Landscape Into Eco Art Articulations of

Nature Since the 60s Mark A Cheetham

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://textbookfull.com/product/landscape-into-eco-art-articulations-of-nature-since-th
e-60s-mark-a-cheetham/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Articulations of Nature and Politics in Plato and Hegel

Vicky Roupa

https://textbookfull.com/product/articulations-of-nature-and-
politics-in-plato-and-hegel-vicky-roupa/

The Art Science Craft of Great Landscape Photography

1st Edition Randall

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-art-science-craft-of-great-
landscape-photography-1st-edition-randall/

The Theravada Abhidhamma Inquiry into the Nature of

Conditioned Reality Y. Karunadasa

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-theravada-abhidhamma-
inquiry-into-the-nature-of-conditioned-reality-y-karunadasa/

World of Art Interior Design Since 1900 Anne Massey

https://textbookfull.com/product/world-of-art-interior-design-
since-1900-anne-massey/
Geo Architecture and Landscape in China s Geographic
and Historic Context Volume 3 Geo Architecture Blending
into Nature 1st Edition Fang Wang (Auth.)

https://textbookfull.com/product/geo-architecture-and-landscape-
in-china-s-geographic-and-historic-context-volume-3-geo-
architecture-blending-into-nature-1st-edition-fang-wang-auth/

Art Since 1900 Modernism Antimodernism Postmodernism

Hal Foster

https://textbookfull.com/product/art-since-1900-modernism-
antimodernism-postmodernism-hal-foster/

Transforming the Landscape Rock Art and the

Mississippean Cosmos Carol Diaz-Granados

https://textbookfull.com/product/transforming-the-landscape-rock-
art-and-the-mississippean-cosmos-carol-diaz-granados/

The Cradle of Humanity: How the Changing Landscape of

Africa Made Us So Smart 1st Edition Mark Maslin

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-cradle-of-humanity-how-the-
changing-landscape-of-africa-made-us-so-smart-1st-edition-mark-
maslin/

Wired into Nature The Telegraph and the North American

Frontier James Schwoch

https://textbookfull.com/product/wired-into-nature-the-telegraph-
and-the-north-american-frontier-james-schwoch/
LANDSCAPE INTO ECO ART
 LANDSCAPE INTO ECO ART
Articulations of Nature Since the ’60s

Mark A. Cheetham

THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS UNIVERSITY PARK,

PENNSYLVANIA
Publication of this book has been aided by a grant from the Millard Meiss
Publication Fund of the College Art Assocation.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Cheetham, Mark A. (Mark Arthur), 1954– author.
Title: Landscape into eco art : articulations of nature since the ’60s / Mark A.
Cheetham.
Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University
Press, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Summary: “Explores the practices of ecological art, a genre addressing the
widespread public concern with rapid climate change and related
environmental issues. Examines connections and divergences between
contemporary eco art, land art of the 1960s and ’70s, and the historical genre
of landscape painting”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017041163 | ISBN 9780271080031 (cloth : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Ecology in art. | Earthworks (Art) | Landscape painting.
Classification: LCC N8217.E28 C49 2018 | DDC 700/.46—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041163

Copyright © 2018 Mark A. Cheetham

All rights reserved
Printed in Canada
Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–
1003

The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of

American University Presses.

It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper.
Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American
National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed
Library Material, ANSI Z39.48–1992.

FRONTISPIECE: Nancy Holt, Sun Tunnels, 1976 (detail). Great Basin Desert, Utah.
Photo: Nancy Holt. Courtesy of the Holt-Smithson Foundation. © 2016 Estate of
Nancy Holt / SODRAC, Montreal / VAGA, New York.
For Elizabeth, Anthea, and Nicholas
CONTENTS

List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE Manipulated Landscapes

CHAPTER TWO Beyond Suspicion: Why (Not) Landscape?

CHAPTER THREE Remote Control: Siting Land Art and Eco Art

CHAPTER FOUR Contracted Fields: “Nature” in the Art Museum

CHAPTER FIVE Bordering the Ubiquitous: The Art of Local and Global Ecologies

Notes
Bibliography
Index
ILLUSTRATIONS

1 Olafur Eliasson, The weather project, 2003

2 Roni Horn, Water, Selected, from Vatnasafn / Library of Water, 2007
3 Hans Haacke, Rhine Water Purification Plant, 1972
4 Robert Smithson, Upside Down Tree I, 1969
5 Joseph Beuys, 7000 Oaks, 1982–87
6 Mark Dion, Neukom Vivarium, 2007
7 Roy Arden, Pulp Mill Dump (#1) Nanaimo, B.C., 1992
8 Robert Smithson, Glue Pour, December 1969
9 Sam Durant, Upside Down Pastoral Scene, 2002 (detail)
10 Rodney Graham, Millennial Time Machine: A Landau Carriage Converted to a
Mobile Camera Obscura, 2003
11 Reinhard Reitzenstein, Transformer, 2000
12 Tom Ackers and Melanie Gilligan, Deep Time, 2013 (video still)
13 Peter Fischli and David Weiss, The Right Way, 1983 (video still)
14 Pierre Huyghe, Untilled: Alive Entities and Inanimate Things, Made and Not
Made, 2011–12 (detail)
15 Mark Dion, The Schildbach Xylotheque, 2011–12
16 Tacita Dean, Fatigues, 2012 (detail)
17 Rúrí, Archive: Endangered Waters, 2003
18 Diane Burko, Jakobshavn-Ilulissat Quartet, 2015
19 Mariele Neudecker, Over and Over, Again and Again, 2004 (detail)
20 Mariele Neudecker, There Is Always Something More Important, 2012
21 Kent Monkman, Trappers of Men, 2006
22 Kent Monkman, The Fourth World, 2012
23 Albert Bierstadt, Cho-looke, the Yosemite Fall, 1864
24 Kent Monkman, The Rise and Fall of Civilization, 2015
25 Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun, Scorched Earth, Clear-Cut Logging on Native
Sovereign Land, Shaman Coming to Fix, 1991
26 Arthur Renwick, Tah-ton-kah-he-yo-ta-kah (Sitting Bull), from Delegates:
Chiefs of Earth and Sky, 2004
27 Bonnie Devine, Battle for the Woodlands, 2014–15
28 N.E. Thing Co., North American Telexed Triangle (No. 1), 1969
29 Dennis Oppenheim, Directed Seeding—Cancelled Crop, 1969
30 John Gerrard, Sow Farm (near Libbey, Oklahoma) 2009
31 Sean Martindale, Curbed Concepts: NATURE, 2009
32 Michael Heizer, Levitated Mass, 2012.
33 Michael Sailstorfer, Forst, 2012
34 Sharon Switzer, #crazyweather, 2013 (video still)
35 Olafur Eliasson, Your embodied garden, 2013 (video still)
36 Robert Smithson, Map of Broken Clear Glass (Atlantis), 1969
37 Chris Drury, Double Echo, 2007
38 Nancy Holt, Views Through a Sand Dune, 1972
39 Nancy Holt, Sun Tunnels, 1976
40 James Nizam, Hydrangea in Room (Anteroom Series), 2007
41 Abelardo Morell, Tent-Camera Image on Ground: El Capitan from Cathedral
Beach, Yosemite National Park, 2012
42 Abelardo Morell, Camera Obscura Image of the Philadelphia Museum of Art,
East Entrance in Gallery #171 with a de Chirico Painting, 2005
43 Andrew Wright, Untitled Photograph #3 (Plant), 2013
44 Andrew Wright, Tree Correction #2, from Tree Corrections, 2012 (detail)
45 Andrew Wright, The Photograph: Suspended Tree, 2016 (detail)
46 Jeff Wall, The Crooked Path, 1991
47 Dennis Oppenheim, Annual Rings, 1968
48 Jarosław Koziara, Unity Fish, 2012
49 Lead Pencil Studio, Non-Sign II, 2010
50 Andreas Rutkauskas, Chemin de la Frontière, Québec, 2013
51 Alan Michelson, TwoRow II, 2005 (video still)
52 Shelley Niro, Border Series—Treaties, 2008
53 Mel Chin, Landscape, 1991
54 Xu Bing, Background Story: Qiu Shan Xian Yi Tu (秋山仙逸图), 2015
55 Yao Lu, Ancient Springtime Fey, 2006
56 Alan Sonfist, Crystal Monument, 1966–72
57 Mariele Neudecker, Dark Years Away, 2013 (video still)
58 Paul Walde, Requiem for a Glacier, 2013 (production still)
59 Isabelle Hayeur, Substances, 2012
60 Isabelle Hayeur, Limulus, 2014
61 Joseph Mallord William Turner, War: The Exile and the Rock Limpet, exhibited
1842.
62 Simon Starling, One Ton II, 2005
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It is a singular pleasure to acknowledge the many people and

organizations who have enabled my research on this book over
many years. Invaluable research support came from the Social
Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Banff
Centre for the Arts. A generous subvention came from the Millard
Meiss Publication Fund at the College Art Association of America. I
am grateful to the editors at the following publishers and
publications for permission to extend here my work already in print:
the Comité International d’Histoire de l’Art, the Journal of Visual
Culture, Leonardo, McGill-Queen’s University Press, Plastic Blue
Marble, nonsite, and Word and Image. Thanks as well to the
representatives of artists’ estates, Alamy, ARS, SODRAC, VAGA, and
the public and commercial galleries who provided images and
permissions. Many of the artists whose work I discuss have been
exceptionally accommodating in supplying information, images, and
permissions. Special thanks to Diane Burko, Isabelle Hayeur, Sean
Martindale, Mariele Neudecker, Reinhard Reitzenstein, Rúrí, Paul
Walde, and Andrew Wright.
I benefited greatly from opportunities to present work in progress
at a number of conferences and institutions. Thanks to the
conveners of sessions at College Art Association meetings in 2009,
2014, and 2016, and to my hosts and students at the University of
Texas at Austin (Linda D. Henderson, Glenn Peers), Brandeis
University (Aida Yuen Wong), the Clark Art Institute (Jordan Bear,
Michael Ann Holly, Mark Phillips), the Courtauld Institute (Ayla
Lepine), McGill University and the Musée d’art contemporain de
Montréal (Christine Ross), the McMichael Canadian Collection,
Nanjing University (Zhou Xian, Jing Chen), NSCAD University (Bruce
Barber), Washington College (Donald McColl), the University of
Toronto, Yangzhou University (Maria Ding, Phillip Xue), and York
University’s Department of Science and Technology Studies.
It has been a pleasure to work with Penn State University Press.
My thanks to Laura Reed-Morrisson, managing editor; Hannah
Hebert, editorial assistant; Keith Monley, copyeditor; and Ellie
Goodman, executive editor, whose enthusiasm for this book was a
great support. Two anonymous readers were unstintingly helpful
with their comments.
The outstanding undergraduate and graduate students at the
University of Toronto have been enthusiastic and astute interlocutors
on landscape and ecological art. Many have since graduated to
important positions in academe and the gallery world. My thanks to
Nina Amstutz, Julie Boivin, Emily Ducet, Danielle Forest, Corrie
Jackson, Adi Louria-Hayon, Julia Lum, and Gwen MacGregor. Jackson
Davidow, Alyssa Kuhnert, Katie Lawson, and Devon Smither provided
research assistance. I am especially grateful to Michaela Rife, who
was an invaluable interlocutor as I completed this book in mid-2016.
Central sections of this book examine Indigenous engagements
with land and landscape. I wish to acknowledge the land on which
the University of Toronto operates. For thousands of years it has
been the traditional land of the Huron-Wendat, the Seneca, and,
most recently, the Mississaugas of the Credit River. Today, this
meeting place is still home to many Indigenous people from across
Turtle Island, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to work on
this land. Sincere thanks to Bonnie Devine, Jessica Jacobsen-
Konefall, Alan Michelson, Shelley Niro, and Arthur Renwick, from
whom I have learned much (but not yet enough) about land and
landscape in Indigenous contexts.
Colleagues, curators, and patient friends have been supportive of
this project in myriad ways. Sincere thanks to Amanda Boetzkes, Tim
Barringer, Mary Beebee, Suzaan Boettger, Phillip Burnham, Deepali
Dewan, Mitchell Frank, Emily Gilbert, Janice Gurney, Linda D.
Henderson, Ted Hiebert, Michael Ann Holly, Ihor Holubizky, Susan
Jarosi, Caroline Jones, Greg Levine, Keith Moxey, John O’Brian, Andy
Patton, Mark Phillips, Ruth Phillips, Tom Rand, Susana Reisman, Kitty
Scott, Ila Sheren, Gary Shapiro, Joy Sleeman, Sarah Stanners, Claire
Sykes, Sarah Turner, William Vaughan, and Marilyn Wyatt. My
inspiringly brilliant departmental colleagues Jordan Bear, Yi Gu,
Elizabeth Harney, Kajri Jain, Louis Kaplan, and SeungJung Kim have
my enduring gratitude for conversations about this project.
My happiest acknowledgment is to Elizabeth D. Harvey, with
whom I had the enduring privilege to visit and discuss many of the
artworks pivotal to my thinking in this book, especially Pope’s grotto,
Spiral Jetty, and Vatnasafn / Library of Water.

Toronto, January 2017

CHAPER ONE

MANIPULATED LANDSCAPES

One does not have to be a great seer to predict that the relationship
between humans and nature will, in all probability, be the most
important question of the present century.
PHILIPPE DESCOLA, THE ECOLOGY OF OTHERS (2013)

Rapid climate change and its increasingly serious consequences

worldwide encourage many artists and scholars to ask an old
question with renewed urgency: what can we do in the face of these
pressing planetary problems? As one commentator suggests,
“individual action over lightbulbs or transport seems to make no
difference contrasted with the new coal fired power station being
built weekly in China.”1 “Eco art” engages this conundrum in ways
that make it one of the most vibrant aspects of contemporary art.
Eco art emerged in North America and Europe in the 1970s. Much
augmented in the 1990s, it is now extensively exhibited and
discussed.2 A short form for “ecological art,” it embraces a range of
contemporary practices that investigate the interconnected
environmental, aesthetic, social, and political relationships between
human and nonhuman animals as well as inanimate material
through the visual arts. My zeal to explore eco art began with Olafur
Eliasson’s celebrated installation The weather project (fig. 1).
Displayed indoors and in a quintessentially urban setting, the vast
space of the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern in 2003, the spectacle
attracted over two million visitors in just six months.3 If Eliasson’s
overtly artificial indoor sun and atmosphere promised an experience
of “nature,” why would so many people come to an art gallery to
experience what we commonly think of as out of doors and
nonurban? This paradox is one of many addressed by contemporary
eco art, which consistently questions our understanding and
experience of nature. On a smaller scale but with great emotional
impact, Roni Horn’s Vatnasafn / Library of Water (2007; fig. 2), in
Stykkishólmur, Iceland, focuses our attention on the loss of glaciers
worldwide. Sited in the institutional space of a transformed former
public library, far away from world art centers, Library of Water, like
The weather project, solicits local reactions to nature within a
“climate-controlled” setting. Horn includes a record of a hundred
interviews about the weather conducted with Icelanders in 2005–6.
Titled Weather Reports You, this component is available in the
reading room adjacent to her installation and as a separate artist’s
book. Eco art also expands well beyond these art-world contexts. A
notable example is the Center for Land Use Interpretation (CLUI),
based in Los Angeles, a collaborative research group “dedicated to
the increase and diffusion of knowledge about how the nation’s
lands are apportioned, utilized, and perceived.”4 CLUI’s expeditions
and projects question not only land use from the artistic to the
military but also the nature of artistic production and research as
they engage human interactions with the earth, past and present.
FIG. 1 Olafur Eliasson, The weather project, 2003. Monofrequency lights, projection
foil, haze machines, mirror foil, aluminum, scaffolding, 26.7 × 22.3 × 155.44 m.
Tate Modern, London, 2003. Photo: Andrew Dunkley and Marcus Leith. Courtesy of
the artist; neugerriernschneider, Berlin; and Tanya Bonakdar Gallery, New York. ©
2003 Olafur Eliasson.

FIG. 2 Roni Horn, Water, Selected, from Vatnasafn / Library of Water. Permanent
installation since 2007, Stykkishólmur, Iceland. Photo courtesy of Roni Horn. ©
Roni Horn.

Eco art’s responses to perceived planetary crises are as numerous

as the disquiet around climate change is extensive. They are as
individual as they are global in implication, and often as material as
they are embroiled in both cultural and scientific ideas. The
timeliness and complexity of eco art have led to an extensive range
of exhibitions and publications, many with rubrics for coming to
terms with the variety and priorities of this phenomenon in the art
world.5 More than most contemporary art practices, eco art also
transcends conventional borders of inquiry. As many examples
throughout this book show, it often incorporates scientific and
technological evaluations of environmental concerns. A question and
response posed in the exhibition Carbon 14: Climate Is Culture
(2013) say it all: “What does culture have to do with climate
change? Everything.”6 Thus it is no surprise that understanding eco
art’s perspectives on these insistent issues is also a growing priority
across the humanities and within art history and the study of visual
culture, as witnessed by the emergence of “eco art history.” An
understanding of these perspectives is central to this book because it
is the lens through which a scholarly understanding of contemporary
eco art is perceived. As defined in a College Art Association of
America session in 2014, eco art history is designed to “bring
together art historians from diverse fields to work toward a more
earth-conscious mode of analysis.”7 The initiative has been built on a
number of precedents in the discipline, especially Alan Braddock and
Christoph Irmscher’s foundational collection A Keener Perception. In
his 2009 article “Ecocritical Art History,” Braddock linked ecocriticism
in other disciplines with art-historical inquiry: “For art historians,
ecocriticism entails a more probing and pointedly ethical integration
of visual analysis, cultural interpretation, and environmental history
—including aspects of the history of science—than has prevailed in
the field” (27). Important too were model discussions in the 1990s,
including special issues of the Art Journal and Leonardo.8 It is only in
the later 2000s that the imperatives of eco art have been widely
noticed. The collection Landscape Theory, based on discussions in
2006, is a prominent case in point. Respondent David Nye records
his “surprise at how little the roundtable focused on the ecological
sense of landscape. Environmental history and ecology were
apparently not much on anyone’s mind” in the mid-2000s.9 Kirsten
Swenson presciently asked in 2010 if “recent land- and
environmental-based practices that blur disciplinary boundaries
demand a new form of art history that similarly blurs distinctions
between itself and other disciplines, or between theory and
practice.”10 That new form is eco art history.
Landscape into Eco Art provides an armature for understanding a
wide range of environmentally and ecologically focused art practices
in what is now variously called the “Anthropocene”—the
controversial term introduced by Paul Crutzen to describe the epoch
in which human activity has become a force of nature—the
“Capitalocene” (Jason W. Moore), and the “Chthulucene” (Donna
Haraway), the last of which underscores the main cause of global
warming, industrialization. Jussi Parikka’s memorable neologism,
“Anthrobscene,” stresses the obscenity of the wanton disregard for
and humiliation of integrity, that of the earth, of humans, of
nonhuman animals, and of other organisms and inanimate
materials.11 Eco art is not a fashion or style among others: at its
best, it is the site of frank engagements with many pressing crises in
the Anthropocene, from species depletion to climate disruption to
resource shortages,12 issues that entail reassessments of human
nature and anthropocentrism in relationship to the planet. Eco art
boldly enters into today’s debates on climate science, government
policy, and both corporate and individual responsibility. Eco art is not
monolithic any more than “science” is; aesthetic experiments and
interventions do not promise solutions to climate change, for
example, but instead enter into what Bruno Latour optimistically
calls the “fruitful cacophony” of discussion.13
I make the case that it is not sufficient to consider eco art only as
a phenomenon within contemporary art, as an equally important (or
inconsequential) trend among many. Humans have been held
responsible not only for the planetary condition called the
Anthropocene but also for cognate exploitations witnessed in the
older landscape genre. Ian MacLaren calls the picturesque, a default
way of seeing in Western societies from the early eighteenth century
until the early twentieth, “an almost obscene practice” because of its
integral relationships with colonization worldwide.14 The ways of
seeing the earth common to landscape depiction were much more
than mirrors of societal attitudes. They reinforced, developed, and
disseminated these paradigms of the human relationship to the
planet. My approach keeps this history current: to understand
contemporary eco art as distinctive and significant in the present,
but also as crucially connected to long-standing interactions with the
earth in the visual arts and art history of the West, I reassess its
artistic and theoretical reengagements with both the landscape
genre’s venerable representations of the earth and also with land art
of the 1960s and 1970s.15 Landscape’s ascent as a genre occurred in
collaboration with the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth century
—a favored starting point for the Anthropocene16—and the
imperialisms of the nineteenth century. Earthworks and land art
developed at the same time and in the same cultural milieu as mid-
twentieth-century environmentalism in the United States and
Europe. Ongoing relationships with eco art also illuminate the
landscape genre and land art retrospectively, as, for example, in Vik
Muniz’s Pictures of Pigment series, in which the artist often
redeploys famous landscape paintings by building up powdered
pigment that he then photographs, and his equally self-conscious
revision of land art in Spiral Jetty After Robert Smithson, from the
series Brooklyn, NY (1997). I present many more examples of this
connection in chapter 2.
Of course, you may say, do we not already understand these
parallels? Yes, and no. Consciously echoing Kenneth Clark’s
groundbreaking but frequently criticized Landscape into Art (1949;
2nd ed., 1976),17 but not sharing his pessimism about the ongoing
potency of the genre of landscape, Landscape into Eco Art works to
complicate and ultimately to justify the linkage of historical
landscape as a genre, land art, and eco art and to address in new
ways the questions of how “land” comes into eco art.18 One
objection to Clark’s account of the landscape genre is that he plots a
linear progression through which landscape elements, once simply
decorative or stage-setting supplements in religious and historical
paintings, achieve independent status in the nineteenth century as
“pure” landscape. Accounts of landscape as a genre—and as a more
general, fluid response to nature in art—since Clark’s time similarly
suggest, with varying degrees of explicitness, that landscape, land
art, and then eco art also follow chronologically, dialectically, and in
some accounts teleologically one from the other, and that landscape
ends as Clark predicted. For example, in his nuanced survey
Landscape and Western Art (1999), Malcolm Andrews proceeds from
the emergence of landscape as an identifiable subset of European
art, through a sophisticated thematic reading of its development up
to the early twentieth century, to a concluding chapter titled
“Landscape into Land: Earth Works, Art, and Environment.” But land
art was not simply the next step in a sequence. These tendencies in
the 1960s and 1970s had strong but, I believe, understudied
relationships to the landscape genre and to land beyond this
aesthetic and art-historical context. While the newer work often saw
itself as replacing the purportedly outworn genre of landscape
painting, it evolved in a dialectical relationship with it that is still
operational, though rarely acknowledged, in eco art today. Robert
Smithson’s articulation of an antipicturesque in his 1967 essay “A
Tour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jersey” and related visual
works is a prime case in point. Aiming to augment rather than to
curtail material and intellectual connections, as noted above,
Smithson dismisses the landscape painting of the museums as
restrictive: “Representing nature once removed in lyric poetry and
landscape painting is not the same as direct cultivation of the land,”
he writes in his long essay praising Frederick Law Olmsted.19 “I think
we all see landscape as coextensive with the gallery,” he claimed in
1968, in what seems like a reference to landscape painting.20 As
pioneer land artist Michael Heizer asserted colorfully, looking directly
at the land was “more interesting than looking at works in the
Louvre or Metropolitan.”21 For many land artists, the new approach
disrupted ties to the model of the artist in (typically) his studio, the
gallery system, medium-specific formalism, tired monumental
sculpture in public spaces, traditional art materials and finish in
sculptural work, the urban, and especially the landscape genre.
Many art historians and artists have adopted this dismissal of
landscape, both as it denotes a genre—a compendium of historical
practices—and as an elaboration of “land,” a putatively more
fundamental category. In the authoritative Land and Environmental
Art, published in 1998, Brian Wallis declares that land art “had
virtually nothing to do with such conventional notions of landscape
as gardening, open prairies, [or] natural rock formations.”22 Amanda
Boetzkes claims that “earth art resists delivering nature as a
thematic image, such as a landscape, or a tangible object, such as a
specimen in a natural history museum.”23 Calling for an end to
traditional landscape conventions in art because they block our
access to nature considered more expansively, John E. Thornes also
argues that in eco-art contexts “the use of the term landscape is
misleading. It implies a static material approach, whereas artists like
Constable and Turner, from the beginning of the nineteenth century,
painted representations of their total physical and built environment
(land, air, water, light, plants, trees, animals, people, buildings).”24
Ginger Strand claims that “[n]o one believes in landscape anymore.
As a self-contained genre, pretty vistas and sublime scenes seem
compromised.”25 Chapters 2 and 3 show that her view is largely
correct, but not if construed as a somehow progressive evolution
away from historical landscape practices. A pivotal case in point is
the powerful landscape imagery of Icelandic artist Georg Guðni
(1961–2011), who stated early in his career that he and his peers
believed that “landscape was old-fashioned and uninteresting,”26 but
went on to extend the genre to new heights of observation and
subtlety. Again promoting the familiar developmental narrative,
however, central 1970s eco artists—Helen Mayer Harrison and
Newton Harrison in the United States and Richard Long in the United
Kingdom, for example—reacted to what they perceived as machine-
driven interventionist extravagances in American land art of the
1960s and saw their alternative processes as an improvement on the
less ecologically refined procedures of much land art. Concerned
mostly with land art as an immediate predecessor, however, early
eco artists often ignored the nuances of earlier landscape expression
and its ongoing import. In echoing but fundamentally revising Clark’s
title, then, my aim is to insist that the landscape genre did not
simply end, as he predicted, and that it is far from irrelevant today.
Landscape does not easily slide “into” eco art, but neither is it a
cast-off remnant of a Hegelian unfolding. Landscape into Eco Art
presents a sustained argument for considering continuities between
aspects of the landscape tradition in the West, land art of the 1960s
and 1970s, and contemporary ecological art. By attending to a full
range of relationships among these modes of engagement with the
earth, I recover aspects of the unrecognized history of the landscape
genre and also explore the art-historical implications of construing a
longer tradition of landscape presentation and representation that
includes land art and eco art in an ongoing drama of articulation.

LANDSCAPE, LAND ART, ECO ART

It is ca. 1970, then, that three somewhat distinct modes of

engagement with the earth in Western art are designated: the long-
standing landscape genre, earthworks and land art, and something
new, described with the portmanteau “eco art” and its variants. This
description finds clear and influential expression in John Beardsley’s
Earthworks and Beyond, first published in 1984 and now in its fourth
edition (2006). Linking the landscape tradition to land art, Beardsley
claims in his introduction that “[i]n the early 1980s . . . it was clear
that landscape was reappearing as one of the most consequential
subjects in art—a position it had not enjoyed since the mid-
nineteenth century. It was also evident that landscape was emerging
in a different guise” (7). Not only does Beardsley imply that
earthworks are part of a landscape tradition, but his reference to
“beyond” in his title also suggests homologies between land art and
eco art now. He has added an afterword called “The Global
Landscape” to the latest edition, an account that includes examples
of what he calls “environmental art” in an unbroken tradition of
Western landscape depiction. While I agree with Beardsley—and in
general with Barbara C. Matilsky, in her groundbreaking exhibition
Fragile Ecologies (1992)—that landscape as a genre and as a loose
description of aesthetic responses to land (and other historical
examples of “form building in the landscape” such as earth mounds
and gardens) is germane to land art and to eco art, I mean to slow
down the progression from and intercalation of one form into the
other.27 I reexamine what I call the “hinges” between landscape and
land art, between land art and eco art, and also between landscape
and eco art, the eco art that is more involved with landscape than
with land art. One revisionary implication of this procedure is that
the break in artists’ practices between early land art and 1974, to
use the subtitle of the 2012 exhibit Ends of the Earth, is not as
significant as the exhibit’s cocurators (or, before them, Suzaan
Boettger in Earthworks) claim.28
While reasons to link landscape traditions with land art and eco art
are manifest, the more common move has been for artists and art
historians to suggest a break between such practices. Heizer,
Smithson, and Wallis (cited above) are examples; more widely read
in academic circles is W. J. T. Mitchell’s examination of the genre of
landscape in his influential collection Landscape and Power, first
published in 1994 and again in an enlarged edition in 2002.
Inaugurating this landmark study of new approaches to the genre,29
the remarkable, even Wittgensteinian, “Theses on Landscape” with
which Mitchell provocatively begins his own contribution to the
volume, “Imperial Landscape,” have an ironic ring today. Dismissing
the object of study that he and his co-authors powerfully revise,
Mitchell asserts in thesis 8 that “[l]andscape is an exhausted
medium, no longer viable as a mode of artistic expression” (5).
Unlike many land artists, he does not dispute the genre’s past
importance, but with them, he is dubious about its present and
future if a restrictive, retrograde version of the genre continues to be
employed. My point is that continuities and discontinuities cannot be
discussed adequately if we decide on principle that the landscape
tradition is irrelevant. To forget or dismiss landscape’s history is to
cut off resources for and recourse to currently relevant practices and
theories. We understand less about both landscape and eco art by
considering them separately. Yet there is a strong inclination to sever
landscape traditions from land art and contemporary practices, an
inclination that follows, in part, from the power of such traditions
and later artists’ and art historians’ need to be independent. For
example, while Nicholas Alfrey and Joy Sleeman are certainly right to
warn against “questionable assumptions about the continuity and
adaptability of a British landscape tradition,”30 my contention is that
both the connections and differences need to be considered rather
than dismissed. I am attempting, not to revive landscape in an
earlier form, but to remember it, to avoid what artist Maya Lin—
using author Jared Diamond’s phrase—calls “landscape amnesia,”31
whether in the sense of landscape depiction of the earth or
conceived as a landscape more materially, the abundance of our
planetary environment, the decline of which her work tracks. I argue
that the future of artistic engagements with the earth has been and
remains tied to the specifics of the past of landscape in two principal
ways: First, both land artists and contemporary eco artists interact
with the landscape genre more significantly than is commonly
allowed. Second, landscape, land art, and eco art mutually inform
one another, beyond these documented historical interactions, in a
manner that becomes visible with hindsight.
Both Patricia Parker and Mieke Bal have theorized the notion of
the “preposterous” in ways that can help us think through such
temporal relationships. As Parker claims, “Preposterous . . . connotes
a reversal of ‘post’ for ‘pre,’ behind for before, back for front, second
for first, end or sequel for beginning. . . . the preposterous also
disrupts the linear orders of succession and following.” In Bal’s
extended usage, it is an activity that yields a preposterous art
history, one keenly aware of its own historicality in the present.32 If
landscape is best thought of as a medium and as an action (think of
landscaping a garden), as Mitchell suggests, then it functions in this
book as another hinge, a pivot point, a mediator. Sometimes the
connections between historical and more recent work are causal; in
other cases the links are analogical. We could also call this approach
“nonlinear” as defined by Manuel De Landa. He suggests that we
should not think of human history—in this context, of “landscape”—
as “different ‘stages’ . . . that is, progressive developmental steps,
each . . . leaving the previous one behind. On the contrary,” he
explains, “much as water’s solid, liquid, and gas phases may coexist,
so each new human phase simply added itself to the other ones,
coexisting and interacting with them without leaving them in the
past.”33 The need for nonlinear and nondevelopmental thinking
arises, for example, in comprehending the chill we must feel looking
at Agnes Denes’s documentation of her rightly famous 1982
Wheatfield—A Confrontation: Battery Park Landfill, Downtown
Manhattan. Photographs of this work feature the World Trade
Center’s twin towers, symbols in the 1980s of mercantile power and
its avoidance of ecological issues, such as the productive use of the
vacant land. The destruction of the towers on September 11, 2001,
changes Wheatfield retrospectively: because neither the buildings
nor her performative earthwork exist now, Denes’s intervention in
1982 seems darkly prophetic, not of a terrorist attack, but of
ecological calamity and the excesses of the Anthropocene, in which
the exploitative use of land that Denes revealed is seen as a cause
of ecological crises today.

DIRECT ACTION, AESTHETIC SEPARATION AND WITHDRAWAL,

ARTICULATION

Eco art today provides a full spectrum of attitudes toward nature,

landscape, and ecology and suggests many responses to questions
about its purposes or intended efficacy. These can be construed
through three interlocking descriptions of its tendencies: direct
action, aesthetic separation and withdrawal, and articulation. While
not categorically different, the eco-art practices I now turn to tend to
emphasize one of these priorities. What Flint Collins instructively
calls “site-reformative” eco art is dominant today.34 Its ethic of direct
and ameliorative intervention in environmental problems extends the
heritage of earlier land-reclamation projects such as Robert Morris’s
1979 Johnson Pit #30, which relandscaped an open excavation; Mel
Chin’s Revival Field (1991–93), which extracted toxic heavy metals
from soil; and Jackie Brookner’s patented Biosculptures, such as
Prima Lingua (1996), which employed plants as water purifiers. On a
much larger scale is Viet Ngo’s Devil’s Lake Wastewater Treatment
Plant, in North Dakota (1990). Kindred eco-art projects seek to be
informative in ways that can change people’s behavior toward the
environment.35 A prime example is Subhankar Banerjee’s Arctic
Series Photographs (2000–) and his related book Arctic National
Wildlife Refuge: Seasons of Life and Land (2003), which, by showing
this apparently pristine and fragile habitat, spurred U.S.
governmental protection of arctic land, species, and Indigenous
human populations.36 This positive result echoes the earliest
example of collaboration between art forms to sway public and
government opinion on the environment, from writings by Thoreau
to photographs by Ansel Adams and Carleton Watkins to paintings
by Albert Bierstadt and Thomas Moran, which stood behind the 1864
act in the U.S. Congress to protect the Yosemite Valley. As Sandrine
Simon has argued by invoking the emotional register that I examine
in chapter 5, “ecological artists have been able to emotionally shake
their public, be it society in general or even policy makers, both by
portraying the beauty of nature and by expressing their outrage
concerning the destruction of the environment. The work of
photographers such as Ansel Adams in the Yosemite Valley provided
a direct continuity with landscape painting and played an essential
role in the creation of the ‘conservation movement’ and national
parks in the USA and elsewhere.”37 Though responses to and
characterizations of more recent reformative work varies, other
examples include the alarming photographs of environmental
degradation by Edward Burtynsky or David Maisel and Maya Lin’s
What Is Missing?, a multiplatform undertaking, one of whose
elements is a melancholic interactive website begun in 2009 that
documents what many scientists are calling the sixth mass extinction
of life on earth.
 Prominent eco artist Jackie Brookner (1945–2015) raised a crucial
point about reclamation art, however, one that spurs me to see it as
one among several compelling practices rather than the necessary
goal of eco art. Referring to her own work but in a way that pertains
to Chin’s Revival Field and other reclamation projects, she writes:

But if the plants are doing the work, why not just grow them in
the ground, as in most bioremediation and ecological restoration
projects? Why grow them on sculptures? And why do we need
art to do what bioremediation and ecological restoration are
already doing? The aesthetic, metaphoric and conceptual
functions of Biosculptures™ are important because for true
ecological restoration, it is not enough to restore the
ecosystems. We need to change ourselves. To bring about a
future where we can move beyond restoration, beyond an
endless cycle of loss and repair where we keep having to
bandage new wounds, we need a restoration of human values.
We need to revision what we value and undervalue, in the
world, in ourselves, and in our identification of ourselves as
species. We need to make the restoration processes visible and
understandable, and we need to engage the attention,
imagination and heart of the public. To affect values, to create
desire, to make people care about something, you have to
affect hearts, bodies, unconscious dream lives and imaginations.
And this is the work art can do so well.38

How do we distinguish reclamation work from green engineering,

design, or social activism, and are such distinctions useful? T. J.
Demos’s extraordinarily rich book Decolonizing Nature has as a main
goal “to further enliven [the] intersection of art and activism” (11).
Without diminishing the import of these crossings and priorities in
eco art today, I provide a different emphasis, one that articulates
distinctions between the aesthetic and artistic dimensions of eco-art
practices and more overtly political pursuits and is therefore able to
bring eco art’s manifold interactions with land art and landscape to
the fore. In Alan C. Braddock’s apt phrasing, “What is the art in
ecological art, exactly?”39 For example, Mel Chin has said that the
greatest triumph of his Revival Field was its ability to test and prove
scientific hypotheses about hyperconductor plants and soil pollution.
For him, the question of whether we call this art or science or
engineering is not important.40 But is some degree of separation
warranted, perhaps even to uphold art’s ability to make a difference
precisely through its difference? I agree with Malcolm Miles’s claim
that “art interrupts and exposes contradictions; it intervenes to re-
inflect the conditions by which it is conditioned; and this dialectical
function validates art’s response to climate change, as it also
validates political movements, as part of a process of change which
is never completed.”41 We can adapt two of Theodore Adorno’s
arguments to investigate eco art’s specifically aesthetic dimensions
as it confronts climate change, a process I define as “articulation.”42
In Aesthetic Theory (1970), Adorno holds that if art is to remain
connected to momentous societal problems, it must fight for an
identity distinguishable (if not fully autonomous) from its ambient
culture. As he writes, “All efforts to restore art by giving it a social
function . . . are doomed” (1). In his terms, “Art’s double character
as both autonomous and fait social is incessantly reproduced on the
level of its autonomy” (5). On this view, the German artist Herman
Prigann’s (1942–2008) many land restorations in Europe, for
example, must function as art as well as repair unsightly and toxic
strip mines. Art must be identifiable as such if it is to have an effect.
There are many possible objections to this stance. Miles claims
that eco art “crosses boundaries between art, social research, and
environmentalism so that it no longer matters whether it is art or
something else.” He suggests, hopefully, that “if the aim is to shift
the balance of humanity’s relation to the earth from exploitation to
sustenance, this implies a shift in human relations as a point of
departure. . . . An ecological aesthetic [can be seen as an]
intervention in social conditions, seeing human nature not in a
biological sense as beyond history, but as produced in history. . . .
Art can intervene in writing the scripts, interrupting the processes of
normalization.”43 His prime example is Mierle Laderman Ukeles’s
Touch Sanitation (1974–84), a now-legendary project in which the
artist, by shaking the hand of every sanitation worker in New York
City, drew attention to the urban sanitation systems that we
unheedingly depend upon. But his point, while in keeping with the
fundamental ecological premise of the interconnectedness of all
phenomena, is made precipitously. Granted, what we humans call a
given eco-aesthetic project is of no account to nature. But our
naming and categorizing practices do matter profoundly to us and to
how humans behave toward nonhumans: these attitudes influence,
if not determine, what we see and how we act, as the histories of
the overdetermined concepts of “art” and “nature” attest. An
example was related by author Jack Burnham in 1967: “I can
remember when [Hans] Haacke took me to see an example of his
first water boxes (spring 1962), then in the rental collection of the
Museum of Modern Art in New York. A secretary commented that the
museum personnel had been playing with it for days—it seemed to
have caused more joyful curiosity than any number of ‘sculptures’—
for that reason the museum never thought seriously of buying it as a
‘work of art.’”44
Adorno wrote powerfully on nature and natural history, but my
aim is not to engage with these speculations per se but rather to
pose a version of his famous challenge to the aesthetic as it
operates in the contemporary. According to Adorno, “To write poetry
after Auschwitz is barbaric.”45 Brian A. Oard has glossed his
argument: “To persist, after Auschwitz, in the production of
monuments of the very culture that produced Auschwitz (Adorno
might have spoken of Strauss’s Four Last Songs rather than
generalized ‘poetry’) is to participate by denial in the perpetuation of
that barbaric culture and to participate in the process (reification)
that renders fundamental criticism of that culture literally
unthinkable.”46 I can specify my stress on the “art” in eco art by
asking if it is legitimate to recast Adorno’s pointed question about
the authenticity of artistic expression in light of contemporary
ecocide. After all, it is the mechanisms of what we might best call
the “modernocene”47 that have allowed our contemporary art world
to thrive. As Kate Rigby has pointed out, the Holocaust and the
effects of climate change differ on many counts, not least in the
premeditation of consequences in Nazi Germany versus the large-
scale obliviousness in the drift toward climate catastrophe.48 Can we
justifiably make art about nature in full cognizance of anthropogenic
climate disruption? Can eco art continue in its creation of objects
and interventions in the face of humanity’s undeniable acceleration
of global climate change? Looking at the question of ecological
thinking in the discipline of history, Dipesh Chakrabarty presents
both the reasons for and stakes of any suggestion that “business as
usual” is viable: “anthropogenic explanations of climate change spell
the collapse of the age-old humanist distinction between natural
history and human history and end by returning to the question . . .
How does the crisis of climate change appeal to our sense of human
universals while challenging . . . our capacity for historical
understanding?”49 Should we continue to produce works and to
display them using the same largely capitalist structures and
attitudes that spawned our current climate problems? I would say
yes, if eco art’s effects lie in reflecting and modifying the long-
standing relationships between artistic expression, landscape, and
human views of the earth and nature. With Adorno again, it is only
from a sometimes-nominal remove that defines it as art that eco art
can meaningfully speak to our current climate predicament. How
should we respond as a species now that we are what Chakrabarty
calls a “geological force”? Ways to proceed are offered in
philosopher Lorraine Code’s book Ecological Thinking, among them a
process she defines as the “study of habitats both physical and
social where people endeavor to live well together; of ways of
knowing that foster or thwart such living; and thus of the ethos and
habitus enacted in the knowledge and actions, customs, social
structures, and creative-regulative principles by which people strive
or fail to achieve this multiply realizable end” (26). One way to
support living well together, Code elaborates, is to question the
largely science-oriented discourses of mastery that are a legacy of
the Enlightenment. This eco art does.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Faustus, Dr (Marlowe), v. 202, 203, 206, 207, 247; vii. 36; x. 274.
Faux, Guy, iv. 249, 365; vii. 69, 129; x. 245; xi. 317; xii. 26, 37.
—— Moll, vi. 510, 511.
Fauxbourg St Germain, The, xi. 384.
Favourite Kitten (Miss Geddes’), xi. 245.
—— Lamb (Collins’s), xi. 191.
Fawcett, John, vi. 453; viii. 244, 251, 252, 262, 266, 291, 319, 386,
443; xi. 277, 304, 305, 370, 397, 402; xii. 140 n., 152 n.
—— Rev. Joseph, ii. 171 n.; iii. 337; iv. 210, 283 n.; vi. 224, 225, 304;
vii. 133.
—— Mrs, viii. 413, 426.
Fawn, The, or Parisitaster (Marston’s), v. 225, 226.
Fazio (by Milman), v. 147; viii. 416; xi. 419.
Fear of Death, On the, vi. 321.
—— Odes to (Collins), v. 116, 374.
Fears in Solitude (Coleridge’s), iii. 242.
Fearn, John, vi. 64, 65; xi. 181 n.; xii. 345.
Fearne, Charles, vii. 26.
Fearon, Miss, ix. 278.
Feast of the Poets (Leigh Hunt’s), i. 377; iv. 302, 361; v. 378.
Feeble (in Shakespeare’s Henry IV.), viii. 33.
Felice (in Marston’s Antonio and Mellida), v. 225.
Felix Mudberry (in Ups and Downs), xi. 387, 388.
Felton, John, ix. 354.
Female head (Leonardo da Vinci’s), ix. 35.
Female Seducers, Fable of the (Moore’s), vi. 368.
—— Vagrant, The (Wordsworth’s), viii. 233 n.
Fenella (in Scott’s Peveril of the Peak), xi. 537.
Fénélon (François de Salignac de la Motte), vii. 321; ix. 119; x. 323,
324.
Fennings, The, iii. 420.
Fenwick, Mr, ii. 173, 192, 205.
Ferdinand of Sicily, iii. 179; xii. 242, 446.
—— VII. of Spain, iii. 106, 119, 157, 158, 160, 290, 309; vi. 156; vii.
149; viii. 267; x. 316; xi. 339, 551, 558; xii. 104, 204.
—— the Beloved, viii. 539.
—— (a play). See Faulkener.
—— (in Scott’s Yellow Dwarf), xii. 246 n.
—— (in Shakespeare’s Tempest), vii. 213; xi. 417.
—— Count Fathom. See Count Fathom.
Fergusson, Robert, v. 139.
Feriole (town), ix. 278.
Ferrara (town), ix. 264, 265, 266, 277, 302.
—— Duke Hercules of, x. 69.
Ferraw (a knight) (from Ariosto), v. 224.
Ferrers, Lord, x. 168.
Ferret, Mr (in Cherry’s Soldier’s Daughter), xi. 298.
Ferrex and Porrex (Thomas Sackville’s), v. 193, 195.
Ferry-bridge, The Inn at, xii. 203.
Fesch, Cardinal, ix. 363 n.
Fesole (town), ix. 211, 217.
Fête Champêtre (Watteau’s), ix. 22.
—— —— See Carronside.
Feudal Times (George Colman, jnr.), ii. 228.
Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, iv. 218; x. 141, 145.
Fidelia (in Wycherley’s Plain Dealer), viii. 78.
Field, Master John, ii. 226.
Fielding, Anthony Vandyke Copley, ix. 127; xi. 245, 246, 248.
—— Henry, i. 28; ii. 171 n., 280, 391; iii. 234; iv. 365, 367; v. 284; vi.
225, 236, 413, 426, 448, 452, 457, 458; vii. 36, 214, 322, 363; viii.
79, 107, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 133, 144, 158, 163, 287,
454, 506; ix. 78, 118, 243 n., 391; x. 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36,
37, 167, 168, 206, 328; xi. 223, 225, 273 n., 374, 403, 435, 501,
543; xii. 22, 32, 46, 63, 98, 155 n., 226, 274, 310, 364, 374.
—— William, Mr Justice, vii. 84.
—— and Walker (booksellers), ii. 95.
Fife, ii. 314.
Figalon (painter), ix. 128.
Figaro, The Marriage of, or The Follies of a Day (Holcroft’s), ii. 113;
viii. 355; xi. p. viii.
Fight, The, xii. 1.
Filch (in Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera), vi. 286; viii. 255, 315, 387; xi.
373; xii. 24.
Filmer, Sir Robert, iii. 240, 284.
Finch, Daniel (second Earl of Nottingham), iii. 402.
—— Sir Heneage, and his son, iii. 394, 399.
Finche dal Vino (a song), viii. 365.
Fine Arts, The, ix. 377;
also in ix. 408; xi. 195.
—— —— whether they are promoted by Academies, ix. 470.
—— —— British Institution, xi. 187.
—— —— The Louvre, xi. 195.
—— —— (E. B. Article), ix. 464; xi. 567, 568.
Fingal, The Son of (Ossian), xi. 300.
Finger-Post, The (a play), xi. 367.
Finland, iii. 158, 216.
Finnerty, Peter, iii. 236, 237; xii. 307.
Fire of London, vii. 69.
—— Famine, and Slaughter (Coleridge), iii. 157, 205; v. 166, 377.
Firense la bella, ix. 207.
Firmian, Joseph, Count de, ix. 419.
First Elements (Nicholson’s), ii. 173.
Firth of Forth, ii. 252, 314; iv. 244.
Fish-street-hill, xi. 385.
Fisher (Catherine Maria), ix. 473.
—— of Duke Street, vii. 486.
—— Mr, viii. 465, 513.
Fittler, James, ii. 201.
Fitzgerald, Thomas Judkin, iii. 237, 240, 241.
Fitzharding, Mr (in Smiles and Tears), viii. 266.
—— Miss (in Smiles and Tears), viii. 266.
Fitz-Osborn’s Letters (by William Melmoth the younger), i. 93.
Fitzpatrick, Mrs (Fielding’s Tom Jones), vi. 457; viii. 114, 115; x. 33.
Fitzwilliam (2nd Earl of) (Wentworth, Wm.), ii. 169, 225.
Five Patron-Saints of Bologna, Guido’s, ix. 206.
Fives Court, The, xii. 8, 325.
—— —— St Martin’s St., The, vi. 88.
Flageolet, The (in Liber Amoris), ii. 291.
Flamborough Family (in Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield), v. 119; viii.
554.
Flamineo (in Webster’s White Devil), v. 243, 245.
Flaminius, ix. 262.
Flash, Theodore (? Theodore Hook), xii. 276.
Flaxman, John, vii. 90, 95; ix. 168, 490.
Flaxman’s Lectures on Sculpture, x. 330.
Flech Horr, The, ix. 279, 280.
Flecknoe (Marvell’s), viii. 54.
Fleet-Ditch, vii. 69.
—— Prison, ii. 216; v. 84 n.; vi. 89; viii. 463.
—— Street, iv. 342; vi. 59, 415; viii. 104; xii. 35 n.
Fleetwood (Godwin’s), iv. 209.
Flemish School, i. 26; ix. 314, 386.
Fletcher, Andrew (of Saltoun), iv. 98 n.
—— George, vii. 263, 504.
—— John, v. 248;
also referred to in iv. 367; v. 175, 176, 181, 189, 193, 224, 296, 297,
346; vi. 203, 218 n.; vii. 134, 229, 320, 321; viii. 48, 69, 89, 264,
353; x. 118, 205, 261; xii. 34.
—— P., v. 295, 311.
Fleur de Lys, Order of, viii. 20.
Fleuri, Joli de, iii. 290.
Flight into Egypt (Poussin’s), ix. 24.
—— —— (Rubens’s), ix. 72.
—— of Paris and Helen, The (Guido’s), vii. 283.
Flippanta (in Vanbrugh’s The Provoked Wife), viii. 80, 156.
Flitch of Bacon, The (Henry Bates’s), ii. 85; vi. 432.
Flora (the goddess), iv. 310; ix. 216.
—— (in Rowe’s Jane Shore), viii. 537.
—— (in Mrs Centlivre’s The Wonder), xi. 402; xii. 24.
—— MacIvor (in Scott’s Waverley), iii. 32; iv. 247; viii. 129.
Florence, i. 332; v. 189; vi. 353, 368, 404; vii. 369; ix. 111 n., 187, 197,
198, 207, 211, 212, 217, 218, 219, 221, 224, 227, 229, 233, 240, 241,
249, 256, 260, 262, 263, 277, 363 n., 409, 417, 429; x. 63, 68, 300,
301, 302, 354; xii. 20, 134, 172 n.
—— History of (Guicciardini’s), vii. 229.
Florentine Observer, The, x. 270.
—— School, ix. 222.
Florestan (early romance), x. 57.
Florid (Holcroft’s), ii. 191, 222.
Florimel (Spenser), ii. 347; v. 38; vii. 193; x. 81; xi. 235.
Floris (in Kinnaird’s Merchant of Bruges), viii. 265, 266.
Florismarte of Hircania (early romance), x. 57.
Florizel (in Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale), viii. 354.
Floscel, Mr, ii. 114.
Flower, Benjamin, i. 423; ii. 177, 190.
—— and the Leaf (Chaucer’s), i. 162; v. 27, 82, 370; x. 75; xi. 269; xii.
327.
Flute (in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream), viii. 275.
Fly drowned in Treacle, Lines to a (Peter Pindar’s), xii. 350.
Flying Mercury, John of Bologna’s, ix. 222.
Fodor, Madame Mainville, viii. 297, 327, 364, 370, 371; xi. 307, 308,
427, 500, 501.
Foe, Daniel (see Defoe).
—— James, x. 356, 357.
Foible (Congreve’s The Way of the World), viii. 75.
Foligno, ix. 260, 261, 365.
—— Picture, The (Raphael’s), ix. 240.
Folle par Amour, La (opera), ix. 174.
Follies of a Day (see Figaro), ii. 113; viii. 355; xi. p. viii.
Fontainebleau, ix. 175, 176.
Fontaine, Jean de la, i. 46; iv. 190; vi. 109; viii. 29; x. 109.
Fontenelle, Bernard le Bovier de, ii. 393; iii. 319 n.
Fonthill Abbey, ix. 348;
also referred to in vii. 135, 292; ix. 55, 56, 58, 60, 61; xii. 83.
Fool, The (in Shakespeare’s Lear), viii. 24.
—— of Quality, The (Henry Brooke’s), viii. 123 n.
Foote, Maria, viii. 196, 231, 266, 268, 275, 426, 428, 457, 540; xi.
207, 208, 364, 402.
Foote, Samuel, ii. 59, 60, 77 n., 87, 170; viii. 166, 167, 241, 242, 319.
——, Garrick, Letters of, xi. p. viii.
Footmen, xii. 131.
Force of Conscience. See Ravens.
—— of Ridicule, The (Holcroft’s), ii. 159.
Ford, John, v. 248;
also referred to in v. 193, 265 et seq., 268, 318; vi. 218 n.; vii. 134;
x. 205.
—— Mr, ii. 173.
—— (in Cooke’s Green’s Tu Quoque), v. 290.
—— Miss, xii. 122.
Foresight (in Congreve’s Love for Love), vi. 287; viii. 279.
—— (Munden’s), viii. 71, 72.
Forest of Merry Sherwood, The, viii. 425.
—— Scene (Stark’s), xi. 249.
Forester (the horse), ii. 31, 41.
Forli (town), vi. 238.
Fornarina (Raphael’s), i. 92; ix. 73, 223, 224; xii. 36, 332.
Forrest (in Shakespeare’s Richard III.), v. 188.
Forsyth, Joseph, ix. 221, 253.
Forth, The river, v. 300.
Fortunate Mistress. See Roxana.
Fortunatus’s Wishing Cap, vii. 221.
Fortune (Salvator Rosa’s), x. 301.
Fortune-Teller (Northcote’s), vi. 404.
Fortunes of Nigel (Scott’s), iv. 248; xi. 538.
Foster, James, iv. 204 n.; vi. 367.
—— Thomas, vi. 360, 509.
Fouché, Joseph, iii. 192.
Foulkes, Mr, ii. 145, 176, 183, 225.
—— Mrs, ii. 193, 194.
Foundling, History of a. See Tom Jones.
Four Ages (Titian’s), ix. 31, 38, 270.
Four Orations for the Oracles of God (Edward Irving’s), iv. 228.
—— P’s, The, v. 274.
—— Seasons of Life, The (Giorgioni’s), v. 321.
Fourth Estate, iv. 334.
Fox, Charles James, i. 103, 127, 384, 429; ii. 200, 217, 227, 374; iii. 15
n., 17, 108, 324, 328 n., 336, 337, 347 n., 349, 391, 416, 421, 424,
461, 466; iv. 190, 231–2, 237; vi. 109, 455; vii. 7, 8 n., 184, 200,
267, 269, 273, 274–5, 364; x. 151–2, 213, 232; xi. 436, 522–3; xii.
274, 292–3, 346, 369.
—— Character of Mr, iii. 337.
—— George, iii. 112; x. 145.
—— Henry (Lord Holland), iii. 416.
—— John, vi. 364, 365, 366.
—— Joseph, iii. 111.
—— William Johnson, iv. 227.
—— at the Point of Death, The (Gay’s), v. 107.
—— Dogs (Gainsborough’s), xi. 204.
—— hunted with Greyhounds (Gainsborough’s), xi. 203.
Foxe, John, vii. 129, 320; xi. 443.
Frail, Mrs (in Congreve’s Love for Love), viii. 72, 279.
Francanzani, Francesco, x. 283, 287.
France, iii. 6, 7, 11, 12, 13, 22, 31, 36, 52, 53, 55, 56, 59, 63, 65, 68, 71,
77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 103,
104, 106, 108, 109, 111, 119, 129, 158, 164, 179, 180, 181, 216, 227,
240, 285, 290, 335, 347 n., 399, 415; iv. 93, 323; v. 354; xi. 184,
390.
—— and Italy, Notes on a Journey Through, ix. 83; xi. 568.
—— Travels in (Holcroft’s), ii. 232–4.
Francesca of Rimini (Dante), x. 405.
Francesca of Rimini (Leigh Hunt), x. 409.
Francesco (in Godwin’s Cloudesley), x. 391.
—— (in Massinger’s The Duke of Milan), v. 267; viii. 289, 290.
Francis I., i. 133.
—— Sir Philip, ii. 172, 182, 199.
Franciscan Friars, The, xii. 224.
Francken, Frans, ix. 354.
Frank Osbaldistone (in Scott’s Rob Roy), xii. 66.
—— and Clara (Holcroft’s), ii. 176, 182.
—— Henley (in Holcroft’s Anna St Ives), ii. 129, 131.
—— Jerningham (in Merry Devil), v. 293, 294.
Franks. See Francken, Frans.
Franks’s Hotel at Rome, ix. 231.
Frankelein, The (Chaucer), v. 24.
Frankenstein (Mrs Shelley), x. 311.
Frankford, Mrs (in Heywood’s A Woman Killed with Kindness), v.
212, 213.
Frankfort, ii. 187.
Franklin, Dr Benjamin, ii. 203, 205; iv. 9 n., 190; x. 251, 314; xi. 472
n.
Frascati (town), ix. 254.
Frates Poloni, The, i. 82; ii. 165; iii. 266.
Frati Church, in Venice, ix. 270.
Frazer, Mr, ii. 218.
Frederic (in The Poor Gentleman), xi. 376.
Frederick the Great, ii. 115, 116, 116 n., 179; iii. 106, 160; vi. 445.
—— William I., vi. 445.
Frederigo Alberigi. See Alberigi.
Free Admission, The, xii. 119.
—— Thoughts on Public Affairs in a letter addressed to a Member of
the Old Opposition, iii. 1;
also referred to in i. 383 n.
Freeman, Mr, of Bath, ii. 259–61, 266.
Freeman, Mr (in Double Gallant), viii. 361.
Freemasons, The, iii. 106.
Freethinkers, i. 48.
Frejus (town), i. p. xxxi.
French, The, viii. 309; ix. 80, 89, 138 et seq.; xi. 195, 196, 256, 258,
339, 353.
—— Academy, Discourses of the (Coypel’s), xi. 208 n.
—— Art, ix. 29, 389, 404, 407; xi. 188, 209, 220, 238, 240, 244.
—— Exhibition, ix. 108.
—— Opera, The, ix. 169.
—— Philosophy, xi. 162, 285.
—— Plays, xi. 352.
—— Poetry, xi. 162.
—— Revolution (Mignet’s), ix. 186.
—— —— The, i. 89 n., 105 n., 117, 138, 214, 427, 430; ii. 133, 156, 162,
176; iii. 32 n., 114, 116, 146, 157, 160, 169, 179, 205, 206, 210, 221,
246, 250, 279, 281, 302, 304, 343, 460; iv. 218, 237, 263, 282,
338; v. 83, 161, 359; vi. 55, 147, 150, 151, 155, 198; vii. 51, 240, 257;
viii. 309, 347, 416; x. 128, 150, 151; xi. 306, 311, 374, 418, 420; xii.
157, 170, 236, 269, 287, 288, 291, 459.
—— —— Reflections on (Burke’s), i. 71 n., 214; iii. 100, 170, 255, 335;
iv. 284 n.; vi. 33; vii. 118, 227–8, 247, 257; viii. 347; xi. 458; xii.
132.
—— Writers, iv. 277.
Frere, Mr, ii. 232.
Freres, The (Frere, John Hookham), x. 139.
Freybourg, ix. 298.
Friar, The (in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet), viii. 199.
—— John (in Rabelais), i. 52, 131; v. 112, 113, 277; xii. 348.
—— Lawrence (in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet), viii. 209.
—— Onion (in Rabelais), v. 277.
—— Tuck (in Scott’s Ivanhoe), iv. 223; viii. 424, 426.
Fribble (Miss in her Teens), ii. 80.
Fribourg, ix. 285.
Friedland, iii. 112.
Friend (Coleridge’s), iii. 130 n., 139, 159, 294 n.; vii. 374; x. 123, 135,
141, 150; xi. 452, 516.
—— Where to Find a, viii. 258.
Friends of Revolution, xi. p. vii.
Friendly Reproof to Ben Jonson (by Carew), v. 312.
Frightened to Death (Oulton’s), viii. 358.
Friscobaldo, Signor Orlando, vi. 192; vii. 121.
Froissart, Jean, i. 87, 100; vii. 229; xii. 16.
Frontiniac (a wine), xi. 487.
Frontispiece (Hogarth’s), ix. 357.
Fry, Mrs, ix. 91.
Fudge Family (Moore’s), iii. 311, 312; iv. 359, 360; vii. 380; viii. 176
n.; xi. 440.
—— —— in Paris, The, iii. 311.
Fuessly, Johann Heinrich. See Fuseli.
Fugitive Writings, xi. 1.
Fulham, ii. 221.
Fullarton (? William), ii. 186.
Fuller, Thomas, iv. 331, 365; vi. 245; vii. 16; xii. 137, 392.
Fulmer (in The West Indian), ii. 83.
Fulvia (in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra), i. 229.
Funeral, The (Donne’s poem), viii. 52.
—— (Steele’s), viii. 158.
Furies (in Æschylus), viii. 159; xi. 506.
Furor (Spenser’s), x. 245.
Fuseli, Henry, ii. 180; iv. 208 n., 233; vi. 10, 270, 296, 336, 340, 342,
363, 365, 379, 385, 389, 393, 400, 403, 428, 434; vii. 41, 89, 90,
93, 94, 104; viii. 99, 307; ix. 15, 131, 226, 427; x. 197, 200; xii. 168.
Fusina (town), ix. 266.
 G.

G——, xii. 355, 369.

Gabriel, the Angel, xii. 199.
Gabrielle (in Morton’s Henri Quatre), viii. 443.
—— ix. 175.
Gadshill, i. 285; vi. 318, 403; viii. 33.
Gaffer Gray (in Holcroft’s Hugh Trevor), ii. 137, 138.
Gainsborough, Thomas, ii. 189; vi. 128, 129, 369, 437, 438; ix. 38,
395; xi. 202, 248.
Gainsborough’s Pictures, On, xi. 202.
Galaor (early romance), x. 57.
Galatea (Cervantes’), vii. 229; viii. 110.
—— (Raphael’s), i. 76, 134; ix. 239, 419, 429; x. 278.
Galba, ix. 221.
Galicia, xi. 317.
Galignani’s, vi. 422; ix. 287.
Galileo, vi. 466; vii. 306; ix. 211, 212 n., 429; xi. 424; xii. 134.
Gall, Dr, vii. 19, 137, 138, 144, 155, 231; ix. 206 n.
Gallantry, or Adventures at Madrid, viii. 399.
Gallaspy, Mr (in Amory’s John Buncle), i. 54; iii. 142.
Galley, Mdlle., i. 90.
Galt, John, vii. 134.
Gamaliel, iv. 202.
Gamble, Andrew (Irish boxer), xi. 487.
Gamester, The (E. Moore’s), ii. 265; v. 359; vii. 299; viii. 198.
Gammer Gurton’s Needle (John Still), v. 274;
also referred to in v. 286.
Gandy, William, vi. 21, 345, 367; x. 181.
Ganges, vi. 64.
Ganlesse (Scott’s Peveril of the Peak), xi. 540.
Ganymede (Titian’s), ix. 11 n.
Garat, Dominique Joseph Comte, ii. 180.
Garda, The Lake of, ix. 277.
Gardiner, Sir Allan, iv. 231, 232.
Gargantua (Rabelais), iii. 287 n.; v. 113; viii. 29, 200.
Garnish (in Kenney’s Touchstone), viii. 369.
Garofalo (Tisi, Benvenuto), ix. 238, 239.
Garrard, George, iii. 121 n.
Garrick, David, i. 156–8, 290, 335; ii. 72–80, 358, 367; iii. 389; vi. 46
n., 50, 273, 275, 301, 322, 342, 350, 399, 404, 405, 418, 438, 444,
453; vii. 305, 306; viii. 83, 103, 144, 163, 173, 174, 180, 198, 209,
261, 263, 273, 285, 313, 345, 384, 406, 429, 435, 443, 454, 514; ix.
46; xi. 349, 363, 393, 449; xii. 33, 34, 207.
—— (Gainsborough’s portrait of), xi. 203.
—— between Tragedy and Comedy (Reynolds’s), ix. 402.
Garrow, Sir William, ii. 186; iii. 164; xi. 476.
Gas Lights, i. 139.
—— Man, The, xii. 4 et seq.
Gasparo (Webster’s White Devil), v. 241, 245.
Gassendi, Peter, xi. 48.
Gaston de Foix (Giorgione’s), ix. 271.
Gate Beautiful (Raphael’s), viii. 147; ix. 47.
—— of Galienas, The (Verona), ix. 277.
Gates, General, iii. 422.
Gathering of Manna (Rubens’s), ix. 52.
Gatti, Signor, ix. 205.
Gattie, Henry, viii. 229, 245, 403.
Gatton, Borough of, ii. 154 n.
Gatty (actor), xi. 364.
Gaveston (in Marlowe’s Edward II.), v. 211.
Gay, John, i. 46, 65; iv. 365; v. 83, 98, 104, 106, 108, 129, 164, 369,
373; vi. 96, 367; vii. 36; viii. 56, 158, 193, 255, 256, 323; x. 375; xi.
273, 375; xii. 32, 35, 121, 355.
Gayrard, Raymond, ix. 168.
Gazette, The, x. 161.
Gazza Ladra, The (Rossini’s opera), ix. 174.
Gebir (Landor’s), x. 255.
Geddes, Dr, ii. 177, 178.
—— Miss, xi. 245.
Geese that cackled in the Capitol (bronze), ix. 239.
Geiseveiller, Mr, ii. 173, 178, 182, 183, 185, 186, 187, 188, 192, 193,
194, 195, 201.
Gelamont (a town), ix. 285, 287.
Gelling, Rev. Isaac, vi. 364.
General Advertiser, The (newspaper), ii. 92.
—— Savage (Wycherley’s School for Wives), ii. 83.
—— Torrington (in Leigh’s Where to Find a Friend), viii. 258, 259,
260.
—— Warrants, Lord Chatham’s speech on, iv. 210.
Genesis, v. 183.
Geneva, i. 92; ix. 182, 197, 280, 281, 285, 293, 294, 295, 296, 297; x.
45.
Genevieve (Coleridge’s), v. 377; xii. 436.
Genevra, The Story of, x. 56, 62, 62 n.
Genius and Common Sense, vi. 31, 42.
—— is Conscious of its Powers? Whether, vii. 117.
—— and Originality, On (Reynolds’ Discourse), xi. 210.
Genoa, iii. 158, 234; iv. 281; vi. 384, 385; ix. 198, 207, 267; xi. 467;
xii. 223.
Gensano Girls, vii. 175; ix. 236, 376.
Gentle Geordie (in Scott’s Heart of Midlothian), vii. 137; xi. 534
—— Shepherd (Allan Ramsay’s), ii. 77–8.
Gentleman Comedian, The, or Alwyn. See Alwyn.
—— Dancing Master, The (a farce), viii. 78.
—— On the Look of a, vii. 209.
Gentleman’s Magazine, i. 374, 376, iv. 365; x. 221, 222.
Geoffrey Crayon, iv. 362.
—— of Monmouth, x. 20.
George I., i. 425; iii. 405, 409; iv. 343 n.; v. 359; vi. 59 n., 445; xii.
269.
—— II., i. 25, 156; iii. 285 n., 414; vi. 445, 521; vii. 211; viii. 106, 121,
122, 134, 263; ix. 76; x. 26, 40; xii. 269.
—— III., iii. 114, 123, 221, 360, 445; vi. 322, 387; vii. 16, 88; viii. 122;
ix. 465; x. 40, 41, 152; xi. 555; xii. 24, 242.
—— IV., iv. 338; vi. 55, 482; xi. 547; xii. 56, 168, 249.
—— the Fourth, A Portrait of, ix. 367.
—— Prince, x. 377.
—— a Green, or The Pinner of Wakefield (by Robert Greene), v. 289,
294.
—— Barnwell (by George Lillo), viii. 268;
also referred to in i. 154.
—— Dandin (Molière’s), viii. 28.
—— of Douglas (Scott’s Abbot), iv. 248.
—— St., vi. 120.
Georges, Mademoiselle, ix. 154.
Georgics (Virgil’s), xi. 492; xii. 273.
Georgium Sidus, x. 331.
Gerald (in Kinnaird’s Merchant of Bruges), viii. 265, 266.
Geraldine (in Coleridge’s Christabel), x. 413.
Gérard, François Pascal Simon, Baron, ix. 123, 124, 125, 137.
Gerardeschi, The, ix. 211.
Gerat (the singer), viii. 363.
German Drama, contrasted with that of the Age of Elizabeth, On the,
v. 345.
German Hotel, The (a play from Brandes), ii. 116.
—— Painters, xi. 209.
—— Philosophy and Literature, Account of (Madame de Staël’s), xi.
162.
—— Play, The (Mr Canning’s), xi. 341.
—— Poetry, xi. 162.
—— School of Singing, xi. 428, 501.
Germany, iii. 53, 55; iv. 218; v. 182, 362; xi. 162, 289.
Gertrude (in Jonson, Marston, and Chapman’s Eastward Hoe), vi.
164, 165.
—— (in Cooke’s Green’s Tu Quoque), v. 290.
—— (in Kinnaird’s Merchant of Bruges), viii. 264, 265.
—— of Wyoming (Campbell’s), iv. 345, 346; v. 149, 150, 377; viii. 153;
x. 15; xii. 239.
Gerusalemme liberata, The (Ariosto’s), x. 14.
Gessner, Mr, ii. 186.
Ghengis Khan, xii. 37.
Ghent, ix. 302.
Ghetto Judaico, xii. 462.
Ghibellines, The, xi. 443.
Ghirlandaio, Domenico, iv. 217; vii. 254; ix. 205, 261, 409; xi. 238;
xii. 36, 38.
Ghost, The (in Shakespeare’s Hamlet), viii. 186, 188, 189.
—— of King of Ormus (in Fulke Greville’s Mustapha), vii. 255.
Giannuzzi, Giulio dei. See Romano, Julio.
Giant Despair (in Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress), iv. 337; vi. 54; ix.
229.
Giant’s Causeway, xii. 273.
Giaour, The (Byron’s), v. 153.
Giardini, Felice, vi. 373.
Gib the Cat (in Still’s Gammer Gurton’s Needle), v. 286.
Gibbet (in Farquhar’s Beaux’ Stratagem), viii. 10.
Gibbon, Edward, i. 138; iii. 144; iv. 365; vi. 222; ix. 153 n., 375.
Gibbons, Grinling, ix. 67.
Gibbs, Vicary, ii. 147.
—— Mrs, viii. 251, 252, 319, 333, 465, 468; xi. 397, 402.
Gibby (in Mrs Centlivre’s The Wonder), viii. 156, 333; xi. 402.
Gibson’s Field, vi. 418.
Gifford, John, iii. 206, 295.
—— William, iv. 298;
also referred to in i. p. xxx., 166; iii. 45, 206, 219, 262, 295; iv. 421;
vi. 212, 475, 494; vii. 121, 207, 301, 516; ix. 247; x. 139, 228; xii.
324.
—— A Letter to William, i. 363.
Gil Blas (Le Sage’s), i. 12, 136, 138, 160; v. 91; vi. 118, 224–5, 457; vii.
33, 36, 74, 173, 303, 311, 380; viii. 111, 112, 116, 141, 151, 315; ix. 29,
99 n.; x. 30, 31, 34, 214; xi. 252, 458; xii. 141.
Giles (in Bickerstaffe’s Maid of the Mill), ii. 83.
—— Arbe (in Miss Burney’s The Wanderer), x. 44.
Gillies, Mr, ii. 176, 231.
Gilray, James, ii. 185; vi. 455; viii. 330, 400; xii. 20, 363.
Gin Lane (Hogarth’s), viii. 142; ix. 323; xii. 364.
Ginevra, a fragment (Shelley), x. 270, 271.
Giordano, Luca, vi. 128 n.; ix. 67.
Giorgione, vi. 11 n.; ix. 26, 31, 225, 226, 239, 271, 386; xii. 36.
Giotto, iv. 217; vii. 254; ix. 205, 206, 261; xii. 36, 38, 347.
Giovanni in London (Moncrieff’s), viii. 461, 462.
Girard & Co., ii. 113.
Girl with Beer (picture), ii. 228.
—— drawing with a Pencil (Reynolds’), ix. 399.
—— and Pigs (Gainsborough’s), xi. 204.
Girl feeding Pigs (Watteau’s), vi. 437.
—— Reading (Correggio’s), ix. 41.
—— going to the Well (Gainsborough’s), xi. 204.
—— at a Window (Rembrandt’s), ix. 22.
Girodet-Trioson, Anne Louis, vii. 331; ix. 131; xi. 241; xii. 190.