Mind in Matter in History: Viewing The Greek Slave

“Objects offer communication from the past,” Jules Prown wrote in an article in American Art. ¹ Artifacts from past times, he wrote elsewhere, represent the workings of “mind in matter.” ² Combining close visual analysis with scrutiny of an object’s context, Jules Prown has inspired a whole generation of art historians to pursue the rich and dynamic nature of the cultural communication accomplished by works of art. What I would like to accomplish in this brief essay is to explore the historical dimension of this cultural communication; in particular, I wish to ask how the history of an object’s reception helps us to understand its cultural significance. When I began my work on nineteenth-century American sculpture by standing in front of Hiram Powers’ The Greek Slave in the Yale University Art Gallery, I noticed that this sculpture today evokes little serious attention from museum visitors. Glancing looks, sometimes snide comments, or puzzled expressions contrasted markedly with the elaborate, emotional narratives I was reading by nineteenth-century viewers. Recalling the question that begins E. H. Gombrich’s brilliant Art and Illusion—why does art have a history?—I began to ask myself, why does the viewing of art have a history? How can we understand the workings of mind in matter in history?

Figure 1.

Hiram Powers (1805–1873), The Greek Slave, 1843. Marble; 65H” high including integral base. Yale University Art Gallery; Olive Louise Dann Fund.

Borrowing Jules Prown’s method of close visual analysis, let us ask ourselves, what do we see when we look at this object (figure 1)? A dazzlingly white, three-dimensional, life-sized representation of a woman, nude, with chains on her wrists, her head turned to one side and slightly bowed. One hand rests on a post on which cloth is draped, topped by a cap, a cross, and a locket. Her hair is drawn back into a simple bun, her hips are slightly tilted, her legs are close together down to her knees, her feet are planted slightly apart. “A nude, white woman with chains on her wrists.” This description, so clearly evoked by our inspection of this object, so obviously “correct” in our own framework of analysis, nevertheless contains, in almost every detail, concepts that carried highly-charged significance for the maker of this object and his contemporary viewers. “Nude,” “white,” with “chains”—if we could understand more about the significance of these terms at the time of the object’s production and reception, we would not only know more about the communication it offered at its own cultural moment; we would also be able more fully to contemplate the distance between its moment and our own. What did mid-nineteenth-century viewers see when they looked at this object? How can we learn from the surprises that might be in store for us if we find a way to recover information about the history of viewing?

The Greek Slave (first version completed in 1844) can tell us much about the cultural history of viewing because it was seen by such a large audience who left voluminous records of their thoughts and feelings. In the years before the Civil War, this sculpture was probably seen by more viewers than any other art work by an American. Traveling exhibitions brought The Greek Slave to more than a dozen American cities and over a hundred thousand spectators. Thousands more saw it in London at the Crystal Palace Exhibition in 1851, and engravings and copies made it familiar to countless others. Powers produced six full-length versions, one of which resides in the Yale Art Gallery, as well as numerous three-quarter-sized and bust-length sculptures; eventually, The Greek Slave was reproduced in inexpensive Parian ware, and found its way into innumerable homes in the United States and abroad. Wherever it was displayed, The Greek Slave evoked an outpouring of commentary that is readily accessible—pamphlets, poetry, reviews, letters, diary entries. The nature of this commentary, as I have shown elsewhere, sheds important light both...