for the benefit of humanity supported his argument
that architecture is a noble art, if not a fully-fledged liberal art.68

2 Imitator

Alberti refers to the first (mythical) builders as men, not as architects: “In the
beginning, men sought a place of rest in some region safe from danger …
After this, men began to consider how to build a roof, as a shelter from the
sun and the rain.”69 The immediacy of the needs and the immediacy of
the response suggest a life lived solely in the present. The role of the archi-
tect begins to emerge when additional knowledge is needed to address
different uses for buildings (public, private, sacred, profane; for practical
necessity, civic adornment, and temporary pleasure) and a broader geo-
graphical awareness of natural forces that are benevolent or malevolent.70
He must draw lessons from his predecessors, judge their relative merits,
and devise an appropriate plan for the benefit of his people. Consequently,
the architect is poised between the past and the future.
Framing the architect’s responsibility in this way avoids the first (myth-
ical) builder’s focus on the present. It also avoids treating the architect pri-
marily as a creator. Instead, the architect is an imitator, situated between
the ancients and the moderns. This role parallels that of the prince, who is
expected to govern his people with both wisdom and foresight. The prince
also would be in a prime position to act on the architect’s judgement by
founding a new city in a favourable locality discerned by the architect.
In current usage the words “design” and “designer” emphasize inno-
vation, but Alberti frames disegno (lineaments) differently in Book 1. In the
first chapter he says, “All the intent and purpose of lineaments lies in find-
ing the correct, infallible way of joining and fitting together those lines and
angles.”71 The notion of “finding” suggests that the answer already exists and
that the architect’s task is to search a broad range of existing options to dis-
cern which one is “correct” and “infallible” for a future set of circumstances.
These two adjectives presume a standard of absoluteness that is foreign to
our current understanding of design, but it aligns with ancient technē, in
which an artisan sought to respond perfectly to a given situation. Alberti

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warns that personal innovation is risky: “Follow the methods sanctioned by
those who are experienced: to contravene established customs often detracts
from the general elegance.”72
In his three treatises Alberti emphasizes that the painter, the sculptor,
and the architect must devote considerable attention to studying existing
things that are exemplary for their art. All three must go to their source. In
painting and sculpture, this means the nature that God created, especially the
human body. In architecture, this means the buildings of the ancients, as an
architect does not create visual likenesses of nature.73

All three must study the “lineaments” of these sources until they become
internalized and idealized in the artist’s mind. Only then can these linea-
ments guide the artist in the design of new compositions for the benefit of
future citizens.

Unfortunately, Alberti provides no details or concrete examples to guide

the reader in studying ancient buildings and recording lessons from them.
Later in the treatise he provides only a general description of his own efforts
to draw lessons from the ancients. “No building of the ancients that had
attracted praise, wherever it might be, but I immediately examined it care-
fully, to see what I could learn from it. Therefore I never stopped exploring,
considering, and measuring everything, and comparing the information
through line drawings, until I had grasped and understood fully what each
had to contribute in terms of ingenuity or skill.”74 From this description,
one can imagine a designer situated in the middle, between drawings of
ancient buildings and drawings of a future building: noting differences
among earlier examples, discerning ideals, judging which lessons are perti-
nent, and deciding how the future building can express this ideal in its
design. The ancient lessons would moderate any tendency toward eccen-
tricity. “Moreover, in fashioning the members, the moderation shown by
nature ought to be followed; and here, as elsewhere, we should not so much

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praise sobriety as condemn unruly passion for building; each part should
be appropriate and suit its purpose. For every aspect of building, if you think
of it rightly, is born of necessity, nourished by convenience, dignified by use;
and only in the end is pleasure provided for, while pleasure itself never fails
to shun every excess.”75
Alberti encourages the architect to solicit opinions from others, but he
does not indicate that collaboration is an option. The designer’s mind is the
centre point of disegno. If the ancients are sitting on one shoulder, potential
critics – those who know the work of the ancients and can make informed
judgements – are sitting on the other. The ultimate aim of design is to avoid
error: “Ensure that even the most insignificant parts appear to have been
formed according to the rules of art … Let the building then be such that its
members want no more than they already have, and what they have can in
no way be faulted … Here it is worth mentioning a few building defects to
heighten our own awareness of the matter. For to have no defect is the great-
est honor.”76
Although Alberti is acutely aware of architectural critics, this book on
disegno never mentions the eventual occupants of the new building. His
primary concern remains the larger culture. The particular occupants are
addressed only later in the treatise, when ornamentation is discussed in
relation to their civic role.

3 Natural Forces

Reinforcing the division between Book 1 and Book 2, Alberti declares that
lineaments and material are completely separate: “The whole matter of
building is composed of lineaments and structure … Nor do lineaments
have anything to do with material … It is quite possible to project whole
forms in the mind without any recourse to the material, by designating and
determining a fixed orientation for the various lines and angles.”77 Disegno
is associated with the ideal realm of geometry, not with the physical realm.
Lineaments come first and are developed independently. Materials, discussed
in Book 2, come later. This is a major change from the mechanical arts,
which shaped natural substance into a different form.
Although building materials are excluded from disegno, Alberti describes
many climatic and earthly substances that play a vital role in preserving life.
He indicates that the human body is affected directly by natural substances:

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vapours from the earth’s bowels, personified winds from different directions,
etc. They can be either benevolent or malevolent. His description of nature
relies on Greek and Roman concepts, occasionally reinforced by his own ob-
servations. “I know of [a] town in Italy where there are so many born either
with tumors, squints, and limps, or who are crippled, that there is scarcely
a family that does not contain someone deformed or handicapped in some
way; and it is a sure indication, when many marked discrepancies are to be
seen in bodies or their members, that the climate is at fault or that some
other latent deficiency is responsible.”78
Recognizing that not all places are equally healthy, the first responsi-
bility of a designer is to find an auspicious locality for building. This is not
a search for an ideal Garden of Eden but a practical search for favourable
conditions. Some natural properties are obvious, whereas others require
certain knowledge to recognize them. Clues are evident in the limbs of
cattle, the angle of trees, the erosion of rocks, etc. Sometimes the advice of
the ancients is sufficient; sometimes it must be supplemented by divination.
For example, water on a site should have no flavour, smell, or colour. It
should also be tested to see if it leaves stains or sediment. Alberti mentions
the ancient Roman practice of inspecting the livers of cattle who have been
grazing on a site, but his prefaces to such references – “it is an ancient
custom”; “Plato believed that”; “It is said to be” – suggest that he respects
their sources but cannot vouch for their efficacy.
Along with air, water, and other substances that are consumed, the
designer must consider the ground. The earth is understood metaphori-
cally as a body that receives substances from the atmosphere and emits
vapours.79 The slope and orientation of the ground determine its expo-
sure to the sun, which in turn will affect those who live there. The soil of a
locality also must be tested for compactness to ensure that it will support
the weight of a building.
When beginning to consider lineaments for a building, the designer
should imagine natural forces, including catastrophic forces from an anti-
cipated direction. “The angles [of the exterior wall] ought to be positioned
counter to the pressure of rocks or the likely direction of violent water and
winds, so as to divide and dissipate the destructive blows as they strike, by
facing the trouble with the strongest part of the wall rather than the weak-
ness of a side. But if the other lineaments of the building prevent you from
using a corner there, as you might wish, a curved wall must be used in-

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stead.”80 This is an evocative meeting of geometric lines and forceful natu-
ral substances. Although the lineaments of the building are still only lines,
they can dissipate nature’s destructive power. Alberti is imagining geometry
as dynamic properties in a temporal world. The lineaments do not combat
nature but merely neutralize its detrimental effects. He describes the corner
of a building like the bow of a ship, providing strength and deflecting waves.
There is no indication that strength comes from building materials; it is
all in the lineaments. To illustrate the point, he cites an example in which
insufficient stone was available to withstand the thrust of a mountain, so
an architect used geometry in a clever way to compensate for the physical de-
ficiency.81 He also advises using the lineaments of the site and the building
to avoid the destructive potential of normal rain over an extended period of
time. In both situations, short-term and long-term, the use of lineaments in
nature resembles the basic strategy of ancient technē, in which a clever use
of minimal force can overcome much larger forces with apparent ease.

4 Citizen

Alberti places the health of citizens above all else and declares that a direct
connection exists between a locality and its people: “The best locality of all,
however, is a moderately warm and moist one, for it will produce men tall
and elegant in stature and cheerful in character.”82 He associates clear air
with clear sight and a clear mind.83 He also warns that locating a city in a
hidden valley would cause its citizens to lose their strength, stamina, and
spirit.84 Therefore, an architect should find a locality that is restful, safe from
danger, and free of unhealthy climatic and natural conditions. It should be
elevated, with good prospects for food, water, sunlight, and transportation.
The same criteria should be used to select an area for a building.
Alberti notes that the location of a city or a building will affect what is
available to eat. One should not have to import food. He criticizes Polycrates’
desire to build a city on Mount Athos: Although it would have been an
impressive sight, it would have been unhealthy due to the lack of available
food. Similarly, he favours a locality where transportation can acquire what
is not available locally.
To consider what nature does not provide, Alberti suggests that the first
(mythical) builders recognized some basic human desires in their buildings:
different spaces for sleeping, for the hearth, and for other uses. So far, these

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are just spaces, slightly articulated and identified according to their use. He
does not pause to consider why they were differentiated. Alberti then
departs the mythical world to discuss types of programs for buildings in the
present (which, to him, includes the ancient era). He establishes three cate-
gories: public or private; sacred or profane; practical necessity, civic adorn-
ment, or temporary pleasure.85 Defining programs in this way continues to
emphasize the needs of the dwellers rather than the buildings themselves. He
avoids mentioning particular types of buildings, such as houses, shops, and
temples. The only exceptions are the forum and the theatre, whose programs
and lineaments are large enough to require a particular area with a certain
size and shape. He also does not suggest that a building should be designed
for a particular patron. His advice pertains to citizens in general.
To begin discussing the relation between lineaments and the program
to which they are responding, he says simply that they should be well suited
to their task and very commodious. The noblest parts of the interior should
be located prominently, while the most private parts should be hidden from
view.86 These are basic principles, all inward-looking.
The lineaments of a building begin with the roof, which provides shel-
ter from sun and rain.87 When perimeter walls are added to the roof, they
complete the enclosure to provide shelter from cold and to “keep out the
night.”88 Openings then are made in the perimeter walls: first, doors to admit
people, then windows to admit sunlight and breezes when appropriate. The
doors and windows also let out moisture and vapour. The movement of
people and objects is integrated with the movement of air, light, humidity,
smoke, water, and effluent, as well as views – all of which Alberti imagines
in a dynamic way. The exterior of the building is presented as a perforated
shell. Stairs, pipes, and wells are also considered openings, as they too are
dedicated to movement. So far, these are the lineaments of a generic build-
ing, still defined simply as a dwelling. Additional interior walls should
provide internal privacy, acknowledging social divisions among the dwellers.
The location and sequence of certain rooms should maintain comfort in
both winter and summer, avoiding abrupt changes in temperature that
would be detrimental to the body as one moves through the building.
As presented in Book 1, disegno is not concerned with the external ap-
pearance of a building. Alberti says merely that one should not make the
building look monstrous, with uneven shoulders and sides.89 The building
promotes human health and comfort; it is not a subject for observation. The

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only reference to visual elements is a brief note that the individual parts
should be groomed, ordered, and garlanded for grace and elegance.90 Alberti
reserves his discussion of ornamentation for the second half of the treatise.

5 Builder

The builder is almost entirely absent from Book 1. Consequently, the de-
signer works alone. Alberti carefully maintains the distinction between the
geometric lineaments (disegno) in Book 1 and the actions of the builder in
Book 3. The only exceptions are several passing references to construction:
He indicates that skill (and ingenuity) can remedy defects of land or water;
a plumb line is used to centre all the parts of a column; and the layout and
construction of a stairway is a demanding task that requires experience.91
In the last example, the architect delineates a two-storey room and the
builder later constructs a stairway inside it.
In the prologue to the treatise, Alberti describes a particular relationship
between architect and builder: “The carpenter is but an instrument in the
hands of the architect.”92 The practical separation of architect and builder
would have seemed odd to ancestors working in the tradition of technē or
the mechanical arts. Clearly, Alberti wanted to emphasize the intellectual
and moral domain of the architect and chose to do so by relegating the
builder to a subordinate position. However, this does not mean that the
designer composes abstract forms; Alberti expects the architect to have
acquired a thorough understanding of materials and construction by study-
ing what ancient architects achieved. He provides examples such as Vitru-
vius, who used buttresses to strengthen a wall, and an unnamed architect
from Alatri who leveled a hilltop site effectively by using cut and fill.93 In
disegno, such examples are conceived as compositions of lineaments, not as
acts of construction.

6 Composition

Not only the builder is absent from disegno in Book 1, the physical building
is also absent. Alberti’s building examples come from ancient texts or from
his own memory. One cannot imagine visiting them and walking around;
they are described in an idealized way that has turned them into principles
or general characteristics. Similarly, there are no descriptions of projected

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buildings. Although he presents many building principles, there are no
particularities of site, material, or program to make them tangible. Instead,
Alberti provides a compositional framework with which one can study
ancient buildings and plan new ones.94 It consists of six elements: locality,
area, compartition; wall, roof, and opening.95 The first three elements
conceive the site in a nested way, from large to small;96 the last three elements
are interrelated building components.
The first element, the locality (regio), is the regional setting for the build-
ing or city. Its priority is to provide a healthy venue for humans. It is imag-
ined broadly enough to include surrounding hills that offer protection from
malevolent winds.
Within that locality, the area is a plot of land selected for the platform of
a building. It should provide similar benefits. The perimeter of the area is
composed of lines and angles. It is described strictly as a geometric con-
struction, accompanied by Euclidean axioms: for example, a straight line
being the shortest possible line between two points. The outline of this area
will divide the undulating and variable ground outside from a flat, artificial
platform inside. The emphasis here is on establishing the exterior limits of
the enclosure. Defining this single line seems to be the designer’s primary
task. This outline is not just a geometric pattern; various forces are implicit
in it. For example, he says that the ancients never allowed the side of an area
to be long and straight, suggesting that internal or external forces would
cause distortion or even failure. Although the lines and angles of the area are
presented simply as a geometric outline, the mind of the designer is also
aware of forces and elements on both sides of this line.
The third element, compartition (partitio) is nested within the area.
Unlike its predecessors, it is not a singular form but a process that divides
the area into smaller units that are joined organically. The outline of the
area remains fixed; compartition is subordinate.97 The design proceeds
sequentially from large to small. There is no suggestion that the outline of
the area can be modified in size or shape in response to compartition. The
building is not conceived as a set of rooms around which a perimeter wall
is wrapped. Like the area, compartition is described as lines, not walls. It
outlines units, not rooms. These first three elements – locality, area, and
compartition – are conceived as lines inscribed on the ground. Although
they are just lines, Alberti notes that they implicitly embody forces of

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nature and dwelling. Once the first three elements have been composed,
the remaining three elements – wall (paries), roof (tectum), and opening
(apertio) – fall into place.
Alberti’s ideal building has only one storey. To describe other buildings
with more than one storey, he introduces some odd notions: “as if one
building has been built on another”; “roofs not exposed to the sky are
intermediate floors.” Alberti’s ideal building is also distinct from its
surroundings. This is reinforced by the emphasis on its perimeter. There
are no theoretical terms that enable it to be discussed in relation to other
buildings. It is set in nature but not yet in a settlement. Later in the treatise
he mentions various types of buildings that a city might include, but they
are also described in a singular way.

7 Mind’s Eye

Alberti does not discuss drawings – at least, not in Book 1.98 This may seem
odd in a book that is entitled (in Italian translations) “De disegni,” as ‘draw-
ing’ is a standard meaning that disegno has acquired. For now, Alberti keeps
the lineamenti away from paper.99 Instead, they remain in the mind of the
architect, as abstract and ideal as Euclidean lines.100
With neither construction nor the builder being discussed until Book 3,
it is understandable that Book 1 would not mention drawings for con-
struction. Book 1 also does not mention patrons, so there is no need to
prepare drawings for discussion. Interestingly, Alberti does not even mention
drawings that an architect might make when studying an ancient building
or developing a new design. His description suggests that disegno remains
within the architect’s mind. This is consistent with his distinction between
lineaments and matter, thought and nature: “The building is a form of body,
which like any other consists of lineaments and matter, the one the product
of thought, the other of Nature; the one requiring the mind and the power
of reason, the other dependent on preparation and selection.”101
The lineamenti that Alberti observed in ancient buildings have been
retained in his memory. Those that responded to natural forces – for ex-
ample, the corner of the building that deflected the force of flood waters –
suggest not just a visual memory but also a bodily memory that invokes
one’s muscles, ligaments, and bones.

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 8 Lineaments

In Book 1, Alberti does not visualize a building as a whole, as a singular

object in a landscape. Instead, both ancient buildings and projected build-
ings are conceived and composed as an assembly of separate elements with
different orientations at different scales, strung together in a quasi-tactile,
paratactic composition. They are described like a series of memories that, if
recorded graphically, would resemble medieval images more than Renais-
sance perspectives.102
As suggested by the Latin title of Book 1, the key notion here is “linea-
ment” (lineamentum). This word sometimes is used to refer to the linea-
ments of a face: the memorable features of which it is composed. Alberti’s
discussion of architectural lineamenti does not indicate whether they are
strictly planar (on a horizontal or vertical plane) or also can be multi-
planar. The first two domains, locality and area, suggest an emphasis on
horizontality because they concern the location of a city or the outline of a
building on the face of the earth. Occasional references to elevated sites and
valley locations indicate that Alberti is also thinking vertically.103
A dense paragraph at the beginning of Book 1 introduces Alberti’s con-
cept of lineaments. By moving gradually through the paragraph, this concept
may be unpacked. “Let us therefore begin thus: the whole matter of build-
ing is composed of lineaments and structure.”104 This opening sentence re-
duces everything to two parts: lineaments and construction.105 Their
separation reappears later in distinctions between the mind and nature, the
architect and the builder, Book 1 and Books 2-3. “All the intent and purpose
of lineaments lies in finding the correct, infallible way of joining and fitting
together those lines and angles which define and enclose the surfaces of the
building.”106 Here Alberti suggests that lineaments already exist and are
found by searching; they are not created from scratch. One must know gen-
erally what to look for. The smallest unit is the line, which Euclidean geom-
etry indicates has length but no thickness. A line exists only in the mind; it
is not physical. The angle is the next larger unit, consisting of two lines, a
point of intersection, and a rotational relation between the lines that forms
a V.107 The lineament is the next larger unit. Although it is not defined in a
clear geometric way, it seems more complex than an angle, but less complex
than the outline of an entire surface that is enclosed by many lineaments.

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 Lineaments emphasize the perimeter rather than the area it encloses.
Like lines, lineaments are linear, but their eventual aim to enclose a figure
implies that the two sides of the line (or angle) are different, as inside and
outside. Lineaments are invisible and have no intrinsic colour or weight.
They are evaluated in an absolute way as correct or incorrect, rather than
on a graduated scale. “It is in the function and duty of lineaments, then, to
prescribe an appropriate place, exact numbers, a proper scale, and a grace-
ful order for whole buildings and for each of their constituent parts, so that
the whole form and appearance of the building may depend on the linea-
ments alone.”108
Lineaments thus have many duties, for which they alone are responsible.
When correct lineaments have been established, they address four criteria:
locality, proportion, scale, and composition. Lineaments affect a building’s
appearance (for vision) and its form (not necessarily for vision). “Nor do
lineaments have anything to do with material, but they are of such a nature
that we may recognize the same lineaments in several different buildings
that share one and the same form, that is, when the parts, as well as the sit-
ing and order, correspond with one another in their every line and angle.”109
Here Alberti distinguishes lineaments from material even more decisively.
He also differentiates between a form (an overall composite property) and
lineaments (a more particular component of a form). Lineaments enable
classes of buildings to be identified. Lineaments are also transferable: for
example, from ancient buildings to modern buildings.
“It is quite possible to project whole forms in the mind without any
recourse to the material, by designating and determining a fixed orientation
and conjunction for the various lines and angles.”110 The mind can use lin-
eaments to compose entire forms from lines and angles. Again, materiality
is not required. The lineaments are also oriented externally toward an
unspecified reference or perhaps a direction. “Since that is the case, let
lineaments be the precise and correct outline, conceived in the mind, made
up of lines and angles, and perfected in the learned intellect and imagina-
tion.” This last sentence is a condensed definition, similar to a definition in
a geometry text. It reinforces Alberti’s earlier point that lineaments are
outlines. It also indicates that perfection occurs in the mind, implying that
lineaments in existing buildings can be recognized but are not quite perfect.
Perfection requires not just any mind but a learned mind.

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 Lineaments are not simply abstract geometric outlines floating in
mental ether. In several places, Alberti describes lineaments that respond to
various kinds of worldly forces: “The angles ought to be positioned counter
to the pressure of rocks or the likely direction of violent water and winds, so
as to divide and dissipate the destructive blows as they strike.”111 “The
ancients … never allowed any one side of an area to be drawn too far in a
straight line without being broken by being bent into some curve or cut by
an angle … They wanted to reinforce the wall by offering support.”112
Lineaments can respond to internal programmatic forces: “The circular
area is said to have the largest capacity.”113 Lineaments can recognize legal
forces by “respecting the rights regarding ancient lights and party walls.”114
And lineaments can respond to the influence of other lineaments: “But if
the other lineaments of the building prevent you from using a corner there,
as you might wish, a curved wall must be used instead.”115 Lineaments thus
suggest a particular ontological status for disegno: somewhere between
presence and absence, the past and the future, with the designer as the
central hinge. Although Alberti does not mention drawings explicitly,
his entire description of lineamenti suggests the fragmentary sketches of
architects who are observing ancient buildings or planning new ones.

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 7
Vasari and the Arts of Disegno

Renegotiating the Liberal Arts

Alberti was not the first to promote painting, sculpture, and architecture as
liberal arts, nor would he be the last. This effort extended over several cen-
turies, from the fourteenth to the sixteenth – and beyond. Since the ancient
era, the liberal arts had been overseen by philosophers who situated subjects
authoritatively within a comprehensive epistemological framework, based
on specific criteria. The mathematical subjects of the quadrivium – geom-
etry, arithmetic, astronomy, and music theory – were understood as discov-
eries of the divine order of the world. The language subjects of the trivium
– grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric – described how humans communicate.
After Robert Kilwardby asked why there should be only seven mechanical
arts, and after Thomas Aquinas announced that “the seven liberal arts do
not adequately divide theoretical philosophy,”1 the traditional premises of
the liberal arts were open to question and ready to be superseded.
The recognition of poetry and eloquence as liberal arts in the fourteenth
century was reached gradually and collectively by humanists, not with new
principles but with deduction: Given that the three trivium subjects are
liberal arts, given that poetry and eloquence are advanced extensions of
rhetoric, and given that these two arts were noble activities in the ancient
era, therefore poetry and eloquence must be liberal arts. This change in their
epistemological status led to a popular belief that membership in the liberal
arts could be negotiated.
With epistemology now open to debate, many different arguments
were made to classify a particular art as a liberal art: that this art is a more

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advanced form of one of the traditional liberal arts; that its practice requires
a knowledge of arithmetic or geometry;2 that it is based on a body of theory;3
that it was praised by ancient royalty and philosophers;4 that it was prac-
tised in the ancient era by free men and not by slaves;5 that its practice
requires intellectual judgement; that its practice is similar to that of poetry
or eloquence;6 that it requires intrinsic talent (ingenium) and not just man-
ual art (ars);7 and that it is a subject about which rulers require authoritative
advice.8 With these diverse criteria blurring the previously clear definition of
a liberal art, and with no single authority to make a final decision, the liberal
arts became associated generally with higher status. In turn, the concept of
a mechanical art also lost its previously clear definition and became associ-
ated generally with lower status.9
In the various claims for liberal art status, promotion was sought for a
whole art, not for its individual practitioners. In most of the arts there was
no attempt to change the basis of practice. Painters and sculptors would
continue to work with their hands, using the same materials and skills.
The practical floor of their art would remain the same but their theoretical
ceiling would rise. Increasing their “headroom” would introduce new the-
oretical possibilities and would enable their art to associate theoretically
with others in a humanist milieu. Interestingly, the only exception seems
to have been in architecture, where Alberti distinguished sharply between
intellectual practice and manual practice by declaring that architects are
not carpenters.10
Some modern writers have suggested that painters, sculptors, and
architects promoted their art mainly to raise their social status: to rise from
the working class to the middle class, or from the middle class to the ruling
class.11 The guilds in Florence were organized along class lines;12 however,
social status probably was incidental. Appeals for liberal art status sound
pathetic to modern ears, especially when they seem to have been spoken into
the void. The recurrence of appeals throughout several centuries indicates
that recognition as a liberal art was elusive, prompting some to lower their
sights by seeking recognition instead as a “noble art” – an undefined category
with a much shorter tradition that originated from Scholastic writers such
as Thomas Aquinas, who referred to noble substances as having a likeness or
connection to God.13
Although many significant paintings, sculptures, and buildings were pro-
duced between the completion of Alberti’s architectural treatise (1452) and

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Vasari’s first edition of the Lives (1550), there is not a continuous theoretical
path along which the concept of “architecture as an art of disegno” proceeds
from Alberti to Vasari. Instead, writers pursued different facets of disegno.14
Some referred to architecture, some did not. The main stepping stones were
set by Andrea Poliziano, Leonardo da Vinci, and Benedetto Varchi.

Angelo Poliziano’s Practical Arts

Angelo Poliziano (1454–94) was a humanist scholar and poet, known in

architectural circles for adding the dedication to Lorenzo de’ Medici when
Alberti’s De re aedificatoria was published posthumously in 1485. David
Summers describes Poliziano’s short book Panepistemon (1490) as an impor-
tant theoretical document due to its influence on Michelangelo.15 For present
purposes, it is relevant as a reference for disegno and its relation to architecture.
Panepistemon outlines a comprehensive epistemological hierarchy:

All knowledge is divided into three parts: inspired (theology),

invented (philosophy) and mixed (divination). The arts are listed
under philosophy, which is further divided into “spectativa” (specu-
lative), “actualis” (practical) and “rationalis” (rational). Poetry, it
might be noted, falls under the third, rational category, together with
grammar, history, dialectic and rhetoric, as a kind of discourse aimed
at delight. Music, to continue a review of the “fine arts,” comes under
the heading of the spectativa, under arithmetic. Poliziano puts the
arts of design (as they would come to be called) under the second
category of practical arts. They fall into two divisions, architectura
and graphike. Graphike included both painting and sculpture in all
their various forms.16

In fact, Poliziano indicates that the practical arts include not just two but
seven divisions: agriculture, pasturing, hunting, architecture (architectura),
drawing (graphice), cooking, and theatre – similar to Hugh of St Victor’s
seven mechanical arts.17 Summers adds a note about graphike, a division that
clearly is rooted in drawing: “Poliziano’s graphike is a humanist translation
of disegno, essential both to the theory and practice of Italian and especially
Florentine painting.”18 In the graphike-disegno division Poliziano includes

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 Diagram of Angelo
Poliziano’s practical arts,
after Panepistemon (1490).

painting, statuary, bas-relief carving, sculpting in wood or stone, modeling

in clay or wax, and encaustic painting with molten wax.19 Additional forms
of painting and sculpture could have been included, but it is clear that the
division is intended to cover representational arts.
The architectura division is separate from graphike-disegno, indicating
that its roots are not in drawing.20 Looking forward, this contradicts one of
Vasari’s premises of the arti del disegno. Looking backward, the resemblance
between Poliziano’s practical arts and Hugh of St Victor’s mechanical arts
suggests a historical precedent in which architecture was part of armatura,
as an invention that compensates for intrinsic human weakness. The inclu-
sion of drawing in Poliziano’s seven practical arts casts a new light onto the
six others, suggesting that they do not share a common purpose as a bodily
remedy. The order in which Poliziano presents his seven practical arts is
a graduated series from nature and necessity (agriculture) to artifice and
pleasure (theatre). Alongside drawing, cooking is no longer just for human
survival; taste now can be recognized. Theatre, which Hugh had presented
as a medical remedy, now shares the representational and pleasurable man-
date of drawing. In the middle of this series of seven practical arts, archi-
tecture sits alongside disegno and leans toward nature, while disegno leans
toward artifice.
Unlike Alberti, who identified painting (starting from perspective) as
the root subject of the arts, Poliziano instead regards sculpture as the root
subject because it deals most directly with the human body. According
to Summers,

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 Although graphike (or disegno) and pictura are closely related,
Poliziano chose sculpture as the basis of symmetria; his intention was
not simply to outline Alberti’s treatises on the arts, and in fact an
extraordinary change was made in the theoretical foundation of
Alberti’s theory of painting [as inherited by Poliziano]. Not only is
perspective omitted from the definition of painting … but its
constructive geometry is no longer the basis for the rationality of
painting, “distances and places” now being merely secondary, among
the pictorial embellishments of a world of forms defined in length,
breadth and depth, but undefined in their mutual relations. In
Alberti’s system as set out in Della pittura the proportions of the
figures were continuous with the geometry of the ambient space;
now everything is centered in the human body and three-dimen-
sional definition ends at the surfaces of the body.21

This emphasis on the attributes of sculpture would inform subsequent

concepts of disegno in the sixteenth century. Vitruvius’s reference to the body
also established a lateral link between sculpture and architecture, despite
being located in separate divisions of Poliziano’s practical arts.

Leonardo’s Argument for Painting

Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) pursued disegno in several related ways: as

drawing; as design; and as the artist’s imitation of nature.22 When Leonardo
speaks of disegno as drawing, he also invokes the two broader domains:
“Painting is divided into two principal parts; that is, outline, which surrounds
the forms of the objects depicted – and which are termed disegno – and the
second which is called shadow. But this disegno is of such excellence that it
not only investigates the works of nature, but infinitely more than those that
nature produces … And for this reason we concluded that disegno is not only
a science but [a] deity whose name should be duly commemorated, a deity
which repeats all the visible works of God the highest.”23
Nature was Leonardo’s constant reference. He believed that sight is the
most reliable sense for understanding nature, and that painting should
represent accurately what the eye sees. However, instead of a raw encounter
between the eye and the world, he recommends using theory to guide one’s

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observations and representations. “Those who become enamoured of the
practice of the art, without having previously applied to the diligent study of
the scientific part of it, may be compared to mariners, who put to sea in a
ship without rudder or compass, and therefore cannot be certain of arriving
at the wished-for port.”24
Painting starts with drawing (disegno) to describe the outlines of figures.25
Following Alberti, he advises the painter to use perspective geometry to
locate these outlines correctly, as “perspective is to painting what the bri-
dle is to a horse, and the rudder to a ship.”26 Again following Alberti, he
advises the painter to represent relief correctly by observing light and
shade, as the major cause of wonder in painting is to turn the flat surface of
a canvas or wall into a scene with relief and depth.27 To render depth cor-
rectly, he introduces a new pair of optical principles for “aerial perspective”:
the gradual reduction of sharpness and colour saturation as figures recede
into the thickness of air. By carefully following these principles, one can
make a painting that appears as natural as what the eye sees in a mirror.
The replication of visual appearance is Leonardo’s prime objective for
drawing and painting.
Still, he recognizes that painting cannot be fully equivalent to vision:
“Objects in paintings can never detach, as natural objects do … It is impos-
sible that objects in painting should appear with the same relief as those in
the looking-glass, unless we look at them with only one eye.”28 To Leonardo,
drawing is not just for replicating visual appearance but also for under-
standing particular features of nature. Alberti’s attention to the lineaments
of buildings reappears in Leonardo’s attention to the lineaments of faces:
“You must observe and remember well the variations of the four principal
features in the profile: the nose, mouth, chin, and forehead. And first of the
nose, of which there are three different sorts, straight, concave, and convex.
Of the straight there are but four variations, short or long, high at the end,
or low. Of the concave there are three sorts.”29
Again following Alberti, Leonardo records various types of expression
in the postures and movements of the body, then commits them to mem-
ory.30 These natural features will provide references when making new
compositions in either painting or sculpture: “His mind will by this method
be like a mirror, reflecting truly every object placed before it, and become, as
it were, a second Nature.”31 He recommends studying many different exam-

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ples to recognize typical features in different types of people. The diverse
proportions and expressions he observes in nature remain evident. Unlike
Alberti, he does not attempt to reduce them to a single, beautiful ideal.
“Painting is most praiseworthy that has the most similarity to the thing
reproduced, and I say this to refute such painters as want to improve on
nature.”32 Although Leonardo reinforces observation through memory, he
notes that memory is not entirely reliable or complete, so one should always
return to natural observations.33
In the same way that Alberti internalized architectural lineamenti and
did not mention actual drawings in the first book of On the Art of Building,
Leonardo takes disegno back to a primordial state that does not require
paper: “I have experienced no small benefit, when in the dark and in bed, by
retracing in my mind the outlines of those forms which I had previously
studied, particularly such as had appeared the most difficult to comprehend
and retain; by this method they will be confirmed and treasured up in the
memory.”34 Consequently, disegno for Leonardo is not just about drawings
but is also a deeper mental and/or bodily understanding that relies on one’s
memory.
After diligently studying nature and developing skill by copying exem-
plary drawings by the masters, a student can attempt new compositions.
“In order to acquire a true notion of the form of things, he must begin by
studying the parts which compose them, and not pass to a second till he
has well stored his memory, and sufficiently practised the first; otherwise
he loses his time, and will most certainly protract his studies. And let him
remember to acquire accuracy before he attempts quickness … The young
painter must, in the first instance, accustom his hand to copying the draw-
ings of good masters; and when his hand is thus formed and ready, he
should, with the advice of his director, use himself also to draw from
relievos.”35 Leonardo says that a painter who decides to compose a creature
that never existed before must rely on observations of parts of existing
creatures; otherwise, the new creature will not look convincing. Disegno as
design thus relies on nature. Nature also establishes limits within which the
imagination can operate.
Like Leonardo’s achievements in painting, his imaginative mechanical
inventions also are generated from observations and hypotheses about
nature. To Leonardo, design is a form of discovery that starts from a natural

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observation, draws parallels from other situations, generates a hypothesis,
is pursued through drawing, and may lead to an insight about nature. As
nature is Leonardo’s primary reference, products of design are not mainly for
human utility. Nature is God’s creation, so human inventions that involve
nature (painting, mechanics, etc.) are engaging that creation. This places the
artist in a subordinate but integral role as a secondary creator, which
“requires the mind of the painter to transmute itself into nature’s own mind
and to become the interpreter between nature and art.”36
Although Leonardo advises students to develop skill by copying exem-
plary work by the masters, he tells everyone else not to emulate the work
of others: “One painter ought never to imitate the manner of any other;
because in that case he cannot be called the child of Nature, but the grand-
child. It is always best to have recourse to Nature, which is replete with such
abundance of objects, than to the production of other masters, who learnt
everything from her.”37 To Leonardo, nature is the sole authority, so insu-
lating oneself from that primary source would be detrimental. Unlike
Alberti, he was not inclined to invoke the ancients.
Although most of Leonardo’s notes on seeing, drawing, and painting are
directed to fellow practitioners, he also makes a series of arguments to the
general public in an effort to have painting recognized as a liberal art.
Instead of just praising painting on its own, he makes comparisons that
demean three other arts: sculpture, poetry, and music.38 The arguments he
introduces are not philosophically rigorous, but they do shed some light on
his own position and cast some shadows on the subsequent history of the
arti del disegno.
Alberti had regarded painting and sculpture as cognate arts that share a
common objective: the diligent representation of nature. Leonardo does not
question that objective, but identifies qualitative differences that raise the
status of painting and lower the status of sculpture.39 To avoid charges of
bias in this comparison, he points out that he is experienced in both sculp-
ture and painting.40 He starts with the old banausic argument: To carve
stone, a sculptor must expend considerable physical effort that produces
fatigue, sweat, and dust that covers one’s face and clothes. A painter, on the
other hand, sits comfortably and well dressed in a clean house, applying
colours with a light brush.41 A sculpture remains in the same volumetric
mode as all other physical objects (including the superior objects of nature),

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so it elicits no intrinsic sense of wonder in the observer. A painting, on the
other hand, elicits wonder by representing figures in relief and landscapes
in depth, despite being rendered on a flat surface. Painting can represent
anything that is visible: colour, transparency, distant figures, mists, rain, dust,
stars, light, etc.; a sculpture cannot. A painter needs to understand nature
and its optical laws; this requires more mental deliberation than a sculptor
who merely reproduces the form of a physical object.
Poetry is his second target.42 Leonardo indicates that both painting and
poetry seek to represent the world, but painting does this more effectively.
As a “universal language” it communicates to everyone, whereas poetry is
based on human conventions and is understood only by those who share its
language. The works of nature are represented more precisely by the visual
images of painting than by the spoken words of poetry. Painting is perceived
instantaneously as a whole and remains present to be contemplated, where-
as poetry becomes present only in small parts and then disappears, leaving
behind nothing to contemplate. “Something made by the poet may be
likened to a beautiful face which is shown to you feature by feature, and,
being made in this way, cannot ever satisfactorily convince you of its
beauty.”43 Because the humanists already had recognized poetry (and lit-
erature generally) as a liberal art, Leonardo charges them with a conflict of
interest and argues that painting is more deserving of this status:

You have placed painting amongst the mechanical arts. Certainly if

painters were capable of praising their works in writing, as poets have
done, I do not believe that painting would have been given such a
bad name. Painting does not speak, but is self-evident through its
finished product, while poetry ends in words, with which it vig-
orously praises itself. If you call painting mechanical because it is
primarily manual, in that the hands depict what is found in the
imagination, you writers draft with your hand what is found in your
mind. With justified complaints, painting laments that it has been
excluded from the number of the liberal arts, since she is the true
daughter of nature and acts through the noble sense. Therefore it was
wrong, O writers, to have left her outside the number of the liberal
arts, since she embraces not only the works of nature but also an
infinite number that nature never created.44

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 Music is Leonardo’s third target; however, he criticizes music less than
sculpture and poetry, and even describes it as the sister of painting.45 He
merely asks that these two sisters be treated equally. “Therefore, seeing
that you have placed music amongst the liberal arts, either you should place
painting there or remove music.”46 Although Leonardo’s comments about
music seem to address the same audience that recognized poetry as a liberal
art, music (as music theory) had been included in the liberal arts since the
ancient era, based on its numerical properties. Leonardo does not question
these properties directly but instead makes an argument based on differences
among the human senses and the impact of losing a particular sense: “He
who loses sight loses the spectacle and beauty of the universe, and comes to
resemble someone who has been buried alive in a tomb in which he can
move and survive.”47 Believing that it would be preferable to lose one’s
hearing than one’s sight, he concludes that music is lower in status than
painting.48 He also states that music is concerned only with pitch, so it
does not present a broad range of qualities comparable to what painting
presents.49
Despite taking a strong stand on painting, sculpture, poetry, and music,
Leonardo says nothing about architecture, suggesting that it is not part of
this debate. Leonardo’s notebooks include written notes about architecture
that focus on issues of structure (foundations, arches, beams) and construc-
tion defects (fissures in walls and arches).50 He did not study or emulate the
ornamental properties of ancient buildings, suggesting that following in
the footsteps of the ancients would be a distraction from nature. The issues
of ornamentation that occupy the last half of Alberti’s treatise would have
seemed arbitrary to him, like the rhetoric of poetry.51
Leonardo’s own architectural designs are generated from thoughts about
building structure or plan geometry.52 Each can be associated with nature.
His structural designs respond to the force of gravity in the same way that
his mechanical designs respond to physical forces.53 Both are aligned with
his anatomical studies that show how God made the human body operate.
Leonardo’s centralized temple plans are “geometric mechanisms” composed
of solids and voids, subsequently projected into exterior perspective sketches
to see how these exercises might return to nature.54 In each case, architec-
ture is engaging nature through mechanical invention.
When Leonardo’s comments about architecture depart from this natu-
ral frame of reference, they seem remote. Alberti had advised architects to

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learn principles of painting, but Leonardo does the reverse: “A painter,
therefore, ought to be well instructed in perspective, and acquire a perfect
knowledge of the dimensions of the human body; he should also be a good
architect, at least as far as concerns the outward shape of buildings, with
their different parts.”55 His reference to “the outward shape of buildings” is
not supported by any theoretical discussion and is not explored with any
intensity in his architectural designs, beyond a general attention to massing
and relief. Elsewhere he mentions architecture in a list of disciplines that
receive insights from the science of painting: “Through … draughtsmanship
[the science of painting] teaches the architect how to make his buildings
convey pleasure to the eye.”56 Another reference to architecture and optics
remains undeveloped: “[The eye] has generated architecture, perspective,
and divine painting … The eye is the window of the human body.”57
Leonardo’s theoretical attention to perspective and optics provided him
with plenty of insights for painting but not for architecture. Instead, his
architectural designs were informed by geometry and mechanics. Vasari,
in the Lives, referred to Leonardo as a painter and sculptor, praising his
painting and his mechanical inventions. His only references to Leonardo’s
architectural work concern his apprenticeship period, when “he practised
not one branch of art only, but all those in which drawing played a part.”58

Benedetto Varchi’s Rhetorical Question

Benedetto Varchi (1503–65) was a notable Florentine scholar, historian, and

lecturer. In 1536, after being exiled from Florence for political reasons,
he moved to Padua to participate in scholarly life around the university,
known for its Aristotelian emphasis. In 1540, during a period when acade-
mies proliferated,59 Varchi helped found the Accademia degli Infiammati
(Academy of the Burning Ones).60 In this group he was an associate of
Daniele Barbaro, who later would translate and comment on Vitruvius.
In Florence, Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici (1519–74) had come to power in
1537 and began to revitalize the city after many years of decline. He recog-
nized potential in the Accademia degli Umidi (Academy of the Wet Ones),
a group founded in 1540 to enrich the Tuscan language, and in 1541 gave it
a more civic name, Accademia Fiorentina. This was Cosimo’s first major
step in promoting Tuscan culture as part of his larger ambition for the city

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and its region.61 To bolster the ranks of the academy, Cosimo pardoned
Florentine scholars in exile and invited them to return. Varchi returned in
1543 and Cosimo appointed him to a leadership role at the academy. Cosimo
later assigned Varchi the task of writing a history of Florence.62
Although the focus of this academy was mainly literary and philo-
sophical, its membership included notable artists. In 1547, Benedetto Varchi
delivered a pair of lectures to the academy on the moral function of art and
on relations among painting, sculpture, and disegno. These lectures were
published in 1550, prefaced by two politically inspired dedications.63 His first
lecture used a familiar humanist subject, the art of poetry, to introduce four
philosophical issues for arts: imagination vs. product, intellectual vs. manual
skill, form vs. matter, and preconception vs. discovery.64 These issues were
developed around a sonnet by Michelangelo and provided an Aristotelian
frame of reference for the subsequent lecture.65
Varchi’s second lecture presented several principles for categorizing arts.
He distinguished performing arts (e.g., dancing and singing) from produc-
tive arts such as painting, sculpture, and architecture. Productive arts are
nobler because their products last longer. Arts that are useful, such as
medicine and architecture, are even nobler.66 He also distinguished arts that
imitate nature’s appearance (e.g., painting and sculpture) from arts that
imitate nature’s methods (e.g., architecture).67 This categorization of the arts
regarded painting and sculpture as lower forms of human knowledge that
involve both reason and manual skill. It granted them a certain degree of
nobility without attaching them to either mathematics or language, on which
the seven traditional liberal arts were based.
Following this general introduction, Varchi compared the arts of paint-
ing and sculpture. In preparing for the lecture he had invited four painters
(Vasari, Bronzino, Pontormo, and Tasso) and four sculptors (San Gallo,
Tribolo, Cellini, Michelangelo) – all members of the Accademia Fioren-
tina – to submit a letter responding to the question, “Which is more noble,
sculpture or painting?” Not surprisingly, the painters voted for painting; the
sculptors voted for sculpture. Their reasons included no major points that
Varchi had not considered, so their responses provided only a background
for his lecture. Still, their letters were included as an appendix when Varchi’s
lectures were published.
In the fifteenth century, Alberti and Leonardo had argued for the nobil-
ity of certain arts by favouring geometry over substance, intention over

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execution, and theory over practice. Varchi took that strategy a step further
by presenting both painting and sculpture as moral arts, based on their
capacity to promote moral virtues in the contemplative observer and to
point the way to salvation.68 By the 1540s, the faithful representation of
natural appearances was no longer enough. The artist still imitates (divine)
nature, but now relies on moral ideas as well as natural appearance. The
artist also has a more self-conscious role: to recognize a divine idea in
himself and then in unformed matter.69
Unlike Leonardo, who had compared painting and sculpture so that
painting could be promoted, Varchi compared them to raise a larger issue
about the ultimate goal of art: “Both arts seek to imitate nature and that one
will be the nobler which does this better and approaches the truth more
closely.”70 To consider their differences, Varchi introduced eight criteria: uni-
versality, simultaneity, difficulty, multi-sidedness, technique, magnificence
and ornament, convenience and utility, and beauty and pleasure. Sometimes
painting prevailed; sometimes sculpture did. In the end, sculpture pulled
ahead, perhaps to compensate for its loss during the previous century and to
recognize what Michelangelo had accomplished since then.71 Returning to
all four issues he had introduced in the previous lecture, he praised the abil-
ity of the sculptor to take a partially formed image from his soul, bring it to
a hard block of marble, then gradually extract a beautiful form from the
marble, as if it had been latent all along.72 Painting, however, he considered
less revelatory because a painter merely applies pigments and conjures
things that do not exist.73 “Painting is … sophistry, that is [it is] apparent
and not true, not unlike figures which appear in a mirror; one is conscious
that those things that appear in the picture do not exist in reality. This does
not happen in sculpture.”74
Although this may seem like an entertaining horse race between two
arts, Varchi had a higher aim: to show that their differences are in fact dual-
ities of a greater whole. To do this, he portrayed painting and sculpture as
Platonic opposites: respectively, body and soul, earthly and divine, matter
and mind, external vision and internal vision, etc.75 This was an interim step,
prior to reconciliation. Although Varchi was leaning more toward sculpture,
he finally resolves the dualities by introducing a third element: disegno.
Extending a line of thought through Petrarch, Alberti, and Leonardo,
Varchi describes disegno as the origin, source, and mother of both arts.76 As
the key element of the arts, disegno also defines their common purpose: Both

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painting and sculpture are artificial imitations of nature that promote the
moral virtues of humans. Within Varchi’s dualistic framework, painting and
sculpture are complementary; each provides what the other does not.77 To
Varchi, the theoretical battle is now over and the sibling rivalry has become
more like a marriage performed by the (female) priest disegno. To conclude
the exercise, Varchi brings the two newly united arts of disegno to meet
poetry for a final comparison, as poetry was still a humanist standard, being
a liberal art with a moral purpose.
In the previous century disegno had been a common denominator for
painting and sculpture, but Varchi associates disegno instead with moral
virtues, as the pivotal element in a theoretical domain that includes God,
the artist, matter, human observers, subjects for representation, and ancient
authorities. The earlier emphasis on disegno as drawing has faded into the
background while the two other domains – disegno as design and especially
disegno as imitation – have moved to the foreground. Because Varchi’s
scheme for reconciling opposites was based on a duality, there was no room
for architecture as a third art.78 However, his primary aim was not to develop
a comprehensive hierarchy of arts but to recognize a larger ambition for the
arts and to develop a theoretical scheme in which disegno could reconcile
differences. Later, Vasari would have to abandon Varchi’s dualistic scheme
so that architecture could be included. Varchi’s concepts have been criticized
as “not unique” and “not fully worked out,”79 but in the history of the arti del
disegno his lectures provide a notable stepping stone just before Vasari,
whose first edition of the Lives would appear three years later. It was also
Varchi, and not Vasari, who coined the term arte del disegno.80

Giorgio Vasari and the Accademia del Disegno

The Lives

After tracing various roots of the arti del disegno through the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, we now return to Vasari in the mid-sixteenth cen-
tury. Giorgio Vasari (1511–74), educated as a humanist and a painter, was
employed by the Medici in Florence and Rome. He associated for a while
with Michelangelo, who inspired him to become an architect. He is known
for painting frescoes in the Palazzo Vecchio and the dome of the cathedral in
Florence. In his later years he designed the Uffizi, originally an office build-

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ing for magistrates and guilds that gradually became the gallery for the
Medici collection.81
Despite these practical achievements, Vasari is best known for the Lives
(1550, 1568), two editions of the biographies that place Florentine painters,
sculptors, and architects at the heart of Renaissance art. The Lives is not a
manual of practical information on painting, sculpting, and building, as
skills. It is not a theoretical treatise that defines principles of painting, sculp-
ture, and architecture, as disciplines. It is not a philosophical treatise that
situates painting, sculpture, and architecture within a larger epistemological
framework, as domains of knowledge. Instead, it is largely a survey of the
achievements of painters, sculptors, and architects, as individual practition-
ers, accompanied by narrative descriptions of their most notable products.
The first edition, Lives of the Most Excellent Italian Architects, Painters,
and Sculptors (1550), focused on certain individuals in Florence during the
previous two centuries, starting with Cimabue and Giotto. The structure
was roughly chronological, culminating in Michelangelo as the perfect
painter, sculptor, and architect, and the only figure in the book who was
still alive. Most of the artists were painters. The book was dedicated to
Cosimo and was intended to support his cultural and political ambitions
for Florence.
The second edition had a modified title, Lives of the Most Excellent
Painters, Sculptors, and Architects (1568), and was expanded to include prac-
titioners in the regional territories that Florence controlled.82 It also included
more sculptors and architects, for a more equitable distribution among the
three arts. Michelangelo continued to be a major player, but this edition
included (and promoted) current painters and sculptors. Cosimo’s court
historian, Vincenzo Borghini, helped Vasari prepare the second edition.
In both editions, Vasari situated practitioners in a historical sequence
that reached a high standard in the ancient world, declined after the fall of
Rome, and rose again during the previous 250 years, mainly in Florence. By
glorifying the ancients and demeaning the medievals, Vasari followed other
humanists, especially Petrarch.83 Both editions presented artists from only
the current age, which Vasari described as a rebirth. The current age was
divided into three chronological periods to show its gradual perfection of
disegno, culminating in Michelangelo.
In the second edition, approximately half of Vasari’s subjects are de-
scribed singly as a painter, a sculptor, or an architect. Others are described

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Title page from Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccellenti architetti, pittori,
et scultori italiani (Florence: Lorenzo Torrentino, 1550).

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doubly as a painter and sculptor, as a painter and architect, or as a sculptor
and architect. Five figures, including Michelangelo, achieve triple status
by engaging in all three occupations. Judging from Vasari’s headings, each
occupation remains distinct. For example, one can be a painter and an archi-
tect, but not a “painter-architect” who does hybrid work that combines these
two occupations in a novel way. Reinforced internally by all possible single,
double, and triple permutations, these three occupations are presented as a
finite set, as three siblings in a single family. Their father is disegno and their
mother is inventiveness (invenzione), “design and invention being father and
mother of all these arts and not of one alone.”84
Like others from Pliny to Varchi, he describes the close bond between
painting and sculpture: “I say, then, that sculpture and painting are in truth
sisters, born from one father, that is, design, at one and the same birth.”85
The role of disegno, as father, is to be a patriarch. Vasari does not present
disegno as an occupation in itself. Instead, it is a higher category to which the
three arts belong. As children who carry their father’s surname, the three
arts are identified as “arts of design” (arti del disegno).86 Following Varchi, he
stresses that painting and sculpture are equal in status: “Sculpture and
painting … have no precedence one over the other … Those do evil who
strive to disunite and to separate the one from the other.”87 His preface
follows Varchi by replaying the debate about which is nobler, sculpture or
painting.88 Again like Varchi, he neutralizes the debate through opposition
and then reconciliation, pointing out that these two arts are really twin
sisters, the offspring of disegno, so neither has precedence.89
He says that both painting and sculpture originated in Egypt but were
preceded by disegno.90 To neutralize their sibling rivalry, he subordinates
them to architecture, which is portrayed as an older, more mature character
with different priorities.91 He also differentiates between architecture and
the twins by considering how they responded to challenges at the end of the
ancient era: “And the first to fall into decay were painting and sculpture, as
being arts that served more for pleasure than for use, while the other –
namely, architecture – as being necessary and useful for bodily weal,
continued to exist, but no longer in its perfection and excellence.”92 These
statements effectively shame the two siblings into silence, at least temporar-
ily – perhaps a rhetorical move rather than a candid assessment of their
relative merits, given the praise he lavishes on them elsewhere in the book.

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 Vasari includes architecture as a third member of the arti del disegno,
departing from the duality that Varchi had established. By stating that there
are different criteria for architecture (universality and utility) than for paint-
ing and sculpture (adornment), he acknowledges that architecture cannot
simply join the twins to form a set of triplets. Vasari could have brought the
three arts closer by declaring that all of them promote moral virtue in the
observer, but he declines to follow Varchi down that path. Instead, his focus
remains on the products of the respective artists.
In Vasari’s time the word “art” (arte) was still associated with craft and
skill. Vasari refers to painters, sculptors, and architects as “craftsmen”
(artefici) while referring to their occupations as the “three most excellent
arts.”93 He continued to define art as the imitation of nature: “I know that
our art is all imitation, of nature for the most part, and then, because a
man cannot by himself rise so high, of those works that are executed by
those whom he judges to be better masters than himself.”94 However, now
that Michelangelo had reached perfection in all three arts, nothing more
can be accomplished in disegno. “Art has done everything that it is possible
for her, as an imitator of nature, to do.”95 Artists in all three arts now can
imitate not only nature but also Michelangelo, as he had perfected disegno.
This concept of design sounds foreign to modern ears: as a domain that is
finite and can be mastered. Inventiveness (invenzione), on the other hand,
is open-ended and provides opportunities for those who come after
Michelangelo. Before Michelangelo had reached perfection, both disegno
and invenzione were open-ended, but now that the limit of disegno has
become apparent, the conditions must change for everyone who follows.
Vasari had named two properties, disegno and invenzione, as the two parents
of the three arts. The distinction between them now seems significant: The
limits of the father are known, whereas the mother’s potential is open-
ended and forward-looking. Knowing that disegno as drawing, disegno as
design, and disegno as imitation are all finite would cast a new light on
painting, sculpture, and architecture.

Accademia del Disegno

Alongside his Lives, Vasari was able to pursue his concept of the arti del
disegno in an institution for the three arts: the Accademia del Disegno. In
1562, the friar and sculptor Giovanni Montorsoli (1507–63) offered to donate

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a chapel and crypt for painters and sculptors who could not afford a proper
burial. It had been used by the Compagnia di San Luca, a social and chari-
table confraternity for painters in Florence that was founded in the mid-
fourteenth century but dissolved in the mid-sixteenth.96 He discussed his
proposal with Vasari and others. A week later they met again to discuss a
further idea to develop an academy for artists.97 It would be separate from
the literary and philosophical Accademia Fiorentina.98 Cosimo I, Duke of
Tuscany, supported the initial idea, so the group, guided by Cosimo’s repre-
sentative Vincenzo Borghini, prepared a set of forty-seven statutes.99 The
institution would have two parts: a confraternity and an academy. Like the
earlier Compagnia di San Luca, the confraternity would have a charitable
role: to provide support to members who had become sick or disabled, and
to provide communal burial for members who could not pay for anything
more. The academy’s basic mandate was to advance the three arts, and im-
plicitly to strengthen Florence’s cultural and political standing. It included
an educational objective: to provide guidance to beginners and to encourage
proficiency in older artists through emulation and competition.100
The statutes for the Compagnia e Accademia del Disegno were approved
by Cosimo in early 1563. Cosimo, as the patron of the institution, was named
protector and honorary president. Michelangelo also was named an hon-
orary president, although he was eighty-seven years old and living in Rome.
Recognized throughout Italy as the perfect painter, sculptor, and architect, as
well as a master of disegno, Michelangelo was a living example of the academy’s
ambition to bring together the three arts. Vincenzo Borghini, Cosimo’s rep-
resentative, was named the academy’s lieutenant (luogotenente) to oversee
its operations.101 During the academy’s first few months it became clear that
Cosimo was in control. The members had voted to admit certain additional
members but Cosimo overturned their decision.102
The Accademia del Disegno was the first art academy.103 As the name sug-
gests, it was defined not by subjects (painting, sculpture, architecture) but by
the disegno they shared. The academy was not a school with a comprehensive
curriculum. It was intended to complement, not replace, the workshops where
apprentices still learned their art. The academy’s statutes prescribed instruction
in Euclidean geometry and other mathematical sciences (e.g., perspective):
subjects that might not be learned properly in workshop practice.104 Each year
the academy also would conduct a dissection at a nearby hospital so that
artists could observe the internal parts of a human body.

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 During its first few years, the presence of the academy was most evident
in special events that promoted its new civic status. The first event, in 1563,
was a second funeral for the painter Pontormo, whose remains were un-
earthed, paraded by members of the academy through the streets of Florence,
and redeposited in the academy’s communal crypt.
The second major event, in 1564, was an esequie, a memorial tribute for
Michelangelo, who had died five months earlier. The painters and sculptors
– despite an internal feud over the primacy of painting or sculpture – made
elaborate decorations in the church of San Lorenzo to honour Michelangelo,
to glorify the three arts, and to promote the academy as the custodian of
Michelangelo’s legacy in painting, sculpture, and architecture. Vincenzo
Borghini organized the program for the event, Giorgio Vasari developed the
general decoration scheme, and Benedetto Varchi delivered the funeral
oration.105 The church was filled to capacity and tributes were submitted by
Florentine citizens. An official pamphlet, Esequie del divino Michelagnolo
Buonarroti (Funeral rites for the divine Michelagnolo Buonarroti), was
published later to commemorate the event and disseminate the interests of
the academy. To promote the standing of painting and sculpture, it included
a few historical distortions, including a retroactive statement about their
liberal art status: “And though it may appear to be a manual occupation – is
there anyone who would yet not acknowledge that intellect and talent play
the major part in it? Therefore it has always and in every nation, but
especially in ours, taken a most distinguished place among the other liberal
arts, and its practitioners have been much revered and beloved and have
been held in the highest esteem.”106
Apart from the chapel and crypt, the academy did not have a permanent
home, and would not have one for decades. Instead, Cosimo provided a
series of temporary accommodations that citizens had donated to him.
Nevertheless, the academy developed a reputation at home and abroad. In
1567, King Philip II of Spain sought the academy’s opinion on proposed
architectural designs for the Escorial.107 Although the initial statutes speci-
fied that only accomplished painters, sculptors, and architects were eligible
for membership in the academy, its growing status prompted ambitious
non-artists to seek membership in other ways.108 Before the eighteenth cen-
tury, only one woman (with Medici support) was admitted to the academy.109
Until 1571, the painters in Florence continued to belong to the Guild of
Doctors and Apothecaries, while the sculptors and architects belonged to

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the Guild of Builders (Arte dei Fabbricanti).110 In 1571, after Cosimo had
been elevated to Grand Duke of Tuscany, he released the Florentine painters,
sculptors, and architects from their obligation for membership in their
respective guilds.111 He transferred the various guild functions to a new uni-
versità component of the academy, and the revised institution was renamed
the Accademia, Compagnia ed Università del Disegno. This brought together
the institutional functions for all three arts. It also brought their commercial
operations under the direct control of Cosimo rather than the guilds.112
However, two years later, the academy decided that commercial adminis-
tration was detrimental to its artistic ambitions, and took steps to separate
these two activities once again.113
For centuries the guilds had defined the three arts according to their
materials (pigments, stone, and wood) and their eventual products. Bring-
ing them together under the collective but ambiguous heading disegno shifted
attention to three interim activities of artists: drawing, designing, and imi-
tating. At that time, drawing still was understood only as a preliminary step
to guide the artist in making the final product. Most drawings were discarded
after serving their immediate use. This began to change after Vasari collected
drawings from artists, framed them, and displayed them for members of the
academy.114 Like Alberti and Leonardo, he distinguished between the initial
disegno stage of painting (in which contour lines indicate the edges of forms)
and the subsequent colore stage (when colours are added within the outlines
to represent surfaces, light, and shade).115 Focusing on drawings enabled
Vasari and the academy to pause at the preliminary stage – disegno as draw-
ing – then consider how the artist deals with the larger domains: disegno as
design and disegno as imitation. Design and imitation required the artist
to study (and draw) particular examples to discern the perfect attributes of
a subject through a gradual process of induction. Associating drawing and
cognition enabled the three related domains of disegno to be discussed sep-
arately from issues of material and production. Although Vasari brought
new emphasis to the drawing stage and the cognitive issues it raised, he was
a prolific painter who was committed to carrying projects to completion.
Not much information about the academy’s day-to-day activities has
been recorded, but the thinness of its educational curriculum during the
early years was suggested by a public letter written in the late 1570s by one of
its members, Federico Zuccaro, who called for “figure-drawing classes,
instruction in the handling of tools and the manipulation of materials,

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advice in composition, critiques of the work of younger members by those
most skilled in their fields, and lectures in mathematics at least once a
month.”116 Still, one cannot apply educational expectations from later acad-
emies retroactively to the first academy in Florence. Education was only part
of the mandate of the Accademia del Disegno. Academies in Italy had been
intended mainly for study and discussion. The workshops still were respon-
sible for training apprentices.

Architecture in the Accademia del Disegno

From the initial establishment of the academy, efforts were made to treat
painters, sculptors, and architects equally, as this would reinforce the prem-
ise that disegno is their singular source, medium, and purpose. Benedetto
Varchi had presented painting and sculpture as a duality, invoking symbols
of twinness in a plot involving opposition and reconciliation. Vasari, on the
other hand, presented the three arts as a triad, invoking a different set of
symbols, including the Three Graces in Greek and Roman mythology and
the Holy Trinity in Christianity.117 This triad format, along with its symbolic
precedents, implied a different plot based on equality and complementarity.
In the preface to the second edition of the Lives, written while the
academy was in its early years, Vasari declares: “I will begin, then, with archi-
tecture, as the most universal and the most necessary and useful to men, and
as that for the service and adornment of which the two others [painting and
sculpture] exist.”118 This shifts the balance away from painting and sculpture
and toward architecture, just as Varchi’s earlier lecture had privileged sculp-
ture and shifted the balance away from painting. The tricky task of balancing
the three arts was facilitated by the honorary appointment of Michelangelo,
who served as a single role model for practitioners in all three arts, under
the banner of disegno.
The initial statutes of the academy referred equally to painters, sculptors,
and architects.119 They specified that the nominating committee would in-
clude one of each. The committee’s role was to identify artists who might be
qualified for academy membership and to comment on the work of young
apprentices in the academy or in the workshops of practitioners.120 Any in-
ternal disputes within the academy were to be resolved by representatives
from all three arts. A similar group of three would serve as auditors.121 Regu-
lar meetings of the academy would be held on two festival days: one for St

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Luke, the patron saint of painters, and one for i Santi Quattro Incoronati (the
four crowned saints), the patron saints of sculptors and architects.122 When
members died and were buried in the academy’s crypt, they were organized
by age, experience, and rank, not by their particular occupation.123
Despite the academy’s intention to maintain equality and complemen-
tarity, the dispute over the relative status of painting and sculpture
continued. These tensions were most evident in the dispute over which art
would be represented most prominently in the symbolic decorations for
Michelangelo’s memorial event.124
Although drawing was the most elementary meaning of disegno and the
most obvious common ground for the three arts, it became evident in the
academy that drawing favoured the painters over the sculptors. When work
by aspiring artists was presented at academy-wide events, the young painters
made drawings while the young sculptors and architects made reliefs in wax
or clay.125 Making lines on a flat surface is not an intrinsic activity for a
sculptor, so the academy permitted young sculptors to model figures directly
in clay, without drawing first.126 In the introduction to the Lives, Vasari also
says that sculptors often skip the drawing stage and develop a design by
making a sketch model in wax or clay, then a full-sized clay model, and
finally a full-sized sculpture in stone.127 “And seeing that there are certain
sculptors who have not much practice in strokes and outlines, and conse-
quently cannot draw on paper, these work instead in clay or wax, fashioning
men, animals, and other things in relief, with beautiful proportion and bal-
ance. Thus they effect the same thing as does he who draws well on paper
or other flat surface.”128
However, disegno still should be evident in the volumetric outlines of the
sculpture: “In Sculpture, drawing is of service in the case of all the profiles,
because in going round from view to view the sculptor uses it when he
wishes to delineate the forms which please him best, or which he intends to
bring out in every dimension, whether in wax, or clay, or marble, or wood,
or other material.”129 Vasari’s notion of “drawing-in-the-round” using wax
or clay might be preceded by hand gestures in the air that describe outlines
of an eventual sculpture. This is similar to Alberti’s recognition that certain
architectural lineamenti are understood through a bodily awareness of nat-
ural forces, without actually drawing them on paper.
Amidst the academy’s minor skirmishes between painters and sculptors,
a more significant development would question the very concept of archi-

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tecture as an art of disegno. When the academy’s statutes were prepared in
November 1562 and approved by Cosimo in January 1563, they included a
provision for a committee to make amendments after the academy had been
operating for a while, so that any institutional problems could be ironed out.
The committee dutifully prepared a set of amendments in July 1563.130 Most
of the revisions were minor, but the sixth item had far-reaching implica-
tions: It specified that membership in the academy was only for qualified
painters or sculptors.131 This implied that architects would be excluded
unless they had an additional qualification.132
As the basic premise of the academy was to bring together painting,
sculpture, and architecture under the single banner of disegno, this was a
major departure. No explanation was given and no additional paperwork
on the subject has been preserved. The academy’s records confirm that this
amendment was carried out: During the sixteenth century, only three mem-
bers were identified even jointly as architects, and one of those was Vasari,
a painter and architect. 133 Of the 246 members who joined the acad-
emy between 1576 and 1595, there were “198 painters, thirty-one sculptors,
thirteen gilders, one architect, one miniaturist, one stuccoist, [and] one
gold-beater.”134
Other signs suggest that architecture had marginal status at the academy.
The official pamphlet produced after the memorial event for Michelangelo
in 1564 includes many tributes from citizens referring to Michelangelo’s
divine status in all three arts: painting, sculpture, and architecture – and
sometimes poetry. The pamphlet’s description of the event refers many
times to the academy, its members, and its relation to Michelangelo; how-
ever, architecture is often omitted: “the learned Academy of Florentine
Painters and Sculptors … the success of the Academy which was composed
of the best painters and sculptors of the city … the Academy and Company
of Painters and Sculptors … The art of painting and sculpture evokes love
and reverence in the beholder.”135
Eight years after the amendments, when Cosimo transferred the respon-
sibilities for architectural practice from the guild to the Università del
Disegno, architects in Florence once again became eligible for membership
in the Accademia del Disegno.136 However, the membership records indicate
that they were not admitted to the academy.
Despite its lopsided membership, the academy continued to proclaim
the principle of disegno and the equality of its triad of arts. For several

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 Detail of Michelangelo’s tomb, designed by Giorgio Vasari (1570).
Basilica of Santa Croce, Florence.

decades the academy considered designs for a graphic emblem to symbolize

the institution. Finally, in 1597, it approved a design that consisted of three
circular laurel wreaths in an intertwined triangular arrangement.137 This was
a variation on Michelangelo’s personal emblem, three intertwined circles,
which he adopted after Pope Paul III recognized him as a master of all three
arts.138 “Michelangelo used as his … seal three intersecting circles … inter-
twined in such a way that the circumference of one touched the centre of
the two others, and vice versa, so that they were equally joined and sepa-
rated. This may have meant that Michelangelo understood the three
professions of sculpture, painting and architecture as being interwoven and
tied together in such a way that each gives to, and receives from, the others
benefit and embellishment, and that they neither can, nor ought to, be
separated.”139 The academy later added its emblem to Michelangelo’s tomb,
using its laurel wreaths rather than his circles.
The dismal fate of architecture at the academy must have come as a
surprise to Vasari, but the second edition of the Lives makes no reference to

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it in the prefaces, the introductions to the three arts of design, or the biog-
raphies of architects. In a lengthy section on the accomplishments of current
members of the academy he surveys the painters and sculptors, but archi-
tects are conspicuously absent.140
It is tempting to blame this outcome on an ill-informed, intransigent
group of painters and sculptors, or perhaps an unknown motive on the
part of Cosimo, but another option also must be considered: a fatal flaw
in Vasari’s concept of the three arti del disegno and/or its application to the
academy. Sculptors and architects had belonged to the same guild in
Florence for several centuries, based on the materials in which their final
products were made: mainly stone and wood. The expulsion of architects
from the academy suggests that guild history and materials were no longer
primary. The typical products of sculptors (statues in the round, carved in
stone141) differed from the typical products of architects, which Vasari says
exist only in lines and remain remote from materials: “[The] chief use [of
profiles] is in Architecture, because its designs are composed only of lines,
which so far as the architect is concerned, are nothing else than the begin-
ning and the end of his art, for all the rest, which is carried out with the aid
of models of wood formed from the said lines, is merely the work of carvers
and masons.”142
Painters and architects had belonged to different guilds but they shared
drawing as a preliminary step toward either a painting or a building. With
the emergence of perspective in the fifteenth century, they also shared a
growing emphasis on geometry and spatial representations. However, this
concept of disegno as drawing was not strong enough to hold them together
at the academy.
Like painters and sculptors, architects can design ornamentation, as
described in Books 6-9 of Alberti’s On the Art of Building. All three arts can
contribute to a suitable decorum for civic life (a fifteenth-century ambition),
as well as encouraging moral virtue (a sixteenth-century ambition). But here
too, the academy’s dissociation of architecture from the two other arts
suggests that issues of ornamentation were not strong enough to hold
them together.
Painters and sculptors use different materials and techniques, their
products exist in different modes, and they belonged to different guilds for
several centuries. Despite these differences, painting and sculpture had been
associated since classical times. According to Pliny, Petrarch, Alberti, Varchi,

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and even Vasari, they were cognate arts: fraternal twins dedicated to orna-
mentation and pleasure. Both imitated visible nature – especially the human
body, which remained the primary subject for both painters and sculptors
in the Renaissance. Architects, on the other hand, paid attention to human
figures only metaphorically. Vasari tried to apply the human body to archi-
tecture too literally, using similes rather than metaphors: “[An ideal palace]
must represent the body of a man in the whole and similarly in the parts …
In its first aspect the facade demands beauty and grandeur, and should be
divided as is the face of a man. The door must be low down and in the mid-
dle, as in the head the mouth of the man, through which passes every sort
of food; the windows for the eyes, one on this side, one on that … It may
be said that [staircases] are the arms and legs of the body.”143
Painting and sculpture, as twins, had such a strong bond that archi-
tecture was bound to remain peripheral. Several writers had suggested that
their relation to architecture is based not on equality but on complemen-
tarity. Painters and sculptors adorn the work of architects, while architects
provide settings for the work of painters and sculptors.
The line that divided the academy coincided with the traditional dis-
tinction between the different ends of these arts: painting and sculpture were
for pleasure and memory; architecture was for utility and comfort (although
it too could offer some pleasure and invoke memory). Both Varchi and
Vasari had acknowledged this distinction, but Vasari may have minimized
its significance when he and Cosimo imagined the Accademia del Disegno
as an institution that would amalgamate the three arts as equals. Varchi had
stopped at two when he coined the term arti del disegno. When Vasari first
describes the twins in the Lives, he also stops at two: “I say, then, that sculp-
ture and painting are in truth sisters, born from one father, that is, design, at
one and the same birth, and have no precedence one over the other.”144 Later,
he attempts to turn the twins into triplets: “Design, the parent of our three
arts, Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting.”145
Vasari and others may have anticipated equality among painting,
sculpture, and architecture by emphasizing the observer rather than the
designer-maker. To a connoisseur (or a reader of the Lives), products of
painting, sculpture, and architecture can sit side by side and be apprehended
in similar ways. When Vasari describes paintings and buildings, he tends to
gloss over their differences by portraying both as narratives.146 He describes
paintings not as products of skill or as formal compositions, but as events

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with motion, sound, etc. For example, his description of a drawing of the
War of Pisa by Michelangelo includes a series of transitive verbs: “bathing
… alarm sound[ing] … announcing … attacking … springing out … dress-
ing … hastening … giv[ing] assistance … buckling … fastening … hearing
… struggling … straining … running.”147
To describe architectural projects, Vasari employs two narrative tech-
niques, both using transitive verbs. Referring to Michelangelo’s tribune
model for St Peter’s, he describes the actions with which an observer would
move through it: “You enter … are led … walk … climb … walk all the way
round … ascend.” He also describes implicit actions of the tribune’s formal
elements, turning a stationary composition into a short story: “rests …
rise[s] … is accompanied by … spring[s] … commences … curves … is
divided … leads to … project[s] … ascends … point[s] toward … merge[s]
into … fill[s] … go[es] right round … slope[s] away … give[s] light …
turn[s] … pass[es] into … reach[es].”148
To observers who focus on forms and their implicit narrative, a paint-
ing is not much different from a building. However, to artists who make
those paintings or buildings, their practical actions – imitating, designing,
and making – are quite different. As the academy was intended for practi-
tioners and not observers, these differences would reinforce the line that
divided the academy.
Although the Accademia del Disegno failed to unify the three arts of dis-
egno institutionally, this does not necessarily mean that the concept of arti
del disegno was fatally flawed nor that the individual arts of painting, sculp-
ture, and architecture were not arts of disegno. It simply means that the basic
premise of the institution was not completely viable, and that the concept
of the arti del disegno had certain limits.
The concept of disegno was developed from humanism in the fourteenth
century and reached its theoretical peak in the sixteenth century. Vasari’s
Lives covers the same period and provides a historical parallel to the struc-
tural intentions of the academy. The association of the three arts developed
gradually from an initial analogy between painting and poetry. Although
the three arts were supposed to be equal, painting retained its leadership
role. Disegno relied on three properties: the imitation of (ancient) nature,
ambitions for modern design, and an emphasis on formal outlines and
drawing. These three characteristics of disegno were evident in all three arts,
each in its own way. Therefore, each of the three arts was a legitimate art

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of disegno. Vasari’s Lives also notes that many artists moved laterally from
one art to another, suggesting that properties associated with disegno were
transferable.
However, the historical and epistemological roots of painting, sculpture,
and architecture go much deeper than the fourteenth century. Although
they shared certain attributes of disegno, disegno was not their collective
foundation. The fraternal twins, painting and sculpture, may have shared a
single father in disegno but they also shared ancestors in the ancient era, as
Pliny had noted in the story about tracing the outline of a figure. Architec-
ture, on the other hand, came from a different family tree and was grafted
into the disegno family only recently. Consequently, architecture resembled
painting and sculpture only in certain ways. In other ways it remained an
outsider and could have become an adjunct member of other academies
with different properties than the arts of disegno.

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 8
Architecture as a Fine Art

Paul Oskar Kristeller’s essay “The Modern System of the Arts” reminds us
that modern concepts of art and aesthetics did not exist before the eigh-
teenth century.1 Around 1750, five diverse arts – painting, sculpture, poetry,
music, and architecture – became classified as the fine arts (beaux-arts). They
were guided by principles of taste, sentiment, genius, originality, and cre-
ative imagination that emphasized the imaginative artist and the amateur
observer, rather than the skilled maker. These principles were sufficiently
general to be manifested in different modes (images, materials, words, and
sounds) and perceived with different senses (but mainly sight and hearing).
Peter Kivy, in Philosophies of Arts, extends the span of Kristeller’s essay
to the end of the eighteenth century by considering the exceptional case of
instrumental music as a member of the fine arts. Assuming that the imita-
tion of nature was still a basic premise of the fine arts, he suggests that the
status of both music and architecture was uncertain. “Of what Kristeller
characterizes as ‘all the five major arts of painting, sculpture, architecture,
music and poetry’, only music and architecture would have been problem-
atic. Architecture is, of course, a very special case, being both a fine and a
useful art … In any case, it is my impression that architecture was not at the
center of the enterprise, and I will have nothing more to say about it.”2 Kivy,
a scholar in the history of art, aesthetics, and music, adds that the place of
architecture in the fine arts is not generally known among his peers. “It is
much to be regretted that philosophers of art, in general, know little about
the ‘philosophy of architecture’ in the eighteenth century. I am certainly no
exception, and so offer my estimate of the role of architecture in the early
fine arts discussion with caution and only very tentative conviction.”3

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 Although architectural historians have written about eighteenth-century
architecture in various ways, architecture’s place in the larger category of the
fine arts has received little attention. With Kivy’s comments in mind, the
present chapter traces the changing relation between architecture and the
fine arts. It focuses on the eighteenth century but also extends back into the
seventeenth. Although the terms “fine arts” and “beaux-arts” now sound
somewhat dated and genteel, Kristeller, Kivy, and others suggest that these
five arts still constitute a set and still rely on most of those eighteenth-century
principles, so resonances with our own time may be evident.
The French term les beaux-arts began to appear in print in 1640.4 “Beau”
refers to beauty experienced by the senses but also retains an ethical associ-
ation with the good, following its Latin etymology.5 The singular variant, le
beau art, was rare. Although we associate the term beaux-arts mainly with
the École des Beaux-Arts in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, this
was a later phase that departed from some of the central premises of the
eighteenth-century beaux-arts.
The English language did not translate beaux-arts directly into “beauti-
ful arts” but used its own indigenous terms instead. The first equivalent
English term was “polite arts.” The adjective “polite” dates from 1500, when
it referred to a polished and tasteful use of language. During the seventeenth
and eighteenth century it referred also to non-linguistic arts.6 The term “fine
arts” appeared in 1767 and gradually superseded the older term “polite arts.”
The adjective “fine” had been used since the fifteenth century as an expres-
sion of admiration for the attributes of a subject or the perceptual abilities
of a beholder: purity, delicacy, subtlety, polish, taste, and discrimination.7
The “fine arts” are “those in which the mind and imagination are chiefly
concerned.”8 The English finally settled on the term “fine arts” after consid-
ering variants such as “elegant arts,” “ingenious arts,” “imitative arts,” and
“poetic arts,” each with a different overtone.9
The fine arts (beaux-arts) category was a somewhat loose collection that
included several core arts and various marginal arts. At the core of every fine
arts group were painting, sculpture, poetry, and music. This attention to
images and words indicates that the fine arts category was not rooted in a
single mode of representation. This distinguishes the fine arts from the earlier
arti del disegno, which had proclaimed drawing as their common ground.
Theoretical writings on the fine arts came mainly from France and Eng-
land. They developed from seventeenth-century thinking on the arts and

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sciences, starting with Francis Bacon’s The Advancement of Learning (1605),
as well as from the various royal academies established in France: for the
French language and literature in 1635, for painting and sculpture in 1648,
for music in 1669, and for architecture in 1671. Debates over the merits of
the ancients and the moderns started around 1620 and reached a peak with
the Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns around 1690, raising questions
to which the fine arts were a response. The fine arts became associated gen-
erally with the moderns rather than the ancients.

Charles Perrault’s Modern Office

The royal academies in Paris were supervised by Louis XIV’s building and
finance minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, for whom Charles Perrault served
as secretary from 1663 to 1683. In 1690 Charles Perrault (1628–1703) wrote Le
Cabinet des beaux Arts (Office of the fine arts), the first book to refer explic-
itly to the beaux-arts.10 It includes fourteen engravings of a set of paintings
on the ceiling of an office. The book also includes a long commentary on
the eight arts represented in the paintings. Kristeller briefly mentions the
book and says that the office belonged to Louis Boucherat, to whom the
book is dedicated.11 Boucherat was Chancellor of France from 1685 to 1699.
However, Perrault’s dedication does not state that this was Boucherat’s
office, and the rest of the book remains oddly silent on who conceived and
executed the paintings. Scholars have linked certain items in the paintings
to Perrault and suggest that this was Perrault’s office in his house in Paris.12
If so, this book can be recognized as Perrault’s own thoughts on the fine arts,
rather than as a report on someone else’s paintings in someone else’s house.
Le Cabinet des beaux Arts begins with an engraving of the entrance to
the office. Above the doorway is the inscription “CABINET DES BEAUX
ARTS” and on either side is a pair of statues symbolizing genius (le génie)
and work (le travail), two preconditions for the beaux-arts. Proceeding into
the office, Perrault shifts his attention to the paintings on the ceiling and
discusses their allegorical figures and scenes. In the middle are three panels
portraying Apollo, Mercury, and Minerva, the mythological figures who pre-
side over the arts. Around them are eight allegorical scenes portraying eight
arts: on one side, eloquence, poetry, and music; on the other, architecture,
painting, and sculpture; at the ends, optics and mechanics. The paintings

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Entrance to the office, from Charles Perrault, Le Cabinet des beaux Arts
(Paris: G. Edelinck, 1690).

use classical imagery but feature exemplary objects and buildings from the
seventeenth century.
In his introduction, Perrault rejects the traditional set of seven liberal
arts.13 He also rejects the division between the liberal arts and the mechan-
ical arts that designated their respective practitioners as either free or servile.
He argues that painting, sculpture, and architecture should not be demeaned
for their circumstances of production. Instead, he focuses on the dignity of
what they produce. He declares that eloquence, poetry, and music are related
to the spirit and produced with the voice, while architecture, painting, and
sculpture are related to the body and produced with the hand. Optics and
mechanics acknowledge recent human inventions such as the telescope that
extend our natural abilities.
Perrault’s comments on the art of music are significant. He does not
mention Pythagorean music theory, the long-standing mathematical centre-
piece of the liberal arts. Instead, he suggests that eloquence, poetry, and music
form an ascending series of rhetorical arts, with music at the highest level.
Eloquence makes words persuasive, poetry makes them agreeable, and music
gives them charm and even ecstasy.14

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Paintings on the ceiling of the office, from Perrault, Le Cabinet des beaux Arts.

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 Titles of the paintings, after Perrault,
Le Cabinet des beaux Arts.

On the opposite side of the ceiling Perrault presents architecture as an

“encyclopaedic” art that consults other arts (astronomy, mathematics,
jurisprudence, and music) to help site buildings, make calculations, and test
sounds in theatres. Architecture also relies on paintings and sculptures to
provide appropriate ornamentation in buildings. After his earlier comments
about the body and the hand, he makes no further analogies among paint-
ing, sculpture, and architecture to reinforce them as a set. He acknowledges
contributions by the ancient Greeks and Romans but says that they neither
invented nor perfected architecture. Instead, he favours the work of his own
century, referring to three buildings illustrated in the allegorical painting
of architecture: the east colonnade of the Louvre, the triumphal arch of
the Faubourg Saint-Antoine (both designed by his brother Claude), and the
palace at Versailles.
It is significant that mechanics is included as one of the eight fine arts,
given the longstanding distinction between liberal and mechanical arts.
Perrault mentions ancient machines such as the lever but also praises in-
ventions of his own century, including the thermometer, the pendulum, and
a pump that produces tall fountains. The emphasis here is on inventions
and accomplishments in mechanics, rather than on the banausic conditions
of labourers.

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Architecture, from Perrault, Le Cabinet des beaux Arts.

The divine mathematical arts of the quadrivium (geometry, arithmetic,

astronomy, and music theory) are nowhere to be seen in this office – at least,
not on the ceiling. Instead, Perrault presents a new set of arts designated by
the term beaux-arts, promotes the accomplishments of the moderns, and
suggests that these arts are progressive, like the sciences that were being
developed throughout his century. However, Perrault is not committed to
these eight arts as a fixed or finite set. He says that eight were included sim-
ply because eight places were available in the composition on the ceiling.
His set includes different types of arts. Some rely on words and sound and
involve hearing; some rely on substances and light and involve sight; some
invent devices that produce marvelous effects. Despite using the term beaux-
arts, Perrault does not emphasize beauty as a common attribute for either
the object, the beholder, or social customs. The inclusion of optics and
mechanics in his beaux-arts ensures an emphasis on human accomplish-
ments, rather than on beauty or revealed knowledge.
Although Perrault’s book does not situate the beaux-arts within a com-
prehensive epistemological system that includes the sciences, philosophy,
history, etc., this larger context is evident elsewhere. Le Cabinet des beaux
Arts was published only three years after Perrault’s controversial poem “Le
Siècle de Louis le Grand” was recited to the Académie Française, raising the
temperature of the ongoing Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns.15 Le

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Cabinet also was published only two years after the first volume of Perrault’s
Parallèle des anciens et des modernes, which included a dialogue on architec-
ture, painting, and sculpture, and reinforced the position on modernity that
his earlier poem had introduced.16 Together, these three publications suggest
that Perrault regarded the beaux-arts not as a separate aesthetic domain, but
as part of a larger project to replace the divinely inspired liberal arts and the
servile mechanical arts.

Joseph Addison’s Good Taste

Joseph Addison (1672–1719) wrote many articles for the English readers
of The Spectator at a time when changes in patterns of wealth and work
enabled leisurely pursuits to spread from the seventeenth-century upper
class to the eighteenth-century middle class.17 His series of eleven articles in
1712 describes how to develop good taste and recognize arbitrary beauty.18
Despite warnings from aristocrats that good taste is an inherited sensibility
for connoisseurs and is not for the vulgar, Addison believed that customs of
the polite arts can be learned by anyone. He focused on five arts – painting,
sculpture, poetry, music, and architecture – and emphasized the beholder,
rather than products or skills. “Musick, Architecture and Painting, as well
as Poetry and Oratory, are to deduce their laws and rules from the general
sense and taste of mankind, and not from the principles of those Arts them-
selves; or in other words, the Taste is not to conform to the Art, but the Art
to the Taste.”19
Addison’s lessons summarized concepts of taste and connoisseurship
from the seventeenth century. M.H. Abrams traces the concept of taste to
the Italian gusto, defined as “socially desirable ‘good taste’ … a capacity to
respond to the beauty or harmonious order of objects, whether natural or
artificial … an innate sensibility, inherited … yet capable of being trained.”20
Abrams also associates taste with another Italian term, virtuoso: a person
who can appraise different types of artifacts, such as curiosities of nature,
paintings, and statuary. Both terms referred to gentlemen of the leisure class
who might assemble private collections to appreciate their intellectual and
sensual pleasures. These notions also were expressed in the word connois-
seur, ‘one who knows’. As the word “taste” suggests, the emphasis is on
experiencing a finished thing rather than making it.

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 Since the sixteenth century, many sons of the upper class in northern
Europe had embarked on a Grand Tour of Italy after finishing their formal
schooling and before starting a career at home.21 Their sponsors believed
that Italy’s heritage would provide cultural and moral lessons and help them
develop good taste; however, travel accounts from these Grand Tours typi-
cally recorded the visitors’ English preoccupations rather than Italy’s cultural
attributes.22 They were encouraged to study paintings and sculptures, and
many such objects were taken home for private collections. Buildings could
not be collected, but formal features of Palladian architecture were exported
to England.
Addison’s articles on good taste privilege sight over the other senses
because “[it] spreads itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends
the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of the most remote parts
of the universe … It is this sense which furnishes the Imagination with its
Ideas … By the pleasures of the Imagination I mean only such pleasures as
arise originally from sight.”23 To Addison, imagination is a leisurely form of
perception. It is more refined than basic sensory impression, but does not
require knowledge or thinking. It divides people into two groups: those who
can recognize certain qualities and those who cannot. “A man of a polite
imagination is let into a great many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable
of receiving … He discovers a multitude of charms that conceal themselves
from the generality of mankind.”24
Addison’s imagination seeks scenes that are vast, novel, and/or beauti-
25
ful. Vast scenes are pleasing because the imagination breaks one’s normal
restraints and is free to roam. Novel scenes are a refreshing diversion from
the regularity and repetition that normally surround us. Beautiful scenes are
pleasing because, with experience, we can distinguish ordinary things from
things that are special due to their colour, form, or composition. Addison
distinguishes between the ordinary world and the world of the fine arts: “A
Man of a Polite Imagination … looks upon the World, as it were, in another
Light.”26 It is still the same world, but illuminating it differently enables it
to be perceived in a different way.
Addison indicates that human imagination is not an end in itself. For
everything that is vast, novel, and/or beautiful, he considers the Supreme
Author to be its final cause.27 He acknowledges that works of nature are
inherently greater and more varied than works of art, but suggests that
nature is even more pleasing when it subtly resembles works of art. Con-

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versely, the best works of art imitate not just the visual appearance of nature
but also its special qualities, such as motion.28
In The Spectator 415, Addison discusses architecture according to his
principles of taste and imagination. By focusing on the beholder rather than
the designer or maker, he advocates a quick, effortless approach that empha-
sizes qualities that can be tasted in a glance, “without entring into those rules
and maxims which the great masters of Architecture have laid down, and
explained at large in numberless Treatises upon that subject.”29 As examples
of architecture, he cites buildings that are vast, distant, and perhaps fabu-
lous: the great temples of Babylon, the pyramids in Egypt, the Great Wall of
China, and the Tower of Babel. In architecture, Addison appreciates not only
greatness in size but also greatness in manner, referring to smaller buildings
such as the Pantheon that have a bold, simple form that the eye can take in
at a glance. To illustrate this point, he quotes Roland Fréart de Chambray:
“To introduce into Architecture this grandeur of Manner, we ought so to
proceed, that the division of the principal members of the Order may con-
sist but of few parts, that they be all great and of a bold and ample Relievo,
and Swelling; and that the eye, beholding nothing little and mean, the imag-
ination may be more vigorously touched and affected with the work that
stands before it.”30
Addison prefers buildings with a single concave or convex form because
the stationary eye can easily grasp the whole, relying on the imagination to
fill in any parts that are not visible. “Look upon the outside of a Dome, your
eye half surrounds it; look up into the inside, and at one glance you have all
the prospect of it; the entire concavity falls into your eye at once, the sight
being as the center that collects and gathers into it the lines of the whole
circumference.”31 Addison’s lesson about architecture as a fine art thus
establishes certain components: a stationary eye, an uneducated mind, a
momentary glance, a bold form, a memorable image, and exemplary re-
ferences from distant cultures. He adds that novelty and beauty are also
important in architecture, but declines to discuss them because they are
more obvious than the qualities of greatness he has presented here.
Addison distinguishes “primary pleasures” from “secondary pleasures.”
Primary pleasures arise from visible objects that are present (in nature and
architecture). Secondary pleasures arise either from memories of objects
that are absent or from representations of objects that are absent or ficti-
tious (in statuary, paintings, words, and music). He says we appreciate new

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representations by invoking earlier experiences. This is especially evident
in literature, where words do not provide images but instead rely on the
reader’s memory.32 Addison includes music as one of his secondary pleas-
ures but admits that only great composers can conjure scenes in the minds
of their listeners. The discipline of music sits awkwardly in Addison’s scheme
because it does not rely on sight and because he classifies it as a secondary
pleasure of representation rather than a primary pleasure of presence, along-
side architecture. In Addison’s five arts, only architecture is distinguished
from the others: not because it is useful, but because it is present (like nature)
rather than representational. Contrasting presence and representation, he
also distinguishes between the physical presence of something dangerous
and a representation of it that distances us from the danger and enables us
to perceive it with pleasure.33 This recalls Aristotle’s discussion of mimesis
and anticipates Burke’s discussion of the sublime.
Although Addison did not develop a comprehensive theory of either
aesthetics or the fine arts, he assembled all five arts that would appear later
in the Encyclopédie (as well as in Kristeller’s essay) and he considered them
from a beholder’s point of view, which later would be analyzed philosophi-
cally by Alexander Baumgarten. He also introduced a practical method for
appreciating these polite arts.
Painting, sculpture, poetry, and music gradually became the core dis-
ciplines of the fine arts. Some writers in the early eighteenth century also
included engraving, dance, eloquence, prose literature, and gardening. Archi-
tecture sometimes was included, sometimes was excluded, and sometimes
was placed in an intermediate category. Its status depended on how closely
it was analyzed, which of its attributes were highlighted, and whether its use
or its taste was emphasized.
Some noteworthy theories of the fine arts relegated architecture to the
margins. Architecture was excluded from the fine arts by Abbé Guillaume
Massieu (1666–1722) in Deffense de la Poësie (Defense of Poetry, ca. 1710).
In fact, he echoes Hugh of St Victor by including architecture alongside
agriculture and navigation, as arts that are necessary for survival rather than
for the benefit of the spirit or for pleasure.34
Architecture was included in a casual way by Anthony Ashley Cooper,
Third Earl of Shaftesbury (1671–1713), who wrote Characteristicks of Men,
Manners, Opinions, Times (1711) as a treatise on religion, morals, and what
later would be called aesthetics. In a Platonic vein, he states that beauty exists

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at three ascending levels: forms of physical things, forms in the human
mind, and forms created by God.35 He notes that critics cultivate a refined
taste to judge human products but suggests that philosophers are superior
because they seek a higher beauty.36 Shaftesbury contemplates beautiful
forms to recognize higher qualities of harmony, proportion, and concord:
“When we have thorowly search’d into the nature of this contemplative
Delight, we shall find it of a kind which relates not in the least to any pri-
vate Interest of the Creature, nor has for Object any Self-Good or Advantage
of the private System. The Admiration, Joy, or Love turns wholly upon what
is exteriour, and foreign to our-selves.”37
By focusing primarily on a higher beauty, Shaftesbury is not concerned
with the satisfaction of human desire or need. His regard for the arts is based
solely on their capacity to embody beauty. Consequently, he does not dis-
tinguish architecture from other arts. He also does not introduce criteria
to divide the arts into subsets, nor does he present a definitive set of arts.
Throughout the treatise he refers to two or three arts at a time, in groups that
vary according to the point he makes. Architecture is associated variously
with music, sculpture, painting, or gardens, but all of them are important
only as steps toward that higher beauty.
Abbé Jean-Baptiste Dubos (1670–1742), in Réflexions critiques sur la poësie
et sur la peinture (Critical Reflections on Poetry and Painting, 1719), echoes
fourteenth-century humanists by citing Horace and comparing poetry and
painting. He regards these two fine arts as essentially imitative and pleasur-
able. Following Aristotle, he also notes that pleasure arises when painful
subjects are contemplated from a distance. Consequently, subjects of con-
templation reside in a somewhat separate world: “The pleasure we feel in
contemplating the imitations made by painters and poets, of objects which
would have raised in us passions attended with real pain, is a pleasure free
from all impurity of mixture. It is never attended with those disagreeable
consequences, which arise from the serious emotions caused by the object
itself.”38
Although painting and poetry are his primary topics, Dubos discusses
music but mentions architecture only in passing. His references imply
simply that architecture is comparable to the other beaux-arts. He does
not consider architecture as a subject in itself, referring to it only in brief
analogies that illustrate points about painting or poetry.

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 Alexander Baumgarten’s Aesthetic Fictions

Alexander Baumgarten (1714–62) does not discuss architecture directly, but

several topics in his philosophical analysis of the perception of poetry even-
tually would have major implications for the prospects of architecture.
Baumgarten coined the word “aesthetic” at the end of his master’s thesis,
presented at the University of Halle in 1735.39 It was based on a Greek root:
“We have no doubt that there could be available a science which might
direct the lower cognitive faculty in knowing things sensately … The Greek
philosophers and the Church fathers have already carefully distinguished
between things perceived [aisthete] and things known [noete] … Therefore,
things known are to be known by the superior faculty as the object of logic;
things perceived [are to be known by the inferior faculty, as the object] of
the science of perception, or aesthetic.”40
Although Baumgarten invented the word “aesthetic,” Shaftesbury and
Addison had considered aesthetic issues several decades earlier. Baum-
garten’s contribution was to establish a philosophical framework for this
concept. Starting from a few axioms and relying heavily on Horace’s Ars
poetica, he uses deductive reasoning to formulate principles that explain the
composition and perception of written poetry. Assuming that poetry’s
diverse manifestations are based on several principles, he attempts to estab-
lish a simple framework that is comparable to what Newton achieved with
his laws of physical motion.
Like his predecessors, Baumgarten distinguishes two types of cognition:
Thought is a higher, more ideal form, whereas perception is a lower, more
worldly form. He does not discuss qualitative issues of beauty or good taste,
and the only ideal he discusses is clarity. Baumgarten focuses mainly on the
composer of a poem. He avoids complicating his analysis by considering
also the reader who may misunderstand the poem or develop an unintended
interpretation.41 He says that a poet relies on the senses but does not merely
represent a sensory perception, as this would not qualify as poetry. A poet
also does not represent a clear and distinct (logical) idea, as this would not
qualify as poetry either. Instead, he says that a poet fuses together a sensory
perception and a concept. Without this fusion, a poet’s representation would
not be poetic and its meaning would not be clear. By drawing attention to
poetry’s fusion of the sensory and the conceptual, Baumgarten shows that its
structure and intentions are different than in disciplines that are based on

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logic. Logical ideas aim to be clear and distinct, whereas poetic represen-
tations aim to be clear and confused (i.e., fused together).42 In both cases,
clarity is the aim, but they rely on thoughts with different structures: one
is simple, the other is complex. Baumgarten still invoked the mimetic tra-
dition: “Nature … and the poet create resemblances. Hence, the poem is
an imitation of nature and of the actions depending on it.”43 He thus sees
an analogy to nature, not only in the completed poem but also in the poet’s
creative action.
In considering what poems can represent, Baumgarten distinguishes
three types of fictions. Things that are possible in the real world are
“true fictions”; they are poetic. Things that are mutually inconsistent and
therefore impossible, either in the real world or in all possible worlds, are
“utopian”; they are not poetic. A third type, “heterocosmic,” is impossible
in the real world but possible in another world; it is the second poetic
option. The heterocosmic is a mingling of the familiar and the unfamiliar;
it does not exist here and now but can be imagined.44
Baumgarten’s thesis focuses exclusively on written poetry. Apart from a
few passing remarks about painting, he does not discuss architecture or any
other art, nor does he develop a general theory of the fine arts. However, the
philosophical framework he developed could be applied easily to arts other
than poetry. By the time he began to do this, in Aesthetica (1750), others had
built on his ideas.

Charles Batteux’s Hybrid Arts

Abbé Charles Batteux (1713–80) wrote Les beaux arts réduits à un même
principe (The fine arts reduced to a single principle, 1746). It is cited by
Kristeller and others as the first treatise to provide a comprehensive system
of the fine arts.45 Batteux distinguishes arts according to their end. The fine
arts of painting, sculpture, dance, music, and poetry are strictly for pleasure
and should not attempt to be useful. On the other hand, arts that respond to
basic human needs are strictly for use and should not attempt to provide
pleasure. In the middle is a third category that is for both use and pleasure.
It includes two arts: eloquence and architecture.46
Batteux indicates that nature is common to all three of his categories of
arts. Mechanical arts employ nature as it is, strictly for use. Eloquence and

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architecture employ nature for use, but they also embellish nature. His five
fine arts do not employ nature; instead, they imitate nature in their differ-
ent attributes: painting in its colours, sculpture in its reliefs, dance in its
movements and gestures, music in its sounds, and poetry in its measured
words.47 Painting and sculpture imitate visible objects; poetry imitates
human actions; music and dance imitate human sentiments and passions.48
Invoking Aristotle and Horace as classical precedents, Batteux regards the
imitation of nature as the single principle to which all fine arts can be re-
duced. However, he advises against imitating nature in a servile way that
merely copies its found condition. Instead, the fine arts should choose suit-
able objects to imitate and then seek their ideal beauty by imagining how
they can be perfected.
Batteux regards sight and hearing as the only senses suited to the fine
arts.49 Touch, smell, and taste are “sterile” for the fine arts, despite taste (le
goût) being the prime metaphor for distinguishing good from bad. The line
that Batteux draws through the senses suggests a particular relation between
the beholder and a product of the fine arts: sight and hearing require dis-
tance from the object of one’s attention, whereas the other senses require
direct contact. Consequently, distance is preferred.
Although sculpture and poetry can represent real historical and social
situations, Batteux says these arts should not be judged on the truthfulness
of what they represent. Products that are true may be bad from a fine art
standpoint. Batteux does not expect truth from them, only beauty.50
Like Charles Perrault, Batteux considers music a fine art, not a liberal
art. He regards music as an imitation of human passions, not as an empiri-
cal proof of universal mathematical order. “I do not pretend to calculate
sounds or the relation between them … I do not speak of the vibration of
cords or of mathematical proportion. I leave these speculations to the
theorists … Music speaks to me in tones; its language seems natural to me
… One must judge music in the same way as a painting.”51 He adds that the
ear is more discerning than the eye; therefore we can judge a piece of music
more easily than a painting.52
The fact that eloquence and architecture share a separate category invites
comparison. Batteux’s myth of the origin of eloquence begins with the basic
human need to communicate thoughts and sentiments to one another.53
Later, those who embellished their speech with intonations and bodily
gestures became orators and historians. Batteux’s myth of the origin of

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architecture begins with the cave as a response to the basic human need for
shelter.54 Later, shelters became embellished and more commodious. In each
case, a basic art of necessity became elevated through embellishment.
Batteux notes that eloquence and poetry share the same medium: spoken
words. However, their ends are different because eloquence remains grounded
in useful communication whereas poetry’s measured words are recited
purely for pleasure. He does not develop an equivalent relation between
architecture and sculpture, in which sculpture relies on the same medium
(materials) but has a different end (pleasure). Their formal differences seem
to prevent this analogy. Unlike the other fine arts, sculpture is mentioned
only occasionally as a figurative representation alongside painting, so its
potential relation to architecture is more remote.
Batteux warns that eloquence and architecture cannot leave behind their
utilitarian roots to become fully fledged fine arts. They must remain hybrid
arts. He says that whenever we discover that eloquence or architecture has
abandoned utility to become purely ornamental, it should be reproached
and then it will “blush” in response.55 However, despite being grounded in
utility, there are occasions when both eloquence and architecture can
“take flight” (prendre l’essor) by imitating the grandeur of certain subjects:
heroes (for eloquence) and temples (for architecture).56 Their rhetorical
gestures can promote popular admiration for these subjects. This hybrid
image of eloquence and architecture, with their feet on the ground and their
wings in the air, pauses at a significant moment of departure from one realm
to another.

Architectures in the Encyclopédie

In 1751 the publication of the first volume of the Encyclopédie, edited by

Denis Diderot (1713–84) and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert (1717–83), was a
notable development in the recognition of architecture as a fine art.57 How-
ever, it came with ambivalence and some mixed messages.
The French encyclopedia was commissioned initially as a translation
of Ephraim Chambers, Cyclopaedia (1728). In his preface, Chambers includes
a diagram to illustrate his hierarchic organization of knowledge, divided
first into “natural” and “artificial.”58 He locates the five (eventual) fine arts
in various parts of his “artificial” category, mostly under the headings

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Epistemological diagram from Ephraim Chambers, Cyclopaedia; or, an Universal
Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, vol. 1 (London: J.F. and C. Rivington, 1786).

“quantities of bodies” and “mixed mathematics.” Architecture and sculpture

are included in mechanics; painting is part of optics; and music is part of
phonics. Poetry, on the other hand, is classified as “symbolic” rather than
“real,” and is associated with fables. This scattered distribution shows that
Chambers did not regard these five arts as a set.
In the 1750 Prospectus that announced the Encyclopédie project, Diderot
distanced this new venture from Chambers’s earlier encyclopedia. He
complained that Chambers “broke the chains” that connect first principles
to their remotest consequences because his descriptions of the sciences, the
liberal arts, and especially the mechanical arts were so incomplete.59 Later
d’Alembert would note that the “genealogical tree” of their new Encyclopédie
is different because it originates from human faculties rather than from
established knowledge: from memory comes history; from reason comes

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philosophy; and from imagination comes poetry.60 For this set of premises,
he credits Francis Bacon (1561–1626), who had classified human knowledge
into three categories – history, philosophy, and poetry (poësy) – that are
attributed not to divine revelation but to three human faculties: memory,
reason, and imagination.61
Diderot’s Prospectus includes an initial diagram for the Encyclopédie,
entitled “Systême figuré des connoissances humaines” (Illustrated system of
human knowledge). This tree diagram includes only bifurcating branches,
with no lateral connections from branch to branch that would form topo-
logical loops. Each item appears only once in the diagram and is linked to
the other items by moving up or down through the hierarchy. D’Alembert
later noted that many different diagrams could have been made, so there is
no absolute pattern for mapping human understanding. He also acknowl-
edges the intrinsic limitations of a tree diagram: “We note in these individual
things common properties by which we compare them and dissimilar prop-
erties by which we differentiate them. And these properties, designated by
abstract names, have led us to form different classes in which these objects
have been placed. But often such an object, which because of one or several
of its properties has been placed in one class, belongs to another class by
virtue of other properties and might have been placed accordingly. Thus,
the general division remains of necessity somewhat arbitrary.”62
Architecture is included in the 1750 Prospectus diagram as four separate
disciplines, each qualified by an adjective: practical architecture, military
architecture, naval architecture, and civil architecture. They appear in sep-
arate locations, eight to ten levels down in the hierarchy. The first is placed
on its own under “Memory,” while the three others are clustered together
under “Reason”:

1 Understanding > Memory > History > Natural > Uses of nature > Arts,
trades, manufactures > Working and uses of stone, plaster, slate, etc. >
Practical architecture
2 Understanding > Reason > Philosophy > Science of man > Ethics > Par-
ticular > Science of laws or jurisprudence > Economic > Naval
architecture
3 Understanding > Reason > Philosophy > Science of man > Ethics > Par-
ticular > Science of laws or jurisprudence > Political > Military art >
Military architecture

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Tree diagram (1750), From Denis Diderot, Prospectus de l’Encyclopédie (Paris: Briasson, 1751).
1: Practical architecture. 2: Naval architecture. 3: Military architecture. 4: Civil architecture.

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4 Understanding > Reason > Philosophy > Science of man > Ethics > Par-
ticular > Science of laws or jurisprudence > Natural > Civil architecture

The first of these entries, “practical architecture,” is a technical art that was
invented by humans to fabricate things from materials. The others, “naval
architecture,” “military architecture,” and “civil architecture,” are universal
sciences that have been discovered by humans. They are ethical human
sciences rather than natural sciences. Although the term “civil” typically is
distinguished from “military” or “ecclesiastical,”63 the different architec-
tures in this diagram suggest another contrast: between “civil architecture”
(ethics) and “practical architecture” (building). In this diagram from the
1750 Prospectus, architecture is absent from Imagination, the third major
branch of understanding, which includes the fine arts of poetry, music,
painting, sculpture, and engraving.
D’Alembert’s subsequent “Preliminary Discourse by the Editors,” placed
at the beginning of the first volume of the Encyclopédie (1751), is followed by
a revised tree diagram in which the same four architectural terms appear;
however, three of them are now situated under different headings. Only the
first entry, practical architecture,64 remains unchanged:

1 Understanding > Memory > History > Natural > Uses of nature > Arts,
trades, manufactures > Working and uses of stone, plaster, slate, etc. >
Practical architecture
2 Understanding > Reason > Philosophy > Science of nature > Mathe-
matics > Mixed > Mechanics > Dynamics > Hydrodynamics > Naval
architecture
3 Understanding > Reason > Philosophy > Science of nature > Mathe-
matics > Pure > Geometry > Elementary: Military architecture
4 Understanding > Imagination > [Poetry > Sacred, profane > Narrative
> Novel, etc. >] Civil architecture65

The second and third entries, naval and military, remain within the “Rea-
son” division but move from the human sciences to the natural sciences and
are categorized as applied mathematics. The major change is in the fourth
entry, which moves “civil architecture” from “Memory” across to “Imagina-
tion.” This now indicates that civil architecture is not a universal science
discovered by humans but a human product of imaginary fiction.

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Tree diagram (1751), From Encyclopédie, vol. 1, ed. Diderot and d’Alembert (Paris: Briasson, 1751).
1: Practical architecture. 2: Naval architecture. 3: Military architecture. 4: Civil architecture.

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 Detail of tree diagram (1751). From Encyclopédie,
vol. 1, ed. Diderot and d’Alembert.

D’Alembert states that imagination is the human faculty from which

poetry originates, and that imagination builds on history. Surprisingly,
he associates all of the beaux-arts with fiction rather than with beauty or
pleasure: “History has for its object individual beings, which exist at pres-
ent or which have existed in the past; and poetry has for its object imaginary
individual beings, which are the imitation of historical beings … We mean
here by poetry only that which is fiction … We will relate architecture,
music, painting, sculpture, engraving, etc., to poetry.”66
Civil architecture now accompanies poetry, music, painting, sculpture,
and engraving to constitute the five fine arts (plus one) that Kristeller
identifies as the core set of modern arts. In the transition from the 1750
Prospectus to the 1751 “Preliminary Discourse,” civil architecture became
recognized as a fully fledged fine art. However, some graphic irregularities in
the organization of the Imagination category were carried over from the
1750 diagram to the 1751 diagram without being resolved. The various cate-
gories of poetry are separated from the non-verbal fine arts.67 This disrupts
the hierarchy of the diagram and leaves the non-verbal fine arts floating on
their own, with no connection to a higher branch. This odd arrangement
suggests that Diderot and d’Alembert could not link their descending

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categories of verbal poetry to the non-verbal fine arts nor devise a credible
hierarchic alternative for the whole Imagination division.
The text of d’Alembert’s “Preliminary Discourse” parallels the 1751
diagram but tells two different fine art stories about architecture. It places
architecture among the fine arts as both a component of painting and
a component of poetry-as-making: “Painting, Sculpture, Architecture,
Poetry, Music, and their different divisions make up the third general
distribution, which is born of imagination and whose parts are comprised
under the name of Fine Arts. We can also include them under the general
title of Painting, because all the Fine Arts can be reduced to that and differ
only by the means which they use. Finally, we could relate them all to
Poetry by taking this word in its natural signification, which is simply
invention or creation.”68
D’Alembert was comfortable placing painting and sculpture in the
mimetic tradition, but relied on symmetry for a rather thin analogy to
include architecture:

Painting and sculpture ought to be placed at the head of that knowl-

edge which consists of imitation, because it is in those arts above all
that imitation best approximates the objects represented and speaks
most directly to the senses. Architecture, that art which is born of
necessity and perfected by luxury, can be added to those two … The
imitation of la belle Nature in Architecture is less striking and more
restricted than in Painting or Sculpture. The latter express all the
parts of la belle Nature indifferently and without restriction, por-
traying it as it is, uniform or varied; while Architecture, combining
and uniting the different bodies it uses, is confined to imitating the
symmetrical arrangement that Nature observes more or less obvi-
ously in each individual thing.69

Like Batteux, d’Alembert defines architecture as an imitative art that is

born of necessity and improved by luxury. He also states that symmetry is
what enables architecture to imitate nature, as creatures tend to be symmet-
rical, both axially and in their general distribution of parts. However, he
did not retain Batteux’s distinction between fine arts for pleasure (painting,
sculpture, poetry, music, and dance) and hybrid arts for both use and
pleasure (eloquence and architecture). Rather than considering the ends

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of the various arts, d’Alembert focuses on the faculties with which they are
understood – memory, reason, and imagination – as the “three different
manners in which our soul operates on the objects of its thoughts.”70 By
framing understanding in this way, the usefulness of architecture is no longer
a significant issue, so civil architecture can be included – a move that Bat-
teux was not willing to make because it would place architecture in a com-
promising situation and cause it to “blush.” Consequently, civil architecture
is now situated mainly in the eye (or soul) of the beholder. As an art that can
be viewed through the new lens of aesthetics, it is separated categorically
from the “practical architecture” with which it may be built.
Although the Prospectus and the “Preliminary Discourse” established the
epistemological framework and general intentions of the Encyclopédie, their
premises were not necessarily maintained in the subsequent articles written
by others. Jacques-François Blondel (1705–74) was chosen to write most of
the articles on architectural subjects for the Encyclopédie. Contrary to the
tree diagram, his opening article on “Architecture” indicates that there are
only three types of architecture: military, naval, and civil. He combines “prac-
tical architecture” and “civil architecture” into just “architecture,” dismissing
Diderot and d’Alembert’s higher-level distinction between “reason” and
“imagination” in favour of his own integrated professional approach.
Kevin Harrington, in his study of the architectural articles in the
Encyclopédie, states that Blondel was inclined to present architecture as the
useful art of building, not as a fine art with relations to other fine arts. He
maintains that Blondel’s concern with architecture was professional and
productive, whereas others’ theories about the fine arts emphasized their
aesthetic effect on amateur beholders.71 This statement about the Ency-
clopédie articles is valid but should be qualified by Blondel’s discussion of
architecture and other arts in his own Cours d’architecture (1771–77). Al-
though he regards painting, sculpture, and gardening as integral supports for
the practice of architecture,72 he encourages students to develop a love for
all the fine arts. He refers to activities by five types of artists, corresponding
exactly to the core set of fine arts presented by Kristeller: the architect, the
painter, the sculptor, the man of letters, and the musician.73
In England, fifty years before the Encyclopédie, Henry Curson had pub-
lished a book of lessons for those in the lower class who had not received
a liberal arts education. The seven chapters of his book correspond to
the seven liberal arts, although he defines them not as forms of universal

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knowledge but as theoretical foundations for applied sciences: “I was
induced to Compose this Theory of the Sciences, wherein is briefly demon-
strated the Solid Grounds and Principles of the Seven Liberal Arts, which are
the foundation of all Sciences and Professions.”74 As students typically were
educated in the liberal arts before pursuing other vocations, Curson’s
concept of the liberal arts follows a pedagogical model for education rather
than an epistemological model of knowledge.75 His liberal arts included
topics that extended into territory normally occupied by the mechanical
arts. For example, in his chapters on arithmetic and geometry, Curson in-
cludes general information on practical techniques such as how to measure
land, how carpenters and bricklayers make measurements, and how to
navigate a ship. “[This information] may be advantageous to all Gentlemen
who will not only find the instructive part of Science, but also be informed
without any mechanick Operation in the Mensuration of Land, Timber,
Stone, Solids, &c. [and in the operation] of all Bricklayers, Carpenters,
Plaisterers, Joyners and Masons work, to prevent their being defrauded by
Architects and others who build for them.”76 Although the seven traditional
liberal arts remained intact in Curson’s book, their limits and their premises
were changing.
In the Prospectus de l’Encyclopédie, Diderot appears to follow the tra-
ditional divisions, saying, “All of the materials of the Encyclopedia can be
reduced to three categories: the sciences, the liberal arts, and the mechani-
cal arts.”77 Despite repeating these conventional categories, he introduces a
different ambition: to elevate the status of the mechanical arts. Unlike
Leonardo da Vinci and others who had recognized the liberal arts as the
single preeminent classification and had promoted a particular art for mem-
bership, Diderot wants to elevate the status of the entire mechanical arts
classification. “Let us return to the [mechanical] artists the justice that is
owed to them. The liberal arts have sung about themselves long enough;
they should now use their voices to celebrate the mechanical arts. It is up to
the liberal arts to pull the mechanical arts out of the depreciation where
prejudice has kept them for so long.”78 This scenario is portrayed as a rivalry
between equals who share a common ground – a notion that would have
made no sense in previous centuries, when the liberal arts belonged to a
completely different realm that was attributed ultimately to God.
Diderot’s two larger categories of “sciences” and “arts” remain consistent
with their traditional meanings: “Some which are purely practical in nature

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[arts] have as their aim the execution of something. Others of a purely spec-
ulative nature [sciences] are limited to the examination of their subject and
the contemplation of its properties.”79 It is only within the “arts” category
that Diderot and d’Alembert are redefining boundaries – not in a direct,
confrontational way but surreptitiously, through duplication and ambiguity.
The subtitle for the entire Encyclopédie introduced a different set of cat-
egories: Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts, et des métiers (Systematic
dictionary of sciences, arts, and trades). Only the science category remains
intact. “Liberal arts” (arts libéraux) is replaced by the more general category
“arts” (les arts). “Mechanical arts” (les arts méchaniques) is replaced by
“trades” (les métiers). In fact, the old mechanical arts category could have
been accommodated by either of the new categories – les arts or les métiers
– so not only the names but also the boundaries between categories are
in flux. Meanwhile, the title pages for the collection of plates, Recueil de
planches, sur les sciences, les arts libéraux & les arts méchaniques, revert to the
earlier categories.80 The traditional distinction between liberal arts and
mechanical arts is disappearing, along with the distinction between divine
revelation and human invention.
In the article on “Art,” Diderot includes a paragraph on the distribution
of arts into liberal and mechanical.81 He says that the liberal arts are more
the work of the spirit (l’esprit) than the hand, whereas the mechanical arts
are more the work of the hand than the spirit. Both involve the same human
faculties, so their only difference is the ratio of spirit to hand. He does not
mention the traditional meaning of the liberal arts. In fact, it appears that
the traditional set of seven liberal arts and the historical meaning of their
assembly are not mentioned anywhere in the Encyclopédie – a surprising
omission, as this was intended as an authoritative compilation of all human
knowledge.82 By associating the liberal arts with the human spirit rather
than with universal language or divine mathematics, Diderot not only
demotes them to a level closer to the mechanical arts but also opens a door
between the liberal arts and the developing category of the fine arts. In fact,
in the 1750 Prospectus de l’Encyclopédie, Diderot used the terms “liberal arts”
(les arts libéraux) and “fine arts” (les beaux-arts) interchangeably.83 Each
appears frequently in a compound phrase: “the sciences and the liberal arts”
or “the sciences and the fine arts.”84 These two phrases are synonymous;
there is no discernible difference in their meanings nor the situations to
which they refer. Diderot the writer and philosophe used language carefully,

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so this would not have been a slip of the pen or the mind. Indeed, other
parts of the Prospectus were modified slightly before being republished in
the “Preliminary Discourse,” so the continued use of this pair of terms
suggests a deliberate move by Diderot and d’Alembert. This smooth ex-
change marks a historic transition from the legacy of the liberal arts to the
ambition of the fine arts.
Similar ambiguities are evident elsewhere in the Encyclopédie. In the
“Preliminary Discourse,” the fine arts are described as a subset of the liberal
arts: “Among the liberal arts that have been reduced to principles, those that
undertake the imitation of nature have been called the fine arts [les beaux
arts].”85 The article on “Elements of the sciences” refers to the liberal arts as
being “based on the fine and delicate study of our sensations”86 – a descrip-
tion that normally would be associated with the fine arts. The article on
“Imagination” – the domain of the fine arts – refers to imagination as a gift
from God: “Perhaps this gift of God, imagination, is the only instrument
with which we compose ideas, and even metaphysics.”87 In earlier periods,
the liberal arts were the gifts from God, while the mechanical arts were
human inventions.
Ever since Michelangelo was dubbed “divine” for channeling divinity
into his paintings and sculptures, exceptional practitioners of the arti del
disegno could reach beyond the temporal world. Although Michelangelo had
crossed the line between mortality and divinity, this conceptual line
remained intact. In the mid-eighteenth century, Diderot and d’Alembert
blurred this line and redefined the epistemological categories on either side.
To the extent that the Enlightenment was “an age of faith as well as of
reason,”88 this is reflected in the ambition for the fine arts to progress and
reach perfection. D’Alembert states that the human faculties of memory
and reason are the foundation for the more advanced human faculty of
imagination. Of the three faculties on which the Encyclopédie was based –
memory, reason, and imagination – only imagination (i.e., the fine arts)
relied on genius.89
At mid-century, the Encyclopédie indicates uncertain times for architec-
ture. It could be categorized as multiple disciplines or as just one; it could
be associated with three different human faculties; and it could be situated
in larger categories of arts with their own ambiguities and variable status.
Consequently, architecture’s own status could range from servile to divine.
It could be allied with other inventive trades that use stone, plaster, slate,

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etc., or with the imaginative fine arts of painting, sculpture, poetry, and
music. Its mechanical art status is relatively stable; its fine art prospects are
less stable but potentially stellar.

Abbé Laugier’s Primitive Hut

Seven years after Batteux’s book and two years after the first volume of the
Encyclopédie, Abbé Marc-Antoine Laugier (1713–69) wrote Essai sur l’archi-
tecture (Essay on Architecture, 1753). Although Laugier’s book was presented
as advice for architects, he himself was not an architect and he wrote for a
general audience. Compared to Blondel’s comprehensive, professional dis-
cussions of architecture in the Encyclopédie, Laugier’s argument is narrower
and more idealistic. Believing that architecture is solely a fine art, he gave it
a new theoretical context by projecting it back to a mythical origin and then
forward to a mythical state of perfection.90 Laugier also projected the term
beaux-arts back into recorded history, applying it anachronistically to earlier
eras. He regarded ancient Greece and Rome as high points. “The barbarism
of succeeding centuries … buried the fine arts under the ruins of the only
empire that had preserved taste and principles.”91 Happily, the fine arts made
a comeback in fifteenth-century Italy and sixteenth-century France: “Since
the rebirth of the fine arts our architects have the noble ambition to immor-
talize the French name through some new architectural invention. It was
Philibert de l’Orme who made the greatest effort to go beyond the bound
which, up to his time, had brought architects constantly to a halt. He wanted
to give us a new French Order.”92
Like Batteux, Laugier believed that the imitation of nature is the basis
of all fine arts – but his fine arts now include architecture.93 In relying on
imitation theory, he used an ancient premise to promote a modern concept:
“It is the same in architecture as in all other arts: its principles are founded
on simple nature, and nature’s process clearly indicates its rules. Let us look
at man in his primitive state without any aid or guidance other than his
natural instincts.”94 Knowing that the authority of the ancients had been
eroded after discrepancies between Vitruvius and surviving ancient build-
ings had been noticed, Laugier dug even deeper to find first principles
in nature.95 The primitive hut he imagined was a first act of building by a
first human, using elements taken directly from nature. “He wants to make

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himself a dwelling that protects but does not bury him. Some fallen branches
in the forest are the right material for his purpose; he chooses four of
the strongest, raises them upright and arranges them in a square; across
their top he lays four other branches; on these he hoists from two sides yet
another row of branches which, inclining towards each other, meet at their
highest point.”96
The hut consists of only a few linear elements that anticipate columns,
an entablature, and a pediment. It is simply an outline of a building, with
no roof, walls, or floor. Although the material for the primitive hut came
from the forest, its form came from the Maison Carrée in Nîmes, an ancient
temple that Laugier admired greatly.97 By revealing this earlier and simpler
version of the Maison Carrée, he borrows ancient authority retroactively, as
if the ancients had imitated the perfect form of his primitive hut.
Laugier then projects this primitive hut forward through history. He
imagines a series of good buildings that imitated the primitive hut properly;
however, he is acutely aware of poor buildings whose architects did not look
back and thus strayed from the path to perfection. “It is by approaching the
simplicity of this first model that fundamental mistakes are avoided and
true perfection is achieved … Let us never lose sight of our little rustic
hut.”98 To keep architects on track, he devises a set of practical rules for
criticizing contemporary buildings and designing future buildings: One
must use freestanding columns rather than pilasters; one must use an entab-
lature rather than arches; one must place a pediment across the width of a
building rather than across its length; etc.99 Departures from these rules
would be faults that diminish the status of architecture and distract others
from pursuing architecture’s true potential.
Laugier’s two-stage process – retrogression to a mythical origin, then
progression toward future perfection – was a common Enlightenment ap-
proach. As Peter Gay notes, “This experience – which marked each of the
philosophes with greater or lesser intensity, but which marked them all –
was the dialectical interplay of their appeal to antiquity, their tension with
Christianity, and their pursuit of modernity … They used their classical
learning to free themselves from their Christian heritage, and then, having
done with the ancients, turned their face toward a modern world view.”100
Laugier often mentions progress and perfection as achievable goals. Like
a racer, he jettisons all extraneous material and avoids complications, dis-
tractions, and fantasies. “Let us keep to the simple and natural; it is the only

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Primitive hut, from Marc-Antoine Laugier, Essai sur l’architecture, 2d ed.
(Paris: Duchesne, 1755). Blackader-Lauterman Collection, Rare Books and
Special Collections, McGill University Library.

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road to beauty.”101 Laugier regards the primitive hut not as a fixed model to
be copied but as a set of first principles to be imitated. He wishes to leave
room for innovation by future architects: “I leave to the architect ample
resources. If he is gifted and has a slight knowledge of geometry he will,
with what little I place in his hands, find the secret of varying his plans ad
infinitum and of regaining through the diversity of forms what he loses
on superfluous parts which I have taken away from him.”102 Similarly, he
recognizes a need for novelty in the fine arts: “The rectangle is the most
common form of our buildings. However, this far too universal form has
become hackneyed and is not interesting anymore. It is our nature to love
novelty and variety; the fine arts must all be adapted to this inborn taste.”103
Only building elements that come directly from the primitive hut belong
to architecture and the fine arts. If possible, everything else should be
removed. “Another objection will perhaps be made, namely that I reduce
architecture to almost nothing, since with the exception of columns, entab-
latures, pediments, doors, and windows I more or less cut out the rest. It is
true that I take away from architecture much that is superfluous, that I strip
it of a lot of trash of which its ornamentation commonly consists and only
leave it its natural simplicity.”104
As shown in the frontispiece from the second edition of the Essai, the
primitive hut consists of linear elements that are more formal than struc-
tural, and are so minimal that they provide no shelter. Although Laugier
introduces the primitive hut with a story about a man seeking shelter, this
practical purpose soon becomes subordinate to the pursuit of beauty.
Laugier would prefer that the beauty of the linear elements not be compro-
mised by adding walls or other building elements. However, if such elements
are absolutely necessary, he will grant them a licence that avoids dismissing
them as absolute faults. Capricious elements are the worst, as they are neither
beautiful nor necessary. He distinguishes three sets of building elements and
assigns them to three descending levels of value: “The parts that are essen-
tial are the cause of beauty, the parts introduced by necessity cause every
license, the parts added by caprice cause every fault.”105
Laugier acknowledges that the fine arts often are not compatible with
the needs of ordinary life: “I admit that circumstances frequently seem to
rule out the use of free-standing columns. People want to live in closed
spaces, not in open halls. Therefore, it becomes necessary to fill in the space

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between the columns and consequently to engage them. In this case, an
engaged column will not be regarded as a fault, but as a license sanctioned
by necessity. It should, however, always be remembered that any license
points to an imperfection and must be used cautiously and only when it is
impossible to find a better way.”106
Laugier is especially critical of walls: “It is the wall again that deprives
architecture of all its grace. The less it appears, the more beautiful the
building will be; and when it does not appear at all, that building will be
perfect.”107 When walls have to be included, windows and doors in those
walls are also acceptable licences, but he warns that they too will prevent the
architecture from reaching perfection. “A building of free-standing columns
carrying an entablature needs no doors or windows; but, being open on all
sides, it is uninhabitable. The need for protection from the inclemencies of
the weather and other more engaging motives force us to fill in the inter-
columnations and, consequently, doors and windows are needed.”108 His
desire to remove utilitarian elements applies also to structural elements that
depart from the simple column-and-entablature pattern: “Where buttresses
are absolutely necessary, architecture would be rendered an outstanding
service if they could be effaced.”109
Charles Batteux, who defined architecture as a hybrid art rather than as
a fine art, described architecture as starting from need and then being
embellished by beauty. Laugier reverses that order by saying that architec-
ture is primarily for beauty and, if necessary, includes additional elements
for shelter and structure. His approach is more critical and idealistic than
that of Batteux. To promote architecture as a fine art, Laugier employs a
strategy of separation: elements for beauty belong to architecture, whereas
elements for utility belong to building. For architecture to soar, it must not
be weighed down by utility – not even by basic provisions for shelter. These
two sets of elements do not reside in separate ontological realms (e.g., ideal
and real) that require reconciliation; instead, they are equally physical, so
they compete for the same territory. This dichotomy leads to a confronta-
tion between the architect who is pursuing fine art and the dweller and
builder who also want shelter and structure. Laugier does not attempt to
reconcile these different interests, so his fine arts remain separate and
defensive, aiming for perfection but always being weighed down or eroded
from below. Although Laugier projects the fine arts back into ancient

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Greece, his concept of perfection is diametrically opposed to that of technē,
in which an object or action is considered perfect if it fulfills the needs of
its user perfectly.

The Five Fine Arts

The Renaissance arti del disegno included three arts: painting, sculpture, and
architecture. All three were associated with drawing, as a common skill on
which they were believed to rely, and all three resulted in a visible, enduring,
material product. These three arts also could be combined in an ornamented
building. The arti del disegno thus emphasized their products, their mimetic
source (nature and/or the ancients), and their moral destination.
By the mid-eighteenth century, the modern system of the fine arts was
developing a different set of premises; however, the various theories of the
fine arts were inconsistent: some focused on the experience of the beholder;
some focused on the attributes of the object; some focused on the imitation
of nature or ancient sources; and some included arts that the others did not.
As these theorists were immersed in the complex currents of the Enlighten-
ment, such differences are not surprising.
As the membership of the fine arts firmed up at mid-century, five arts
were identified as the core group.110 This set could have enabled previous
theories to be assessed for their validity; however, writings on the fine arts
continued to present a blurry picture – not because of debates over mem-
bership but because of ongoing attempts to discern their basic principles,
both individually and collectively. Meanwhile, they were acutely aware of a
major plateau that had been reached in other disciplines: “By mid-century,
the philosophes were trying to identify their procedures with the methods of
the natural sciences.”111
Kristeller’s essay is notable for identifying the point at which the fine arts
coalesced, as well as the key theoretical sources that defined them. His essay
invites further questions: for example, how this set of fine arts compares to
earlier classifications, which theories supported the set of five, and which
theories turned out to be distractions. His essay also invites us to shift from
history to philosophy: to distinguish the common ground of the fine arts
from their individual attributes. We might also shift from theory to prac-
tice, to consider whether the new fine arts category had practical implica-

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tions. The following analysis pauses at this historical plateau to consider
implications of grouping these five arts: painting, sculpture, poetry, music,
and architecture.
To treat the fine arts seriously as a classification and to work toward
an understanding of their basic premises, any common ground must be
common to all five fine arts. Properties that exist in some of the arts but not
others would be incidental. This rules out a return to the arti del disegno,
which defined painting, sculpture, and architecture as a closed set of three.
Although these three arts might continue to be allied in practice and in
their own shared theories, their premises cannot be conflated with those of
the fine arts. The inclusion of poetry and music in the fine arts would rule
out several potential principles: that the fine arts involve drawing skill,
that the fine arts lead to durable material products, and that the fine arts
depend on vision. Conversely, principles associated with only music or
poetry also would be ruled out: that the fine arts depend on hearing, that the
fine arts rely on language or voice, and that the fine arts result in ephemeral
products.112
The fine arts category, with its five core members, cannot be conflated
with the subsequent Académie des beaux-arts (which excluded poetry)113
nor the subsequent École des beaux-arts (which excluded music and
poetry).114 These institutions borrowed some of the premises of the fine arts,
but the fine arts cannot be reduced to these institutions. Although we tend
to think of the École when we hear the term beaux-arts, Kristeller’s episte-
mological principles draw our attention to the eighteenth century, not the
nineteenth or early twentieth. This is also a reminder that the fine arts are
not identical to the visual arts.115
Although Charles Batteux had pointed to imitation as the single princi-
ple shared by all fine arts, some of his contemporaries questioned this
conclusion. In the Encyclopédie, Diderot repeats some of Batteux’s observa-
tions but criticizes him for reducing the fine arts to imitation.116 Mimetic
theory continued throughout the eighteenth century but lost some of its
authority and was framed in different ways. Rudolf Wittkower identifies
four types of imitation employed by artists in the eighteenth century: imi-
tating nature directly; selecting the most perfect parts from nature; selecting
the most perfect parts from the ancients who had already imitated nature;
and imitating images from one’s memory.117 Each type suggests visual
representations and thus emphasizes two arts: painting and sculpture. The

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other arts had to be squeezed under the mimetic umbrella. Batteux sug-
gested that music and poetry (as well as dance) imitate the human passions
– a connection that was less obvious and less precise than visual represen-
tations in painting and sculpture. He does not mention Pythagorean music
theory as a conceptual link between nature and music. Although Batteux
marginalized architecture as a hybrid art rather than a fully fledged fine art,
he pointed to symmetry in natural creatures as a source of imitation for
symmetry in buildings. He does not mention arithmetic or proportions as
a conceptual link between nature and architecture.
In the intellectual war between the ancients and the moderns that con-
tinued through the seventeenth century and into the eighteenth, imitation
was associated more with the side of the ancients. Beneath the various
mimetic arguments, the deeper motivation was to maintain contact with a
universal, authoritative source, whether God, nature, or the ancients. Led by
Charles Perrault, the fine arts would be associated instead with the side of
the moderns. Kristeller refers to the fine arts as the “modern system of the
arts” and locates their watershed in the middle of the eighteenth century.
Imitation continued to be included in theories of the fine arts but there was
a growing need for additional principles.
Although imitation requires a human artist, it tends to emphasize two
other elements: the authoritative source and the subsequent product or
action. This would imply that the beholder is incidental – a notion incom-
patible with the concepts of human reason and sensation that the new
modern sciences and philosophies were developing. The belief that under-
standing arises through memory, reason, and imagination gave human
faculties a more central role to play and reframed the field on which all dis-
ciplines were played out.118 In the fine arts, the focal point for beauty shifted
gradually from the aesthetic object to the eye (and ear) of the beholder.119
Earlier theories of the arts had been written mainly to develop an artist’s
skills and knowledge of the discipline, whereas eighteenth-century theories
were written more with the spectator in mind. Joseph Addison’s essays in
The Spectator emphasized qualities such as grandeur and novelty that would
make an impression on a beholder. One can imagine artists adapting to this
new frame of reference: A painter might make a few marks on a canvas, then
step back to consider the impression they make, turning the artist himself
into a spectator of sorts.

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 Instrumental Music and the Second Wave

Kristeller’s essay on the fine arts ends around 1750. Although the basic
membership and principles had been established, the entire eighteenth
century was a long transitional period during which their premises were
debated, supplemented, and modified. During the next fifty years they
experienced a second wave of ideas that had been building during the first
half of the century due to several factors: a diminishing belief in the imita-
tion of nature; an awareness that ancient artifacts were not uniform and
timeless but historically variable; a recognition of diverse concepts of
beauty; and a growing emphasis on aesthetic perception. This second wave
crested around 1800, led by an enormous rise in the status of instrumental
music, which became the leading fine art and a model for the others to
emulate.120 This development did not undermine the basic premises of the
fine arts or question their core membership, but did alter some of their
internal relationships. Kristeller does not discuss this redefinition of the fine
arts but others do: in particular, M.H. Abrams,121 Carl Dahlhaus,122 and
Lydia Goehr.123
Throughout most of the eighteenth century, instrumental music had
been excluded from the fine arts. Music was considered a fine art only when
it embellished poetic words, as Charles Perrault had noted in 1690. When
music was performed without words, it was regarded merely as entertaining
sounds or as accompaniment for social events or worship.124 “Originating in
antiquity and never doubted until the seventeenth century … music, as Plato
put it, consisted of harmonia, rhythmos, and logos. Harmonia meant regular,
rationally systematized relationships among tones; rhythmos, the system of
musical time, which in ancient times included dance and organized motion;
and logos, language as the expression of human reason. Music without lan-
guage was therefore reduced … a mere shadow of what music actually is.”125
Because instrumental music has little capacity for direct imitation –
apart from occasional bird sounds and cannon fire126 – it did not meet the
basic criterion for a fine art. Batteux permitted another option for both
music and dance by suggesting that they imitate the human passions.127 He
still had vocal music in mind, but could distinguish the words from the
musical sounds that embellish them. However, the notion that instrumen-
tal music imitates the human passions eventually lost favour because it was

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an imprecise form of language.128 The rise of instrumental music in the late
eighteenth century was not based on the usual criteria – the imitation of
nature, the imitation of the passions, or Pythagorean mathematics – but
by changing circumstances in musical performances.
As early as 1675, public halls had been built in London for instrumental
concerts but were used also for other social events: masquerades, balls,
dancing classes, dinners, club meetings, political meetings, card parties, lec-
tures, dramatic readings, and auctions.129 In a novel published in 1778, the
heroine comments, “There was an exceedingly good concert [at the Pan-
theon in London], but too much talking to hear it well. Indeed I am quite
astonished to find how little music is attended to in silence; for though
everybody seems to admire, hardly anybody listens.”130 At concerts where
listening was more intent, audiences responded actively to the performance,
demanding immediate encores of their favourite parts. The same practice
occurred in theatres. The audience did not sit quietly in the dark.
The first exclusive concert hall was the Gewandhaus (Garment house),
established in Leipzig in 1781.131 This largely Protestant city in northern
Germany was interested more in instrumental music than in opera. The
Leipzig Concert Society had been established in 1743 and gave its first
performances in private dwellings. For the next thirty years it performed
concerts in a tavern, in a small room “the size of a middling sitting room,
with a wooden scaffolding on one side for the players and a high wooden
gallery on the other for spectators and listeners in boots, and devoid of
powdered wigs.”132
In 1781, the success of this long-running weekly concert series prompted
the mayor of Leipzig to establish a larger venue by renovating the upper
floors of a meeting hall for cloth merchants into a five-hundred-seat con-
cert hall. Its rectangular form, a “shoebox hall,” had good acoustics. A central
aisle led to a raised platform at the far end, where the musicians performed.
Seats were located along the sides of the room, with two groups of audience
members facing each other. A similar layout was used in German churches
at that time,133 suggesting an emphasis on the social gathering and not just
the music, the liturgy, or the performers. Unlike the earlier concert rooms
in London, the seats at the Gewandhaus were fixed, so the room could not
be used for other types of events. The design and etiquette of the concert
hall reinforced a certain concept of music and certain relationships among

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Gewandhaus in Leipzig in 1781; Johann Friedrich Dauthe, architect. Watercolour
by Gottlob Theuerkauf, View of the Concert Hall in the Old Gewandhaus, with
Musicians and Concertgoers (1895). Stadtgeschichtliches Museum Leipzig.

the figures involved.134 When music was organized in this way, it was no
longer subordinate to other events.
Theories about instrumental music followed these practical devel-
opments. In 1810, E.T.A. Hoffmann’s famous review of Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony gave a major boost to the status of instrumental music.

Only deep immersion into instrumental music, such as Beethoven’s,

will result in a high degree of insight that is inseparable from true
genius and that is nourished by the study of art. What instrumental
work of Beethoven confirms this to a higher degree than his mag-
nificent and profound Symphony in C-Minor. Irresistibly, this won-
derful composition leads its listeners in an increasing climax towards
the realm of the spirits and the infinite … Instrumental music,
wherever it wants to only work through itself and not perhaps for a
certain dramatic purpose, has to avoid all unimportant punning, all

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 dallying. It seeks out the deep mind for premonitions of joy that,
more beautiful and wonderful than those of this limited world, have
come to us from an unknown country, and spark an inner, wonder-
ful flame in our chests, a higher expression than mere words – that
are only of this earth – can spark.135

Hoffmann’s review was a rhetorical high point that advanced the causes of
both instrumental music and Beethoven. However, by placing the appreci-
ation of Beethoven’s music beyond language and beyond the temporal
world, he was also turning his back on the Enlightenment and advancing
the cause of Romanticism. “Romantic taste is rare, and even more rare is the
romantic talent; this is probably why there are so few who can play the lyre
whose sound opens up the wonderful realm of romanticism … Beethoven’s
music moves the levers of fear, of shudder, of horror, of pain and thus
awakens that infinite longing that is the essence of romanticism.”136
As Mark Evan Bonds notes, Hoffmann’s review was preceded by other
German writings on instrumental music that anticipate Romanticism but
have roots in Platonic idealism.137 Immanuel Kant in 1790 still regarded
instrumental music as nothing more than pleasant sounds because, with-
out words, its capacity to convey particular ideas is limited and it appeals
only to the senses, not to reason.138 However, as Bonds notes, others who fol-
lowed him saw it differently.139 They shifted attention away from music’s
mimetic references and rhetorical capacity, focusing instead on the listener’s
aesthetic perception and imagination. “The musical work was perceived no
longer as an oration, but rather as an object of contemplation, a potential
catalyst of revelation accessible to those who actively engaged the work by
listening with creative imagination … Within the idealistic aesthetic, the
power of any given artwork lies in its ability to reflect a higher ideal and in
the beholder’s ability to perceive that ideal.”140 More than any other fine art,
instrumental music could reflect a higher ideal because it was not anchored
to lower ideals that are expressible in language. As Carl Dahlhaus notes,
“If instrumental music had been a ‘pleasant noise’ beneath language to the
common-sense estheticians of the eighteenth century, then the romantic
metaphysics of art [in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century]
declared it a language above language.”141 Unlike poetry and vocal music,
instrumental music could speak directly to the soul, without being held
back by ordinary language. A performance of instrumental music also was

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ephemeral, with no physical matter to weigh it down. This set it apart from
painting, sculpture, and architecture. Of course, not all instrumental music
could transport a listener to a higher realm, so the composer’s role became
more challenging. The earlier theory that music imitates human passions
developed into a new theory that music imitates the passions of the par-
ticular composer. Consequently, the principle of imitation transformed
gradually into the principle of expression.142
At the same time, around 1800, a new philosophical premise emerged:
the concept of “the musical work” (das musikalische Werk) and the allied
concept of “fidelity to the work” (die Werktreue). As Carl Dahlhaus and
Lydia Goehr have shown, this abstract concept established a new network
of relationships that encompass various elements of practice, including
the composer, the performer, the listener, the sound, the score, and the
performance. Individual performances became merely instances of an ideal
“musical work.” Once the musical work had been established, even the
composer became somewhat distanced and could not change it. The listener
was expected to seek the musical work through the performance. This
required a certain type of listening, without distractions and with intense
aesthetic attention. In fact, the physical location of the performance even-
tually would be reduced to almost nothing by removing ambient light,
sound, movement, and the noticeable presence of other people. These
various changes enabled a listener to focus on that ideal realm beyond the
physical location and the particular musical event.
This tension between one’s physical location and a separate realm of
contemplation was not entirely new. It had been anticipated by earlier
concepts in fine arts other than instrumental music. For example, in 1719,
Abbé Dubos had invoked Aristotle by comparing the experience of a real
dramatic event to witnessing an imitation of it in fine art. The fine art expe-
rience was one step removed from lived reality and provided some distance
that enabled the event to be contemplated with a degree of detachment.
In A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and
the Beautiful (1759), Edmund Burke describes a similar relationship in the
concept of the sublime, which he distinguishes from the beautiful. He asso-
ciates the beautiful with things that are small, smooth, and soft: a feminine
metaphor that is encountered directly, here and now. The sublime, on the
other hand, typically is associated with grand, dangerous, and/or terrifying
things, such as wild oceans and treacherous cliffs: again, not when they are

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 Thomas Gainsborough, Study of a man sketching and holding a
Claude glass (ca. 1750). © The Trustees of the British Museum.

encountered directly, but when they are contemplated safely from a dis-
tance.143 The sublime plays on the tension between these two locations. The
beholder’s body is situated in one place while the imagination is in another.
A framed painting of a sublime scene sets up this relationship clearly. So
does a poem.
Representational arts are well suited to the sublime, but it is more chal-
lenging to achieve a similar detachment when immersed in a worldly setting.
Tourists and painters in late eighteenth-century England who searched the
countryside for the sublime had to look far and wide for scenes with quali-
ties that resembled the landscape paintings they admired. Even then, the

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scene usually would provide only a partial match, so certain features had to
be masked or modified before the scene could be painted or described. The
qualities of the scene also might be fleeting, due to changing cloud forma-
tions and light conditions.
A response to this predicament was the invention of an optical device:
the Claude glass, a black convex mirror made of polished stone or coated
glass that aesthetic tourists took along on their expeditions.144 After dis-
covering a promising scene, one would turn one’s back to it and look at
its reflection in the distorted mirror. The particular characteristics of the
mirror modified reality in several ways: Its blackness reduced the tonal range
of the scene and turned daylight into twilight.145 It also emphasized general
masses over subtle details. The convexity of the mirror increased the scene’s
apparent depth and made familiar forms somewhat strange. It also reduced
the broad vista of nature to a much smaller scene that could be taken in with
a glance and represented on paper or canvas. The frame of the mirror sep-
arated the composition from its natural surroundings. Because the Claude
glass was used in nature, the setting already was somewhat separate from
ordinary life; the mirror encouraged additional detachment. When the
Claude glass was used during daylight hours, it could freeze an apparent
period of twilight long enough to draw or paint the scene. With its various
perceptual distortions, the mirror helped viewers distance themselves from
nature and imagine nature as fine art. It provided a virtual opening into
another little world that the viewer could contemplate in a disinterested
way. The Claude glass was used not only by painters but also by poets who
wished to interpret these modified scenes in words.
Assisted by the Claude glass, beholders could experience the sublime by
framing and transforming the natural world. Audiences of instrumental
music could experience the sublime in a different way. Following their lead,
architecture was poised to elevate its own standing in the fine arts. Like
instrumental music, it was not dependent on imitation or language. Like
nature, it was large and worldly, but could be reframed to highlight its
aesthetic qualities while masking its utility and construction. Earlier in the
eighteenth century, when painting and poetry had been the leading fine arts,
architecture’s status had been questionable, but eventually was consolidated
in the Encyclopédie and by Laugier. The aesthetics of the sublime offered
stellar prospects to architecture.

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 9
Boullée and the Fine Arts

The early ambition of Étienne-Louis Boullée (1728–99) was to become a

painter, but he followed the advice of his father (an architect) by pursuing
architecture. As a student of Jacques-François Blondel, he was only one step
removed from the architectural theory of the Encyclopédie.1 In 1762, Boullée
joined the Académie d’architecture and became actively involved in its var-
ious interests, including education, construction, administration, and public
building.2 Political and economic circumstances in France limited his com-
missions to a few large houses.3

Boullée’s Sublime Drawings

Boullée’s major contribution is the Essai sur l’art (Essay on Art), which
includes a series of architectural drawings done from 1778 to 1788, plus an
accompanying manuscript that was still being written when he died in 1799.
The treatise includes projects with different origins: some were for a pro-
gram and site that had been specified by a public authority; some moved a
given program to a different site; some were speculative responses to an
earlier program; and some were imaginary. The text includes his theory of
architecture, descriptions of the projects, and additional notes on education
and other topics. The treatise was deposited in the Bibliothèque nationale
in Paris after his death and remained unpublished until 1953.
Boullée believed that the fine art of architecture was still in its infancy,
and that the principles he had discovered would guide its development.4 An

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obituary for Boullée noted his excitement about the prospects for architec-
ture.5 In Essai sur l’art, Boullée states that architecture is essentially a fine
art, and he addresses his treatise “to men who cultivate the arts.”6 Because
the Enlightenment was so diverse, and because the concept of the fine arts
was still being developed, no single architectural document can stand for
the whole period, but Boullée’s treatise is a significant benchmark.
Boullée is a transitional figure. As Alberto Pérez-Gómez notes, “His work
represents the last possibility of an architecture of imitation in the sense of
the original Greek mimesis, that is, as a metaphor of the a priori order of the
world.”7 At the same time, Boullée relies on expressive theory to evoke his
own perceptions in the beholder. He seeks not the beautiful but the sublime.
Like Laugier, but in a different way, he also attempts to redefine architecture
as only a fine art. To pursue the definition of architecture as a fine art, the
following section interprets Essai sur l’art according to the template of terms
from Chapter 1.

Elements of Practice in the Fine Arts

1 Sensations

Étienne-Louis Boullée regarded architecture as a fine art and referred to the

eighteenth century as “the century of the fine arts.”8 To him, “art” meant
“fine art.” It did not retain the more general meaning of “skillful action”
from the past two millennia. Although he refers to art “in the true sense of
the word,”9 his concept of art is more modern than timeless.
Boullée compares architecture to the four other fine arts and assumes
that it should operate with the same basic principles and should aim for the
same perfection. However, he complains that architecture has fallen behind:
“It is certain that … there are nowhere near as many masterpieces in archi-
tecture as in the other arts … If architecture had acquired the perfection
attained by the other arts, and if there were as beautiful examples, we would
not today be reduced to trying to establish whether architecture has its
source in nature or whether it is pure invention.”10
Discussing painting, he declares that both Michelangelo and Raphael
had reached perfection.11 Referring to his own Cenotaph for Newton, he
suggests that its combination of architecture and nature is more effective

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than painting in representing the majestic experience of a starry sky.12
Boullée mentions sculpture only in passing, as one of the arts that arouse
admiration.13 Like Alberti, he suggests that individual arts can be more effec-
tive when they are combined: music and poetry in the theatre; painting and
sculpture in architecture.14
Like Claude Perrault a century earlier, he notes that dissonant pitches in
music produce obvious discord in the ear, while irregular proportions in
architecture produce less discord in the eye.15 However, he disagrees with
Perrault’s conclusion that architectural beauty is based on arbitrary custom,
arguing instead that humans perceived harmony in music and harmony
in architecture long before they discovered the simple numerical ratios
associated with pitch intervals. Avoiding this numerical analogy between
music and architecture, he proposes a different analogy based on natural
sensations, in which an irregular composition of facade elements (like a
rearranged, asymmetrical face) would be as disturbing as dissonant pitches
in music. These examples of transgressions suggested that both music and
architecture normally follow natural laws. This discussion of music is a key
part of his larger argument about principles of architecture and the role of
the beholder in the fine arts.
Discussing written poetry, Boullée declares that Corneille and Racine
had reached perfection.16 He also uses the phrase “the poetry of architec-
ture” (la poésie de l’architecture) in a way that does not invoke the three
traditional meanings: poetry in verse, poetry in other literary forms, and
poiēsis as human making.17 Instead, he presents a fourth meaning that orig-
inated in the seventeenth century and uses the word “poetry” figuratively to
transfer positive attributes of written poetry to other arts.18
Boullée stresses that architecture is not the art of building. At the very
beginning of his treatise he declares, “What is architecture? Shall I join
Vitruvius in defining it as the art of building [l’art de bâtir]? Indeed, no,
for there is a flagrant error in this definition. Vitruvius mistakes the effect
for the cause.”19 Later he elaborates on this remark: “When Vitruvius’s com-
mentator [Claude Perrault] defines architecture as the art of building, he is
speaking like a workman, not an Artist well versed in his calling; it is as if a
player of music compared his talent with that of the composer of the music
… It is obvious that Vitruvius was familiar only with the [mechanical art] of
architecture.”20 Although Boullée sets up an opposition between architec-

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ture and building, elsewhere he refers to the “technical side” [la partie
scientifique] and the “artistic side” [la partie de l’art] of architecture, as if
they were different sides of the same coin.21
Having separated architecture from building, Boullée further separates
the architect’s theoretical studies from the architect’s practical involvement
with clients. He assumes that the client and the architect are in competition,
motivated by different ideals, objectives, and priorities. Each wants a dif-
ferent building. In this competition, the architect is bound to lose: “He
cannot listen to the voice of his genius but must descend to the level of those
he must please.”22 Practice thus is portrayed as an unrewarding series of
obstacles that prevents the architect’s genius from being manifested in the
physical world and prevents the art of architecture from attaining perfection.
Of the four types of architecture included in the Encyclopédie tree
diagram, Boullée refers to only two: military architecture is for protection;
civil architecture is for arousing sensations.23 To illustrate the difference, he
refers to two properties of his city entrance project. Its military architecture
protects the inhabitants of the city by erecting fortifications, but more
important is its civil architecture, which uses composition to make the
fortifications appear invincible to potential attackers.24 This emphasis
on civil architecture places him firmly in the Imagination division of
the Encyclopédie tree diagram. He adds that the fine arts should avoid the
Reason division, which focuses on causes and not effects. “The only way
that artists should communicate among themselves is by recalling forcefully
and vividly what has aroused their sensibility; it is this [trait], which belongs
to them alone, that will permit them to stimulate the fire of their genius.
They should beware of entering into explanations which belong [too much]
to the realm of reason … The best reasoning in the fine arts will never help
to form Artists.”25
Boullée suggests that architectural concepts can be applied at a range of
scales, from a rustic cabin to a plan for a large empire;26 however, as with
poetry and painting, certain subjects are more favourable. He clearly favours
“threshold” programs with dramatic tensions: between sacred and profane
(temple), life and death (cenotaph), theatricality and ordinary life (opera,
theatre, coliseum), safety and danger (city wall), freedom and incarceration
(palace of justice), past and present (library), knowledge and ignorance
(library). Housing projects, on the other hand, are “sterile” because they

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offer no potential to introduce the poetry of architecture, unless they are
opulent.27 In architecture, Boullée seeks the same sensation of majesty that
he finds in nature.
His concept of nature seems more secular than Christian. He never says
that nature was created by God, and he does not presume that nature once
existed in a perfect primordial state.28 Nonetheless, like Laugier, Boullée
seeks original principles that are timeless and undeviating: a solid foun-
dation from which architecture can progress toward perfection.29 “I flattered
myself that if I went back to the source of all the fine arts I should find new
ideas and thus establish principles that would be all the more certain for
having their source in nature.”30 Unlike Laugier, his principles are based on
innate human sensations rather than on a primordial building form.31
Although he has some respect for the ancient architectural orders, he
criticizes the Greeks for not going back to the origins and for not expressing
the characters of their different programs. Presuming that both the tech-
nical and artistic sides of architecture are progressive, he declares that the
first has progressed but the second has not. He blames its lack of progress
on architects not imitating nature properly and not being given sufficient
opportunity to study and develop their art outside the constraints of
practical commissions.32

2 Translator

Boullée regards the architect as a translator rather than as an artisan, an

inventor, or a creator. He believes that natural principles are innate but must
be revealed and translated into projects to guide the fine arts. He often uses
the word “find” but still wants credit for his discoveries, such as “buried
architecture” (l’architecture ensevelie), “architecture of shadows” (l’architec-
ture des ombres), the puncturing of a dome to represent starlight, and the
appropriate character for a coliseum.33 He declares that these discoveries
belong to him and assumes that others will want to make use of them.34
Boullée dismisses inventors who design things based on arbitrary prin-
ciples because they deal in fantasy, not natural origins, and therefore distract
us from truths that could have been revealed. He includes Piranesi in this
set.35 Instead, he advises the architect to become a “slave of nature.”36
Echoing the empiricist philosophies of John Locke and Étienne Bonnot de
Condillac, he argues that all our ideas are based initially on sensations

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received from nature.37 “The art of expressing these sensations, which
derives from our sensibility, is the purpose of the fine arts. The way to study
the fine arts is to exercise one’s sensibility.”38 Sensation is the architect’s
initial inspiration and the reference against which the subsequent transla-
tion will be measured. When Boullée refers to “inspiration,” it comes from
nature, not the Muses. Nonetheless, he accepts classical orders as a second-
ary precedent, “to respect their designs when they are good, but not to follow
them slavishly.”39 In some projects he uses classical orders as a platform
for much larger geometric figures, reflecting their relative importance. The
classical elements also provide a recognizable human scale, in relation to
which the geometric figures appear immense.40
Following the Encyclopédie’s attention to imagination and Laugier’s
attention to origins, Boullée indicates that the imagination is where archi-
tectural projects originate: “Our earliest ancestors built their huts only when
they had a picture of them in their minds. It is this product of the mind, this
process of creation, that constitutes architecture.”41 This cosmogonic myth
for architecture describes a primal situation in which only a few things are
required: a mind, a process of creation, and an image that the mind pro-
duces. In this domain, architecture as a fine art, one can reach a high level of
practice without knowing theory: “Artists can produce excellent works of
art guided only by their sensibility, without any studies to determine the
basic principles of their art.”42 However, in the historical world Boullée
reverses the order and places building first: “It was necessary to study safe
building methods before attempting to build attractively. And since the
technical side is of paramount importance and consequently is the most
essential, it was natural that this aspect should be dealt with first.”43
Boullée envies artists who are free to choose their subjects, unlike
architects who have to satisfy clients. “How preferable is the fate of Painters
and men of letters! They are free and independent; they can choose their
subjects and follow the bent of their genius. Their reputation depends on no
one but themselves.”44 Although Boullée sought commissions and developed
speculative proposals that might be accepted, he was unable to build
anything but private residences. However, he clearly enjoyed the opportunity
to develop major projects without limits imposed by clients, finances, sites,
and perhaps gravity. He says it is important for genius to spread its wings
freely – another variation on Charles Batteux’s “taking flight” metaphor for
the fine arts.45

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 3 Resource

In his more comprehensive treatise, Leon Battista Alberti situated himself

in nature and devoted considerable attention to matters of site and health.
Boullée, on the other hand, deals with this issue in a few sentences: “purge
the land … of all malignant influences and so preserve the life of each indi-
vidual … ensure plenty by setting aside all arable land.”46 Fine art assumes
that everyone is settled and is healthy enough to proceed to the next level.
Boullée regards the substance of nature as a rich, open resource for making
buildings that evoke majestic sensations. Nature is the means for realizing
his art: “[My] profession will make [me] master of these resources … to avail
myself of all that nature [has] to offer … It is these gifts of nature that enable
me to raise art to the sublime … By using all the means that nature puts at
our disposal, we can achieve the apotheosis of art.”47
Occasionally he imagines a building and its setting working together to
evoke a certain sensation. A building may crown a mountain top. Con-
versely, a field of flowers or an avenue of trees may provide an accessory to
a building.48 Although he indicates that nature is his ultimate reference, he
rarely mentions particular natural features or his own experience. In one
notable exception that recalls how the Claude glass captures the sublime, he
says, “I was in the country, on the edge of a wood in the moonlight. My
shadow produced by the light caught my eye … Because of my particular
mood, the image seemed to me of an extreme melancholy. The shadows of
the trees etched on the ground made a most profound impression on me.
My imagination exaggerated the scene, and thus I had a glimpse of all that
is most sombre in nature … The mass of objects stood out in black against
the extreme wanness of the light. [I] immediately began to wonder how to
apply this, especially to architecture.”49 To remain focused on his primary
objective, Boullée never discusses building construction or particular
materials.50 Whenever brick or rusticated stone is represented in one of his
drawings, its main purpose is to register a recognizable scale within a larger
composition.
Boullée regards light as a substance for composition. His drawings
represent light, shade, and shadow in several ways. Given his emphasis on
simple geometric figures (cones, pyramids, spheres, cubes), he introduces
light obliquely from the left to show part of the volume illuminated and the
rest in shade. Consequently, his “architecture of shadows” is really an archi-

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Étienne-Louis Boullée, Project for a museum (1783). Département des Estampes
et de la photographie, Bibliothèque nationale de France.

tecture of shade. Most of his drawings are either elevations or perspectives

with a low vanishing point, so no shadows are visible on the ground.
Shadows appear only in elevations with relief, where projecting volumes cast
shadows onto recessed surfaces. In several drawings a shadow is cast by a
hidden source51 – perhaps a cloud or a nearby pyramid – but this tactic
seems contrived when compared to the drawings in which volumes and light
are represented methodically.

4 Beholder

Like other Enlightenment figures, Boullée employs religious concepts but

tries to avoid direct references to Christianity.52 He refers to temples rather
than churches or cathedrals.53 When he introduces a Christian program for
its impact on the beholder, he distances himself by referring to Christians in
the third person: “the feast of Corpus Christi, celebrated by the Christians.”54
Instead, he seeks something quasi-religious: “I was searching for a means of
arousing in men’s souls feelings in keeping with religious ceremonies.”55
Boullée stresses that a building should arouse a particular sensation that
the architect discovered in nature and now has translated into a design, “so
that the onlooker [le spectateur] experiences only those feelings that the
subject should arouse.”56 He believes that illuminated volumes are the most
effective means of translating this sensation. The characters of different
volumes are universal, and all humans have an innate ability to recognize

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them in a glance. “Volumes that drag on the ground make us sad; those that
surge up into the heavens delight us … We find gentle volumes pleasant
whereas those that are angular and hard we find repugnant.”57 He regards
this language of volumes as a type of positive beauty that does not rely on
universal proportions or general symmetry. Although these volumes come
with a legacy of Euclidean geometry and Neoplatonic symbolism, his interest
in them is based mainly on their memorable visual quality and their innate
effect on us: “the power they have on our senses, their similarities to the
human organism.”58
Boullée’s interest in sensation links him directly to Condillac’s Treatise
on Sensations (1754), with its emphasis on subjective experience through the
individual senses.59 Although his designs employ forms from Rome and
elsewhere, he has abandoned mimesis as the imitation of ancient sources.
He is still imitating nature, but now through a language of sensation.
Because he discovered these sensations in nature and is passing them along
to the beholder, his intentions can be understood as both imitation and
expression. The design points to something universal, but also expresses
something from the architect.
Focusing on the beholder’s perception places Boullée’s theories firmly
in the eighteenth century. This emphasis on beholding makes the experi-
ence of architecture equivalent to the experience of the other fine arts; the
differences in their modes are incidental. Throughout the treatise his de-
scriptions are written with an individual beholder in mind, suggesting that
fine art is essentially a private experience.
From the standpoint of the traditional liberal arts, Boullée’s model has
shifted from the mathematical arts of the quadrivium toward the language
arts of the trivium. It also associates architecture with poetry and music, as
fine arts that are linguistic and rhetorical. As a form of rhetoric, his projects
no longer are understood as decorum that clothes a patron’s building appro-
priately to perform its function in the world. Instead, they are expressions
that enable a beholder to experience a sensation that the architect has
embodied in a design.60
The beholder of Boullée’s projects is neither a user nor a citizen. His only
descriptions of the practical use of a building are for projects intended for
commission.61 Although most of his projects are for major public institu-
tions, they are not driven by a particular social or political agenda. Like other

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Étienne-Louis Boullée, Cenotaph for Newton (1784), section through interior, with
night effect; detail. Département des Estampes et de la photographie, Bibliothèque
nationale de France.

Enlightenment figures, he wants humanity to progress, but his approach is

through imagination, not social subjects rooted in reason.
Judging from his descriptions, these buildings are mainly for observa-
tion, to evoke a sensation in the beholder’s soul. They are experienced
primarily through sight. “Temple of death! The sight of you chills our
hearts.”62 The other senses rarely are invoked. His descriptions typically fol-
low a ritualized route from outside to inside: a series of experiences that lead
gradually to a final revelation. Once there, the beholder is free to observe
and contemplate. In exceptional cases the beholder can have an out-of-body
experience and imagine heterocosmic conditions in which “the onlooker
finds himself, as if by magic, floating in the air.”63
Although most of Boullée’s designs are intended to transmit strong
sensations in a glance, in at least one situation – the Cenotaph for Newton
– he encourages a prolonged, contemplative response from the beholder.
“We see only a continuous surface which has neither beginning nor end and
the more we look at it, the larger it appears. The form … keeps him at a suf-
ficient distance to contribute to the illusion … He stands alone and his eyes
can behold nothing but the immensity of the sky.”64 The interior of the

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cenotaph is contemplated disinterestedly, dissociated from its worldly cir-
cumstances and its author. Boullée is anticipating a new, idealistic role for
the beholder: to imagine another world.

5 Exhibitor

Boullée does not mention builders, except to say that architecture is not
building – and therefore an architect is not a builder. He considers con-
struction a secondary art, merely the scientific side of architecture.65
Although Alberti privileged disegno, he recognized construction as a neces-
sary component of the architect’s practice. Boullée does not. He draws an
even more decisive line between the architect and the builder. To Boullée,
the most important stages in a project are designing and observing: the
times when sensation is involved. Therefore, the builder is only a means that
enables the design to be exhibited and then experienced by others as the
architect intended. Boullée’s comment that the architect is to the builder as
the composer is to the performer seems slightly ahead of his time because
this split was not yet entirely evident in music.66

6 Monument

Virtually all of Boullée’s drawings present the building as an individual fig-

ure rather than as part of an urban continuum.67 This individual figure then
can become a finite subject of contemplation for the individual beholder. The
limits of the building are reinforced by the close cropping of the drawing.
The perimeters of Boullée’s drawings typically are just wide enough to sug-
gest a neutral background, rather than a particular urban or natural setting.
Only the projects for potential commissions show a particular site.
Boullée refers to his projects most often as monuments. “I have said
that Architects should make a point of incorporating Poetry in their archi-
tecture, above all when they have been commissioned to build a public
monument.”68 “Monument” has various meanings that were current in the
late eighteenth century. Boullée’s projects align with some, but not all: They
do include structures in memory of the dead; they do perpetuate the mem-
ory of a quality or attribute; they do endure; they are imposing; and one
project (the Cenotaph for Newton) commemorates a notable person, event,

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or achievement. However, they do not mark sites of particular historical
importance.69 The projects are more universal than particular. Arguably, this
also applies to the cenotaph for Newton, who is a universal figure due to
what he stands for, rather than a historical person associated with a partic-
ular event. As a monument, each project points to something beyond itself.
Both Laugier and Boullée imagined mythical origins for architecture.
Laugier’s was an abstraction of an ancient building, using branches har-
vested directly from nature. Boullée’s was even simpler in form, but its
components and construction would require much more effort and skill
from the builder: “I said to myself that the basis of architecture is a totally
bare, unadorned wall.”70 Laugier’s primitive hut had a fixed form and
dimensional limits but Boullée’s wall could be extended indefinitely in size
and transformed into cylinders, cones, and spheres. He enjoys the sphere
more than any other form: not for its symbolic meaning but for its smooth,
flowing lines and its graduated lighting effects.71
The composition of each of Boullée’s projects uses a juxtaposition of two
very different scales: a macro scale of simple but immense building volumes;
and a micro scale of stairs, windows, doorways, crenellations, bricks, stone
blocks, trees, and people. The beholder perceives the grandeur of a project
by registering its larger, visual volumes in relation to its smaller, more tactile
elements. Boullée acknowledges this compositional technique indirectly, by
criticizing St Peter’s for appearing not colossal and grand, but merely gigan-
tic because it does not include any elements at the smaller scale.72
In Alexander Baumgarten’s terms, everything that is represented in
Boullée’s drawings is either a “true fiction” or a “heterocosmic fiction”;
nothing is mutually inconsistent and therefore an impossible “utopian
fiction.” Boullée’s references to the pyramids in Egypt and buildings in
ancient Rome remind us that large buildings are well within the realm of
human possibility. They just require skill and willingness. The enormous
spans represented in some of his projects may not have been possible in his
world but certainly would be conceivable in another world (such as our
own).73 The same applies to the bright artificial light in one of the sections
through the Cenotaph for Newton. It was not technically feasible in his day,
but was required by the poetic logic and composition of the project. In fact,
following Baumgarten, the other-worldly properties in Boullée’s projects
help them qualify as fine art.74

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 7 Impression

Boullée often blurs the boundary between drawing and building. He occa-
sionally uses graphic terms when referring to building elements: “I should
use only low, sunken lines for the cenotaph.”75 In the exterior elevation of
the Cenotaph for Newton, the base of the building is cut back with two arcs
to suggest that the outline of the sphere extends into the lower half and
therefore is as complete and freestanding as the spherical form inside. This
continuous outline is clear in the exterior elevation drawing but would not
be evident in the volumetric building.
He says, “The artist should be less concerned with the outline than the
impression it makes.”76 For architecture as a fine art, the drawing is not a
thing in itself, to be admired as an object. Conversely, it is also not a means
for constructing a building. Instead, it plays a role in aesthetic perception,
by manifesting a sensation and making the same impression on the be-
holder.77 Although the first impression would require only a glance, the
drawing might be sufficiently challenging to engage the beholder in a longer
period of disinterested contemplation.
The drawings include elements that normally move or change: clouds,
light, trees, and human figures. While most architectural drawings present a
timeless permanence, Boullée’s tend to represent a moment: perhaps when
something important is revealed or is about to happen. In this sense, they
evoke the sublime. Sometimes this significant moment is described in the
accompanying text rather than in the drawing.78
With Boullée distinguishing so decisively between architecture and
building, the domain of the architect is the drawing. His remarks about
building commissions indicate that he would like his projects to be built,
but his architecture is not diminished if that is not possible, as it has been
conceived primarily as a fine art.

8 Heterocosm

As in other eighteenth-century works of fine art, concepts of sensation, taste,

beauty, and imitation are evident throughout the Essai sur l’art. Their
theories guide the architect in observing nature and making things. They
also help the beholder perceive aesthetically. Still, they seem more like a
means than an end. If there is a governing concept that organizes these

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various features of Boullée‘s work, it may be Baumgarten’s concept of
“heterocosmic fiction.” Some of Boullée’s projects are rhetorical efforts to
obtain commissions, so they appeal to the self-interests of clients. Most of
the projects, however, are not linked directly to the here-and-now but
instead are subjects for disinterested contemplation: “stepping stones” to
another world of some kind. Certain features of these projects are “true fic-
tions” that could exist, but other features are “heterocosmic fictions” that
can be imagined but cannot be mapped onto the existing world. They
encounter resistance from one or more worldly circumstances: physical,
material, structural, symbolic, visible, social, political, economic, or reli-
gious. By provoking the beholder with a strong volumetric sensation, the
drawings illustrate Boullée’s approach to architecture as a fine art. The
architect’s ambitions are not compromised by either the client’s demands
or the builder’s practices. As works of fine art, they must be “inflated” by the
disinterested beholder to enable this “other world” to exist.

Framing Architecture as Only a Fine Art

Heterocosmic Fiction

Alexander Baumgarten was the first to examine the cognitive relation

between a poet and a poem. He said that a poem is generated from three sets
of elements: sensate representations, their interrelationships, and words as
their signs.79 The poem is made in a sequential way: the world provides
material for the senses; the poet selects and separates sensory perceptions,
then “confuses” a sensory perception and a concept by combining them in
the imagination. He invokes the mimetic tradition by stating that poems
imitate nature through their reference to the real world.80
Baumgarten declared that a poem can represent three types of situa-
tions: “true fictions” (things that are possible in the real world); hetero-
cosmic fictions (things that are impossible in the real world but are still
conceivable); and utopian fictions (things that are mutually inconsistent and
therefore cannot be conceived in any possible world). The first two can be
poetic; the third cannot.81 He draws a line at the limits of the heterocosmic.
The poem later is apprehended by a listener or reader, who uses imagi-
nation to map it back onto the real world, which in turn is challenged by the
poem’s unfamiliar heterocosmic fictions. “Since in the case of heterocosmic

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fictions many things can be presumed to enter the stream of thought of
many listeners or readers – things which are not sense impressions or images
or fictions or true fictions – they can be presumed wonderful. Therefore, in
this case, much confused recognition, if it occurs, represents in the most
poetic way a mingling of the familiar with the unfamiliar … The tale of Troy
is another example of a well-known heterocosmic fiction.”82 Baumgarten
suggests that both true fictions and heterocosmic fictions are necessary in a
poem.83 If a poem were limited to true fictions, it would not be poetic.
When Baumgarten coins the word “aesthetic” at the end of his thesis, it
is framed as the relation between a beholder and an object. He associates it
with perception rather than an object.84 This is a reminder that the phrase
“aesthetically perceived object” is more precise than “aesthetic object”
because a beholder is needed. Baumgarten discusses only poetry, but other
theorists in the mid-eighteenth century showed that his philosophical prin-
ciples could apply equally to the other fine arts.85
With instrumental music now leading the fine arts in the late eighteenth
century, it can serve as an additional test of Baumgarten’s heterocosmic
model. Baumgarten’s main example was representational poetry, in which
one’s imagination engages the world in a quasi-bodily way. Representational
paintings, especially perspectives, provide a similar bodily invitation, as do
Boullée’s drawings, many of which are quite large and enveloping.86 How-
ever, the issue of representation in instrumental music is problematic. Peter
Kivy, for example, rejects the notion that absolute music represents any-
thing: whether emotions, fictional worlds, or itself.87 His main example of
a fictional world is the literary novel, which invites the reader to become an
invisible spectator inside the world it represents. Instrumental music clearly
does not offer the same type of bodily involvement; however, other theorists
have shown that instrumental music indeed is understood through percep-
tual analogues that are bodily, spatial, and temporal.88 Even the familiar
notion that music is moving, playing, or transforming suggests a domain
next door where something is happening. Non-representational painting
and poetry challenge Baumgarten’s heterocosmic model in similar ways.
Kivy rescues the heterocosmic model philosophically by distinguishing
between two types of heterocosm: “Absolute music gives us the world of the
work without the world of the world. What I am suggesting is that in the
contentful [representational] arts our thought processes work both in the
world of the work and in the world of the world, whereas in absolute music

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our thought processes, at least ideally, are at play in the world of the work
alone.”89 Kivy’s distinction between these two types of worlds is a helpful
addendum to Baumgarten’s concept of heterocosmic fiction. It shows that
instrumental music is solidly present in at least one of those other worlds. It
also suggests that Boullée’s architectural drawings are heterocosmic in both.

Disinterested Contemplation

M.H. Abrams refers to Baumgarten’s heterocosmic model in conjunction

with a “contemplation model” evident in writings by Shaftesbury, Addi-
son, and others. He suggests that these two models provide a pair of keys
to understand aesthetic perception and therefore the fine arts since the
eighteenth century. He says that they continued to develop through the
nineteenth and early twentieth century, then became the dominant modes
of fine art criticism in the 1920s and have remained steady since then.90 The
contemplation model is characterized by an attitude of “disinterestedness,”
in which the observer contemplates an object or performance purely as a
thing in itself. The precedent here is a religious one: the Earl of Shaftesbury
says that one should contemplate God disinterestedly, without self-interest,
and that one should contemplate something beautiful in the same way.91
In disinterested contemplation, the object of one’s attention does not
“improve” the observer by providing worldly information or a moral lesson.
Conversely, the observer has no self-interest in understanding, analyzing,
classifying, using, owning, or judging the object. Nevertheless, the aesthetic
observer is intensely interested in the object for its own sake. The observer
is disinterested, not uninterested. This contemplation model differs sub-
stantially from the medieval contemplation model (discussed in Chapter 4),
in which the anagogical process of contemplating a series of religious texts
or objects helps one ascend toward God. In the fine arts, an object or per-
formance instead evokes an autonomous little world for its own sake: “Its
nature is to be not a part, nor yet a copy, of the real world (as we commonly
understand that phrase) but to be a world by itself, independent, complete,
autonomous; and to possess it fully you must enter that world, conform to
its laws, and ignore for the time the beliefs, aims, and particular conditions
which belong to you in the other world of reality.”92
Jerome Stolnitz traces the history and theory of disinterested contempla-
tion and regards it as the perceptual condition on which the fine arts are based.93

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He refers to a series of British theorists in the eighteenth century – Shaftes-
bury, Addison, Edmund Burke, and Archibald Alison – and a culminating
presentation by Immanuel Kant. Shaftesbury describes disinterestedness
in a religious way, saying that a virtuous man loves God without expecting
anything in return; conversely, he also does not engage in altruism.94
Shaftesbury later shifts to natural subjects, such as the ocean, that one can
contemplate without wishing to use or possess them. From there, he con-
siders mathematics as an independent order with its own intrinsic beauty.
He also recognizes that we receive pleasure from music, but suggests that
this pleasure is secondary, and that we listen to music primarily to contem-
plate its intrinsic order, similar to mathematics. He regards things made by
humans as the lowest type of beauty and does not delve deeply into the
other fine arts.
Shaftesbury’s philosophical frame of reference is Platonic, suggesting
that his disinterested perception seeks an ideal realm and descends only as
far as the mathematical liberal arts. He values truth in architecture, music,
poetry, and painting – not as direct imitations of reality but as idealized ver-
sions with proportions and compositions that draw truth out of nature.95
He acknowledges that these arts provide pleasure, appeal to the passions,
provide moral lessons, and enable one to exercise taste, but to him these
attributes are less important than what can be recognized through disinter-
ested contemplation.96
Because an object can be perceived in various self-interested ways
(understanding, analyzing, classifying, using, owning, judging, etc.), con-
templating it disinterestedly requires a suspension of those intentions. A
product of any art can be used in some way, if only to decorate a setting or
accompany an event, but its potential for utility does not preclude it being
perceived aesthetically. Batteux, however, believed that utility does prevent
architecture and eloquence from qualifying as fine arts, and therefore placed
them in a hybrid classification. On the other hand, Diderot and d’Alembert
treated civil architecture as a full member of the fine arts. To do this, they
extracted building construction, called it “practical architecture,” and moved
it into a separate epistemological division. However, issues of utility re-
mained part of civil architecture in their fine arts division. Utility was not
associated with the material categories in which practical architecture resides.
Following Charles Perrault and Joseph Addison, Diderot and d’Alembert
apparently believed that (civil) architecture qualifies as a full member of the

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fine arts because a beholder can disregard utility and construction, then
perceive a building in a purely aesthetic way. Of course, to contemplate a
building disinterestedly, we cannot consider how it is organized or why. We
cannot analyze the process with which it was built. We cannot compare it to
other buildings. We cannot imagine furnishing it or living in it. We cannot
imagine owning it and showing it off to others. We cannot criticize its design.
Conversely, the building cannot present us with a moral lesson on what to
build or how to live.
When all of these familiar forms of self-interest are suspended, the
beholder might perceive a building initially as a composition of illuminated
volumes, as Boullée intended, or as some other type of composition that
includes masses, spaces, planes, edges, openings, colours, motions, framed
surroundings, light, etc. Room names and other labels would be removed.
The building also would be disengaged from the reality of its location –
climate, terrain, social networks, etc. – and perceived as if it were floating on
a neutral background. As soon as this decontextualized state of perception
has been reached, disinterested contemplation can begin.
One premise of contemplation is that, unlike sensation, it cannot be
done in a glance; an extended period of time is required. To Hugh of St
Victor, contemplation required a methodical series of steps over time to
appreciate a wide range of natural qualities – and potentially to ascend to a
divine level. Aesthetic contemplation in the eighteenth century was not
described so methodically and prescriptively. Aesthetic observers were
largely on their own, guided by only a few precepts: Shaftesbury suggested
that several levels of beauty exist; Addison provided some tips on how to use
the senses and which general qualities to seek; Baumgarten distinguished
different types of fiction; and Burke distinguished the beautiful from the
sublime. However, these theories provided only some rough guidelines
for navigation – and no ultimate destination. Therefore, the disinterested
contemplation of the fine arts, including architecture, remained quite open.
No one believed that it could be mapped as comprehensively as Hugh of
St Victor’s contemplative ascent to the divine.
In architecture there were a few aesthetic guidelines for beholders. In
1745, Germain Boffrand advised paying attention to the aesthetic impres-
sions made by different classical orders and proportions, as well as the
general character projected by a building, especially through its straight,
concave, and convex lines.97 In 1753, Laugier suggested looking for good

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building elements that recall his primitive hut, while disregarding bad build-
ing elements that do not. In 1780, Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières suggested
paying attention to room proportions, ornamentation, and spatial sequence to
consider the particular sensation they produce: agreeable, serious, mysteri-
ous, gloomy, etc.98 In the 1790s, Boullée offered tips on aesthetic perception
and advised against focusing too much on numerical proportions.99 Some
of these recommendations suggest self-interest in the building’s patrons, use,
or setting, but most of them focus on features that promote aesthetic per-
ception and disinterested contemplation.
Suppressing the facts of the building – where and when it was built,
who designed it, for whom, for what purpose, how it was built, and what
makes it stand up – would help an aesthetic beholder focus instead on the
building’s “true fictions”: its elements, forms, spaces, and materials. To
pursue Baumgarten’s heterocosmic fictions, however, would require a more
imaginative approach in which the beholder is free to recognize different
properties of those elements, forms, spaces, and materials: alternate inter-
pretations of where they came from, what they are doing, and what they
want to be. Bricks may spring into arches, planes may speak to other planes,
walls may turn corners, cladding may wrap, stairways may ascend, floor slabs
may float, openings may puncture, colours may jump out, roofs may soar,
and landscapes may be borrowed.100 The building may defy gravity or laws
of physics, appearing to be suspended from the sky or supported by elements
that are impossibly thin. In this other world, where the design makes perfect
sense, these alternate physical actions and forces could be reinforced by
alternate circumstances: different furnishings, different inhabitants, different
rituals, and a different location and climate, all of which would suit the
design perfectly. As a set, these alternate readings of the building would
constitute a “world of the work”: a convincing heterocosmic fiction gen-
erated through disinterested contemplation.101

Institutions for the Fine Arts

To contemplate architecture disinterestedly requires that many real cir-

cumstances be masked. The other fine arts – painting, sculpture, poetry, and
music – can be contemplated in similar ways but require less masking. In
the late eighteenth century, various mechanisms and institutions were

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developed to mask real-world surroundings and highlight works of art for
appreciation by beholders. They did for the fine arts what the Claude glass
did for nature.
A painting already has a boundary between its internal realm and its
physical location. This edge may be reinforced by a suitable frame.102 A
painting that utilizes perspective or some other geometry of depth opens
up a virtual space beyond its surface, distinguishing the painting even fur-
ther from its surroundings. Until the late eighteenth century, paintings and
sculptures generally were installed in particular social settings.103 The first art
museums then began to place paintings and sculptures in a more exclusive
context, where they became the primary focus.104 Later, museum etiquette
introduced silence and slow motion to avoid distracting the beholder.
In music, a composition already has a beginning and an end that
establish its limits amidst the ambient sounds of its surroundings. These
edges may be reinforced by applause, which is not only a sign of appreciation
but also a collective entry and exit rite that reinforces those limits. Until the
late eighteenth century, musical performances contributed to social events
of various kinds and their performers were associated with the mechanical
arts: “Public performances of music by instrumentalists … originated as
part of tavern life, and the performers were accorded a status parallel to that
of a barmaid.”105 In the Leipzig Gewandhaus and subsequent concert halls,
music was dissociated from its ordinary surroundings and became a primary
focus in its own right. Again, concert hall etiquette promoted disinterested
contemplation.
Book covers establish obvious physical limits for poetry and literature. In
the early eighteenth century a new type of literature, the novel, appeared in
England and France and became extremely popular. It was a self-contained
fiction that one could read privately as a pleasant diversion, rather than for
moral or technical instruction. According to M.H. Abrams,“In 1710 the term
belles lettres was imported from France to signify those literary works that
were not doctrinal or utilitarian or instructional, but simply appealed to
taste, as writings to be read for pleasure. In the course of time belles lettres
became simply ‘literature’ and replaced the earlier generic term poetry.”106
However, the popular novel was not yet fine art. In the late eighteenth cen-
tury Friedrich Schiller established the first journal of literary criticism, Die
Horen (The hours).107 As editor, Schiller authorized certain works as fine art,

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worthy of being contemplated aesthetically. Literary criticism not only
directed readers toward significant literary works but also provided guid-
ance on how they should be read.108
The fifth fine art, architecture, is a more challenging case, especially
because built architecture is immersed in ordinary life and is expected to
provide appropriate decorum for individuals and institutions. As museums
for paintings and sculptures were prime examples of a fine art institution,
museums for architecture are an obvious place to start.109 Werner Szambien
traces their roots to the 1770s, motivated by an interest in archeology and
ruins. In France, building fragments, models, plaster casts, and drawings
were assembled into small collections within larger institutions such as the
Louvre and the Académie d’architecture.110 However, these diverse collec-
tions promoted self-interested agendas – didactic displays for reference and
imitation; historical or national classifications; narratives of cultural devel-
opment; etc. – rather than disinterested contemplation.111
M.H. Abrams takes a different approach, suggesting that architectural
tourism was the institution that reinforced the fine art status of architec-
ture.112 He refers specifically to the thousands of eighteenth-century tourists
who visited country houses in England each year. However, historical stud-
ies of country house visiting in England indicate that visitors were not really
contemplating architecture in a disinterested way. They might admire the
house briefly, but then focus on the house’s contents.113 They were intensely
interested in the lives and possessions of the people who lived there. With-
out an architectural Claude glass to abstract this domestic landscape, a
beholder would have to suppress curiosity and suspend critical judgment to
be able to contemplate its architecture disinterestedly.
With neither the architectural museum nor architectural tourism fram-
ing architecture convincingly as a fine art, an alternative is to consider a
wider range of more subtle devices, including some that developed after the
eighteenth century. One approach to architectural framing was borrowed
from literary criticism, by authorizing certain architectural works as fine art
and distinguishing them from all other buildings.114 Unfortunately, because
built architectural works remain in their worldly settings rather than being
brought to a central location and designated formally as fine art, someone
who is unaware of the esoteric canon would be hard pressed to identify
which buildings are worthy of aesthetic contemplation.115

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 A second approach has used a dual strategy of separation and masking
to present architecture as a fine art.116 Laugier’s theory distinguished archi-
tectural elements from non-architectural elements in the same building,
then encouraged the beholder to focus only on the architectural set. Boul-
lée highlighted certain characteristics as architectural and dismissed the rest.
All architectural presentation drawings do the same. A guided tour of a
building can use words and gestures selectively to highlight certain features
and suppress everything else, as can a carefully written guidebook.117 Later,
photography would apply principles of the Claude glass to select, isolate,
and distort architectural features.118 The photograph, as an architectural sur-
rogate, then could be contemplated separately from the building. Architectural
publications, exhibitions, and lectures have continued in this vein. In each
case, the building is separated into two parts: the architecture “takes flight”
while the rest of the building remains grounded.
A third approach uses a strategy of association to present architecture as
a fine art. Carefully selected furnishings, figures, clothing, and activities are
brought to a building to reinforce its design and present a more complete
fiction. Such items might be added temporarily for photography or might
remain in place. In an architectural Gesamtkunstwerk, a comprehensive set
of elements tends to promote an ethic on how to live, rather than just an
aesthetic for contemplation.119 A similar approach can be used in renova-
tions and additions, where certain fine art features of an existing building
are emulated so that the amended version is consistent with the original
design.120 Like the principle of die Werktreue in music, this is an example of
“fidelity to the work.”121
Although there has been no principal institution for framing archi-
tecture as a fine art, the strategies mentioned above show how this was
accomplished in various ways. However, it should be noted that all of these
presentations of architecture are susceptible to the self-interested agenda
of an external authority – a designer, a curator, a critic, etc. – rather than
simply clearing a space for disinterested contemplation by a beholder.
The conceptual and physical devices for perceiving architecture as only
a fine art required competing concepts to be suppressed. This is illustrated
by the different divisions in the tree diagrams of the Encyclopédie, where four
types of architecture were located. Clearly, architecture in the eighteenth
century was understood not only as a fine art in the Imagination division,

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alongside painting, sculpture, poetry, and music.122 When conceived in other
ways, it would be allied with different disciplines. When emphasis was
placed on the divisions of Memory and Reason rather than Imagination,
the aesthetic beholder would be far less important. One such example is
Jacques-François Blondel, whose Encyclopédie articles (1751–57) and Cours
d’architecture (1771–77) present architecture as a comprehensive, ethical
practice. He did not adhere to the divisions that Diderot and d’Alembert
had set up.123 In practice, he recommended that paintings and sculptures
be integrated with a building project, and that gardening be added to make
the set even more comprehensive.124 However, Blondel did not regard paint-
ing, sculpture, architecture, and gardening as theoretically analogous; they
simply worked well together.

Faith in the Fine Arts

The fine arts in the early eighteenth century had been associated with the
Moderns, whose efforts had consolidated the fine arts by mid-century. The
second wave altered this Enlightenment trajectory and would lead to the
more diverse, more complex, and less progressive dynamics of Romanticism
in the nineteenth century. Along the way, architecture and the other fine arts
– especially instrumental music – would become understood as expressions
of quasi-religious faith that communicate directly to the soul of an individ-
ual beholder.
Isaiah Berlin traces Romanticism back to a religious movement, called
Pietism by its detractors, that developed in Prussia in 1675 around the writ-
ings of a Lutheran preacher, Philipp Jakob Spener (1635–1705).125 Although
Pietism remained a marginal movement, some significant eighteenth-
century figures were raised in a Pietist community, including Georg Friedrich
Händel, Alexander Baumgarten, and Immanuel Kant.126 In Pia desideria
(Pious desires), Spener points out defects in the Lutheran church, declares
that there is still hope, and proposes six practical remedies.127 He promotes
solitary, family, and lay readings of the Bible, to savour the word of God as
directly as possible. “Our whole Christian religion consists of the inner man
or the new man, whose soul is faith and whose expressions are the fruits of
life, and all sermons should be aimed at this … It is not enough that we hear
the Word with our outward ear, but we must let it penetrate to our heart.”128

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The inner man must not be distracted by external trappings, including
buildings: “Nor, again, is it enough to worship God in an external temple,
but the inner man worships God best in his own temple.”129
Spener advocates removing institutional formalities that separate the
inner man from the scriptures. He is wary of preachers, whose reputation
and rhetoric can distract a listener: “The pulpit is not the place for an osten-
tatious display of one’s skill. It is rather the place to preach the Word of the
Lord plainly but powerfully.”130 Instead, he recommends distributing the
spiritual functions of the church among its parishioners.131 To confirm that
the scriptures are being understood, he focuses not on the speaker but on
what the listener perceives.
Spener’s successor, August Hermann Francke (1663–1727), went even fur-
ther: “Alas I say to you, all erudition is vanity and folly … No people are
more subject to the fetters of Satan than those who study.”132 Although one
of Pietism’s core principles was to address its opponents sympathetically,
Pietists at the University of Halle in the 1720s campaigned against Christian
Wolff, a former student of Leibniz and a professor of mathematics, physics,
and philosophy at the university. They succeeded in convincing the king to
ban him from Prussia.133
Pietists carried their beliefs about the Bible and personal communication
to other non-religious situations. Friedrich Christoph Oetinger (1702–82)
opposed Enlightenment science in favour of a Christian approach that relied
strictly on the senses, unaided by telescopes and microscopes, which he
called the phenomenological method.134 Johann Georg Hamann, a lifelong
friend of Kant, proposed that God is a poet who speaks not only through
nature but also through human creations.135 Therefore, human creations are
both finite and infinite. As unique, personal acts, they are situated in a par-
ticular place and time but also invoke the divine. They cannot be understood
using principles that are valid only in the natural sciences.
By declaring that some things in the world are unknowable to humans,
Hamann rejected a basic principle of the Enlightenment.136 Like Hamann
and Giambattista Vico, Johann Gottfried von Herder believed that a work
of art is an expression by a particular person, addressed to other particular
persons. “When we appreciate a work of art, we are put in some kind of
contact with the man who made it, and it speaks to us.”137 To understand
the work, one must interpret the intention of the maker, the object’s effect
on the soul of the receiver, and the bond that exists between them. Each

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created object thus is a form of communication. Herder believed that one
can understand a work of art made by someone in another culture, but only
through an enormous effort of the imagination that reconstructs all of the
circumstances and ideals of that other life.138 Isaiah Berlin regards Hamann,
Herder, and Vico as the three most influential opponents of the Enlighten-
ment.139 All three distinguished the humanities from the natural sciences
and showed that these two epistemological domains rely on different prin-
ciples and seek different goals.
The confrontation between Pietism and the Enlightenment during the
Christian Wolff episode in the 1720s could be interpreted simply as a case of
“religion vs. science” or “sacred vs. secular,” but this would oversimplify
the conflict. The Pietists’ reaction recalls their earlier opposition to the insti-
tutionalized practices of the Lutheran church, which was a “religion vs.
religion” dispute. In each case, the Pietists opposed a practice they believed
would privilege the intellect over the spirit, reason over revelation, the uni-
versal over the individual, or institutional authority over introspective faith.
Conversely, the Enlightenment should not be oversimplified as a pro-
gressive, rational movement. According to Peter Gay, the Enlightenment was
characterized more by criticism than by reason: “It was a political demand
for the right to question everything, rather than the assertion that all could
be known or mastered by rationality.”140 He also notes that the Enlighten-
ment was populated by diverse characters whose efforts formed a loose
harmony rather than a tight unison. In general, it was driven not by a single
aim but by a duality: “As the Enlightenment saw it, the world was, and had
always been divided between ascetic, superstitious enemies of the flesh,
and men who affirmed life, the body, knowledge, and generosity; between
mythmakers and realists, priests and philosophers … Hebrews and Hellenes
… This dualist view of history, rather than the celebrated theory of progress,
characterizes the mind of the Enlightenment. The theory of progress was
a special case of this dualism; it gave formal expression to the hope that
the alternations between Ages of Philosophy and Ages of Belief were not
inescapable, that man was not forever trapped on the treadmill of histori-
cal cycles.”141
Most Enlightenment figures shared an intense opposition to Christian
dogma and what they regarded as the rigid and repressive structure of the
Catholic church, but this may be interpreted less as an opposition to reli-

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gion itself than to institutions that restrict human freedom (liberté). In fact,
they retained God under various pseudonyms: Supreme Being, Author of
the Universe, Great Contriver, Prime Mover, and First Cause.142 They also
retained Christian rituals in modified forms. As Peter Gay notes, “The most
militant battle cry of the Enlightenment, écrasez l’infâme [crush the infa-
mous] was directed against Christianity itself, against Christian dogma in
all its forms, Christian institutions, Christian ethics, and the Christian view
of man, but the philosophes had been born into a Christian world and kept
many of their Christian friends … Far from wholly discarding their Chris-
tian inheritance, they repressed, and retained, more than they knew.”143
Carl Becker is even more explicit, pointing to distant resemblances
between the actions of Enlightenment figures in the eighteenth century and
the actions of medieval Christians in the thirteenth century:

If we examine the foundations of their faith, we find that at every

turn the Philosophes betray their debt to medieval thought without
being aware of it … They had put off the fear of God, but maintained
a respectful attitude toward the Deity. They ridiculed the idea that
the universe had been created in six days, but still believed it to be a
beautifully articulated machine designed by the Supreme Being
according to a rational plan as an abiding place for mankind … They
renounced the authority of church and Bible, but exhibited a naive
faith in the authority of nature and reason. They scorned meta-
physics, but were proud to be called philosophers. They dismantled
heaven, somewhat prematurely it seems, since they retained their
faith in the immortality of the soul … They denied that miracles ever
happened, but believed in the perfectibility of the human race.144

Instead of characterizing the Enlightenment attitude as a loss of faith in

Christianity that leads to non-religious secularism, Becker favours a differ-
ent model that retains the notion of religion but frames it differently: “The
essential articles of the religion of the Enlightenment may be stated thus: (1)
man is not natively depraved [no original sin]; (2) the end of life is life itself,
the good life on earth instead of the beatific life after death; (3) man is capa-
ble, guided solely by the light of reason and experience, of perfecting the
good life on earth; and (4) the first and essential condition of the good life

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on earth is the freeing of men’s minds from the bonds of ignorance and
superstition, and of their bodies from the arbitrary oppression of the con-
stituted social authorities.”145
This “religion of humanity” bears striking similarities to Christianity:
“The new religion had its dogmas, the sacred principles of the Revolution –
Liberté et sainte égalité. It had its form of worship, an adaptation of Catholic
ceremonial, which was elaborated in connection with the civic fêtes. It had
its saints, the heroes and martyrs of liberty. It was sustained by an emotional
impulse, a mystical faith in humanity, in the ultimate regeneration of the
human race.”146 Still, some differences should be acknowledged. The Enlight-
enment’s attention to origins and progress aligns in a general way with the
Christian trajectory from paradise to apocalypse; however, Christian dogma
points to a single, fixed origin whereas the Enlightenment points to multi-
ple origins that are still speculative. In architecture, Batteux’s cave, Laugier’s
primitive hut, and Boullée’s innate volumes are three options that were still
in play. Christian dogma anticipates a transcendent destination, whereas the
Enlightenment pursues progress without an endpoint. Laugier and Boullée
stated that perfection should be sought, but they provided only rough guide-
lines for a trajectory. The transcendent Christian model offers abundant
rewards in the next world, whereas the immanent Enlightenment model
expects fewer rewards – but they are tangible and they arrive sooner.
In The Roots of Romanticism, Isaiah Berlin develops a convincing argu-
ment that Pietism contributed to the development of nineteenth-century
Romanticism. The intervening period, what Boullée called “the century
of the fine arts,” displayed various amalgamations of art and religion.
Floating with Beethoven on the second wave in the year 1800, we can look
back at the development of the fine arts (including architecture) during the
previous century and identify concepts that are implicitly or explicitly
religious. Shaftesbury’s three-level hierarchy of beautiful forms links God’s
creations to mathematically ordered human inventions. Addison considers
the Supreme Author to be the final cause of everything that is vast, novel, or
beautiful. His examples of architecture include some that are mentioned in
the Bible and some that are not. Baumgarten coined the term “aesthetic”
and associated it with the contemplation of heterocosmic fictions: perhaps
a fine art equivalent to the Pietist act of reading the Bible to oneself. In the
Encyclopédie, the liberal arts, which were attributed originally to divine
revelation, are replaced surreptitiously by the fine arts. Diderot describes

246 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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Imagination, the division where the fine arts are situated, as a gift from God.
Laugier, a Jesuit with a passion for architecture as a fine art, imagines the
first building in a primordial Eden. Boullée refers to Newton as a Divine
Being and describes his cenotaph as a heaven that can magically elevate
architectural observers. Toward the end of the century, various institutions
remove the fine arts from their utilitarian domains and place them in con-
templative domains where their heterocosmic fictions can be experienced.
Together, these examples illustrate Becker’s general observation about
the presence of religious faith in the Enlightenment: “In a very real sense it
may be said of the eighteenth century that it was an age of faith as well as
of reason, and of the thirteenth century that it was an age of reason as well
as of faith.”147 Diderot and d’Alembert reserved an entire division for Imag-
ination, separate from other disciplines. Here it could pursue its own initia-
tives, relying on the others for support but not being constrained by them.
Conversely, the other disciplines could rely on memory and pursue reason,
without interference from faith. “Hence it became the task of the critical
philosopher to keep poetry from contaminating philosophy, to enjoy pleas-
ing fictions without taking them for truths.”148
Compared to other disciplines that developed incrementally, the fine arts
in the eighteenth century were speculative ventures based on faith. They
relied less on ancient authority. Both Laugier and Boullée believed that
architecture was just beginning and they had high expectations for it.
Heterocosmic fictions in the fine arts could fall flat, but also could open up
new horizons for humanity. Batteux’s comment that eloquence and archi-
tecture can “take flight” led to a recurring aviation metaphor that associated
architecture with birds, skies, and heavens – and well-designed sails that
accelerate the entire epistemological vessel.149 But Laugier and Boullée were
not content with pleasant aesthetic diversions. To help architecture “take
flight,” they separated it into earthbound and airborne parts, then referred
to only the airborne part as “architecture.”

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 10
Conclusion

Having completed our journey through these four historical definitions of

architecture, we can reflect on some of their benchmarks and draw some
comparisons before returning to the present.
The elements of practice in ancient Greek technē were quite different
from our current conventions, despite the etymological trail that links
technē to modern technique and technology. Technē relied on a chain of
human ancestors and was largely conservative. Artisans did not seek inno-
vation or self-expression; instead, they transformed natural substance into
well crafted objects and actions that would extend the normal limits of a
patron’s abilities. The role of an architekton (chief builder) was comparable
to that of a tekton (builder in wood or stone). Both worked on-site, draw-
ing from ancestral experience to make things that would be perfect and
“deathless.” Practitioners of technē in archaic and early classical Greece were
not involved directly in theory; that was someone else’s job.
Philological clues in ancient Greece point to a watershed in the fourth
century bce, when Plato conceived a new role for technē within a larger epis-
temological framework. Techne- became subordinate to a higher realm of
forms that retroactively installed ideal models for artisans to imitate. When
the Romans, including Vitruvius, brought this way of thinking to building,
they devised an ideal realm of first principles. They also coined a new word:
architectura. Recognizing that the Western concept of architecture has an
identifiable beginning and is associated with first principles, theoretical
knowledge, individual authorship, and ideal forms – but not the technē
properties they supplant – suggests that the discipline of “architecture” is his-
torically finite and is but one phase in a longer, more universal history.

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 In the technē tradition, ancient Greece regarded certain crafts more
highly for their intellectual virtues and their potential to contribute to the
common good. Seven subjects – arithmetic, astronomy, dialectic, geometry,
grammar, music theory, and rhetoric – were identified in Hellenistic Greece
and ancient Rome as “liberal arts” that an educated citizen should know. At
the opposite end of the scale were “vulgar arts” that included building.
For two thousand years the liberal arts would become the primary episte-
mological framework for philosophers, theologians, and educators. Occa-
sionally someone dared to propose different criteria or to nominate a certain
art for inclusion or exclusion, but with one brief exception – Varro, in ancient
Rome – architecture was never included in the liberal arts.
In the ninth century, Eriugena augmented the finite set of liberal arts by
proposing a second classification: the mechanical arts. He named architec-
ture as the first member of the group and reserved six places for other arts.
In the twelfth century, Hugh of St Victor methodically filled in the seven
mechanical arts, with architecture included as a subset of armament. Hugh’s
Didascalicon described a Christian ambition for the mechanical arts: to
compensate for the intrinsic weakness of humans in the temporal world
and to help restore the primordial knowledge that humans had lost after the
Fall. Hugh’s writings also suggest that a clear philosophical distinction can
be made between two realms of medieval architecture: mechanical art and
contemplative art.
Italian humanists in the fourteenth century believed that their revival of
ancient poetry and eloquence raised these subjects to the level of the three
language-based liberal arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. By presenting
their arguments to an educated public rather than to philosophers and theo-
logians, they circumvented traditional channels of authority and opened the
door to popular negotiation. Analogies between poetry and painting invited
further arguments that painting should be added to the liberal arts, but only
if a painter’s innate talent (ingenium) enabled a divine truth to become evi-
dent behind a painting’s sensory veil. Petrarch argued that sculpture should
be added for the same reason, declaring that these two imitative arts arise
from a single source: drawing. Cennini described drawing (disegno) in a more
comprehensive way that encompassed both the imitation of nature and the
invention of a new composition.
To help raise his fellow citizens toward the standards of the ancients,
Alberti presented comprehensive principles for several arts, including paint-

Conclusion 249

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ing, sculpture, and architecture. Without stating explicitly that these arts
should be reclassified as liberal arts, he glorified the abilities of their practi-
tioners to draw lineaments from nature or ancient precedents, to internalize
these lineaments in the mind, and to use these lineaments responsibly in
new compositions. Although disegno can be linked etymologically to our
current word “design,” Alberti’s theoretical framework employed different
elements and relationships.
In the sixteenth century, Giorgio Vasari presented painting, sculpture,
and architecture as siblings, fathered by disegno. All three were “arts of
design” (arti del disegno) that continued to rely on the imitation of nature
and ancient precedents. He glorified Michelangelo as a master who had
reached perfection in all three arts, leaving nothing more to be accomplished
in disegno. Fortunately, inventiveness (invenzione) was open-ended, so
others still had something to do. The Accademia del Disegno in Florence
was a practical test of Vasari’s theory that these three arts are equal mem-
bers of the disegno family, but its architects eventually were marginalized
and ousted. The concept of disegno was not strong enough to hold together
the three arts in this academy of practitioners. Architecture’s separation
from painting and sculpture indicated that it is not essentially a visual art.
The fine arts (beaux-arts) classification originated in seventeenth-
century France and England, and developed throughout the eighteenth
century as a quasi-religious project. To Charles Perrault in 1690, the fine arts
were part of a larger epistemological effort to supplant the divinely inspired
liberal arts and the servile mechanical arts. He described the fine arts as
modern products of human work and genius. At the core of the fine arts
were painting, sculpture, poetry, and music: no longer with drawing (disegno)
as their common ground. The fine arts were formulated not for designers or
makers but for aesthetic beholders who could taste things in a glance. As
eighteenth-century writers weighed different criteria for defining the fine
arts, marginal arts such as engraving, dance, eloquence, prose literature,
architecture, and gardening were considered for membership. Around 1750,
architecture was recognized decisively as the fifth fine art. Because a fine art
had to privilege pleasure over utility, architecture was placed in an awkward
position. This required an exceptional response, illustrated in the Encyclo-
pédie: the discipline of architecture was divided into separate parts so that
one part, powered by the human faculty of imagination, would be free to
“take flight.” Laugier and Boullée carried this strategy a step further by

250 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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declaring that only this part is really architecture. Framing architecture as
only a fine art required the facts of its location, its history, its construction,
and its utility to be disregarded, so that its aesthetic qualities could be con-
templated disinterestedly in a fictional, “heterocosmic” world where its
design would make perfect sense.
In the mid-twentieth century, Paul Oskar Kristeller noted that fine art
concepts have continued to define the framework within which architecture
and other arts are being pursued. This observation has been echoed by other
theorists and philosophers. Although writings from the eighteenth century
may sound somewhat foreign or remote to us, we still share an epistemo-
logical structure, despite occasional attempts to supplant parts of it.

Historical Elements of Practice

The empty matrix in Chapter 1 included a template of current terms that

was extended through the historical chapters. The corresponding historical
terms were designated in Chapters 2, 4, 6, and 9 by numbered subheadings.
When all of them are assembled, they fill in the matrix below. Because this
matrix has been devised empirically in words rather than statistically in
numbers, it can provide no hard scientific data; any comparisons would be
metaphoric at best. However, it does illustrate a general architectural terrain
in which major historical changes are evident in the discipline (row 1), its
elements of practice (rows 2–7), and its governing concept (row 8).

Eight current terms and their historical counterparts.

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 Epistemological Classifications

By themselves, classifications are artificial constructs. As Robert Kilwardby

pointed out in the thirteenth century, there was no intrinsic reason to limit
the mechanical arts to seven: “Mechanical arts could be distinguished in
many various ways, and in many diverse numbers. For I see no other com-
pelling reason why about so countless an array of arts we should number
them precisely as seven, save for a certain superficial correspondence with
the seven liberal arts.”1
The desire to situate the mechanical arts within a larger system provided
a good extrinsic reason to limit the number to seven: the number of heavenly
bodies, days of creation, notes on a scale, deadly sins, etc. Even more impor-
tant was its correspondence to the seven liberal arts. Medieval analogy
and number symbolism established authoritative structures within which
concepts could be developed. If the number seven is already prescribed, one
can move on to the next pair of questions: what to include in the set and
why. The making of a classification is a practical way to think about episte-
mological grounds. Instead of arguing about abstract principles, one can
select and organize disciplines, which are more tangible. Arguing about the
members of a classification is also a practical way to challenge the grounds
on which it is based.
All classifications presume a belief that the world and our knowledge of
it are organized rationally, whether by God, human faculties, molecular
structures, or some other principle. To devise a rigorous classification, one
proceeds on faith, as if the classification were absolute. This belief was
evident in virtually all of the texts that were studied during the research for
this book. They presume that the world is truthful and that classifications
should correspond to it. Classifications were taken seriously as expressions
of divine order and human knowledge, with consequences for practice and
social standing. This was evident in Martianus Capella’s demand that archi-
tecture and medicine be expelled from the wedding of Philology and
Mercury, as well as Leonardo da Vinci’s emotional appeal for painting to be
recognized as a liberal art.
As Robert Kilwardby’s comment suggests, the number of elements in a
given category became less important during the late Middle Ages, but
a more basic belief remained: that classifications are hierarchic and can be

252 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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mapped with a bifurcating line on a single plane.2 A hierarchy is a compre-
hensible structure in which “the one” is linked to “the many.”3 However, the
intermediate categories between the one and the many can be tenuous and
negotiable. Although the Encyclopédie employed the standard hierarchic
structure, d’Alembert admitted that many different mappings could have
been made.

Thus one can create as many different systems of human knowledge

as there are world maps having different projections, and each one
of these systems might even have some particular advantage pos-
sessed by none of the others … In any case, of all of the encyclopedic
trees, the one that offered the largest number of connections and
relationships among the sciences would doubtless deserve preference.
But can one flatter oneself into thinking it has been found? … Thus,
the general division remains of necessity somewhat arbitrary … We
have chosen a division which has appeared to us most nearly satis-
factory for the encyclopedic arrangement of our knowledge and, at
the same time, for its genealogical arrangement.4

Subjects that we now consider singular did not always reside in a single
classification. In ancient Greece, music could be understood as a technē for
instrumental music, as a component of mousikē for inspired performances,
and as a liberal art for its numerical properties. In Hugh of St Victor’s time,
architecture could be understood as either a mechanical art or a contem-
plative art, depending on its religious purpose. In the Italian Renaissance,
architecture belonged to both the mechanical arts and the arti del disegno.
In the Encyclopédie, architecture was divided into four parts that were as-
sociated not only with the fine arts of imagination but with two other
human faculties: memory and reason. Of all the sciences and arts, archi-
tecture posed the greatest problem for the Encyclopédie. Its separation into
four parts, spread across all three divisions of the tree diagram, implied
topological loops that would have destroyed the flat, bifurcating pattern.
Throughout history, architecture’s diverse properties provided vexing chal-
lenges to philosophers.
Although classifications in different historical periods repeated many of
the same terms (e.g., music, architecture), they did not simply shuffle the

Conclusion 253

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same elements on a neutral field. As classifications and practices changed,
so did the definitions of their disciplines. At a disciplinary level, architecture
in one period was not the same as architecture in another period. In fact,
the ancient Greeks had no word for architecture. If we assume that the
current definition of architecture is timeless, this is bound to impede an
understanding of earlier periods that relied on a different definition. It may
also impede an understanding of the human condition at a higher level that
transcends historical limits and discontinuities.
The liberal arts category was a significant benchmark throughout all
four historical periods: at the end of technē, as a foil to the mechanical arts,
in the background of the arts of disegno, and as a fading parallel to the fine
arts. Although the significance and membership of the liberal arts were not
constant, the category itself has continued for two thousand years. Apart
from Varro’s declaration – now lost – that architecture is one of nine liberal
arts, architecture never was included formally in the liberal arts but always
seemed to be hovering on the periphery. Although the practical work of
architects has been regarded with respect and admiration, it was difficult
to trace architectural knowledge to a divine source, so its liberal art status
remained in doubt. Medicine encountered the same predicament – at least,
until the early scientific study of the body sought to understand this thing
that God had made.
Returning to our own time, when the very concept of disciplinarity
underlies new waves of projects that are interdisciplinary, multidisciplinary,
and crossdisciplinary, there is an even greater need to recognize the com-
mon grounds shared by disciplines – and especially grounds that are not
shared. One should not simply take terms such as “music” and “architec-
ture” as timeless universals, without defining their historical limits and their
governing concepts; otherwise, analogies are liable to mislead. The growing
ambiguity of the word “architecture” compounds the problem. Classifi-
cations matter because they frame our understanding of what we do and
enable alliances to be established with others. In turn, this has a bearing on
practice. Recognizing the diverse properties of architecture, the changing
definitions of arts in Western history, and the fact that Western history is
only part of the global story, it is likely that the discipline of architecture and
its elements of practice will be redefined once again, sooner or later.

254 Four Historical Definitions of Architecture

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 Notes

cha p ter one

1 Small, Musicking, 19–29.
2 Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 176–204. Her study extends essays in Dahlhaus,
Schoenberg, 210–47.
3 An equivalent work concept in painting is described in Shiner, Invention of Art.
4 Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 262.
5 See Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” especially 498; and Kristeller,
“Modern System of the Arts (2).”
6 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” 496.
7 See Part 1, 498 (technē); 505, 507 (liberal arts); 507 (mechanical arts); and 514
(arti del disegno). The fine arts are discussed throughout Part 2.
8 Architecture’s relation to technē is discussed in Pérez-Gómez, “Myth of
Dedalus,” 49–52; Meagher, “Techne,” 158–64; McEwen, Socrates’ Ancestor; and
Vesely, Architecture, 242, 282–93. Architecture’s relation to the mechanical arts
is mentioned briefly in Vesely, Architecture, 282, 292. Architecture’s relation to
the fine arts is discussed in Harrington, Changing Ideas.
9 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “discipline.” Words with the root disciplin-
emphasize the pupil’s learning. Words with the root doctrin- emphasize the
master’s teaching.
10 Kelley, History and the Disciplines, 1.
11 See Flint, Philosophy; and Machlup, Knowledge, vol. 2.
12 See Parker, “Seven Liberal Arts,” 417–61.
13 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “architecture.”
14 Weatherhead, “History of Collegiate Education,” 24.
15 Ingarden, Ontology of the Work of Art.
16 Ibid., 255–75.

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17 It appears in Addison, Spectator 415: “Greatness, in the works of Architecture,
may be considered as relating to the bulk and body of the structure, or to the
Manner in which it is built.” Reprinted in Addison, Works, 3:498. It appears also
in Boffrand, Livre d’architecture, reprinted in Boffrand, Book of Architecture, 65:
“A well is commonly a work of masonry that demands no great attention; but
this one may take its place among great works of architecture.”
18 United States Library of Congress, “Circular 41.” See also Oman, Report of the
Register of Copyrights.
19 Galkin, History of Orchestral Conducting, xxiv, 188; Colvin, Biographical Diction-
ary of British Architects, 28.
20 Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 260–9.

cha p ter t wo
1 Vitruvius Ten Books 7.12–14.
2 Burford, Craftsmen, 16. For pre-Platonic developments in the meaning and
application of technē, see Roochnik, Of Art and Wisdom, 18–89.
3 Vernant, Myth and Thought, 283, 292.
4 Frontisi-Ducroux, Dédale; Morris, Daidalos.
5 Mireaux, Daily Life in the Time of Homer, 151.
6 Ibid., 148–9; Glotz, Ancient Greece at Work, 24.
7 Pollitt, Ancient View of Greek Art, 32.
8 Vernant, Myth and Thought, 262.
9 “Inspiration” comes from Latin inspirare ‘to breathe into’. Lewis, Latin Diction-
ary, s.v. “inspiro.”
10 B. Schweitzer, quoted in Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 83–4. Later, Plato
divided poetry decisively into two types: a higher, more divine version that
comes from inspiration and a lower, more worldly version that comes from
literary skill. Later still, Aristotle would go a step further by classifying poetry
strictly as a form of technē, based on techniques that could be taught.
11 On technē metaphors in early Greek texts on poetry, I wish to acknowledge re-
search by Lisa Landrum; see “Architectural Acts: Architect-Figures in Athenian
Drama and their Prefigurations” (PhD diss., McGill University, 2010).
12 See Nightingale, Spectacles of Truth, 44, 52.
13 Pollitt, Ancient View of Greek Art, 33–5.
14 Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “architektonia.”
15 Perseus Digital Library Project.

256 Notes to pages 19–24

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16 Stockwell and Minkova, English Words, 57–9.
17 Havelock, Literate Revolution, 8.
18 See Bundgaard, Mnesicles, 13, 139, 161.
19 Perseus Digital Library Project, s.v. “architectus.” The Latin word architectus
(architect) appears in plays by Plautus (254–184 bce) and writings by Cicero
(106–43 bce) before it appears in Vitruvius.
20 Ibid., s.v. “architectura.” The first reference is ca. 46–43 bce: Cicero De officiis
1.42.151.
21 See Mireaux, Daily Life in the Time of Homer, 152–4; Burford, Craftsmen, 196;
and Vernant, Myth and Thought, 283.
22 Burford, Craftsmen, 82, 198.
23 Ibid., 96–7.
24 McEwen, Socrates’ Ancestor, 51. Sacrificial practices in ancient Greece and their
representation in temple details are discussed in Hersey, Lost Meaning of Classi-
cal Architecture, chap. 2.
25 Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking,” 159. See also Roochnik, Of Art and
Wisdom, 19.
26 Aristotle Physics 199a8–21.
27 Atwill, Rhetoric Reclaimed, 48.
28 Vernant, Myth and Thought, 261.
29 Mireaux, Daily Life in the Time of Homer, 149; McEwen, Socrates’ Ancestor, 72.
30 Heidegger, “Building Dwelling Thinking,” 159.
31 Burford, Craftsmen, 13–14. Again, the words “sculpture” and “architecture” are
anachronisms that correspond only partially to their Greek counterparts.
32 Glotz, Ancient Greece at Work, 27, 42, 226.
33 Herodotus Herodotus 3.60. The translated word “designer” seems anachronistic
here because its modern connotation distinguishes designer from builder.
34 Ibid., 4.87.
35 Roochnik, Of Art and Wisdom, 84.
36 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “direct.”
37 In ancient Greece, the prefix άρχι- (archi-) refers to the “chief ” among herds-
men, companions, cooks, donkey-drivers, and ministers. It refers to the “head”
among waiters, gardeners, and members of a family. Liddell, Scott, and Jones,
Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “άρχι-.” The related prefix arch- (archangel, arch-
bishop, archduke, archenemy) also means chief, principal, high, leading, prime.
Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “arch-.”

Notes to pages 24–30 257

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38 Burford, Craftsmen, 94.
39 Ibid., 136.
40 Xenophon, quoted in ibid., 29.
41 Glotz, Ancient Greece at Work, 29–33.
42 Plato Statesman [Politicus] 259e–260b.
43 Aristotle Metaphysics 981a30.
44 Burford, Craftsmen, 114.
45 Ibid., 69.
46 Bundgaard, Mnesicles, 46.
47 Detienne and Vernant, Cunning Intelligence, 5–6.
48 See Bundgaard, Mnesicles, 139.
49 Burford, Craftsmen, 112, 125.
50 Vernant, Myth and Thought, 291.
51 Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 92. The reference to Aristotle involves a dis-
cussion of Homer: “For the poet should say as little as possible in his own voice,
as it is not this that makes him a mimetic artist.” Aristotle Poetics 1460a5.
52 See Haselberger, “Architectural Likenesses,” 77–94.
53 Bundgaard, Mnesicles, 100-10, reproduces the Prostoon Inscription from the late
fourth century bce, accompanied by an English translation.
54 Coulton, Ancient Greek Architects at Work, 55; Coulton, “Greek Architects and
the Transmission of Design,” 455.
55 This is the origin of the English word “paradigm.” In Kuhn, Structure of Scien-
tific Revolutions, the word “paradigm” is a misnomer that has been repeated by
many others in science, humanities, and other domains. In Greek, a paradeigma
is an example to be emulated, whereas Kuhn’s paradigm is a stable system of
concepts that may be challenged by an anomalous empirical observation.
56 McEwen, Socrates’ Ancestor, 20–2, 55.
57 Creatio ex nihilo, the notion that God created the world of matter from nothing,
is a Christian concept, introduced in the late second century ce by theologians
Tatian and Theophilus of Antioch. See May, Creatio ex nihilo, 148–63.
58 A distinction between two types of cosmogonic myths – making the world
from something versus making the world from nothing but a thought or a
word – is discussed in Long, Alpha.
59 Burford, Craftsmen, 96.
60 This had been discovered already by the Chinese and the Babylonians. See
Sparshott and Goehr, “Philosophy of Music.”
61 Lippman, Musical Thought in Ancient Greece, 2, 41.

258 Notes to pages 31–6

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62 Aristoxenus Elementa harmonica and Elementa rhythmica, discussed in Math-
iesen, Apollo’s Lyre, 294–344.
63 Mathiesen, Apollo’s Lyre, 125.
64 Lippman, Musical Thought in Ancient Greece, 89.
65 This notion is discussed in McEwen, Socrates’ Ancestor, chap. 4.
66 Mathiesen, Apollo’s Lyre, 24.
67 Aristotle De anima 2.8, quoted in ibid., 160.
68 Lippman, Musical Thought in Ancient Greece, 79, 81, 105.
69 Ibid., 71–2.
70 Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 51–2, 98.
71 Roochnik, Of Art and Wisdom, 248. On ideal forms, see Plato Republic 10.596b,
10.601d.
72 The distinction between a mode of knowledge based on technē and a mode of
knowledge based on first principles is discussed (with a focus on rhetoric) in
Atwill, Rhetoric Reclaimed, chap. 1. See also Nightingale, Spectacles of Truth,
22–6, 68–93.
73 Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 6.4.1–6; Aristotle Metaphysics 981a25.
74 Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics 6.3.3, 6.7.3.
75 Lobkowicz, Theory and Practice, 5–15, 18.
76 Vitruvius Ten Books 1.2.
77 See Rykwert, Idea of a Town, chap. 2 and 3.

cha p ter t hre e

1 Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 53.
2 Whitney, Paradise Restored, 27.
3 Aristotle Politics 8.2.1.1337b.
4 Coulton, Ancient Greek Architects, 23.
5 These seven examples are cited in Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 52–6.
A slightly expanded set appears in Tatarkiewicz, “Classification of Arts in
Antiquity,” 231–40.
6 Plato Republic 601d–602b.
7 Aristotle Physics 199a15.
8 Cicero De oratore 1.2.6–1.6.22.
9 Contrary to Tatarkiewicz, “Classification of Arts in Antiquity,” 236, painting,
sculpture, music, acting, and athletics are not mentioned in Cicero’s text, nor
do the terms artes maximae, artes mediocres, and artes minores appear.
10 Quintilian Orator’s Education 2.18.1–3.

Notes to pages 37–43 259

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11 Aristotle Metaphysics 1025b25.
12 Contrary to Tatarkiewicz, “Classification of Arts in Antiquity,” 234, this refer-
ence is from Galen Claudii Galeni Pergameni scripta minora 1:129.
13 This five-level list is from Tatarkiewicz, “Classification of Arts in Antiquity,” 236,
but the sources he cites (Plotinus Ennead 4.4.31, 5.9.11) are not so decisive in
their distinctions among levels. See the corresponding sections in Plotinus,
Six Enneads.
14 Plotinus Plotinus 1.6.3.
15 See Marrou, History of Education in Antiquity, 176–9, 406–7.
16 Ibid., 137, 141.
17 Vitruvius Ten Books 1.1.
18 Ibid., 1.11-12; Marrou, History of Education in Antiquity, 191.
19 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “art.”
20 Harper, Online Etymology Dictionary, s.v. “art.”
21 Whitney, Paradise Restored, 25, 27.
22 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” 505.
23 Marrou, “Les arts libéraux dans l’antiquité classique,” 23.
24 Vitruvius Ten Books 7 introduction 14.
25 Cicero De officiis 1.42.150–1. Contrary to Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 106,
the Latin text of Cicero Orator ad Brutum 2 does not refer to the occupation of
architects as sordida (vulgar); see Letters to Quintus and Brutus, 201–307.
26 Brown, “Vitruvius and the Liberal Art of Architecture,” 99–107.
27 In the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance, occasional comments about archi-
tecture being a liberal art were based on this secondary, popular meaning, not
on the primary philosophical definition of a liberal art. Modern remarks about
architecture being a liberal art are casual, without reference.
28 Martianus Capella, Martianus Capella and the Seven Liberal Arts, 2:471.9–18,
2:471.24–472.1.
29 See Johnson, “Curriculum of the Seven Liberal Arts,” 1:92–3.
30 Boëthius De arithmetica 1.1, cited in Perseus Digital Library Project, s.v.
“quadrivium.”
31 Boëthius De institutione musica 1.9–10.
32 Ibid., 1.34.
33 Ibid., 1.9.
34 Cassiodorus De artibus ac disciplinis liberalium litterarum.
35 The flexible ranking of subjects by different philosophers, and even in different

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 writings by the same philosopher, is illustrated by the analytical charts in
Marrou, “Les arts libéraux.”
36 Philostratus the Athenian Life of Apollonius of Tyana 2:335.
37 Augustine City of God 22.24.
38 These Christian theologians were Tatian and Theophilus of Antioch. See May,
Creatio ex nihilo, 148–63.
39 Augustine uses this metaphor three times in Confessions: “Architect and Gover-
nor of the universe” (1.19.31), “Architect of Creation” (5.3.5), and “Architect of
heaven and earth” (11.13.15). Although he did not intend the reverse metaphor –
an architect as God – this cleared the way for analogies to move in both
directions.
40 Isidore of Seville, quoted in Brehaut, Encyclopedist of the Dark Ages, 48.
41 Lutz, “Remigius’ Ideas,” 65–6.
42 Isidore of Seville Liber numerorum 8.44, and Differentiae 2.39, cited in Whitney,
Paradise Restored, 61. In another treatise, Etymologiae 20, Isidore divided philo-
sophy into a somewhat different set of categories: physics (the four quadrivium
subjects), ethics, and logic (rhetoric and dialectic). See Weisheipl, “Classifica-
tion of the Sciences,” 63–4.
43 Eriugena’s name appears in several variations, including John/Johannes
Scot(t)us Eri(u)gena, John Scot(t)us, John the Scot, and Joannis Scoti Erigenae.
He was not the thirteenth-century John Duns Scotus. Eriugena’s life and early
writings are described in Moran, Philosophy of John Scotus Eriugena, 1–47, and
O’Meara, Eriugena, 16–31.
44 O’Meara, Eriugena, 8.
45 Eriugena Iohannis Scotti Annotationes in Marcianum 79.12.
46 Ibid., 170.14.
47 Carabine, John Scottus Eriugena, 8.
48 Contreni, “John Scottus,” 25.
49 Eriugena Iohannis Scotti Annotationes in Marcianum 170.14, quoted in O’Meara,
Eriugena, 27.
50 Lutz, “Remigius’ Ideas,” 65–86, cited in Whitney, Paradise Restored, 71 n. 70. As
noted in Lutz (78), Remigius Commentum in Marcianum Capellam includes
a general reference to mechanical arts (79.11) and the specific reference to
architecture and medicine (153.20).
51 Whitney, Paradise Restored, 71 n. 70.
52 Oleson, Greek and Roman Mechanical Water-Lifting Devices.

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53 Hero of Alexandria Pneumatica, x (introduction to 2d ed.), xiii (translator’s
preface). Hero lived in the first century ce and wrote six treatises, including
one on mechanics (lifting machines). He was not the first to make automata;
they were made also in archaic Greece.
54 Lewis, Latin Dictionary, s.v. “mechanicus.”
55 Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “µηχανή,” “µηχανικός.”
56 Procopius of Caesarea Procopius 1.1.23.
57 Ibid., 1.1.34.
58 Ibid., 1.1.24. The elevated status of mēchanikos is noted also in Kostof, “Architect
in the Middle Ages,” 63.
59 Mēchanikos sometimes is translated as “engineer” but the modern connotation
would be anachronistic in a Byzantine or medieval setting. Lloyd, “Methods
and Problems,” 564–77, discusses terms for several occupations, including
architektōn and mēchanikos (567). Referring to a more Western context in the
early medieval period, Nikolaus Pevsner suggests that the responsibility for
designing the ground plan led the role of the architectus to be associated more
with designing than with building, but there was still no fundamental distinc-
tion between the architect and the mason. Pevsner, “The Term ‘Architect’,” 551–2.
60 Quoted in Downey, “Byzantine Architects,” 109 n. 2.
61 Pappus of Alexandria Collection 8 preface 1–3, discussed in Downey, “Byzantine
Architects,” 105–9. Elsewhere, Downey corrects a small misunderstanding by the
Loeb translator of Pappus that affects the relative definitions of mēchanikos and
architekton, and what they study. See Downey, “Pappus of Alexandria,” 197–200.
62 Pappus of Alexandria Collection 8 preface 1.
63 Conant, Carolingian and Romanesque Architecture, 102, 107–8, refers to
Downey’s essay and distinguishes between a µηχανικός (mēchanikos) who
invents or designs something innovative and an άρχιτέκτων (architektōn) who
manages site operations to construct a more conventional building.
64 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 191 n. 64 (translator’s note).
65 Martin of Laon, a ninth-century student of Eriugena, quoted in ibid., n. 64
(translator’s note).
66 Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “µοιχός.”
67 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.8, 1.9, 2.1, 2.20.

cha p ter fo ur
1 The original Latin version of Didascalicon is published in Hugh of St Victor
Didascalicon de studio legendi; and in Hugh of St Victor Didascalicae.

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2 Liddell, Scott, and Jones, Greek-English Lexicon, s.v. “διδασκαλικός.”
3 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.1.
4 Illich, In the Vineyard of the Text, 17. Illich also notes that early twelfth-century
miniatures continue the tradition of icon painting from the eastern Christian
church by representing figures in a glowing way, as if they contain their own
internal source of light. He contrasts this form of illumination to later paintings
from the Renaissance in which an external source of light falls onto a figure and
is reflected back to the viewer (19).
5 Ibid., 54. Illich notes that Hugh’s Didascalicon comes at the end of this tradition.
Subsequent texts were conceived and designed differently, to be consulted in a
scholastic way rather than recited in a monastic way (95).
6 Emerson, “Plainchant.”
7 Illich, In the Vineyard of the Text, 97.
8 Ibid., 90. A modern scholar who prepares a critical edition of a medieval treatise
would study all existing manuscript copies to map the cumulative changes
in reverse and thus determine which is the earliest and presumably most
authoritative.
9 Augustine City of God 22.30.
10 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 3.4.
11 Ibid., 1.11.
12 Hugh’s Latin terms are theologia, mathematica, and physica. They refer to specu-
lative knowledge in three domains: the intellectible, the intelligible, and the
natural. Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon de studio legendi 2.1.
13 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 6.2. A more extended analogy appears in 6.4.
14 Much later, in the eighteenth century, Denis Diderot took a great interest in
the mechanical arts and ensured that many articles on crafts and trades were
included in the Encyclopédie. However, the mechanical arts after the Industrial
Revolution were much different than in the twelfth century: not only in their
equipment and techniques but, more importantly, in their relation to philoso-
phy and theology.
15 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 2.20. The seven mechanical arts are discussed
individually in 2.21–7.
16 Ibid.
17 Ibid., 1.9. Note that the elephant’s tusks do not encase the body but act as a
form of armament similar to spears, creating a protective zone of safety around
the body.
18 Ibid.

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19 Ibid., 3.3, 6.2, 6.4.
20 Ibid., 2.20.
21 Ibid., 2.6, 2.17, 2.18.
22 Ibid., 2.12.
23 Ibid., 2.8.
24 Ibid., 2.12.
25 The devices that Hugh describes had been used for thousands of years. See John
H. Munro, “Textiles,” in Mantello and Rigg, Medieval Latin, 474; and Bert Hall,
“Technology and Crafts,” in Mantello and Rigg, Medieval Latin, 427.
26 The Latin word navigatio ‘a sailing’, ‘navigation’ (Lewis, A Latin Dictionary, s.v.
“navigatio”) seems like an odd term for commerce, which is suggested only
indirectly: as a shipping of goods over water; however, the remoteness resulting
from a sea voyage aligns with Hugh’s intent to emphasize negotiation. By 1500,
the word navigatio also had acquired the meaning ‘freight’. Latham, Revised
Medieval Latin Word-List, s.v. “navigatio.”
27 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 2.23.
28 Ibid., 2.25.
29 Ibid., 2.27.
30 Ibid., 2.22. In the second sentence Taylor translates latomos et caementarios as
“woodworker” but “mason” seems more appropriate because these words refer
to stone and masonry. Lewis, Latin Dictionary, s.v. “cementarius,” “lautomus.”
31 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 2.22.
32 This differs from modern concepts of medieval architecture that focus exclu-
sively on cathedrals.
33 As a set, this range of activities and facilities resembles the detailed program for
the many peripheral buildings in the Plan of St Gall, an early ninth-century
drawing of a self-sufficient monastery in a rural setting (roughly contemporary
with Eriugena). See Horn and Born, Plan of St Gall.
34 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 3.16.
35 Ibid., 3.2.
36 Ibid., 1.9.
37 Ibid.
38 Hugh also refers to arts being “discovered.” Ibid., 6.14 (Appendix A).
39 Ibid., 1.11.
40 This questions the modern assumption that the medieval mechanical arts were
driven by a technological imperative, an assumption that is evident in even the

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 most comprehensive publication on the mechanical arts: Whitney, Paradise
Restored.
41 In a building contract, a medieval patron often would specify that the new
building should be modeled after another building “or better.” Harvey, Mediae-
val Craftsmen, 158. The existing building stock was not regarded as an authorita-
tive canon to be emulated faithfully but as an example that could be superseded
if another option seemed more promising.
42 According to Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthetics, 2:92, De architectura had been
known during the Middle Ages since at least the ninth century.
43 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 2.1.
44 Ibid., 1.9.
45 Hugh’s Christian declaration that humanity and nature are separate is con-
trasted by a pagan tradition prevalent in northern and eastern Europe, de-
scribed in Gurevich, Categories of Medieval Culture, 41–91. Peasants who were
immersed in the substances and rhythms of nature imagined combinations of
humans and animals, humans and the earth, etc. The integration of this earthly
grotesque with Christian concepts is illustrated in medieval maps of the world,
including one that Hugh of St Victor is supposed to have drawn as part of a
manuscript, described in Dalché, Le “Descriptio Mappe Mundi.”
46 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.9.
47 The debate about whether the Bible encourages humans to use up nature as a
convenient resource or to act as nature’s custodian is traced through writings
by medieval philosophers in Ovitt, Restoration of Perfection, 57–87.
48 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.9.
49 Ibid., 1.4.
50 Ibid., 1.9.
51 Ibid.
52 Ibid. This resembles the anonymous (and undated) Latin aphorism Mater ar-
tium necessitas (“Necessity is the mother of invention”) that was written down
eventually in the seventeenth century. Bartlett, Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,
108, 124.
53 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 3.18, 3.19, 5.8.
54 Ibid., 1.8.
55 Ibid., 3.2.
56 Ibid., 1.4.
57 Ibid., 1.2.

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58 Ibid., 2.22. Architectonicam is the accusative case of architectonica. Taylor’s Eng-
lish translation contains some omissions and errors in construction terminol-
ogy that have been corrected here by referring to the Latin text in Buttimer’s
critical edition, Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon de studio legendi, and the rele-
vant words in Lewis, Latin Dictionary.
59 This is somewhat consistent with historical research on the role of medieval
(master) masons and (master) carpenters, including those who directed the
construction of cathedrals. “The medieval sense of mason is far less specific and
could be general and almost all-inclusive, and it comprehended both the master
who designed and gave the orders, and the skilled artisan who carried them
into effect. We must, therefore, understand ‘mason’ in the same way that we
think of ‘musician’, as comprising the composer, the conductor and the mem-
bers of the orchestra.” Harvey, Master Builders, 13.
60 Historians of medieval architecture indicate that the position of the master-
builder was comparable to the position of the ancient architekton in its supervi-
sory role, preceded by apprenticeship in masonry or carpentry. Svanberg,
Master Masons, 114.
61 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.4.
62 In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, master builders and craftsmen in Eng-
land and France were educated first in the liberal arts: in vernacular languages
from age five to ten, followed by Latin from eleven to thirteen. From fourteen
to seventeen, they apprenticed in carpentry or masonry. At that point, different
paths could be taken: youths destined to become artisans would continue to ap-
prentice in carpentry or masonry from eighteen to twenty-one; youths destined
to become architects would study the geometry for setting out building compo-
nents. The next three years (the “wanderyears”) were spent gaining experience
on jobs of various kinds. A qualified journeyman then could make and present
a masterwork to demonstrate competence in a set of practical building prob-
lems. Harvey, Mediaeval Architect, 99–100.
63 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 6.14 (Appendix A).
64 Ibid., 152 (translator’s note).
65 Ibid., 2.22.
66 Ibid.
67 Ibid., 2.13. In a separate treatise Hugh discusses the use of geometry for terres-
trial and celestial surveying (i.e., nature, not the mechanical arts). See Hugh of
St Victor, Practical Geometry.
68 This contrasts with the use of practical geometry in twelfth-century religious

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 buildings. See Bucher, “Medieval Architectural Design Methods,” 37–51; and
Shelby, “Geometrical Knowledge,” 395–421. Shelby refers to Hugh’s Practica
geometriae as the first treatise to distinguish theoretical and practical geometry,
but notes that Hugh refers only to nature, not to buildings (401).
69 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.4.
70 Beyond the mechanical arts, over 2,200 medieval architectural drawings have
survived (mainly from the fourteenth century onward), but most drawings
and templates produced by master builders were discarded after being used for
construction. Bucher, “Design in Gothic Architecture,” 50.
71 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 1.4.
72 Ibid., 2.21.
73 An English translation is included in Hugh of St Victor De arca Noe morali.
74 An English translation is available in Hugh of St Victor De arca Noe mystica,
but its irregular description of details and its convoluted organization make it
almost incomprehensible. Rudolph, “First, I Find the Center Point,” 9–31, argues
convincingly that this “tortured” text was written not by Hugh of St Victor but
by one of his students. Rudolph’s book includes a set of diagrams that attempts
to reconstruct parts of Hugh’s original drawing, based on this text.
75 Hugh of St Victor De arca Noe morali 1.11.
76 Genesis 6:15–16 (King James Version).
77 Hugh of St Victor De arca Noe morali 1.12.
78 Zinn, “Hugh of St Victor and the Ark of Noah,” 264.
79 Ibid., 262.
80 Hugh of St Victor De arca Noe morali 1.12.
81 Zinn, “De gradibus ascensionum,” 65.
82 Rudolph, “First, I Find the Center Point,” 27–8.
83 Ibid., 18.
84 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 3.3.
85 Ibid., 2.12.
86 Umberto Eco notes that some scholars claimed that medieval beauty was
strictly intelligible and not sensory. He refutes this claim by presenting contrary
evidence and by pointing out that ascetics such as Bernard of Clairvaux were
acutely aware of sensory beauty but chose to denounce it: “For us, all bodily
delights are nothing but dung.” Art and Beauty, 5–7.
87 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 6.13. Modern editions of Didascalicon include
three short appendices after Book 6, but they are regarded as addenda to be in-
serted into earlier books of the treatise, not as a progression that follows Book 6.

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88 This “bottom-up” model can be associated with medieval constructions that do
not have an explicit religious program, such as castles, fortified towns, houses,
farms, forests, and perhaps also the peripheral buildings in a monastery that
surround the church and the cloister. Books on non-religious medieval build-
ings include Cantor, English Medieval Landscape; and Thompson, Medieval
Hall.
89 This short treatise is included as the seventh book of Didascalicon in the major
modern source: Migne, Patrologia Latina, as well as the digital edition: Patrolo-
gia Latina Database. In each case, this treatise is a reprint of a 1648 edition. In
turn, eleven excerpts from Migne’s compilation appear in Tatarkiewicz, History
of Aesthetics, 2:197–200, where he combines excerpts from Book 2 and Book 7.
Nine of Tatarkiewicz’s quotations (identified as #2–5, 8–10, 13–14), along with
his discussion of them (113, 190–5), are from Book 7 (De tribus diebus) and sug-
gest that Didascalicon discusses aesthetic topics such as beauty, composition,
movement, harmony, pleasure, delight, and the senses; however, the first six
books do not mention any of these topics. By not noticing the difference or by
not referring to Buttimer’s 1939 critical edition of Didascalicon, Tatarkiewicz’s
presentation distorts the epistemological and theological hierarchy that Hugh
devised for the mechanical arts, the liberal arts, and the scriptures. Otto von
Simson also cites Patrologia Latina to extract aesthetic topics from “Book 7”
of Didascalicon; see Gothic Cathedral, 36, 50.
90 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon de studio legendi is a critical edition that ana-
lyzes and sequences thirty of the eighty-eight surviving manuscript copies of
Didascalicon to identify the most authoritative version, which Buttimer traces
to 1151, ten years after Hugh died (p. x). Although this twelfth-century manu-
script identifies De tribus diebus as Book 7 of Didascalicon, Buttimer concluded
that it should be removed: “Extraneous material is included with the true text,
for example, the addition of the independent text De Tribus Diebus as book VII”
(vii, xx). Buttimer’s six-book critical edition of the Latin text of Didascalicon
(1939) was the source for Taylor’s 1961 English translation: Hugh of St Victor
Didascalicon. Since then, others have endorsed this separation, including
Poirel’s critical edition of Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus.
91 Cizewski, “Reading the World,” 65–88. The following discussion relies mainly on
Cizewski’s summary of De tribus diebus, supplemented by excerpts from others
and occasional comparisons to the Latin text in Patrologia Latina Database
(where it is presented as the seventh book of Didascalicon) and in Hugh of St
Victor De tribus diebus.

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92 This set of three was a contemporary theological formulation by Pierre Abélard;
see Cizewski, “Reading the World,” 84 n. 17.
93 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 1, quoted in ibid., 69.
94 This incremental approach is similar to the instructions for interpreting the
scriptures that he provided in Books 4–6 of Didascalicon.
95 Zinn, “De gradibus ascensionum,” 62–3. The three levels symbolize the three stages
of anagogy: purgation, illumination, and union.
96 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 26, quoted in Cizewski, “Reading the World,”
80.
97 This phrase is the title of Book 26, the second last in the treatise. It serves also as
the title of the entire treatise when it is separated from Didascalicon.
98 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 27, quoted in Cizewski, “Reading the World,”
81.
99 Ibid., 82.
100 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon 5.9.
101 Although the English language typically conflates meditation and contemplation,
they have different origins and can have different meanings. “In Christian writ-
ing, meditation which engages the intellectual or discursive faculties is sometimes
distinguished from contemplation which transcends them.” Oxford English
Dictionary, s.v. “meditation.” “Meditation” derives originally from the Indo-
European root mederi ‘to heal’ (s.v. “meditate,” “medic”). “Contemplation”
derives from Latin con- + templum ‘an open place for observation, marked out
by the augur with his staff ’ (s.v. “contemplate,” “contemple”).
102 Hugh of St Victor De modo dicendi et meditandi, quoted in Tatarkiewicz, History
of Aesthetics, 2:201.
103 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 9, quoted in Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthetics,
2:198.
104 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 13, quoted in ibid.
105 Hugh (who was based in Paris) refers not only to the horse, the pig, the eagle,
and the ant, but also to the elephant, the tiger, and the gryphon. Cizewski, “Read-
ing the World,” 73, suggests that his creatures come more from books than from
live observation. Hugh might have responded that his description was intended
to be more universal than his own experience.
106 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 12, quoted in ibid., 74. According to Otto von
Simson, Hugh developed the first philosophy of beauty since Augustine; see
Gothic Cathedral, 105.
107 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 14, quoted in Cizewski, “Reading the World,” 75.

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108 Hugh of St Victor De tribus diebus 4, quoted in Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthet-
ics, 2:200.
109 A partnership in the making of religious buildings is indicated by accounts in-
volving patrons and master-builders. The patron, perhaps an abbot, would con-
sider what needs to be done and why; the master-builder would consider what
can be done and how. Their two realms would overlap in discussions of geome-
try, beauty, statuary, etc. Partnership also is suggested by the absence of separate
titles: “The creative personality did not interest the Middle Ages enough to insist
on a terminological distinction between patron and artist. No need was recog-
nized for placing on record the name of him who conceived a church building.
This is what the often quoted anonymity of the Middle Ages really means.” Pevs-
ner, “The Term ‘Architect’,” 553. A comprehensive study of medieval architectural
patronage has not yet been done (comparable to Jenkins, Architect and Patron),
but the active role of the patron alongside the master-builder is described in
Shelby, “Monastic Patrons,” 91–6, and Svanberg, Master Masons, 17–24, 33.
110 The metaphor of God as an architect is mentioned in Augustine Confessions
1.19.31, 5.3.5, 11.13.15. “So conversant with the works of Augustine and so similar
in manner of thinking was Hugh that he was called alter Augustinus, a second
Augustine.” Rudolph, Artistic Change at St-Denis, 39.
111 Quoted in Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society, 56.
112 Ibid., 40.
113 Quoted in Harvey, Mediaeval Architect, 22–4.
114 Pevsner, “The Term ‘Architect’,” 549–62. On the occasions when the word “archi-
tect” was used, it might refer to a clerical patron, a craftsman, or (erroneously)
a roofer.
115 Ibid., 555. Throughout the Middle Ages, the Latin word “fabrica” referred to a
building but could refer also to the agency of a religious institution that admin-
istered donations for construction. The word “opus” (which would be used
again in the late eighteenth century to identify musical works) also referred to
this agency. Branner, “‘Fabrica, opus,’” 27–30.
116 This argument is presented in Rudolph, Artistic Change at St-Denis.
117 Simson, Gothic Cathedral, 115, 120.
118 Suger, Abbot Suger. The three documents are known commonly as Ordinatio
(1140–41), De consecratione (1144–47), and De administratione (1148–49).
119 Rudolph, Artistic Change at St-Denis, 24.
120 Ibid., 32. Otto von Simson also doubts Suger’s capacity to devise such a plan:
“His [Suger’s] work neither as a theologian nor even as writer is equal to the

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 best among them. Compared with, say, Hugh of St-Victor’s magnificent exposi-
tion of Dionysian theology, Suger’s own writings are at best sketchy annota-
tions.” Gothic Cathedral, 131.
121 Rudolph, Artistic Change at St-Denis, 33–46. Rudolph also dismisses the notion
that the emphasis on light in St-Denis was based on Pseudo-Dionysian symbol-
ism (48–56, 62, 65–6).
122 Ibid., 62.
123 Rudolph acknowledges the “Didascalicon Book 7 vs. De tribus diebus” debate
and seems to favour the first option. Ibid., 64.
124 De consecratione, Suger refers to the beauty of gems, precious stones, and unin-
terrupted light, which others have associated with the arrival of the Apocalypse:
“radiance like a most rare jewel, like jasper, clear as crystal” (Revelation 21:9).
Invoking a liberal art, Suger refers to “geometrical and arithmetical instru-
ments” but only for equalizing the central nave, not for laying out the vaults
in the choir (which he never mentions). Libellus alter de consecratione ecclesiae
sancti dionysii, in Abbot Suger, 4.
125 Rudolph does not suggest that Hugh was involved in anything more than the
art program. Suger worked with an unidentified master builder on the recon-
struction of the choir. See Artistic Change at St-Denis, 66.
126 The creation or recreation of a religious building would be prompted by a
message received from above. Such a message inspired an earlier rebuilding of
the Church of St-Denis. Simson, Gothic Cathedral, 92.
127 Hugh of St Victor Didascalicon, 4 (translator’s introduction).
128 Whitney, Paradise Restored, 110–11.
129 Bonaventure De reductione artium ad theologiam, 2. This quotation refutes a
statement by Ivan Illich: “Neither Hugh’s idea of science as a remedy nor his
notion of mechanics as part of science survived him.” Shadow Work, 90.
130 Bonaventure De reductione artium ad theologiam, 2.
131 Kilwardby De ortu scientiarum 39.363–71. This chapter is a review of Hugh’s
mechanical arts.
132 Ibid., 40.372–8. This chapter is a summary of Kilwardby’s mechanical arts.
133 Whitney, Paradise Restored, 118.
134 Kilwardby De ortu scientiarum 40.378, translated in Whitney, Paradise Restored,
119.
135 Ovitt, “Status of the Mechanical Arts,” 103.
136 Kilwardby De ortu scientiarum 42.393, translated in Ovitt, “Status of the
Mechanical Arts,” 103.

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137 Ovitt, “Status of the Mechanical Arts,” 103.
138 Rüegg, “Themes,” 27.
139 Hugh of St Victor also wrote a short treatise on the subject, Practica geometriae,
that presents practical methods but no Euclidean principles. See Practical
Geometry. Shelby, “Geometrical Knowledge,” 401, suggests that Hugh was the
first to distinguish theoretical geometry from practical geometry, but the two
traditions had been active in their separate domains for more than a millen-
nium.
140 Wise, Nature of the Liberal Arts, refers selectively to the history of the liberal arts
and brings a Jesuit perspective to the question of what should be included in a
modern liberal education.
141 Historical surveys of the liberal arts mention architecture only twice: when
Varro includes it and when Martianus Capella excludes it. See Parker, “Seven
Liberal Arts,” 433, 448, 459; Abelson, Seven Liberal Arts, 4, 7; and Wagner, “Seven
Liberal Arts,” 15, 19.
142 This is the basic proposition in Brown, “Vitruvius and the Liberal Art of
Architecture.”
143 The relation between pitches was the primary characteristic of religious music.
Other musical features that we tend to appreciate – melody, rhythm, timbre,
expression, etc. – were subordinate or absent. Therefore, listening to medieval
music requires different ears.
144 Abelson, Seven Liberal Arts, 128.
145 In this context a mode (Latin modus) refers to eight different arrangements of
pitch intervals in a musical scale: Dorian, Lydian, etc. It derives from ancient
Greece and was carried forward by Boëthius and others. Powers and Wiering,
“Mode.”
146 Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 132.

cha p ter five

1 Vasari, Le vite.
2 Vasari, Lives, 1:3.
3 The concept of disegno originated in Italy. The primary theoretical develop-
ments occurred in Florence, with secondary contributions from Venice and
Rome.
4 Disegno referred only to arts in which physical products are made, not to poetry
or music.
5 Vasari, Vasari on Technique, 205.

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6 S. Battaglia, Grande Dizionario della Lingua Italiana, IV, s.v. “disegno,” trans-
lated and quoted in Baxandall, “English Disegno,” 84.
7 The word “design” appears in English in the late sixteenth century, with the
same range of meanings as in the Italian dictionary. Oxford English Dictionary,
s.v. “design.” The Italian word disegno was adopted by the French desseing and
the English design, with slightly different connotations. See Baxandall, “English
Disegno,” 87. In German, “das Design” is a recent adoption of the English word.
For a brief historical survey of the term “design” in architecture, see Forty,
Words and Buildings, 136–41.
8 Lewis, Latin Dictionary, s.v. “designo.” Neither classical nor medieval Latin in-
cludes designo as a noun, only as a verb. The closest noun is designatio ‘a mark-
ing-out, describing, designating; specification’, which appears in Vitruvius and
Cicero. Lewis, Latin Dictionary, s.v. “designatio.”
9 The primary literature on disegno is patchy. Abundant secondary literature
exists for major figures in Renaissance art (Alberti, Leonardo, Michelangelo,
Vasari, etc.), and most of their writings are available in translation. As noted by
Celenza, Lost Italian Renaissance, 52, many Latin texts from the Renaissance still
exist only in manuscript form and many others have not been translated into
other languages. There have been several dissertations, articles, and book chap-
ters on the Accademia del Disegno, but the concept of architecture as an arte del
disegno has been mentioned only in passing. Painting and sculpture have been
the primary subjects.
10 For example, see Blunt, Artistic Theory in Italy, 55, and Kristeller, “Modern
System of the Arts (1),” 514.
11 In twentieth-century publications, this triad – painting, sculpture, and architec-
ture – appears in titles or subtitles for many different places, times, and practi-
tioners: for example, India, Egypt, Thailand, Persia, Germany, Russia, the
Vatican, the United States, the world; the Middle Ages, Romanesque, Bohemian
Gothic, Italian Renaissance, modernity; Michelangelo, and Alvar Aalto.
12 For example, see Pliny Natural History 9:35.36.65–8.
13 One source of error is Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” 507–8, which
states that Hugh of St Victor’s Didascalicon (2.20) mentions “various branches
of sculpture and painting … as subdivisions of armatura,” the mechanical arts
division in which Hugh included architecture. On the contrary: Painting and
sculpture are not included in armatura and not mentioned anywhere else in
Didascalicon. As Kristeller normally is authoritative, especially on Renaissance
topics, others may have repeated his statement without checking the source.

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 The same error appears in Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthetics, 2:113, originally
published in Polish in 1962, which states that in Hugh of St Victor “the visual
arts were classified with the mechanical arts” and “painting and sculpture were
subordinate” to architecture. This may have arisen from the confusion over the
“seventh book” of Didascalicon, discussed in Chapter 4. Tatarkiewicz, “The-
atrica, The Science of Entertainment,” 267, either corrects or contradicts his
previous statement by saying that painting and sculpture during the Middle
Ages were never included in either the liberal arts or the mechanical arts. A
similar statement is made in Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 14; however, the
same error is repeated in recent scholarly publications, such as Farago, Leonardo
da Vinci’s ‘Paragone’, 73; and Barzman, Florentine Academy, 145.
14 The term “humanism” was coined by historians in the nineteenth century but
studia humanitatis (humanist study; subjects essential to being human) dates
from the fourteenth century; see Kristeller, “Humanism and Scholasticism,”
110–11. Renaissance humanism has different roots and intentions than twenti-
eth-century humanism, a diverse assembly of moral and social movements that
promotes the interests of all humans amidst various “inhuman” forces.
15 Kristeller, “Humanist Learning,” 3, 5.
16 Trinkhaus, “Humanism,” in Encyclopedia of World Art, 7:710.
17 Kristeller, “Humanism and Scholasticism,” 99–100, 113, 116; Kristeller, “Moral
Thought,” 25.
18 Mantello and Rigg, Medieval Latin, 3.
19 Kristeller, “Humanist Learning,” 5.
20 Ibid., 12.
21 Petrarch, quoted in Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthetics, 3:10.
22 Horace Art of Poetry 361. In this simile, he was referring to different ways in
which poems and paintings are observed: “One strikes your fancy more, the
nearer you stand; another, the farther away.”
23 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 101.
24 Plutarch Moralia 346f–347a, quoted in ibid., 100–1. Plutarch praised poetry and
painting despite contrary sentiments from Plato. In Book 10 of Republic, Plato
associates poetry and painting but relegates both of them to the lowest of his
three levels associated with human arts (the user, the maker, and the imitator),
three steps removed from reality.
25 There were enough similarities and differences between poetry and painting to
invite a more detailed comparison under Horace’s dictum ut pictura poesis dur-
ing the next few centuries. See Lee, Ut Pictura Poesis.

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26 Barasch, Theories of Art, 167.
27 Vasari, Lives, 1:117. To trace Giotto’s roots, Vasari went back a generation to praise
Giovanni Cimabue (ca. 1240–ca. 1302). Cimabue, who was Giotto’s teacher, is the
first artist mentioned in Vasari’s Lives. Ibid., 1:52, 57.
28 Petrarca, Petrarch’s Remedies, 1.40.
29 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 15–17.
30 Vallani, De origine civitatis Florentiae et eiusdem famosis civibus, quoted in ibid.,
70. This book appears also in an 1847 edition: Liber de civitatis Florentiae famosis
civibus.
31 Ferguson, “Humanist Views,” 27.
32 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 71.
33 For a brief historical survey of concepts associated with mimesis and imitation,
see Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 266–75.
34 See Pigman, “Versions of Imitation,” 1–32.
35 This list is modified from Ackerman, “Imitation,” 132.
36 Pigman, “Versions of Imitation,” 3–9, discusses three transformative metaphors
that were used to understand how artists imitate nature: apian (gathering pollen
to make honey); digestive (converting nutritious foods that one has eaten); and
filial (applying a parent’s lessons in a new situation).
37 Petrarca, De remediis utriusque fortunae, 1.40–1, written between 1354 and 1366,
cited in Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 53, 56, 61.
38 Petrarca, Petrarch’s Remedies, 1.41.
39 Pliny Natural History 9:35.5.15. Although this story often is retold as a neutral act
of mark-making, Pliny indicates that there is an emotional component. This man
was loved by a woman, so the linear outline that remains after he and his shadow
depart is not just a mark on a wall but an expression of absence and longing.
40 Ibid., 9:35.43.151.
41 Petrarca, Petrarch’s Remedies, 1.41.
42 Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 58.
43 Staley, Guilds of Florence, 47.
44 Ibid., 169.
45 Goldthwaite, Building of Renaissance Florence, 255.
46 Staley, Guilds of Florence, 262–3.
47 Ibid., 322–3.
48 Ibid. At that time the term “università” was associated with guilds, whereas the
term “sapienza” referred to what we now associate with a university. Pevsner,
Academies of Art, 46.

Notes to pages 113–18 275

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49 Westfall, “Painting and the Liberal Arts,” 493.
50 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, 2.
51 Ibid.
52 Ibid.
53 The different social circumstances for practising artists and scholarly humanists
are described in Troncelliti, Two Parallel Realities, 57.
54 Petrarch, writing in Latin, used graphis (‘drawing pencil’, ‘drawing’) when dis-
cussing drawing in a similar way. Petrarca, De remediis utriusque fortune.
55 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, 8.

cha p ter s ix
1 Valla, Elegantiarum latinae linguae (1435–44), preface, translated in Baxandall,
Giotto and the Orators, 117. See also Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences, 16.
The original Latin text appears in Valla, De linguae latinae elegantia, preface.
2 See Grayson, “Humanism of Alberti,” 37–56.
3 Giorgio Vasari’s emphasis on practical achievements is illustrated by his treat-
ment of Alberti, who receives only a few pages: Lives, 1:414–19. He notes briefly
that Alberti “is known more for his writings than for the work of his hands,”
lists the subjects of his treatises in two sentences, then discusses the buildings
on which he worked.
4 Cecil Grayson, who prepared a critical edition of the Latin text, found it fuller
and more precise in expression than the Italian. Alberti, On Painting and On
Sculpture, vii.
5 Ibid., 5, 18–21.
6 Ibid., 20, 22.
7 Grayson, “Composition of L.B. Alberti’s Decem libri de re aedificatoria,” 152–61,
indicates 1443–52 but amends this to 1447–52 in a subsequent essay: “Leon
Battista Alberti, Architect,” 9.
8 Alberti, On Painting, 2.27.
9 Ibid., 2.28.
10 Ibid., 2.58.
11 Ibid., 2.32.
12 Vasari mentions not just the baptistry but also other scenes in Florence. Lives,
1:327.
13 The references are to Vitruvius Ten Books 4.1.6, 7.7–14.
14 Alberti, On Painting, 2.26.

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15 Ibid. Alberti’s implicit parallel between poetry and painting is discussed in
Westfall, “Painting and the Liberal Arts,” 500–2.
16 In sculpture, circumscription is evident in the mapping of the external surface
of a figure by Alberti’s finitorium device. In architecture, circumscription is evi-
dent in the emphasis on the area, defined by the external outline of the building.
17 Erwin Panofsky situates “circumscription” in a longer history of rhetoric that
links it to disegno: “Alberti also adapted, however tentatively, to the painter’s
profession the categories of classical rhetoric: invention, disposition (changed
to circonscriptione and compositione, and about one hundred years later re-
placed by disegno), and elocution (changed to receptione de lume).” Renaissance
and Renascences, 26.
18 Alberti, On Painting, 1.5.
19 Ibid., 1.5–7. Other contemporary artists expressed similar sentiments; for exam-
ple, Piero della Francesca: “By drawing we mean profiles and contours which
contain the thing,” quoted in Tolnay, History and Technique, 4.
20 Alberti, On Painting, 2.31.
21 Pliny Natural History 9:35.5.15–16, 9:35.43.151.
22 This distinction is illustrated more vividly in anamorphic art, which plays with
the difference between these two forms of observation: the image that our
retina receives and the bodily memories we import. See Baltrušaitis, Anamor-
phic Art.
23 Alberti, On Painting and On Sculpture, 133.
24 Ibid., 121.
25 Ibid., 119.
26 The finitorium is illustrated in Alberti, Of Statuary, in Architecture of Leon
Battista Alberti in Ten Books; Of Painting in Three Books; and Of Statuary in
One Book. Its operation is described in Tavernor, On Alberti, 7, 39. Leonardo da
Vinci later would describe and illustrate a similar device to reproduce the form
of a statue. See Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 154.
27 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.12. Later (9.8) he refers to painting and sculp-
ture in an equally objective way, complaining that they can be damaged when
incompetent people cram them into buildings that are not yet finished.
28 Ibid., 6.13.
29 Ibid., 9.4.
30 Ibid., 7.10.
31 Ibid., 7.17.

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32 Ibid., 7.10, 7.17, 9.4.
33 Ibid., 6.1.
34 Alberti, De pictura, 2.46, 3.58. Because Latin has no equivalent word, disegno was
an Italian supplement to the Latin text, along with disegnare, disegnamento, dis-
egnino, and disegnato; however, in two of the six appearances in translation it
becomes “painting” or is omitted altogether, suggesting that Alberti’s intention
was not quite clear or does not map directly into English.
35 Alberti, On Painting, 2.31. Elsewhere Alberti defines “circumscription” (circon-
scrizione) as the external outline of a visible form.
36 Ibid., 2.46.
37 Ibid., 3.58.
38 Ibid., 1.23. The Latin word pictura can refer to both painting and drawing – and
sometimes even sculpture.
39 Alberti, De re aedificatoria (1485).
40 Alberti, Leon Battista Alberti: De re aedificatoria: A Lemmatized Concordance.
41 Alberti, I dieci libri de l’architettura.
42 Richard Krautheimer has traced the etymology of the Renaissance term: “Lin-
eamenti is a Renaissance Italianization of the classical lineamenta. The Latin
word, while it occurred during the Middle Ages, seems to have done so only in
a figurative sense, denoting lineage or ancestry. It was apparently first restored
to its original meaning, or to one close to it, by fifteenth century writers in both
Latin and in the new Italian form. Its significance in classical Latin was evi-
dently ‘lines,’ or ‘an outline drawing’; occasionally it meant also the outline or
the sketch of a speech.” He adds, “In [Lorenzo] Ghiberti’s discussion of the sec-
ond door [of the Florence baptistry], lineamenti must again be understood as
a counterpart of rules: that is, as principles, outlines or diagrams that illustrate
the rules. Just what principles or outlines Ghiberti had in mind remains for the
moment an open question.” Lorenzo Ghiberti, 230.
43 Alberti, L’architettura di Leonbatista Alberti.
44 Five editions were consulted: Monte Regale, 1565; Venice, 1565; Bologna, 1782;
Rome, 1784; and Milan, 1833.
45 “A wood model made of the church of the Santissima Annuziata in 1384 is
repeatedly referred to as a disegno in the account for its construction.” Gold-
thwaite, Building of Renaissance Florence, 369.
46 Cortelazzo and Zolli, Dizionario etimologico della lingua italiana, s.v. “diseg-
nare”: ‘to represent a figure using lines’; ‘to make a mental plan before executing
it’; ‘to imagine, to pretend’. The citations are from Dante.

278 Notes to pages 131–3

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47 Vitruvius, De architectura: Concordance: Documentation bibliographique, lexicale
et grammaticale, s.v. “designo.”
48 Alberti, On the Art of Building, prologue.
49 Ibid., 6.1. As noted in Chapter 2, Cicero – whom Alberti cites frequently – was
the earliest writer to use the word architectura.
50 Ibid. Alberti’s view of Vitruvius is described in Krautheimer, “Alberti and Vitru-
vius,” 323–32. This essay includes a graphic comparison of the contents of the
two treatises.
51 Alberti, Leon Battista Alberti: De re aedificatoria: A Lemmatized Concordance,
176. It appears twice in the prologue and once in Book 9. He uses aedificatio
(the act of building) and its derivatives fifty-six times.
52 The Latin titles of the two other treatises, De pictura and De statua, also referred
to physical objects (pictures and statues) rather than to arts or activities (paint-
ing and sculpture).
53 All of the Italian translations changed aedificatoria to architettura.
54 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.3–6.
55 Ibid., 1.3.
56 Ibid.
57 Ibid., 1.4.
58 Ibid., 1.8.
59 Ibid., 7.10, 7.17.
60 Ibid., 8.7.
61 Ibid., 7.13. Alberti mentions the medieval era only once (8.5), to deplore its
obsession with building enormous religious buildings and towers, even in
small towns.
62 One rare reference (9.7) mentions the ark and the flood.
63 This is noted in Farago, “Classification of the Visual Arts,” 28.
64 Alberti, On the Art of Building, prologue.
65 Ibid., 1.7.
66 Ibid., 1.9.
67 Ibid. The extension of humanism’s rhetorical ambition from poetry to painting
and to architecture is discussed in Westfall, “Society, Beauty, and the Humanist
Architect,” 72–3.
68 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.2–6.
69 Ibid., 1.2.
70 Ibid. Elsewhere in the treatise Alberti discusses the education of the architect,
but in a somewhat ambivalent way. In the prologue, where the role of the archi-

Notes to pages 133–7 279

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 tect is glorified, he lists many responsibilities that an architect faces and many
abilities that are required. To prepare for them, he says that an architect “must
have an understanding and knowledge of all the highest and most noble disci-
plines” (prologue). This aligns with his recommendation for painters in On
Painting, 3.52. However, in Book 9 he narrows his focus for architects by estab-
lishing two priorities and making others optional: “Of the arts the ones that are
useful, even vital, to the architect are painting and mathematics. I am not con-
cerned whether he is versed in any others. I will not hear those who say that an
architect ought to be an expert in law … Nor do I demand that he should have
an exact understanding of the stars … Nor do I say that he ought to be a musi-
cian, because he must place sounding vases in a theater; nor an orator, to in-
struct his client on what he proposes to do.” On the Art of Building, 9.10. These
last few examples contradict Vitruvius, who had recommended a wide range
of preparatory studies that could be applied directly to an architect’s practice;
see Vitruvius Ten Books 1.1. Modern architectural education tends to side
with Vitruvius.
71 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.1.
72 Ibid., 1.9. In 2.4 he elaborates on this thought: “We shall relate the advice
handed down to us by the learned men of the past, in particular Theophrastus,
Aristotle, Caro, Varro, Pliny, and Vitruvius: for such knowledge is better gained
through long experience than through any artifice of invention; it should be
sought therefore from those who have made the most diligent observations
on the matter.”
73 On the rare occasions when Alberti says that architecture imitates nature, he
refers not to visible appearances but to functional or mathematical analogies. In
the book on construction he says, “With every type of vault, we should imitate
Nature throughout, that is, bind together the bones and interweave flesh with
nerves running along every possible section” (3.14). The imitation of nature is
more prevalent in the books on ornament in the second half of the treatise: “All
that has been said our ancestors learned through observation of Nature herself …
They declared that Nature, as the perfect generator of forms, should be their
model. And so, with the utmost industry, they searched out the rules that she em-
ployed in producing things, and translated them into methods of building” (9.5).
74 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 6.1.
75 Ibid., 1.9.
76 Ibid., 1.9–10.
77 Ibid., 1.1.

280 Notes to pages 137–9

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78 Ibid., 1.5.
79 Ibid., 1.3.
80 Ibid., 1.8.
81 Ibid.
82 Ibid., 1.4.
83 Ibid., 1.3.
84 Ibid., 1.4.
85 Ibid., 1.2.
86 Ibid., 1.9.
87 Alberti’s primordial account starts with the roof, whereas Hugh of St Victor
started with the perimeter wall for protection from enemies.
88 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.11.
89 Ibid., 1.9.
90 Ibid., 1.2.
91 Ibid., 1.3, 1.10, 1.13.
92 Ibid., prologue. Ambivalent attitudes toward materials and construction appear
elsewhere in the treatise. In Books 2 and 3, Alberti shows considerable interest
and a critical attention to details: “It is appropriate to mention here how unim-
pressed I am with modern-day architects, who, in order to accommodate the
floor beams, leave gaps in the very bones of the wall” (3.12); “I have myself seen
stones crack when a large quantity of exceedingly hot lead is poured over them
to secure the cramps” (3.11). However, his commentary would not help a crafts-
man carry out this work, so it is far from the apprenticeship tradition in which
Cennini instructed painters. Despite being about construction, Book 3 includes
almost no explicit references to craftsmen, tools, labour, know-how, or se-
quences. It is written as if the architect is the sole operative individual and the
building is being built through his volition and direction. In Book 9, however,
the architect lets others take over: “Should you propose to supervise and exe-
cute the work, you will hardly be able to avoid having sole responsibility for all
the errors and mistakes committed by others, whether through inexperience or
neglect. Such projects require zealous, circumspect, and strict clerks of works,
to supervise the necessary work with diligence, application, and their constant
presence” (9.11).
93 Ibid., 1.8.
94 His treatises on painting and sculpture present elaborate devices for surveying
and recording existing subjects but his treatise on architecture does not.
95 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.2.

Notes to pages 140–4 281

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96 In On Painting, 2.33, 2.35, Alberti describes pictorial composition in a similar
way: as a nested hierarchy of four elements from small to large: plane, member,
body, and historia. As noted in Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, 131, this picto-
rial hierarchy is comparable to the linguistic hierarchy of elements in the hu-
manist theory of rhetoric: word, phrase, clause, and sentence.
97 This emphasis on the exterior outline of a figure is also evident in On Painting
and On Sculpture.
98 Because Alberti discusses the geometry of lines and angles in Book 1, some have
assumed that he was talking about drawings; for example, in Blunt, Artistic The-
ory in Italy, 10: “The first book [of De re aedificatoria] is mainly given up to the
importance of drawings.” Alberti discusses design drawings and models in 2.1
and 9.10.
99 In Filarete, Treatise on Architecture, 1:15 (fol. 7v), the architect is encouraged to
let the building design develop in the mind for nine months, but during this
time the architect also should make drawings and discuss them with the patron.
100 When Alberti discusses drawings in 2.1, 6.1, and 9.10, the lines acquire weight.
101 Alberti, On the Art of Building, prologue.
102 On paratactic drawing, see Groenewegen-Frankfort, Arrest and Movement, 1–11.
On paratactic literature, see Auerbach, “Odysseus’ Scar,” as well as a note in the
introductory essay by Edward W. Saïd (xviii).
103 Lang, “De Lineamentis,” 331–5, suggests that lineamenti exist strictly in plan, but
this seems unlikely because Alberti’s last three lineaments – wall, roof, and
opening – have a vertical component.
104 Alberti, On the Art of Building, 1.1.
105 Ibid. and a note by the translators (422) provide two different translations for
structura. Because ‘construction’ suggests materiality, it is a more appropriate
modern translation than ‘structure’, which is now associated with immaterial
static and dynamic forces.
106 Ibid.
107 Alberti later visualizes an angle not just as a relation between two lines but in a
planar way that includes the surface between the lines, like the thin membrane
between adjacent bones in a bat wing: “Any part of the surface within this
perimeter that is contained between two intersecting lines is called an angle.”
Ibid., 1.7.
108 Ibid., 1.1.
109 Ibid.
110 Ibid.

282 Notes to pages 144–7

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111 Ibid., 1.8.
112 Ibid., 1.10.
113 Ibid., 1.8. Here he uses a practical form of calculus to identify the geometric
figure with the maximum area for a given perimeter.
114 Ibid., 1.11.
115 Ibid., 1.8.

cha p ter s even

1 Aquinas, Division and Methods of the Sciences, 11, Question 5, Article 1, Reply to
3. This statement was included in an article entitled “Is speculative science ap-
propriately divided into these three parts: natural, mathematical, and divine?”
Aquinas referred back to Hugh of St Victor and continued to distinguish liberal
arts from mechanical arts. He also acknowledged productive arts that are based
on reason: “for example, producing a composition, syllogism or discourse,
numbering, measuring, composing melodies, and reckoning the course of the
stars” (12).
2 Alberti, On Painting, dedication.
3 Ibid.
4 Blunt, Artistic Theory in Italy, 49.
5 Ibid.
6 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, 1.1.
7 Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences, 16.
8 Alberti, On the Art of Building, prologue.
9 Farago, “Classification of the Visual Arts,” 33.
10 Alberti, On the Art of Building, prologue.
11 Blunt, Artistic Theory in Italy, 48; Tatarkiewicz, History of Aesthetics, 3:47.
12 Staley, Guilds of Florence, 37. The guild structure in late medieval and Renais-
sance Florence was somewhat variable over time, consisting of either two or
three classes. When it consisted of three, the guilds of the ruling class included
judges, notaries, bankers, doctors, and furriers; the guilds of the middle class
included butchers, blacksmiths, and masters of stone and wood; and the guilds
of the working class included wine merchants, tanners, locksmiths, and carpen-
ters. In 1280, five of the working class guilds were promoted to the middle class
due to their growing number of members and their growing wealth (45). The
fact that local economic circumstances could affect the guilds, along with the
notion that the guilds could be situated on a graduated ladder, may have sug-
gested that similar adjustments were possible in the liberal arts.

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13 Farago, Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Paragone’, 73.
14 A comprehensive list would include Lorenzo Ghiberti, Filarete, Marsilio Ficino,
Luca Pacioli, Francesco di Giorgio, and Michelangelo. Later, Anton Francesco
Doni’s book Disegno (1549) made a Neoplatonic parallel between the working
process of God and the working process of the artist that distinguished between
the preliminary plan and the subsequent execution; see ibid., 37–8. After Vasari,
a treatise by Federico Zuccaro (whose names appear alternately as Federigo and
Zuccari), L’idea de’ pittori, scultori e architetti, distinguishes between internal
design in the mind (disegno interno) and external design on paper (disegno
esterno); see Panofsky, Idea, 85–93. In the seventeenth century, disegno was
opposed to colore in a purported debate between painters in Florence, who
favoured the use of disegno in preparatory drawings that compose the outlines
of figures before adding colour, and painters in Venice, who favoured colore as
a direct modeling of figures in colour; see Poirier, “Studies on the Concepts
of Disegno.”
15 See Summers, Michelangelo, 250–61. Panepistemon was an introduction to a
series of lectures on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. Summers also suggests that
Poliziano was Michelangelo’s teacher when both were in the Medici household
for two or three years, until 1492, when Michelangelo was thirteen; see 242–9.
16 Ibid., 251. In the 1495 edition, Poliziano, Panepistemon, graphike appears as
graphice, but spelling variations are evident also in other Latin words. This
edition of Panepistemon is part of a larger volume that includes a Latin edition
of Vitruvius.
17 Poliziano, Panepistemon, [8]. Hugh’s mechanical arts were fabric-making,
armament (including architecture), commerce, agriculture, hunting (including
cooking), medicine, and theatrics; see Didascalicon 2.20.
18 Summers, Michelangelo, 250.
19 Poliziano, Panepistemon, [9].
20 Whereas the graphike-disegno division lists different forms of painting and
sculpture, the architectura division refers to various topics extracted from
Vitruvius rather than Alberti: representational modes (orthographia, etc.),
properties of buildings (eurithma, etc.), types of buildings (publicorum, etc.),
and the three criteria (firmitas, utilitas, and uenustas). Ibid.
21 Summers, Michelangelo, 254.
22 Discussing Leonardo’s work in terms of disegno, Martin Kemp notes that the
modern meaning of “drawing” can be associated with Leonardo’s work as a
painter and that the modern meaning of “design” can be associated with his

284 Notes to pages 150–3

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 work as an inventor. However, he adds that the modern meanings of “drawing”
and “design” do not convey the expansiveness of Leonardo’s thought that is
implied in the concept of disegno. Leonardo da Vinci: Experience, 96.
23 Leonardo, cited in Zwijnenberg, Writings and Drawings, 25. Leonardo uses
“science” to refer to disciplines that are based in the mathematics of nature –
including drawing and painting.
24 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 37.
25 Like Alberti, he stressed that these outlines (lineamenti) should be conceptually
strong but graphically weak: “The lateral boundaries of these bodies is the
line forming the boundary of the surface, which line is of invisible thickness.
Wherefore, O painter! do not surround your bodies with lines.” Leonardo,
Literary Works, 1:129.
26 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 37. He also describes a device that imitates Al-
berti’s perspective veil and anticipates Dürer’s perspective screen: “Take a glass
as large as your paper, fasten it well between your eye and the object you mean
to draw, and fixing your head in a frame (in such a manner as not to be able to
move it) at the distance of two feet from the glass; shut one eye, and draw with
a pencil accurately upon the glass all that you see through it. After that, trace
upon paper what you have drawn on the glass, which tracing you may paint at
pleasure, observing the aerial perspective.” Treatise on Painting, 44.
27 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 44.
28 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 41–2. He did not mention one other difference
between painting and vision: the eye’s ability to focus alternately on foreground
or background contours.
29 Ibid., 8.
30 This attention to bodily gestures aligns with the concept of finitio and the
finitorium device described in Alberti, On Sculpture.
31 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 154.
32 Leonardo, quoted in Carl Goldstein, Teaching Art, 89.
33 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 156.
34 Ibid., 7–8.
35 Ibid., 2, 5–6. This advice corresponds to what Cennino Cennini recommended
in Il libro dell’arte.
36 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 40.
37 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 152.
38 This strategy has a precedent in classical Roman and humanist eloquence:
speeches that praise one subject while demeaning another. The various writings

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 in Leonardo’s notebooks that compared painting to other arts were assembled
in 1817 under the title Paragone. This Italian word, like the English “paragon,”
was a new word derived from Greek roots para- ‘beside’ and agon ‘contest’,
‘struggle’. Farago, Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Paragone’, 8, 33.
39 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 40–5.
40 Ibid., 38. Leonardo apprenticed in a workshop known mainly for its sculpture.
Later he boasted that he “can execute sculpture in marble, bronze and clay.”
Kemp, Leonardo da Vinci: Experience, 97.
41 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 38–42.
42 Ibid., 19–23.
43 Ibid., 37.
44 Ibid., 46.
45 Ibid., 34–5.
46 Ibid., 37. In 1509 Luca Pacioli made the same argument in an effort to have per-
spective recognized as a liberal art. Of the four traditional liberal arts based on
mathematics, he accepted three – geometry, arithmetic, and astronomy – but
questioned the fourth, music theory, saying that if music is included, perspec-
tive also must be included. See Pacioli, Divine proportion, 1.3.
47 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 22.
48 Ibid., 37. Along with sight and hearing, he considers smell, taste, and touch. He
demeans smell because it does not enable one to locate the source of an odour:
a curious argument. When he demeans taste and touch because they require
local contact, it becomes clear that he privileges experiences that can locate dis-
tant things precisely: an extension of his earlier praise for perspective. Leonardo
on Painting, 18. He also mentions that individual senses collectively inform the
sensus communis.
49 Pythagorean theory, with its emphasis on numerical proportion, indeed was
concerned only with the relative pitch of music. Other properties, such as in-
tensity, rhythm, and timbre, are included in other theories of music that recog-
nize performance.
50 Leonardo, Literary Works, 2:59–84.
51 Farago, “Classification of the Visual Arts,” 31, makes a similar point about paint-
ing: that Leonardo promoted it as a liberal art because it is a form of universal
knowledge, not because of its rhetorical capacity.
52 His projects for canals and three-level cities are large mechanical devices for
fluids but could be categorized also as architectural projects. Leonardo would
not have distinguished between architecture and mechanical engineering.

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53 The static forces of structure are more difficult to visualize than the dynamic
forces of mechanics in motion. Kemp, Leonardo da Vinci: Marvellous Works, 129,
suggests that Leonardo understood architectural structure as an equilibrium of
forces, analogous to the equilibrium of structural components in the human
body, as illustrated in the drawings of his skeletal tiburio design for the cathe-
dral in Milan (1488).
54 Although geometry tends to be associated with a final form, constructing a
geometric figure is a mechanical operation that requires instruments and
a series of steps. The residual actions may be implicit in the final form.
55 Leonardo, Treatise on Painting, 152.
56 Leonardo, Leonardo on Painting, 45.
57 Leonardo, quoted in Farago, Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Paragone’, 239.
58 Vasari, Lives, 1:626.
59 Yates, “Italian Academies,” 6, notes that an academy was not a school or univer-
sity. Although it alludes to Plato’s groves of Akademeia outside the wall of
Athens, the academy was basically an Italian Renaissance institution. Academies
began after Greek scholars arrived in Italy in the 1430s. They were primarily
social groups for humanist research and the revival of classical knowledge and
virtue. The Accademia Platonica was founded in Florence in 1442 and later
included Marsilio Ficino and Angelo Poliziano among its members. Starting
in the late 1520s after political upheavals in Italy, many small academies, often
with obscure or mystical names, were formed to address a much wider range
of subjects, not necessarily classical. Over two thousand Italian academies have
been identified from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century; see Yates, “Italian
Academies,” 7. For the early history of academies, see also Pevsner, Academies
of Art, chap. 1.
60 On Varchi’s early involvement with academies, see Samuels, “Benedetto Varchi,”
599–634.
61 Eisenbichler, Cultural Politics of Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici, xiii. Cosimo’s linguis-
tic ambition was for Tuscan to replace Latin as the primary language for devel-
oping and disseminating knowledge.
62 Basile, “Fasseli gratia per poetessa,” 137.
63 Varchi, Due lezzioni. The stated publication date, 1549, is based on the Floren-
tine calendar. In the Julian calendar it would be 1550: the same year as Vasari’s
first edition of the Lives.
64 Mendelsohn, Paragoni, 105.
65 Varchi’s commentary on this sonnet is discussed in Panofsky, Idea, 119–21,

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 which considers whether Michelangelo’s understanding of art was influenced
more by Platonic or Aristotelian concepts.
66 Mendelsohn, Paragoni, 110.
67 Varchi, Due lezzioni, 70–7.
68 Mendelsohn, Paragoni, 84.
69 Ibid., 64.
70 Varchi, quoted in ibid., 113.
71 Although Varchi sometimes cites Michelangelo as a precedent for artists to imi-
tate, at other times he seems reluctant to do so. The consistent perfection of
Michelangelo’s art since birth suggested that it came directly from a divine
source, whereas other humans had to learn their art and imitate the divine.
Ibid., 102.
72 Similarly, an Aristotelian approach would regard an artist’s initial sketch as
rough and imperfect, to be developed gradually to perfection by working with
worldly material. A more Platonic approach would regard an artist’s initial
sketch as an inspired authority to which all subsequent imitations must be
faithful.
73 Mendelsohn, Paragoni, 92.
74 Varchi, quoted in ibid., 77.
75 Ibid., 76.
76 Ibid., 73.
77 Ibid., 79.
78 Ibid., 45, 116, suggests that disegno originated in medieval architecture with
Villard de Honnecourt and even Varro from ancient Rome, in turn suggesting
that architecture is the parent of painting and sculpture. The argument seems
anachronistic and unconvincing.
79 Quiviger, “Benedetto Varchi,” 220, 224.
80 Varchi, Due lezzioni, 102.
81 For a comprehensive biographical outline of Vasari’s practical work, see Rubin,
Giorgio Vasari, 9–19.
82 Vasari, Le vite. The larger political territory is noted in ibid., 214.
83 Vasari was the first to refer to late medieval churches (erroneously) as products
of the Goths, a fourth-century tribe with no connection to what would be
called “Gothic.” See Vasari on Technique, 83; and Vasari, Lives, 1:59. He was also
reportedly the first to use the concept of “rebirth” (renascita) to designate the
Renaissance period. “The earlier Italians used instead almost every possible
equivalent: revival, restoration, awakening, reflowering, or return to the light.

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 Vasari chose the more vivid metaphor.” Ferguson, Renaissance in Historical
Thought, 65.
84 Vasari, Lives, 1:112.
85 Ibid., 1:22.
86 Although painting and sculpture are characterized here as fraternal twins, else-
where Vasari describes sculpture (in stone, for example, which involves only
subtractive actions) as the “niece” of painting, with plastice (modeling in clay or
wax, which involves both additive and subtractive actions) as the sister of paint-
ing. Ibid., 1:16. Although the generations and genetic relationships are some-
what loose, it is clear that all three occupations are members of the same family
and that the head of the family is disegno.
87 Ibid., 1:22–3.
88 Ibid., 1:15–16.
89 Ibid., 1:22.
90 Ibid., 1:27.
91 Ibid., 1:24.
92 Ibid., 1:36–7.
93 Ibid., 1:12.
94 Ibid., 1:32.
95 Ibid., 1:247.
96 Accademia delle arti del disegno: Nuovo statuto, 37.
97 Vasari, Lives, 2:550–2. In his account of the life of Montorsoli, Vasari makes
some retroactive adjustments to history by saying that the “Compagnia del dis-
egno” and its chapel had been associated with all three arti del disegno since the
time of Giotto.
98 Just before Varchi’s lectures in 1547, the Accademia Fiorentina had tightened
its membership rules to exclude those with few literary skills, resulting in the
suspension of some of the artists. Writing new compositions in Tuscan was a
requirement for all members. These rules were loosened again in 1550. Mendel-
sohn, Paragoni, 26; Basile, “Fasseli gratia per poetessa,” 137. This may have
prompted a desire for a separate academy for artists.
99 The statutes are recorded in Pevsner, Academies of Art, 296–304.
100 Vasari, Lives, 2:552.
101 Farago, Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Paragone’, 130.
102 Barzman, “Accademia del Disegno,” 179–83.
103 Pevsner, Academies of Art, chap. 2, and Goldstein, Teaching Art, chap. 1, present
some thin evidence of earlier art academies in Leonardo’s circle and in 1530s

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 Rome but acknowledge that the Accademia del Disegno (1563) in Florence was
the first formal academy of art. Other art academies were established later in
Perugia (1573), Rome (1593), and Bologna (1598). In France, the first art acad-
emy was the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture (1648). The academy
in Florence still exists under the name Accademia delle arti del disegno. A brief
institutional history is included in Accademia delle arti del disegno: Nuovo
statuto, 37–51.
104 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 56.
105 Divine Michelangelo, 22, 28. The text is from a pamphlet issued shortly after the
event. It was also the basis for part of Vasari’s life of Michelangelo in Lives,
2:747–8.
106 Divine Michelangelo, 74.
107 Reynolds, “Accademia del Disegno,” 175–6.
108 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 72.
109 Ibid., 83–4.
110 Ibid., 184. The Guild of Builders had superseded the Guild of Masters in Stone
and Wood in 1534.
111 Ibid., 59.
112 Wittkower, in Divine Michelangelo, 44, refers to a lengthy power struggle be-
tween the guilds and the artists. Debates involving guild control over produc-
tion, buying, and selling could offer insights into changing definitions of art
and distinctions between artisans and artists. However, Cosimo’s 1571 transfer
of commercial control for painters, sculptors, and architects is not mentioned
in two major histories of guilds in Florence: Goldthwaite, Building of Renais-
sance Florence; and Staley, Guilds of Florence. There is also no circumstantial dis-
cussion of it in the records of the academy, according to Barzman, Florentine
Academy, 207. Although guild membership officially was required, exceptions
for highly respected practitioners had been possible since 1430, when
Brunelleschi avoided membership when directing the construction of the
cathedral dome in Florence. See Wittkower and Wittkower, Born Under Saturn,
10, for the story of Brunelleschi being jailed and subsequently released; Vasari
does not mention this event in his life of Brunelleschi.
113 Reynolds, “Accademia del Disegno,” 184.
114 Tolnay, History and Technique, 5–6.
115 This two-step sequence was the typical approach to painting in Florence. (It
had not yet acquired the modern association with colouring books and paint-
by-numbers.) Venetian painters, on the other hand, tended to work directly in

290 Notes to pages 167–9

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 colour and paint, without composing a drawing first. See Poirier, “Studies on
the Concepts of Disegno,” 37–9, 98–9.
116 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 67. Zuccaro’s letter is also described in Pevsner,
Academies of Art, 51–2. Zuccaro later left the academy and became the director
of a new academy of art in Rome. His activities there are described in Barasch,
Theories of Art, 295–303.
117 Summers, “Sculptural Program,” 68 n. 4. Symbols of the Christian trinity al-
ready were included in the sculptural programme for the chapel that Montor-
soli donated to the academy.
118 Vasari, Lives, 1:24. This aligns with how painting and sculpture are presented in
the first half of Alberti, On the Art of Building: as ornaments for niches – but
not in the second half, where they parallel architectural ornamentation.
119 Pevsner, Academies of Art, 296–304.
120 Goldstein, “Vasari,” 150.
121 Reynolds, “Accademia del Disegno,” 82.
122 Pevsner, Academies of Art, 299.
123 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 194.
124 Divine Michelangelo, 19–21. The dispute involved painters Vasari and Bronzino
and sculptors Cellini and Ammannati.
125 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 68.
126 Goldstein, Teaching Art, 224–5.
127 Vasari, Vasari on Technique, 148.
128 Ibid., 206.
129 Ibid., 207.
130 The amendments are reprinted in Wazbinski, L’Accademia Medicea del Disegno,
441–3.
131 Reynolds, “Accademia del Disegno,” 145. Barzman, Florentine Academy, 35, adds
a further detail about an addendum to this article that was crossed out.
132 The headings in the second edition of Vasari’s Lives offer a historical glimpse
of the various combinations of the three arts during the previous 250 years.
They include ninety-eight painters, twenty sculptors, seven architects; five
painter/sculptors, four painter/architects, thirteen sculptor/architects; and five
painter/sculptor/architects. (A few other occupations are mentioned: gold-
smith, illuminator, engineer, master of glass windows, craftsman, engraver of
cameos and gems, engraver of prints, master of casting, and miniaturist.)
Vasari’s biographies of the architects indicate that all of them migrated through
other occupations before arriving in architecture. The singular architects who

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 (hypothetically) would have been excluded from the Accademia del Disegno
include Giuliano and Antonio San Gallo and Donato Bramante.
133 Barzman, Florentine Academy, 36.
134 Ibid., 111.
135 Divine Michelangelo, 53, 57, 61, 73.
136 Reynolds, “Accademia del Disegno,” 180–2.
137 The laurel branch was a Medici symbol. Its ability to grow back after being
chopped down symbolized the ability of the Medici family to return to Florence
and prosper after being exiled. Hollingsworth, Patronage, 258.
138 Summers, Michelangelo, 257.
139 Divine Michelangelo, 121.
140 Vasari, Lives, 2:868–84 (painters), 2:884–96 (sculptors). The only reference to a
singular architect is Palladio, whom Vasari identifies as a foreign member
(2:884). In 1566, six notable artists from Venice, including Palladio, Titian, and
Tintoretto, were approved for special membership but the academy’s records
indicate that they never paid fees and do not mention them again. Barzman,
Florentine Academy, 56–7.
141 Vasari, like Alberti, understood sculpture as a figure in the round, not as a fig-
ure integrated into the wall of a building, as in Gothic statuary. Vasari on Tech-
nique, 143, describes walking around a sculpture to see it from all sides. He also
advises carving sculptures to acknowledge their eventual location relative to
the observer: for example, to be seen from below or from a distance (145).
142 Ibid., 206–7. Despite the ambition to separate design from construction, histo-
ries of architectural practice show that architects continued to be active on the
building site for at least several more centuries. See Jenkins, Architect and
Patron, 45.
143 Vasari, Vasari on Technique, 96–7.
144 Vasari, Lives, 1:22.
145 Vasari, Vasari on Technique, 205.
146 Vasari’s narrative description of paintings is discussed under the term ekphrasis
in Alpers, “Ekphrasis,” 192–203. She identifies four types of writing in the Lives,
each with its own tradition: biographical anecdotes about artists; descriptions
of narratives represented in artworks; descriptions of stylistic developments;
and descriptions of technical skills. Alberti indicates a similar narrative intent
as the final stage in the theoretical composition of a painting: surfaces, then
members, then bodies, and finally historia (an arrangement of bodies express-
ing a particular story). See On Painting, 2.35.

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147 Vasari, Lives, 2:657.
148 Ibid., 2:721–3.

cha p ter eig ht

1 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” and “Modern System of the Arts (2).”
2 Kivy, Philosophies of Arts, 5.
3 Ibid., 220 n. 10.
4 Dictionnaire historique de la langue française, s.v. “art.” The term “beaux-arts”
was not common until the mid-eighteenth century.
5 Ibid., s.v. “beau,” from Latin bonus ‘good, beautiful’.
6 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “polite,” from Latin polire, ‘to smooth’, ‘to polish’.
7 Ibid., s.v. “fine,” from Latin finire, ‘to finish’.
8 Ibid., s.v. “fine art.” The earliest reference to “fine art” is 1767.
9 Tatarkiewicz, History of Six Ideas, 17.
10 Perrault, Cabinet des beaux Arts.
11 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (1),” 527.
12 Barchilon and Flinders, Charles Perrault, 59. The authors say that they found
clues in the images but do not present evidence. They suggest that modesty pre-
vented Perrault from presenting this luxuriously decorated studio as his own.
13 Perrault, Cabinet des beaux Arts, 1.
14 Ibid., 19.
15 The poem was delivered to the academy in 1687. It is reprinted in Perrault,
Parallèle des anciens et des modernes, 165–71.
16 The dialogue on these three arts is reprinted in ibid., 128–64.
17 Morley, preface to Spectator, vol. 1.
18 On positive and arbitrary beauty, see Rykwert, First Moderns, 36–7, 116.
19 Spectator 29, in Addison, Works, 2:468.
20 Abrams, “Art-as-Such,” 142.
21 See Black, Italy and the Grand Tour. Anthony Burgess’s anecdotal essay in
Burgess and Haskell, Age of the Grand Tour, is also illuminating.
22 Pfister, Fatal Gift of Beauty, 3.
23 Spectator 411, in Addison, Works, 3:487.
24 Spectator 411, in ibid., 3:488.
25 Spectator 412, in ibid., 3:489–92.
26 Spectator 411, in Addison, Works, 3:488. M.H. Abrams notes that all of the fine
arts provide “a diversion or escape from ordinary utilitarian and moral interests
and pursuits.” See “Art-as-Such,” 152.

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27 Spectator 413, in ibid., 3:493.
28 Spectator 414, in ibid., 3:497.
29 Spectator 415, in ibid., 3:498–501.
30 Spectator 415, in ibid., 3:500. The quotation is from Roland Fréart de Chambray,
A Parallel of the Ancient Architecture with the Modern (1650).
31 Spectator 415, in ibid., 3:501.
32 Spectator 411, 416, in ibid., 3:487, 502.
33 Spectator 418, in ibid., 3:509. Aristotle says, “We enjoy contemplating the most
precise images of things whose actual sight is painful to us, such as the forms of
the vilest animals and of corpses.” Poetics 1448b10.
34 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (2),” 18 n. 172.
35 Shaftesbury, Characteristicks, 2:406–8.
36 Ibid., 1:240–1.
37 Ibid., 2:104.
38 Dubos, Critical Reflections, 1:35.
39 Baumgarten’s thesis was entitled “Meditationes philosophicae de nonnullis ad
poema pertinentibus” (Reflections on Poetry).
40 Baumgarten, Reflections on Poetry, 78.
41 Ibid., 41.
42 Baumgarten’s word “confused” (confusae) now has a derogatory meaning he did
not intend. Ibid., 42.
43 Ibid., 76.
44 Ibid., 55–6.
45 Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts (2),” 20.
46 Batteux, Beaux arts, 6. Batteux devotes separate chapters to poetry, painting,
music and dance, but not to sculpture, eloquence, or architecture. Architecture
is mentioned only eight times in his treatise but the remarks are deliberate and
not just passing references.
47 Ibid., 38–9.
48 Ibid., 13, 258.
49 Ibid., 38.
50 Ibid., 45.
51 Ibid., 262.
52 Ibid., 263.
53 Ibid., 44.
54 Ibid., 43.
55 Ibid., 45–6.

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56 Ibid., 46.
57 Diderot and d’Alembert, Encyclopédie.
58 The tree diagram appears in Chambers, Cyclopaedia, ii.
59 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 110–11.
60 Ibid., 51.
61 Bacon, Tvvoo Bookes, book 2, chap. 1. D’Alembert notes that the lower parts of
the hierarchies in Bacon and the Encyclopédie are quite different. Preliminary
Discourse, 159–64.
62 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 48.
63 Rey, Grand Robert, s.v. “civil.”
64 The term “architecture pratique” appears in the diagram but nowhere else in
the Encyclopédie. The other terms are cited occasionally in articles: “architecture
navale” (14 citations), “architecture militaire” (16 citations), and “architecture
civile” (14 citations).
65 In d’Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 144–5, as well as a 1995 reprint, the Eng-
lish translation of the chart is misleading because it combines the Memory and
Reason columns from the 1751 diagram with the Imagination column from the
1750 diagram. Consequently, “civil architecture” does not appear anywhere.
66 Ibid., 156.
67 All other disciplines in the 1751 diagram are grouped graphically with curly
braces to indicate the hierarchy, but in the Imagination section a vertical line
separates poetry and its divisions on the left from the five non-verbal fine arts
on the right. These five arts are also italicized, unlike all other disciplines in the
diagram. (These two graphic irregularities are noted also in Simowitz, Theory
of Art, 5.) This irregularity is not explained or resolved in “Preliminary Dis-
course”; instead, d’Alembert’s methodical description of verbal poetry is bro-
ken suddenly by the phrase “on the other hand” (en revanche), followed by a
kaleidoscopic series of analogies among the various fine arts. See Preliminary
Discourse, 156. Kristeller also glosses over this irregularity and simply lists five
fine arts: (written) poetry from the left side and painting, sculpture, (civil)
architecture, and music (but not engraving) from the right side; see “Modern
System of the Arts (2),” 22.
68 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 55.
69 Ibid., 37–8.
70 Ibid., 50.
71 Harrington, Changing Ideas, 10, 31.
72 Blondel, Cours d’architecture, 1:124, 143.

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73 Ibid., 1:129–30.
74 Ibid.
75 This is consistent with the current meaning of “liberal arts” as a foundation for
advanced education.
76 Curson, Theory of Sciences, preface.
77 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 116.
78 Diderot and d’Alembert, Encyclopédie, 1:717, s.v. “art.” My translation.
79 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 40. “Science” is derived from Latin scientia
‘knowledge’ and is not limited to natural science.
80 The assembled plates were published in 1762, 1765, 1768, and 1772.
81 Diderot and d’Alembert, Encyclopédie, 1:714, s.v. “art.”
82 The digital edition of the Encyclopédie indicates that there are seventy-nine
passing references to “arts libéraux” but no significant discussion of their his-
tory or meaning. There is no dedicated article on the liberal arts, only part of
a paragraph in the article entitled “Art,” where Diderot blames the liberal arts
for the low status of the mechanical arts, and a paragraph in “Preliminary
Discourse” where d’Alembert makes a similar criticism (Preliminary Discourse,
41–2). Elsewhere in the Encyclopédie these seven arts are discussed only
individually.
83 This is noted also in Simowitz, Theory of Art, 10, and Harrington, Changing
Ideas, 7.
84 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 118–26. See also Diderot and d’Alembert,
Encyclopédie, 1:xxxvij–xl.
85 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 43.
86 Diderot and d’Alembert, Encyclopédie, 5:496, s.v. “elemens des sciences.” My
translation.
87 Ibid., 8:560, s.v. “imagination.” My translation.
88 Becker, Heavenly City, 8.
89 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 43. Changing concepts of imagination from
the late seventeenth to the early nineteenth century are discussed in Engell,
Creative Imagination.
90 For a survey of eighteenth-century theoretical writings on the topic of origin,
see Labio, Origins and the Enlightenment, especially chap. 3.
91 Laugier, Essay on Architecture, 8.
92 Ibid., 40.
93 Herrmann, Laugier, 43–4, suggests that the “imitation of nature” principle in
architecture before Laugier had been losing credibility.

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94 Laugier, Essay on Architecture, 11.
95 Seeking deeper origins in nature was a common Enlightenment tactic. “The
eighteenth-century Philosophers might therefore rewrite the story of man’s first
state, relegating the Garden of Eden to the limbo of myths; they might discover
a new revelation in the book of nature to displace the revelation in Holy Writ.”
Becker, Heavenly City, 128–9.
96 Laugier, Essay on Architecture, 11–12.
97 Ibid., 13. The earlier examples presented in Rykwert, On Adam’s House, show
that Laugier was not the first to imagine a primitive hut, but Herrmann sug-
gests, in Laugier, 48, that he was “the first to present the hut as a structure of
vital importance for the present.”
98 Laugier, Essay on Architecture, 12.
99 Ibid., 14, 23, 25.
100 Gay, Enlightenment, 1:8.
101 Laugier, Essay on Architecture, 19.
102 Ibid., 37.
103 Ibid., 65.
104 Ibid., 36.
105 Ibid., 12.
106 Ibid., 14.
107 Ibid., 38.
108 Ibid., 32.
109 Ibid., 35.
110 In France and England there was no single institution devoted to all five arts.
Unlike the Accademia del Disegno, separate academies focused on individual
arts. They shared common principles rather than common locations.
111 Gay, Enlightenment, 1:140.
112 Meanwhile, in 1766, Gotthold Lessing objected to direct analogies and transla-
tions among the fine arts. He distinguished the synchronic arts of painting and
sculpture from the diachronic art of poetry, comparing their respective modes
of representation and observation. See Lessing, Laocoön.
113 The royal academies were closed in 1793. In 1795 the Institut national des sciences
et des arts was formed, with members from painting, sculpture, architecture,
musical composition, literature, and archaeology. In 1803 this group was subdi-
vided into four bodies, one of which became the Académie des beaux-arts, for
painting, sculpture, architecture, musical composition, and engraving; cinema/
audiovisual was added in 1985. See Institut de France, Académie des beaux-arts.

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114 The École des beaux-arts was established formally in 1819 as a school for paint-
ing, sculpture, and architecture. See Jacques and Vidler, “Chronology,” 151–7.
115 This point is made also in Munro, Arts, 132–6.
116 Diderot and d’Alembert, Encyclopédie, 2:173, s.v. “beau.” See also Funt, Diderot,
73 n. 158, 85–7.
117 Wittkower, “Imitation,” 144–5.
118 The uppermost heading in the Encyclopédie tree diagram is “entendement”
(understanding), not “connaissance” or “connoissance” (knowledge).
119 The now-common proverb “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” arose in the
mid-eighteenth century. Knowles, Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 595.
120 The rise of instrumental music has been described by writers in the philosophy
of music: in particular, Carl Dahlhaus, Lydia Goehr, and Peter Kivy. They refer
to it also as “absolute music” and “pure music.”
121 The main contribution is Abrams, Mirror and the Lamp, but three articles by
Abrams thirty years later are also noteworthy: “Kant and the Theology of Art”;
“From Addison to Kant”; and “Art-as-Such.”
122 The main contribution is Dahlhaus, Idea of Absolute Music, originally published
in German in 1978.
123 The main contribution in music is Goehr, Imaginary Museum. Another book
that follows Kristeller and surveys research in various arts is Shiner, Invention
of Art.
124 Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 128–9, 192.
125 Dahlhaus, Idea of Absolute Music, 8.
126 The imitative limits of instrumental music are examined in Kivy, “Is Music an
Art?”; however, Kivy uses his observations about imitation and an overly uni-
versal acceptance of Batteux’s imitation principle to reach an invalid conclusion
that music was not a fine art and that Kristeller’s basic premise about five fine
arts is wrong.
127 Batteux, Beaux arts, 1.2.
128 Bonds, Music as Thought, 13.
129 These activities are cited throughout Elkin, Old Concert Rooms of London.
130 Ibid., 67.
131 Galkin, History of Orchestral Conducting, 58. The original Gewandhaus was de-
molished in 1893 after being replaced in 1884 by a larger concert hall on a differ-
ent site. The current Gewandhaus is a third building on yet another site, built
in 1968.
132 Forsyth, Buildings for Music, 57.

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133 The Thomaskirche in Leipzig, where J.S. Bach presided, had a similar layout of
pews. See ibid., 12.
134 Concerts at the Altes Gewandhaus are described in Hennenberg, Leipzig
Gewandhaus Orchestra. As noted at the beginning of the introduction, subse-
quent concert halls developed an even more extreme set of roles, relationships,
and practices. See Small, Musicking, 19–119.
135 See Hoffmann, “Beethoven’s Instrumental Music.” The full review was published
in 1810. An abridged version appeared in 1813.
136 Ibid.
137 Bonds, Music as Thought, 12.
138 Kant, Critique of the Power of Judgment, 201–2 (§51).
139 He cites Wilhelm Heinrich Wackenroder (1773–98) as “the single most important
figure in the articulation of a new aesthetic of listening at the end of the eigh-
teenth century … Listening is something he does to the music … [with a] sense
of exertion … by consciously distancing himself from all external stimuli other
than the music.” Bonds, Music as Thought, 22, 29.
140 Ibid., 14, 33.
141 Dahlhaus, Idea of Absolute Music, 9.
142 This is the basic thesis of Abrams, Mirror and the Lamp. The mimetic mirror that
reflects external light is superseded by an expressive lamp that generates its own
light.
143 Burke, Philosophical Enquiry, 60.
144 The name “Claude glass” referred to the landscape paintings of Claude Lorrain
(1600–82), which typically seem like twilight scenes: a dark foreground in silhou-
ette, a bright sky in the background, and a few small areas of inhabited detail.
This device was known also as the “Claude mirror” and the “Gray mirror,” after
the poet Thomas Gray. Maillet, Claude Glass, 31–5, 138. See also Andrews, Search
for the Picturesque, 68–71.
145 Earlier versions of the black mirror acquired demonic associations. Mirrors al-
ready were associated with witches and the devil, “to rival his creator by produc-
ing simulacra.” Some believed that one could use a black mirror to conjure the
souls of the dead and “see all the persons one wishes to see, no matter what part
of the world they are in.” Maillet, Claude Glass, 48–61.

cha p ter nine

1 Boullée was also a student of Germain Boffrand and Jean-Laurent Le Geay. His
teachers are discussed in Kaufmann, Three Revolutionary Architects, 437–47, 450–2.

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 2 Boullée, Boullée’s Treatise on Architecture, 1; Kaufmann, Three Revolutionary
Architects, 456.
3 These buildings are documented in Pérouse de Montclos, Étienne-Louis Boullée,
45–65.
4 Boullée, Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 26.
5 “That he loved his art with a ‘passion impérieuse’ appeared in a draft of an
anonymous obituary recounting the architect’s habit of getting up during the
night and setting down on paper the ideas that had come to him in sleepless
hours.” Kaufmann, Three Revolutionary Architects, 457.
6 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 82.
7 Pérez-Gómez, Architecture and the Crisis of Modern Science, 138.
8 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 110.
9 Ibid., 83.
10 Ibid., 85.
11 Ibid., 116.
12 Ibid., 107.
13 Ibid., 85.
14 Ibid., 109.
15 Ibid., 87. Perrault’s view is presented in Ordonnance, 47–50.
16 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 116.
17 Ibid., 105, 111; Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 41, 80, 93.
18 “Something comparable to poetry in its beauty or emotional impact; a poetic
quality of beauty and intensity of emotion; the poetic quality of something. In
early use, chiefly in poetry of motion (also the foot): dancing.” Oxford English
Dictionary, s.v. “poetry.” The first citation is from 1664. The same figurative
meaning appears in French, dating from before 1699. Dictionnaire historique de
la langue française, s.v. “poésie.” This meaning of “poetry” and “poetic” would
become much more common with Romanticism in the nineteenth century.
19 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 83.
20 Ibid., 88. Boullée’s original text refers to “l’art méchanique de l’architecture.”
Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 41.
21 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 109; Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 87.
22 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 84.
23 Ibid., 107. He does not mention naval architecture, suggesting that ships and
harbours are not a priority. He also does not discuss practical architecture, as
materials and construction are not his concern.
24 Ibid., 108. Pérouse de Montclos notes, “Boullée’s designs in the field of military

300 Notes to pages 220–3

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 architecture owe nothing to the techniques of fortification: they are simply ‘the
image of might’.” Étienne-Louis Boullée, 40.
25 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 113, 114; Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 100.
26 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 109.
27 Ibid., 100.
28 He also suggests that everything in nature is striving for perfection, but does
not elaborate. Ibid., 90.
29 Ibid., 85, 87. Elsewhere, in a section on teaching architecture, he suggests that
a building would be perfect if its decoration reflected its genre [espèce] and its
layout [distribution] reflected its purpose [destination]. Boullée, Architecture,
Essay on Art, 115; Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 103.
30 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 82.
31 Ibid., 113.
32 Ibid., 82, 85, 108, 110.
33 Ibid., 90, 101, 105, 106, 107. On Boullée’s buried architecture and its invocation of
the sublime, see Vidler, “Notes on the Sublime,” 175.
34 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 107.
35 Ibid., 86.
36 Ibid., 112.
37 On the role of sensationalism in Boullée’s work, see Bressani, “Étienne-Louis
Boullée,” 37–57.
38 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 113.
39 Ibid., 112.
40 This is evident in the project for a museum, as well as some of the cenotaphs.
41 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 83.
42 Ibid., 87. This statement should not be taken out of context, as an argument for
naivety. Boullée is referring to the ability of Claude Perrault and François
Blondel to make excellent works without being aware of the original principles
that he himself had discovered.
43 Ibid., 83.
44 Ibid., 84. In fact, painters and writers in the eighteenth century still worked
mainly for patrons. See Shiner, Invention of Art, 125–8.
45 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 84.
46 Ibid., 109.
47 Ibid., 93, 94, 111.
48 Ibid., 88.
49 Ibid., 106. This description is similar to contemporary accounts by writers on

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 the Picturesque and the Sublime, including those who used the Claude glass
to view and record such scenes.
50 Boullée’s section drawings consistently suggest stone construction, with an
occasional use of wood for small roof structures.
51 These incongruous shadows are evident in several drawings: the Circus eleva-
tion (HA 55, no. 16, 17); a cenotaph (HA 57, no. 20); another cenotaph (HA 55,
no. 26); and a city gate (Uffizi collection).
52 The complex Enlightenment attitude toward Christianity is discussed through-
out Becker, Heavenly City, especially chap. 2.
53 Alberti did the same, but his intention was to invoke the ancients and timeless
institutions.
54 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 87. “La fête-Dieu, en usage chez les Chrétiens.”
Architecture: Essai sur l’art, 39.
55 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 94.
56 Ibid., 112. Rather than encouraging an observer to behold a starry sky in nature,
Boullée designs a building that represents such a sky. The imitation of nature
thus is preferred to nature itself.
57 Ibid., 115.
58 Ibid., 82.
59 Condillac, Treatise on the Sensations, 155–339.
60 In Saisselin, “Architecture and Language,” 239–53, Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières
is presented as a transitional figure who is committed to decorum but also
invokes a language of sensation.
61 Two examples are the Versailles renovation and the public library. In the projects
that could become commissions, Boullée describes their practical attributes:
shortest possible distances, good sight lines, good acoustics, operational con-
venience, easy exits, etc. In the non-commission projects he does not bother
with such issues, suggesting that sensation is the only real concern.
62 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 105.
63 Ibid., 107.
64 Ibid.
65 Ibid., 83. Here he uses “art” with its more traditional meaning.
66 Ibid., 88. For the split between composer and performer, see Goehr, Imaginary
Museum, 188. For the separation of architect and builder, see Kaye, Development
of the Architectural Profession, 52–67, and Colvin, Biographical Dictionary, 24–33.
67 The perspective of the opera is the only drawing in which the building is im-

302 Notes to pages 226–30

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 mersed in significant surroundings, consistent with how it is described in
the text.
68 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 99.
69 Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “monument.” From Latin monere ‘to remind’.
Equivalent meanings were evident in French at the time. Dictionnaire historique
de la langue française, s.v. “monument.”
70 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 105.
71 Ibid., 86.
72 Ibid., 91.
73 In the two section drawings of the Cenotaph for Newton, he addresses the
structural challenge by illustrating two ways to lighten the top of the dome and
thus reduce the risk of collapse.
74 According to Baumgarten, “[If] the historical part is not rich enough, hetero-
cosmic fictions are likely to be necessary. Therefore, fictions both true and hete-
rocosmic are, on condition, necessary in a poem.” Reflections on Poetry, 58.
75 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 97, 105.
76 Ibid., 114. Although his drawings are concise and carefully composed, the ac-
companying text rambles through autobiographical remarks, compositional
principles, building features, guided tours, historical comparisons, and imag-
ined events.
77 Referring to the subsequent development of the Beaux-arts plan, Van Zanten,
“Le système des Beaux-Arts,” describes its composition not as a volumetric
object but as a modulated series of pictorial tableaux: a rhythmic marche for a
moving observer.
78 For example, a swarm of men entering and leaving a municipal palace, or a
crowd gathered in an amphitheatre. Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 100, 101.
79 Baumgarten, Reflections on Poetry, 40.
80 Ibid., 75–6.
81 This is consistent with the original meaning of utopia as a place that is self-
contradictory and therefore cannot exist. It differs from the popular notion
that a utopia is an ideal place to be sought or made.
82 Baumgarten, Reflections on Poetry, 56.
83 Ibid., 55–8.
84 Ibid., 78.
85 Baumgarten’s subsequent book, Aesthetica, initially was intended to consider
all the fine arts but did not.

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86 The drawing dimensions are noted in Rosenau, Boullée and Visionary Architec-
ture, 149–55. The largest drawing is eight feet wide.
87 Kivy, Philosophies of Arts, 42–52.
88 McClary, “Music, the Pythagoreans, and the Body,” 82–104, presents an erotic
model in which popular instrumental music incites bodies to dance or to fol-
low along with its meter, rhythm, and tonal progressions. She also refers to the
narrative of Western tonality as a journey of delayed gratification. Spatial per-
ceptions are discussed in Lippman, “Music and Space.” Temporal perceptions
are discussed in Kramer, Time of Music, and Hasty, Meter as Rhythm. Clifton,
Music as Heard, provides an in-depth phenomenological analysis.
89 Kivy, Philosophies of Arts, 208.
90 Abrams, “From Addison to Kant,” 18, 21.
91 Shaftesbury, Characteristicks, 2:104.
92 Bradley, “Poetry for Poetry’s Sake,” 5–6, quoted in Abrams, “From Addison to
Kant,” 20.
93 Disinterestedness is discussed as an attitude and experience throughout Stol-
nitz, Aesthetics and Philosophy, especially chap. 2–3. Its historical development
in the eighteenth century is discussed in Stolnitz, “On the Origins of ‘Aesthetic
Disinterestedness’,” 131–43.
94 Stolnitz, “On the Origins of ‘Aesthetic Disinterestedness’,” 132–4.
95 Shaftesbury, Characteristicks, 1:142–3.
96 Ibid., 1:135.
97 Boffrand, Book of Architecture, 9–10. A year before Batteux, and six years before
Diderot and d’Alembert, Boffrand associated architecture with the four other
fine arts: “The study of one subject adds new knowledge to the other. Painting,
sculpture and poetry are sisters: the first two address the eye, the third the ear.
Music paints the various incidents of Nature … Architecture … is capable of a
number of genres that bring its component parts to life.” Book of Architecture, 8.
98 Le Camus de Mézières, Genius of Architecture, 88, 94.
99 Boullée, Architecture, Essay on Art, 87.
100 Architects often use such actions to describe the composition of a project: espe-
cially since the 1920s, the decade when disinterested contemplation reached its
plateau, according to M.H. Abrams.
101 By theorizing a heterocosmic realm, Baumgarten’s theory of poetic fictions in
1735 anticipates the twentieth-century phrase “world of the work,” apparently
coined by Roman Ingarden and used by Mikel Dufrenne, Hans-Georg
Gadamer, Paul Ricoeur, Peter Kivy, and others in writings on hermeneutics.

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 Discussions of disinterested contemplation tend to downplay the contribution
of the interpreter; a modicum of self-interest seems unavoidable.
102 Although we tend to take frames for granted, André Malraux notes that the
frame was unknown in the Eastern Christian church, where art was part of the
continuum of the sanctuary. Malraux, Museum Without Walls, 195. On framing,
see also Osborne, Art of Appreciation, 27.
103 By the late eighteenth century, the Louvre in Paris and the Uffizi in Florence
had been transformed into fine art museums. Shiner, Invention of Art, 91.
104 Of course, art museums had both an aesthetic and a socio-political agenda. A
painting or sculpture in an art museum was authorized by the curator as being
worthy of aesthetic contemplation. Conversely, its presence legitimized the
authority of the institution to make such decisions on behalf of a larger social
or political body.
105 Sennett, Fall of Public Man, 77.
106 Abrams, “Art-as-Such,” 145.
107 Shiner, Invention of Art, 89. In 1759 Abbé Laugier had planned to produce the
first journal on the fine arts but it did not materialize. Wolfgang Herrmann,
introduction to Laugier, Essay on Architecture, xv–xvi.
108 Shiner, Invention of Art, 135.
109 Although architecture played a role in the establishment of fine art museums,
it was only as a means to a different end; it framed paintings and sculptures,
rather than being a subject in its own right.
110 Szambien, Musée d’architecture, 31–45.
111 Richardson, “Introducing Architectural Museums,” 6, distinguishes between
earlier collections of architectural artifacts and subsequent architectural muse-
ums with a didactic ambition. Shiner, Invention of Art, 105, claims that Boullée
“envisaged an eventual ‘museum of architecture’ that would contain everything
of significance to the art,” but Boullée suggested merely that members of archi-
tectural academies in France submit designs that would improve their cities.
These projects would be gathered together and “would offer the most complete
museum of all that comes within the field of architecture.” Boullée, Architecture,
Essay on Art, 111.
112 Abrams, “Art-as-Such,” 149–51.
113 Tinniswood, History of Country House Visiting, 45, 53.
114 According to Lipstadt, “Early Architectural Periodicals,” 51, the first architec-
tural periodical was the Journal des bâtiments civils (1800).
115 The aesthetic canon is discussed uncritically in Byron, Appreciation of Architec-

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 ture, 16–27. He describes “non-architectural buildings” in a rather unflattering
way: “The prime fact about them is that, in so far as the word ‘architecture’ has
a meaning distinct from that of mere construction, they are not architecture;
they have no design, neither static nor mobile; they neither attract the eye to a
focal point, nor, save for purposes of curiosity, do they make it aspire elsewhere;
they simply repel it, like some monstrous piece of flesh from which the veil has
suddenly been withdrawn” (27).
116 Lydia Goehr notes a similar “separability” strategy in music. See Goehr, Imagi-
nary Museum, chap. 6.
117 See “The Illusion of Inclusion: Guidebook and Historic Architecture,” in
Arnold, Reading Architectural History, 173–88. Arnold focuses on eighteenth-
and nineteenth-century Britain and notes that tourists focused on historical
lessons and social examples of how to live, rather than on architectural features.
118 On architectural photography in the mid-nineteenth century, see Bergdoll, “A
Matter of Time,” 98–119.
119 See Baird, “Life as a Work of Art,” 27–55.
120 For a historical survey of theories and practices of architectural restoration,
conservation, etc., see Jokilehto, History of Architectural Conservation.
121 See Goehr, Imaginary Museum, chap. 9.
122 Boullée would disagree, as he defined architecture exclusively as a fine art, sepa-
rate from building; however, he recognized utility in a general way.
123 Blondel, Cours d’architecture, 1:129, includes a paragraph that mentions all five
arts and shows that he recognizes architecture as one of the fine arts. Blondel’s
attitude toward innovation is summarized in Middleton, “Jacques-François
Blondel,” 143–5.
124 Blondel, Cours d’architecture, 1:125. In the first volume he includes separate
chapters on painting, sculpture, and gardening.
125 Spener grew up reading the Bible. As a child, he was also influenced by English
Puritan writings that criticized orthodox Christian practices and sought “other-
worldly” standards of morality. “I remember very well that when I was twelve
years old I saw some people dance and was persuaded by others to join in the
dancing. Hardly had I begun, however, when I was overtaken by such fear that I
ran away from the dance and never since that time tried it again.” Spener, Pia
desideria, 10.
126 Other Pietists included philosopher Johann Georg Hamann (1730–88), poet
Christoph Martin Wieland (1733–1813), writer Johann Gottfried von Herder
(1744–1803), writer Karl Philipp Moritz (1756–93), philosopher Friedrich

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 Schleiermacher (1768–1834), and philosopher of music Wilhelm Wackenroder
(1773–98).
127 The complete title is Pious Desires for a God-pleasing Reform of the True Evangel-
ical Church, Together with Several Simple Christian Proposals Looking Toward
this End.
128 Spener, Pia desideria, 116–17.
129 Ibid., 117.
130 Ibid., 115–16.
131 Ibid., 93.
132 Quoted in Becker, “Pietism’s Confrontation,” 144.
133 Ibid., 147.
134 Ibid., 153.
135 Smith, J.G. Hamann, 19.
136 Isaiah Berlin suggests that Romanticism (preceded by Pietism) rejected three
basic propositions of the Western tradition: “First, that all genuine questions
can be answered … The second proposition is that all these answers are know-
able … The third proposition is that all the answers must be compatible with
one another … The particular twist which the Enlightenment gave to this tradi-
tion was to say that the answers were not to be obtained in any of the hitherto
traditional ways … by revelation, by tradition, by dogma, etc. There is only one
way of discovering these answers, and that is by the correct use of reason, de-
ductively as in the mathematical sciences, inductively as in the sciences of na-
ture. There is no reason why such answers, which after all have produced
triumphant results in the worlds of physics and chemistry, should not equally
apply to the much more troubled fields of politics, ethics and aesthetics.” Roots
of Romanticism, 21–2.
137 Ibid., 59.
138 Ibid., 62.
139 See Berlin, Three Critics of the Enlightenment.
140 Gay, Enlightenment, 1:141.
141 Ibid., 1:33.
142 Becker, Heavenly City, 50.
143 Gay, Enlightenment, 1:59.
144 Becker, Heavenly City, 30–1.
145 Ibid., 102–3.
146 Ibid., 155.
147 Ibid., 8.

Notes to pages 242–7 307

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148 Gay, Enlightenment, 2:215.
149 Immanuel Kant used this aviation metaphor, but in reverse: “Taste, like the
power of judgment in general, is the discipline (or corrective) of genius, clip-
ping its wings and making it well behaved or polished.” Kant, Critique of the
Power of Judgment, 197 (§50).

cha p ter ten

1 Kilwardby De ortu scientiarum 40.378, translated in Whitney, Paradise Restored,
119.
2 This normal state of affairs is demonstrated by an amusing but disturbing
counterexample cited by Michel Foucault: the taxonomy of animals in the story
“The Analytical Language of John Wilkins” by Jorge Luis Borges, in which the
elements of the set cannot be mapped onto any single ground. See Foucault,
Order of Things, xv.
3 Defining “the one” is a big decision. In many schemes, philosophy or theology
was placed at the top and was associated with God. The Encyclopédie placed
(human) understanding rather than (divine) knowledge at the top.
4 Alembert, Preliminary Discourse, 48–9.

308 Notes to pages 247–53

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 Index

academies, 105, 159, 170, 180, 184, 211, 123–8, 132–3, 153; On Sculpture, 124,
287n59; for architecture, 220, 240 128–30; reference by Vasari, 276n3
Accademia del Disegno, 105, 166–77; Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. See Diderot
architecture in, 170–7; removal of and d’Alembert
architects from, 171–7 ancestors. See apprenticeship, guilds
Addison, Joseph, 185–8, 237, 246; on apprenticeship: in ancient Rome, 44; in
architecture as a fine art, 187 Cennini, 120–1; compared to acade-
aesthetic perception, 7, 11, 178, 188–9, mies, 167, 170; in guilds, 118; in technē,
212, 235–42; in Addison, 185–8; of ar- 25–30, 35, 38, 39. See also guilds
chitecture, 187, 201, 237–8, 240–2; in Aquinas, Saint Thomas, 149–50
Baumgarten, 190–1, 234; in Boullée, architect: in Alberti, 137–8, 143; ancient
228, 232–3; with a Claude glass, 218–19, Roman definition of, 24–5, 39; in Boul-
226, 239, 241; of instrumental music, lée, 223–5, 230; Byzantine definition of,
216–17. See also disinterested contem- 56–7; medieval definition of, 82, 98;
plation, fine arts in Vasari, 166. See also architekton
agriculture: in Cicero, 46; compared to architectural education: in Alberti,
technē, 22; in Hugh of St Victor, 65, 279n70; in current practice, 13; me-
67–8, 72, 76, 82; in Massieu, 188; in dieval, 266n62; in Vitruvius, 44. See
Philostratus, 52; in Plotinus, 43; in also guilds
Poliziano, 151–2 “architectural work,” 12, 17–20, 251
Alberti, Leon Battista, 123–48; argu- architecture, 10, 12–13, 251; compared to
ments for liberal art status, 123, 135–6, building, 209, 222–3, 230, 237, 241;
160; on construction, 281n92; on compared to eloquence, 192–3; com-
drawing, 282n98; On the Art of Build- pared to painting and sculpture, 165–6;
ing, 124, 130–48, 151; On Painting, etymology in Latin and Greek, 21, 24

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architekton: compared to mēchanikos, arts, 211; etymology of, 179. See also
56–7; compared to tekton, 24, 30–2, 41, fine arts
56; compared to theoros, 23; etymolo- Beethoven, Ludwig van, 215–16
gy of, 24, 30, 56–7; meaning of, 29; re- beholder. See aesthetic perception
sponsibilities of, 30; wages of, 31, 41 Blondel, Jacques-François, 201, 220, 242;
Aristotle: on imitation, 116, 188; on mu- definition of architecture, 201
sic, 37; on technē, 27–8, 31–2, 34, 39, Boëthius, Manlius, 49–50, 53, 102; trea-
41–3 tise on music, 49–50. See also
art: ars et ingenium, 114–15; in Boullée, Pythagorean harmony, quadrivium
221; compared to craft, 21–2, 44, 115; in Boffrand, Germain, 237
Diderot and d’Alembert, 203; etymol- Bonaventure, Saint, 100
ogy of, 45; in Vasari, 166. See also craft Borghini, Vincenzo, 163, 167–8
arts of disegno, 105–77; compared to fine Boullée, Etienne-Louis, 220–33; on archi-
arts, 210–11; origin of, 107–8; in Varchi, tecture as a fine art, 221; comparison
162; in Vasari, 105, 165–6, 175. See also of architecture and building, 222–3,
Accademia del Disegno, disegno 230; on monuments, 230–1; on natural
Augustine, Saint, 52–3, 59, 63, 87, sensations, 222, 224–5, 227–9; on poet-
270n110; on arts, 52 ry of architecture, 222, 224, 228, 230
authorship: in Addison, 186; in current Brunelleschi, Filippo, 118, 125
practice, 14, 18; in Hugh of St Victor, builder, 12, 251; in Alberti, 143; in Boul-
76–8, 96; in technē, 25–6 lée, 230; in current practice, 15–16; in
Grosseteste, 97; in Hugh of St Victor,
Bacon, Francis, 9, 180, 195 81–3; in medieval practice, 98; in
banausic crafts. See craft technē, 29–32. See also tekton, architek-
Batteux, Abbé Charles, 191–3, 213; on ton
architecture as a hybrid art, 191, 193 building, 12, 251; in Addison, 187; in Al-
Baumgarten, Alexander, 190–1, 233–5, berti, 143–5; in Boullée, 222–3, 230–1;
238, 242, 246. See also heterocosmic in current practice, 16–18; in Hugh of
fiction St Victor, 74, 83–5; in Laugier, 209;
beauty: in Addison, 185; in Alberti, 126; rankings by ancient philosophers, 41–
in Augustine, 52–3; in Boullée, 222, 228; 3; in technē, 32–4; in Vitruvius, 39
in Hugh of St Victor, 84, 88–9, 94–5; in Burke, Edmund, 217–18. See also sublime
Laugier, 208–9; in medieval art, 89,
267n86; in Shaftesbury, 188–9, 236 Cassiodorus, 50–1
beaux-arts, 179–85, 203, 211; Académie Cennini, Cennino, 119–21
des beaux-arts, 211; École des beaux- Chambers, Ephraim, 193–4

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Cicero, 25, 42, 46, 119, 135; ranking of designer, 12, 251, 273n7; in Alberti, 137–9;
occupations, 46 in Boullée, 224–5; in current practice,
Cimabue, 113, 115, 163, 275n27 11–14; in Hugh of St Victor, 76–8; in
circumscription. See drawing technē, 25–6, 29
Claude glass. See aesthetic perception Didascalicon. See Hugh of St Victor
Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de, 224, 228 Diderot and d’Alembert: on architec-
contemplation: in Aristotle, 39; in Boul- ture, 195–201; elevation of mechanical
lée, 229; in Burke, 217–18; compared to arts, 202, 263n14; Encyclopédie, 193–
invention, 102–3; compared to medi- 205; on fine arts, 199–201, 211, 236;
tation, 92–3, 99, 269n101; in Dubos, transition from liberal arts to fine
189; in Hugh of St Victor, 62–3, 88–99; arts, 203–4
of instrumental music, 216–17; in disciplines. See epistemological classifi-
Leonardo da Vinci, 157; in Shaftes- cation
bury, 189. See also disinterested con- disegno: in Alberti, 128, 132–4, 137–9,
templation 142–3, 145, 148; in Cennini, 119–21; def-
copyright, 6, 14, 19. See also authorship initions of, 106–8; in Leonardo da
Cosimo I de’ Medici, 105, 159–60, 163, Vinci, 153–5; origins of, 109, 119; in
167–9, 172. See also Accademia del Poliziano, 151–3; in Varchi, 160–2; in
Disegno Vasari, 105–6, 165–6, 169–70, 174. See
craft: in Cennini, 119–21; compared to also lineamenti
art, 21–2, 44, 115; in current practice, disinterested contemplation, 232, 235–
17; free compared to banausic, 31, 40– 40; compared to medieval contempla-
5, 156; in Hugh of St Victor, 70, 81; tion, 235, 237. See also contemplation
rankings by ancient philosophers, 41– drawing, 12, 251; in Alberti, 128, 132, 138,
3; in technē, 27–32, 35; in Vasari, 166 145; in arts of disegno, 106–7, 116; in
Craftsman’s Handbook. See Cennini Boullée, 226–7, 230, 232; in Cennini,
creation: in Augustine, 53; in Boullée, 119–21; circumscription, 126–7, 277n16,
225; in Eriugena, 54–5; in Hamann, 277n17; in current practice, 17; in
243; in Hugh of St Victor, 90–1, 96–8; Leonardo da Vinci, 153–5; in mechani-
in Leonardo da Vinci, 156; from cal art, 85; medieval, 267n70; in Pliny,
nothing (creatio ex nihilo), 35, 53; in 127–8; in Poliziano, 151–2; in technē,
Shaftesbury, 246 34; in Varchi, 162; in Vasari, 169, 171.
Curson, Henry, 201–2 See also disegno, lineamenti
Dubos, Abbé Jean-Baptiste, 189, 217
Daidalos (Daedalus), 22, 25–6, 37, 76; dweller, 12, 251; in Alberti, 141–3; in
reference by Hugh of St Victor, 76 Boullée, 223, 227–30; in current

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 practice, 15; in Hugh of St Victor, 80–1; fine arts, 178–247; alternate names for,
in Laugier, 209; in technē, 28–9 179; arts included in, 188, 199, 210–11;
in Batteux, 191–3; in Boullée, 221–5,
education: ancient, 44, 102; in Cicero, 228; compared to arts of disegno, 179,
46; in Curson, 201–2; in Hugh of St 210; compared to liberal arts, 181, 185;
Victor, 82–3; medieval, 50–1. See also compared to ordinary world, 186,
architectural education, liberal arts, 208–9, 217, 225; compared to religion,
quadrivium, trivium 245–7; definition of, 179, 191, 210–12;
elements of architectural practice: in in Diderot and d’Alembert, 197–201,
arts of disegno, 134–48; in current 203–5; includes or excludes architec-
practice, 10–20; in fine arts, 221–33; in ture, 188–9, 204–5; institutions for
mechanical arts, 73–88; in technē, 21– architecture, 238–40; in Laugier, 205,
36. See also builder, building, designer, 208–9; perceiving architecture as,
drawing, dweller, material 237–8; in Perrault, 180–5; recognition
elements of musical practice, 4–7, 10–12, of instrumental music, 213–14; “taking
18–20; composer, 5–7, 20, 50, 188, 217, flight,” 193, 225, 241, 247. See also
222; listener, 4–7, 61, 188, 214–17, 243; Kristeller
performance, 4–7, 22, 37, 47, 50, 92, first principles: in Boullée, 224; in Hugh
214, 216–17, 239; performer, 4–7, 20, 41, of St Victor, 77, 81–2; in Laugier, 208;
50, 103, 214, 217, 239; score, 5–7, 20, 217; in Plato and Aristotle, 38–9, 44; in
sound, 4–7, 37, 49–50, 89, 103, 113, 192, Vitruvius, 39
213, 216–17, 239 Francke, August Hermann. See Pietism
eloquence: in Batteux, 191–3; compared Fréart de Chambray, Roland, 187
to architecture, 192–3; in Perrault,
180–3; recognized as a liberal art, Galen, 43
110–12, 149–50 Giotto, 113, 115, 163
Encyclopédie. See Diderot and d’Alem- God as an architect, 53, 96–7, 270n110
bert Goehr, Lydia, The Imaginary Museum
epistemological classification, 8–10, 252– of Musical Works, 3, 5–7, 11–12, 18–20,
4; of ancient crafts, 41–4; of ancient 213, 217
music, 47; in Encyclopédie, 193–205; of Grand Tour, 186
fine arts, 178–9, 210–12; of medieval Grosseteste, Robert, 97
arts, 51–3, 101–2, 109; renegotiation of, guilds, 117–19, 150, 168–9, 174, 290n112.
135–6, 149–50; as a tree diagram, 194–5, See also apprenticeship, education
252–3
Eriugena, Johannes Scotus, 53–7, 59, 65, Hamann, Johann Georg. See Pietism
73; reference by Hugh of St Victor, 76 Hephaistos, 22, 25–6, 41–2

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Herder, Johann Gottfried von. See 200, 211; diminishing belief in, 213–14,
Pietism 217, 228; in Hugh of St Victor, 79–80,
Hero of Alexandria, 55 85, 94; in Laugier, 205, 208; in Leonar-
Herodotus, 29, 34 do da Vinci, 153–4; in Philostratus, 52;
heterocosmic fiction: in Baumgarten, in Plato and Aristotle, 115–16, 221; in
191, 233–5, 238, 246; in Boullée, 229, Renaissance arts, 115–16; types of,
231, 233, 247 211–12, 275n36; in Varchi, 162; in
Hoffmann, E.T.A. See Beethoven Vasari, 166, 169; in Villani, 115
Horace: comparison of poetry and Ingarden, Roman, Ontology of the Work
painting, 113, 119, 189–90 of Art, 18–19, 304n101
Hugh of St Victor, 59–99; on architec- invention: in Augustine, 52; in Boullée,
ture, 70–2, 74–5, 76, 81–4; art program 224–5; in Cennini, 120; compared to
for Church of St-Denis, 98; on con- contemplation, 102–3; in current prac-
templation in De tribus diebus, 89–99; tice, 19; in Diderot and d’Alembert,
Didascalicon, 59–89; on education, 61– 203–4; in Eriugena, 55–6; in Hugh of
4, 82–3; on inventors and recorders of St Victor, 65, 72, 74, 77–8; in Leonardo
arts, 76–8; on liberal arts, 63–4, 67; on da Vinci, 155–6; in Perrault, 181, 183;
mechanical arts, 65–70, 81, 84; on mu- in technē, 35; in Vasari, 165–6; in
sic, 66–7; on nature, 78–80; on Noah’s Vitruvius, 39
ark, 86–8, 98; reference by subsequent Isidore of Seville, 53
philosophers, 100, 109
humanism, 109–17, 274n14. See also elo- Kilwardby, Robert, 100–1, 252; on
quence, poetry mechanical arts, 100–1
hybrid arts. See Batteux Kristeller, Paul Oskar, “The Modern
System of the Arts,” 3, 7–8, 178, 180,
imagination: in Addison, 186–7; in 191, 210–13
Baumgarten, 233–4; in Boullée, 225,
226; in Cennini, 120; in Diderot and Laugier, Abbé Marc-Antoine, 205–10,
d’Alembert, 194–201, 204–5, 247; in 241, 247, 305n107; primitive hut, 205–
fine arts, 178–9; in Herder, 244; in 9, 231, 237–8
Hoffmann, 216; in Horace, 119–20; in Le Camus de Mézières, Nicolas, 238
Philostratus, 52 Leonardo da Vinci, 153–9; argument for
imitation of nature: in Addison, 187; in painting as a liberal art, 156–8
Alberti, 138, 280n73; in Batteux, 192; in liberal arts, 10, 48, 249, 254; architecture
Baumgarten, 191; in Boullée, 221, 224, excluded from, 46–9, 102–3; architec-
228, 302n56; compared to expression, ture included in, 45–7, 102, 136,
217, 221; in Diderot and d’Alembert, 272n141; argument for including

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 architecture, 137; argument for includ- Eriugena, 53–6; etymology of, 45, 55–8;
ing painting, 115, 119, 123, 156–8, 168; in Hugh of St Victor, 63–89, 94; in
argument for including eloquence Kilwardby, 100–1, 252; origin of, 53;
and poetry, 111–13, 149; argument for partnership of patron and builder,
including sculpture, 123, 168; authority 270n109; in Poliziano, 151; in Perrault,
for membership, 113, 135–6, 149–50; in 185
Boëthius, 49–50; in Cassiodorus, 51; mēchanikos: compared to architekton,
compared to mechanical arts, 54–7, 56–7
64–7, 88, 101–4, 109, 181, 202; com- medicine, 43–4, 53–4, 65, 77, 101–2; com-
pared to vulgar arts, 40–7, 51; in Cur- pared to architecture, 45–6, 48, 55, 160;
son, 201–2; in Diderot and d’Alem- in Hugh of St Victor, 67, 69, 77
bert, 202–4, 296n82; in Eriugena, 53–5; meditation. See contemplation
in Hellenistic Greece, 45, 51; in Hugh Michelangelo, 151, 160–6, 204, 250;
of St Victor, 63–7, 76–8, 84–5, 88; in involvement with Accademia del
Isidore of Seville, 53; in Martianus Disegno, 167–8, 170, 173–4, 176
Capella, 48–9; in Perrault, 181–5; in mimesis. See imitation of nature
Varro, 46, 48. See also education, monument: in Boullée, 230–1
quadrivium, trivium mousikē, 22–3, 36–7, 47; definition of, 22
lineamenti, 132–3, 137–48, 154, 278n42, music: in Aristoxenus, 37; in Batteux,
282n103, 285n25. See also disegno, 192; in Boëthius, 49–50; concert hall,
drawing 4–5, 12, 214, 239; Gewandhaus
(Leipzig), 214–15; in Hugh of St Victor,
Marriage of Philology and Mercury. See 66–7, 88–9; instrumental, 37, 44, 47,
Martianus Capella 50, 104, 213–17, 234, 242; in Kilwardby,
Martianus Capella, 48–9, 54–5 100; “musical work,” 5–7, 18–19, 216–17;
Massieu, Abbé Guillaume, 188 in Perrault, 181. See also elements of
material, 12, 251; in Alberti, 139–41, 147; musical practice, Goehr, mousikē,
in Boullée, 226; in current practice, Pythagorean harmony, Small
14–15; in Hugh of St Victor, 78–80; in
technē, 26–7 nature: in Addison, 186; in Alberti, 133,
mechanical arts, 40–104; in Batteux, 191; 138–41, 145; in arts of disegno, 107, 116,
in Bonaventure, 100; compared to 120–1; in Boullée, 224–6; in a Claude
adultery, 57–8; compared to contem- glass, 219; in Hugh of St Victor, 65,
plative art, 89–99; compared to liberal 79–80, 90–3, 96; in Laugier, 205; in
arts, 54–7, 64–7, 88, 101–4, 109, 181, 202; Leonardo da Vinci, 153–8; in Poliziano,
compared to mechanics, 45, 55–6; in 152; in technē, 26–7, 42–3. See also
Diderot and d’Alembert, 202–5; in imitation of nature

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Noah’s ark: in Hugh of St Victor, 84, ture, 116, 165, 174, 177; reference by
86–8, 98 Alberti, 135
noble art, 150 Plotinus, 43, 116
Plutarch, 113
Oetinger, Friedrich Christoph. See poetry: of architecture in Boullée, 222,
Pietism 224; argument for liberal art status,
111–13, 149; in Batteux, 193; in Baum-
painting: absent from Hugh of St Victor, garten, 190, 233–5; in Boullée, 222, 224,
88; in ancient Greece and Rome, 41–3, 228, 230; compared to painting, 113–14,
108–9; argument for liberal art status, 119, 130, 157, 189; definitions of, 222; in
115, 119, 156–7; in arts of disegno, 108; Diderot and d’Alembert, 194–5, 198–9,
in Cennini, 119; compared to architec- 200; in fine arts, 7, 178–9, 185, 211, 239;
ture, 117, 126, 130, 175–6; compared in humanism, 110–15, 117; in mousikē,
to music, 158; compared to poetry, 22; in Perrault, 180–1; in Varchi, 160,
113–14, 119, 130, 157, 189; compared to 162
sculpture, 116, 124–5, 128–9, 160–2, 165, Poliziano, Andrea, 151–3
171, 174–5; in Leonardo da Vinci, 153–4; primitive hut. See Laugier
in medieval Europe, 108–9; mythical Procopius, 56
origin of, 116, 127–8, 177 Propylaea (Athens), 24
Pappus of Alexandria, 57 Pythagorean harmony, 36, 38, 49–50, 66,
paradeigma, 34–6 103, 222
Parthenon (Athens), 21, 33, 38; wages for
artisans, 31 quadrivium, 10, 149; absent from Per-
Perrault, Charles, 180, 212, 222; Le Cabi- rault, 184; in Boëthius, 49–50; in Hugh
net des beaux Arts, 180–5 of St Victor, 64, 66–7; in Isidore of
Petrarch (Francesco Petrarca), 110–14, Seville, 53; in medieval education, 51,
116–17, 163, 174 53, 102. See also education, Pythagore-
Philostratus the Athenian, 51–2 an harmony, trivium
Pietism, 242–4, 246 Quintilian, 43
Plato: on Demiurge, 96; on ideal forms,
38; on mimesis, 115–16; on music, 37, ranking of arts. See epistemological
213; reference by Alberti, 135, 140; ref- classification
erence by Hugh of St Victor, 76; refer- Remigius of Auxerre, 55
ence by Shaftesbury, 188–9, 236; on
technē, 31–2, 37–40, 42–4 Schiller, Friedrich, 239
Pliny: mythical origin of painting, 116, sculpture: absent from Hugh of St
127–8; painting compared to sculp- Victor, 88, 109; in Alberti, 124–5,

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 128–31; in ancient Rome and medieval medieval education, 51. See also edu-
Europe, 108–9; in Batteux, 191–3; com- cation, quadrivium
pared to painting, 116, 124–5, 128–9,
160–2, 165, 171, 174–5; in Diderot and Valla, Lorenzo, 122–3
d’Alembert, 200; in fine arts, 7, 178; Varchi, Benedetto, 159–62, 165–6, 168,
in Leonardo, 156–7; mythical origin 170, 174
of, 116; in Petrarch; 116–17; in Varro, Marcus Terentius: on architecture
Poliziano, 152–3; in technē; 23–4, 42; in as a liberal art, 45–8, 65, 102; opposed
Varchi, 160–2; in Vasari, 165, 171 by Martianus Capella, 48; reference
Shaftesbury, Third Earl of (Anthony by Alberti, 135; reference by Hugh of
Ashley Cooper), 188–90, 235–6, 246 St Victor, 76
Small, Christopher, Musicking, 4–5, 11–12 Vasari, Giorgio, 162–77; compared to
Sophists, 23, 38, 42 Alberti, 124, 131–2; compared to
Spener, Philipp Jakob, 242–3. See also Petrarch, 117; compared to Poliziano,
Pietism 152; compared to Varchi, 162; on diseg-
sublime, 217–19; in Boullée, 221, 226, 232. no, 105–8, 117, 250; Lives, 105, 108, 159,
See also Burke 162–6; reference to Alberti, 276n3;
Suger, Abbot, 89, 98 reference to Leonardo da Vinci, 159.
See also Accademia del Disegno
“taking flight.” See fine arts Villani, Filippo, 115
technē, 21–39; compared to Hugh of Villard de Honnecourt, 73, 102
St Victor, 72, 78, 80, 84; compared to Vitruvius: architecture after technē,
mousikē, 36–8; definition of, 21–2; 24–5, 30, 39; De architectura, 21, 118,
etymology of, 27, 29; occupations in, 133, 205; on liberal education, 44, 46,
22, 29; ranking of crafts, 31, 41–3; rede- 102–3; reference by Alberti, 125–6, 134;
fined by Plato and Aristotle, 31–2, 39; reference by Boullée, 222; reference
redefined by Sophists, 23, 38. See also by Hugh of St Victor, 76, 78, 81–2;
architekton, tekton reference to Varro, 46
tekton, 24, 29, 31; in Plato, 31–2. See also vulgar arts. See liberal arts
architekton
tree diagram. See epistemological Xenophon, 31, 34
classification
trivium, 10; in Hugh of St Victor, 64, 67; Zuccaro, Federico, 169–70, 284n14
in humanist education, 110–13, 149; in

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