visual communication

ARTICLE

Analysing the language of

war monuments

GILL ABOUSNNOUGA
University of Glamorgan, Wales, UK

DAVID MACHIN
Cardiff University, Wales, UK

ABSTRACT
This paper seeks an approach for a systematic analysis of the semiotic
resources used by the designers of British World War 1 monuments. Semi-
otic studies of monuments have emphasised on the one hand factors from
outside the’ text’, in other words contextual social and political factors that
lead to design decisions, and on the other hand factors within the text, as
being maximally important for this – the latter characterising such visual
communication, like language, as a system or code. The paper uses an
assessment of an example of the latter, O’Toole’s functional analysis (1994)
of sculptures, using a number of theories of the visual to draw out its limita-
tions and point to a number of characteristics of visual communication that
would need to be considered in order to carry out a satisfactory analysis.

INTRODUCTION
In his paper on Soviet propaganda art, published previously in this jour-
nal, Kruk (2008) showed how Soviet art and monuments were an attempt
to educate an illiterate population, colonising their everyday spaces with The
Communist Party message. He showed how the Russian Orthodox Church
viewed the iconography used in the monuments as simply reflecting reality
with no clear distinction between the iconic image and its referent – a natu-
ral relationship between the real world and artists’ representations of it. In
the first place Kruk explains these iconographic representations through fac-
tors from outside the text, in social and political context, and through actual
design decisions. In contrast O’Toole, in his influential work on The Language
of Displayed Art (1994) inspired by Hallidayan linguistics, claims to provide
an approach to sculpture that is derived from analysis of the object itself. His

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Vol 9(2): 131–149 DOI 10.1177/1470357210369884
 intention was to show how design choices, like language, formed a grammar.
Like words, these choices could be depicted as comprising an integrated sys-
tem or code. To describe this system he produced a set of labels, as a linguist
would for language, to show precisely about how they make meaning.
In this paper we analyse monuments erected in Britain in the 1920s
to commemorate the deaths of soldiers in WW1. We stress, like Kruk, the
importance of factors outside of the text. And, like O’Toole, we also wish to
investigate how we can describe and characterise how semiotic resources are
used in monuments to communicate particular discourses, identities, values
and events. But we find, drawing on a the work of a number of visual theo-
rists, that in seeking to strictly apply a model from linguistics O’Toole’s model
glosses over the range of different kinds of elements, features and qualities that
characterise this kind of communication. And we find that his analysis relies
more on information that is external to the text than it acknowledges so that
the usefulness of the tool kit is greatly obscured. We show that the semiotic
approach of Kress and Van Leeuwen (1996, 2002) and Van Leeuwen (2005)
along with the semiotics of Barthes (1977) and Panofsky (1972) offers us a
way to proceed keeping some of the descriptive rigour sought by O’Toole yet
also seeking to approach this form of communication in its own terms and
being sure to show where analysis comes from context or the object itself.

O’Toole’s approach to art and sculpture

Since the mid 1990s there has been a new wave of visual semiotic approaches
influenced by Hallidayan linguistics. While traditional semiotic approaches
(Barthes, 1972; Sebeok, 1994) had described the way that individual signs con-
noted or symbolised, this new wave sought to show how visual elements and
features combine and operate as part of a system or visual grammar. One of
these approaches has been inspired by O’Toole’s The Language of Displayed Art,
which has lead to a wave of visual studies from linguists (Baldry and Thibault,
2007; O’Halloran (2006); Ventola and Hofinger, (2004). The approach involves
showing how the elements and forms in different communicative forms, in
film, new media and advertisements, are able to fulfil the communicative func-
tions that Halliday (1978) used to characterise language. O’Toole provides an
analysis of painting, which he expands to three dimensional communication in
the form of sculpture and architecture. We begin by looking at the logic of how
O’Toole explains his model, following his approach of applying it first to paint-
ings, and then building additional observations for three dimensional objects.
O’ Toole begins his analysis by imagining two people in an art gallery.
He asks how they could communicate in concrete terms about the way that
art creates meaning for them without using slippery terms such as ‘grace’ or
‘charm’, or without using information about art history, or ‘read information’.
Since they would have no systematic language to talk about how they perceive
and respond to what they see his aim was to produce such a language allowing

132 Visual Communication 9(2)

people to talk about effects in concrete terms, to provide a common set of
labels to discuss how an object of art works.
To provide his labels O’Toole draws from Halliday’s (1978) three com-
municative functions of language:
Modal function: This is the way that the artist or sculptor has used devices to
make the art relate to us, in other words the interpersonal function.
Representational function: This is the way that we examine what is represented.
This is the ideational function or how ideas are conveyed.
Compositional function: Simply this is about arrangement of forms in the
space such as ‘line and rhythm’ (p22). This is the function of coherence.
These functions work together but are separated for convenience of analysis.
The analyst looks at paintings and sculptures and decides which features are
to be placed in each of the categories. Each is approached at four levels: work,
episode, figure and member. We can look at how this works in the case of
modal and representational functions in a little more detail.

Modal Function (how the art relates to us):

The modal function is how the work engages our attention. We can best illus-
trate what O’Toole means by this, and its limitations, by starting with his analy-
sis of Botticelli’s painting Primavera as it here that he himself lays out his model.
O’Toole explains that the main features that carry the modal function in paint-
ings are ‘Rhythm, Gaze, Framing, Light, Perspective, and Modality’ (p9). He
begins by looking at what he calls ‘rhythm’. He explains that the painting has a

Figure 1  Botticelli’s Primavera. Permission to reproduce the image is granted by

Ministero per i Beni e le Attivita Culturali, Florence.

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 133

 ‘gentle, undulating rhythm which is in harmony with the graceful ges-
tures of stance of the figures, with the flow of draped clothing, with the
placing of fruit, flowers and foliage and with the easy blending colours.
As our eyes take in the whole canvas, we have a sense of a courtly dance,
whose rhythm is carried by the slight tilt of the figures from right to
left’ (p7)

Rhythm here is the visual equivalent, O’Toole argues, of what linguists would
call ‘mood’ to refer to the way a writer uses language to exert pressure on
you through the use of modals such as ‘will’ rather than ‘might’ or the way a
speaker might use a louder intonation or use direct address: ‘You!’. Sculpture
can be analysed through rhythm in the same way. For example, if the group
of three women to the left of Primavera were realised in three dimensions we
could think about the way that they had rhythm.
The problem is that how rhythm is to be systematically described is
not clear, whereas describing the use of modal verbs in a text is. To describe
painting or sculpture as a system of signs we need to be specific about how we
can describe the components and how they relate to each other. Applying the
same framework to Rodan’s sculpture The Burghers of Calais O’Toole writes:

The parallel positioning of hands and arms, as for instance the opposed
right arms of Pierre de Wissant and Jean de Fiennes along the centre of
the right hand end and the paired arms of Jean d’Aire and Eustache de
St. Pierre, creates an elaborate rhythm and counterpoint’ p64)

As with the analysis of Primavera, it is difficult still to see clearly how such
observations are based on any systematic observation of actual features that
take us a step forward from terms such as ‘grace’ and ‘charm’. And Keefer (1996)
has argued that the way O’Toole assigned qualities to the functions generally
appears quite arbitrary and that the exercise seemed to be more about show-
ing that observations could be placed within these categories rather that help-
ing to provide any kind of clear analysis (p305).

Representational Function (what the art represents):

Here O’Toole considers how the artist systematically uses visual resources in
order not to just depict but to communicate broader information and ideas.
O’Toole says of Primavera:

the Representational function conveys to the viewer basic information

about the character, social status, actions, and position of each individ-
ual… we “read” people in everyday life: facial features and expression,
stance, gesture, typical actions and clothing (p15).

It could not be doubted that these features could be use to convey ideas, to
connote, to the viewer. But how this can be demonstrated to form a system or

134 Visual Communication 9(2)

grammar is not clear. As with modality, analysis proceeds by looking to place
a range of features, characteristics, objects and adjectives into one category in
the table under ‘Representational function’. It is not clear how this range of
things could be thought of as an integrated grammar, nor as being of a simi-
lar quality. When discussing the representational function of The Burghers of
Calais he writes:

Representationally, although the left hand of the brothers hangs down

with the thumb forward, the index finger slightly bent and the other
fingers curled inwards, Jaques’ hand hold an enormous key (of the city
or citadel, as narrated in Froissart’s account) while Pierre’s empty hand
participates in his gesture of sorrow and resignation’ p69

This is very much like traditional semiotics, where visual features or qualities
are assigned connotative meanings. Writers like Barthes (1973) would make
the same kinds of observations but not point to them as carrying separate
functions. But here we have the claim that a system is being described even
though no clear sense is given of how this range of different kinds of features
and qualities add up to an integrated system that works like a grammar. Nor
is any sense given as to the level at which elements and features can be treated
like linguistic signs. Simply because things can be ascribed to boxes to show
that they can carry Hallidayan functions does not mean that we have found
a language. This kind of analysis can have a tendency to gloss over the actual
nature of this kind of communication and therefore result in us losing valuable
resources. In the following section we look at exactly what is being glossed over.

The problem of the icon and with breaking down objects

of art into components
When linguists apply Halliday’s systemic functional analysis to written texts
they identify the units of language, words and grammatical sequences, and
show how they can fulfil specific communicative functions. They can then
depict these as systems of choices that are available to those using the lan-
guage. O’Toole’s approach is to take the same model to look at objects of art.
But are its components of the same order as language and can they be identi-
fied in the same manner?
Traditional semiotics encountered a major problem when it tried
to depict images as being ‘like language’: the ‘icon’. The problem is whether
images are ‘like language’ and composed of abstract symbols that are like
words. For Charles Sanders Pierce, one of the founders of semiotics, a sign
was something that ‘stands for something for somebody in some respect or
capacity’ (Sebeok, 1994: 11). He described three basic categories of signs in
relation to their objects: the index, the symbol and the icon. An index is a
sign that occurs through a causal relation; it is a sign because it is caused by
its object, for example a symptom on the body caused by a virus. A symbol

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 135

 is something that does not point to something, nor has resemblance and is
therefore arbitrary such as emblems, brands and words. The icon in contrast
represents through similarity of qualities in the sign and the object. So a pic-
ture of a tree resembles and references a tree in the real world. A photograph
would be an icon; the figures of men and women that we see on toilet doors
are icons; thick borders on a page are icons as they all reference qualities of
thick objects in the world and signify on this basis. Since they do this some
semioticians have asked whether the icon is a sign at all in the sense that the
requirement of coding is so limited (Eco, 1976).
Can we think of a painting or sculpture or the elements and features
that comprise them, such as light and dark, high or low, thick or thin, as signs
in the same way we think about words? All these things reference the real
world or qualities in the real world rather than symbolising them in the man-
ner of words. For Saussure (1974) signs in language only make sense as part of
a formal, generalised abstract system. Meaning is structural and relational and
certainly not referential as in the case of the icon. So the meaning of signs is
relative and not due to any feature of the signifier. Signs do not make sense on
their own but in relation to other signs. How would the icon fit in here? This
has implications for how we can break down objects of art into elements and
think about them in terms of communicative functions.
Of course, icons can have natural connections with the world but at
the same time can be motivated, in other words ‘symbolic’. Arnheim (1969)
has described such natural signs as ‘part-time symbols’. We might see a photo-
graph of a tree as a symbol of nature, but we may of course see it simply as a
tree. Visual theorists such as Bal (1991) have shown concern for analysts who
jump to the symbolic aspect of visual elements or features ignoring its basic
referential role. What is important is that we do not overlook the actual act
of description which is so often undervalued in our eagerness to show what
something means. And our description and analysis would need to carefully
consider the kinds of references to the real world and associations that we find
in visual communication.
In fact the way that objects in art reference the real world or our expe-
riences of it can be an important resource for analysis in itself. Drawing on
Arheim (1969), Van Leeuwen (2005) has shown that much of the meaning
potential in visual communication and in music comes from metaphorical
association. Kress and Van Leeuwen (2002) in their analysis of colour show
how there are many features of colours that can create meaning on the basis
of association. Saturated rather than diluted colours are associated with emo-
tional intensity and excitement as opposed to moderation. Pure, rather than
impure colours are associated with certainty as opposed to ambiguity. These
qualities are used metaphorically to represent our feelings and responses. The
authors use a Jakobson (Jakobson and Halle, 1956) style commutation test,
showing what how a quality can have meaning potential in the context of
other possible associations. Van Leeuwen (2005) argued that the same kind

136 Visual Communication 9(2)

of metaphorical associations are found in the meanings of typefaces. Heavier
fonts can be seen as bolder, stronger and more stable than lighter slimmer
fonts, although this can also suggest something overbearing and immovable as
opposed to something more subtle. Here qualities of stronger and more stable
things in the world are transferred to fonts and the therefore to the things they
describe.
The matter of the icon and resemblance raises a further problem for
O’Toole’s choice of visual elements and how these can be placed in his differ-
ent levels of analysis – work, episode, figure and member. O’Toole wanted to
show how an artist makes semiotic choices to influence the viewer. In linguis-
tic analysis, identifying such choices is not difficult. For example, we can show
that a speaker chooses one particular modal verb over another, ‘may’ rather
than ‘will’. But it is not quite so straightforward to identify the individual ele-
ments of photographs or sculpture. Dillon (2006) argues that in any image it is
not possible to identify separate components. While different elements could
certainly be labelled this is not the same as saying that they are separate and
clearly identifiable. A painting could contain grey clouds, rays of sunshine,
birds in the sky, a village in the distance. What are the units for analysis here?
Would we have to consider the lozenges of light caused as the light falls on the
grass through the leaves? And would we then be able to transfer the meaning
of these shapes to another context as could with the modal verb (Eco, 1976)?
Bal (1991) argued that we do not read paintings or photographs by
looking at individual elements that we perceive as arranged into a visual syn-
tax. She suggests that when we look at an image any part, section or aspect of
it, may trigger off a particular interpretation. What we do not do is assemble
our comprehension of what is going on bit by bit. She says that any aspect of
the image can set off particular meanings for us. So when we look at any visual
composition any element can act, in Bal’s terms, ‘metonymically’ and comes to
stand for an entire personal interpretation (p181).
Given these points it becomes difficult to say something like ‘images
are made up of signs’. And in the same way this discounts us saying that rather
we see images as a whole since we can have our attention, and interpretation,
drawn by any particular aspect. This of course creates a problem for O’Toole’s
different levels of analysis: work, episode, figure and member. Simply identify-
ing these levels becomes arbitrary and it cannot be demonstrated that these
come from within the work itself.
Of course all this does not mean that there are no visual codes at all.
For example, if a painting positions a viewer looking up at a subject then this
tends to give the subject a position of power. We must have knowledge of these
codes if we are to grasp their meaning. But as Eco (1976) would argue, these
are unlike syntax. Meaning comes through reference to physical objects or to
physical experiences of the world rather than being structural or relational,
even though it is possible to place these into polarities that look like system
networks such as up-down, thick-thin, etc. For Eco and also Barthes (1977)

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 137

 these should be thought of more as established cultural conventions rather
than a code. O’Toole (p125), discussing the way that artists choose options
from the system of Representation, Modality and Composition to realise the
intended meaning, states ‘We respond to those systematic choices because we
share the artist’s code’ (our emphasis). But is this a code? And to what extent
and at what level is it shared?
Much of O’Toole’s analysis has the additional problem that it conflates
contextual knowledge with his textual interpretations. His descriptions are lit-
tered with reference to knowledge of mythological characters and the stories
behind art. While analysing Primavera he says ‘Many people think of the dance
of the Three Graces as a painting in its own right’, (p11). Of The Burghers of
Calais sculpture he says ‘His raised hand with pointing index finger and the
other fingers curled inwards asks the ultimate questions: why this sacrifice?
why this siege? why this war? (p62). Keefer (1996) observes that ‘while he con-
demns art historians for excessive reliance on biography and social context, he
makes ample use of their tainted findings throughout the book’ (p305). The
problem here is not the use of the contextual information in itself, but how it
is used obscures the work the analytical framework is doing in its own right.

The model for analysing WW1 monuments

From the discussion so far we have a number of challenges for how to clarify
our analysis. Firstly we need to be clear we are not necessarily dealing with
signs as in language. We can still think about the meaning potential of quali-
ties and features but these should encompass cultural conventions and meta-
phorical associations that should not be suppressed as codes in the manner of
words and grammar. Here we see Kress and van Leeuwen’s approach to col-
our and typographic meaning potential as a useful model. They use Halliday’s
metafunctions, but to think about how the qualities and features work in dif-
ferent ways rather than using the metafuntions as a starting point in them-
selves. We also need to be clear that, unlike language, we cannot so easily break
this kind of communication into components or different levels of combina-
tions. How we deal with this brings us to the second challenge.
We need also to be able to assess the levels of importance of features and
qualities, and this must be in their own right apart from placing them in boxes
to show how they can carry one of Halliday’s functions. In other words we need
a toolkit to enhance our ability to describe what we see. Here we need therefore
a systematic framework not so much for analysis but for description. One rea-
sonable possibility is Barthes’ (1977) classic two-step analysis: denotation and
connotation. Applications of this model have often suffered from a tendency
to jump to connotation, to what something means, overlooking the important
task of denotation, or of describing exactly what can be seen. Of course we never
really experience any part of communication in an innocent way. But denota-
tion is one way to think about the first level of meaning and to remind us of the
need to attend carefully to this. So for example we can describe whether a statue

138 Visual Communication 9(2)

is large or small, solid or hollow just as Van Leeuwen (2005) did for typeface.
Only then can we take the next step and ask what ideas and values are commu-
nicated through what is represented, and through the way in which it is repre-
sented. It is this first stage of description that is missing from O’Toole’s analysis.
Also characteristic of Van Leeuwen’s work and used by Barthes is the
use of the commutation test which comes from a process of linguistic substi-
tution used by the Prague structuralists (Jackobson and Halle, 1956). Barthes
(1967) used commutation to isolate important signifying qualities. So we can
change features or qualities, replacing them with others, or removing them
completely in an object of art and consider what kind of difference this makes.
Van Leeuwen (2005) is able to do this successfully to think about the meaning
potential of typefaces that are tall versus stocky or slim versus fat. One way to
test whether something carries important meaning is to change it and see if
this effects overall meaning considerably.
Thirdly in our analysis we need to be clear about the basis for our inter-
pretation, whether it comes from textual analysis or from context knowledge.
Here we can draw on the work of Panofsky (1972). He interpreted works of
art considering the origins of the symbolic meaning, what has been called
‘iconology’. This approach was used by Van Leeuwen (2000) to analyse racism
in advertisements. Panofsky realised that objects, animals, persons, postures
and abstract shapes, such as the cross, were used to symbolise particular peo-
ple, values and behaviours. These had become conventions, established over
time. This symbolism can be found, Panofsky thought, also in the very form
of layout and choice of materials. These he said could ‘reveal the basic attitude
of nation, a period, a class, a religious or philosophical persuasion’ (1970: 7).
Why would a sculpture use bronze rather than stone or plastic and why a
round rather than square base? Importantly this reminds us that how we relate
to an image or sculpture may not necessarily be discovered within the work. In
The Language of Displayed Art, it is clear that O’Toole finds himself drawing on
such knowledge, as Keefer (1996) points out, even though his aim is to create
something independent from this.
Finally one important difference, we believe, between the Hallidayan
inspired approach of Kress and Van Leeuwen and O’Toole is the tradition of
Critical Discourse Analysis in the former. There is a clearer sense of looking
for what view of the world is being communicated through semiotic resources.
As with lexical and grammatical choices in language, features of objects of
art can communicate discourses, or motivated versions of events, comprising
kinds of identities, values, assessments of events. This was Panofsky’s aim also,
although he never sought a grammar. Arguably this aspect of their approach
orients them more closely to look in the first place for what exactly is commu-
nicated. In O’Toole’s work we felt that, as in the tradition of much of linguis-
tics, the framework itself appeared to be the primary objective.
Following all these points does not exclude the possibility of consid-
ering how objects of art can fulfil Halliday’s communicative metafunctions.

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 139

 But we should not overlook these stages of analysis in our haste to show how
useful these functions can be.

Analysis of WW1 monuments

We begin with production context of the monuments. Here we gather infor-
mation about the statues as a motivated socially situated use of semiotic
resources, as a deliberate attempt to take up public space and communicate
political values on an everyday basis. Our analysis focuses on two monuments:
the Welsh National War Memorial in Cardiff unveiled in June 1928 (Fig 2) and
the Tunbridge Wells monument unveiled in 1923 (Fig 3) which we selected
from a study we undertook photographing 100 WW1 monuments.
The First World War from 1914–1918 saw an incredible death toll
of conscripted soldiers: an estimated 3 million were killed or wounded
from Britain alone and over 8 million in the war as a whole (Quinlan,
2005). Ninety percent of the UK dead were working class men (Bond
2002:24). While much of the press was filled with pro war propaganda
many working class people in Britain were unconvinced by the war. A fact
not well reported in British history books is the concern by the ruling
classes for the consequences of this, particularly considering the commu-
nist uprisings to the East and labour movement activities within the UK
(Hobsbawm, 1983).
It is in this context that we must understand WW1 monuments. The
monuments were one part of the propaganda machine to (re)contextualise the
massive death toll into a discourse of common sacrifice for God and nation.
Historians such as Hobsbawm (1983), Arnot, (1967) and Mosse, (1990) see
the construction of monuments around Britain as a core part of the deliberate
attempt by the authorities to consolidate the idea of nationhood, unity, and
the meaning of the war, in the face of the communist threat.
This official fear of communism and working class hatred of the war is
well documented by historians. According to Mosse (1990) the construction
of the Cenotaph in London was first proposed during peace celebrations in
July 1919 under a concern to promote national unity. Arnot (1967) refers to
the effect on British Parliamentary decisions following the revolution of 1917.
Strikes, mutinies and opposition to the war all increased in the year follow-
ing the Bolshevik revolution. Events in Russia were certainly in the minds of
the early Labour movement in Britain and influenced their early decisions in
party policy (McKibbin, 1974; Laybourn, 1997).
In his description of how, during this period, a revolutionary spirit was
spreading throughout Britain, Arnot quotes Lloyd George who said that the
whole of Europe was: ‘…filled with the spirit of revolution….there is a deep
sense not only of discontent, but of anger and revolt, amongst the workmen
against the war conditions. The whole existing order in its political, social and
economic aspects is questioned by the masses of the population from one end
of Europe to the other.’ (Arnot, 1967:150).

140 Visual Communication 9(2)

 Rudy (1918) spoke of the ‘dangers’ which might face the ‘homeland’
and ‘its empire’ when the soldiers returned from the war, fearing that they
would either go to ‘…to the extremist camp or he will help form some power-
ful organisation of his own’ (p551). He spoke of the enormous profits being
made by businessmen who were involved in the manufacturing of goods for
the war whilst living in the safety and comfort of home. The realisation of the
inequalities of society had, Rudy informs, dawned on ‘Tommy’ and was made
even more evident through the war process.
Historians recount the public hostility, heckling and anger at some of
the unveiling ceremonies of the monuments. In 1921, during the silence of a
remembrance ceremony at Dundee, some started singing The Red Flag, a riot
broke out and police had to disperse the crowd (Quinlan, 2005).
It is in this context that we must place our monument analysis. To this
we will add more specific information about design choices on the monu-
ments as we introduce our observations.

STYLE AND DESIGN

From 1914 to the mid 1920s when most of the WW1 monuments were built
there was a fashion in art deco and in classicism which had been common
in public buildings and monuments from the latter half of the 19th century.
This was highly influenced by the design styles of ancient Egypt. Post WW1

Figure 2  Cardiff statue and pillars (image credit: Gill Abousnnouga and David Machin).

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 141

 Figure 3  Tunbridge Wells monument (image credit: Gill Abousnnouga and David
Machin).

architecture suggests a desire to return to a time which connoted ideas of

strength and power, high ideals and thinking (Moriarty, 1997). Egypt, Greece
and Rome have long been a much idealised in Northern European thought
and served as a source of inspiration.
The Cardiff monument displays typical features of classicism. There
are columns that form a colonnade, as we might see seen on the Acropolis. In
fact some memorials such as at Lincoln closely resemble the Acropolis itself.
Other monuments use pilasters, which are the columns that project slightly
out of walls but area false and serve decorative rather than support functions.
These are often found on block style monuments either side of inscriptions.
Columns are often used to create portico which is sort of en entrance porch.
We see this on the Cardiff example. Such monuments reflecting the classical
style also have complete symmetry to give a sense of balance and elegance.
Here physical form comes to represent social and moral ideals. Monument
designers wrote of the connotations of such architectural styles being prima-
rily civilising. Also the clean, smooth lines of the classical architecture are able
to connote certainty and modernity. Troost (1942:7) wrote of the importance
of Greek style monuments built by the third Reich ‘how German order has

142 Visual Communication 9(2)

tamed the chaotic forces of the Eastern Steppes (cited p104 Michalski 1998).
It was through these references to classical civilisation that death was to be
connoted not only through sacrifice to nation depicted through inscriptions
but visually through themes of classical civilisation with high ideals and moral
balance.
The figures of the soldiers themselves are clearly inspired by Greek stat-
ues (Moriarty, 1997). This can be seen in the chiselled features and athletic
bodies of both the Tunbridge Wells and Cardiff and examples. The young boys
who died in the mud of France and Belgium become represented as Greek
Gods bursting with vitality and beauty. They themselves are represented as
fine art.

Poses
It is clear from the decisions of committees and designers that there was to be
no obvious aggression, fear or suffering in the monuments. Bourke (1996),
documenting the planning and production of the monuments, tells of how
the committee wished: ‘…no suggestion of callousness or brutality associ-
ated with war…’. There was to be an emphasis on how the ordinary man was
‘Called from his uneventful civil pursuits by the stern life, whilst the knowl-
edge of the horrors and possibilities of War enhance[d] his valour.’ (p228).
These decisions are reflected in the poses and facial expressions of stat-
ues that depict calmness and peace. The Tunbridge Wells statue waits, ready to
defend but calmly and peacefully, certainly not displaying aggression or fear.
Around Britain we find these Greek gods waiting calmly without fear, ready
for sacrifice. Soldiers on other monuments stride confidently, moving calmly
towards their goal.
On the Tunbridge Wells monument the soldier has removed his hel-
met, characteristic of many WW1 monuments. In Christian art the bare
head has had the symbolic meaning of revealing oneself to the power of God.
This is why a man should not pray with his head covered. In some cases it is
important to have the head covered as revealing the head requires consider-
able purity, which of course the soldier who sacrifices his life for the love of
King, God and county does have. The origins of this symbolism can be found
in Corinthians (1,11:7).
The removal of hats can also connote an individual spirit, a lack of
regimentation and control indicating that the soldier died out of individual
choice rather than coercion. Alternatively it can connote a sense of invulner-
ability, perhaps in immortality. The soldier stands strong, without need for
this kind of protection.
In the Cardiff memorial we find the soldiers in Olympian-style pose,
reaching upwards in energetic and graceful stretches, yet with calm and certain
facial expressions. The symbolism of the wreaths they hold themselves date
back to ancient Greece, adopted into Christianity as a symbol of the victory of
the redemption – laurels used to denote military victory. The wreaths are held

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 143

 up in offering to figures of dolphins and a winged figure. The in Christian art
dolphins are symbolic of the resurrection (Ferguson, 1942) and the winged
figures holding swords symbolic of victory (Quinlan, 2005). These religious
symbols were generally explained to the public at the unveiling ceremonies.

Gaze
Kress and Van Leeuwen (1996) were interested in the way that images can be
thought of as fulfilling the speech acts as described for language by Halliday
(1985). When we speak we can do one of four basic things: offer informa-
tion; offer services or goods; demand information; demand goods and serv-
ices. In each case there is an expected or alternative response possible. Kress
and Van Leeuwen (1996) thought images could fulfil two of these: ‘offer’ and
‘demand’. So images can be are seen by viewers as referencing actual acts of
interaction in talk.
In demand images the subject looks at the viewer who is therefore
addressed. This is a visual form of address. The viewer feels that their presence
is acknowledged and, just as when someone addresses us in social interaction,
some kind of response is required. Of course the kind of demand that is made
will depend on other factors such as facial expression, posture and setting. In
offer images the subject does not look at the viewer. There is no interaction
and the viewer feels unacknowledged. Here the viewer is encouraged to look
at the scene or individual solely as an onlooker or as a voyeur.
We can apply this model to the Cardiff and Tunbridge Wells’ statues.
Neither engage with the viewer and therefore demand no response through
gaze. Rather the figures look upwards, or forwards and upwards to the hori-
zon. So these image acts are offers rather than demands. We can of course ask
why they do not look at us. Had they done so this would have been problem-
atic. Had the soldiers looked at us a response would be demanded. Such a
design choice would have been disastrous in the context of wanting the public
to see the soldiers as part of a different world, one of the glory of God and
magnificence of classical civilisation. Better they look at the horizon, meta-
phorically to the future and high ideals.

Size
The figures in these monuments are slightly bigger than real-life people, but
normally only by about one foot in height. This makes them literally larger
than life although not to the extent that they appear outsized or like a giant.
We can imagine the effect of a very small soldier, about the size of a doll, or
alternatively of a very large one of about 30 foot soldier. Here we find asso-
ciations of size with significance and also with power. Vastly larger than life
statues are generally found often in cases of dictators where the idea is to cre-
ate an imposing image. We see this in the plywood figure of Saddam Husain
fixed to the Ishtar Gate in Baghdad in the 1980s. Michalski (1998) describes
this as ‘as unabashed but symbolically multifaceted ruler’s cult’ (p197). Such

144 Visual Communication 9(2)

outsized monuments are pure militarism. Another example is the Moscow
Stalin monument. Kruk (2008) suggests her size depicts community rather
than smaller figures that represent the individual. In the WW1 examples size
represent simply strong and invulnerable soldiers.
In the two monuments the soldiers are raised above ground level. To
draw out the meaning of this we can think of the difference were they being
at ground level, or even below ground level. Our language is replete in uses of
metaphors of height to mean status, as in upper class, high value, or to mean
dreamy as in head in the clouds versus feet on the ground. Raising the soldiers
suggests loftiness, as opposed to grounded, or even lowly or of the earth.
We can also think about how the statues are raised. The Tunbridge Wells
figure stands on a heavy square block. We can imagine the meaning potential
of a narrow slender support. We can see the difference in Nelson’s Column in
London. This suggests something more of elegance and nobility. Here we have
the meaning potential of objects that are short, stocky and stable compared
to those which are slender and appear taller, which can suggest instability but
also can appear more elegant than the stable, immovable block. Neither of the
Cardiff or Tunbridge Wells figures are placed on a column as might have been
the case for a Greek God and is the case in Nelson’s Column. The suggestion
is that while the soldiers appear next to classical architecture and themselves
take the form of classical statues they are not lifted to the status of God’s but
remain themselves as ordinary men. In the case of the Cardiff memorial the
figure is raised by standing on a step of the structure reaching up to the figure
of justice who is higher still. This also conveys some of the humility of the
soldier in the face of the greater cause although he is still a step close to this
than the viewer.

Materials and form

Panofsky (1972) emphasised that it was not only form but materials that
could communicate attitudes about a particular time and culture. Both the
Cardiff and Tunbridge Wells statues are of Bronze. On the one hand bronze
was known for its malleability, but we can also think about other associations
it might have. Bronze and marble have historically been the traditional mate-
rials for sculpture since the ancient Greeks. But by the end of the 19th century
a range of metals were available such as lead and the Victorians had turned to
making statues from cast iron. Aluminium was also available and was used at
the end of the 19th century for the statue of Eros in London’s Piccadilly Circus.
But both iron and aluminium were new. Bronze communicated tradition, or
more accurately, timelessness. Further, shiny aluminium would not have been
appropriate, and would have been more in line with the titanium Gagarin
monument depicting the first man in space in Moscow. Meanings of solidity
and permanence are also important here. Would aluminium, with its light-
ness, despite its rust resistance, have been able to connote timelessness and
stability?

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 145

 We can also ask the basic question of solidity. What for example, if the
statue was a metal framework representing the soldier rather than being solid
bronze? On the first point, Van Leeuwen (2005) reminds us that if can see the
core of three dimensional objects this may give us a sense of its vulnerability,
and suggests a degree of openness. Or we might think of it as representing
transparency. In this last sense it might be to see the workings, literally what is
beneath the surface. In this sense we can say that we are not invited to do this
in the case of these soldiers. They are not vulnerable, and we are certainly not
encouraged to look beneath the surface. This may seem an odd observation
since of course most public monuments are solid. But this is precisely because
they are generally used to depict solidity of character, a single uncomplicated
view of a figure to be revered, rather than analysed.
Finally we can describe surface realisation. We can think about this in
the way Kress and Van Leeuwen (1996) described visual truth or visual modal-
ity. It is the degree to which the surface of the statues is realised in the same
kind of detail as a figure in real life. Kress and van Leeuwen call this ‘articula-
tion of detail’. This is a continuum with decrease of detail on the one hand and
increase on the other. In the case of these statues actual creases in skin and
clothes are not present and hair is not depicted in detail. Therefore articula-
tion of detail is reduced. For Kress and Van Leeuwen this would means that
truth or ‘modality’ is lowered and that therefore these are not realistic repre-
sentations. Of course this would seem obvious. But we have to take the next
step and consider in what ways the detail has been reduced. On both these
statues detail has been replaced by smooth, certain, lines. On other statues it
replaced by blurring and rough lines as in the case of the Will Lambert project
for the Revensbrück Concentration Camp where the articulation of detail is
reduced by a texture of blurring. Both are less real, or low modality, but what is
the meaning potential of each? In the second case we have metaphorical blur-
ring of certainly and knowledge. In the first we have metaphorical certainty
and idealisation. Both lower modality yet to different effects. The Holocaust
memorial suggests difficulty in visualisation or comprehension. The surface of
the WW1 monuments suggest the opposite: ease of comprehension.

CONCLUSION
The new wave of semiotic approaches taking inspiration from Hallidayan lin-
guistics are challenging our analysis of paintings, sculpture and other media
to be more than an list of unconnected signs, to provide a common techni-
cal framework for describing and interpreting. In O’Toole’s work, while he
displays as Keefer (1996) says ‘a dazzling display of intellectual, art historical,
and aesthetic detail’ (p305), it is not clear that this has been accomplished. It
appears to help us to think about what kinds of functions elements and fea-
tures carry, although the conflation of observation with contextual knowledge
and the welter of concepts mean that the extent to which this increases our

146 Visual Communication 9(2)

sense of how the objects make meaning is not clear. The best work of Kress
and Van Leeuwen, on the other hand, drawing more closely on the observa-
tional work of Barthes and the sense of context and history in the fashion
from Panofsky often come a step closer.
Importantly we believe the finest work of Kress and Van Leeuwen
remains aligned to the traditional of Critical Discourse Analysis. As Hodge
and Kress (1988) point out, visual communication, like language, is used
ideologically. We should not overlook the extent to which governments and
corporations use visual semiotic resources for their own ends, to disseminate
specific representations of events? As we have shown in this paper, what objects
of art find their way into public places, their shapes and form, can teach us
much about the attitude, values and politics of a particular time and place.
The conventions and associations may be roughly shared, or have become
buried, but the discourses that they realise may well not.

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BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
GILL ABOUSNNOUGA teaches on the Language and Communication pro-
gramme at The University of Glamorgan. Her research interests are in the
application of visual communication theories to the analysis of military
discourse.
DAVID MACHIN works in the School of Journalism, Media and Cultural
Studies at Cardiff University. His recent publications include Global Media
Discourse (2007) with Theo Van Leeuwen and Introduction to Multimodal
Analysis (2007).

Abousnnouga and Machin: Analysing the language of war monuments 149