A main objective of ancient sculptors was to make their subject easily recognizable.Footnote ¹ To create identifiable forms, statue-makers relied on a system of culturally resonant elements, such as style, pose, costume, and attributes. Charged meanings eventually accrued to certain statues for different reasons: religious significance, expression of societal values, and/or artistic fame, among others. As a result, those established models were favored, to varying degrees, for new works. It is important to stress that, in a world full of gods and heroes, identification of the subject of a divine statue was crucial, even urgent, in order to allow access to the relevant cult. For statues of gods and goddesses, the repetition of a figural model fulfilled, above all, religious needs, even if the statue itself was not in a persistent state of religious use; the distinct visual form offered the potential for activation. For statues of persons, which crowded civic spaces, the body-type could quickly communicate general content: emperor, philosopher, athlete, or citizen; like a god, or not a god.

The more figural models (or “types”) appeared, the more cultural significance they developed, and the more entrenched they became. Over time and over place, the chosen models were, again and again, repeated, refined, reconfigured, and redeployed, each to meet the specific needs of their unique settings, roles, and audiences. By the period of the early Principate, we encounter an artistic legacy born of a dense, tangled network that is exceedingly difficult to unravel from our fragmented datasets. Add to this the fact that so few surviving statues can be anchored in specific space and time, and one begins to see the immense interpretative challenges involved in writing a history of figural models and, even more, their meanings. The book under review offers a step forward by embracing the diversity inherent in this inquiry. In short, the possibilities for the reuse of a model are seemingly endless, and therein lies an exciting potential.

Research on the transmission and reception of figural models in ancient marble statuary has tended to focus on regions with major centers of artistic production, especially mainland Greece and the Italian peninsula. This collection of essays challenges that perspective by exploring a spectrum of responses to figural models across a wide geographical breadth of the Mediterranean world under Rome – at least a dozen provinces in all. The papers have their origins in an international colloquium held at Tübingen in November 2018, as part of a larger research program under the direction of Johannes Lipps, and in collaboration with Jochen Griesbach and Martin Dorka Moreno. The result is a series of stimulating case studies that bring attention to the diversity of transmission and transformation processes in ancient art. A main conclusion is the importance of studying sculptures within their own artistic and cultural contexts, since figural models had the potential to detach from their prototypes and acquire new meanings that were highly dependent on settings and viewers. The volume, the first in the new Material Appropriation Processes in Antiquity (MAPA) series, is beautifully produced and richly illustrated in color.

The editors offer an introductory essay that frames the aims of the book (“‘You are all individuals!’ Towards a phenomenology of sculpture production in the Roman provinces”). They advocate a more inclusive terminology for a figural model: schema (5). In their view, the term more accurately reflects the dynamic processes of image appropriation, which operate on a wide spectrum, from close copying to liberal adjustment. A welcome addition would be a fuller discussion of the ancient terminologies used for describing figural models, which included schema (σχῆμα: 5, n. 37).Footnote ² The authors draw attention to several examples to illustrate a range of responses in the provinces. One is a statue of Antinoös from Leptis Magna, which recalls the posture and composition of the Apollo Lykeios, yet does not necessarily refer to the statue in the Athenian gymnasion where the original stood (Lucian, Anach. 7). I would add that, in addition to the attributes of Apollo (tripod, snake, and raven), the Antinoös wears a wreath made from ivy leaves and berries; therefore, the statue also compels an identification with Dionysos.Footnote ³ Antinoös is presented in a dual form: a beautiful youth (Apollo) and, following his death in the Nile, a heroized figure connected to the resurrected Osiris (Dionysos). Although not discussed by the authors, it is important to clarify that the face of Antinoös is a mask-like piece that was added to the statue to adjust the subject matter.Footnote ⁴ These observations further underscore the densely packed communicative power of statues and their models, and the complexities of image transmission, adaptation, and redeployment. Another example from the chapter is a relief, found in the Netherlands, of the Celtic/Germanic goddess Nehalennia standing with one foot raised on the prow of a ship. The authors liken the image to the Lateran-type Poseidon. I also see an influence from representations of maritime Aphrodite.Footnote ⁵ Again, the reception of figural models is a varied system; at times, its parsing is more a process of scholarly enterprise than one with ancient meaning. The chapter concludes with a valuable and thought-provoking synthesis of some main themes in the subsequent chapters (10–14): mechanisms of mediation and diffusion, local and imported materials, the role of publicly visible sculptures, displays of connoisseurship, the persistence or modification of content, and the expression of military and religious ideologies.

The second essay concerns the city of Rome during the Republican and Augustan periods. Annalisa Lo Monaco presents four groups of evidence in order to illustrate some varied responses to Greek models in metropolitan workshops (“Schemata greci a Roma in età repubblicana e augustea”). The first group comprises works of art that were removed to Rome in the 2nd and 1st c. BCE as spoils of war. Lo Monaco seeks to isolate why, among the very many Greek statues brought to the city during this period, few inspired later artists. The premise, although it may be generally correct, draws on an absence of evidence. The extent to which local artists employed the relevant models cannot be measured since so few of the Greek works survive. Several reasons are considered, including size of the sculptures (some are colossal), access to them (controlled and, at times, quite limited), and the lack of a contemporary marble-carving tradition in the city. Lo Monaco concludes that there was little demand for new versions of seized sculptures because their primary meaning derived from their status as loot. In the next section, the author examines a selection of Campana reliefs. Lo Monaco finds that coroplasts drew generally on Greek models, adapting and combining motifs in order to fulfil the needs of a new context. Unfortunately, we do not know the specific buildings to which any of the examples herein were attached.Footnote ⁶ The third section examines a single object, the funerary urn of D. Lucilius Felix and Canuleia Saturnina, now in the Musei Capitolini. The Erotes carved on the exterior panels of the vessel recall figures on Hellenistic metalware and ceramics. The urn bears a 2nd-c. CE Latin inscription, which deserves more attention in order to establish the heirloom status of the piece.Footnote ⁷ Finally, Lo Monaco compares the hairstyles of the caryatids of the Erechtheion, Athens, with the versions from the Forum of Augustus, Rome. One difference is that the former statues have two locks of hair falling over each shoulder, whereas the latter have three. The reworking of the model might have enabled the viewer in Rome to more readily distinguish hair from drapery, particularly given the high viewing positions.

Matteo Cadario examines the models used for the bodies of male portrait statues in northern Italy during the mid-1st c. BCE to the mid-1st c. CE (“Ricezione e adattamento dei modelli Urbani in Cisalpina. Osservazioni sui tipi statuari usati nella ritrattistica virile”). Cadario finds greater fidelity to metropolitan models when imperial ideology is expressed. The survey begins in Aquileia in the mid-1st c. BCE, with focus on funerary statues dressed in the toga. These figures, which are quite cohesive as a general group, exhibit relative freedom in the details of the garment. They are frequently carved from native limestone, and therefore, belong to the output of local workshops. The introduction of the imperial toga, with the sinus and umbo, caused togate body-types in the region to become more uniform. The shift to marble at this time also played a role because it implies different carvers. Cuirassed statues, which were used for imperial representation, follow known models with special closeness, as do hip-mantle statues. The contribution argues that Rome came to exert considerable influence on the body-types of local statues, and that, in instances of imperial representation, these were standardized and closely monitored, presumably through supervision of the responsible workshops.

Vibeke Goldbeck examines the mechanisms through which figural models were transferred in the region of the northern Adriatic Sea during the 1st and 2nd c. CE (“‘Wandernde Werkstatt’, Prototyp, Maßtabelle oder Skizze? Überlegungen zur Verbreitung monumentaler Protomentypen in der repräsentativen Architektur des Nordadriatikums”). The focus is a group of carved bases belonging to colonnaded facades in Aquileia, Tergeste, Pula, and Celeia. Each base was ornamented with a mask-like head of Medusa, Jupiter Ammon, or Achelous. Those heads, from across the region, share typological features and dimensions, suggesting common prototypes. Wide stylistic differences between the reliefs show that they are not the output of a single workshop, eliminating one possible pathway for spread of the motifs. Instead, it seems that physical examples of the models were circulated. Owing to the differing depths of the reliefs, Goldbeck believes that the mode of transmission was not three-dimensional. Rather, the author argues, the designs were probably circulated using sketches, presumably with written dimensions. The reliefs are uniquely positioned to reveal local processes of reception and diffusion because the large quantity of surviving examples facilitates comparative study. Goldbeck's contribution, the only one in this volume that does not address freestanding statuary, demonstrates the value of integrating other categories of visual culture. Comparative study of the reproduction of motifs or figural types in wall-paintings and mosaics, for example, may be especially fruitful avenues for future study.Footnote ⁸

The presence of genre statuary in the province of Baetica, in southern Spain, is the focus of a contribution by Janine Lehmann and Henner von Hesberg (“Fischer, Landleute und andere Genrefiguren in den Provinzen der iberischen Halbinsel”). The authors examine a range of sculptures from the region, but their special focus is on two pieces: a head that closely reproduces the figural type of the Old Fisherman, carved from local marble, and a seated small-scale statue that freely adapts the model of the Drunken Old Woman, carved from local limestone. Emphasis is placed on the original display environments of these sculptures, which are not known archaeologically, but can be tentatively reconstructed through comparative datasets; the villa is argued to be the most likely setting. In each case, the quality of the statue is found to be a result of the intended display setting, as well as the specific desires of the buyer.

A diversity of local responses to iconographic models is illustrated at Augusta Treverorum, in the province of Gallia Belgica (modern-day Trier, Germany). Martin Dorka Moreno discusses a series of case studies that range from close copying to liberal adjustment (“Statuenschemata der ‘Idealplastik’ aus Augusta Treverorum (Trier)”). A striking, high-quality marble torso of the Mattei Amazon from a bath complex is an example of the former. Others show the more common reworking of a model in order to fit local needs. A statue of Mars, for example, modifies the proportions (more elongated) and military equipment (addition of a dagger) to reflect regional preferences and traditions. The author argues that the original content and meaning of the prototype can be “overwritten” (134) in a new deployment. So, the statue of the Amazon probably no longer referred to the place of its prototype's display (Ephesos). Instead, the model had, to some extent, detached in order to create new meaning in its own context. Dorka Moreno's framework illustrates the complexities of local reception processes, which were highly affected, of course, by individual knowledge of images and their histories.

Gabrielle Kremer examines the sculptural landscape of Carnuntum (in modern-day east Austria), a Roman legionary camp on the Danube in the province of Pannonia Superior (“Iuppiter Capitolinus – Iuppiter Karnuntinus?”). Locally produced sculptures are distinguished by the use of native stone. Kremer explains that sculptors seem to have accompanied troops who moved to the region from Germania. A group of fragmentary seated statues of Jupiter found at a cult site near Carnuntum offers an opportunity to explore local reception processes. Iconographic details that are peculiar to the region (e.g., a short mantle covering only the thighs) demonstrate the deployment of unique and meaningful local figural types, which had long lives.

At Apollonia, in Illyria, Jochen Griesbach examines carved representations of Apollo, Artemis, and Athena (“Apollonia und seine Skulpturen. Eine geographische Schnittstelle mit sozialer Schere?”). A selection of case studies demonstrates a range of reception possibilities. First, a Roman-period statue from a sumptuous residence represents Apollo leaning on a tripod and holding a tortoise-shell lyre. An altar in Athens depicts the god in a broadly similar pose, also with the kithara. Six epithets are inscribed on the Athenian altar, helping to establish that these types of images do not necessarily refer to a specific aspect of the cult. The comparison suggests that one reason for the success of the model was its versatile and inclusive nature. Second, four badly weathered Late Hellenistic reliefs represent Artemis holding a spear and accompanied by a hound. Griesbach suggests that the model was probably adapted from a cult statue of Bendis in Piraeus. The means of transmission is not established, and other earlier representations of Bendis, such as an important statue from Amphipolis (northern Greece), should be taken into consideration.Footnote ⁹ The flexibility of the model is demonstrated locally by a relief of Dionysos. Importantly, the Dionysos wears the fawn-skin, not the panther-skin more commonly worn by the god, suggesting a local fusion of imagery. A small-scale statue of the Athena Parthenos, found in a house at Apollonia, is signed by the otherwise unknown Athenian sculptor Euhemeros. The figure is one of the few sculptures in this book for which the name and ethnicity of the maker is recorded. It reminds us that, in some cases, epigraphy played an essential role in signaling the origin and authorship of a figural type. I would add that that it is significant that the goddess is not named in the inscribed text; Athena is readily identifiable because of the figural model alone. Overall, close adherence to a figural type is reflective, Griesbach finds, of the wealth and high social status of the patron.

The colossal statue of Apollo Patroös, found in the excavations of the Athenian Agora, not far from the small temple where it was once housed, presents a unique opportunity to study the diffusion of a figural type.Footnote ¹⁰ Not only does the original survive, but the general image type is recognizable in reliefs and other freestanding figures, which range in date from the Late Classical period to Roman times. Eleni Papagianni conducts a careful study of the statue through comparison of other versions of the type, including an important reduced-scale statue from Kilkis (northern Greece), published here for the first time in an expert manner (“A new variant of Apollo Patroos and its relation to the original”). Papagianni convincingly restores the configuration of the long himation of the Agora statue; a splendid drawing by Georgios Miltsakakis illustrates the proposal. Papagianni adds further evidence to the identification of the attribute in the right hand as a phiale, a suggestion first made by Homer Thompson on the basis of issues of Athenian Imperial-period coinage.Footnote ¹¹ Papagianni shows the long and varied life of the model itself, and even though we cannot establish each major moment in its diffusion, it is apparent that the general aim of the carver of the statue from Kilkis was to capture the spirit of the Agora statue, or alternatively, one of its intermediaries. In either case, the importance of the model surely derived from its religious significance.

Pavlina Karanastasi begins her contribution (“Tradition und Innovation bei der Rezeption von Statuentypen im römischen Griechenland”) with a selection of finds from Greece that have been published in recent decades: a head of the Dresden Zeus (Athens), a statue of the Ares Borghese (Athens), and a bearded head of the so-called Lysander type, probably representing Ares (Chalkis). In comparison to Italy, Karanastasi observes a limited number of full-scale copies in Greece during the Early Imperial period and connects this paucity to a less pervasive villa culture. To this point, I would add that full-scale copies were, in general, not considered appropriate for display in residences in Greece, presumably because of their religious content; life-size statues of gods belonged in precincts and public spaces. Reduced-scale statuary is therefore much more frequent for private consumption, as Karanastasi emphasizes.Footnote ¹² A chronological overview of the reception of selected statue models follows. While the statues from the Antikythera shipwreck are certainly dated by the archaeological context, other works in this section are more problematic to situate chronologically, making it difficult to trace wider historical developments. Karanastasi selects the models of the Herakles Farnese and the Hermes Richelieu to demonstrate the diversity of male image reception. The Herakles Farnese, on the one hand, undergoes little modification of the basic form throughout numerous redeployments; the Hermes Richelieu, on the other hand, is used to represent not only Hermes, but also, in basic posture and configuration of the drapery, youths and cuirassed figures. Karanastasi observes a similar diversity of reception possibilities by comparing the models of female figures, including the Louvre-Naples (or Fréjus-Genetrix) Aphrodite, the Nemesis of Rhamnous, and the model of the veiled figure known conventionally as Aspasia-Sosandra (or Europa-Sosandra). In the concluding section, Karanastasi explores figural models that were created in Roman times, such as cuirassed statues of emperors, to show how images were deployed to fulfill ideological purposes.

Julia Lenaghan's contribution on workshop traditions is an important one (“Models and adaptations – Six statues of Aphrodite from Aphrodisias”). The author focuses on a group of marble statues from Aphrodisias, which represent draped female figures, as either Aphrodite or an Aphrodite-like deity. The material, although highly fragmentary on occasion, can be reconstructed through close autopsy and comparative study. Lenaghan draws attention to local preferences for particular models, showing that sculptors introduced innovations, perhaps in order to distinguish themselves from other carvers. Of particular consequence here is the fact that iconography, when coupled with material and technique, can establish workshop origins.Footnote ¹³ Four of the six statues discussed herein are published expertly for the first time.

Moving further east, to the province of Syria, Kai Töpfer explores how figural models were transferred to new cultural contexts, where they could be reconfigured to meet local needs (“Götterstatuen in der Provinz Syria”).Footnote ¹⁴ Marble sculpture was rare in Syria, so large-scale monuments, such as a magnificent statue of Allat from Palmyra, must have been highly prominent. The statue of Allat engages with the body-type of a statue of Athena that was once displayed in the temple of Athena at Pallene in Attica, and later was transferred to the Athenian Agora.Footnote ¹⁵ The head of the statue of Allat, removed or destroyed by the terrorist group ISIS in 2015–2016, was inspired by the Athena Parthenos, perhaps out of a desire to depict an elaborate helmet. Statues such as the Allat can be compared with works carved from local basalt. While the basalt sculptures show general knowledge of Greco-Roman models, they also exhibit a high degree of independence.

Thomas Weber-Karyotakis presents a new assemblage of marble statuary found in 2016–2018, in the East Baths at Gerasa, in the province of Arabia (“Bildschemata der Marmor-Skulptur aus der Provincia Arabia”). The statues represent a range of divinities: Aphrodite, Zeus, Dionysos, Asklepios, Hygieia(?), Apollo(?), and Kybele. In addition, there is a group of at least six reduced-scale Muses. Of particular interest for understanding the local reception of figural types is the over-life-size, Thasian marble statue of Aphrodite, which draws on several models. The right hand of the statue was raised, apparently holding or arranging the hair, in the manner of the Anadyomene type. Meanwhile, the left hand lifts a short mantle between the legs. In this detail, the author detects an influence from the Aphrodite of the Troad; however, the placement of the garment is substantially different. At the right side of the statue, Eros rides a dolphin, recalling some versions of the Capitoline-type Aphrodite. The statue preserves its high plinth, which bears a remarkable four-line Greek inscription detailing its erection: it was dedicated by a priest in 154 CE, along with its base, a niche, an altar, and a hearth. While the sculptor of the Aphrodite is not identified, it is significant that at least two sculptures from the baths were carved in an Alexandrian workshop. The Kybele was signed by the sculptor Antoneinos, whose full signature appears on a life-size Muse, found during earlier excavations in the baths; here, he is identified as the son of Antiochos, of Alexandria. The signature on the Muse further asserts that Antoneinos himself carved it (ὁ αὐτος ἐποίει),Footnote ¹⁶ possibly drawing a contrast with statues carved by sculptors in his workshop. The inscription is therefore important evidence for approaching the relationship between sculptors’ signatures and the actual hands at work. This rich assemblage of statuary, from a region where marble figures are generally rare, was abandoned in Late Antiquity. Some of the statues, Weber-Karyotakis argues, might have been gathered from elsewhere in the city, and if so, might never have been displayed in the East Baths. The chapter ends with a contribution by Khaled Al-Bashaireh on the sources of marble for the statuary (“Appendix: The marble provenances of the Gerasa statues”). A notable finding is that the workshop of Antoneinos carved Thasian and, possibly, Pentelic marbles.Footnote ¹⁷

Laura Buccino examines female portrait statuary at Leptis Magna (“Le statue iconiche femminili di Leptis Magna. Contesti e funzione, produzione e recezione dei tipi statuari in ambito privato”). The chapter compiles the evidence (helpfully summarized in a table), discusses probable display settings, and examines the figural types (the large Herculaneum woman is most prevalent, followed by the small Herculaneum woman). Buccino hypothesizes local production by sculptors who were familiar with traditions in Asia Minor and who often used Pentelic marble. Further isolation of the identifying characteristics of local workshops is required in order to distinguish imported works from those that were carved in the city. Buccino points to the method for insertion of the portrait head into the body as one marker of local manufacture. Caution should be exercised toward the proposed chronologies of the statues, particularly those that rely on stylistic criteria alone.

Another north African city, Caesarea Mauretania, is the focus of the final contribution, authored by Martin Kovacs (“Zwischen hellenistischer Metropole und römischer Kolonie. Die statuarische Landschaft von Caesarea Mauretaniae in der frühen Kaiserzeit”). The Roman client kingdom drew on overlapping Greek and Roman traditions during the 1st centuries BCE and CE. Sculpted tondos from the area of the palace, for example, recall works from princely centers in the Greek east. Portraits of male rulers drew on a mixture of Ptolemaic and Roman styles, while portrait statuary of female members of the royal court are situated more firmly within Greek traditions. The existence of numerous high-quality copies (Demeter of Cherchel, Kore Albani, Eirene of Kephisodotos), which the author dates to the Early Imperial period, demonstrates an eagerness to populate the city with Greek-looking statues.

The archaeological record of the Roman provinces offers rich datasets for tracing the transmission and uses of figural models in antiquity, as the contributors to this volume have shown. Studies that combine stylistic, iconographic, technical, and material analyses offer great potential in generating new information on the diversity of local repertoires and meanings – but also in revealing aspects of cohesion in regional practices. The important role of sculptors in defining these visual preferences will continue to be refined through systematic study of archaeological assemblages. Examination of unfinished sculptures of the same figural type, for example, could be a fruitful avenue for revealing specific pathways of image transfer. Another aspect of the making process that deserves consideration is the application of color and its varied uses for the same figural models.Footnote ¹⁸