Touch and Remembrance in Greek Funerary Art

The Art Bulletin ISSN: 0004-3079 (Print) 1559-6478 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rcab20 Touch and Remembrance in Greek Funerary Art Nathan T. Arrington To cite this article: Nathan T. Arrington (2018) Touch and Remembrance in Greek Funerary Art, The Art Bulletin, 100:3, 7-27, DOI: 10.1080/00043079.2018.1429743 To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/00043079.2018.1429743 Published online: 27 Sep 2018. Submit your article to this journal Article views: 7 View Crossmark data Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at http://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rcab20 Touch and Remembrance in Greek Funerary Art nathan t. arrington What makes a grave monument efective? How can objects, incapable of thought, help the living to remember the dead? he variety of memorials in ancient Greece betrays that here, as elsewhere, no single, perfect solution existed. Simple slabs of stone, large mounds of earth, sculpted reliefs, and more responded to the inancial abilities of families, to sociopolitical conditions, to cultural and artistic contexts, and to the task of memorialization. In the ancient world, the grave and the grave marker were fundamental components of personal and collective remembrance. People put money, time, and thought into tombs, and visited them frequently. But these monuments, humble and extravagant alike, could not bear their entire mnemonic burden: none could record all the qualities, accomplishments, and aspirations of the deceased; none could immobilize all the moments that mourners cherished and manage to prevent memories, over the course of time, from fading away. And people were well aware of the limits of physical memorials. Neglected and forgotten tombs dotted the Attic landscape, and poets compared the immortality of their speech acts to the inevitable decay of works of art.1 In the sixth century, the richest Athenians favored two sculpted funeral forms (to attempt) to create a lasting monument and to help remember the dead: freestanding stone statues (a kouros or a kore) (Fig. 1) or stelae (Fig. 2).2 Frontal and (when standing on their large bases) over-life-size, the freestanding statues acted as “doubles” for the deceased, as JeanPierre Vernant has described.3 he dead received a permanent body whose formal appearance, not by chance, was shared with statues of the immortal gods. he grave reliefs also were usually for individual igures. he Archaic monuments stood out on the landscape, and mourners could identify and interact with the igures, who were named through inscriptions that encouraged passersby to mourn. here was no need for realism on these statues and reliefs, since the funeral setting and the inscription made the identity and function of the solitary igures evident. he memorials were semiotically strong, with a clear signiier (the statue or the igure in the relief ) and a clear signiied (the deceased). he production of grave monuments at Athens declined sharply in about 500 BCE, probably because of sumptuary legislation. When it started again in about 430 BCE, the Classical Athenian grave monuments looked altogether diferent, and some adopted a different mnemonic strategy.4 here were several types of Classical memorials, but one of the more prevalent was the sculpted relief containing multiple igures (Figs. 3, 4).5 In contrast to the sixth-century statues and reliefs, often it was not clear which igure on the Classical monuments represented the deceased.6 Scholars have searched postures, attributes, and facial expressions for reliable indications of the identities of the deceased, without positive results. A seated person in a multiigure group may be identiied by name, suggesting that he or she is dead. But the standing person might instead be inscribed, suggesting that he or she is dead. Multiple names from multiple generations could be written at the same time, or added consecutively.7 In sum, an inscribed name is neither a reliable indicator of a igure’s deceased state nor does it ofer a method for unlocking the iconography of the dead.8 he diiculty in identifying the dead signals that the purpose of funerary sculpture in the Classical period shifted away from the Archaic practice of commemorating a speciic, 7 1 Attic kouros for Kroisos, ca. 530 BCE, marble, height 76 in. (194 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 3851 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Erin Babnik) 2 Aristokles, Attic grave stele for Aristion, ca. 510 BCE, marble, height 79½ in. (202 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 29 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Erin Babnik) 3 Attic funerary relief, ca. 430–390 BCE, marble, 40½ × 22 in. (103 × 56 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 2894 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) 4 Attic funerary relief, ca. 330 BCE, marble, 76½ × 46½ in. (194 × 118 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 870 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) 8 he Art Bulletin September 2018 5 Reconstruction of the front of the Classical grave precinct of Agathon and Sosikrates from Herakleia in the Kerameikos, from Alfred Brueckner, Der Friedhof am Eridanos (Berlin: George Reimer, 1909), 71, ig. 43 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by John Blazejewski) named person. here were still some monuments clearly dedicated to the memory of one person in the Classical period, but now there were other strategies at work, too. A variety of memorials of various sorts—relatively plain stelae with names, monumental stone vessels, or igural reliefs—lined tomb precincts containing several burials belonging to one family (Fig. 5). he stock production of most of the memorials, the generic igural types, and the lack of portrait features made them adaptable to a variety of grave precincts.9 he igures, particularly when they were not inscribed, could represent any number of diferent family members. Scholars have discussed the religious and ritual dimensions of Classical funerary reliefs,10 but more often they have emphasized how the monuments related to conceptions of the family and citizenship that became particularly salient in the political and cultural contexts of Classical Athens.11 he study of funerary art has experienced a productive social turn. In the process, however, the speciic memorial function of the monuments tends to be forgotten, and their materiality and formal properties remain neglected.12 he stones risk being reduced to blunt tools in sociopolitical competition. he grave monuments also have sufered from the scholarly dissection that dismembers archaeological contexts into discrete categories of material culture. here are separate monographs on small shallow reliefs, name stelae, stone lekythoi, stone loutrophoroi, and white-ground lekythoi.13 In addition, there is a burgeoning scholarly literature, primarily by physical anthropologists, on human remains.14 But there are few attempts to integrate the various strands of data or to unite the perspectives of archaeologists, anthropologists, and art historians. herefore, an approach that contextualizes the sculpted grave reliefs among other mortuary objects (such as nonigural grave markers and oferings to the dead) and to relate them more closely to the practice of burying and mourning the corpse is overdue. A motif that has already received considerable iconographic analysis ofers the way forward: the representation of two igures clasping hands, described (by scholars) with the ancient Greek word dexiōsis (Figs. 3, 4). he gesture opens a new path to interpreting Greek funeral art that focuses on formal, material, and mnemonic properties, for it invites us to consider when and how the sense of touch was expressed in Greek funerary art, and to what end.15 Of the senses, sight, not surprisingly, dominates scholarship on Greek art. he concept of the “Greek miracle,” which made Greek art interesting for scholars in the irst place, foregrounds formal evolution and highlights mimesis as visual deception. Any consideration of touch was perhaps doomed by Alois Riegl’s inluential work, which explicitly contrasted optical with haptic representation and established optical modes as the pinnacle of the Kunstwollen (“the will of art”).16 Moreover, the modern experience with Greek art is primarily visual, limited to encounters in books or in museums, where objects hide behind glass and labels warn against touching.17 A more recent turn in scholarship to the viewer and viewing 9 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art conditions has only reinforced the privileged status of the sense of sight.18 Greek audiences certainly valued visibility, particularly for grave monuments, and prized the most conspicuous locations on the landscape, but the sense of touch, too, played a fundamental yet unacknowledged role in burial and funerary art. he exploration of the relation between touch and Classical grave reliefs reveals how some of the images on the reliefs emerged from and responded to practices of burial and mourning and how they related to other images and objects at the tomb. he scene of two igures joining hands provides the starting point. Iconographic analysis has treated this gesture as a relatively simple sign of unity and harmony, but the act can be situated more deeply in ancient Greek culture and the phenomenology of mourning. Dexiōsis contributed to practices and images representing, facilitating, and implicating the sense of touch in order to create powerful, efective, and comforting memorials. THE LIMITS OF ICONOGRAPHY 6 Attic funerary relief, detail, ca. 390–360 BCE, marble, 69½ in. × 39 in. (177 × 99 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 4507 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Gösta Hellner, provided by Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, ile D-DAI-ATHNM-5904) Many igures on Classical Attic funerary markers are seen clasping hands.19 Scholars have treated the gesture on the funerary reliefs as a sign to be decoded, but there is little consensus on any meaning more speciic than unity.20 Suggestions include greeting, departure, equality, or membership in a political community.21 here are several explanations for disagreements. For example, scholars assign diferent weights to the representation of dexiōsis in nonsepulchral art, and they have diferent conceptions of the overall iconography of grave reliefs. One problem with an iconographic interpretation is the wide variety of representations on grave reliefs that have received the label. Consider, for example, a relief from Athens (Fig. 4), which has been mentioned frequently in discussions of the meaning of dexiōsis. But this is no mere handclasp. he seated woman gently rests her right forearm in the left hand of the standing woman. A sleeve is pulled back just enough to enable the contact of skin. he deep space on the relief behind the hand gesture and the nearly central placement of the caressing hands and arms emphasize the tactile interaction. Other gestures participate. he standing woman raises her right hand toward the face of the seated woman, and the third igure, behind the chair, looks on with a hand drawn to her neck. he act here is much more than a handhold: it is a sensuous touching of lesh that is formally emphasized and located among a series of emotive tactile gestures. Reliefs in which the gesture contributes to a rich display of tactility are not rare. On a gravestone from the Piraeus (Fig. 6), as another example, the man clasps the woman’s hand with his right hand, but with his left he holds her forearm, and her sleeve is drawn back so that skin contacts skin.22 According to an iconographic reading that seeks a speciic meaning of dexiōsis, the activity of the man’s left hand is superluous, yet clearly the multiple tactile gestures contribute to the visual impact of the relief. Similarly, the seated woman in another relief (Fig. 7) not only clasps hands with a standing woman but also touches the bare elbow of a man next to her.23 he sense of touch is further evoked by the diferent textures that the 10 he Art Bulletin September 2018 7 Attic funerary relief, ca. 360–330 BCE, marble, 57 × 21½ in. (145 × 85 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 717 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) 8 Attic funerary relief for a woman named Asia, marble, 3 ft. 13/8 in. × 187/8 in. (95 × 48 cm). Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 767 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Walter Hege, provided by Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, ile D-DAI-ATH-Hege-1681) igures handle, with the standing woman fondling the folds of her garment and the man stroking his beard. More than dexiōsis is at work in this image, and the handshake is but one gesture among others that evoke the sense of touch. he act of touch on the grave reliefs may be less restrained, especially when children are involved. In a relief inscribed for a woman named Asia (Fig. 8), a naked child runs into his mother’s arms, where he is enveloped by her legs and himation.24 He lifts both arms toward her entreatingly. She places one hand along his bare left forearm and wraps the other behind his back, with the tips of her ingers just barely emerging into the plane of the relief. he denial of touch could be equally powerful and no less important for our understanding of the function of funeral monuments. In a relief with an inscription praising Philonoe (Fig. 9), a baby—incapable of speech and its sense of sight still undeveloped— stretches its arms out toward its mother, yearning for the comfort of maternal touch, and almost makes contact.25 Yet the mother sits still and unmoving, one hand in her lap and the other under her chin, ingers folded, withdrawn. 11 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art 9 Attic funerary relief for Philonoe, ca. 390–360 BCE, marble, 70 × 414 in. (178 × 105 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 3790 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) 10 Attic funerary relief for Philoxenos and Philoumene, ca. 430–390 BCE, marble, 404 × 17½ × 64 in. (102 × 44 × 16 cm). The J. Paul Getty Museum, Malibu, CA, 83.AA.378 (artwork in the public domain; photograph provided by the Getty Open Content Program, published under fair use) hese intimate depictions of contact and of the desire for touch are a far remove from dexiōsis on contemporary document reliefs, to which the funerary reliefs have often been compared when scholars search for the signiicance of the motif.26 he oicial public reliefs do not betray such interest in tactility. While the igures join hands, they do not caress skin or embrace. On the public documents, the gesture seems to be a relatively straightforward indication of unity.27 here are other funerary reliefs that, because of composition or quality, likewise appear relatively straightforward and at irst glance do not invite us to think about the ways that they depict touch, such as a relief in the J. Paul Getty Museum naming Philoxenos and Philoumene (Fig. 10). here are so many types of monuments at tomb precincts that a variety of visual strategies for memorialization would not be surprising. Some reliefs, for example, show no contact at all. Figures may come across as distant, isolated, and selfabsorbed.28 It is possible that simple dexiōsis scenes such as the one in the Getty do not partake in the interest in tactility; not every object in a tomb precinct does. It may be possible, however, that the more elaborate reliefs (such as Figs. 4, 6–9) only make clearer an interest 12 he Art Bulletin September 2018 11 Attic funerary relief, ca. 390–360 BCE, marble, 65½ × 33 in. (166 × 84 cm). Archaeological Museum, Piraeus, 2555 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) 12 Attic funerary relief for Sostratos, ca. 360–330 BCE, marble, 541/8 × 24 × 6 in. (137 × 61 × 15 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Rogers Fund, 1908, 08.258.41 (artwork in the public domain; photograph provided by the Metropolitan Museum of Art) 13 Attic funerary relief for Stephanos from Phokis, ca. 330 BCE, marble, 16½ × 113/8 in. (42 × 29 cm). Archaeological Museum, Piraeus, 1447 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Gösta Hellner, provided by Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, ile D-DAI-ATHPiraeus-200) in tactility that operated on the simple reliefs, too, but that appears somewhat muted, especially to our eyes, unaccustomed to seeing the representation of touch as a phenomenon in funerary art. Dexiōsis, moreover, was not the only way to convey touch, as some of the examples have already demonstrated. It also was evoked through the representation of objects that people held and the way they held them. In a relief found at Glyphada (Fig. 11), for example, a woman and her servant carefully splay a painted necklace between their fingers.29 The sense of sight obviously has an important function here, but the sense of touch becomes focalized, too, with the act of touching as much an object of the figures’ attention as the necklace. The way in which the figures delicately hold the necklace with their fingertips further draws our attention to the activity of the hands. And the necklace, intended to lie against the skin of the neck, was itself an object intimately associated with bodily contact. Other objects represented in the reliefs were, in life, more direct mediators of the sense of touch. Aryballoi, such as the one the bearded man carries in Figure 3, contained perfume or (scented) oil that was applied to the body. Male athletes usually oiled themselves before exercising, and afterward scraped of the residue with a strigil, a curved metal tool. he strigil, too, frequently appears on Attic reliefs. In a monument for Sostratos (Fig. 12), a slave carries an aryballos for the naked athlete, who holds a strigil.30 On a shallow relief from the Piraeus, for the metic Stephanos from Phokis, the athlete uses the strigil as a slave watches (Fig. 13).31 No doubt the signs of aryballoi and strigils indicate that the person in the relief had been an athlete, yet these objects also allude to the sense of touch. he naked athlete on the Piraeus relief cleaning himself makes the connection between the strigil and the body explicit. 13 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art 14 Monumental lekythos used as a grave marker, ca. 430–390 BCE, marble, height 62 in. (158 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Rogers Fund, 1947, 47.11.2 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, provided by Art Resource, NY) 15 Miniature arms found in Grave 261 in the Kerameikos, ca. 440 BCE, terracotta, height 43/8, 43/4, 47/8 in. (11.1, 12, 12.2 cm). Kerameikos Archaeological Museum, Athens, T 20, T 21, T 22 (artworks in the public domain; photograph provided by Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, ile D-DAI-ATH-Kerameikos-3027) he athlete scrapes himself on this relief below another sign that participates in the haptic aspects of Athenian funerary art: an image of a loutrophoros. In ceramic form, this large vessel shape was used in funerary rituals for washing the corpse, an intimate time of tactile engagement with the deceased. he vessel could be represented isolated on a grave relief or it could be petriied in the round as a grave marker.32 It was not the only vessel that mediated touch between living and dead that received a monumental form. Lekythoi, ceramic vessels with perfumed oil for anointing the dead, were deposited with the dead and brought to the tomb as oferings (Figs. 22, 23), and were made in a large stone format for marking the tomb (Figs. 5, 14).33 Objects like the lekythoi, which mediated contact between the living and the dead, were popular grave oferings. here were other unguent containers, such as aryballoi, that went into tombs or were brought after burial to the grave as a gift. Strigils, too, were deposited in tombs. Even more interesting is the deposition on a few occasions of small terracotta arms. In an Athenian grave, three were found: one next to the right hand, one at the head, and one next to the left hand (Fig. 15).34 Scholars have explained these objects as magical charms to protect or bless the dead, but it is equally possible that the permanent presence of hands in the grave participated in the complex references to the sense of touch at the tomb. As we have seen, it is often hard to know the identity of the people in the reliefs. Represented as though alive, their interaction rather than their precise identity is the subject of interest. Exceptionally, a igure on a relief is depicted as a deceased person in Hades, distant and incapable of touch. his seems to be the explanation for the isolation of Philonoe (Fig. 9), whom the baby fails to connect with. As we will see, the lack of contact characterizes the interaction between the living and the dead on white-ground lekythoi. In sum, dexiōsis was one of several aspects of material culture at the tomb precinct that represented or otherwise related to the sense of touch. he depiction of igures interacting intimately or holding tactile objects, the deposition of objects that mediated between mourners and the skin of the corpse, and the petriication of such objects into tomb markers all transformed the grave precinct into a space permeated by allusions to contact. When the grave reliefs are integrated into their physical context, the external referent of the iconography of the handshake (be it greeting, unity, departure, and so on) becomes less important than the ways in which it participated in a striking display of tactility. THE TOUCH OF THE CORPSE References to the sense of touch at the tomb need to be interpreted in their cultural context: how touch operated in Greek funeral rituals and shaped the way that people experienced the tomb precinct.35 Religious norms demanded that the dead receive burial, and this meant, of course, that the dead had to be touched. In most parts of Greece, including Athens, corpses ideally were handled with afection and care. hey were washed, clothed, and anointed with scented oils, then laid out in the house, where family and friends gathered to mourn. On the third day, 14 he Art Bulletin September 2018 they were transported to the cemetery for cremation or inhumation. Even in the chaos of war, Athenians were scrupulous about burying their dead, with each side granting the other permission to recover the fallen.36 he importance of recovering the dead was woven into the fabric of myth. In the tale of the Seven against hebes, for example, Athenians upheld religious norms when they marched to hebes to ensure the corpses received burial. In real life, when generals failed to recover the wounded and slain from the Battle of Arginousai in 406 BCE, they were charged with the death penalty, despite their military victory.37 he absence of burial was a terrible taunt, and warriors in Homer (Iliad 22.330–54) threaten that their enemies’ bodies will be left unburied and exposed, food for birds and dogs. he denial of burial rites was a stringent punishment usually reserved for those who committed grave crimes against the state or the gods. Several Athenian tragedies shed light on the popular conception that the performance of the funerary ritual hinged on touch and show how burial could foster an intimate and familial tactile interaction. While these scenes are set in a mythical past, they resonated with the concerns of their contemporary audiences. In Sophokles’s Antigone, the heroine risks— and ultimately receives—the death penalty to bury her brother, condemned as a traitor. he conlict between the civic laws laid down by Kreon forbidding burial and the will of the gods demanding respect for the dead creates a palpable tension coursing through the play. Will anyone touch the corpse that Kreon has declared untouchable? Antigone urges her sister, Ismene, to join her, and draws attention to the activity of her hands: “Will you bury the dead man, with this hand of mine?” (43).38 Later, facing her own death, she talks about what her hands did: “But when I come there [to Hades], I am conident that I shall come dear to my father, dear to you, my mother, and dear to you, my own brother; since when you died it was I that with my own hands washed you and adorned you and poured libations on your graves” (897– 902).39 Her tactile act performed the burial, and in a particular way: with afection. he importance of burial at the afectionate hands of kin is also manifest in Sophokles’s Elektra (1138–41), when the heroine mourns that she did not wash her dead brother with her “loving hands.” In Euripides’s Hekuba (49–50), the ghost of Polydoros earns from the “powers below” the permission for his body, traitorously murdered, to loat over the sea and “fall into his mother’s arms” for burial. In the same play, Polydoros’s mother, Hekuba, explicitly forbids the Argives to touch the corpse of her daughter, Polyxena (604–6, 726–29). In Euripides’s Medea (1032–35), the mother laments that her children will not dress her for burial “with their hands.” he desire for burial at the hands of afectionate family members resounds from the epigrams on tombstones.40 To die surrounded by the hands of kin was a form of consolation, as expressed on the tombstone of Daïkrates: Daïkrates, son of Demokrates, from Miletopolis To many men the god ofered for free a wealthy life, But to few the real possession of justice. After having shared not the least part of [justice], Daïkrates arrived at the end of life that is common to all. Having died in the intimate hands of his children and wife without tears, he has been given to the necessity of Fate, which is quick to apprehend.41 A ifth-century tombstone found in Egypt instead mentions the absence of such an ideal death, lamenting: “I attend Hades without having died in the hands of my children.”42 he role of touch in burial could be perfunctory, with hands doing little more than transferring a dead person into a hole, but more often the sense of touch assumed a heightened and afectionate quality in the presence of death. Washing and anointing the dead body were tender gestures that involved repeated touch: stroking, rubbing, and caressing.43 he 15 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art 16 Attributed to the Painter of Naples 132, Attic redigure loutrophoros, detail, ca. 500 BCE, terracotta, height 283/8 in. (72 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 1452 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Irini Miari, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Archaeological Receipts Fund) signiicance of touch did not end when the prepared corpse was put on display. Mourners continued to interact with the body, giving inal gestures of feeling and farewell to the body lying on a bed—a piece of furniture itself with intimate connotations. his moment appears already in some of the earliest depictions of the prothesis in the eighth century BCE, when mourners may cradle the head of the deceased lying on a bed.44 he motif continued to appear on seventh-century Proto-Attic vases, sixth-century black-igure vases, and ifth-century red-igure vases and white-ground lekythoi. On a loutrophoros in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens, for example, one mourner wraps her arms around the dead, while another stoops close to the head, and at the foot of the bed a third places an arm on the shroud (Fig. 16).45 Some scholars might here point to the legal and moral needs to demonstrate claims to the corpse—along the lines of research that has emphasized the sociopolitical functions of Greek funerary art.46 And, indeed, participation in the prothesis of the corpse was restricted, among female family members, to close relatives.47 Yet these approaches risk overlooking the important role that touch played in negotiating the trauma of death. Touching the corpse, when a woman washed the dead or cradled a head, as on the loutrophoros in Athens (Fig. 16), conveyed the knowledge that the warmth of skin had already been lost. Tactile engagement with the corpse thus provided those in a state of mourning and possibly shock a way to understand the presence of death with their bodies as well as their minds. To touch was to bestow afection and, at the same time, to comprehend. he Greek language, like English and many others, made the connection between touching and perceiving explicit. Verbs such as haptomai, ephaptō, thinganō, and to a lesser extent psauō could mean not only physical touch but also the act of grasping something with the mind. Touching the cold dead helped the living understand and accept the transformed state of the body. hese transformed bodies could attract as well as repel mourners. On the one hand, poets spoke of the beauty of the mangled dead on the battleield, and corpses in public Greek art, especially temples, could be rendered as objects of admiration.48 Similarly, Jason in Euripides’s Medea (1402–3) pleads that Medea allow him “to touch the soft skin of my children,” who lie dead.49 On the other hand, writers also acknowledged the horriic sight of lost kin. In Euripides’s Suppliants (944), heseus warns against mothers’ seeing their dead sons after battle; the mangled bodies would be too disturbing. Moreover, corpses might repel because of pollution.50 No matter how beautiful the dead, they were ritually impure. his may be one reason why women were most closely associated with the tactile funeral rituals for the deceased: the pollution associated with menstruation and childbearing may have made them more suitable for handling a polluted corpse.51 At the same time, their role in the beginning of life may have made them appropriate custodians of the inal rites. Touching the beautiful and repellent dead aroused a variety of emotions, as the living felt a corpse that was itself unfeeling, no longer capable of touch. he efect was jarring. A dead body might look like someone merely sleeping, but death revealed itself as cold and stif to the touch. Greeks thought that the soul at this point either had ceased to exist or had assumed a 16 he Art Bulletin September 2018 igural form that closely resembled—indeed, mirrored—the physical body of the deceased.52 But unlike a living body, this image, this eidōlon or phantasma, could not be touched. In Homer (Il. 23.64–67), the untouchable soul of Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream: here came to him the spirit of unhappy Patroklos, in all things like his very self, in stature and fair eyes and in voice, and like were the clothes that he wore about his body; and he stood above Achilles’ head and spoke to him. . . .53 Patroklos asks for a speedy burial and a shared tomb with Achilles, whose death he predicts. Achilles assents, and then asks for the comfort of touch, in vain: “Come closer; though it be but for a little time, let us clasp our arms about one another, and take our ill of dire lamenting.” So saying Achilles reached out with his hands, yet clasped him not; but the spirit like smoke was gone beneath the earth, gibbering faintly.54 Odysseus is similarly frustrated after speaking with the ghost of his mother. 17 Attributed to the Achilles Painter, Attic white-ground lekythos, ca. 440–430 BCE, terra-cotta, height 144 in. (37.5 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Norbert Schimmel Trust, 1989, 1989.281.72 (artwork in the public domain; photograph provided by the Metropolitan Museum of Art) 18 Attributed to the Achilles Painter, Attic white-ground lekythos, ca. 440–430 BCE, terracotta, height 12 in. (30.5 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Rogers Fund, 1908, 08.258.18 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, provided by Art Resource, NY) So she spoke, and I wondered in my heart how I might clasp the ghost of my dead mother. hree times I sprang toward her, and my will said, “Clasp her,” and three times she litted from my arms like a shadow or a dream. As for me, the pain grew ever sharper in my heart, and I spoke and addressed her with winged words: “My mother, why do you not stay for me when I wish to clasp you, so that even in the house of Hades we two may throw our arms about each other and take our ill of chill lamenting? Is this some phantom that august Persephone has sent me so that I may lament and groan still more?” So I spoke, and my honored mother at once answered: “Ah me, my child, ill-fated above all men, it is not that Persephone, daughter of Zeus, is deceiving you, but this is the appointed way with mortals, when one dies. For the sinews no longer hold the lesh and the bones together, but the strong force of blazing ire destroys these, as soon as the spirit leaves the white bones, and the ghost, like a dream, lutters of and is gone. But hurry to the light as fast as you can, and bear all these things in mind, so that hereafter you may tell them to your wife.”55 White-ground lekythoi frequently show mourners encountering the untouchable dead. hey see one another, as on the white-ground lekythos attributed to the Achilles Painter, where the living raises an arm in astonishment at the dead, who touches the tomb (Fig. 17).56 he small representation of the soul over his head makes his status clear. But living and dead rarely touch each other, and the contrast with the funeral reliefs is striking.57 Perhaps the most powerful presentation of the impossibility of contact between living and dead is another white-ground lekythos attributed to the Achilles Painter, on which the deceased youth reaches to place his right hand between the ingers of a mourning woman (Fig. 18).58 he ingers hovering on the verge of contact focalize the desire for touch and the impossibility of haptic interaction. Such images at the tomb heightened the representation 17 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art of intimate touch on the funeral reliefs and the salience of the inal touch of the corpse in the funeral ritual. In sum, the sense of touch served several purposes in the funeral ritual: it enabled burial; it qualiied burial as an intimate family afair; and it structured new relationships between the living and the dead. Touch was necessary, but also circumscribed and emotionally laden. Physical contact with the dead was simultaneously comforting and disturbing, desired and denied. Funerary art, including representations of dexiōsis, emerged from and responded to the comfort and anxiety provoked by tactile interaction with the corpse. Objects facilitated the ritual need to engage with physical bodies, and images commented on the act either by explicitly showing touch or more subtly evoking a moment of contact. From Archaic to Classical 19 Reconstruction of a Late Geometric grave from the Athenian Agora, G 12:17, late 8th century BCE, 714 x 254 x 214 in. (181 x 64 x 54 cm) (drawing by John Travlos, photograph provided by the American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations) his interest in touch did not begin in the Classical period. Touch was important for the burial of the dead long before the ifth century BCE, and it informed the production and consumption of funerary art before the Classical style appeared. Already in the Geometric period, funerary vases depicted mourners tenderly touching the deceased, and unguent containers were used in the burial rituals and brought to the tomb. Figures in Archaic funerary sculpture, like later Classical igures, could carry a small unguent vessel to reference their athletic capabilities and to recall the role of unguents in the preparation of the corpse, such as Me[gakles] on a stele in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.59 In one Late Geometric grave from the Athenian Agora excavations, a small, handmade aryballos even lay in the skeleton’s hand (Fig. 19).60 In comparison with the Geometric and Archaic periods, however, in the Classical period the allusions to touch at the tomb increased. here are several possible explanations, stylistic and historical, for the development. One explanation is that the naturalism of the Classical style opened up new possibilities for sculptors and viewers to engage with the sense of touch. While Archaic grave monuments confronted viewers with their size and frontality, Classical gravestones could exploit naturalism to represent textures and sensations.61 Muscles, skin, and cloth could appear so real as to invite touch. While mimesis might seem to aim at deceiving the eye, the sense of touch was actually the ultimate arbitrator. he famous competition between the painters Zeuxis and Parrhasios demonstrates the point.62 First, Zeuxis deceived birds with an image of grapes that they approached to eat. In response, Parrhasios painted a curtain that Zeuxis demanded be pulled back. In both cases, the desire to touch the object was the sign that the painter had deceived the onlooker, and touch ultimately exposed the materiality and artiice of the object. Naturalism encouraged people (or birds!) to look with more than their eyes. To lust for an object like Praxiteles’s Aphrodite of Knidos meant responding with all one’s senses to the image, not just the eyes.63 So the naturalistic aspects of the Classical style made it possible for sculptors to engage in new ways with the concern for contact that already surrounded the burial of the dead. 18 he Art Bulletin September 2018 here are also social and political reasons why tactility appears to have been more pronounced in Classical Greek funerary art. Two events in particular altered the haptic interaction between the living and the corpse in Athens. he irst was the institution of public burial for the war dead, which, beginning in about 500 BCE and gaining force and currency throughout the century, transferred much of the traditional burial rites from the family to the polis.64 he war dead now were cremated on the battleield and returned to the city as a mass of ashes that was separated into tribes for display and burial. Mourners could visit the ashes in the Agora and bring funeral gifts, but they would not know which cremated remains belonged to their loved ones, and there was nothing but ash to touch. he interaction with one (but sometimes very large) category of dead therefore had fundamentally changed, and the consolation from burial “at the hands” of kin was gone. Second, a plague ravaged Athens in 430 BCE and brought gruesome death to Athens and a spectacle of unburied dead. hucydides, an eyewitness, tells us that corpses lay one atop the other, piling up even in sacred spaces. Many families no longer had the means or the manpower to provide proper funerals, and burial norms were transgressed. hucydides (2.52.4) records that “the customs [nomoi] which they had hitherto observed regarding burial were all thrown into confusion, and they buried their dead each one as he could.”65 Sculpted grave reliefs began to appear again in Athens at around this time, because of the chaos and sorrow presented by the plague, the subsequent disregard of sumptuary legislation, and the growing frustration with the absence of the bodies of the war dead.66 In this context, and with the possibilities ofered by the Classical style, the depiction of familial touch acquired new urgency and valence. TOUCH, EMPATHY, AND REMEMBRANCE In the Archaic period, memorials exploited frontality and scale to confront the living with a representation that could function as a “double” of the deceased (Figs. 1, 2). Inscriptions at the tomb beckoned people to stop, look, and mourn the named departed. In the Classical period, although the appearance of the monuments had changed, they also sought attention. As in the Archaic period, the monuments usually stood along a road, and the images and writing actually faced away from the burials and toward the road, so as to capture the glance of people passing by. In this public sphere, the display of intimate personal encounters— scenes more common at home than along the road—were noteworthy and quite possibly even startling for their ancient audience. his was not a culture familiar with the casual backslap or with ubiquitous hugs. Touch, rather, was personal, private, and charged, especially when directed toward the dead. Intimate family moments, with women portrayed much more often than in the Archaic period, beckoned people on the road to stop and look, to step closer to the deep frames encompassing the igures, and, for a moment, to enter into their world. Here, viewers looked on people themselves absorbed in the act of looking. Sculpted bystanders such as those in Figures 4, 7, 9, and 14 modeled the intensive gaze that families hoped people would adopt. he representation of skin-on-skin contact created a particular type of viewing experience, urging people to approach the sculptures with more senses than sight alone. Looking on igures touching, viewers adopted what we may call a particularly haptic gaze.67 As the igures in the relief used their hands as much as their eyes, so the spectators of the relief were invited to sense the act of spectatorship in their own skin. Gazing at Figures 1 and 4 just feels diferent. he representation of tactile interaction in the Classical relief implicates our own skin in a way diferent from the frontal Archaic kouros, standing rigidly with his arms at his sides. 19 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art Here it is useful to recall that not only was the funeral precinct laden with a cultural concern for the role of touch but also, in Greek thought, the senses of sight and touch were closely entwined.68 There were various theories about the mechanics of seeing, but all underscored the sense of touch in the process. Philosophers argued either that emissions from eyes felt objects or that the objects themselves acted on the eyes. The sense of sight, for the Greeks, was always haptic. These haptic qualities of seeing would have been all the more pronounced when people gazed on figures holding objects or touching one another, all at a site marked by monuments and offerings that recalled tactile interaction with the corpse. Gazing on Figure 7, one can feel the texture of the beard and clothes that the standing figures stroke, and one can sense the warmth of skin at the center of the composition. he bodily viewing experience that such reliefs produce resonates with the conception of empathy.69 Developed in nineteenth-century aesthetics and other disciplines, empathy in art historical terms describes a viewer’s somatic response to looking at works of visual art. he concept fell out of favor in the twentieth century, but it has returned to scholarly discourse, and few people would claim that they have not had bodily reactions to any image.70 here has been some scientiic support for the renewed interest in empathy, with research showing that the same areas of the brain are activated when we experience the sense of touch and when we merely look at other people touching.71 he representation of touch on a monument for the deceased could provoke a particularly powerful empathetic response. Viewers of the reliefs gazed at mimetically convincing representations of igures grasping one another, clasping hands, caressing arms, stroking cheeks, and fondling folds, and by looking—by touching with their eyes, in the ancient understanding of the activity of seeing—viewers felt the activity in their own skin.72 his empathetic, bodily viewing could elicit strong emotional responses to the memorial.73 hose who knew the deceased buried in the precinct might feel grief, as they remembered their interaction with the departed and recalled the way that the dead had not only looked but also felt. hey might recall such tender moments as when Polyxena, approaching her death, says to her mother, “give me the hand I love and let me press my cheek against yours.”74 A wider audience not limited to friends and kin might feel pity, as they dwelled on the sufering experienced by others, remembered themselves experiencing, or expected to undergo at some point.75 Seth Estrin argues convincingly that the ancient concept of pity and the relatively generic and repetitive visual language in Greek funerary art allowed viewers to move from looking at a monument for a deceased whom they did not know to contemplating their own experiences with death and pondering the fate that lay ahead of them.76 he engagement of the body and the emotions in viewing had important consequences for remembrance. Unlike many memorials, the multiigure Classical reliefs may have failed to make clear statements about the deceased or even to represent (at least consistently) the deceased identiiably. But by drawing the onlooker to a particular type of bodily viewing, they were able to engage the senses along with the mind in the acts of forming, consolidating, and retrieving memories. Depictions of touch and references to tactile interaction, such as grave markers in the form of monumental lekythoi, stirred memories of the role of touch in the funeral ritual, when people last interacted with the departed, and when they comprehended that the body once alive was now a corpse. Mourners looking at igures touching felt the sensation in their skin and remembered the way that the departed had felt when alive. he haptic qualities of Greek grave precincts had the power to engage mourners’ multiple senses to ensure that the dead would not be forgotten. 20 he Art Bulletin September 2018 20 Attributed to the Inscription Painter, Attic whiteground lekythos, detail, ca. 460–450 BCE, terracotta, height 141/8 in. (36 cm). National Archaeological Museum, Athens, 1958 (drawing from Walter Riezler, Weissgrundige attische Lekythen [Munich: F. Bruckmann], 1914, pl. 17, artwork in the public domain; photograph by John Blazejewski) 21 Attributed to the Kleophrades Painter, Attic redigure amphora, ca. 490 BCE, terracotta, height 177/8 in. (45.4 cm), diameter 105/8 in. (27 cm). Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Julia Bradford Huntington James Fund and Museum purchase with funds donated by contribution, 10.178 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © 2018 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston) LONGING AND COMFORT he grave reliefs showed intimate gestures that took place in the home, with people touching as they had in life. Contact with ghosts or spirits, as the white-ground lekythoi deposited at the very same tombs made clear, was impossible (Fig. 18), and epigrams declared that the earth covered the body.77 his distinction posed a problem, because all the haptic references at the tomb awakened a longing to touch the dead that was insatiable. Achilles and Odysseus in Homer voice in no uncertain terms their desire to embrace the departed. he Greeks described this type of unrequited yearning with the term pothos.78 On the one hand, such pothos for the departed, and more speciically, for their touch, ofered a path toward remembrance by strengthening empathetic engagement with the memorials, engaging multiple senses, and rehearsing the memory of the dead. On the other hand, it ofered little comfort, but instead drew attention to the very absence of the deceased.79 Pothos for the dead was relentless. he grave reliefs placed viewers in a deeply frustrating position by underscoring the sensory act they could no longer experience with the deceased. he tomb precincts, however, ofered an outlet for pothos. here was a possibility for comfort, and it came, again, from touch—but of a diferent sort than skin on skin: mourners could interact with the grave site itself. hey could leave oferings on the grave, pour libations, and decorate the stele. On white-ground lekythoi, we see mourners going to the tomb with baskets laden with ribbons and other oferings (Figs. 20, 22).80 hey engaged intimately with the stone stelae, touching them, wrapping illets around them, and anointing them with oil.81 he stones became substitutes for the body and tactile outlets for grief, with the illets recalling the garlands wrapped around living limbs and draped over the corpse (Fig. 21; compare the youth’s decoration with that of the monuments in Figs. 17, 20, 22, 23) and the poured oil recalling the anointing of the dead body.82 he deceased touching the tombstone in Figure 17 makes his connection with the stele explicit. he ideal viewer at the tomb, therefore, would respond to the empathetic viewing and to the arousal of pothos by engaging in funeral practices.83 hese rites honored 21 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art 22 Attributed to the Thanatos Painter, Attic whiteground lekythos, detail, ca. 440–430 BCE, terracotta, height 157/8 in. (40.3 cm). Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Henry Lillie Pierce Fund, 00.359 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © 2018 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston) 23 Attributed to the Bosanquet Painter, Attic whiteground lekythos, ca. 440–430 BCE, terracotta, height 144 in. (36.1 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Rogers Fund, 1923, 23.160.39 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, provided by Art Resource, NY) the dead and the family, all the while providing an outlet for grief. Moreover, through repeated bodily and sensory engagement with the tomb precinct, such activities further strengthened memories of the dead. here are indications that at least some Athenians believed that the dead were aware of such rites.84 On white-ground lekythoi, an eidōlon, unseen or seen, may watch as a family member visits the grave (Figs. 17, 22).85 he identity of the dead is secured either through the small winged soul hovering over the dead (Fig. 17) or his appearance (Fig. 22), for men did not visit the grave naked, with sword and spears. he performance of rituals also could summon the appearance of the deceased. On a white-ground lekythos in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Fig. 23), the woman who visits the tomb has just begun to pour her libation as the deceased (identiiable through his nudity) arrives, his feet facing the grave, his hand open in address.86 Tactile interaction with the tomb through the performance of rituals could therefore provide mourners some degree of satisfaction of pothos, allowing them to touch a stone substitute for the dead, and they could receive some comfort from the thought that the dead might be aware of the honors they received. he pothos to touch the dead could be satisied later, once the mourners went to Hades, themselves dead. he afterlife for Greeks was not usually a source of comfort, and Greek funerary art did not represent it very often. But a reunion between the dead appears on a remarkable red-igure calyx krater presenting the underworld in the upper register (Fig. 24).87 here, a man and a woman clasp hands, and the woman still wears the strap under her chin that shut the gaping mouth of the corpse. his unusual attribute explicitly sets the scene apart from the grave reliefs, which instead show touch as it had occurred in life. Yet these sculptures of touch between the living could look forward proleptically to the moment when family members might touch again, as they do on the calyx krater. he epigram on the tombstone of Ampharete refers to this possibility, and deftly navigates between past contact and future reunion (Fig. 25).88 On the relief, the woman 22 he Art Bulletin September 2018 24 The Nekyia Painter, Attic red-igure calyx krater, detail, ca. 450–440 BCE, terracotta, height 155/8 in. (39.7 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Rogers Fund, 1908, 08.258.1 (artwork in the public domain; photograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, provided by Art Resource, NY) 25 Attic funerary relief for Ampharete, ca. 430– 390 BCE, marble, 474 × 244 in. (120 × 63 cm). Kerameikos Archaeological Museum, Athens, P695/ I221 (artwork in the public domain; photograph by Hans R. Goette) cradles her granddaughter in her lap, and the inscription reads: “I hold this dear child of my daughter, whom I held on my knees when we were alive and looked on the rays of the sun, and now dead I hold it dead.”89 Viewers of the tomb might receive comfort from the thought that, though they would lose sight of the sun, they, too, might one day touch the departed again. TO SENSE THE DEAD AGAIN he consideration of dexiōsis given here has demonstrated the limits of the iconographic method and the need for a new framework. here are times when iconography is productive, such as the achievements of scholarship in the Lexicon iconographicum mythologiae classicae. here are other times when treating objects as a consistent system of signs to decipher, in which meaning is external to the object itself, can be misleading.90 We have seen that the gestures subsumed under the single scholarly label of dexiōsis operated in a broad network of haptic references and concerns. he depiction of two people clasping hands invites us to move beyond iconography and to take seriously the experience of the tomb precincts, the trauma of death, and the hard work of memorialization. Scholars have tended to focus on the social and collective dimensions of memory, but in so doing they risk reducing it to a vague metaphor for culture or history. Neither groups nor monuments can actually remember; it is a personal and private mental act, shaped by social conditions and physical media. Between external world and internal mental act, the senses play a critical role in individual remembrance by evaluating and processing stimuli to help people function and to record their experiences. Some memories are even explicitly linked to a particular sense, and although we tend to privilege visual memories, a smell or taste may rapidly summon sharp recollections. So analysis of memory in the ancient world should take account of the external media used for remembrance (that is, the materiality of memorialization), the role of the senses 23 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art in shaping perceptions and memories, and the ways in which those senses were culturally conditioned. Athenian tomb precincts—the monuments, the burials, the oferings, and the rituals—constituted a theater for all the senses. Although the sense of sight has received the most scholarly attention, the sense of touch was especially pronounced and charged. Touch fulilled the cultural demands for burial, and could do so in a particularly intimate way. he ideal death and burial was “at the hands” of kin. Tactile interaction allowed the living to show afection toward the deceased. In addition, it helped them to comprehend the state of death. Contact with the corpse was tender and caring, but, at the same time, it could be jarring and disturbing, forcing mourners to confront the coldness of death and the contact they could no longer enjoy with the departed. he sense became particularly acute in Classical Athens, when corpses of one large category of dead, those fallen in battle, were no longer available to mourners for traditional rites, and when a plague severely disrupted burial norms. At the same time, the Classical style ofered new ways to depict emotive, empathetic contact. It is in these cultural, historical, stylistic, and ritual contexts that the many references to the sense of touch at the Attic tomb precinct need to be situated and explained: visitors came to the tomb with the sense of touch already activated. Vessels for washing and anointing the corpse were common oferings for the dead and placed in tombs or deposited after burial above the grave, and they were also converted into monumental forms. Other haptic objects, such as strigils for scraping the body or jewelry that lay on the skin, were represented in reliefs or deposited at the tomb. Touch itself was frequently a subject of representation. On unguent vessels or on gravestones, igures touched one another, embraced a corpse, or sought contact with the departed. here were monuments that did not engage in this rhetoric, and let me be clear that I am not claiming that touch is what the monuments “mean” or what they are “all about.” he argument, instead, is that certain funeral monuments both drew on and participated in the evocation of touch at the funeral precinct, with consequences for mourning and remembrance. Visitors came to the cemeteries with more than their eyes and more than a disinterested gaze. hey came with bodies, with hands and skin culturally and socially conditioned to be sensitive to the visual references to touch. By recalling the role of touch in the funeral ritual, haptic objects and images elicited memories of the burial and the person interred. hese memories were strengthened by the emotional and empathetic conditions of spectatorship, which drew passersby and family members to view the monument with a tactile gaze, to feel it in their skin. he sight of touch provoked both pleasure and pain, simultaneously arousing desire to touch the dead and also frustration that the very sense represented could no longer be enjoyed. But the emphasis on touch in the precincts also demonstrated a way toward comfort and consolation, inviting bodily engagement with the tomb precinct and tactile interaction with the monument itself. nathan t. arrington is associate professor of classical archaeology and founding director of the Program in Archaeology at Princeton University. He is the author of Ashes, Images, and Memories: he Presence of the War Dead in Fifth-Century Athens [Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ 08544, nta@princeton .edu]. 24 he Art Bulletin September 2018 NOTES Early versions of this article were delivered at University College London and the University of Cambridge. I thank the audiences, and especially Michael Squire and Robin Osborne, for their input. Joshua Billings and Seth Estrin provided valuable feedback on the manuscript. Except where noted, translations are mine. 1. Pindar, Pythian 6.1–18; Nemean 5.1–5, 8.43–46; Simonides, frag. 531.4–5, 581. 2. Nikolaos Kaltsas, Sculpture in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2002), nos. 69, 100. 3. Jean-Pierre Vernant, “he Figuration of the Invisible and the Psychological Category of the Double: he Kolossos”; and idem, “From the ‘Presentiication’ of the Invisible to the Imitation of Appearance,” in Myth and hought among the Greeks, trans. Janet Lloyd with Jef Fort (New York: Zone Books, 2006), 321–49. See also Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, “Reading” Greek Death: To the End of the Classical Period (Oxford: Clarendon; New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 221–78. 4. On the end of Archaic funerary sculpture and the beginning of Classical, see the overview in Janet Burnett Grossman, Funerary Sculpture, Athenian Agora 35 (Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2013), 10–13. 5. For Figure 3, see Christoph W. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 8 vols. (Kilchberg: Akanthus, 1993), 2: no. 149; Johannes Bergemann, Demos und hanatos: Untersuchungen zum Wertsystem der Polis im Spiegel der attischen Grabreliefs des 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. und zur Funktion der gleichzeitigen Grabbauten (Munich: Biering & Brinkmann, 1997), no. 29; and Kaltsas, Sculpture, no. 300. For Figure 4, see Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 3: no. 461; Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 610; and Kaltsas, Sculpture, no. 386. 6. On the diiculty of identifying the deceased, see especially Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, 35–56. 7. Ibid., 25–28; and Wendy Closterman, “Family Ideology and Family History: he Function of Funerary Markers in Classical Attic Peribolos Tombs,” American Journal of Archaeology 111, no. 4 (2007): 636–37. 8. Caution on the relation between the inscriptions and the sculpture: Bernhard Schmaltz, “Verwendung und Funktion attischer Grabmäler,” Marburger WinckelmannProgramm, 1979, 15–17. 9. Portraits and some faces on grave reliefs shared formal properties and social functions, but the individualistic physiognomies on grave reliefs stemmed from the reproduction of types and the demands of workshop production. Although grave reliefs may show realistic images, these were not intended to convey a speciic likeness. See further the discussion in Johannes Bergemann, “Attic Grave Reliefs and Portrait Sculpture in Fourth-Century Athens,” in Early Hellenistic Portraiture: Image, Style, Context, ed. Peter Schultz and Ralf von den Hof (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 34–46. 10. For example, Paul-Louis Couchoud, “L’interprétation des stèles funéraires attiques,” Revue Archéologique 18 (1923): 233–60; Jürgen himme, “Die Stele der Hegeso als Zeugnis des attischen Grabkultes,” Antike Kunst 7, no. 1 (1964): 16–29; and Nikolaus Himmelmann, Attische Grabreliefs (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1999). 11. Sally Humphreys, “Family Tombs and Tomb Cult in Ancient Athens: Tradition or Traditionalism?,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 100 (1980): 96–126; Elizabeth A. Meyer, “Epitaphs and Citizenship in Classical Athens,” Journal of Hellenic Studies 113 (1993): 99–121; Karen Stears, “Dead Women’s Society: Constructing Female Gender in Classical Athenian Funerary Sculpture,” in Time, Tradition, and Society in Greek Archaeology: Bridging the “Great Divide,” ed. Nigel Spencer (London: Routledge, 1995), 109–31; Bergemann, Demos und hanatos; Ruther Leader, “In Death Not Divided: Gender, Family, and State on Classical Athenian Grave Stelae,” American Journal of Archaeology 101, no. 4 (1997): 683–99; Natascha Sojc, Trauer auf attischen Grabreliefs: Frauendarstellungen zwischen Ideal und Wirklichkeit (Berlin: Reimer, 2005); and Closterman, “Family Ideology.” 12. For an exception, see Seth Estrin, “Cold Comfort: Empathy and Memory in an Archaic Funerary Monument from Akraiphia,” Classical Antiquity 35 (2016): 189–214. See also Sourvinou-Inwood, “Reading” Greek Death. 13. Bernhard Schmaltz, Untersuchungen zu den attischen Marmorlekythen (Berlin: Mann, 1970); Gerit Kokula, Marmorlutrophoren (Berlin: Mann, 1984); Andreas Scholl, Die attischen Bildfeldstelen des 4. Jhs. v. Chr.: Untersuchungen zu den kleinformatigen Grabreliefs im spätklassischen Athen (Berlin: Mann, 1996); John H. Oakley, Picturing Death in Classical Athens: he Evidence of the White Lekythoi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); and Frank Hildebrandt, Die attischen Namenstelen: Untersuchungen zu Stelen des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr (Berlin: Frank & Timme, 2006). 14. Lynne A. Schepartz, Sherry C. Fox, and Chryssi Bourbou, eds., New Directions in the Skeletal Biology of Greece (Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 2009); and Zoe Devlin and Emma-Jayne Graham, eds., Death Embodied: Archaeological Approaches to the Treatment of the Corpse (Oxford: Oxbow, 2015). On combining skeletal data with other forms of material evidence, see Carrie Lynn Sulosky Weaver, he Bioarchaeology of Classical Kamarina: Life and Death in Greek Sicily (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2015). 15. he only explicit treatment of touch in Classical funeral art is Seth Estrin, “Objects of Pity: Art and Emotion in Archaic and Classical Greece” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2016), 84–94, which discusses its relation to intersubjectivity and how the sense simultaneously invites and frustrates the confrontation with material objects at the tomb. On touch in archaeology, see Yannis Hamilakis, Archaeology and the Senses: Human Experience, Memory, and Afect (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013). On touch more broadly, see especially David Howes, “Empire of the Senses,” introduction to Empire of the Senses: he Sensual Culture Reader, ed. Howes (Oxford: Berg, 2005), 1–17; and Constance Classen, he Deepest Sense: A Cultural History of Touch (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2012). he sense of touch has recently received considerable attention by Classicists, for example, Alex Purves, “Haptic Herodotus,” in Synaesthesia and the 25 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art Ancient Senses, ed. Shane Butler and Purves (Durham, UK: Acumen, 2013), 27–41. 16. For example, Alois Riegl, Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts (New York: Zone Books, 2004), 204, 401, 431; and Margaret Rose Olin, Forms of Representation in Alois Riegl’s heory of Art (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), 132–37. For the translation of Kunstwollen as “the will of art,” see Benjamin Binstock’s forew0rd to Riegl, Historical Grammar of the Visual Arts, 13–19. 17. Until the later nineteenth century, visitors to private collections and museum exhibits expected to be able to touch the artifacts on display. Classen, he Deepest Sense, 136–46. 18. Most recently, Michael Squire, ed., Sight and the Ancient Senses (London: Routledge, 2016), although the authors are aware of the problem. 19. Starting in the sixth century, the motif was used in a variety of scenes in Attic art: mythical heroes greeting one another, such as Herakles and Pholos, Chiron and Peleus, Hektor and Paris, or Aigeus and heseus; the priestess of Athena welcoming the head of a sacriicial procession; Athena joining hands with Herakles, and later heseus; Herakles leaving Peirithoös in the underworld; warriors leaving parents for battle; (once) between the dead in Hades (Fig. 24); and connecting deities and personiications on document reliefs. For a survey, see Gerhard Neumann, Gesten und Gebärden in der griechischen Kunst (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1965), 49–58. 20. Knud Friis Johansen, he Attic Grave-Reliefs of the Classical Period: An Essay in Interpretation (Copenhagen: E. Munksgaard, 1951); Donna Kurtz and John Boardman, Greek Burial Customs (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1971), 139; Bernhard Schmaltz, Griechische Grabreliefs (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1983), 214–15; Glenys Davies, “he Signiicance of the Handshake Motif in Classical Funerary Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 89, no. 4 (1985): 627–40; Elizabeth Pemberton, “he ‘Dexiosis’ on Attic Gravestones,” Mediterranean Archaeology 2 (1989): 45–50; Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, introductory vol., 115; Reinhard Stupperich, “he Iconography of Athenian State Burials in the Classical Period,” in he Archaeology of Athens and Attica under the Democracy, ed. William Coulson et al., Proceedings of an international conference, American School of Classical Studies at Athens, December 4–6, 1992 (Oxford: Oxbow, 1994), 96; Christine Breuer, Reliefs und Epigramme griechischer Privatgrabmäler vom vierten bis zweiten Jahrhundert als Zeugnisse bürgerlichen Selbstverständnisses (Cologne: Böhlau, 1995), 15–39; Stears, “Dead Women’s Society,” 126; Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, 61–62; Marion Meyer, “Gesten der Zusammengehörigkeit und Zuwendung: Zum Sinngehalt attischer Grabreliefs in klassischer Zeit,” hemis 5–6 (1999): 115–32; Sojc, Trauer, 120–24; and Grossman, Funerary Sculpture, 38. On document reliefs more speciically, see Marion Meyer, Die griechischen Urkundenreliefs (Berlin: Mann, 1989), 140–41; Carol Lawton, Attic Document Reliefs: Art and Politics in Ancient Athens (Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 36; Jaś Elsner, “Visual Culture and Ancient History: Issues of Empiricism and Ideology in the Samos Stele at Athens,” Classical Antiquity 34, no. 1 (2015): 33–73, esp. 54, 56–57. 21. On reunion and parting, see Davies, “Signiicance of the Handshake Motif,” 639. On equality: Stears, “Dead Women’s Society,” 126. On the relationship of the individual to the community of the polis: Breuer, Reliefs und Epigramme, 25. See also the literature in n. 20 above. 22. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 2: no. 336a; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 126. 23. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 3: no. 350; Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 277; and Kaltsas, Sculpture, no. 364. 24. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 1: no. 700; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 103. 25. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 2: no. 780; Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 123; and Kaltsas, Sculpture, no. 362. 26. For example, National Archaeological Museum of Athens, inv. nos. 1480, 1467; Kaltsas, Sculpture, nos. 498, 503. 27. But see the attempt to complicate the interpretation of unity in Elsner, “Visual Culture.” 28. his is a phenomenon famously analyzed in Nikolaus Himmelmann, Studien zum Ilissos-Relief (Munich: Prestel, 1956), in relation to National Archaeological Museum of Athens, inv. no. 869 (the “Ilissos Relief ”). 29. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 1: no. 761; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 158. 30. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 1: no. 825; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 521. 31. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 3: no. 131; and Scholl, Attischen Bildfeldstelen, no. 299. 32. On stone loutrophoroi grave markers in the round, see Kokula, Marmorlutrophoren, 171–84. 33. Schmaltz, Untersuchungen zu den attischen Marmorlekythen, no. A6; Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 7: no. 330; and Carlos Pićn et al., eds., Art of the Classical World in the Metropolitan Museum of Art: Greece, Cyprus, Etruria, Rome (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), no. 163. 34. Barbara Vierneisel-Schlörb, Die igurlichen Terrakotten, Kerameikos 15 (Munich: Hirmer, 1997), 20–21, nos. 52–54. On other terracotta arms, see Alfred Laumonier, Les igurines de terre cuite, Exploration archéologique de Délos 23 (Paris: Boccard, 1956), 98–101; and Liana Parlama and Nikolaos Stampolidis, eds., Athens: he City beneath the City; Antiquities from the Metropolitan Railway Excavations (Athens: N. P. Goulandris Foundation and Museum of Cycladic Art, 2000), 343, no. 367. 35. On funeral rituals, see Kurtz and Boardman, Greek Burial Customs, 142–61; Robert Garland, he Greek Way of Death (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), 21–37; and Margaret Alexiou, he Ritual Lament in Greek Tradition, 2nd ed., rev. Dimitrios Yatromanolakis and Panagiotis Roilos (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littleield, 2002), 4–10. On modern rituals, see Loring M. Danforth, he Death Rituals of Rural Greece (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982). On modern and ancient rituals, see Evy Johanne H̊land, Rituals of Death and Dying in Modern and Ancient Greece: Writing History from a Female Perspective (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014). 36. On the war dead, see Nathan Arrington, Ashes, Images, and Memories: he Presence of the War Dead in FifthCentury Athens (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). 37. Xenophon, Hellenika 1.7; Diodorus Siculus 13.100– 102; W. Kendrick Pritchett, he Greek State at War, Part II (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 13–14; and idem, he Greek State at War, Part IV (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 204–6, 236. 38. Sophokles, Antigone, trans. Hugh Lloyd-Jones, Sophocles: Antigone, he Women of Trachis, Philoctetes, Oedipus at Colonus (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 9. 39. Ibid., 87. 40. See further the discussion, mostly on Roman material, in Angelos Chaniotis, “Rituals between Norms and Emotions: Rituals as Shared Experience and Memory,” in Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Eftychia Stavrianopoulou (Liège: Centre International d’Étude de la Religion Grecque Antique, 2006), 219–26. 41. Peter Allan Hansen, Carmina epigraphica Graeca, 2 vols. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1983–89), 2: no. 586; trans. Christos Tsagalis, Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 227 (slightly modiied). 42. Hansen, Carmina epigraphica Graeca, 1: no. 171. 43. On washing the body and anointing it with oil, see the description of the preparation of the body of Patroklos in Homer, Iliad 18.349–51. 44. For example, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, inv. no. 14.130.15, attributed to the Trachones Workshop. Beazley Archive Database, http://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/, 9018110; Mary Moore, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum: United States of America; he Metropolitan Museum of Art, fasc. 37 [fasc. 5], Greek Geometric and Protoattic Pottery (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2004), 13–19, pls. 14–18. 45. Beazley Archive Database, 202188; and John Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 233, no. 2. Cf. Homer, Il. 23.137–38 (Achilles clasping the head of Patroklos), 24.710–712 (Hekuba and Andromache embracing the head of Hektor). 46. See n. 11 above. See also Isaios 6.39–41. 47. No females’ relatives more distant than children of cousins could participate: Demosthenes 43.62–63. 48. Homer, Il. 22.71–73; Tyrtaios 10.27–30. On the representation of the fallen warrior in sacred space, see Arrington, Ashes, Images, and Memories, 125–76. 49. See also Euripides, Medea 1410–12. 50. Garland, Greek Way of Death, 38–47. 51. Alan Shapiro, “he Iconography of Mourning in Athenian Art,” American Journal of Archaeology 95, no. 4 (1991): 634–36. 52. Sokrates (for example, Plato, Apologia 40c; Phaedo 70a–b, 80d) describes difering views in Athens on what happened to the soul after death: transmigration or annihilation. On Greek conceptions of the afterlife, see Garland, Greek Way of Death, 48–76; Fritz Graf, “Platonic Underworlds,” in Beyond: Death and Afterlife in Ancient Greece, ed. Nikolaos Stampolidis and Stavroula Oikonomou 26 he Art Bulletin September 2018 (Athens: Museum of Cycladic Art; Alexander S. Onassis Public Beneit Foundation; and Nicholas and Dolly Goulandris Foundation, 2014), 42–49; Sarah Iles Johnston, in Beyond, 26–33; and Yannis Tzifopoulos, in Beyond, 34–41. On ghosts, see also Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). 53. Homer, Il. 23.64–67, trans. A. T. Murray, revised by William F. Wyatt, Homer: Iliad, Books 13–24 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 497 (slightly modiied). 54. Homer, Il. 23.97–101, trans. Murray, rev. Wyatt, Homer: Iliad, 498–501 (slightly modiied). 55. Homer, Odyssey 11.204–24, trans. A. T. Murray, revised by George E. Dimock, Homer: Odyssey, Books 1–12 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 415–17. 56. Beazley Archive Database, 1140; and Pićn, Art of the Classical World, no. 156. On the appearance of the dead at the tomb, see Nathan Arrington, “Fallen Vessels and Risen Spirits: Conveying the Presence of the Dead on WhiteGround Lekythoi,” in Athenian Potters and Painters, vol. 3, ed. John Oakley (Oxford: Oxbow, 2014), 1–10; and idem, Ashes, Images, and Memories, 253–72. 57. here are a small number of exceptions to the absence of touch between living and dead on lekythoi: 1) Musée du Petit Palais, Paris, inv. no. 338, Beazley Archive Database, 10912; 2) Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, inv. no. 08.258.19, Beazley Archive Database, 9003731; 3) Archäologisches Institut der Universität, Zurich, inv. no. L 545, Shapiro, “Iconography of Mourning,” 654, ig. 26; 4) Kerameikos Archaeological Museum, Athens, inv. no. 1444, Beazley Archive Database, 9022801, Erika Kunze-Götte, Karin Tancke, and Klaus Vierneisel, Die Nekropole von der Mitte des 6. bis zum Ende des 5. Jahrhunderts, Kerameikos 7, no. 2 (Munich: Hirmer Verlag, 1999), 89, no. 311.1, pl. 60; 5) Museo della Ceramica, Caltagirone, coll. Russo-Perez, inv. no. 4, Giada Giudice, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum: Italia, fasc. 76, Caltagirone: Museo della Ceramica, Collezione Russo-Perez (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 2012), 121–23, pl. 61. 58. Beazley Archive Database, 214001; Beazley, Attic RedFigure Vase-Painters, 999, no. 180; and idem, Paralipomena: Additions to Attic Black-Figure Vase-Painters and to Attic RedFigure Vase-Painters (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 438. 59. Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. no. 11.185; and Pićn, Art of the Classical World, no. 71. 60. Agora P 5069; Rodney Young, Late Geometric Graves and a Seventh Century Well in the Agora, Hesperia, suppl. 2 (Princeton: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1939), 86, no. 22. 61. On the way in which the Classical style engages the viewer in a manner diferent from the Archaic, see Jaś Elsner, “Relections on the ‘Greek Revolution’ in Art: From Changes in Viewing to the Transformation of Subjectivity,” in Rethinking Revolutions through Ancient Greece, ed. Simon Goldhill and Robin Osborne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 68–95. 62. Pliny, Naturalis historia 35.65; and Sascha Kansteiner et al., Der neue Overbeck (DNO): Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 2:860–61. 63. [Lucian], Amores 13–16; and Kansteiner et al., DNO, 3:64–68. 64. Arrington, Ashes, Images, and Memories, 33–38. 65. hucydides, 2.52.4, trans. Charles Forster Smith, hucydides: History of the Peloponnesian War, Books I and II (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928), 351–53. On the discovery of a mass burial related to the plague, see Parlama and Stampolidis, Athens, 271–72. 66. On the resumption of grave monuments as a form of postplague atonement or reconciliation, see Werner Fuchs, review of Attische Plastik vom Tode des Phidias bis zum Wirken der grossen Meister des 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr., by Tobias Dohrn [Krefeld: Scherpe, 1957], Gnomon 33 (1961): 241–42. 67. Johann Herder would argue that sculpture (especially in the round) always elicits and demands a haptic gaze. See Herder, Sculpture: Some Observations on Shape and Form from Pygmalion’s Creative Dream (1778; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Rachel Zuckert, “Sculpture and Touch: Herder’s Aesthetics of Sculpture,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 67, no. 3 (2009): 285–99; and Helen Slaney, “Perceiving (in) Depth: Landscape, Sculpture, Ruin,” in Deep Classics: Rethinking Classical Reception, ed. Shane Butler (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016), 88–93. 68. Elizabeth Harvey, “he Portal of Touch,” American Historical Review 116, no. 2 (2011): 386–87; Michael Squire, “Introductory Relections: Making Sense of Ancient Sight,” in Sight and the Ancient Senses, ed. Squire, 16–17. 69. On empathy, see Harry Francis Mallgrave and Eleftherios Ikonomou, Empathy, Form, and Space: Problems in German Aesthetics, 1873–1893 (Santa Monica, CA: Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1994); Juliet Koss, “On the Limits of Empathy,” Art Bulletin 88, no. 1 (2006): 139–57; Patrizia Di Bello and Gabriel Koureas, “Other than the Visual: Art, History and the Senses,” introduction to Art, History and the Senses: 1830 to the Present, ed. Di Bello and Koureas (Surrey, UK: Ashgate, 2010), 1–17; and Helen Bridge, “Empathy heory and Heinrich Wöllin: A Reconsideration,” Journal of European Studies 41, no. 1 (2010): 3–22. 70. On bodily responses, see Ellen Esrock, “Touching Art: Intimacy, Embodiment, and the Somatosensory System,” Consciousness and Emotion 2 (2001): 233–54; and idem, “Embodying Art: he Spectactor and the Inner Body,” Poetics Today 31 (2010): 217–50. 71. Christian Keysers et al., “A Touching Sight: SII/PV Activation during the Observation and Experience of Touch,” Neuron 42, no. 2 (2004): 335–46; David Freedberg, “Memory in Art: History and the Neuroscience of Response,” in he Memory Process: Neuroscientiic and Humanistic Perspectives, ed. Suzanne Nalbantian, Paul Matthews, and James McClelland (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011), 337–58; Antonino Casile, “Mirror Neurons (and Beyond) in the Macaque Brain: An Overview of 20 Years of Research,” Neuroscience Letters 540 (2012): 3–14; Carmen Concerto et al., “Observation of Implied Motion in a Work of Art Modulates Cortical Connectivity and Plasticity,” Journal of Exercise Rehabilitation 12, no. 5 (2016): 417–23; and Kaisu Lankinen et al., “Haptic Contents of a Movie Dynamically Engage the Spectator’s Sensorimotor Cortex,” Human Brain Mapping 37, no. 11 (2016): 4061–68. 72. Heinrich Wöllin, Principles of Art History: he Problem of the Development of Style in Later Art (1915; New York: Dover, 1950), 21, describes a type of looking that resonates with the process of empathetic viewing these Attic grave reliefs elicit: “he operation which the eye performs,” he wrote, “resembles the operation of the hand which feels along the body. . . .” 83. See Euripides, Elektra 545–46, where Elektra speculates that someone driven by pity left an ofering of hair at her brother’s grave. On the passage, see Estrin, “Objects of Pity,” 85. 84. Arrington, “Fallen Vessels.” 85. For Figure 22, see Beazley Archive Database, 216364; Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 1229, no. 23; and Carpenter, Beazley Addenda, 351. On the dead visible at tombs, see Plato, Phaedo 81c–d. 86. For Figure 23, see Beazley Archive Database, 216332; Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 1227, no. 4; and Carpenter, Beazley Addenda, 350. 73. On emotion, see also Angelos Chaniotis, ed., Unveiling Emotions: Sources and Methods for the Study of Emotions in the Greek World (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012); Angelos Chaniotis and Pierre Ducrey, eds., Unveiling Emotions II: Emotions in Greece and Rome; Texts, Images, Material Culture (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2013); Estrin, “Objects of Pity”; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, 56–62. 88. Clairmont, Classical Attic Tombstones, 1: no. 660; and Bergemann, Demos und hanatos, no. 7. 74. Euripides, Hekuba 409–10, trans. David Kovacs, Euripides II: Children of Heracles, Hippolytus, Andromache, Hecuba (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 435. 89. Hansen, Carmina epigraphica Graeca, no. 89. Cf. Admetos asking Alkestis, about to die, to prepare a home for him in Hades and await him: Euripides, Alkestis 363–68. 75. On this sense of pity, see Dana LaCourse Munteanu, Tragic Pathos: Pity and Fear in Greek Philosophy and Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 122–24. 90. See also Marian Feldman, “Beyond Iconography: Meaning-Making in Late Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean Visual and Material Culture,” in he Cambridge Prehistory of the Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean, ed. A. Bernard Knapp and Peter van Dommelen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 337–39. 76. Estrin, “Objects of Pity,” 39–59, 96–114. 77. For example, Hansen, Carmina epigraphica Graeca, no. 551. 87. Beazley Archive Database, 214585; Beazley, Attic RedFigure Vase-Painters, 1086, no. 1; Beazley, Paralipomena, 449; Carpenter, Beazley Addenda, 327; and Stampolidis and Oikonomou, Beyond, 154–55. 78. On pothos, see especially Richard Neer, he Emergence of the Classical Style in Greek Sculpture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 50. 79. On the interplay between the presence and absence of the dead, see Arrington, Ashes, Images, and Memories, 267–72, 284–85. 80. Beazley Archive Database, 209239; Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 748, no. 2, 1668; Beazley, Paralipomena, 413; homas Carpenter, Beazley Addenda: Additional References to ABV, ARV² & Paralipomena, 2nd ed. (Oxford: published for the British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1989), 284; and Oakley, Picturing Death, 149, ig. 111. 81. See Plutarch, Aristides 21, on anointing with oil. See also Beazley Archive Database, 217720 (National Museum, Athens, 2014); Beazley, Attic Red-Figure VasePainters, 1379, no. 59; and Elvia Giudice, Il tymbos, la stele, la barca di Caronte: L’immaginario della morte sulle lekythoi funerarie a fondo bianco (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 2015), 149, ig. 29. On tactile engagement with the tomb, see also Estrin, “Objects of Pity,” 85–89. 82. For Figure 21, see Beazley Archive Database, 201662; Beazley, Attic Red-Figure Vase-Painters, 183, no. 9, 1632; and Carpenter, Beazley Addenda, 186. On illets placed on the corpse itself, see for example the following lekythoi: Archaeological Museum of Piraeus (OM 40) and Musée du Louvre, Paris (S 1667); in Oakley, Picturing Death, 80–81, igs. 47, 48. 27 touch and remembrance in greek funerary art