The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam has finally re-opened after ten years. It must have been five years ago or more that I said I wouldn’t go back to the Netherlands until this happened: I haven’t been since 1985 and while there are many wonderful places to go and a good number of top-notch collections, the Rijksmuseum is the one that has held my attention. Why has it taken so long? Well, there was asbestos, and a dispute about a bicycle lane – which meant that the design had to be adapted so that, instead of the cyclists going round the museum the museum now goes round the cyclists. And then there was flooding. Amsterdam is lower than sea level as it is, so when you start digging a new basement level, you will almost inevitably end up with a hole full of water. The builders had to resort to dinghies.

But ten years? After all, the Romans managed to build an entire building – and my guess would be, a larger one – in that time. And it was sited on a lake.  Building started on the Flavian Amphiteatre (and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, presumably you haven’t been to Rome with AHA – or weren’t listening that day) under the Emperor Vespasian in 70 AD, and completed by his successor Titus ten years later. They were both members of the Flavian dynasty, hence the name of the building. It had to be big, for the population of Rome was enormous – the first city to reach a million inhabitants – and to keep them happy the Emperors needed to provide first-rate entertainment. It is believed that the amphitheatre could seat up to 50,000 people – the size of some of our sports arenas today. But then it was an ‘arena’, the Latin word meaning ‘sand’, which was used on the floor to help clean away the blood of the various slaughtered animals and, of course, gladiators. But probably not Christians, as it happens.

The Flavian Amphitheatre, Rome, built 70-80 AD

I am, of course, talking about the Colosseum. Or the Coliseum. Both spellings are valid. To build something this large you needed a lot of space, and fortunately that became available with the death of Nero in AD 68. After the fire in Rome four years earlier, rather than re-building all of the lost housing, and thereby ingratiating himself with the dispossessed, this most infamous of the Emperors (if that is possible) chose to build just one, the Golden House, for himself. It had a large garden, including a lake (fed by a stream leading down to the Tiber) and an enormous sculpture – or colossus - of himself. His death was celebrated, as deaths of unpopular leaders are to this day, but the house was too big to destroy. It was stripped of its treasures, ransacked and left to ruin. By the 15^th Century it looked like Rome’s eighth, smaller hill (although, to be honest, the Eternal City has always boasted more than seven), although in 1480 someone fell through the ground into some marvellously decorated grottoes. Notable renaissance artists were lowered down in baskets and copied the imagery, in a style which, given their origin, was referred to as ‘grotesque’ – from a grotto. But I digress: that belongs to the Renaissance.

After Nero’s death his garden was given over to public entertainment – the Flavians were not going to be as unpopular as the last of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, and it was there that they built their amphitheatre, more-or-less where the lake had been. Presumably they drained it first, rather than floating around in dinghies as our Dutch contemporaries have. Already standing in the garden was the colossus, and it was this, it seems, that meant that the Flavian Amphitheatre would eventually become known as the Colosseum – although this name does not seem to have been used widely until the end of the first millennium.

In context, ten years was remarkably quick for a building of this size. The pace of work was facilitated by use of a particular material: concrete. For the interiors of the structure parallel brick walls were erected and filled with rubble and concrete. The outer walls, and some of the more important load-bearing lower elements used stone. The sloping, or ‘raked’ seating – which allows the spectators a good view – left a lot of space beneath, creating access corridors for the public to get to their seats and for the entertainers – human or bestial – to move around the central space before entering (although in the Colosseum they also had access from below the arena, parts of the building which have only recently been opened to the public). The ceilings of the access corridors, which create an arched vault supporting the seating above, were made by making a wooden ‘mould’ of the vaults into which concrete was poured. The Romans developed this technique into a fine art, and it allowed for some of the world’s most remarkable creations, including the astonishing dome of the Pantheon.  Then after the fall of the Roman Empire, the secret of concrete was forgotten.

Although there are earlier examples, it was only really in the middle of the 18^th Century that concrete started to be used again, and its use became more common in the 19^th century, particularly after the invention of reinforced concrete in 1849: steel bars are enclosed within the concrete to increase its tensile strength. Concrete was favoured by many of the great modernist architects, and was the primary material for the ‘Brutalist’ school of architecture. It was also used in the New Vic Theatre in Stoke, which opened in 1986, in which I have been performing The Importance of Being Earnest for the past two weeks. Like the Colosseum, the inner structure was created by building a wooden mould and pouring concrete – the grain from the wooden planks used for the mould is clearly visible on the walls.

To be accurate, the New Vic isn’t a theatre at all, but, like the Colosseum, an amphitheatre. A Greek theatre was designed so that an audience could hear the play (hence the word ‘audience’) – they all had to face the actors, and the actors had to face them – so the seating was in a semi-circle, facing the stage. Gladiatorial combat could be seen from any angle: a bit like children, it should be seen, but didn’t need to be ‘heard’ (hence my use of the term ‘spectators’ above). So a theatre was built on both sides – an amphitheatre (the first syllable here is the same as the first syllable of ‘ambidextrous’).

A seating plan of the New Vic Theatre, Newcastle-under-Lyme.

The seating plan of the New Vic looks remarkably similar to the structure of the Colosseum, with the notable exception that it only seats 600, rather than the larger venue’s original 50,000. This does mean that the audience can hear us even when we’re facing away from them (as long as we project clearly enough!). And the corridors underneath the seating – the drum – allow us to move around the space and enter the stage from any side – well, from one of the three vomitoria - a word now abbreviated to ‘vom’. The Colosseum has eighty of these on the outer wall allowing the crowds to leave rapidly after the performance. Given that the audience would, it was hoped, ‘spew forth rapidly’, it doesn’t need much imagination to work out where the name comes from. Each of the Colosseum’s eighty entrances was numbered: your token of admission would tell you where to enter, exactly as your ticket would for today’s arenas, and the corridors were divided to direct you from your entrance to your allocated seating. The more exclusive seats were nearer to the performance area, a distribution which is reflected in ticket pricing nowadays.

Entrance LII (52!) of the Colosseum

So, to return to the question at the top of the blog, the Romans have helped to design, and given us some of the technology to build, one of the most enjoyable spaces I have ever worked in. It has been marvellous performing in what is now called theatre-in-the-round, and entirely exhilarating to have the audience on every side. One of my colleagues said it was like being in the Colosseum with everybody trying to kill you by laughing: I really cannot imagine what it would be like with 50, 000 people baying for your blood.

The Importance of Being Earnest is on tour until 14 June. For more details, follow @londonclassic1 or @stemprichard on twitter, or see http://www.londonclassictheatre.co.uk/index.php/2013/01/the-importance-of-being-earnest/

The cathedral of Coventry is famous for its celebration of building something new out of something old that had been dramatically destroyed.  Like Achilles arising from his funeral pyre, or the mythical Phoenix, Coventry Cathedral was re-born.  Since the trauma that the city underwent, there grew a desire for the new Cathedral to be created in an entirely modern and revivalist manner, in both its architectural design, and for the art works inside.

The Ruins of Coventry Cathedral

This task fell to Sir Basil Spence, and he ultimately designed the ‘jewel box’ Cathedral. Within the new, innovative building, is the vast tapestry designed by Graham Sutherland, and it certainly captures your attention. Christ looks out from an emerald background, surrounded by stylized versions of the four evangelists.  What makes this image of Christ instantly recognizable is Sutherland’s decision to draw on the traditional iconography of us as a society associate with Christ. Over thousands of years, Christ has maintained the same basic facial physiology such as the oval face, long nose and signature parted hair and small, clean cut beard.  Combined with his piercing gaze and the presence of the halo, the majority of society would be familiar with this stereotypical view of Christ.

The tapestry

The importance of Christ Jesus as an icon is not something to be ignored. For Sutherland, his image of Christ had to be instantly distinguishable, due to the size and position of the work. Christ’s representation strives to somehow embody and invoke his presence within the Cathedral and this reflects an important ideal in Christian teaching with regards to the Eucharist and receiving Communion. The tapestry serves to direct the mind of the congregation to a further reverence and appreciation of spiritual matters. Christ’s very insistent and assertive stare is one we certainly cannot escape from, a reminder perhaps to the congregation that Christ sees into every part of us .  As humans, we are drawn to eyes and so the use of the full frontal gaze is very effective.

The Face of Christ

The tapestry produces a sense of awe and overwhelms the viewer with the grandeur and majesty of Christ.  As we look deeper into the tapestry,we gain a sense of Christ’s humanity, which is further emphasised by the wounds he shows us. The ambiguous halo that surrounds his head, coupled with the life-sized figure of a man at his feet serves to remind us of our own mortality. All this considered, the image’s glory is undeniable. The success of Sutherland’s tapestry comes from its ability to invoke familiar religious imagery and yet be modern and innovative in its approach.  A highly suitable piece for a rebuilt Christian Cathedral, a structure which by its very nature is a metaphor for the Christian expectation of resurrection.

The Tapestry within the Cathedral

The question of whether or not mechanical and digital images affect our perception of the original artwork takes us to the heart of art history, a discipline that since its inception has predicated the importance of authenticity.

In 1934 Walter Benjamin stated in his influential essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction that the concept of reproducing works of art is not a new phenomenon and can be traced back to antiquity. Furthermore, he argued that mass production of images not only challenges the notion of authenticity but it unquestionably impacts the way we perceive art.

79 years on, in light of gargantuan leaps in technological advancements, questioning the issues Benjamin raised appears as topical as ever.

This February, after almost a decade of looking at reproductions – I was finally able to study with my own eyes some of the world’s most iconic art works, exhibited in MoMA’s permanent and temporary collections in New York.

The Starry Night - Vincent Van Gogh

Les Demoiselles D'Avignon - Picasso

The Scream - Munch

Experiencing these works first hand entirely eclipsed any previous opinions I had formed or reactions I had anticipated; though this may not be a great surprise, and I want to describe my experience more fully, in the hope of reiterating the importance of actively thinking about the way in which the proliferation of images continues to affect our understanding of art today.

Benjamin claimed: “That which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art”.  But, I was thrilled and reassured to find that the original works in MoMA retained their “aura”.

The raw, fleshy- fluorescent oranges and pinks used by Picasso for his figures in Les Demoiselles D’Avignon – were much cruder and more vulgar than I had thought. I felt that these colours exposed the women in new and challenging ways. I was also completely entranced by Van Gogh’s sculptural acrylic sky that appeared almost three-dimensional when standing close up to it. It wasn’t just the feeling that each brush stroke had been made by the legendary Van Gogh that kept me there for almost an hour, but rather I felt privileged to have the chance to engage with the materiality of the work and its tactile qualities in a way I hadn’t previously been able to do.

Les Demoiselles D'Avignon (detail)

Until April 29^th MoMA will be exhibiting one of the four versions of The Scream made by Munch between 1893 and 1910.  As one of the most reproduced and recognised works of the 20^th century, the organiser of the installation (Ann Temkin) noted “The startling power of Munch’s original work endures almost despite of the image’s present-day ubiquity”.  This is the only version that remains in a private collection, so the chance to see the bright pastel colours in real life was a privilege.  The Scream did not disappoint: its expressiveness was fresh and exciting.  However, I was also prompted to reconsider how mass reproduction of certain images affects our value judgement.   For example, because of its blockbuster “aura” I had lazily expected The Scream to be Munch’s most powerful work, but in fact – I developed a newfound admiration for the artist by encountering The Madonna (1895), which I thought to be without a doubt more harrowingly beautiful. I was not the only one to be surprised by this work; as I stood there I overheard a couple discussing that they didn’t understand why everyone queued up to catch a glimpse (and take a photo) of The Scream when The Madonna was hung right by it – surely for no other reason than that The Scream rather than The Madonna is Munch’s most reproduced work?  The point I am trying to illustrate here is that, while reproductions are indeed wonderful as for one thing they raise awareness of great art, it is nonetheless imperative for us to continually challenge the “blockbuster” status we give certain works at the expense of others through reproductions.

The Madonna - Munch

The mass reproduction of images and the availability of collections online has had a huge impact on museums worldwide; increasingly curators have had to find ways to use easily accessible high definition copies to their advantage in order to fuel rather than extinguish people’s desire to engage with art works first hand. As the facility with which we can access images with a tap of our finger increases, it is incredibly important that we don’t lose touch with the physicality of an art work and the impact it has as a material entity