THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
ZoomInfo
THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS
Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.
Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.
Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 
Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 
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THE REASONABLENESS OF THE WELL-BUILT: ROBERT MORRIS

Forty-five years ago, the Whitney Museum of American Art mounted the landmark exhibition Anti-Illusion: Procedures/Materials, a survey of Process Art curated by Marcia Tucker. The show included work by Richard Serra, Eva Hesse, Robert Smithson, Alan Saret, Keith Sonnier, Bruce Nauman, and Robert Morris. Like Conceptual and Performance Art, Process Art began as resistance to the hegemony of Minimalism and its fetishized objects, the Platonic perfection of which seemed to foreclose the possibility of any further art-making.

Tucker chose Robert Morris’ essay “Anti-Form,” published in Artforum a year earlier, to serve as the Process manifesto. In it, Morris interrogated Minimalist assumptions about at the the “the well-made thing:”

This imperative for the well-built thing solved certain problems. It got rid of asymmetrical placing and composition, for one thing. The solution also threw out all non-rigid materials. This is not the whole story of so-called Minimal or Object art. Obviously it does not account for the use of purely decorative schemes of repetitive and progressive ordering of multiple unit work. But the broad rationality of such schemes is related to the reasonableness of the well-built. What remains problematic about these schemes is the fact that any order for multiple units is an imposed one which has no inherent relation to the physicality of the existing units. Permuted, progressive, symmetrical organizations with a dualistic character in relation to the matter they distribute. This is not to imply that these simple orderings do not work. They simply separate, more or less, from what is physical by making relationships themselves another order of facts… .  The process of “making itself” has hardly been examined.

In the exhibition, Serra took presented works that violated the “reasonableness” requirement by turning the tasteful cube into a gargantuan rusty hulk unfit for all living rooms. Morris took aim at the “well-built,” part of the equation, a value he mocks, along with its attributes, rectilinearity and rigidity, in his sculpture of the late 1960s.

Industrial felt is, by nature, a secondary, temporary, and servile material. Soft, heavy, drab, pliable, and coarse, it is not only the opposite of the Minimalist materials, it is used to pack and protect the privileged object when it is sent to a gallery opening or is flown to Europe. Using big, unwieldy sheets of this wretched stuff, Morris fashioned objects that are subject to the effects of gravity, have no clean edges, are incapable of symmetry, rectilinearity, rigidity, and cannot be displayed in an orderly manner. No grids, no cubes. Parodies of Judd, Smith and André works, they constitute a nightmare minimalist gallery show, true-to-scale spectacles of object failure. 

Morris is devilishly clever about rigging his works to flop in ways that expose the unexamined assumptions of Minimalism, but this leaves him in the odd position of making, and than making fun of, loser artworks. Never before has an artist heaped so much scorn and ridicule on his own work. Whereas Carl André had tactfully laid his metal squares on the floor, thus effacing their vulnerability issues with gravity, Morris lets rectangular felt slabs deform unevenly when affixed to the wall and allows others slid down the wall and lay slumped on the floor, embarrassed by their weight and lack of tone. Snarls of Gordian complexity are frequent and creases in the chintzy fabric cause cut lines to diverge from their course. Slumping, flopping, drooping and other variants of flaccidity are pervasive. Morris may have had objections to the “reasonableness of the well-built,” but fashioning an anti-type to this category is not the same thing as proposing an alternative. 

6robert morris, minimalism, process art, marcia tucker, richard serra, industrial felt, american sculpture - 20thc.,

CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)
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CHEYNEY THOMPSON (American, b. 1975)

MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
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MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”
ZoomInfo

MARK FLOOD II: 

“I made ugly art…But that’s what I thought art was about—if you made something beautiful, you were suspect. … When I discovered how to make something beautiful, I no longer needed any art bureaucracy.”

MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo
MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.
— The New York Times, 6 July 2012
The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 
— Art in America, 1 May 2014
ZoomInfo

MARK FLOOD I: THE HATEFUL YEARS

I hate parasitical art bureaucracies. I hate nonprofit organizations. I love willful rich people who are obsessed with art. The context always determines the meaning of a work of art.

The New York Times, 6 July 2012

The phenomenon of art fairs taking over the art world does not bother me. I find the brutality of the current art market refreshing, especially when compared with the hypocrisy of the museums, and the pretentiousness of the academic world. All the old art distinctions have broken down. Collectors are dealers. Consultants are curators. Galleries are museums and museums are auction houses. 

— Art in America, 1 May 2014

6mark flood, the hateful years, american art - 21stc.,

SELF-PORTRAITURE IN THE 17th CENTURY II
The term self-portrait, which first appears in the early 19th century, participates in the Romantic cult of the self, narcissism and interiority. The assumption that the act of self-representation is always already personal and subjective distorts 19th and 20th century criticism about self-portraiture. 

PORTRAIRE. v. a. Tirer la ressemblance, la figure , la représentation d’une personne au naturel, avec le pinceau, le crayon. &c.Portraire au vif, au naturel, il s’est fait portraire. II vieillit & ne se dit qu’à l’infinitif.
PORTRAIT, s. m. v. Image, ressemblance d’une personne, par le moyen du pinceau, du burin, du crayon, &c. Beau portrait, portrait au naturel, portrait en grand, en petit. faire un portrait, portrait resssemblant, qui ne ressemble point.

La Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise, 1694).

According to this period definition, the purpose of portraiture, and the standard by which it is judged, is ressemblance. What that concept meant to a 17th-century viewer, emerges from a study of self-portraits by Alexandre-François Desportes (French, 1661-1743) and Pierre Mignard (French, 1612-1695). 
TO GAIN ADMISSION to the Académie royale in 1699, Desportes submitted a picture of himself dressed for the hunt, with hounds and recently bagged game arrayed before him. Hunting scenes and trophies, his intended generic concentration with the academy, required an aptitude in still-life composition and an ability to render fur, feathers, and lustrous fabrics, which the picture more than demonstrates. In situations where the artist wished to have special control and/or constant access to a model, he or she could serve as the model, as Desportes did for his morceau de réception. The fact that the resulting picture included a portrait of the man who painted the picture, however, is secondary and third to the picture’s purpose. 
While there academy judges may have noted the degree to which the image captured the likeness of the sitter, the degree to which a 17th-century viewer would have considered Desportes’ self-image to be a portrait at all is debatable. In a culture where the default is the portrait d’apparat, an effigy-like genre which represents the external, public, official self through surfaces, outward signs, and attributes, can a picture showing a person dressed in a manner unlike his normal attire, situated in a fictive location, engaged in an aristocratic pastime of which he had no experience—be thought of as ressemblant? 
Despite these facts, the picture hand s today in the Louvre, its modern title, Autoportrait à la chasseur, implying the picture is au fond a schizophrenic act of self-representation as someone completely other.
MIGNARD’S PICTURE OF 1670, on the other hand, is an act of pure portraiture, by 17th-century standards. The picture is a visual statement of the sitter’s official self, includes his rank, profession and comportment, which are announced almost allegorically by means of attributes, objects, materials and possessions. Mignard locates his profession in the worlds of learning, judgement and intellect by showing himself surrounded by classical sculpture, theoretical texts and a geometer’s tools, not by picturing himself standing in front of an easel with a palette. This is not an attempt to convince the viewer that painting is a liberal art and not a form of manual labor—as a portraitist, his clients, who were obliged to participate in the process, were all aware of the labor the job involved. In its emphases, the picture accurately portrays the official, period conception of the nature of painting, indicating the underlying qualities and capacities that inform and enable its practice. It is a representation of the idea of painting, which, as an erudite abstraction, requires articulation; it is not a representation of the material realization of that idea, which everyone can see for themselves. In this way, Mignard’s picture of himself is très ressemblant.
The fact that he (one assumes) accurately represented his own features is, as it was with Desportes, not worth remarking—it would be like praising a mechanic for starting the car. The picture depicts Mignard as the representative as a class of persons, whose collective behavior is representative of a way of conceptualizing the world. It is utterly impersonal, and obtains for that reason.
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SELF-PORTRAITURE IN THE 17th CENTURY II
The term self-portrait, which first appears in the early 19th century, participates in the Romantic cult of the self, narcissism and interiority. The assumption that the act of self-representation is always already personal and subjective distorts 19th and 20th century criticism about self-portraiture. 

PORTRAIRE. v. a. Tirer la ressemblance, la figure , la représentation d’une personne au naturel, avec le pinceau, le crayon. &c.Portraire au vif, au naturel, il s’est fait portraire. II vieillit & ne se dit qu’à l’infinitif.
PORTRAIT, s. m. v. Image, ressemblance d’une personne, par le moyen du pinceau, du burin, du crayon, &c. Beau portrait, portrait au naturel, portrait en grand, en petit. faire un portrait, portrait resssemblant, qui ne ressemble point.

La Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise, 1694).

According to this period definition, the purpose of portraiture, and the standard by which it is judged, is ressemblance. What that concept meant to a 17th-century viewer, emerges from a study of self-portraits by Alexandre-François Desportes (French, 1661-1743) and Pierre Mignard (French, 1612-1695). 
TO GAIN ADMISSION to the Académie royale in 1699, Desportes submitted a picture of himself dressed for the hunt, with hounds and recently bagged game arrayed before him. Hunting scenes and trophies, his intended generic concentration with the academy, required an aptitude in still-life composition and an ability to render fur, feathers, and lustrous fabrics, which the picture more than demonstrates. In situations where the artist wished to have special control and/or constant access to a model, he or she could serve as the model, as Desportes did for his morceau de réception. The fact that the resulting picture included a portrait of the man who painted the picture, however, is secondary and third to the picture’s purpose. 
While there academy judges may have noted the degree to which the image captured the likeness of the sitter, the degree to which a 17th-century viewer would have considered Desportes’ self-image to be a portrait at all is debatable. In a culture where the default is the portrait d’apparat, an effigy-like genre which represents the external, public, official self through surfaces, outward signs, and attributes, can a picture showing a person dressed in a manner unlike his normal attire, situated in a fictive location, engaged in an aristocratic pastime of which he had no experience—be thought of as ressemblant? 
Despite these facts, the picture hand s today in the Louvre, its modern title, Autoportrait à la chasseur, implying the picture is au fond a schizophrenic act of self-representation as someone completely other.
MIGNARD’S PICTURE OF 1670, on the other hand, is an act of pure portraiture, by 17th-century standards. The picture is a visual statement of the sitter’s official self, includes his rank, profession and comportment, which are announced almost allegorically by means of attributes, objects, materials and possessions. Mignard locates his profession in the worlds of learning, judgement and intellect by showing himself surrounded by classical sculpture, theoretical texts and a geometer’s tools, not by picturing himself standing in front of an easel with a palette. This is not an attempt to convince the viewer that painting is a liberal art and not a form of manual labor—as a portraitist, his clients, who were obliged to participate in the process, were all aware of the labor the job involved. In its emphases, the picture accurately portrays the official, period conception of the nature of painting, indicating the underlying qualities and capacities that inform and enable its practice. It is a representation of the idea of painting, which, as an erudite abstraction, requires articulation; it is not a representation of the material realization of that idea, which everyone can see for themselves. In this way, Mignard’s picture of himself is très ressemblant.
The fact that he (one assumes) accurately represented his own features is, as it was with Desportes, not worth remarking—it would be like praising a mechanic for starting the car. The picture depicts Mignard as the representative as a class of persons, whose collective behavior is representative of a way of conceptualizing the world. It is utterly impersonal, and obtains for that reason.
ZoomInfo
SELF-PORTRAITURE IN THE 17th CENTURY II
The term self-portrait, which first appears in the early 19th century, participates in the Romantic cult of the self, narcissism and interiority. The assumption that the act of self-representation is always already personal and subjective distorts 19th and 20th century criticism about self-portraiture. 

PORTRAIRE. v. a. Tirer la ressemblance, la figure , la représentation d’une personne au naturel, avec le pinceau, le crayon. &c.Portraire au vif, au naturel, il s’est fait portraire. II vieillit & ne se dit qu’à l’infinitif.
PORTRAIT, s. m. v. Image, ressemblance d’une personne, par le moyen du pinceau, du burin, du crayon, &c. Beau portrait, portrait au naturel, portrait en grand, en petit. faire un portrait, portrait resssemblant, qui ne ressemble point.

La Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise, 1694).

According to this period definition, the purpose of portraiture, and the standard by which it is judged, is ressemblance. What that concept meant to a 17th-century viewer, emerges from a study of self-portraits by Alexandre-François Desportes (French, 1661-1743) and Pierre Mignard (French, 1612-1695). 
TO GAIN ADMISSION to the Académie royale in 1699, Desportes submitted a picture of himself dressed for the hunt, with hounds and recently bagged game arrayed before him. Hunting scenes and trophies, his intended generic concentration with the academy, required an aptitude in still-life composition and an ability to render fur, feathers, and lustrous fabrics, which the picture more than demonstrates. In situations where the artist wished to have special control and/or constant access to a model, he or she could serve as the model, as Desportes did for his morceau de réception. The fact that the resulting picture included a portrait of the man who painted the picture, however, is secondary and third to the picture’s purpose. 
While there academy judges may have noted the degree to which the image captured the likeness of the sitter, the degree to which a 17th-century viewer would have considered Desportes’ self-image to be a portrait at all is debatable. In a culture where the default is the portrait d’apparat, an effigy-like genre which represents the external, public, official self through surfaces, outward signs, and attributes, can a picture showing a person dressed in a manner unlike his normal attire, situated in a fictive location, engaged in an aristocratic pastime of which he had no experience—be thought of as ressemblant? 
Despite these facts, the picture hand s today in the Louvre, its modern title, Autoportrait à la chasseur, implying the picture is au fond a schizophrenic act of self-representation as someone completely other.
MIGNARD’S PICTURE OF 1670, on the other hand, is an act of pure portraiture, by 17th-century standards. The picture is a visual statement of the sitter’s official self, includes his rank, profession and comportment, which are announced almost allegorically by means of attributes, objects, materials and possessions. Mignard locates his profession in the worlds of learning, judgement and intellect by showing himself surrounded by classical sculpture, theoretical texts and a geometer’s tools, not by picturing himself standing in front of an easel with a palette. This is not an attempt to convince the viewer that painting is a liberal art and not a form of manual labor—as a portraitist, his clients, who were obliged to participate in the process, were all aware of the labor the job involved. In its emphases, the picture accurately portrays the official, period conception of the nature of painting, indicating the underlying qualities and capacities that inform and enable its practice. It is a representation of the idea of painting, which, as an erudite abstraction, requires articulation; it is not a representation of the material realization of that idea, which everyone can see for themselves. In this way, Mignard’s picture of himself is très ressemblant.
The fact that he (one assumes) accurately represented his own features is, as it was with Desportes, not worth remarking—it would be like praising a mechanic for starting the car. The picture depicts Mignard as the representative as a class of persons, whose collective behavior is representative of a way of conceptualizing the world. It is utterly impersonal, and obtains for that reason.
ZoomInfo

SELF-PORTRAITURE IN THE 17th CENTURY II

The term self-portrait, which first appears in the early 19th century, participates in the Romantic cult of the self, narcissism and interiority. The assumption that the act of self-representation is always already personal and subjective distorts 19th and 20th century criticism about self-portraiture. 

PORTRAIRE. v. a. Tirer la ressemblance, la figure , la représentation d’une personne au naturel, avec le pinceau, le crayon. &c.Portraire au vif, au naturel, il s’est fait portraire. II vieillit & ne se dit qu’à l’infinitif.

PORTRAIT, s. m. v. Image, ressemblance d’une personne, par le moyen du pinceau, du burin, du crayon, &c. Beau portrait, portrait au naturel, portrait en grand, en petit. faire un portrait, portrait resssemblant, qui ne ressemble point.

La Dictionnaire de l’Académie françoise, 1694).

According to this period definition, the purpose of portraiture, and the standard by which it is judged, is ressemblance. What that concept meant to a 17th-century viewer, emerges from a study of self-portraits by Alexandre-François Desportes (French, 1661-1743) and Pierre Mignard (French, 1612-1695). 

TO GAIN ADMISSION to the Académie royale in 1699, Desportes submitted a picture of himself dressed for the hunt, with hounds and recently bagged game arrayed before him. Hunting scenes and trophies, his intended generic concentration with the academy, required an aptitude in still-life composition and an ability to render fur, feathers, and lustrous fabrics, which the picture more than demonstrates. In situations where the artist wished to have special control and/or constant access to a model, he or she could serve as the model, as Desportes did for his morceau de réception. The fact that the resulting picture included a portrait of the man who painted the picture, however, is secondary and third to the picture’s purpose.

While there academy judges may have noted the degree to which the image captured the likeness of the sitter, the degree to which a 17th-century viewer would have considered Desportes’ self-image to be a portrait at all is debatable. In a culture where the default is the portrait d’apparatan effigy-like genre which represents the external, public, official self through surfaces, outward signs, and attributes, can a picture showing a person dressed in a manner unlike his normal attire, situated in a fictive location, engaged in an aristocratic pastime of which he had no experience—be thought of as ressemblant?

Despite these facts, the picture hand s today in the Louvre, its modern title, Autoportrait à la chasseur, implying the picture is au fond a schizophrenic act of self-representation as someone completely other.

MIGNARD’S PICTURE OF 1670, on the other hand, is an act of pure portraiture, by 17th-century standards. The picture is a visual statement of the sitter’s official self, includes his rank, profession and comportment, which are announced almost allegorically by means of attributes, objects, materials and possessions. Mignard locates his profession in the worlds of learning, judgement and intellect by showing himself surrounded by classical sculpture, theoretical texts and a geometer’s tools, not by picturing himself standing in front of an easel with a palette. This is not an attempt to convince the viewer that painting is a liberal art and not a form of manual labor—as a portraitist, his clients, who were obliged to participate in the process, were all aware of the labor the job involved. In its emphases, the picture accurately portrays the official, period conception of the nature of painting, indicating the underlying qualities and capacities that inform and enable its practice. It is a representation of the idea of painting, which, as an erudite abstraction, requires articulation; it is not a representation of the material realization of that idea, which everyone can see for themselves. In this way, Mignard’s picture of himself is très ressemblant.

The fact that he (one assumes) accurately represented his own features is, as it was with Desportes, not worth remarking—it would be like praising a mechanic for starting the car. The picture depicts Mignard as the representative as a class of persons, whose collective behavior is representative of a way of conceptualizing the world. It is utterly impersonal, and obtains for that reason.

6self-portraiture, pierre mignard, alexandre-françois desportes, french painting - 17thc., portraiture, académie royale, ressemblance,

ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 3.67.5


At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.
Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).
The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.
Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When  within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.
ZoomInfo

ROMAN ENGINEERING II: PAVED ROADS

The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.

Dionysius of HalicarnassusAnt. Rom. 3.67.5

At the height of its prosperity, over 400,000 km of roadways (viae) connected the cities of the Roman Empire, 85,000 km of which were paved. In the 2nd century, 29 military roads led out of Rome alone. In 20 BC, Augustus set up the miliarium aureum (golden milestone), near the temple of Saturn, in Rome. All roads were considered to begin from this gilded bronze monument, on which were listed the distances to all the major cities in the empire. Constantine called it the umbilicus Romae, and built a similar—although more complex—monument in Constantinople, the Milion. Milestones along the roadside marked distances; the modern word “mile” derives from the Latin milia passuum, which amounted to 1,000 paces.

Initially designed for the movement of troops, the main roads (viae munitae) were wide, had gutters and walkwalks on both sides, and a smooth surface of concrete poured over paving stones (the concrete has eroded over the millenia, leaving only the stone, giving the false impression of a bumpy ride).

The primary sources concerning Roman road laying are Vitruvius’s directions for making pavements and a passage in Statius’s epic poem, the Thebiad (1st c.), in which he describes the repairs of the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Via Appia, leading to Naples. The following paraphrases both texts:

After the civil engineer looked over the site of the proposed road and determined roughly where it should go, the agrimensores went to work surveying the road bed. They used two main devices, the rod and a device called agroma, which helped them obtain right angles. The gromatici, the Roman equivalent of rod men, placed rods and put down a line called the rigor, trying to achieve straightness by looking along the rods and commanding the gromatici to move them as required. Using the gromae they then laid out a grid on the plan of the road.

Using ploughs and spades, the laboratores excavated a fossa (trench) down to bedrock. The depth varied according to terrain. The road was then constructed by filling the ditch with layers of rubble, gravel, sand and stone, When within one meter of the surface, the bed was covered with gravel and compressed. This flattened pavimentum could be used as the road, or it could be completed with a statumen of flat stones, set in cement and crowned for drainage.

Map of Roman Roads

6via romana, roman engineering, via appia, fosse way, roman roads, via munita, pavimentum, golden milestone, all roads lead to rome, agroma, vitruvius, statius, lepcis magna,

ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo
ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS
In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:


The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.
Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges. 
The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.
Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.
When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.
Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.
ZoomInfo

ROMAN ENGINEERING I: AQUEDUCTS

In his history of early Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus credits the success of the empire not the heroics of Aeneas, republican rectitude, or the virtues of the emperor, but to unglorious feats of civil engineering:

The extraordinary greatness of the Roman Empire manifests itself above all in three things: the aqueducts, the paved roads, and the construction of the drains.

Roman Antiquities, 3.67.5

The great cities of the Roman Empire viewed public amenities like baths, fountains, latrines and sewers as indices of  civilization that distinguished them from barbarians. Those amenities were dependent on an abundant and regular supply of clean water, usually in excess of local supplies. Water from distant elevated regions were brought into the city via  aquaeductus (aquae = waters; ductus = led, directed), or aqueduct. The aqueduct system consisted mainly of underground pipes and tunnels, but occasionally to maintain the correct elevation and grade, or to ovecome a topographical obstacle like a ravine or valley, the water had to be carried above ground over bridges.

The overland aqueduct spans are the product of two building technologies invented by the Romans—the arch and concrete. Unlike the Greek post and lintel system, the arch supported much greater weights and spanned longer distance. Whereas the Greeks essentially piled cut stone into stacks to make walls and columns, the Roman mixed rubble with quicklime and water into concrete, which could be moulded into whatever shaped the tensile strength of the aggregate would bear. The combination of the arch and concrete made the gigantic structures of the empire possible, including the aqueduct, which is a sequence of arches, or arcade, made of concrete covered with stone or brick revetment. The aqueduct system, in turn, quadrupled the water supply into Rome, enabling its rapid expansion and causing its population to rise due to the health benefits of fresh, running water.

Water traveled along a deep trench at the top of the arcades, which was often covered to prevent evaporation and contamination. Deep valleys and ravines could be spanned and rivers traversed by bridges composed of superimposed arcades, without fear of wind sheer or currents. Some of the more elaborate spans, such as the Pont-du Gard in Provence have roads and walkways added at different levels allowing them to serve as roadway bridges as well as aqueducts. In the city, the aqueducts were incorporated into the city walls, the arch openings serving as gateways. The attic storey of the Porta Maggiore in Rome carries water from two separate aqueducts, the Aqua Anio Vetus and the Aqua Claudia, both of which originated near Agosta„ some 67km away. The Aqua Claudia, begun by Caligula and finished by Claudius in A.D. 47 delivered 185,000 cubic meters of water everyday, 20% of the city’s supply.

When the water reached the city it emptied into a castellum, a large cistern on a hill; from there ceramic or lead pipes directed the water to the various access points. In ancient Rome, water was free and no one had to walk more than 150 feet to the nearest public fountain. Waste waters from latrines and baths and rain water emptied into the cloaca or underground sewer system which emptied into the Tiber at a point just south of they city.

Many of the Roman aqueducts are still working today.

6aqueducts - roman, roman architecture, concrete, arches, pont-du-gard, nîmes, segovia, tarragona, aqua claudia, water supply - antiquity, roman engineering,

EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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EERO SAARINEN (Finnish, 1910 - 1961)
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