Rhythmos & Symmetria

Myron is the first sculptor who appears to have enlarged the scope of realism, having more rhythms [rhythmos] in his art than Polycleitus and being more careful in his proportions [symmetria]. Yet he himself so far as surface configuration goes attained great finish, but he does not seem to have given expression to the feelings of the mind, and moreover he has not treated the hair and the pubes with any more accuracy than had been achieved by the rude work of olden days. (Pliny the Elder)

The term rhythmos derives from the dance, long an integral part of Greek community culture. It is easy to find our word rhythm there, but probably a mistake to rely on it too firmly. The rhythms of Myron's Discobolos, as we can see, emerge from the way its parts and shapes echo each other throughout the whole. The Greek concept of rhythmos is not the same thing. It refers to the momentary positions taken by dancers during the course of their performance. By striving to find some equivalent of rhythmos in their work, sculptors were seeking to establish a mechanism whereby the world of flux might be represented in their art. In this way, they provide a way for rational inquiry itself - the proportions and patterns of their craft - to explore the nature of motion.

Symmetria is generally linked to rhythmos as a particular effect much sought after by Greek sculptors. Symmetria derives from the notion that the parts of a work will be proportionate to each other and, hence, to the whole. Here we pose, and are posed, questions of design and proportion in things generally, but particularly in things like buildings and pieces of sculpture. In architecture, symmetria takes account of the such things as the relations among ground plans and elevations, and between column diameter and columniation - so that a proportional relation exists between how wide the columns are and the distance between each column.

As such, symmetriais present in the work of both the Geometric and the Archaic periods as well as the Classical. It is perhaps best known, however, as the goal for which Polykleitos was striving in, for example, his Doryphoros, where harmonious proportion of the whole combines with rhythmos.

Polykleitos was remembered in Antiquity as the chief master and foremost exponent of the principle of symmetria, ‘commensurability of parts,’ in art. Around the middle of the fifth century, or shortly thereafter, he wrote a treatise, known as the Canon, in which he delineated and apparently sought to justify the system of symmetria which he had developed for representing the human body in sculpture. The Canon seems to have been well-known and influential, in its intent at least, in later times...

The basic idea behind the symmetria principle, that an artistic composition should consist of clearly definable parts, was a venerable one in Greek art. It existed, as we have seen, in the Geometric period and continued in force throughout the Archaic period. Greek sculpture in particular in the Archaic period saw the development of workshop formulae of symmetria which seem to have been inspired by Egyptian prototypes, but underwent considerable local development.

What distinguished Polykleitos’ system of symmetria from what had gone on before, however, was that it seems to have had philosophical content as well as a practical function. Its aim was to express what Polykleitos himself called [in Greek] to eu, ‘the perfect’ or ‘the good,’ and what others seems to have called to kallos, ‘the beautiful.’ There is some evidence that the philosophical tradition which gave rise to and helped to shape this philosophical conception of symmetria was Pythagoreanism” (Pollitt, 106).

The Diskobolos, Myron

Diskobolos, The Discus-thrower, Myron, 460-50

Nobody doesn't know this work of art, though not always, perhaps, as a work of art. As with the Artemision Zeus, the artist - in this case identified as Myron - has sought, with enormous success, to capture a moment in time as it is expressed through the human form in action. Specifically, an athlete is poised just at the moment of greatest contortion before sending the discus on its way. The Discus-thrower, alas, only exists in relatively weak Roman copies. Unlike the Artemision Zeus, our attention is not drawn to where the event will happen, but to the fact that it will happen, and to the physical expression that makes possible our anticipation. We note the curious combinations of semi-circles - the patterning is most effective - and we may also begin to feel, through the sympathetic stretch of our own skeletal-muscular systems, something of the particular consciousness involved in the action. Such a reaction may derive from the skill with which the artist has rendered the body's features; the face itself is virtually expressionless.

Surface modeling is ... masterful. The muscles have just the right tautness and prominence, the flesh is firm and lively, major veins of hands and arms show their pulsing vigor, and all the contours of the body are beautifully proportioned in their rhythmic flow. The sweeping arc of arms is continued by the inner leg and counter-balanced by the torso’s curve in the opposite direction, completed by the outer thigh. The round discus is balanced by the circle of the head, at equal distance from the center of gravity on which the body pivots. The vertical line of the lower right leg provides dynamic contrast to these correlated curves, and is an element of stability and strength. It is paralleled by the vertical left foot, resting on its bent toes, and is given effective counterpoise by the horizontal line of the right foot and supporting base. This attention to intelligible pattern, to repetition and variety and pleasing inter-relationship of lines, is characteristic of the Greek mind in its best literature and art” (Schoder, #39).

Schoder speaks of the "harmonious symmetry and proportion" of the piece. Susan Woodford, on the other hand, locates both symmetry and the repetition of shapes as characteristic of the earlier Archaic ideal. Here, in the early Classical style, new patterns emerge.

The Greeks were concerned not only to make their statues resemble men but also to make them objects of aesthetic delight. In the archaic period, symmetry and repetition of shapes were used to produce beautiful effects. These were now out of fashion. In fact, they were systematically rejected in the design of the Discus-thrower. Notice how consistently symmetry is avoided. The right side of the statue is dominated by the sweep of a continuous, almost unbroken curve, the left by a jagged zigzag; the right side is closed, the left open; the right side is smooth, the left angular. The simplicity of the main forms, the great arc and the four straight lines meeting almost at right angles, bring harmony to the agitated figure. One sees the torso from the front and the legs from the side so that the most characteristic features of each are presented simultaneously. Both representation and design are marvelously clear.

But what of the problems that emerged from the active pose of the Zeus of Aremisium? Alas, they are still there, perhaps even in aggravated form. The torso is so little expressive of the actual action of the limbs that in the 18th century another copy of the Discus-thrower torso was taken to be part of a dying warrior and restored as such; and the side view, showing chest and legs each in their least characteristic aspects, is almost unrecognizable as a human figure.

It was up to the artists of the next generation, in the high classical period (about 450-420 BC), to try to solve these problems” (Woodford, 2004, 18)

Artemision Zeus

The Zeus or Poseidon of Artemision (c. 460 BCE)

This iconic piece explains as it demonstrates the Early Classical ("severe") ideal. The body is captured at a precise moment - and a momentous precision it is. The god's entire body, and his mind, which we can begin to comprehend, are both alert and supremely focused. It is an exhilarating piece to admire, in part because we can begin to participate in the anticipated throw.

This is one of the only bronzes to survive from this era. He was recovered from a shipwreck. He might be Poseidon, but I think of Poseidon as rougher around the edges. This to me is Zeus, the god of storms and lightning, not earthquakes, and of balanced harmonies, not sudden bursts of passion. One of the things that works so well in this statue is the combination of relaxation with poised tension. The contrapposto stance is expressed by way of exaggerated extension in a body that is anatomically precise, while seeming to exemplify geometric patterning.

Woodford, her good and well-trained eye especially observant here, points out some of the technical problems with the piece; they're interesting, but don't much matter in the end.

We have seen that doing something new can easily unbalance the coherence of a work of art and that unforeseen problems are likely to emerge. This has happened with the Zeus of Artemisium. A novel sense of movement has been brilliantly captured, but at the same time two new problems have appeared, neither of which is solved. First, though the torso should be dramatically affected by the vigorous activity of the limbs, it is as still as it would have been in a quietly standing figure like the Kritios boy. Second, though the Zeus of Artemisium is splendid from the front and the back, it is pathetically unintelligible from the sides, which was not the case with the Kritios boy or even the kouroi (Woodford, The Art of Greece and Rome, 2004, 16).

I recall a passage, I think from William H. Gass somewhere (The World Within the Word?), in which he used the image of an equestrian statue in which the fellow points with his sword - to nothing. He was writing about meaning in a literary work, but it would serve as well, I think, for a statue like this. Although the expansive gesture encompasses more space than many other pieces of its (somewhat large) size, we don't turn to see what he has in mind to smite. We turn to see how he's doing it.

The Ludovisi Throne

Something can happen to marble, under the right hands, as here in the Birth of Aphrodite panel of the Ludovisi Throne, that seems to introduce entirely new ideas about the material itself. Here, the hard and dry evoke the soft and wet. To me this is one of those uncanny works of extraordinary appeal at which worship would not be out of order. The patterning is extraordinary; notice the interplay of diagonals in the arms and legs. The rippling verticals and the expansive catenaries are both impressive drapery effects that enhance our sensory response.

She is probably Aphrodite, at birth, rising from the seas after they've conjoined with the severed genitals of Ouranos.

When first he had cut off the genitals with the adamant and cast them from the land on the swelling sea, they were carried for a long time on the deep. And white foam arose about from the immortal flesh and in it a maiden grew. First she was brought to holy Cythera, and then from there she came to sea-girt Cyprus. And she emerged a dread and beautiful goddess and grass rose under her slender feet. (188–195)

Gods and human beings call her Aphrodite, and the foam-born goddess because she grew amid the foam (aphros), and Cytherea of the beautiful crown because she came to Cythera, and Cyprogenes because she arose in Cyprus washed by the waves. She is called too Philommedes (genital-loving) because she arose from the genitals. Eros attended her and beautiful desire followed her when she was born and when she first went into the company of the gods. From the beginning she has this honor, and among human beings and the immortal gods she wins as her due the whispers of girls, smiles, deceits, sweet pleasure, and the gentle delicacy of love. (195–206) Hesiod

She might also be Persephone rising with the springtime after serving out the winter as Queen of the Dead.

My child, tell me, surely you have not tasted any food while you were below? Speak out and hide nothing, but let us both know. For if you have not, you shall come back from loathly Hades and live with me and your father, the dark-clouded Son of Cronos and be honoured by all the deathless gods; but if you have tasted food, you must go back again beneath the secret places of the earth, there to dwell a third part of the seasons every year: yet for the two parts you shall be with me and the other deathless gods. But when the earth shall bloom with the fragrant flowers of spring in every kind, then from the realm of darkness and gloom thou shalt come up once more to be a wonder for gods and mortal men. And now tell me how he rapt you away to the realm of darkness and gloom, and by what trick did the strong Host of Many beguile you? (Homeric Hymn to Demeter)

Both are great stories, and maybe its yet a third option nobody has thought of. Regardless. We know that a story of that sort, a myth, is being told; that much is clear. We are constantly invited in, as we are with all great works, to explore. Lord Clark speaks of "that landscape of the breasts."

“...those carvings in which the body is covered by a light, clinging garment, what the French call a draperie mouillée. This device was used from archaic times onward, the earliest sculptors seeming to recognize how drapery may render a form both more mysterious and more comprehensible. The section of a limb as it swells and subsides may be delineated precisely or left to the imagination; parts of the body that are plastically satisfying can be emphasized, those less interesting can be concealed; and awkward transitions can be made smooth by the flow of line. Drapery makes the bodies of the sixth-century maidens as beautiful as those of the young men, and consoles us for the absence of female nudes by the presence of the korai; and in that isolated masterpiece, the Ludovisi Throne, the body of the naked flute player moves us less than that of the lightly draped Aphrodite. The flute player’s pose has not allowed the sculptor to develop the leading motives of the nude, whereas in the Aphrodite, who rises with such benign confidence between the arms of her attendants, he has discovered that landscape of the breasts and thorax which for some mysterious reason, connected, perhaps, with our earliest physical needs, is one of the most satisfying the eye can rest upon. In the execution of this passage, how skillfully he has used the pleats of her shift, which outline her shoulders, vanish under the pressure of the swelling breasts, and occupy with delicate curves that plane of her chest which, without them, would have seemed to flat for continuous beauty! The modeling of her attendants’ legs, half seen through their flimsy skirts, is done with equal subtlety and sensuous understanding” (Kenneth Clark, The Nude: A Study in Ideal Form, 119).

Krater by the Niobid Painter

This krater by the Niobid Painter - the name comes from the other side of the vase, which shows the death of Niobe's children at the hands of Leto's two kids -is an interesting example of painterly composition. The figures are arranged on different planes, so that there is more than one ground line, the original ground line firmly established by the reclining figure. Presumably, this is done to achieve a sense of depth. The technique is said to derive from Greek painters, though none of their work has survived. The figures themselves - obviously, this is red-figure technique - are extremely well-achieved. They are not named, though one of them may represent Herakles, and the ensemble may represent the Argonauts.

Aspasia Type

This statue, a Roman copy of a Greek original from perhaps 460 BCE, is misnamed. It apparently does not represent the celebrated mistress of Pericles, named Aspasia. It may represent a god. It is, in any case, a severely draped woman, almost totally wrapped in a himation, with almost none of the woman's body beneath revealed. What is revealed by these stunning drapery effects, however, is achieved through that elegant concatenation of catenaries under the right shoulder, the beautiful diagonals that hang from the left arm, and that stunningly beautiful diagonal across the middle. The whole sculpture seems to be a massive base for that somber head encased in that deep hood. The only other part of the body revealed are her toes.

Although we would not (I think) refer to this piece as a kore, - it is far too somber, too austere, too self-possessed - there are definite echoes.

The Herakles Metopes, Temple of Zeus at Olympia

The Herakles metopes at the Temple of Zeus in Olympia (470 - 456 BCE) are justly renowned. They depict the hero performing each of his labors over the course of his career, so that, biography-like, the images take us from the young hero to the tired old man.

Tired, however, probably best describes even the young man as he looks down quizzically at the Nemean lion he has just slain - his first labor, of twelve. Instead of acting the hero and posing heroically, the artists have caught him in a pensive, thoughtful stance, as if responding to what he has just done. This is the kind of thing that engaged the artists of the early Classical period so fully. They seem to be trying to find some way of expressing, not so much how a hero would respond to these events, but how a human would. Even through the blank spaces torn away by time, what remains of the Nemean metope is a profound exploration of human consciousness.

I like to think of the Herakles figure in these metopes as in some way standing in for the artist himself, (or perhaps I should say the artists themselves). It is as if the artist finds a mode of expression by asking, "How would I react if I had just done this?" The Atlas metope, in much better condition, and widely reproduced, gives us another thoughtful image of the hero (or, should I say, man?). To me, he just looks like the artist. And there's Athena helping out by stretching her hand to help support the weight of the world.

The composition of the metope combines three big verticals with a most satisfying horizontal in Atlas's hands, which hold the golden apples of the Hesperides, assuring Herakles of immortality. For me, again (and I have no particular warrant for this interpretation), the scene demonstrates the artist who supports the weight of the earth with the help of the gods and receives a timely reward by tricking the titan. Adding to the compositional flair is the studied exposition of three sorts of perspectives in depicting the body. Athena is shown as fully frontal, Herakles in profile, and Atlas in 3/4 view.

Perhaps because she is the only figure not fragmented, Athena's form stands out. The drapery effects here, and the modeling of the body beneath, are especially well achieved.

Athena, who stands quietly by choice, turns toward Herakles and raises one hand, effortlessly, to ease his burden. She is again wearing a heavy peplos which falls in deep sparse folds. The formula for indicating the stance of the figure beneath the drapery is becoming conventional: straight folds, uninterrupted, fall over the supporting leg; over the projecting knee of the weightless leg, they are smoothed out. The simplicity of the plain, undecorated areas is contrasted with the sharply cut details, and the severity is enlivened by the calligraphic elegance of the line at the bottom of the overfold, which falls to just below Athena’s waist. (Susan Woodford, An Introduction to Greek Art, Cornell University Press, 1986 , 102)

The metopes considered as a whole (not a task I feel up to) demonstrate a variety of poses and interests, generally arranged around verticals, horizontals, and diagonals.

Seer, Kladeos, East Pediment, Temple of Zeus at Olympia

Seer (left) and Kladeos (right) from the East Pediment of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia, (462-457 BCE)


The temple itself has crumbled, but its fine sculptures, or at least some of them, in various states of ruin, remain. These two heads are especially interesting, in particular because of what they suggest by way of comparison.

The first head -the seer - shows us part of a story, one of the many sorry episodes in the house of Atreus, which culminate in the Oresteia of Aeschylus. The daughter of King Oenomaus, Hippodamia, is unable to marry. Her father has set a marriage test [a motif of the impossible task as found in Rumpelstiltskin, or the Odyssey] of a chariot race with himself as the other contestant; the winner gets to marry her, but the loser will forfeit his life. Why? Maybe a prophecy of some sort, or perhaps, as in Shakespeare's play, he loves her for himself. Pelops, who would seem to have already had enough adventure for one lifetime, decides to play the game; he cheats, however. He enlists Myrtilus, the king's charioteer, in a scheme to replace the chariot's bronze linchpin with one of beeswax. Again, you can find different reasons for this betrayal; perhaps Pelops offers him gold, or power, or access to Hippodamia.

The seer in this pedimental sculpture watches the linchpin get replaced. He catches his breath, hardly believing what he has seen, or what he sees will happen. (He is a seer, remember.) This portrait of dawning consciousness helps to convey the story both as immediate event and as something anticipated to happen.

By the way, the ruse works, the king is killed when the chariot falls apart during the race, and afterwards Pelops throws Myrtilus from a cliff rather than pay up. As he falls to his death the doomed charioteer curses, again, that sorry family. Pelops and Hippodamia count among their children Atreus and Thyestes, a disagreeable pair.

The stark realism of the seer's face, and its implications for character, event, thought, and narrative, contrast vividly with the recumbent Kladeos figure. Here is the blankest of blank stares, the emptiest of empty faces. Who is he? Maybe a river god. We'll never know, but it seems as if the artist(s) might have conceived of these pieces as deliberately contrastive, to highlight differences, so that the pieces resonate more not only with the story, but with the minds of the viewers.

Krater, the Pan Painter

Krater, the Pan Painter, c. 470

Red-figure technique gives the artist more control over details than the earlier black-figure technique. This krater shows Artemis aiming her arrow, somewhat pointlessly it would appear, at an Actaeon who is being viciously devoured by his own hunting dogs. The familiar story, widely illustrated throughout western art because of Ovid's masterful tale, has the hapless hunter chance upon the bathing Artemis (Diana), who turns him into a stag who is then chased and devoured alive, all in full human consciousness of the horror, by his faithful dogs.

The artist has arranged the figures neatly within the shape, so that the V-shape they make with their bodies and the one created in negative space both echo the shape of the krater. Actaeon, however, is not a stag here, which I take to be a sign of his fully human consciousness. Artemis is not nude either, which is accounted for by convention. Nude females were not to be in vogue for a hundred years or so. Actaeon's helpless gesture echoes the goddess' bow and emphasizes his mounting pain and horror. He is posing, not entirely unlike the Archaic fallen warrior from the Aphaia temple, though the mouth, shut tight, and the eloquence of the gesture, pack a wallop.

The other side of the krater gives the painter his moniker. It shows an ithyphallic Pan pursuing a shepherd boy.

Bust (portrait?) of Themistokles

Roman copy of an original, dating to maybe 470 BCE

Portraits are, generally speaking, from a later date. This piece, however, looks very much as if it could have been modeled from a real guy. And, what a guy! Themistokles rose up in Athenian society through guile and force of will; he was apparently an arrogant son of a bitch, but his forceful arguments on behalf of naval expansion and his brilliant leadership led to the destruction of Xerxes' naval fleet at the Battle of Salamis.

There were lots of portraits done at the time, and later, but there is good evidence that they were done without specific reference to what the model actually looked like. Although we don't know if this is a portrait, it looks like it could be.

The Bronze Charioteer

The Bronze Charioteer of Delphi, 478-474 BCE

A single day's blessing
is the highest good a mortal knows.
I must crown him now
to the horseman's tune
in Aeolian rhythms
for I believe
the shimmering folds of my song
shall never embrace
a host more lordly in power or perception of beauty.
Pindar, Olympian Ode #1, translated by Frank J. Nisetich

This bronze Charioteer, one of the few remaining original Greek bronzes, originally formed part of a votive group, no doubt representing the stately victory march after a competition. His chiton is belted high and tied down around the shoulders to keep it in place during the fast and furious race which, presumably, this young fellow has just won. You can sense, even from photographs, the successful attempt to model the bronze so that it reflects a psychological state. We can read in the austerity of the image a combination of the champion's pride and youthful wariness, as if he is telling himself, "Don't look too proud."

The inner life of consciousness, however, is not private or personal. It reflects that Greek ideal of physical beauty attached to balance and harmony. The drapery - it always starts with the drapery - falls in artful, patterned folds. Below the waist the folds have an almost flute-like regularity, suggestive of a Doric column. Above the waist, the folds reveal the muscles of the upper arms and provide a sense of life to the chest, as if he were taking a breath.

The Riace Warriors

The Riace Warriors, c. 475-50 BCE, bronze. A is on the left, B on the right.

These guys are good examples of Greek bronzes from the early Classical period. They are named for the village in Calabria, in Southern Italy, near which they were found. They were no doubt in a shipwreck, or possibly a storm so dangerous the captain had to jettison the cargo. Too bad for him, but lucky for us.

They stand in similar poses, holding a spear in their left hand and a shield in their right; obviously, both are now missing. A was crowned by a diadem and wreath, B with a helmet, also gone, making them seem unusually bald on top.

Their names are A and B, a formality which serves to distinguish them, but which hardly identifies them. They have always looked Italian to me, but I assume that is because of the Riace moniker. Although they look alike, when we look again we see obvious differences. A is younger, more alert, and in great physical condition. B, by contrast, is older, less fit, and, though alert, seems to be somewhat less concerned.

Although they can not be dated for certain, they are clearly from that glorious period known as the Early Classical. This style combines the Greek fascination with geometrical abstraction with a new interest in rendering the human body in a naturalistic way. Their poses are both arranged in contrapposto , with the weight on one leg, which sets off a series of reactions in the rest of the body alternating the tense with the relaxed. This makes bodies appear energetic, poised, and, if not actually moving, about to move, or, even, thinking about it. Artists at this time are clearly becoming increasingly interested in exploring dimensions of human consciousness by portraying the body and the face in particular ways. Perhaps this accounts for the single artist - if it was a single artist - exploring two states of consciousness in these two pieces.

The Blond Boy

The so-called Blond Boy, from the Acropolis, dated to around 480 BCE, is a good example of the so-called “severe style,” in which the archaic smile has been replaced by a pout. Paint remaining on the pupils indicates something about the original conception, which would have created a concentrated, somewhat somber stare, perhaps aloof, but also self-aware. He knows you’re looking at him, and acts unconnected, unconcerned.

Compared to the typical archaic face, all these facial features seem compacted and tightly-knit. In the Blond Boy this effect arises, as Rhys Carpenter has pointed out, from a simple system of proportions in which multiples of basic horizontal and vertical modules (e.g. the width of the nose at the junction of the eyebrows) are applied to all the basic parts of the face. A uniform 3 : 4 proportion between all the vertical and horizontal dimensions of the face is at the root of its (literal and metaphysical) measure and order. The new, increasingly squarish (or perhaps we should say ‘foursquare’) canon of proportions which we see under development in the Blond Boy seems to represent an adaptation of the ‘feeling’ of the severe style to an increasingly sophisticated tradition devoted to an analysis of, and speculation about the significance of the interrelationships of the various parts of a work of art—a tradition which went back to the very beginning of Greek art and began to move in important new directions in the fifth century. (Pollitt, 39-41).

The Kritios Boy

The Kritian Youth, c. 480 BCE

He is one of the most important pieces of art from the period. He inaugurates what has become known as the Early Classical Age of Greek art. However much he may resemble his ancestor kouroi figures of before, he resembles far more his later cousins. He is no longer Archaic, but Classical. All of his ancestors looked right past us into some never-never land.

By contrast, the ‘Kritios boy’ in the Acropolis Museum in Athens seems as if he might turn and ask you a question… The sculptor… broke with the 150-year-old kouros stance by shifting the seeming stress of the weight to the left leg while leaving the right leg, with the knee slightly bent, free to balance or propel. The displacement of the weight to the left leg raises the left hip and causes a slight unevenness of the axes of the torso. The head turns to the right, to complete the break with the rigidly frontal kouroi. The effect of these technical devices is to create a figure which seems to hesitate to be uncertain about what it is doing and where it will go. It seems conscious of its surroundings and faced with alternatives which ask for judgment and decision. In short, it seems to live and think” (Pollitt, 17-18).

In addition to the revolutionary new pose, known as contrapposto and found all over the art of the western world from this point on, the boy's face has lost the Archaic smile. He pouts, or looks "severe."

For this is indeed not merely a beardless male figure but a boy, whose soft flesh, trim but undeveloped musculature, and genitals are those of an adolescent. The greater specificity which the increasing richness of reference to the male form inevitably brought with it makes the fiction that this is a universal symbol impossible to sustain; rather than mirror the gaze of the viewer and enter the viewer’s story, this boy turns his head intent upon his own story in which the twist of his hips guarantees that he is an actor and not merely a spectator. No longer engaged, the viewer now searches for clues about that story, eyeing the boy up and down and appreciating the attractions of his youthful body. The world and delights of the symposion have here entered the religious sanctuary” (Osborne, 159).