The First Viral Images: Maerten de Vos, Antwerp Print, and the Early Modern Globe 9780271094243

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
1. Viral Images
2. Fixing the Line
3. Conquering and Forgetting
4. Local Mediators in Latin America
5. Silver and Souls in Manila
Conclusion: Imaginings
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The First Viral Images

The First Viral Images Maerten de Vos, Antwerp Print, and the Early Modern Globe

Stephanie Porras

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

Publication of this book has been aided by a grant from the Millard Meiss Publication Fund of CAA.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Porras, Stephanie, author. Title: The first viral images : Maerten de Vos, Antwerp print, and the early modern globe / Stephanie Porras. Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “Examines internet virality as a critical framework for considering early modern artworks’ global mobility and replication. Explores the role of artistic labor, gatekeepers, infrastructures, and social networks to reassess art’s role in processes of globalization”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2022026216 | ISBN 9780271092836 (cloth) Subjects: LCSH: Vos, Maarten de, 1532–1603. St. Michael the Archangel. | Art and globalization—History—16th century. | Art—Reproduction—History—16th century. | Art— Copying—History—16th century. Classification: LCC N72.G55 P67 2023 | DDC 701/.0309031— dc23/eng/20220719 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026216

Copyright © 2023 Stephanie Porras All rights reserved Printed in China Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992. Additional credits: page i, Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 (fig. 78), detail; page ii, attributed to Antonio Mermejo, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 (fig. 61, detail; page vi, Justus Sadeler, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1600 (fig. 39), detail; page x, Bartolomé Román, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 (fig. 69), detail.

Contents List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgments xi 1. Viral Images 1 2. Fixing the Line 17 3. Conquering and Forgetting 51 4. Local Mediators in Latin America 89 5. Silver and Souls in Manila 117 Conclusion: Imaginings 147 Notes 151 Bibliography 163 Index 177

Illustrations 1. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 2. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1584

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17. Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1590

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18. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 1593 30 19. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, 30 Adoration of the Shepherds, 1593

3. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, title page from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines, 1593

3

4. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581

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5. Mughal artist, Nativity, ca. 1600

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6. Ming artist, Nativity, 1637

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7. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Nativity, 1593

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8. Livio Agresti, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1555

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9. Gerard van Groningen, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1573

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10. Benedetto Fiammeri, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1580

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11. Jan Snellinck, Judgment of Solomon, 1579

25

12. Benedetto Fiammeri, Arrest in the Garden, ca. 1580 25 13. Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1586 14. Aliprando Capriolo, after Bernardino Passeri, from Vita et miracvla sanctiss.mi patris Benedicti, 1579

29

27

27

15. Bernardino Passeri, design for a title page, ca. 1586 28 16. Bernardino Passeri, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1585 29

20. Antonius Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, 1593 36 21. Antonius Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, 1593 (2nd ed.) 36 22. Cusco school, Christ Before the Woman from Canaan, eighteenth century

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23. Ming artist, Annunciation, 1619–23

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24. Ming artist, Annunciation, 1637

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25. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Annunciation, 1593

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26. Giovanni, Giacomo, and Gian Paolo Taurino, Flagellation, ca. 1600

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27. Opening showing Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1590; Hieronymus Wierix, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 1593; Bernardino Passeri, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1585 46 28. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Kings, 1593 48 29. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Kings, first engraved 1593, reengraved and restruck 1707 49 30. Frans Floris, Fall of the Rebel Angels, 1554 52 31. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1584 53

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32. Jan Sadeler, after Maerten de Vos, Coronation of the Virgin, 1576 55

46. Andrés de la Concha, Assumption of the Virgin, ca. 1585

76

33. Maerten de Vos, Furriers’ Altarpiece (The Incredulity of St. Thomas), 1574

47. Andrés de la Concha, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1585

77

34. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, 57 St. Michael the Archangel, 1584

48. Michiel Coxcie, Senhor Jesus Altarpiece, ca. 1581

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35. Theodor de Bry (?) or Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange, 1577 58

49. Denys Calvaert, Conversion of Paul, ca. 1579

80

56

36. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Crucifixion with Virgin and St. John, 1584 59

50. View of the stairwell at Las Descalzas Reales, with paintings of Philip IV and his family accompanied by the archangels 82

37. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Crucifixion with Mary Magdalene, 1584 60

51. Bartolomé Román, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 83

38. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Pietà, 1584 61

52. Cristóbal Vela Cobo, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1631

84

39. Justus Sadeler, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1600

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53. Map of related images of St. Michael the Archangel in Spain

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40. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581

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41. Detail of signature of Maerten de Vos

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42. Maerten de Vos, Tobias and the Angel, ca. 1581

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43. Maerten de Vos, St. John Writing the Apocalypse, ca. 1581

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44. Installation view of the modern retablo in Cuautitlán Cathedral with Andrés de la Concha, Assumption of the Virgin, ca. 1585; Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581; Maerten de Vos, St. Paul, ca. 1581; Maerten de Vos, St. Peter, ca. 1581 70 45. Reconstruction of the Third Council retablo, inserting paintings by de Vos and de la Concha in a sixteenth-century frame from the retablo of the Mareantes, Nuestra Señora de la Peña de Francia, Tenerife 74

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I l lust r at i o n s

54. Anonymous artist working in New Spain and Gaspar Muñoz, Procession of San Miguel, 1670, repainted 1726 90 55. Anonymous artist working in New Spain, St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro, seventeenth century 92 56. Juan Tinoco, St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro, 1680s

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57. Cristóbal Villalpando, Apparition of St. Michael, 1686–88

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58. Cristóbal Villalpando, Martyrdom of St. Catherine, 1680s

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59. Limeño artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 100 60. Cusqueño artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1600 103

61. Attributed to Antonio Mermejo, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630 103 62. Cusqueño artist, Christ Carrying the Cross, 104 seventeenth century 63. Limeño artist, Niño de Huanca, ca. 1600–10

106

64. Limeño artist, Circumcision of Christ, ca. 1660

107

65. Limeño artist, Virgin of the Rosary, ca. 1640

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66. View of lateral chapels in San Pedro, Lima

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67. Chimú artist, feathered tabard, fifteenth to sixteenth century

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75. Manila artist, Virgin and Child, ca. 1640

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76. Manila artist, Nuestra Señora del Santísimo Rosario—La Naval de Manila, 1593–96, and restored in the nineteenth century 126 77. Manila artist, Crucifixion, ca. 1630

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78. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630

129

79. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640

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80. Goan artist, Christ as the Good Shepherd, seventeenth century

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81. Goan artist (?), Christ Child [fragment], ca. 1600

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82. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640

135

68. Mateo Pérez de Alesio, Doña Inés Muñoz, 1595

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69. Bartolomé Román, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630

113

84. Hieronymus Wierix, St. Michael the Archangel, 1619

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70. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630

118

85. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640

139

71. Flemish or Filipino (?) artist, Santo Niño de Cebu, ca. 1570

121

86. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640

142

72. Mechelen artist, Christ Child, ca. 1510

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73. Manila artists, installation view of two sculptures of the Christ Child, ca. 1640

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74. Anonymous Ming artist, probably from Zhangzhou, China, Guanyin, 1580–1640

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83. Goan or Singhalese artist, Virgin, ca. 1650 136

87. Diego Valadés (?), Franciscan Preaching in New Spain, 1579 148 88. Hieronymus Wierix, Christ and the Samaritan Woman, 1593, with border by Mughal artist, early seventeenth century

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I l lust r at i o n s

ix

Acknowledgments To be frank, this is a project that required a tremendous amount of expensive travel—a fact that feels irrecoverably strange and privileged as I write this after more than a year spent at home due to the COVID-19 pandemic. I am extremely grateful for the considerable resources invested in this research by Tulane University, specifically by the Glick family, Carol Lavin Bernick, the Provost’s Office Committee on Research fellowship, the School of Liberal Arts’ Lurcy fellowships, and the Roger Thayer Stone Center for Latin American Studies, as well as Joyce Menschel’s foundational support of the art history program of the Newcomb Art Department. A New York Public Library fellowship and a research grant from the Renaissance Society of America got this project off the ground. Grants from the Association for Print Scholars, the Renaissance Society of AmericaSamuel H. Kress publication subvention, and the Millard Meiss Publication fund of the College Art Association supported publication and illustration costs. As a Mellon Fellow at the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, I benefitted from the intellectual fellowship of Ernst van Alphen, Robert Slifkin, and Avinoam Shalem; particular thanks to Mieke Bal, Martha Buskirk, Christopher Heuer, and Marden Nichols for helping me figure out what this book would be about. I wrote the final chapter while a Senior Visiting Fellow at the Center for the Advanced Study of the Visual Arts at the National Gallery; I am particularly grateful for conversations I had there with Samuel Luterbacher, Piers Baker Bates, and Caroline Mangone. I am indebted to Larry Silver, Walter Melion, Nancy Um, Elizabeth Boone, Jeffrey

Chipps-Smith, and Joanna Woodall for writing countless reference letters for these fellowships and the many more I did not get. Research trips took me to both familiar locales and places I had never been. Some of my breakthrough moments came in airports and on buses, interstitial moments in the middle of complex itineraries. My thanks to the staff at Antwerp’s Rubenanium, as I made my way through the de Vos boxes, and to Tulane’s Latin American and Howard Tilton Libraries. I am grateful to Kathryn Santner for paving my way in Manila; my utmost gratitude to Ricky Trota José at the University of Santo Tomas for his incredible generosity and to Jaime Laya for opening his home and sharing his important collection of Filipino art. Elsa Arroyo at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México not only answered technical questions about the de Vos canvases and the Cuautitlán retablo but shared her research on the 1581 St. Michael the Archangel with me. In Badajoz, Jesús Francisco Jimenez Gonzalez let me into the cathedral when it was shut and sent me away with a stack of books. Filip Vermeylen, king of Antwerp’s Felixarchief, provided me with archival references. Julie Lauffenberger, Dorothy Wagner Wallis Director of Conservation and Technical Research at the Walters Art Museum, not only got the museum’s St. Michael out of storage for me and answered countless technical questions, but she also proved to be a wonderful companion in Mexico City and Puebla as we tracked down ivories; particular thanks go to Rodrigo Rivera Lake for showing us his astonishing collection. In Lima, Emily Floyd not only shared with me one of the best meals of my life but

xi

introduced me to scholars, archives, and collections both there and in Cusco. Emily was part of an extraordinary cohort of graduate students I have had the privilege to teach and learn from at Tulane. My thanks to her and Alison Caplan, Jennifer Saracino, Lucia Abramovich, and Hayley Woodward, as well as students in several iterations of my “Early Modern Copies” and “Jesuits and the Globe” seminars: you pushed me to better frame the stakes of this project. Particular thanks to Michael Russo, who valiantly formatted the notes and bibliography. At Tulane, I have benefitted from conversations with Elizabeth Boone, Hortensia Calvo, Kris Lane, Tom Reese, Dale Shuger, Rachel Stein, and Fan Zhang. I am so lucky to have so many wonderful departmental colleagues who read drafts of chapters and listened to me rant about this project in the office and over many drinks and dinners. Adrian Anagnost, Mia Bagneris, Holly Flora, and Leslie Geddes all made this book better. Francine Stock assisted me with prepping and locating images. Every day I am thankful for Alicia Dugas’s financial organization and budgeting wizardry. Early drafts of chapters were delivered at various conferences, panels, and workshops. My thanks to all those who organized these opportunities and all those who attended, asked questions, and offered suggestions (I know I’m forgetting some of you, but every talk helped): Joanna Woodall, Carrie Anderson, Ananda Cohen Aponte, Yael Rice, Walter Melion, Robrecht Janssen, Daan van Heesch, John Lopez, Eduardo Lamas-Delgado, Jessica Maratsos, Giuseppe Capriotti, Antonia Putzger, Erin Giffin, Emily Pugh, Nathaniel Prottas; Emily Floyd, Alexander Samson, and Allie Stielau at University College London; Bryony Bartlett-Rawlings, Naomi Leb-

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Acknowledgments

ens, Tatiana Bissolati, and Chloe Gilling at the Courtauld Institute; Thijs Weststeijn at Utrecht University; Elena Tolstichin at the Warburg Institute; Nancy Um at SUNY Binghamton; Adam Herring and Laura Varela Mejia at Southern Methodist University; and Anton Schweizer at Kyushu University. Pieces of this book first appeared in several articles and essays in edited volumes. My thanks to Thijs Weststeijn for pushing me toward the viral (“Going Viral? Maerten de Vos’s St Michael the Archangel,” Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 66 [2016]: 54–78); to Ed Wouk and Suzanne Karr Schmidt for including me in their rock-star edited volume (“St. Michael the Archangel: Spiritual, Visual and Material Translations from Antwerp to Lima,” in Prints in Translation, 1450–1750: Image, Materiality, Space [Burlington: Ashgate, 2016], 183–202); and to Kris Lane, Dana Leibsohn, and the two anonymous readers for improving “Locating Hispano-Philippine Ivories” (in Colonial Latin American Review 29, no. 2 [August 2020]: 228–62). The first draft of this book and its final revision were completed during two #1000wordsofsummer challenges; my thanks to Jami Attenberg for her inspirational words and to Kelly Presutti for being a kick-ass accountability partner. Special thanks to Elizabeth Honig for a last-minute read of the introduction. Completing a book can feel like the final stages of a marathon. Working with Gina Broze at Smartrights made the process of acquiring image permissions as pain-free as possible; Raúl Montero Quispe assisted with photographs in Lima and Cusco. Lisa Regan of TextFormations made this text clearer at every turn. Hire all these people. Ellie Goodman remains an utter delight to work with at Penn State University

Press; my thanks to her and to the two anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful comments and suggestions. Editorial assistant Maddie Caso and copyeditor Annika Fisher helped get me over the finish line. It is utterly impossible to imagine this book without Aaron Hyman, who has been a crucial scholarly interlocutor and critical reader as well as acting as my on-call skin-care advisor, therapist, yoga inspiration, photographer, cheerleader, and dear friend for the past several years. I thank my daughters, Lucia and Penelope Porras Young, for being susceptible to bribes of foreign candy and snow globes; you are already my two favorite

people and are in the process of becoming my preferred travel companions. This is a book in many ways about unseen labor, and so it is only fitting to dedicate it to all the babysitters and caregivers, including my biological and chosen families in California and New Orleans, whose efforts gave me the time and mental space necessary to write this book: Jenny Avalos, Chasitie Brown, Megan Flattley, Lily Ritchens, Molly Leblanc, Elida Euraque, Pedro Lucero, Samantha Euraque and Chris Dalbom, Sean Fader, Nick Porras, Larry and Mary Porras, César and Marilyn Piña, Phil Young, and, most of all, my mother, Rene Piña.

Acknowledgments

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Chapter 1

Viral Images

I

n 1581, the city of Antwerp formally rejected the Catholic faith and the rule of the Spanish king, Philip II. That same year, the very first Jesuit missionaries arrived in the newly conquered Philippines, having traveled across the Pacific from Acapulco. These two apparently unrelated events took place at opposite sides of the globe, at the contested borders of the Spanish Catholic empire. Yet the survival of approximately a dozen mid-seventeenth-century ivory statues of a distinctive figure of St. Michael the Archangel (figs. 1, 70, 78, 79, 82, 85, and 86), all carved in Manila but based on an engraving first published in Calvinist Antwerp (fig. 2), offer evidence of how Spanish Flanders and the Philippines were connected, despite their vast geographic separation. The Antwerp print and these Philippinemade ivory sculptures traveled across oceans and continents, carried by missionaries, merchants, diplomats, sailors, and soldiers, indicating the astonishing mobility of people and of artworks in the early modern world. This is a book about how European artworks came to operate within these global networks of exchange, used as tools for the propagation of Catholic missionary zeal, commercial gain, imperial power, and/or artistic ambition. I examine how different artists and audiences across the globe reimagined these mobile objects via their adaptation and reuse. In particular, I follow the illustrated Jesuit book of Gospel stories, the Evangelicae historiae imagines (fig. 3), and a singular iconographic

type of St. Michael the Archangel (which I will designate via italics), objects that originated in Antwerp and involved the artist Maerten de Vos (1532–1603) (figs. 2 and 4). Yet these artworks came to be used and remade across the globe: copied by Venetian print publishers, Spanish and Latin American painters, Mughal miniaturists, and Chinese ivory carvers in the Philippines. In The First Viral Images, I analyze the reproductive transmission of artistic designs engendered by the movement of people and things; to do so, I employ virality as a methodological framework. Here I am indebted to the work of Tony D. Sampson, who contends that virality is fundamentally a social phenomenon, rather than a biological one.1 Today, “going viral” is a commonplace of Internet culture. In this contemporary guise, virality is predominantly used to describe media distribution and consumption rather than an epidemiological event. I argue that virality offers a particularly useful heuristic for thinking about the replicative mobility of the early modern image, providing a critical vocabulary for defining the speed, reach, and adaptations of an image or artwork while allowing for consideration of how artists and patrons, as well as gatekeepers, infrastructures, and social networks, all contributed to this rapid global movement. In using a contemporary term to explain historic phenomena, I am not proposing a teleology whereby print technology neatly prefigures and anticipates today’s Internet culture. But the

1

Figure 1. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Mexico City, Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. Photo: author.

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The First Viral Images

Figure 2. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1584. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix. London, British Museum. © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, New York. Figure 3. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, title page, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Viral Images

3

concept of virality does produce unique insights into questions raised by the global mobility and reproduction of early modern artworks. This is not a book about smallpox or the myriad of other diseases brought by Europeans to colonized spaces. In using virality as a conceptual framework, I do not wish to imply that the circulation of European artworks outside Europe is freighted with the material/cultural contamination of Indigenous cultures presumed as inert and fixed.2 As used in contemporary media, virality reconfigures the epidemiological notion of passive contagion and recasts it as an active process. Whereas a disease is typically passed on from one unknowing individual to another, viral media requires agency on behalf of individuals and/or collectives—both those who create and those who choose to “pass on” viral content. Online stories, images, and videos have to be liked and shared, as each new recipient chooses whether or not to become a forwarding agent. While epidemic disease is not my focus, I am aware of what Peta Mitchell describes as the epistemological anxiety inherent in any metaphor of contagion, particularly in a book completed during the onslaught of the twenty-first century’s first global pandemic.3 The frisson of contagion inherent in the word “virality,” however, usefully invokes the biopolitical power and use of violence by the Europeans who brought artworks to the Americas, Asia, and Africa in the early modern period. My use of virality as a conceptual model is intended to tease out the complexities and contingencies of early modern artworks’ movement across the globe, to diagnose and analyze the repeated mimetic encounters engendered by these objects’ mobility.4 While indebted to Igor Kopytoff’s anthropological model of the object biography, where one

4

The First Viral Images

follows the social lives of an object and its facture, changing uses, and meanings,5 this book traces the generation of multiple versions of a singular iconography and/or object (multiple impressions of the Imagines or of the related versions of St. Michael the Archangel) that simultaneously moved in varying directions. While the idea of an object biography maps onto the plot of human experience—birth, life, death—the viral evokes a different kind of narrative, a social phenomenon that encompasses adaptation and resistance as well as community and individual response. This framework is brought to bear on the movement and reproduction of two interrelated sets of objects. The first case study centers on Gerónimo Nadal’s Evangelicae historiae imagines, an illustrated devotional text published and promoted by the Society of Jesus (fig. 3). In chapter 2, we shall see how the Imagines traveled incredible distances in the seventeenth century, when its engravings were copied in European and Latin American churches, at the Mughal and Ethiopian courts, and by Chinese printmakers. Previous scholars have noted this global distribution, but the scale of illustration in the Imagines (153 engravings)—and the sheer volume of related copies and their sprawling circulation—makes it near impossible to do more than compile exemplars.6 This opening case study illustrates the challenges of writing a global art history, of describing and accounting for such large-scale phenomena, while attending to the specific conditions that allowed these objects to move and to find local purchase. To address these broader questions, in the remainder of the book, chapters 3 to 5, I track the global transmission of a single design, St. Michael the Archangel, executed in painting and print,

which circumnavigated the globe in the span of a human lifetime. My account of the Evangelicae historiae imagines will have introduced a number of key figures, sites, networks, and infrastructures crucial to the movement of St. Michael the Archangel; the illustrated Jesuit book also demonstrates how virality can be engineered and subsequently employed differently by patrons, artists, and interpreters, topics that also come into play for St. Michael. Deliberately narrowing my focus to a particular iconography in these later chapters allows for a sustained analysis of this image’s different viral trajectories, cutting across various geopolitical boundaries. De Vos’s singular composition of the archangel is distinctive enough to be instantly recognizable, but it also proved highly adaptable to execution in different media and to manipulation in service of various interests across the global Spanish empire: from Antwerp to Spain and New Spain (chapter 3), to the American viceroyalties (chapter 4), and to the Pacific trading outpost of Manila (chapter 5). I reconstruct the ways in which these St. Michael artworks moved and multiplied, promoted by powerful actors and agents, copied and referenced by artists, patrons, and viewers with distinct agendas. Within four years, de Vos’s 1581 canvas St. Michael the Archangel (fig. 4) had crossed battlefields, confessional divides, and the Atlantic Ocean, coming to rest on the high altar of Mexico City’s cathedral. In subsequent decades, the engraved version of the same composition, also produced in Antwerp, served as a model for artists across Europe, Latin America, and the Philippines (fig. 2). I argue for a reassessment of the creative labor underpinning the production of this diverse array of copies, citations, and reproductions. I examine how and why these objects traveled and spurred

Figure 4. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581. Oil on canvas. Cuautitlán Cathedral. Photo: author.

Viral Images

5

imitation, considering how this reproductive mobility changed how artworks came to be seen, used, and valued. In doing so, I demonstrate and contest various theoretical models for the writing of global art history, putting pressure on art-historical notions of copying and agency, as well as context and viewership, in order to examine the ways in which the production, movement and reception of artworks contributed to and challenged ideas of the local and the global.7 My aim is to demonstrate how virality exposes new ways of thinking about the infrastructures that enabled the extraordinary movement and reproduction of both the Evangelicae historiae imagines and the St. Michael the Archangel across global geographies, relying on the distributed agency of a network of artists and viewers, images and objects.

Image, Material, Labor Today we understand something has “gone viral” when an image, video, or text is rapidly shared and repeated over social media. This is predominantly an image-based phenomena; while text may be added or swapped, most memes and other viral content rely on imagery to function.8 In this book, I use “the viral image” as a catchall term, comparable to early modern Spanish’s use of the word imagen to variously describe prints, paintings, sculpture, and other forms of mobile and material representation. While Internet memes are transmitted via the seemingly disembodied digital language of 0s and 1s, in the text that follows, I endeavor to retain a sense of artworks as made and material objects—stacks of prints, paintings on canvas rolled in barrels and shipped overseas, ivory tusks transformed into archangels. Attention to

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The First Viral Images

material facture, especially when coupled with a sometimes scarce textual archive, allows for insight into aspects of artistic labor and creative agency that are too often left unexplored in arthistorical scholarship. Today, virality can encourage a suppressed view of aggregate labor. That is, the massive server infrastructure that powers the Internet and enables Facebook likes and Twitter memes is invisible to the majority of Internet users. Cell-phone towers and server farms are hidden, inaccessible, or simply forgotten by most, not to mention the intensive practices of mineral mining and industrial manufacture required to produce digital technology.9 This oversight should prime early modern scholars to the stubborn, deceptive invisibility of labor within media infrastructures. The preponderance of early modern artists responsible for the production of the viral image are largely anonymous; often their works are unsigned, and their names unrecorded in archives. Yet their creative efforts powered and shaped the trajectories of viral images like St. Michael the Archangel. Although one could argue for the existence of earlier viral objects, from pilgrims’ badges to porcelain vessels, what marks the moment around 1600, in particular, are the beginnings of systematized economic globalization.10 Regular transoceanic travel, settler colonialism, CounterReformation evangelization, and the global taste for silver all produced a sense of the early modern globe connected by trade, faith, and/or empire. In each of the chapters that follow, I lay out how the viral movement of the Imagines and St. Michael the Archangel relied upon interlocking and sometimes competing global infrastructures of commerce; missionary purpose; and imperial, regional, and local politics.

Infrastructures and Gatekeepers Though viral movement may seem contingent in its unfolding, subject to chance, it requires intentional actions, the establishment of various infrastructures that necessitate the involvement of gatekeepers. Indeed, the very first use of “virality” outside of the field of epidemiology was by PC User Magazine in 1989 to describe the marketing technique of Macintosh computers.11 Since then, the term has been used to naturalize the ways in which powerful institutions, corporations, and individuals can script, co-opt, and engineer what appears to be spontaneous popularity. To go viral, an image must be forwarded simultaneously across multiple networks, in an intense, self-perpetuating cycle of reception and replication. Karine Nahon and Jeff Hemsley have described this process as initiated by the complex interaction between networks of contingent social relations and gatekeepers—that is, individuals, corporations, or systems who control access to and promote content.12 Facebook is perhaps the world’s most powerful social network today, but it is also a gatekeeper, as demonstrated by ongoing political debates over its role as both censor and promoter of content. One of the problems with using a term like “circulation” to describe the movement of early modern artworks is that it downplays the role of individual agents and such structural constraints—objects do not circulate by themselves, and they do not circulate in every direction equally.13 Virality, in contrast, is a model that acknowledges the complexities of distributed agency, the unevenness of network infrastructures. Any analysis of the viral image therefore must begin with the infrastructures, networks, and gatekeepers that could both constrain and

accelerate an image’s reach. Here I use the term “infrastructure” broadly, encompassing physical spaces, transit systems, and the personnel of political, commercial, and religious organizations. These include artists’ workshops (where artworks were made and copied), the apparatus of trade (fairs, markets, overland and overseas shipping routes), and the administration of imperial and religious power (Inquisitorial controls, colonial administrators and missionaries, courts, and churches). St. Michael the Archangel and the Evangelicae historiae imagines also moved via different and overlapping social networks: those of immigrant communities, devotional orders, and connoisseurs. In considering the variable velocity and geographic distribution of early modern viral images, one must identify the gatekeepers that facilitated the artwork’s entry into new contexts. The idea of a gatekeeper resonates with the relational dynamics that characterize “entangled” or “crossed” histories, though it is more explicit in acknowledging power differentials.14 The term is also particularly apt for scholars of colonial art, as in some cases these early modern gatekeepers controlled physical access to markets or artistic models. For instance, the port of Seville in the seventeenth century held the monopoly on all official exports to the Spanish Americas; on the other side of the Atlantic, the viceregal port officials who inspected cargo were empowered to root out illicit visual materials. Gatekeepers could also positively impact the dissemination of a particular image via commissions, gifts, and other acts of exchange or patronage. While the actions of gatekeepers alone do not determine what images go viral, their role is critical. As a gatekeeper, the Jesuit Order was not only the patron and architect of the Imagines’s global distribution, but the Society of Jesus was

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also crucial to the widespread distribution of the St. Michael the Archangel. Despite the fact the Jesuits did not commission the 1584 print, the order commissioned and displayed versions executed in paint and ivory in Latin America and the Philippines. Virality could be useful for individual artists and patrons, Catholic missionaries, as well as corporate and imperial powers. Viral images move quickly. In the age of the Internet, something can take off in the course of a few hours via Twitter or Facebook, before making the morning newspaper or the nightly news. But what constituted speed in the seventeenth century? How did artworks travel, and what institutions and individuals assisted in their movement? This was an era when it took two years to reach Beijing from Lisbon, sailing around the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean; to go from Seville to Manila meant leaving Spain in July, disembarking in Veracruz, then traveling overland by pack train to Acapulco via Mexico City, before setting off on the one-hundred-day sea voyage to Manila; the returning sea voyage could be twice as long due to unfavorable wind patterns.15 Despite their length and often-precarious nature, the regularity of these crossings by 1600 ensured the relatively reliable and consistent movement of people and objects across the early modern globe. In the early modern period, physical distance could delay widespread dissemination. When Francis Xavier was beatified at the end of October 1619 by Pope Paul V in Rome, the Jesuit mission in the Philippines first held festivities to celebrate the elevation of their brother in early 1621.16 The belated description of this event is recorded in one of the annual letters (Carta anua or Annuae litterae) written by Jesuit missions each year as a summary

8

The First Viral Images

of local news, missionary gains, and practical needs sent back to the order’s European administrators. A global network of Spanish colonial bureaucrats filed regular reports and grievances, which were also relayed to the Spanish royal court via regular seaborne and overland transports. The movement of people and goods across the global Spanish empire necessitated the development of a host of related paper mechanisms: inventories, manifests, identity papers, and bills of lading.17 This flow of information, back and forth across the world’s continents and oceans, attempted to collapse the spatial and temporal distance between places like Rome and Beijing. In this book, I explore how viral reproduction was driven by the physical transportation of artworks and artists via these networks and infrastructures, as well as the local creation of copies and variants. The ivory St. Michael the Archangel sculptures made in Manila after the 1584 Antwerp print were sent to Latin America as export products by the mid-seventeenth century, indicating the speed with which this design circumnavigated the globe—within a human lifetime. The Manila galleon trade not only enabled the Antwerp print to reach the Philippines but also allowed for the ivory sculptures made in the archipelago to be sold to Latin American consumers. Virality, as a mode of contagion, attempts to describe both what is transmitted and how it moves and changes.18 My study thus addresses social and material networks, content and method, image and infrastructure.

Mobility and Meaning While a viral image has a discoverable point of origin, it often travels far beyond what its original maker(s) could have anticipated. Beyond noting

the movement of an artwork or iconography, I want to consider how meaning shifted via replication. The framework of virality allows for an accounting of the accretive power of the image, the ways in which movement, repetition, and replication can recompose meaning. The authority of the image could intersect with, and be redirected by, competing local interests; while the viral image is continually reconfigured as it moves, it also remains recognizable. In the case of both the Imagines and St. Michael the Archangel, we shall see how designs could be promoted, replicated, repeated, and adapted—but not always in ways that are predictable. Painted, printed, and sculpted versions of St. Michael the Archangel crossed commercial blockades, geopolitical lines, and confessional borders, assuming new meanings as they moved. In chapter 3, I explore how the same design of the victorious archangel alternatively was used to signal a willingness for reconversion to the Catholic faith, allegiance to Habsburg imperial goals, and/or the missionary ideals of the Church in New Spain. This multiplication of variants also meant that the same viewers sometimes could have encountered more than one version of St. Michael the Archangel at a time. In chapter 4, I discuss how the burgeoning cult of San Miguel del Milagro in New Spain decoupled the iconography from its painted origin, but the continued presence of the 1581 canvas in Mexico City meant that ambitious patrons and artists could still mobilize references to the earlier de Vos painting, cued to the connoisseurial gaze. In Lima, the Jesuit church housed both a St. Michael the Archangel imported from Madrid and a locally produced version containing the portrait of an Indigenous donor, not only visualizing different vectors by which artworks

moved but also staking a claim for Lima’s place in the global Spanish empire (see figs. 69 and 59). These examples destabilize an assumed binary and linear relationship between original and copy, suggesting a more complex set of connections and referents. While this approach is clearly indebted to actor-network theory,19 I prefer Tim Ingold’s metaphoric description of meshwork, an entanglement of trajectories in knots rather than nodes, emphasizing slipperiness and mobility rather than a network’s fixed lines of connection.20 As quasi-objects/subjects, artworks generate signification, value, and functions, continually unfolding in new trajectories beyond those ascribed to them singly by individual artists, printmakers, or viewers.21 Virality then is about the movement across, through, and between social networks that have a topography: gaps and valleys, shortcuts and dead ends. Art objects could evade and exploit the structures of official patronage and of inquisitorial or mercantile controls. We shall encounter copies of the Evangelicae historiae imagines in albums of Mughal miniatures and in devotional woodcuts produced by Chinese artists: evidence of artworks’ ability to bypass and traverse divergent networks. Virality is not only synonymous with an artwork’s mobility but also defines a series of constitutive acts of reception and replication.22 The viral image is constantly being reworked, rethought, and transformed.

Addressing the Global Early Modern Since Claire Farago’s 1995 Reframing the Renaissance, there has been a sustained push in art history (met, in turn, by occasional resistance) to expand the geographic boundaries of studies of the early modern period.23 What happened to

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works of art when they were carried far beyond their places of production? How did the establishment of global supply chains, the imposition of European colonial rule, and the Counter-Reformation zeal for worldwide conversion impact the making and viewing of art? Scholars have proposed a number of theoretical models for writing a global art history of the early modern period. In tracking the movement of a singular design, I test and contest several analytical models that have dominated such art-historical scholarship. Virality allows for a critical reengagement with a historical fact long recognized in the study of early modern art: namely, that global trade and shifts in artistic technology (most notably print) enabled the faster and broader circulation of stylistic features, motifs, and iconographies, fueling the production of copies in various media across the early modern globe. In reconstituting the viral image, this project aims to move beyond the foundational work of identifying the European printed models for colonial art. While previous scholars have plotted some of the dizzying array of copies after the Evangelicae historiae imagines and St. Michael the Archangel,24 no one has probed the infrastructures that enabled these copies to be made or placed different variations of this iconography into dialogue with one another. The First Viral Images extends recent art-historical work on early modern practices and methods of copying as well as scholarship on how mimicry and repetition function within a colonial context. The ongoing work of the Project on the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art, a searchable database to locate and trace iconographic repetitions, remains an important active repository.25 But there is also the critical need to move beyond a view of singular matches, to take

10

The First Viral Images

account of why particular prints were copied, where, by whom, and for how long. The pairing of a singular source print and copy resolutely clings to a narrative model that obfuscates the untidy geographic and temporal movement of artworks while also reinforcing the value-laden binary of original and copy. Seeing the Imagines and St. Michael the Archangel as viral images requires an acknowledgment of aggregate functions of copying, a broader consideration of how multiple copies, in different media, may move through time and space. That is, copies were not just made successively after a sole model but could spawn rhizomatic variants related to other copies, disturbing hierarchical assumptions about a singular presumed original.26 For example, as discussed in the following chapter, the high cost of the Imagines means that the volume was unlikely to be freely lent out to artist workshops. Many artworks that cite compositions from the Imagines were therefore likely copied from more accessible secondary painted or drawn versions rather than directly from the book’s engravings. Similarly, an ivory sculpture after the de Vos archangel in Manila may have been the source for the iconography’s popularity in the Manila ivory-carving workshops traced in chapter 5. These are patterns of replication that are difficult to reassemble with certainty, escaping or exceeding attribution to a single source, but that nevertheless shaped iconographic and stylistic conventions for generations. Long neglected in Renaissance and Baroque art histories centered on singular artists, the production and circulation of copies and multiples in all media has been the subject of renewed art-historical interest. Beyond the recognition of copying’s central role in artistic pedagogy, a num-

ber of recent works have brought reinvigorated attention to early modern artistic technologies of replication, from printmaking to bronze casting and papier-mâché.27 Elizabeth Cropper, Maria Loh, Lisa Pon, and Amy Powell have all published foundational studies examining ways that copying and repetition forged and policed early modern artistic identities.28 But where this scholarship addresses art-historical anxieties about the nature of artistic authorship, here I consider how viral phenomena require and rely upon a distributed notion of agency. Rather than interrogating the motivations of a singular artist or patron, I ask how the distribution of creative agency generated meaning. De Vos alone did not facilitate these images’ mobility or ensure they would be widely copied; his role as an author here is set in tension with those artists who adopted his design, foregrounding the mechanics of replication and dissemination and the resultant shifts in interpretative possibility. A distributed sense of artistic agency prompts a reassessment of artistic labor. The pressures of geographic and temporal distance are crucial to how viral images oriented themselves in relation to one another, positing an interpretative recalibration of copying as practice. Homi Bhabha used the term “mimicry” to describe a form of colonial copying that repeats rather than represents, potentially threatening as well as reifying authority.29 Here I am interested in how the production of copies allows for multiple local agencies, how viral repetition allows for competing notions of mimicry and emulation and, thus, simultaneous and multiple interpretations. Viral images are active sites of response and creation, repetitions of form and iconography, potentially seen in ­multiple registers. Ultimately, viral images produce a mimetic excess that reconstitutes and

reshapes both the original and the notion of originality itself, disrupting notions of authorship.30 Art-historical scholarship on the global early modern has primarily focused on corporate and missionary contexts, fixating on the importance of trade networks, missionary goals, or instances of diplomatic gift exchange. In my consideration of how artworks are valued and described in terms of place, I am indebted to the foundational work of Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann as well as scholarship examining Jesuit art and the global mission.31 Mia Mochizuki argues that the visual culture of the Jesuit Order was the first to define itself globally, to see mobility and multiplicity as the normative interpretative position.32 Here I expand on this premise, exploring how viral replication allowed for shifts in interpretation and the distribution of creative agency outside of Jesuit networks, how artists working in Lima or Manila recognized and exploited the viral image. Historians of northern European art, most notably Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann and Claudia Swan, have also invoked a global frame in recent studies of seventeenth-century Dutch art and the commercial imperialism of the Dutch East and West India Companies.33 While the seventeenthcentury global ambitions of the Dutch have been mined by scholars working in multiple disciplines, the earlier role of Antwerp within the sixteenthcentury Spanish empire is comparatively less well explored.34 But this book, too, considers geographies beyond Spanish imperial control, Jesuit patronage, or singular trade routes. The First Viral Images describes how the infrastructures of faith, empire, and commerce could intertwine, amplify, and compete with one another. Several important essays have examined the astonishing mobility of objects in the early mod-

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ern world and specifically the role of European prints in processes of transculturation,35 as moving objects that potentially subverted and mistranslated, esteemed, and/or challenged cultural values.36 Aaron Hyman’s Rubens in Repeat: The Logic of the Copy in Colonial Latin America covers much of the same physical ground as this book, moving from Antwerp prints to related paintings and sculptures made in the Americas, but at a slightly later moment; Hyman’s framing of an “aesthetic of sameness” and the “conforming copy” resonates here with what I call the accretive power of the viral image across commercial and spiritual networks.37 In contrast to Hyman’s work, my broader interest is in how artworks functioned as part of the emerging and intertwined global infrastructures of Catholicism, commerce, and colonialism—in other words, as agents of globalization. I propose that the concept of virality in contemporary media offers a more nuanced approach to issues of local agency and identity than hybridity or translation, two of the dominant modes of describing how non-European artworks respond to European models.38 More than fifteen years ago, Dana Leibsohn and Carolyn Dean wrote a formative critique of hybridity as an analytical category,39 yet the term is still regularly used in scholarship on the kinds of art objects (such as ivories carved in the Philippines and paintings made in South America) considered in this book. Serge Gruzinksi and Alessandra Russo have utilized the related term of “mestizo,” appropriating a colonial word to describe the continual mélange of global populations, linguistic and artistic cultures after the violent conquest of the Americas.40 But the assumed binary relation inherent in terms like “hybrid” or “mestizo” belies the rich complex-

12

The First Viral Images

ity of early modern cross-cultural encounters. It positions both European and Indigenous American identities as a priori and fixed. It also raises the more disturbing query of why is it always a mestizo image that is “untranslatable,” caught in a perpetual process of creative tension and movement, whereas European or pre-Columbian artworks are presumed stable in their signification.41 Virality, like hybridity, is rooted in the biological, but it focuses on transmission rather than parentage—agency rather than presumed identity. The global mobility and reception of early modern European artworks, in particular prints, has often been described with linguistic metaphors: as an act of ongoing cultural translation42 or the imposition of a koiné or common language.43 I am resistant to a linguistic model in part because translation was a tool of colonialism; recent scholarship has highlighted the key role of the southern Netherlands as a center for the production of textual translations within the Spanish empire.44 In addition, art objects traveled in many cases because they were often seen as requiring little or no logocentric translation—Franciscan missionaries to New Spain and Jesuit brothers in China both used images to ease instruction in Christian concepts. But the legibility and potential misunderstanding of artworks remained of paramount concern to missionaries. The desire to see printed images as akin to texts, as images that want to be read, has suppressed a more nuanced consideration of early modern prints’ material and embodied use. For images were, in many cases, not only meant to be seen, read, and interpreted as works in and of themselves, but they were also produced to be copied and transformed. The mobility and copying of artworks required infrastructures: technologi-

cal, interpretative, and material practices that exceed the textual metaphor of translation. The linguistic model suppresses such concerns.45 The viral framework, in contrast, emphasizes the replicative potential of embodied movement across the early modern globe.

Trajectories The First Viral Images is a global art history of a few select designs, tracing particular geographic arcs via related artworks made in multiple media. The Imagines and the painted and printed St. Michael the Archangel were all produced in Antwerp, and so that city is the book’s starting point. We then follow the artistic trading networks that radiated outward from the city to the Iberian Peninsula, to New Spain, and to the Philippines. In its detailed reconstruction of the various adaptations of the St. Michael the Archangel design, the book considers what happens when a design is taken up in new places and adapted in new media for diverse audiences. These reconstitutions and reinterpretations happened within and far outside Antwerp, in ways that de Vos and the designs’ subsequent gatekeepers hoped for, as well as in ways they could not have foreseen. Antwerp was a contested node within (and at times outside of) the Spanish empire. A crucial trading and banking center as well as export art market, the city was where multiple gatekeepers and vectors of viral movement came together. But the city also sided with the Protestant rebellion against Spanish rule. The book’s second chapter, “Fixing the Line,” introduces the city’s artistic reputation and existing commercial ­infrastructures via the Society of Jesus’s surprising decision to publish the Evangelicae historiae

imagines in the formerly Calvinist city, shortly after its reconquest by Spain. The drawn-out production history of Gerónimo Nadal’s illustrated collection of Gospel narratives for Jesuit teaching, and its subsequent runaway global success, demonstrates how the Jesuits sought to reverse engineer the viral image by tapping into Antwerp’s existing infrastructures. The making and the reception of the Imagines situates the city as a central node of this book, a starting point for the movement of artistic capital. In addition to establishing a number of key individuals, institutions, and gatekeepers encountered in the rest of the volume, chapter 2 also foregrounds the pragmatic flexibility of the Counter-Reformation Church. The Church was, of course, concerned with the religious beliefs of those who made devotional artworks intended as tools of conversion. However, religious patrons often also desired artworks of the highest quality; religious art could function as a type of luxury good, traded and valued like a commercial product. The Catholic world depended on the ubiquity of religious art, a surfeit of images and objects to distinguish the true faith from its competitors. Unusually, the design for St. Michael the Archangel can be pulled out and recognized from the overwhelming visual abundance of CounterReformation art, and the remainder of the book focuses on the tracking of this particular image across the globe. The distinctiveness of the component parts of this design—the outstretched open hand, the curly hair, the martyr’s palm, the elaborate costume, and the characteristic swirling masses of drapery—made the composition uniquely recognizable, even when it was executed at different scales, in diverse media, across vast geographies. Chapters 3 through 5 follow the vari-

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ous trajectories of this image’s movement, tracking the design from Antwerp to Spain, then to New Spain and Peru, then to Manila, and finally back again to Latin America and Europe. In chapter 3, “Conquering and Forgetting,” I reconstruct the initial routes of the St. Michael the Archangel design. Although only a few years separate the two works, de Vos’s painted and printed versions of St. Michael the Archangel were made for dramatically different purposes. De Vos was an artist particularly well suited to exploit the shifting religious and political circumstances of Antwerp in the 1580s; the potent iconography of the unarmed archangel proved alternately amenable to policies of judicial forgetfulness, colonial conversion, and the Spanish imperial project. These painted and printed images of St. Michael the Archangel proved adaptable to a number of different Counter-Reformation contexts on either side of the Atlantic, spurring new iterations of the design across courtly and commercial networks, confessional and geographic boundaries. In chapter 4, “Local Mediators in Latin America,” I explore how specific local contexts could shape the reproduction and interpretation of St. Michael the Archangel in the Spanish Americas, muddying a linear model of artistic response. In seventeenth-century New Spain, the design could be seen in relation to the in situ 1581 painting of St. Michael the Archangel (fig. 4), but the iconography also undergirds depictions of the local miracle of San Miguel de Milagro. In Lima, a version of the design was used to commemorate the social standing and faith of an Indigenous female patron via her shared aesthetic appreciation for a design well known in the viceroyalty of Peru. Moving and multiplying across the Americas, St. Michael the Archangel generated new rhizomatic networks of

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The First Viral Images

relation that enabled the design to function differently wherever it landed. The final chapter, “Silver and Souls in Manila,” follows the St. Michael the Archangel engraving across the Pacific to the Spanish outpost at Manila, where unconverted Chinese immigrants modeled ivory carvings on the de Vos print for devotional use and commercial gain. In Manila, the distinction between local and global ceases to function since these works were made for consumption both near and far, drawing on material, technical, and iconographic sources inside and outside of Spanish control. There the design was entirely materially reconfigured and yet remains recognizable. Here the course of St. Michael the Archangel’s viral spread bends back upon itself, as these carvers produced ivory archangels for export back to Latin America and Europe, utilizing the same infrastructures that first brought the print from Antwerp to Manila. In each chapter, virality helps to elucidate the interstices between individual agencies; shifting and interwoven social meshworks; and the economic, political, and religious infrastructures inherent in the proliferation of colonial copies. The broad dissemination and adaptation of St. Michael the Archangel was precisely the kind of movement that motivated the Jesuits to pursue the publication of the Evangelicae historiae imagines in Antwerp. Yet I maintain that the Imagines prints and St. Michael the Archangel, as viral images, could simultaneously serve multiple agents within and outside of the Spanish imperial orbit, each with their own aims in forwarding, copying, altering, and sharing the design, transforming its context and interpretative ­possibilities. As I reconstruct how this design moved across the early modern world, I probe the different reso-

nances of St. Michael the Archangel within these distinct local contexts, analyzing how the accretion and repetition of the iconography produced its own momentum. The artworks considered in this book are often those found at the edges of the discipline of art history: devotional prints, illustrated books, painted copies, and unsigned decorative art objects. But I argue that close attention to these unfashionable objects sheds light not only on how early modern artworks worked to impose hegemonic and epistemic conformity but also how they could serve competing local purposes as they moved across the globe. The book’s conclusion addresses the epistemological and ontological operations of these mobile artworks in making visible the operations of early modern globalization.46 The First Viral Images aims to be more than a history of artworks moving from Antwerp outward, a reinscription of the colonial enterprise in historical narrative. Antwerp was itself a contested periphery of Spanish imperial power when the 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel was published as a local plea for Habsburg clemency. The printmakers recognized that the engraving could travel far beyond the besieged city, at least partly anticipating the print’s global mobility and reinterpretation. The movement of the Imagines and St. Michael the Archangel around the globe were not exceptional events but increasingly normal occurrences in the early modern period.47 The mobility of early modern artworks (not just of European prints but also, for example, of porcelain from Jingdezhen and chintz produced in

South Asia) engendered conceptual, material, and economic dialogues everywhere these moving objects landed. While recognizing the necessity of such interventions, there have also been salient critiques of the Eurocentric production of much of global early modern scholarship emerging from predictable “centers” of art-historical writing—namely, well-endowed Anglo-Atlantic institutions.48 It would be irresponsible and unethical to pretend that this book could have been written without the resources afforded by my tenured position at an American research institution, with the attendant privileges of research fellowships, teaching releases, and travel funding. My own selection of objects produced in Antwerp as this book’s central case studies evidences my training as an art historian of northern Europe; in writing about Mexico City, Lima, or Manila, I have relied and built upon the considerable foundation and expertise of scholars often living and working in these places. I have written this book, therefore, with my past and future students in mind as a model of arthistorical writing rooted not in monographic, material, or geographic coherence but as an exploration of early modern mobility and mimetic encounter. Viral images contributed to the project of globalization via the imposition of modes of visuality and aesthetic values, but they can also be idiosyncratic in their reproduction, keyed to specific audiences outside of dominant networks. To see and to study the viral image, one must simultaneously zoom out—to shipping routes, inquisitorial constraints, immigration patterns—and slow down and look closely, attending to individual objects.

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Chapter 2

Fixing the Line They [Jesuits] consider that they are in their most peaceful and pleasant house when they are constantly on the move [perpetuo peregrinari], when they travel throughout the earth, when they have no place to call their own. —Gerónimo Nadal1

T

wo seventeenth-century depictions of the Nativity—a manuscript painting from Mughal South Asia (fig. 5) and a woodcut published on the southern coast of China (fig. 6)— testify to the Evangelicae historiae imagines’s global reach. Two artists, working within a few decades of each other but thousands of miles apart, drew upon the same Antwerp engraving from the 1593 Evangelicae historiae imagines (from here on referred to as the Imagines; fig. 7). This engraved life of Christ had been published in Antwerp by the Jesuit Order, to serve the order’s ambitions for devotional pedagogy and global conversion. The Jesuits had gifted the local Mughal ruler a copy of the Imagines, which circulated among court artists like the painter of this Nativity; the Chinese woodcut of the Nativity was published in Fuzhou under the direction of an Italian Jesuit. However, as this chapter will demonstrate, the global movement of the Imagines designs activated multiple, interwoven meshworks beyond that of the Jesuit mission, encompassing elite courts, connoisseurial collectors, and commercial traders. These two versions of the Nativity not only demonstrate the geographic range of the Imagines’s movement but also somewhat obfuscate their shared point of reference, which is from an illustrated book rather than a single-sheet engraving. Due to its density and complexity, a book like the Imagines is an unexpected viral object: not only did it contain 153 densely packed engravings, heavily annotated in Latin, but it was

expensive, physically more difficult to transport, to copy, and to manipulate than a single print. The Imagines was neither designed nor written for a popular audience; the images are iconographically complex and tied to Jesuit devotional and exegetical practice. Yet the volume managed to move across considerable physical distances, to persist in popularity and global use for well over a century. Indeed, the images in the Imagines were the most copied and adapted iconographic models of the seventeenth century. The engravings of the Imagines follow a unique format. In the Nativity, for example, the top of the image includes text referring to the relevant day in the Church calendar (Christmas night), the biblical citation (Luke 2), and the year of Christ’s life (1) (fig. 7). Alphabetic labels within the scene cue the viewer to the relevant meditations provided in the legend below. At top right is the number of the plate (3) in the Imagines, reflecting the chronological Gospel narrative. The Roman numerals below (v) are keyed to the sequence of readings in the liturgical calendar, a set of spiritual exercises published in a separate volume, the Adnotationes et meditationes (henceforth referred to as the Adnotationes). First published the year after the Imagines, this un­illustrated volume could be used independently or in conjunction with the engravings. The two works—the text volume of the Adnotationes and the engraved images of the Imagines—were always independently published2 but were

17

color Figure 5. Mughal artist, Nativity, ca. 1600. Pen and ink, watercolor, and gold on paper. London, Victoria and Albert Museum. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London. Figure 6. Ming artist, Nativity, 1637. Woodcut block book from Giulio Aleni, Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (Fujian: Jinjiang Church). Minneapolis Institute of Art.

r­ egularly combined into a single volume by buyers and booksellers, who interposed editions of text and image printed at different moments.3 In this chapter, I focus on the Imagines engravings, which were published and republished in multiple editions from 1593 until 1707. Traversing Jesuit missionary networks and courtly and connoisseurial circuits of exchange, the Imagines prints were in perpetual motion through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, generating an astonishing array of adaptations and responses far

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The First Viral Images

beyond the Jesuit Order’s initial ambitions. Both as an independent volume and bound alongside the Adnotationes, the Imagines prints were selectively copied and adapted in various media from Antwerp to Milan, Cusco, and Fatehpur Sikri. In investigating the Imagines’s virality, this chapter unpacks two interrelated aspects of the viral image: first, the ways in which artworks can be engineered for virality—that is, designed to exploit existing infrastructures and audiences in anticipation of going viral—and second, the degree to which dis-

tinct yet intersecting early modern networks propelled the viral movement and replication of the Imagines far beyond the intentions of a singular author/publisher. I will first describe the complex production history of the volume, specifically scrutinizing the surprising decision to publish the Imagines in the Low Countries rather than in the holy city of Rome, the seat of the pope and where the order was headquartered. I propose that the Jesuits recognized and sought to exploit the structural advantages of Antwerp: the city’s strategic position within global meshworks of exchange and also its renown for luxury printed products. With the Imagines, the order intended to cultivate virality—to promote the book’s wide distribution and use across the globe by making the Imagines into a spiritually effective, as well as commercially desirable, product. The Society of Jesus wanted enduringly mobile images, in perpetuo peregrinari, like the Society’s own members. The Imagines provided the script and outlines of devotional practice, but the Jesuits recognized the viral image is one that is always moving. The long, fraught road to the Imagines’s publication suggests how the Jesuits struggled to reverse engineer the viral image, seeking to harness its mobility and power, while striving to steer viewers toward Christian meditative contemplation. Indeed, the tightly controlled production of the Imagines would result in the most copied and frequently adapted iconographic models of the seventeenth century, utilized at an unprecedented geographic scale and temporal duration. Yet the hard-won doctrinal fixity of these images would soon spin out of Jesuit control as the plates and prints were rapidly bought by a commercial publisher, and the prints themselves generated new versions in multiple media. Prized by missionaries,

Figure 7. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Nativity, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

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connoisseurs, and overseas courts as an eminent exemplar of Antwerp print, the Imagines images were continually reconfigured as they moved.

The Allure of Antwerp When Gerónimo Nadal died in Rome in April 1580, he left behind the complete manuscript of what would become the Imagines and the Adnotationes, largely written between 1568 and 1574. A key confidant of Ignatius of Loyola, Nadal had been the inaugural rector at the Society of Jesus’s first college. In the service of promulgating and explicating the Jesuit Constitutions, Nadal traveled to Sicily, Portugal, France, Germany, and throughout Italy and Spain.4 Nadal’s own near-perpetual motion in the service of the order reflected the Jesuit vocation, the call to travel as apostolic mission.5 It was at the behest of Loyola that Nadal set to work on the compilation of a unique kind of visual and textual aid for the faithful: the Imagines and Adnotationes. After Nadal’s death, his fellow Jesuit and secretary to the order, Jacobus Ximenes (Diego Jiménez), took responsibility for completing the project: namely, finding an engraver to produce the Imagines. The Roman censor Francisco de Toledo sanctioned the publication of the text in 1579. But it would be thirteen years between Nadal’s death and the eventual publication of the Imagines in Antwerp; a surviving corpus of letters and drawings testifies to the difficulties involved in its execution and publication.6 Nadal likely used a series of pen-and-wash drawings by Livio Agresti, executed around 1555, to help him compose and order the scenes selected for the Imagines and to draft the prompts to meditation included on each page, as well as the longer

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annotations and meditative instructions of the Adnotationes.7 Nadal likely did not commission these drawings himself but reused drawings that had been made for a different book project (fig. 8). These landscape-oriented designs may have been originally produced for an illustrated Bible that Francis de Borgia intended to publish in Rome.8 It is unclear why Nadal used these recycled images; Agresti’s compositions use bold contrasts of light and dark, but the balance between the principal foreground figures and background narratives is often muddy, as the draughtsman includes variable amounts of detail in these subsidiary scenes. The drawings do little to convey emotional or psychological drama; it is often difficult to identify specific biblical characters besides the haloed figure of Christ. To mitigate against confusion, the sheets are labeled with letters intended to key the viewer/reader to particular aspects of the narrative. It is unclear when these labels were added to the drawings and if they were penned by Nadal himself or by a later hand. While the Agrestri drawings are far from ideal models, Nadal clearly had ambitions for the quality and legibility of the prints of the Imagines. Before his death, the author vacillated on where to publish the planned books. Rome and Venice were both vibrant centers of book publishing, with the former having the advantage of papal imprimatur and proximity to the order’s headquarters. But Nadal preferred Antwerp, despite the considerable distance.9 Antwerp had unique structural advantages for the production and distribution of the kind of impressive engravings that Nadal envisioned for the Imagines. The city was a key node of exchange within the global Spanish empire; print publishers in Antwerp were already producing important illustrated liturgical texts such as ­breviaries and

Figure 8. Livio Agresti, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1555. Pen and ink. Rome, Biblioteca Nazionale.

missals as well as high-end devotional engravings and innovative illustrated Bibles.10 By the mid-sixteenth century, Antwerp was a vital banking center and North Sea port, a hub for trade in Baltic grain and timber and Asian and Middle Eastern spices imported by the Portuguese, as well as a producer of high-quality manufactured and luxury goods for export, particularly textiles and works of art. The city’s agglomeration of industrial and financial expertise helped to establish new forms of economic organization and infrastructure, particularly in long-distance trading instruments like bills of credit and shipping insurance.11 While not home to a university, the city nevertheless became a dominant European publishing center, producing a wide range of products: songbooks, dictionaries, and religious and humanist works in a number of languages. In fact, more Spanish books were printed in Antwerp between 1545 and 1570 than were published in Spain in the same period.12 Antwerp was home to the preferred supplier of religious books for the Spanish Crown, the Officina Plantiniana of Christopher Plantin; the city

also housed northern Europe’s most ambitious publisher of printed images, Hieronymus Cock’s shop, Aux Quatre Vents.13 In 1576, Nadal sent a copy of the manuscript and a set of drawings, likely the Agresti sheets, to Flanders.14 Plantin was to serve as intermediary and find a local engraver. He had the advantage of having recently executed a high-profile theological work for the Spanish Crown: the Polyglot Bible, published in eight volumes between 1568 and 1573. The Antwerp publisher’s works were also esteemed for the high quality of their engraved illustrations; from 1571 he published several illustrated editions of Benito Arias Montano’s Humanae salutis monumenta, as well as breviaries and missals furnished with engravings. The Jesuits thus recognized Plantin’s role as a gatekeeper to Spanish and overseas markets and as someone who had important connections to powerful theological and political networks, as well as talented engravers. Not only Nadal but also Jesuits in the missionary field saw and used Antwerp prints as desirable objects. In 1580, the Jesuits who arrived

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at the Mughal court of Jalal al-Din Muhammad Akbar in Fatehpur Sikri brought numerous Antwerp print products with them as gifts (seven of the eight volumes of the monumental Polyglot Bible; Abraham Ortelius’s atlas, the Theatrum Orbis Terrarum; and engravings by Philip Galle).15 Antwerp prints were thus seen by the order as valuable spiritual commodities, ones that attained and would retain aesthetic, spiritual, and commercial currency across the globe. Antwerp had both the export infrastructure and an established market of connoisseurial appreciation that extended far beyond the European continent. Nadal’s composition of the Imagines and his partiality for Antwerp engraving may have been directly influenced by Montano’s earlier series Christi Iesu vitae admirabiliumque actionum speculum, published in Antwerp in 1573 (fig. 9). Montano’s text, coupled with fifty engraved images from the life of Christ in quarto format, was a key precedent for Nadal’s interest in the exegetical function of engraving and the potentiality of images as aids to meditative prayer.16 Though Christi Iesu vitae was published by the Antwerp engraver Philip Galle with the collaboration of the printer Anthonis Coppens van Diest,17 Plantin was close friends with Galle, providing the letterpress to print the texts associated with some of Galle’s other titles and both buying and selling Galle’s editions at international venues, like the Frankfurt fair. For Nadal, then, Plantin represented a key entry point to Antwerp’s publishing industry, its ambitious artists and engravers, and an international circle of humanists and churchmen. In order to access these networks and to take advantage of Antwerp’s unique print infrastructure, the Jesuits thus deferred to Plantin’s aesthetic judgment when soliciting his assistance in finding engravers for the Imagines.

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Figure 9. Gerard van Groningen, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1573. Engraving from Benito Arias Montano, Christi Iesu vitae admirabiliumque actionum speculum (Antwerp: Philip Galle). Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

Collaborative Design But the increasing political instability of the Low Countries, particularly after the Spanish Fury of 1576, meant that publishing anything in Antwerp was near impossible. In 1581, the city formally aligned itself with the Protestant rebellion against Spanish rule and even Plantin found work publishing anti-Spanish texts. After Nadal’s death in 1580, it would have made sense to dismiss the possibility of producing the engravings in Antwerp and to pursue their publication in Venice or Rome.18 And so another series of drawings was commissioned for the Imagines (fig. 10). It would not, however, be the last. Maj-Brit Wadell argues most compellingly for the attribution of these subsequently produced red-chalk drawings to Benedetto Fiammeri.19 A member of the Florentine Accademia delle Arti

Figure 10. Benedetto Fiammeri, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1580. Red chalk on paper. Windsor, Royal Collection. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2021.

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del Disegno, Fiammeri was a painter, sculptor, and engraver who joined the Jesuit Order at the Collegium Romanum in 1576.20 Fiammeri apparently knew the Agresti drawings, but he enlarged their scale, shifting their orientation to a portrait format.21 These changes suggest the Agresti drawings made their way back to Rome but that the order had decided nevertheless to commission a new bespoke series of drawings for the project. This may reflect a different conceptual model for the project. The increase in scale and modification of the images’ orientation suggests the prints were to be more than small illustrative vignettes to be set inside the text block. Additionally, the new drawings’ portrait format suggests the resultant prints were to be bound in the same way as a standard text. Notably, this is a departure from most Antwerp engraved series, such as Galle’s 1573 Christi Iesu vitae and Gerard de Jode’s pioneering 1579 picture Bible, Thesaurus Sacrarum historiarum Veteris et Novi Testamenti (fig. 11)—both of which comprise of a series of landscape-format sheets, to be bound along the shorter edge. The red-chalk drawings’ shift in orientation away from the dominant format of Antwerp engraved books implies that the order no longer saw Antwerp as a viable choice for the Imagines’s publication. The scene of the Adoration of the Shepherds is inscribed “Rom 1579” (see fig. 10), and another sheet is dated January 1582, suggesting this new program of illustration began even before Nadal’s death, possibly in response to the fact that it looked like it would be impossible to produce and publish the engravings in Antwerp due to the ongoing war.22 Soon after being elected Superior General of the order in 1581, Claudio Acquaviva wrote to the rector Bartolomeo Ricci mentioning that Fiammeri was “at work engraving the works of Father

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Nadal.”23 No prints after these drawings were made in Rome, however, although that may have been the order’s original intention. Comparing Agresti’s and Fiammeri’s versions of the Adoration of the Shepherds reveals that the red-chalk sheets are much more detailed than the earlier pen-and-ink drawings (see figs. 8 and 10). Yet despite their enhanced legibility, Fiammeri’s designs are often more awkward (figs. 10 and 12); in the Agresti version, all the figures are angled toward the Christ Child, but in Fiammeri’s rendering, the circle of figures around the infant appear somewhat stilted, the Christ Child tilted awkwardly upward (cf. fig. 8). Fiammeri’s head of the Virgin has been reworked, a new version pasted over, yet she still seems aloof rather than lovingly reverent (see fig. 10). The spatial recession at left is more ambitious than Agresti’s earlier drawing, but it was initially wedged into a small triangular area, which has been extended by the addition of a strip of paper at left and another along the bottom edge of the composition. These passages of revision suggest that Fiammeri’s designs were initially unsatisfactory to Diego Jiménez (who had been charged with bringing the work to completion), and perhaps they were also found wanting by others in the Society. Corrections and clarifying lines added to several of the red-chalk drawings indicate that the patron found them unclear or insufficient. Several of the sheets have additional paper pasted on top of sections of the composition so that those passages could be reworked, as seen in the Adoration of the Shepherds (see fig. 10). In these sheets, the artist was apparently asked to replace problematic areas and to integrate these additions into the approved composition. Other sheets, like the Transfiguration and

Figure 11. Jan Snellinck, Judgment of Solomon, 1579. Engraving from Thesaurus Sacrarum historiarum Veteris et Novi Testamenti (Antwerp: Gerard de Jode). Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum. Figure 12. Benedetto Fiammeri, Arrest in the Garden, ca. 1580. Red chalk on paper. Windsor, Royal Collection. Royal Collection Trust / © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2021.

the Arrest in the Garden (fig. 12), have alternative versions of Christ’s head on small flaps attached to the margins of the drawing, furnishing the order with several options.24 Two tones of red chalk were used in the sheets, with considerable stylistic variation in the handling of figures, providing possible evidence that there also was more than one hand at work or multiple campaigns of drawing. These changes are typically discussed in terms of enhancing the clarity of the designs for an engraver.25 But Fiammeri himself was an engraver, so there may have been more at stake in this dramatic editorial process. Taken together, these interventions disclose an iterative, collaborative process of design.

While the Roman censor had already approved the text for publication by 1579, the physical composition of these red-chalk drawings—a palimpsest of drawn revisions—imply that progress had stalled on the engravings for the Imagines. The text of the Adnotationes required images that found a careful balance between a compelling compositional narrative and a sequence of legible details for the votary’s contemplation. The amendments to the Fiammeri drawings indicate the Jesuits in Rome struggled with their chosen artist, not only quibbling over specific details but also suggesting broader changes to compositional arrangements.

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So the Jesuits commissioned another set of drawings. These largely reproduce the compositions of Fiammeri but are rendered in pen and black ink, using dense, tight crosshatching. These drawings are attributed by most scholars to Bernardino Passeri, whose name is listed as inventor on the earliest impressions of the Imagines (“Bern. Pass. Rom. inven.”; see fig. 20).26 Comparing this version of the Adoration of the Shepherds (fig. 13) to the related Agresti and Fiammeri sheets (figs. 8 and 10), Passeri’s scene is more cogently composed so that the entering shepherds focus attention on the Christ Child (Fiammeri’s strange lone dog has been replaced by a pair of animals, one of whom looks up toward the infant); the Virgin’s gaze is now more reverent; the spatial regression in the background more coherent. These changes result in a more unified composition that focuses the viewer’s attention and clarifies the iconography’s meditative purpose: the shepherds’ veneration is more pronounced, and the Virgin is positioned between the bound lamb and Christ in a more directly analogic relationship. Passeri completed his drawings in Rome, where the artist was emerging as an important print designer for devotional orders. In 1579, Passeri provided some fifty designs for an engraved life of St. Benedict published by his namesake order.27 These prints, like his designs for the Imagines, often juxtapose foreground action with smaller background narratives framed by architectural features (fig. 14). Passeri’s tight pen work communicated details more effectively than either the earlier wash or chalk drawings, but the artist was also simply more effective than his predecessors at distilling complex narrative accounts into a single image. Passeri did have the benefit of the existing compositions and presumably oral feedback from the order on what they found lacking in these

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earlier drawings. The Imagines designs were thus a multiauthored project, even before their encounter with the complex logistics of print publishing.

Printing the Imagines While the order apparently was largely pleased with these designs, the Imagines engravings would still not be published in Rome. Passeri’s surviving drawing for the frontispiece includes a typeset caption indicating a publication date of 1586 in Rome (fig. 15). But underlined in ink and written in the margin at left is “Antwerpiae,” where the plates were eventually published in 1593. Antwerp had returned to Spanish control and the Catholic faith in August 1585 after a yearlong siege. Despite the fact that in the intervening years the order had dramatically revised the format of the Imagines, the Jesuits almost immediately returned to Nadal’s initial idea of engraving and publishing the Imagines in Antwerp. On November 5 of that year, Plantin wrote to the Jesuit Ludovicus Tovardus in Cologne regarding the project, stating that Antwerp engravers Philip Galle and Jan Sadeler could not complete the work.28 The timing of this correspondence indicates that almost as soon as the city was retaken by Spanish troops, the order reverted to its previously abandoned Antwerp plan, again enlisting Plantin. The Society respected Nadal’s original wishes and still valued Plantin’s export experience and his understanding of how engravings could meet with commercial success. Plantin, however, wanted the order to hire a local artist to produce new modelli, despite the fact that he knew preparatory drawings had already been made. While the order saw Passeri’s designs as superior to those of Fiammeri, Plantin did not deem Passeri’s drawings sufficient. Recognizing

Figure 13. Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Shepherds, ca. 1586. Pen and ink with letterpress. Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Figure 14. Aliprando Capriolo, after Bernardino Passeri, from Vita et miracvla sanctiss.mi patris Benedicti (Rome, 1579). Engraving. Cambridge, Harvard University, Houghton Library, Typ 525 79.674, plate 22.

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Figure 15. Bernardino Passeri, design for a title page, ca. 1586. Pen and ink with letterpress. Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels.

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that Antwerp engravers preferred modelli that ceded the execution of tonal modulation and textural detail to the engravers, Plantin suggested the Antwerp artist Maerten de Vos be employed to furnish new designs, even including two drawings he had commissioned from de Vos in one of his letters.29 But why did Plantin still want new drawings, and why by de Vos? De Vos, as the next two chapters will illustrate, was an artist esteemed by the Spanish court, and his copious print designs for numerous Antwerp publishers were sold not only throughout Europe but, indeed, across the world. Plantin recognized the reliability of de Vos as an export artist and one whose style of drawing was already familiar to the Antwerp engravers who would have to translate these drawings to copperplates. While, in the end, the entire Imagines was not redrawn, de Vos was the artist called upon to provide new models for the several scenes that required clarifications to their designs. He also designed a new frontispiece; the resultant engraving is signed with his name as “inventor” at lower left (see fig. 3). De Vos’s contribution is made clear when one compares his iteration of Christ before the woman from Canaan with Passeri’s designs for the same scene (figs. 16 and 17). De Vos pushes the interaction between Christ and the kneeling woman forward so that the entire composition now rotates around him. Moving the two onlookers at right from the foreground into the middle ground, de Vos naturalizes the scene’s spatial recession. He also creates a more meandering path back into the landscape, now including recognizably northern European architecture (including a tavern reminiscent of those by Pieter Bruegel). Drawing the viewer into the composition, these revisions also focus on the broad

Figure 16. Bernardino Passeri, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1585. Pen and ink and letterpress. Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels.

Figure 17. Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1590. Pen and ink and wash. Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels.

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Figure 18. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Figure 19. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

scope of the apostolic mission: Christ healing the Canaanite woman’s daughter represents the extension of the Gospel message, addressing Jews and Gentiles alike. This message resonates with the Jesuits’ global sense of mission, the apostolic drive to worldwide conversion. These compositional changes are done with an economical use of pen and wash. De Vos leaves specific details of texture and the depths of light and shade to the engravers, who enriched the design with modulating patches of dense cross-

hatching to move the viewer’s eye across and into the image. De Vos’s sheet was precisely the kind of drawing with which Antwerp engravers were used to working: one that relied not only on the engraver’s skill in chiaroscuro but also on his interpreting and enhancing the free rendering of the drawing. The engraver’s burin provides the broken plaster on the building’s façade, the faraway architecture, and the disposition of loosely drawn figures in the middle background (fig. 18). The engraver’s facility with this kind of detail

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and his interpretation of de Vos’s indications of light and shade are what set Antwerp print apart. When one compares Passeri’s designs engraved in Rome (see fig. 14) and the eventual engravings of the Imagines (figs. 7, 18, 19, and 20), the richer tonal modeling and textural variety of the Antwerp prints render the Italian prints stiff and flat in contrast. It was in recognition of these differences that the Jesuits trusted Plantin either to secure Antwerp engravers who would move to Rome or to engage printmakers to complete the project locally. But after the siege, engravers were thin on the ground in Antwerp and could set their own terms. A preserved series of increasingly exasperated letters between Plantin, the merchant Ferdinand Jiménez, the Haarlem engraver Hendrick Goltzius, and the Jesuits Ludovicus Tovardus, Michael Hernandez, and Diego and Emanuel Jiménez document the publisher’s Herculean attempts over fifteen months to find suitable printmakers for the Imagines.30 Plantin’s growing frustration with the assignment is palpable: in October 1586, he recommended the Jesuits find engravers in Rome to complete the work, as the task was proving unmanageable in Antwerp.31 The order, perhaps frustrated with the delay, eventually took matters into their own hands. Jesuit brothers in Antwerp directly approached the Wierix brothers (Antonis, Jan, and Hieronymus), bypassing Plantin’s role as negotiator. Plantin subsequently complained that this action had undermined his ability to negotiate a fair price, emboldening the brothers to demand higher wages and to insist on completing the work in Antwerp rather than moving to Rome. The order’s selection and persistent courting of the Wierix brothers is frankly surprising. While Jan had

worked for Plantin in the 1570s and was one of the engravers responsible for Montano’s earlier Christi Iesu vitae, an inspiration for Nadal’s project, Plantin explicitly did not recommend the brothers for this assignment. In 1585/86, the Wierix brothers had been purged from the civic guard for their previous identification as Lutherans.32 Furthermore, Plantin himself disavowed the printmakers’ licentious behavior as drunkards.33 Despite all this, the Jesuits were surprisingly eager to secure the brothers’ services as engravers. How does one make sense of this decision? It seems that the Jesuits were so eager to capitalize on Antwerp print’s established dominance in the global art market, to tap into the city’s existing global mercantile infrastructures, and to produce high-quality prints that the order was willing to work with printmakers of less-than-sound orthodoxy. In 1586, during the negotiations, the Superior General of the order, Claudio Acquaviva, wrote to Franciscus Costerus in Antwerp, wryly remarking that no one desired the production of anything less than elegantly engraved and marketable prints.34 Nadal’s original desire to find a talented northern European engraver for the project ultimately outweighed the logistical advantages of simply using a Roman printmaker. Acquaviva and the order acknowledged the superiority artistry of Antwerp printmaking and the commercial appeal of these engravers’ work, even if their personal histories were less dogmatically sound. The protracted genesis of the Imagines reveals the early Jesuit commitment to the making and contemplation of images. The order went on to commission emblems and pedagogical mnemonics, complex artworks and texts intended to generate mental pictures; the foundational writings of the Society are rife with symbolic and

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rhetorical references to the image, employing terms like figura, imago, pictura, repraesentatio, simulachrum.35 Nadal’s Imagines reveals how founding members of the Society saw the potential of engraved images to be used in the missionary field and to enhance the education of those training for the priesthood. The order valued the particular potency of Antwerp engraving despite the fact there were compelling logistical, political, and religious reasons for producing the volume in Rome rather than Antwerp. Antwerp was both a proven commercial agent and a proving ground for the Jesuit mission. Despite the order’s original desire to have strict control over the production of these images and to have Antwerp engravers relocate to Rome for the completion of the Imagines, the Flemish city’s status as an artistic and publishing center, even after the siege, made this offer unenticing to the “very best artists” the Jesuits hoped to attract.36 While publishing the prints in a city recently rewon to the Catholic faith symbolically advertised the defeat of heretical power,37 the preference for Antwerp engraving emanated from Nadal himself and predated the city’s Protestant interlude. In deciding to produce and publish the engravings of the Imagines in Antwerp a decade after Nadal’s death, the Society of Jesus prioritized the aesthetic quality and export potential associated with the city’s printed products. The order’s pursuit of the best of Antwerp’s engravers was not hindered by the previous heterodoxy of their chosen printmakers. Instead, the Jesuits recognized the viral potential of Antwerp print and its structural advantages in a global market. However, the existence of multiple campaigns of drawing and editorial revisions also indicates that the Jesuits remained concerned about how such diverse audiences would read the viral image.

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Text and Image From the outset, the Imagines and the accompanying Adnotationes were conceived as a tightly scripted meditative experience composed of both text and image. The numerous alterations to the images during the complex production history of the Imagines demonstrate the order’s careful attention to the compositional particulars of each image, its clarity and legibility, as well as the labeling and concordance with the text of the Adnotationes. These measures aimed to control not only the content of the prints but also how viewers saw the Imagines. In turn, the use of text in the Imagines reveals how the order sought to employ the image as a universal meditative vehicle, constraining its viral flexibility. Among the many changes between the drawings by Agresti, Fiammeri, and Passeri and the final engravings made in Antwerp, the position of the alphabetic labels corresponding to the intended captions often shifted. The imposition of this mode of labeling was intended to guide the viewer through the image, compelling focused attention to proceed through the narrative in a set sequence and spatial order. But the disposition of the letters is inconsistent; sometimes they are arranged clockwise, and at other times letters are repeated or difficult to find. This alphabetic-labeling convention originated in cartographic representation to identify places and landmarks on printed maps. By the time Nadal composed the Imagines, this visual strategy for identification had been adopted by natural historians, as in the groundbreaking 1543 anatomy of Andreas Vesalius.38 Unlike the indexical references of maps or diagrams, however, the labels and captions of the Imagines can also refer to past or future events in the relevant

biblical story or to actions that are not pictured. Sometimes the labels refer to the interior emotional states of relevant individuals, thoughts and feelings difficult to convey in engraving or at all. The Ignatian method of meditation focused on making even the abstract pictorial.39 The labels were to function as a bridge between these modes, conducting the viewer through and beyond the image, not only elaborating upon what is depicted but also drawing attention to what is not pictured and what is, in fact, perhaps impossible to visualize. Rather than fully embrace the print’s ability to generate individual response, however, these labels and captions are intended to tether the viewer to specific meditations. The Adnotationes and Imagines were conceived as a single unit, extensively cross-referenced but with the text as the primary and self-sufficient entity—not the engravings. In the Adnotationes, Nadal describes the persuasive power of sight and the sequence of captions as intended to guide the viewer into each depicted narrative of the Imagines, offering proofs for the judgment of divine truth.40 As Walter Melion describes, the pairing of image and text in the Adnotationes and Imagines presents a canon of images that initiates and also controls the devotional act of image making, as the reader is intended to internalize the pictorial template provided by the engraving.41 For the Society, the ideal viral reception for these engravings was in the souls of the devout, where the Imagines could take root and multiply. While the Jesuit ambition was clearly to minimize confusion—to craft and control a specific visual narrative and meditative path— disjunctions between text and image reveal the difficulty of the entire enterprise of the Imagines, of replicating the same meditative result in the

hearts and minds of different readers. Open contemplation of the imago is necessarily mitigated since the entire viewing experience is framed by text (see figs. 18 and 19): the title of the image, the biblical reference, the numbers conveying the historical and liturgical sequence, the labels within the imago, and the captions below. These letters negate the mimetic claims of the Imagines, reinforcing the flatness of the page in contrast to the illusion of space created by the designers and printmakers. The interruption of the labels frustrates total absorption in the imago, cueing the viewer to the textual gloss outside the frame. But, of course, not every pictorial detail can be labeled and glossed. Moreover, the engraving could also be read alone, the captions ignored. The image’s rhetorical power, its very ability to convince and to demonstrate self-sufficiently, justified the devotional project of the Imagines. Nadal saw the image as initiating a devotional process that each reader/viewer could adjust and personalize freely—ex libera meditatione—a tacit acknowledgment that devotion could not be entirely scripted.42 In this way, Nadal anticipates the mutability of the viral image, the way it may be customized by the viewer. But the labels and text on the Imagines document the Jesuit Order’s attempt to harness and contain the viral image, recognizing the potential for the illustrations of the Imagines to evade authorial control and to escape their textual foundations.

The Engravers’ Art The choice of the Wierix brothers (and the other Antwerp engravers responsible for the Imagines: Adriaen Collaert and Karel van Mallery) was an embrace of a particular refined aesthetic that

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was highly valued. To describe this graphic language as universal or stylistically neutral43 is to accept the missionary rhetoric of Imagines as fact. Indeed, the documented sales and distribution of the volume suggest there was a vibrant market for the Imagines as an art object as well as a devotional aid. Virality, while not requiring aesthetic refinement, is abetted by market preferences and established tastes; the partiality for Antwerp print, by missionaries and connoisseurs alike, helped power the viral spread of the Imagines. The Jesuit belief in the power of images as a universal language undergirded Nadal’s project and aligned with a broader early modern interest in various forms of pictorial language, such as hieroglyphs, as a linguistic archetype or Ursprache.44 When requesting papal funding for the extensive costs of engraving, Paulus Hoffaeus stressed the accessibility of images, describing the Imagines as “a precious and highly sought-after work, not only by contemplatives in Europe but also by members of the Society of Jesus in the East and West Indies to enable them to use images to impress on these new Christians the mysteries of human redemption, a concept that they find difficult to grasp by preaching and catechism, because their intellectual capacities are generally low.”45 Yet if simplicity and legibility in teaching within a missionary context were the sole purpose for the Imagines’s engravings, why then was it necessary, as Diego Jiménez writes in his prefatory address to Pope Clement VIII, “to recruit the very best artists if the book was to give a new and vibrant picture of the Gospel”?46 Similarly, the complex Latin textual framing and labeling of the Imagines belie Hoffaeus’s claims to the book’s utility for those of low intellect. Antwerp engraving of the period is, in fact, characterized by its technical mastery and visual

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complexity. The Imagines’s engravings have rich tonal modeling, figures with expressive faces and gestures, and background landscapes replete with subsidiary details (see figs. 7, 18, 19, 20). The engravers use variegated lines to capture light and texture, alternating dense areas of crosshatching with lightly worked areas. If simplicity, ease, and cost of production were the sole motivations for the order, then Antwerp would not have been Nadal’s first choice for the production of the Imagines. The drawn-out negotiations to find an Antwerp engraver and the eventual employment of disreputable former Protestants as lead printmakers indicate the overriding importance of Antwerp’s particular stylistic and technical prowess for the order. Jiménez’s preface claims that the “artist’s subtle style matched with the sanctity and value of the text itself.”47 This aesthetic superiority not only assisted the devotional purpose of the volume but ensured its allure for consumers, enhancing its viral potential as a guide for internal meditation, as an object for sustained viewing within a print collection, and as an iconographic model for future patrons and artists. The continued changes to the image program in the long genesis of the Imagines, as Melion compellingly and meticulously demonstrates, brought the visual program in line with Nadal’s reading of the Gospels, as we have seen in the multiple alterations to the Adoration of the Shepherds scene (see figs. 8, 10, 13, and 19).48 Beyond ensuring a tight correlation between image and theology via these kinds of iconographic adjustments, artist(s) and patrons must have also discussed compositional choices, the level of detail to be imparted, and the very rendering of light, as they all reflected the imago’s relationship to the

textual meditation offered by Nadal. In stressing the importance of the engravings’ aesthetic quality, the Jesuits acknowledge that artworks can manipulate and affect the viewer’s empathy in ways beyond the text alone.49 Not only the design but the skillful engraving of the final prints could promote a meditative experience. The role of the engravers of the Imagines was significant in this regard; the stiff handling of the pen-and-ink drawings with their rigid botanical forms and flat use of light are transformed by skillful engraving into lively exercises in chiaroscuro. Jiménez’s foreword to the reader cautions that no spiritual growth will come from “a mere glance at the pictures or wonder at their artistic beauty. Spend a whole day, even several days, with each image.”50 The book’s meditative function is aided by the Imagines’s pictorial abundance that rewards close and continued looking. Jiménez couples aesthetic appreciation with the text’s didactic purpose, but he also cautions against a superficial pleasure in their style alone. It is difficult to prescribe prolonged viewing of an aesthetically unrewarding object, yet a beautiful image, Jiménez suggests, contains its own dangers, allowing a viewer to stall at the level of aesthetic pleasure and avoid the labor of meditation. The engraver’s art could be harnessed to aid spiritual reflection, but a masterfully executed engraving could also exceed this purpose. The contributions of the Antwerp engravers are built into the fabric of the resultant engravings via the insistent and repeated presence of signatures (using sculpsit or fecit) of those responsible for the execution of the plates (Hieronymus, Jan, and Anthonis Wierix; Adriaen Collaert; and Karel van Mallery). Indeed, by the second edition of the Imagines, Passeri’s status as inventor

was effaced, and his signature (“Bern. Pass. Rom. inven.”) was removed, while the names of the engravers and de Vos’s supplemental inventions were retained (compare figs. 20 and 21). As Ralph Dekoninck suggests, this erasure of the Imagines’s Roman origin placed renewed emphasis on the series as a product made in Antwerp.51 It was likely the Wierix brothers themselves who burnished out the Italian artist’s name. The plates, however, were still owned by the Society of Jesus, so this act of expurgation must have been approved by the order. The Wierix brothers undoubtedly saw an opportunity to promote their skills in such a prestigious commission, but for the Society of Jesus, whose General Curia was based in the papal seat of Rome, this erasure of the engravings’ Roman ties is more than a little surprising. This elimination of the Roman artist’s name on the plates in favor of the engravers’ names underscores how important the prestige of Antwerp print was for the Jesuits. While Rome was synonymous with Church authority, the engravers’ names on the Imagines functioned as an index of quality, in line with the society’s viral ambitions for the Imagines on a global stage. The protracted and multisited genesis of the Evangelicae historiae imagines demonstrates how the Jesuits equated aesthetic quality with devotional efficacy; in courting refinement, the order also positioned the Imagines for a broader market of those interested in the prints themselves. Their detail and expressive play of light and dark made them pleasurable to behold. The textual framing and the prints’ long design process suggest that the order worried that the Imagines could potentially open up an uncontained, vertiginous space for self-reflection and interpretation.52 The

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Figure 20. Antonius Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

Figure 21. Antonius Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines, 2nd ed. (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Rome, National Central Library.

Jesuits sought to fix meaning in black and white, but the Imagines demonstrate that while the viral image can serve patron ambition, it is also one of perpetual motion, slippery and difficult to control. The truly worldwide and sustained adoption of the Evangelicae historiae imagines as an artistic model, across continents and decades, thus testifies to both the success of the Jesuit Order’s viral ambition and its limits.

Missionary Value

The First Viral Images

The Jesuit experience in the missionary field reinforced the utility of images for conversion and demonstrates the ways in which the Imagines could be appropriated to distinct local purposes. Undoubtedly the book served the devotional and missionary ends for which it was intended: of the 2,300 impressions initially produced by the Jesuits in 1593, the most significant shipments were

sent to Jesuit institutions in key transit points for missionaries. All missionaries intending to travel to Spanish territories overseas had to await clearance in Seville; Lisbon was the central departure point for the Lusophonic world. Seville and Lisbon each received two different shipments of fifty and fifty-four copies of both the Imagines and Adnotationes from the Antwerp Jesuits.53 Fifty-four of the copies destined for Seville were specifically addressed to Hernando de Moriglio, procurator of the viceroyalties of Peru and New Spain, indicating their intended use in the missionary field. Although the global reception of the Imagines has been examined in singular cultural contexts, only Jean Michel Massing has recently addressed the collective circulation of the Imagines across multiple continents.54 The documented shipments and sales of the Imagines corroborate the existence of overlapping markets for the book both as a devotional guide and as a luxurious art object. Rather than rehearse specialist studies of each exemplar here, I would like to consider how copies of these prints in different cultural contexts unmask their assumed stylistic neutrality, attesting to the interpretative potential of the Imagines as viral images and their value as a missionary product. The most well-documented and widespread use of the Imagines is in the Spanish Americas, where many of the initial copies of the Imagines were sent by the order in the late sixteenth century. The Project on the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art has identified hundreds of correspondences, either of significant sections or entire compositions derived from the Imagines, in paintings dating from the late sixteenth through late eighteenth centuries.55 In the viceregal Americas, contractual arrangements between local

artists and Church authorities often stipulated the use of a given printed model.56 The Imagines, as a doctrinally vetted iconographic source on the life of Christ, appears to have been a widespread point of reference for patrons and artists. In Cusco alone there are more than twenty surviving artworks that reference or repeat compositions from the Imagines.57 The city was home to the Colegio de San Borja, the Jesuit college for young cacique (Indigenous elite) men, which may account for the sustained and repeated adoption of the Imagines as doctrinally sound artistic models for the city’s artists. An eighteenth-century version of Christ before the Canaanite woman, likely made for export in Cusco and now in the Dominican monastery in Bogotá, testifies to the long life of these iconographies beyond Jesuit patronage, proof that the iconography circulated among the city’s workshops and was sent out across the viceroyalty (fig. 22). This was what the Jesuits wanted: a set of influential iconographic models for the votary and the convert to be reproduced across the global mission; they wanted the book to go viral. However, the high price of the Imagines well into the seventeenth century meant it was unlikely that copies of the volume could be found in Cusco artists’ workshops. Instead the Imagines probably remained in the libraries of monastic institutions and wealthy elites in the city; such a costly book would not be lent out to artists. At first, access to these models would have been highly controlled and limited, requiring the production of intermediary drawings, which could then enter into the stock of local workshops. In the viceregal Americas, then, the prints of the Imagines likely remained largely stationary, while interpretative drawings and painted variants propagated

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Figure 22. Cusco school, Christ Before the Woman from Canaan, eighteenth century. Oil on canvas. Bogotá, Convento de Santo Domingo. Proyecto Arte Colonial Americano (ARCA).

further adaptations. More than the repetition of a single printed original, Imagines-related imagery formed an ecosystem of what Hyman has termed “conforming copies,” made in multiple media and spread across the region.58 These conforming images were likely commissioned in relation to one another rather than all deriving from the expensive and difficult-to-access engravings in the Imagines itself. This rhizomatic reproduction is not reflected in the binary pairs that populate databases like the Project on the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art. In the case of the costly Imagines, related local paintings in South America may, in fact, refer to one another more than to a singular

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printed model. Thus, the Imagines’s value in the missionary field was as more than a pedagogical or devotional aid but as a catalyst for viral reproduction. Singular images from the book could be excerpted, reconfigured, recombined, and recast into different formats, spawning further versions outside of Jesuit control and absent the links to Jesuit pedagogy and devotion. One of the earliest documented missionary responses to the publication of the Imagines is from the Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci in China. Ricci owned the book, and he desired further copies for the China mission. Writing to Giovanni Alvarez in 1605, he claimed that the engravings were “of even greater use than the Bible in the

sense that while we are in the middle of talking we can also place right in front of their eyes things which, with words alone, we would not be able to make clear.”59 As an aide to the mission, Ricci lent a copy of the Imagines to the Portuguese Jesuit Manuel Diaz to take with him to Nanchang. But the known copies of the Imagines made in China suggest that the missionary efficacy of the engravings was not as immediate as Ricci claimed and that the clarity, use, and efficacy of the Imagines engravings in the missionary field should not be assumed. Between 1619 and 1623, an abridged woodcut version of the Imagines, Song nianzhu guicheng (誦念珠規程; Method of saying the rosary), was published in Nanjing under the supervision of Portuguese Jesuits Gaspar Ferreira and João da Rocha (fig. 23).60 A little more than a decade later in Fuzhou, along China’s southern coast, Jesuit missionary Giulio Aleni published another woodcut version of the Imagines, called the Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (天主降生出像經解; Illustrated explanation of the incarnation of the lord of heaven; fig. 24).61 Finally, the Imagines was one of the models used for the Jincheng shuxiang (進呈書像; Images [from a] book presented to the emperor) printed in Beijing in 1640.62 The publication of these volumes suggests the continued belief in the utility of images for the education and conversion of the Chinese. However, the dramatic alterations to the printed model call into question the engravings’ supposed universal legibility. While retaining the Imagines’s combination of text and image, all of these woodcut series eliminate much of the chiaroscuro of the Antwerp engravings and introduce Ming spatial and iconographic conventions. These alterations represent the limits of the Imagines’s stylistic legibility in

China. In the Nanjing version of the Annunciation, for example, editorial changes to the composition suggest places where pictorial decorum is threatened. The Annunciation of the Song nianzhu guicheng (fig. 23) deletes the subsidiary scene of the Crucifixion at left (labeled G) in the Wierix engraving (fig. 25). Ming viewers largely saw images of the Crucifixion as offensively violent;63 the local distaste for this iconography could have dictated the substitution of a mountain landscape here. This change was not simply about reducing compositional complexity, as the artist has also simultaneously reconceived the Virgin’s domestic interior, swapping the simpler domicile in the Wierix engraving for that of an elite Chinese household, a complex enclosure that opens out onto a scenic landscape. These Chinese woodcut adaptations of the Imagines negotiate between monocular, one-point perspective associated with European artworks and local conceptions of spatial order.64 While both woodcuts use monocular perspective to suggest architectural depth in places, they simultaneously employ alternate spatial and visual conventions more familiar to an early seventeenth-century Chinese viewer. So the volumetric clouds of ­Wierix’s engraving are replaced by swirling lines in both Chinese woodcut versions of this scene, recasting chiaroscuro into a local visual idiom. Comparing the Nanjing- and Fujian-produced woodcuts also suggests that there were different kinds of local interest and resistance to the Imagines as a pedagogical tool and aesthetic object and not a singular “Chinese” response to the Imagines model (see figs. 23 and 24). Fujian was not only the center of the commercial book industry in late Ming China but also home to anti-Christian actions in the very period Aleni published the Tianzhu jiangsheng

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Figure 23. Ming artist, Annunciation, 1619–23. Woodcut block book from Gaspar Ferreira (Fei Qikuei), but usually attributed to João da Rocha, S.J. (Luo Ruwang), Song nianzhu guicheng (Nanjing). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

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Figure 24. Ming artist, Annunciation, 1637. Woodcut block book from Giulio Aleni, Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (Fujian: Jinjiang Church). Minneapolis Institute of Art.

zhuxiang jingjie. The inclusion of the Crucifixion scene in the Fujian-produced woodcut could signal greater familiarity with Christian tenets; the more consistent use of single-point perspective in this print, too, could be interpreted as a strategic courting of a cosmopolitan audience. In this case, the regional interest in the Imagines can be related to a metropolitan culture of curiosity about novel and foreign goods that was fostered in port cities, as well as the local embrace of Catholic ideas.65 The reuse of the Imagines in China reveals the intersections between the infrastructural mesh-

works of the Jesuit Order, from Antwerp to Beijing, and that of various Chinese printing centers. These woodcuts suggest the radical potential of the viral image, able to traverse vast geographic distances. To what extent can form, content, and style be manipulated while retaining claims to doctrinal conformity and missionary utility—the purported aims of the Imagines’s patrons? Concessions to local idiom and practice would eventually embroil the order in an ongoing debate about the compatibility of Chinese ancestral rites with Catholic belief, pitting the Jesuits against other Catholic missionary orders and the Pope himself during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.66 The reception of the Imagines images in China represents the order’s strategic use of such practices of cultural accommodation, how the engravings were remade in China to suit local needs. The esteem for the Imagines images as artistic models—inventive, expressive, and vetted by Catholic authorities—contributed to their widespread global adoption. But this should not be seen as a phenomenon solely of extra-European encounter or only of Jesuit devotion. The Imagines was not just a compositional repertoire for less skilled artists or for those working outside of European metropoles. Some of the most notable artists of the seventeenth century consulted and adapted the formulae of the Imagines, from Peter Paul Rubens to Francisco de Zurbarán.67 While the engravings almost immediately were used as models for relief sculptures adorning the confessionals of the Jesuit church of San Fedele in Milan (fig. 26),68 they were also used by artists working for different monastic orders—such as the series of paintings of circa 1628 of the life of Christ by Philippe de Champaigne for the Paris convent of the Carmelites69 or the wall paintings for the

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Figure 25. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri Annunciation, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

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multiple social networks is the most significant feature of the viral image. The slippery nature of the viral image and its potential to occupy multiple visualities, generating different interpretative possibilities, is made even more clear when one considers the Imagines’s simultaneous circulation among missionary orders, courtly elites, and print connoisseurs.

Courtly Gifts and Connoisseurial Collecting

Figure 26. Giovanni, Giacomo, and Gian Paolo Taurino, Flagellation, ca. 1600. Walnut. Milan, San Fedele. © Museo San Fedele. Photo © Luca Casonato.

cathedral of New Julfa in the Armenian quarter of Isfahan, produced in the first half of the seventeenth century.70 The Imagines prints as well as their later states and copies remained in use as models for more than a century, used as exemplars for the 1690 retablo for the Jesuit hacienda Santa Lucía in New Spain71 and numerous seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury works in Poland and Lithuania.72 This simultaneous movement and replication across

Almost from the moment of their publication, the Imagines moved across commercial networks as well as Jesuit ones. Archduke Albert and Archduchess Isabella purchased a copy of the Imagines in Brussels, as did high-ranking officials and members of their court; the documented seventeenth-century secular clientele for the book was dominated by international nobility.73 In 1595, the Antwerp publisher Jan Moretus (heir to Plantin’s publishing house) bought 134 copies of the two volumes; three years later he bought another 62 copies from the order.74 In 1605, Jan Moretus II, in conjunction with Theodore Galle, bought all the Imagines copperplates; the following year the publisher bought the 469 already-printed copies of the Imagines still owned by the Antwerp Jesuits.75 It is unclear why the order decided to sell the plates and remaining printed volumes at this point, given the extreme effort to publish the Imagines over the previous two decades. Perhaps the Jesuits did not see the demand from the colleges that they initially anticipated, or they simply no longer wanted to store all the printed copies and plates. Perhaps the price offered by Galle and Moretus was too good to pass up at a moment when the Society was rapidly expand-

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ing its ­footprint in Flanders. But by 1606, the Antwerp book publisher Moretus controlled the distribution of the title—the Society of Jesus only possessed a few printed copies of the work and no longer owned the means to produce more. If the order’s sale of the plates reflected doubts about continued missionary and pedagogical demand for the volume, Moretus and Galle anticipated the continued commercial market for the prints. While initially distributed via Jesuit missionary networks, there was also a connoisseurial audience for the Imagines, one that valued the printed book as a collectible art object. The book’s missionary purpose and aesthetic value were closely intertwined. For example, the Imagines likely formed part of a gift from the Jesuit mission to the Mughal emperor Akbar, whose son Prince Salim (soon to be Emperor Jahangir) commissioned painted copies of every one of the book’s 153 engravings, plus additional scenes, for a sumptuous edition of his own.76 At least six engravings from the Imagines are known to have been pasted into Mughal albums, all but one of them painted over;77 and there is a miniature painting closely following the Nativity now in the Victoria and Albert Museum, which even captures the text in reverse (see fig. 5).78 As Yael Rice compellingly argues, the Mughal appreciation for European engravings stemmed from a shared aesthetics of the line and the perceived amenability of the engravings to the grammar of juxtaposition employed by the compilers and artists of these albums.79 The copying, painting over, and insertion of the Imagines in Mughal albums illustrates how these prints moved beyond the networks and purposes envisaged for their circulation. Here aesthetic appreciation outweighed iconographic import or devotional use in a manner that directly

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countermanded the order’s signal intent in producing the Imagines. In Ethiopia, there was a similar reinscription of the Imagines at the court of King Sūsinyōs but one that was more closely aligned with Jesuit conversion efforts. In the 1610s, both the king and a close royal relative each ordered a painting of every engraving from the Imagines.80 While the Jesuit mission was eventually frustrated in the Mughal and Ethiopian courts, in both cases the engravings of the Imagines were primarily appreciated for their aesthetic qualities, transformed into local objects via courtly cultures of emulation and appropriation. Both courts utilized copying as a strategy not of accommodation or acquiescence to Jesuit efforts of conversion but as a means of demonstrating their court’s magnanimity, incorporating the Imagines within the visual repertoire of local court artists in an economy of acquisition and display. Despite the initial success of the Imagines as a diplomatic gift and catalyst for local artistic creation, the Jesuits did not see the continued ownership of the Imagines plates as necessary for their missionary purpose. But the 1605 sale of the plates to the Moretus firm would not diminish the Imagines’s value on the global stage, nor would it compromise the devotional efficacy or doctrinal clarity of the engravings. In selling both the stock of copperplates and much of the remaining printed stock of the Imagines to the Antwerp publisher, the order recognized how commercial networks augmented the prints’ viral reach. Nadal had appreciated and sought Plantin’s opinion on the city’s best engravers, understanding the superior quality of Antwerp print and its place in an international market. The Imagines, from its earliest printing, was distributed across both

devotional and commercial networks, but the sale of the plates to Plantin’s heirs marked a shift in the distribution of these images. The meticulous labor of making the Imagines ideal for the Jesuit devotional purpose—their nuanced use of light, compositional clarity, and detail—also made these prints desirable to print collectors, a different market than the Jesuits first intended. Contrary to the sale of the Imagines plates, the order retained matrices for other types of printed devotional material much longer, publishing prints at an astonishing scale until the plates were exhausted. The year after the Imagines was published in Antwerp, the Jesuit Melchior van Woonsel, prefect of the city’s Marian sodality, commissioned two devotional engravings as a suffragia (illustrated intercessory prayers) for the group’s members; by 1609, these plates were so worn from use that the order had four more plates engraved for distribution, with twelve figures, so that each member could receive a suffragia monthly.81 By 1614, members of the city’s Marian sodality were producing some fourteen thousand prints for the group’s fifteen hundred members.82 The sustained and voluminous printing of these devotional images contrasts with the relatively restrained printing and quick sale of the Imagines plates. The Imagines clearly addressed a different audience than the sodality prints; in selling the plates and the already printed copies of the Imagines, the order prioritized the broader demand for more popular printed products. In buying the plates from the order, the publisher Moretus recognized the engravings’ high quality and sought to capitalize on the Imagines’s appeal to an emerging international audience of print connoisseurs, who valued the book’s illustrations in their own right. The Imagines was

apparently only sold initially as a set and not as individual sheets. The book could therefore be seen as a ready-made collection of the finest Antwerp prints, able to be appreciated on its own or treasured as part of a larger print collection or library. The distribution and sales history of the Imagines corroborates Galle’s and Moretus’s assessment of the plates as commercially valuable, complicating the Jesuit’s initial claim that the title was aimed primarily at students and the newly converted. As Karen Bowen and Dirk Imhof show, the prices for these engravings did not decline in the decades after the Imagines’s initial printing—in fact, good impressions of the Imagines increased in price in the seventeenth century.83 There was, of course, a limited supply of initial impressions, as the copperplates were not restruck while Moretus owned them (in buying up the printed stock and then the plates, the Antwerp publisher ensured that the supply of the prints remained limited). The plates were eventually sold to Jan Galle in 1645 for more than Moretus had paid for them forty years before, indicating that the copperplates were still seen as a valuable capital investment, despite their use and wear at that point, and that there was still perceived market demand for new impressions.84 The aesthetic qualities of the Imagines and its broader market potential encouraged Moretus to acquire both printed copies and the plates directly from the Jesuits, controlling the total number of available impressions and the means by which to make further versions. Ownership of the book became something of a status symbol, suggesting that many owners of the Imagines succumbed, at least in part, to the very aesthetic wonder Jiménez warned against. The book’s early sales history and the continued high prices and demand for the

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Figure 27. Opening showing (from left to right): Maerten de Vos, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1590, pen and ink and wash; Hieronymus Wierix, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 1593, engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu, restruck by Galle 1644); Bernardino Passeri, Christ and the Woman from Canaan, ca. 1585, pen and ink and letterpress. Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Courtesy of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels.

v­ olume, even decades after its initial publication, demonstrate how the Imagines surpassed the order’s initial ambitions as a pedagogical, devotional, and aesthetic object. What made the Imagines an effective devotional model—the prints’ clarity, their nuanced use of light, their balance of detail—also made them desirable to print collectors as well, enabling the Imagines to slide between different meshworks of viewers, to continue and expand their distribution across space and, critically, time. The first two editions of the Imagines issued by the Antwerp Jesuits totaled some three thousand copies.85 Further printed variants of the

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Imagines—based on the engraved compositions but struck from different plates—can be found in Bartolomeo Ricci’s Considerationi sopra tutta la Vita di NS Giesu Christo (Rome, 1607, 1609, 1610) and Jean Bourgeois’s Vitae et passionis et mortis Jesu Christi (Antwerp, 1622), as well as in later illustrated Gospel narratives.86 The original copperplates for the Imagines were not restruck until Jan Galle bought them in 1644, when he issued a new and possibly reworked edition. A volume in the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique in Brussels contains the Passeri drawings for the Imagines bound alongside this 1644 Galle

e­ dition of the Imagines (fig. 27). Each drawing faces its later engraving, sometimes with the addition of a drawing by de Vos (as evident in this opening showing Christ and the woman from Canaan). All are executed at the same scale, enabling easy comparison between drawn model and resultant print. An inscription above the drawing for the title page (fig. 15) indicates that the sheets were kept together at the Jesuit colegio in Antwerp, but the drawings were only bound alongside with the Imagines prints some fifty years after the book’s initial printing. This suggests that, in Antwerp at least, there was still a connoisseurial appreciation for these prints well into the seventeenth century. The owner of this later edition carefully paired the prints with the drawings, revealing a recognition of the importance of the Imagines to the artistic history of the city. The Galle family eventually sold the Imagines plates to another Antwerp publishing family, the Verdussens, who published another edition, combining the text of the Adnotationes and the Imagines engravings in a 1707 volume. The Verdussens then went on to reuse more than sixty of the plates to illustrate their 1736 publication of María de Jesús de Ágreda’s Mystica Ciudad de Dios.87 This book, written by the devout correspondent of Philip IV of Spain, was a massive success; the inclusion of the Imagines prints within it activated yet new networks of distribution. By the time of their inclusion in the Mystica Ciudad de Dios, the Imagines prints were worn; they had partially been recut by the Verdussens since their original sharpness of detail and rich tonal modeling had been lost. Many surviving editions are hand-colored, an attempt to mask and remedy the poor state of the prints. Both the aesthetic and the capital value of the engravings had depreci-

ated after a century of use and storage, and so the prints, no longer prized by connoisseurs, returned to a primarily devotional market. This chapter’s abridged history of the production of the Imagines plates, their continued use and reuse, global adaptation, and variation illustrate the ways in which the technology of print allowed for multiple moments of creation, with potentially vast temporal or geographic distances between a printed image’s various states and audiences. The printing matrix is a latent image, capable of being divorced in time and space from the agency of a singular artist, author, or publisher. In the case of the Imagines, the journey from Nadal’s idea for an illustrated meditative guide to the finalized print product involved the work of multiple artists and stakeholders in Rome, Antwerp, and elsewhere. After the printing of the Imagines, the resultant engravings were distributed among Jesuit colegios and offices, but the prints were also stockpiled in Antwerp for future commercial and devotional distribution. Moretus and his heirs continued to sell impressions of the first two editions of the Imagines for more than forty years. After their sale to Jan Galle, the plates remained in use more than a century after their initial engraving. It is frustratingly hard to grasp the scale and length of the Imagines’s printings, distributed and dispersed from multiple points of origin and dating from varying moments of production. Recognizing print’s capacity for multiple moments of creation calls into question a central assumption about print as a technology that generates, in the words of seminal print scholar William Ivins, “exactly repeatable pictorial statements.”88 Citing Ivins, Bruno Latour classifies

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printed images as “immutable mobiles,” one of a wide range of images and visualizations including photographs, data tables, and more that claim optical consistency and legibility, enabling the mobilization of resources through space and time and thereby allowing for the growth of state and corporate power.89 The production and reception of the Imagines instead forces a reckoning with indexical incoherence, questioning whether two prints taken from the same plate are, in fact, identical or exactly repeatable, especially considering the vast temporal or geographic distance between their states, publishers, and audiences.90 Two impressions of Nadal’s imago 7 of the Adoration of the Magi, printed a century apart, demonstrate how the Imagines challenges the idea of the print as immutable and repeatable. Balthazar is rendered unequivocally dark-skinned in the later impression, one made after the plate had been recut after extensive reprinting (see figs. 28 and 29). While the two prints were made using the same plate and text, which contains the same authorial inscriptions, the relationship between these two images embodies the ways in which viral repetition alters notions of authorship and agency, even when the two prints derive from the same matrix. The early impression reminds us of the connoisseurial market for these prints as exemplars of top-quality Antwerp printmaking; the later impression, however, can be situated in a broader context of devotional visual culture rather than elevated craftsmanship. The prints’ mobility and their complicated and ongoing publication destabilizes our understanding of context and reception.91 The Imagines’s widespread and diverse reproduction as viral images yields multiple, simultaneous, and overlapping art-historical contexts that are difficult to fully unpack.92

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Figure 28. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Kings, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

In many ways the virality of the Imagines is too arduous to deconstruct and to analyze coherently: 153 engravings that were in print for more than a century, copied across the world in different media. The way viral images move—promoted by gatekeepers, jumping between social networks, and capitalizing on existing infrastructures— becomes clearer when one considers a single example. But the story of the Imagines opens up a consideration of the viral potential of the Jesuit

played a role in the viral movement of St. Michael the Archangel, the design was not a Jesuit project like the Imagines; the order was not the patron of either the painting or print. Rather than ascribing the extraordinary mobility of St. Michael the Archangel solely to the devotional program of the order or even to the infrastructures of the Church or the Spanish empire, the following chapters explore how the viral image moved between meshworks and across geographies, in ways unforeseen by artists, patrons, and publishers. Reproductive mobility—that is, copying and distance—allowed for a multiplicity of responses and the activation of a distributed artistic agency. Viral images thus figured processes of globalization, articulating and actualizing notions of the local in dialogue with the global.

Figure 29. Hieronymus Wierix, after Bernardino Passeri, Adoration of the Kings, first engraved 1593, reengraved and restruck 1707. From Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Adnotationes et meditationes in Evangelica (Antwerp: Henricum & Cornelium Verdussen). New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1917.

Order and of Antwerp as a print publishing center, gesturing toward a wide range of different meshworks and various gatekeepers who transported, reproduced, and promoted these engravings. The remainder of this book traces a single iconography of St. Michael the Archangel, originally designed at the same time the Imagines was being conceived, involving many of the same individuals and networks responsible for the Imagines’s global distribution. While the Society of Jesus also

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Chapter 3

Conquering and Forgetting And there was a war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; . . . the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him. —Book of Revelation1

T

he book of Revelation recounts how the militant archangel and his celestial army defeated the Devil and his rebellious angels. Early modern artists typically depicted St. Michael as a martial figure, as in the rendition by the Antwerp painter Frans Floris in which the archangel raises a flaming sword, and his angelic cohort combats a swirling, tangled mass of bodies, part human, part animal (fig. 30). Here Michael and his heavenly retinue bear down upon Satan, who takes the form of a red seven-headed dragon whose sprawling body dominates the middle of the large panel. Floris’s painting was the central panel of the altarpiece of the Antwerp fencers’ guild, on display in the city’s cathedral. It would have been a familiar sight to Floris’s slightly younger compatriot, Maerten de Vos. De Vos, however, went on to create a distinctively different interpretation of this encounter between Michael and Satan, as a beatific and still image of triumph rather than a chaotic battle (fig. 31). In lieu of Floris’s tumultuous crowd, de Vos focuses solely on the two figures of the archangel and devil. Although clearly subdued at Michael’s feet, the serpentine figure of Satan appears transfixed in reverential awe rather than contained by force. De Vos’s conquering angel holds no sword and carries a martyr’s palm in lieu of a weapon. The archangel’s raised hand is empty and open, haloed by light and circumscribed by the words “Quis ut deus?” (Who is like God?), the Latin translation of the angel’s Hebrew name.

The singular nature of this design—the pacific archangel with upstretched hand and open palm, poised over a recumbent Satan—makes de Vos’s archangel and its adaptations in various media particularly recognizable. The iconographic uniqueness of de Vos’s St. Michael also allows one to track the extraordinary movement of this particular archangel across time and space. Previous scholars have noted the popularity of de Vos’s rendition of the archangel, assembling groups of related paintings made in Spain and in various locations in Latin America.2 While the archangel’s distinctive pose and costume make versions of this iconography readily distinguishable, it is also an adaptable and versatile design, one that could be taken up and mobilized to new ends, depending upon who adopted it, where, and for what purpose. The design is thus well suited not only to viral reproduction but also to retrospectively tracking that very spread.3 The viral image is both mobile and mutable, distinctive yet amenable to appropriation and reinterpretation. The next three chapters will trace various iterations of this singular iconography, which I refer to by the italicized name St. Michael the Archangel, executed in print, paint, and ivory, moving between Antwerp, Venice, Mexico City, Puebla, Lima, and Manila. Crucially, this is not a linear narrative describing a singular chain of transmission. De Vos’s drawing relates both to an engraving and a painting made in Antwerp, both of which moved across related

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Figure 30. Frans Floris, Fall of the Rebel Angels, 1554. Oil on panel. Antwerp, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen. Hugo Maertens / www‌.artinflanders‌.be.

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Figure 31. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1584. Pen and ink and wash. Paris, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-arts. © Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, New York.

yet distinct networks (see figs. 34 and 40). This chapter reconstructs the initial physical trajectories of both the engraved and painted St. Michael the Archangel in order to understand just how the design went viral at the turn of the seventeenth century, and I reflect upon the various interpretative possibilities generated by this initial wave of reproduction. De Vos, an artist unusually skilled

at navigating the fluctuating and fraught religious and political circumstances of the 1580s, produced both the painting and print within a few years of each other but under drastically different ­circumstances. Both versions of St. Michael the Archangel proved adaptable to a number of different Counter-Reformation contexts on either side of the Atlantic and beyond.

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Maerten de Vos and Antwerp To understand how this St. Michael went viral, we have to understand the particular positioning of its maker, de Vos, and Antwerp’s complex history during the late sixteenth century. De Vos lived and worked in a city of roughly one hundred thousand inhabitants, a global hub of trade and artistic production that saw successive outbreaks of Reformation religious strife and political upheaval from the 1560s to the 1580s. In de Vos’s lifetime, Antwerp witnessed periods of iconoclasm, war, siege, defeat, and triumphant Counter-Reformation spectacles. As a resident in the city throughout this period of turmoil, de Vos was forced to maneuver on this shifting soil, but he was also an artist whose training and experiences uniquely positioned him to understand and exploit the larger forces—religious, political, and artistic—that shaped the city’s fortunes. De Vos’s career epitomizes the wealth and international orientation of the Flemish city, as well as its role at the frontline of the Reformation and revolt. Born in 1532, de Vos likely trained as a painter with his father, Paul, before traveling to Italy in the 1550s, probably in the company of the artist Pieter Bruegel, de Vos’s contemporary.4 According to Karel van Mander’s 1604 biography of de Vos, the artist traveled in “Italy, Rome, Venice and other lands” before returning to Antwerp and officially entering the guild in 1559.5 Although Carlo Ridolfi included de Vos as one of Tintoretto’s studio assistants in his 1648 biography of Venetian painters,6 little is known about de Vos’s time in Italy or his motivations for this sojourn. But the very fact that this painter’s son could afford to undertake such a journey and felt compelled to do so speaks to the international outlook of Antwerp’s artistic community.7 De Vos may have

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sought a prestigious court position in Italy, like his contemporary Jan van der Straet (better known by the Latin name Stradanus). Crucially, de Vos’s journeyman training gave him an international outlook, exposing him not only to the styles of foreign artists but also to the tastes and demands of distant markets. De Vos returned to Antwerp in 1558. The local economy was still robust, and the city on the river Scheldt was still one of the largest commodity and money markets in Europe—the “capital of capitalism,” in Larry Silver’s words.8 Economics and artistic production were, of course, intimately entwined. The city’s stock exchange, the Bourse, contained a dedicated sales hall for painting and artworks (the schilderspand) on the second floor of the newly erected building.9 Plantin’s publishing house, the Officina Plantiniana, was the preferred supplier of religious books to the Spanish Crown and responsible for works by an international circle of humanists and scientific thinkers, while the publisher Cock’s Antwerp shop, Aux Quatre Vents, produced engraved images for a clientele of international connoisseurs.10 De Vos worked for both enterprises. But the Spanish Crown’s bankruptcy and conflict with England over the lucrative cloth trade were portents of a worsening economic climate, exacerbated by the outbreak of religious rebellion in the later 1560s. After the summer of 1566, when Protestant hedge preachers led large open-air sermons that attracted thousands, iconoclastic riots swept the Low Countries. In the 1570s, Protestants of different stripes, pirates plying the North Sea trade, and dissident members of the Netherlandish aristocracy all rebelled against Spanish rule. These different factions formed an uneasy alliance under the leadership of Prince William

of Orange. In 1576, disgruntled, unpaid Spanish troops raided Antwerp in the so-called Spanish Fury, leading the city to embrace the rebel cause. The year of the Spanish Fury, de Vos was dean of the St. Luke’s guild, and he served as the principal negotiator between the painters’ guild and the new Calvinist city council, persuading them not to sell Quinten Massys’s St. John altarpiece to Queen Elizabeth of England.11 Like many in Antwerp, de Vos embraced Protestantism and was a documented Lutheran from the 1560s onward. He worked for fellow Lutheran William, Duke of Brunswick-Lüneburg, decorating his palace chapel in Celle.12 De Vos’s patrons in this period also included the prominent Antwerp merchants Gilles Hooftman and Peter Panhuys, both Calvinists.13 Yet despite these Protestant leanings, de Vos also continued to produce designs for Catholic devotional prints (fig. 32), and his workshop executed prestigious commissions cross-confessionally.14 In Antwerp, de Vos worked with international merchants and well-connected humanists like Ortelius, but he also exploited his own family connections to export markets. His sister, Barbara de Vos, was first married to Peter Lisaert, whose family was active in the Paris trade in the 1570s and 1580s.15 Barbara’s second husband, Marten Alleyns, was a dealer of pigments and paintings, and Barbara took over his business upon his death sometime around 1583.16 The family of de Vos’s wife resided in Valenciennes, on the road to Rouen, where goods from Antwerp were often sent overland to be shipped after the trade from Antwerp’s port became impractical, if not impossible. In 1578, de Vos and his wife authorized her relative Ritsaert de Bock (Richard le Boucq) to manage their goods in Valenciennes, suggesting

Figure 32. Jan Sadeler, after Maerten de Vos, Coronation of the Virgin, 1576. Engraving. Washington, DC, National Gallery of Art. Courtesy of National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.

the artist had established connections outside Antwerp.17 De Vos, by both training and family ties, then, was well positioned both domestically and internationally, with footholds in Protestant and Catholic circles, and he had ready access to foreign markets by both land and sea. In July 1581, the States General, the governing body of the Low Countries, passed the Act of Abjuration, formally deposing the Spanish king Philip II as sovereign of the region. That same month in Antwerp, a newly elected Calvinist city government prohibited the public exercise of the Catholic

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Figure 33. Maerten de Vos, Furriers’ Altarpiece (The Incredulity of St. Thomas), 1574. Oil on panel. Antwerp, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten Antwerpen. Dominique Provost / www‌. artinflanders‌.be.

faith. De Vos’s own 1574 triptych for the Antwerp furrier’s guild went into storage as part of the ensuing Silent Iconoclasm, when the city’s churches were cleansed of offensive imagery, not by riotous mobs but by government officials (fig. 33). It was in this year—1581—that de Vos signed and dated the painted St. Michael the Archangel (see fig. 40). This canvas was likely designed for export; local religious commissions dried up in the wake of Antwerp’s embrace of Calvinism. Within four short years, this painting came to stand on the high altar of the cathedral of Mexico City, the center of the Catholic Church in New Spain, thousands of miles and an ocean away from Antwerp. But this was only one iteration of St. Michael the Archangel,

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a single journey of the design, to which we will return later in this chapter. In July 1584, after a few years of local Calvinist rule, Spanish Habsburg troops bore down on Antwerp. Led by the Duke of Parma, Alessandro Farnese, this force surrounded the city. It was amid this siege, when the political situation in the city seemed poised to change rapidly once again, that de Vos, together with the print publishers Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix, created an engraved St. Michael the Archangel (fig. 34). This print was intended for wide circulation and dedicated to a well-connected Spanish Catholic theologian, Benito Arias Montano, author and librarian to the king of Spain. The drawing discussed at the start of this chapter records this engraved composition (note the looping serpent’s tail in both drawing and print), but it also must have responded to the earlier painting, which had left the artist’s Antwerp workshop some years prior to the engraving’s publication. As the following pages will outline, it was this 1584 shift to print—a medium of portable and relatively inexpensive multiples—and the imprimatur of royal favor granted by the print’s dedication that allowed for the accelerated adoption of the design in ways no doubt unanticipated by the printmakers themselves. This is when St. Michael the Archangel went viral, first as a sanctioned model across Spain but rapidly moving across and beyond the imperial orbit, as artists working in different media began to replicate the design for new contexts. Concurrently, the 1581 painting, traveling across a different axis of the Spanish empire, arrived in Mexico City. In what follows, I argue that de Vos’s return to the St. Michael iconography in 1584 reflects his experience as a potential subject of Spanish force and the selective activation of memory.

Figure 34. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1584. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix. London, British Museum. © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, New York.

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Figure 35. Theodor de Bry (?) or Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange, 1577. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

Print and Political Memory The 1584 publication of St. Michael the Archangel may have been tied to the particular strategies of Spanish conquerors as they retook rebel strongholds like Antwerp. As Farnese’s troops conquered Netherlandish cities in 1583, the victorious duke offered rebel combatants varying degrees of clemency and time frames for conversion depending on the perceived vehemence and resistance of those he conquered as well as each city’s relative economic importance. The Protestants of Ghent and Brussels, therefore, were granted two years in which they could either convert or sell their goods and leave; those in Mechelen were given seven months to decide, but the citizens of Ypres were denied this ius emigrandi (option to immigrate).18 As part of this strategy, Farnese increasingly uti-

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lized the oubli du passé (forgetting of the past), not merely a pardon of the civic body but a broader amnesty, a literal forgetting of the citizens’ heretical pasts.19 In some cases, archival records were even destroyed or amended, physically obliterating evidence of previous crimes against the state.20 Although the oubli du passé may not yet have been offered to Antwerp’s citizens when de Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts worked on the publication of St. Michael the Archangel, the engraving’s authors were no doubt aware of the amnesties being proposed to other conquered Netherlandish cities. For Farnese and the crown, the necessity of political and religious victory over the Protestant rebellion ceded ground to the commercial necessity of maintaining Antwerp as a commercial center of the Spanish empire, compelling the strategic deployment of memory. As the siege of Antwerp continued through the close of 1584, artist, engraver, and publisher seemed to anticipate the city’s eventual reconquest; all had reasons to suspect that their beliefs and past support of the rebellion would come under question, and thus all had motivation to produce a tactical appeal to the resurgent Catholic power. All three men had published prints sympathetic to the rebels or had espoused Protestant beliefs. A decade earlier, Huybrechts and de Vos had worked together on a print celebrating the marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange (fig. 35).21 De Vos was still a documented Lutheran in 1584/85.22 As discussed in the previous chapter, Hieronymus Wierix and his brothers were later kicked out of the civic guard after the Spanish reconquest for their Lutheran beliefs in this period.23 De Vos’s design of St. Michael the Archangel, originally executed in paint, was thus reconceived as an engraving in anticipation of a Netherlandish

reconquista, the reconversion of the Low Countries to Spanish dominion and the Catholic faith. The rapidly shifting geopolitical realities of the 1580s meant that many thousands of Netherlanders converted (or reconverted) to the dominant faith, Catholic or Protestant, out of political expediency as much as doctrinal belief. The 1584 publication of St. Michael the Archangel takes on new significance in light of this increasing awareness of the performative nature of conversion, the merging of the confessional and political. As conqueror of the rebel angels, the image of the archangel adopted by the Counter-Reformation Church was symbolic of Catholicism’s triumph over Protestantism. The engraved St. Michael the Archangel was published at the same time and in the same format as two images of the Crucifixion (figs. 36 and 37): one with the Virgin and St. John the Evangelist, the other with the kneeling Magdalene before the cross. All three prints are dated 1584 and include Latin inscriptions as well as both publishers’ names. The three engravings share a dedication to Benito Arias Montano, who had been the clerical and scholastic advisor to Plantin when preparing the Polyglot Bible and who was at that moment serving as royal librarian to Philip II. In 1584, Wierix and Huybrechts also collaborated on another engraving in the same format: a Pietà, also after a design by de Vos, dedicated to Jacques Berson (Jacobus Bersonius), the Franciscan confessor of the Duke of Anjou and a prominent member of the Catholic League (fig. 38). All four engravings are staunchly Catholic in their iconography and devotional purpose; all four prints strategically deployed dedicatory inscriptions to politically and commercially position the publishers for the return of Catholic orthodoxy.24 Taken together, these engravings are a supplication, a

Figure 36. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Crucifixion with Virgin and St. John, 1584. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

petition publicly delivered to a network of powerful, politically connected Catholics. In selecting images to dedicate to Montano, the publishers specifically chose iconographies that underscore the role of memory, as well as judicious forgetfulness, in the forgiveness of sin. Mary Magdalene kneels before the cross, renouncing her former life. Here de Vos depicts conversion as a repudiation of the past but not a complete oblivion—her alluring costume and discarded jar of ointment remind the viewer of her iniquitous

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Figure 37. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Crucifixion with Mary Magdalene, 1584. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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Figure 38. Hieronymus Wierix, after Maerten de Vos, Pietà, 1584. Engraving published by Adriaen Huybrechts and Hieronymus Wierix. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

history. Unlike the enforced forgetting of political rebellion, the viewer here, in order to appreciate her atonement, must recall her past sin. It is because of the Magdalene’s prostration before Christ and her recognition of the Crucifixion that these transgressions will be forgiven. The curious iconography of the unarmed St. Michael the Archangel thus complements the Magdalene narrative of selective remembrance and redemption. The Latin inscription below the St. Michael the Archangel, “grandia spirantes sumo de

vértice coeli rex sumus poena, praecipitavit acri” (The Lord, from the height of heaven, causes those who have great aspirations to fall with hard punishment) conflates divine and royal judgment. Notably, de Vos does not picture the punishment mentioned in the print’s inscription; the composition is one that emphasizes mercy despite the warning tone of the text below. Although the inscription cautions against ambition, the lack of conflict and the seemingly repentant serpentine devil suggest to the viewer that the subjugation of rebellious forces need not be violent. Indeed, in de Vos’s image of the victorious archangel, the rebellious Satan seems to receive judgment gracefully, his arms crossed in front of his chest in a receptive gesture. The printmakers’ own position in Antwerp, a city that had rejected Spanish rule and was at the heart of the Dutch Revolt, clearly parallels the story of the rebel angels. But the archangel here does not seek retribution or wield a sword; the devil recognizes and receives punishment without struggle against God. Of course, de Vos’s design predates the particular sensitivities of this political moment as Spanish troops surrounded Antwerp; the 1581 painting was executed when the city was still under Calvinist rule. But in the print, de Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts remobilized de Vos’s existing design for the unarmed archangel, putting the iconography to new ends. In St. Michael the Archangel, the printmakers reckon with their own Protestant pasts and rapidly unfolding contemporary political events, seeking to get ahead of potential future punishment. The inscription, provided by Huybrechts and Wierix, amplifies the image’s pacific tone, suggesting judgment can be accomplished without violence. At the moment of its publication, the

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print attempted both to discern the future and to reflect on the past. This would be the first of several reinterpretations of the de Vos archangel, accomplished by the addition of inscriptions or figures and involving changes in medium and audience, demonstrating how de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel assumed new valences as the design moved through time and space. By dedicating the 1584 St. Michael the Archangel and two other devotional prints to Montano, the printmakers addressed a Catholic figure with sustained personal ties to Antwerp. Montano had lived in Antwerp from 1568 to 1575, while working on the massive Polyglot Bible, and made the acquaintance of many local intellectuals: not only the publisher Plantin but figures like the geographer Ortelius and the printmaker/publisher Philip Galle. Although a Spaniard and a priest employed by the crown, Montano befriended many of those who later espoused Reformist religion and/or Dutch political resistance to Spanish rule. These connections led earlier scholars to propose that Montano, as well as Plantin, Ortelius, and others in this Antwerp intellectual circle, were all Nicodemists: that is, individuals who only outwardly conformed to Catholicism but were secretly members of the Familist sect founded by Hendrick Niclaes.25 While more recent scholarship on Montano has reaffirmed his Catholic orthodoxy, he nevertheless remained in friendly contact with his dogmatically diverse Antwerp associates until his death.26 De Vos, Huybrechts, and Wierix worked with and had personal connections to many of Montano’s closest Antwerp friends, including Plantin, Ortelius, and Galle. After his time in Antwerp and upon his return to Spain, Montano set to work cataloguing and expanding the Escorial Library, supervising

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its decoration with painted portraits of saints and Philip II’s noble ancestors.27 As librarian at the Escorial, Montano continued to advise Spanish courtiers on art purchases. Montano’s own art collection, partially recorded in a 1597 inventory, contained a number of Flemish works.28 Montano was in continual contact with his friends in Antwerp during the Revolt and continued to have books, artworks, and other items sent to him in Spain via Plantin’s agents.29 The Plantin archives in Antwerp record shipments of books, prints, paintings, plant bulbs, maps, astronomical devices, and musical instruments posted to Montano between 1582 and 1589, typically delivered via a Flemish colleague in Salamanca.30 In April 1585, Montano wrote to Plantin inquiring after prints to be sent to Spain.31 Whether or not de Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts knew Montano personally, Montano surely knew of them,32 and artist and printmakers were certainly cognizant of the Spanish theologian’s close ties to Plantin and other Antwerp intellectuals, which guaranteed that St. Michael the Archangel could reach Montano in Spain even during the Revolt. De Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts also recognized that Montano was in a unique position to further their rehabilitation in the eyes of the Habsburg powers. By 1584, Montano was the king’s librarian at the Escorial, and in this role he was able to officially expurgate books, as well as purchase items he deemed suitable for the royal collection.33 Through the dedication to the Spanish theologian, the printmakers thus deploy Montano’s name as a guarantor of these prints’ Catholic orthodoxy. Huybrechts and Wierix’s dedication of these prints to Montano represents the publishers’ political and commercial savvy, invoking the name of a well-connected Catholic patron just as the city

was on the verge of being recaptured and forcibly reconverted by Spanish forces.34 The publishers prompt the dedicatee to recall his social ties to Antwerp and his previous esteem for Antwerp’s artistic products. De Vos’s design of St. Michael the Archangel, executed by Wierix and published by Wierix and Huybrechts, thus proposes a selective use of memory. In their dedication, they recall Montano’s links to the highest circles of Spanish nobility, acknowledging his role as a key gatekeeper in the art trade between Antwerp and the Iberian Peninsula, as royal librarian and informal art advisor to the court. The invocation of Montano’s name on the dedication thus addressed Spanish elites and an international humanist audience. Together, the three engravings dedicated to Montano propose a model for the printmakers’ reconciliation with the Catholic Church and with Spanish rule. De Vos, Huybrechts, and Wierix chose not to ignore the rebellious past and instead strategically position themselves and, by extension, Antwerp as ripe for reconversion. Pairing the biblical exemplum of insurrection (Satan) with a paradigmatic scriptural model for redemption (Magdalene) suggests an oubli du passé where Protestant pasts are not entirely erased but, in large part, deliberately forgotten and forgiven. De Vos and the printmakers in turn encourage the remembrance of their own artistic ability and invoke the social networks connecting Spanish royal circles and Antwerp print in a savvy plea for clemency. The engraving promotes and imagines the successful reconversion of its makers via the twin acts of memory and forgetting. Indeed, at the end of the year-long siege of Antwerp, Farnese offered citizens a choice: con-

vert to Catholicism within four years or leave. The terms of surrender delivered to Antwerp guaranteed a general and perpetual oubliance (forgetting), a promise to cast the memories of the previous decade into oblivion: “Grant pardon, and general and perpetual forgetting to all & each of the bourgeois & inhabitants, present and absent from said city . . . of all the excesses, faults, disorders, forfeits, crimes against the King and others.”35 Many artists took Farnese’s offer, fleeing north behind rebel lines or moving to Protestant cities in England or Germany.36 These emigrants included one of de Vos’s few documented students, Wenzel Cobergher.37 De Vos certainly had the resources to leave. He was one of only eight artists wealthy enough to be taxed in 1585, when more than 90 percent of the city was too poor to pay any duty.38 But he chose to remain in Antwerp. Despite the devastation of the war and the necessity of reconversion, de Vos recognized the value of remaining within the Spanish imperial orbit.

The Counter-Reformation Appeal of de Vos The export of the 1584 engraving of St. Michael the Archangel—to the Iberian Peninsula and then across the broader Spanish empire—testifies to the efficacy of de Vos’s and the printmakers’ campaign of self-rehabilitation. But the dedication to Montano also functioned as an advertisement of quality. St. Michael the Archangel’s performative imagining of reconquista and reconversion would, in fact, come to operate as synecdoche for the aesthetic preferences of the Spanish elite. Montano’s proximity to the crown and de Vos’s artistic reputation, alongside the engraving’s Counter-­ Reformation appeal and exquisite ­execution,

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meant that the 1584 print appealed not only to devotional supplicants but also to elite collectors and patrons (sometimes one and the same market). The Spanish court’s long-standing penchant for Flemish art, coupled with the apparent sanction of royal favorite Montano, granted this print particular purchase in the Iberian world. There is compelling evidence of the Spanish royal taste for de Vos as painter and designer. Plantin sent Montano a Crucifixion by de Vos in 1588, the canvas arriving a few months later from Antwerp.39 Montano advised royal circles on artistic matters. The nucleus of Philip II’s art collection originated in the collections of his father, Charles V, and his aunt Mary of Hungary, both of whom greatly esteemed fifteenth-century Netherlandish painters, like Jan van Eyck and Hieronymus Bosch, as well as the works of contemporary Netherlanders. As Philip sought to decorate the vast expanse of the Escorial Palace, completed in 1584, the Spanish king dramatically increased the scope of royal collecting. The bureaucratic centralization that marked Philip’s reign operated as a centripetal force on Spanish artistic production, attracting artists across the peninsula to Madrid, seat of the Spanish court. Gian Paolo Lomazzo mentioned a number of religious and mythological paintings by de Vos held by the Spanish royal family by 1590, describing them and the artist: “And the great Martin de Vos also a painter from Antwerp. . . . Who, besides many other works brought here and there throughout the world to different Princes he sent four to the Catholic King Philip of Spain, one of Christ with the Disciples . . . the other of the Angel with Lot and his daughters fleeing the burning Sodom, the third of the Virgin Mary with child with St. Joseph . . . and the last a nude Venus.”40

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Though it is unclear when these works entered the Spanish royal collection, the number and variety of works described by Lomazzo suggests de Vos was an artist favored by Iberian royal circles. The pacific nature of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel, in addition to being utilized as a plea for clemency by the artists from Antwerp, could also be read as a magnanimous interpretation of Philip’s reign. This is an image not of violent subjugation but of graceful victory over all those who sought to unseat Spanish Catholic power. The words around the archangel’s outstretched hand—Who is like God?—suggest the limits of human knowledge and power in the face of the divine, echoing the stoicism of Philip II’s first motto: Nec spe nec metu (Neither hope nor fear). The use of Rex in the print’s inscription allows for interpretative slippage between divine and temporal authority, suggesting Philip’s reign is divinely ordained. The shared title of Rex also suggests the Spanish king could claim celestial, as well as terrestrial, dominion, possibly alluding to Philip’s motto Non sufficit orbis (The world is not enough), adopted after the territorial expansion resulting from the 1580 union of the Spanish and Portuguese crowns. The dedication to Montano, in addition to offering the imprimatur of doctrinal and imperial authority, thus also acted as an indicator of artistic quality both in Spanish royal circles and beyond, signaling the print’s ambition on the broader art market. Montano was an esteemed author and was responsible for the production of a number of illustrated books of devotional and meditational purpose (see fig. 9), published by Plantin and others in Antwerp.41 The dedication, then, both functioned as a direct address and appeal to the Spanish theologian while also

s­ erving as an advertisement to those potential buyers familiar with Montano as an author associated with high-quality illustrated books. The prominent placement of Montano’s name, as well as those of the Antwerp publishers, engravers, and artist, mutually reinforced the prestige of each individual to an international audience at a politically and confessionally fraught moment. All three prints dedicated to Montano identify de Vos as their designer, and each engraving is of the highest quality. The two Crucifixions are supreme exercises in chiaroscuro, as Wierix conveys the otherworldly light of an eclipse, contrasting dense crosshatching with areas left free of line. The engraver pays careful attention to complex patterns of drapery and details of anatomy. Arguably, St. Michael the Archangel is the most ambitious of the three engravings dedicated to Montano. A variety of marks communicate the luminescence emanating from the archangel’s head and his raised right hand. Michael’s costume is rendered in precise detail. The engraver’s burin captures the texture of his avian wings, the devil’s serpentine tail, and the kinks and folds of Michael’s skirt, as well as the bouncy tendrils of the angel’s hair. The printmakers boldly place Antwerp artists at the forefront of Counter-Reformation artistic practice. Marketed not only to the named dedicatee and to Spanish audiences, St. Michael the Archangel addressed a broader print-buying public. The decision to use Latin in the prints’ inscription, the lingua franca of the Catholic Church and Europe-wide intellectual and courtly elites, makes this clear. The technical mastery of the engraving together with the reputation of both de Vos and of Antwerp print in general propelled the print’s viral success on the wider art market.

Testifying to the design’s continuing popularity, a copied version of the print was published around 1600 by Justus Sadeler (fig. 39).42 Justus was the son of the Antwerp printmaker Jan Sadeler, who was born in Antwerp and left in 1579; Justus worked for various German princes, returning to the Low Countries regularly, but he settled in Venice from around 1596. He spent the majority of his career in Venice, although he regularly traveled to Frankfurt for the annual fair. While apparently well integrated into Venetian mercantile society, Justus Sadeler’s print publishing output relied heavily on reengraved designs by northern artists, which represented two-thirds of the publisher’s recorded output.43 The Sadeler family retained close ties to Antwerp throughout the 1580s and 1590s.44 Given the timing of its publication and Justus Sadeler’s presence in Venice, this St. Michael was in all likelihood based on the Wierix engraving rather than an original drawing by de Vos. A dealer in paintings and drawings as well as a print publisher, Sadeler understood and exploited international commercial demand for Flemish artistic products. The inscription on the Sadeler print, “Martin de Vos figuravit,” privileges de Vos’s name and his role as a draughtsman. De Vos had produced designs to be engraved by Justus’s father and his uncle when the Sadeler family resided in Antwerp. The Sadelers published further prints after de Vos designs after leaving the Low Countries; Justus’s cousin Aegidius Sadeler II even produced an engraved portrait of de Vos while working in Prague. When Justus copied the 1584 St. Michael the Archangel, he did not repeat the dedication to Montano but instead mobilized de Vos’s name alone as an indicator of excellence, suggesting the contemporary high regard afforded to Antwerp

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also to the broader commercial market for finely wrought northern European engraving outside the bounds of the Spanish empire. The multiplicity of print and its mobility allowed for the design to rapidly reach viewers far beyond besieged Antwerp or even the Iberian Peninsula, accruing new interpretative and material values as impressions reached new artists and audiences.

The 1581 St. Michael the Archangel in 1585

Figure 39. Justus Sadeler, after Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1600. Engraving published by Justus Sadeler. British Museum, London. © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, New York.

prints and designs by de Vos across the continent. For Sadeler, it was now de Vos’s name that acted as the primary guarantor of quality rather than that of the Spanish theologian, marking the commercial orientation of this later engraving. The Sadeler print testifies not only to the expansive Counter-Reformation appeal of the design but

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A year after the publication of the 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel, the earlier painted St. Michael the Archangel was installed in a surprising location: the high altar of the cathedral of Mexico City (fig. 40). Although it was painted when Antwerp was ruled by Calvinists and at war with Spain, de Vos was able to export this canvas and several others. The 1581 painting traveled to New Spain, where it served as the backdrop to the most important Catholic event in the viceroyalty. Just how was this journey from Antwerp to Mexico City possible? And how might the painting’s movement be understood in relation to the print as another node in an expanding viral network? While they clearly share fundamental compositional elements, the 1581 painting emerged from very different contextual circumstances than the print. The canvas is signed at the bottom right hand corner (fig. 41): “mertino de vos antvepiecis/ inventor et fecit anno / 1581” (Maerten de Vos of Antwerp invented and made this in the year 1581). Recall that in 1581, de Vos was a Lutheran, having in all likelihood left the Catholic Church in the later 1560s;45 Antwerp was newly Calvinist and in open rebellion against Spain. The unarmed archangel of de Vos’s canvas

Figure 40. Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581. Oil on canvas, transferred to panel. Cuautitlán Cathedral. Photo: author.

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Figure 41. Detail of signature of Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581. Oil on canvas, transferred to panel. Cuautitlán Cathedral. Photo: author. Figure 42. Maerten de Vos, Tobias and the Angel, ca. 1581. Oil on canvas transferred to panel. Mexico City, Capilla de Nuestra Señora de Las Angustias, Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de la Santísima Virgen María a los cielos. Photo: Eumelia Hernández, 2013, D.R. Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia.

could thus be seen as reflecting the painting’s origin in the war-torn Low Countries, a deliberate de-escalation of bellicose Counter-Reformation imagery by an artist with Protestant beliefs. In the space of a few short years, however, this canvas would be mounted in an altarpiece far from Antwerp, at the heart of Catholic New Spain (see fig. 45). This retablo contained six canvases, five of which were by de Vos (figs. 42 and 43). Some, but not all, of these canvases have been reassembled in a modern retablo in Cuautitlán Cathedral (fig. 44). Of these paintings, St. Michael the Archangel is the sole work to be both signed and dated, and it is the only one to include a geographic descriptor of its place of origin, a garbled version of the Latin Antuerpiensis (of Antwerp). At a moment when religious paintings in Antwerp

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were being hidden away, de Vos produced at least these five canvases that would be exported and put on prominent display in Catholic New Spain. While in the previous chapter we saw how the Jesuit Order postponed plans for the Imagines to be published in Antwerp in these same years due to the difficulties of communicating across a war zone, the export of the 1581 St. Michael the Archangel to New Spain demonstrates how transporting artworks from the rebel Low Countries still remained possible. There is no archival record of precisely how the painting made this journey, so it is necessary to broaden our view and to consider how the demand for Flemish objects in Spain and New Spain was produced and nourished by commercial ties, immigration patterns, and kinship networks. Antwerp may have been at war with the

Spanish Crown the very year St. Michael the Archangel was painted, but the prominent position subsequently achieved by de Vos’s paintings testifies to the continued importance of Antwerp as an artistic export center to the broader Spanish world, even during the Revolt. It was de Vos’s position within these well-established networks that made possible the transport of the 1581 St. Michael the Archangel from a rebel city to Catholic New Spain. Although the peculiar iconography of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel was developed years earlier, against the backdrop of confessional strife in Antwerp, de Vos’s unique depiction of the subject came to be felicitously well adapted to the particular concerns of the Third Provincial Council of New Spain. Catholic powers in the Americas convened the 1585 council to address the abuses of Spanish colonial rule as counterproductive to the intended conversion of the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. A bellicose image of the archangel then could have potentially undermined the church’s image of salvific, peaceful conversion in the New World. But this unarmed, conquering angel also proved particularly amenable to adaptation and interpretation, assisting the global mobility of this iconography, as I will tease out and explore in the remainder of this book. No surviving contract or record specifies the terms of de Vos’s making of St. Michael the Archangel and its related canvases, but they can be situated within a broader flow of Flemish artworks to New Spain in response to the emergent aesthetic preferences of the Spanish empire. Flemish artistic goods had been imported since the beginning of Spanish colonization of the Americas. In 1523, just after the conquest of the Mexica people, three Franciscans from Ghent became the first missionaries sent by the Spanish Crown to Latin America. Led by

Figure 43. Maerten de Vos, St. John Writing the Apocalypse, ca. 1581. Oil on canvas transferred to panel. Tepotzotlán, Museo Nacional del Virreinato. Secretaría de Cultura—INAH.-MNV.-MEX. Reproduction authorized by the National Institute of Anthropology and History.

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Figure 44. Installation view of the modern retablo in Cuautitlán Cathedral (clockwise from upper left): Andrés de la Concha, Assumption of the Virgin, ca. 1585; Maerten de Vos, St. Michael the Archangel, 1581; Maerten de Vos, St. Paul, ca. 1581; Maerten de Vos, St. Peter, ca. 1581 (all oil on canvas transferred to panel). Photo: author.

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the famous Pedro de Gante (Pieter van Gent), the Franciscans established the school of San José de los Naturales in Mexico City for the Christian instruction of Indigenous people. Given the linguistic barriers of this early period, Pedro de Gante and his disciples relied heavily upon images to communicate Christian concepts.46 At San José de los Naturales, Indigenous artists were trained in European artistic practices; judging from surviving works, European prints, predominantly those from northern Europe, were often key models in instructing these artists in Christian iconography.47 Recording this practice, Fray Gerónimo de Mendieta wrote, “After they became Christians and saw our images from Flanders and Italy, there was no retablo or image, no matter how excellent it is, that they cannot portray and reproduce.”48 Mendieta’s fellow Franciscan Juan de Torquemada repeated these same words in his 1615 official history.49 The Dominican friar and chronicler of the Conquest Bartolomé de las Casas noted that the copied images made by the newly converted Mexica were “as perfect and as graceful as the most proper, official [images] of Flanders (de flandes).”50 Scholars have begun to mine the emerging trope of the Indigenous artist, depicted as gifted with prodigious skill at imitation yet deficient in genuine creative prowess.51 Here, however, I want to stress how these authors all note the northern European origin of artworks that were to be copied by local artists. From the moment of the Conquest, Spanish, Catholic, and Spanish colonial powers in the Americas exhibited a partiality for Flemish artworks as a generative source. As models, images from Flanders served as the critical benchmark for assessing the mimetic ability and stylistic quality of Indigenous artists’ work.

Missionary preference may have been tied to the Flemish origins of churchmen like de Gante as well as to already established commercial networks tying the Low Countries to Spain and, subsequently, to the Americas. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the adjectives flamenco and de flandes were used to describe people and objects not only from the province of Flanders but from the entirety of the Low Countries, Luxembourg, and parts of northern France. Eddy Stols estimates that a few hundred of these flamencos resided in New Spain by the mid-­sixteenth century—including not only churchmen like de Gante’s Franciscans but also merchants, sailors, and artisans.52 Flemish mercantile populations resident in key nodes along the transatlantic shipping routes to New Spain ensured this community remained well connected to Flanders. Flamencos resided in the Azores and the Canary Islands, key stopover points on the journey to the Americas from Seville, the central gateway to overseas Spanish territories.53 Not only merchants but also a range of Flemish artisans, from painters to shoemakers, took up residence in Seville in the sixteenth century—including the Netherlandish artists Pieter de Kempeneer (Pedro de Campaña) of Brussels and Fernand Sturm (Hernando de Esturmio) of Zeeland.54 By the early years of the seventeenth century, there were approximately three hundred flamenco families resident in Seville.55 Local painters’ workshops responded to this influx of northerners, absorbing influences from immigrant Flemish painters as well as the vast quantities of both painted and printed images arriving in the city, many of which originated in Antwerp.56 In 1585, when the Third Provincial Council was convened in Mexico City, the senior notary of that

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city’s cabildo was a Martin Alonso de Flandes—a dealer in cloth and pigments whose trading partner in Seville was one Alonso Fernandes de Flandes.57 These interwoven transatlantic networks, built on historic origins and family ties to the Low Countries, could have aided the diffusion of southern Netherlandish artistic products across the Spanish empire and supported the cultivation of a shared aesthetic appreciation for Flemishmade goods. Immigration, kinship, and trading ties communicated the Sevillian taste for Flemish artworks abroad. The city held the export monopoly on all goods shipped to Habsburg territories overseas. Missionary priests and merchants who wished to travel to the Americas were required to stop in Seville to seek permission to sail. Two fleets, consisting of dozens of Spanish ships, left Spain for the Caribbean each spring and summer to bring European goods and people to the Americas; they returned to Europe the following spring. The reliability of this trade, coupled with consistent demand, enabled Flemish artworks to be sent in sizeable numbers and with some regularity to the Americas. The preference for Flemish books and artworks came from the highest levels of viceregal society and church authority. Thus, in 1584, the Antwerp publisher Plantin shipped boxes of books and prints to Pedro Moya de Contreras, archbishop of Mexico, and to the Augustine monk and scholar Alonso de la Vera Cruz in Mexico City, sending the objects via a Spanish merchant resident in Antwerp.58 From 1584 to 1588, the Flemish artist Simon Pereyns, who had emigrated to Mexico in 1566, painted scenes from Christ’s childhood modeled on prints published by Jan Sadeler in Antwerp, for the

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Franciscan monastery of Huejotzingo.59 These examples illustrate the multitude of ways in which Antwerp artistic products traveled to New Spain, involving commercial networks, missionary orders, and immigrant artists. Overlapping structural conditions—courtly aesthetic preferences, the immigration patterns of flamencos, the association of Flemish artworks with missionary efficacy, the well-established commercial networks between Spain and the Low Countries—reinforced the preference and demand for Antwerp artistic goods in Spain and the Americas and likely assisted the import of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel and its related canvases. But that does not mean that Flemish artworks were universally esteemed, particularly after the outbreak of the Dutch Revolt in the 1560s. Colonial officials saw the geographic origin of artworks as linked to their potential for doctrinal irregularity or political insubordination. For example, in 1574, an order to viceregal port officials in New Spain instructed them to open shipments and look for “books of any faculty, in Spanish, Latin or any foreign language, or canvases from Flanders or paintings on linen, paper or panel, made from a mold, the brush or by hand.”60 By singling out Flemish canvases as problematic imports, this dictate reflects both continued demand for, and a new suspicion of, works originating from the rebellious Low Countries. The geographic origin of St. Michael the Archangel, prominently attested to in the painting’s inscription—mertino de vos antvepiecis—advertised the painting’s value, but by 1581, it also simultaneously raised the specter of the ongoing revolt in the Low Countries. In all likelihood, key gatekeepers also directly facilitated these paintings’ transit to New Spain,

helping to disassociate them from other questionable flamenco imports. Plantin was probably a key intermediary, and his career exemplifies the often-pragmatic approach to dogmatic and political divisions in this period: Plantin was designated Philip II’s royal printer in 1570, and the rebellious Netherlandish States General also named him their official printer in 1578; he was made Antwerp’s city printer in 1579. But Plantin also remained the preferred supplier of Catholic liturgical and religious books to Spain and the Spanish colonies overseas throughout the tumultuous political climate of the 1570s and 1580s, during which he himself fled to Leiden.61 As seen in the previous chapter, these were the very same years that Nadal and the Jesuit Order called upon Plantin to advise them on the production of the Imagines. This turbulent decade then saw Plantin acting simultaneously as the official publisher for both the rebel Protestant government and for the Catholic king of Spain; he was courted by Jesuits and also published the work of Protestants. Plantin knew de Vos; he later advocated with the Jesuits to hire him as a designer for the Imagines. But even earlier, in 1582, the voluminous Plantin archives record a payment to de Vos for a drawing of the Last Judgment.62 The following year, Plantin sent an engraved copperplate made after this design to Jan Poelman, his agent in Salamanca, along with another plate of a Crucifixion engraved by Jan Sadeler.63 As well as dealing in books, the publisher also arranged for the concurrent sale of prints and the shipping of artworks. Further illustrating how emigration helped to establish and maintain export markets in this period, Plantin’s export network primarily relied upon Flemish publishers and dealers residing in Spain, men like Poelman and Paul van Assche.64

Built by ties of friendship, religion, cultural origin, and/or commercial profit, these formal and informal social networks could have facilitated the export of de Vos’s paintings to New Spain. The physical transport of de Vos’s works from Antwerp posed another hurdle. The closure of the Scheldt in the 1570s had dramatically impacted river traffic. Merchants rerouted the majority of the overland foreign art trade via Paris. Those who continued to trade with the Spanish, like Plantin, often sent carts laden with goods overland to Rouen before loading merchandise onto ships in the harbors of Calais or Dunkirk.65 In 1577, for example, the Spanish merchant Diego Fernando de Miranda had a consignment of tapestries and other art objects from Antwerp seized in Rouen, where he was attempting to send these valuable objects overseas.66 As we have seen, de Vos had family ties to those active in the export trade in Paris, Rouen, and Valenciennes.67 Therefore it is most likely that St. Michael the Archangel and the other canvases were sent overland to Rouen, Calais, or Dunkirk and then continued by ship to Seville before traveling onward to New Spain. The mercantile infrastructures and social networks linking Antwerp and New Spain thus allowed five canvases made by a Lutheran artist in a rebellious city to transgress geopolitical, geographic, and confessional boundaries.

The Third Provincial Council In January 1585, Pedro Moya de Contreras, the archbishop, Inquisitor General, and acting viceroy of New Spain, convened the Third Provincial Council to enact a new code of canon law for the viceroyalty, as well as to draft a common catechism and ritual book that were in line with

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Figure 45. Reconstruction of the Third Council retablo, inserting paintings by de Vos and de la Concha in a sixteenth-century frame from the retablo of the Mareantes, Nuestra Señora de la Peña de Francia, Tenerife. Photo reconstruction made by Francine Stock, after the drawing by Elsa Arroyo, in “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco: El lenguaje pictórico de Martín de Vos y su anclaje en la Nueva España” (PhD diss., Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2015), 130.

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the principles affirmed at the Council of Trent. Approximately ninety theologians and members of the clergy based across the Americas and representing all of the major mendicant orders (Augustinians, Dominicans, Franciscans, and Jesuits) attended the nine-month-long conference in Mexico City. At the heart of debate at the council was the question of how to ensure the proper conversion of Indigenous peoples. Church officials in New Spain had anxiously identified and sought to eradicate the local continuation of pre-Hispanic rituals and traditions. Missionary orders and regular clergy wrestled for pastoral care and control over these Indigenous populations.68 At the Third Council, the assembled religious authorities questioned the morality of forced labor practices central to the administration of colonial rule in New Spain, as well as the ongoing Spanish war against the so-called Chichimec people along the northern borders of the viceroyalty, who resisted both Spanish rule and the Church’s attempts at conversion.69 On October 18, 1585, the feast day of St. Luke, the decrees of the Third Provincial Council were read aloud at the cathedral of Mexico City after numerous processions, Masses, and ceremonies. The Council’s secretary, Juan de Salcedo, described the oration as taking place on “the highest spot of the high altar . . . where ordinarily the sermon is preached.”70 Elsa Arroyo persuasively argues that the retablo that served as the backdrop to this event, the altarpiece that stood on the high altar, consisted of six canvases (fig. 45): de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel (fig. 40), Tobias and the Angel (fig. 42), St. John Writing the Apocalypse (fig. 43), St. Peter, and St. Paul (as seen in fig. 44), as well as an Assumption of the Virgin (see fig. 46) painted by the local artist Andrés de la Concha.71

The 1585 remodeling and embellishment of the cathedral included the provision of a new altar, stained glass, and altar frontals in order to beautify the church (which was still under construction) for the momentous council meeting. Flamencos were key contributors to the cathedral’s renovation project. The Flemish sculptor Adrian Suster constructed and carved the cathedral’s pulpits. Born in Antwerp, Suster worked with family members in Cadiz and Seville before traveling to New Spain in 1573.72 The Sevillan painter de la Concha subcontracted the Flemish painter Pereyns for “six canvases of the altarpiece that was made for the said church.”73 Another immigrant from Antwerp, Pereyns had worked in both Portugal and Spain before settling in New Spain, where his patrons included high-ranking figures of the viceregal administration. The significant role of Flemish artists in the adornment of the cathedral of Mexico City reinforces the integral place of Flemish immigrants in New Spain and viceregal officials’ continued regard for Flemish artistic training, even during the opening years of the Dutch Revolt. Crucially, the payment record documenting Pereyns’s involvement with the cathedral retablo (“pagó por las pinturas de seis lienzos del retablo”) does not stipulate that he was to paint these six canvases. Instead, Arroyo compellingly argues that the relatively low amount of the payment (twelve pesos each), together with another record documenting that de la Concha gave six canvases to Pereyns, strongly suggests Pereyns was paid merely to adhere de Vos’s imported canvases, as well as the Assumption of the Virgin, to wooden supports.74 De la Concha is the likely author of the Assumption of the Virgin, which is painted on locally produced linen and uses ­different pigments

and techniques than the five de Vos canvases (fig. 46).75 De la Concha’s Assumption and the five paintings from the de Vos workshop (including the St. Michael the Archangel) are all mounted on wooden supports from the same oyamel (sacred fir) tree.76 The rough-and-ready nature of the supports and the rapid timing of the extant contracts suggest that Pereyns and de la Concha worked quickly to complete the altarpiece in time for the public pronouncement of the final decrees of the council in October. Corroborating de la Concha’s involvement with this commission is the fact that the artist produced a very early copy of St. Michael the Archangel in Oaxaca around the time of the Third Provincial Council (fig. 47).77 De Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel was already in New Spain, along with its related canvases, before the council began in 1585. It is unknown precisely where it and its companions were located prior to de la Concha’s subcontracting of Pereyns to remount them in the retablo. Whatever their previous situation, the paintings were seen as appropriate objects for the new altar that was to be rapidly assembled as a backdrop for the announcement of the Third Council’s decrees. While the canvases were aesthetically esteemed as Antwerpian products, they were also iconographically malleable. Only a single canvas was added—the Assumption of the Virgin, appropriately reflecting the dedication of Mexico City’s cathedral. The five paintings by de Vos—St. Michael the Archangel, Tobias and the Angel, St. John Writing the Apocalypse, St. Peter, and St. Paul—were painted in a single campaign, almost certainly for export. All five paintings are made from the same roll of linen.78 Using this material analysis and documentary evidence, Arroyo is the first to suggest that the de Vos paintings could have been

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Figure 46. Andrés de la Concha, Assumption of the Virgin, ca. 1585. Oil on canvas transferred to panel. Photo: author.

directly commissioned by Mexican ecclesiastical authorities.79 But even if the paintings were not commissioned from across the Atlantic, it seems likely de Vos knew these canvases were destined for a Spanish audience. The paintings represent a relatively unusual format for a sixteenth-century Netherlandish altarpiece: a series of vertically oriented canvases (each depicting one or two figures) to be assembled in a retablo. The usual sixteenth-century Spanish retablo was a sculpted or painted screen behind the altar table, whereas Netherlandish triptychs of this date typically had moveable wings—and the Calvinist government

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in Antwerp was removing these very altarpieces when de Vos painted St. Michael the Archangel. In size and format, the de Vos canvases most closely resemble Michiel Coxcie’s 1581 altarpiece for the cathedral of Funchal in Madeira, likely a sumptuous royal donation by Philip II to mark his assumption of the Portuguese throne and the union of the Iberian crowns (fig. 48).80 Coxcie, notably, was a fellow Netherlander directly employed by the Spanish Crown. Like Coxcie’s paintings for Funchal, St. Michael the Archangel and its accompanying canvases share a vertical format, with each canvas centered on one or two

Figure 47. Andrés de la Concha, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1585. Oil on panel. Oaxaca Cathedral. Photo: Elsa Arroyo, 2011, D.R. Insituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia.

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Figure 48. Michiel Coxcie, Senhor Jesus Altarpiece, ca. 1581. Oil on panel. Funchal, Sé Catedral de Nossa Senhora da Assunção. M. Sobreira / Alamy Stock Photo.

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figures. It seems most probable, then, that de Vos similarly created the works with an Iberian patron in mind. Yet while these paintings were clearly made as a cohesive group, de Vos could have scarcely anticipated that they would end up forming the backdrop to such a prestigious Catholic event in the Spanish Americas. In 1581, when de Vos executed these works, the Third Council had not yet been officially convened. But powerful gatekeepers helped to create the conditions for St. Michael the Archangel’s eventual installation in the cathedral of Mexico City. These most likely included Contreras, acting viceroy of New Spain when the retablo would have been put into place.81 Another key figure may well have been Montano—the dedicatee on the 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel—perhaps even directly working with Contreras. Both men were acolytes of Juan de Ovando, theologian and president of the Council of the Indies in the 1560s. In 1570, Ovando had written to Montano in Antwerp, asking him to send books and paintings onto Spain.82 But even absent direct action, Montano’s name, printed alongside that of de Vos on the 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel, could also have assisted in the choice of these paintings for this prestigious commission. The print’s dedication may have suggested Montano’s authorization of the retablo and the council; this was, after all, also the moment that the engraving began to circulate in Spain and in New Spain. This viral agency of the design could have lent the 1581 painting additional authority. Once mounted in the high altar’s retablo for the Third Provincial Council meeting in Mexico City’s cathedral, de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel came to reflect the particular positions of that

council in ways that de Vos himself could not have anticipated when he painted the canvas four years prior. Arroyo, in her foundational study of the altarpiece, cites a 1654 inventory of the cathedral of Mexico City that records the position of St. Michael the Archangel atop the retablo, above the Assumption of the Virgin (see the reconstruction, fig. 45).83 Centering the retablo on images of angels and the Virgin reflects a broader CounterReformation effort to combat heresy and standardize devotional praxis. Counter-Reformation Catholics often deployed the image of the victorious Michael as an analogue of the contemporary struggle against Protestants.84 Yet in the most important church in New Spain, the victorious Michael is presented as a graceful, unarmed angel who offers light rather than the flaming sword. De Vos followed the strictures of Joannes Molanus, professor of theology at the University of Leuven, whose 1570 De picturis et imaginibus sacris stipulated that the archangel should be depicted in the light of the holy, citing the biblical descriptions of the angel in the books of Daniel and Hebrews.85 The design’s adherence to Molanus’s description was likely not accidental; via Plantin, de Vos had connections to the Netherlandish intellectual circle around the Leuven theologian. Molanus’s text was a well-regarded source on the doctrinal conformity within the Spanish empire and across Europe. Although the artist’s emphasis on light fell in line with Molanus’s prescribed formula, elements of the composition also challenge the biblical image of Michael as warrior. The downward glance of the archangel seems directed at the face of the rebellious Lucifer; the weight of Michael’s scrutiny, more than the pressure of his curiously hovering foot, seems to hold the serpentine figure

in place. Satan, half-human and half-serpent, is pinned to the ground with apparent effortlessness. The archangel’s sweeping drapery connects Lucifer’s gaze with Michael’s open hand and the question: “Who is like God?” Here the archangel is pictured as a divine mediator rather than simply as a violent agent of God’s retribution. This more pacific, unarmed Michael was an efficacious design for de Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts as they sought clemency against the backdrop of the siege of Antwerp in 1584, but this same design would take on new resonances in light of the rulings of the 1585 Third Provincial Council of New Spain. The unusual iconography of de Vos’s depiction of Michael could thus be understood, in a colonial context, to invoke visual tropes of conversion rather than brute subjugation. This was precisely the distinction sought by the Third Council, which condemned excessive violence and stressed the need for bolder missionary outreach. The ambiguously gendered devil is shown with crossed arms, in a gesture of either feminine modesty or imminent benediction. This unique rendering of the heavenly battle could be seen as transforming a narrative text about defeat into a scene suggestive of an ideal conversion. The prone figure on the ground, the heavenly light, and the beautiful appearance of the angel all work to evoke early modern Christian narratives of conversion experiences—from the paradigmatic conversion of Paul on the road to Damascus (fig. 49) to the missionary fantasy of Indigenous peoples’ immediate spiritual transformation before an image of the true God.86 The rebellious Lucifer here appears almost eager for his own subjugation. This is a defeat marked not by the threat of the sword but by the potential for illumination, which symbolically aligned with

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Figure 49. Denys Calvaert, Conversion of Paul, ca. 1579. Oil on canvas. New York, Sotheby’s, May 26, 2016, lot 56. Photo courtesy of Sotheby’s, Inc. © 2016.

the spiritual ambitions of the Third Provincial Council to redirect colonial force toward conversion over conquest.

Modeling Fidelity From two nodes of the Spanish empire, both far from the Iberian Peninsula—Antwerp and Mexico City—the same design was marshalled to serve very different ends. The inclusion of Montano’s name granted the print the imprimatur of Catholic imperial approval, not only in besieged Antwerp and viceregal New Spain but also in Spain. Montano’s name, intended to selectively activate memory on behalf of the Antwerp printmakers, in turn, encouraged the image’s viral mobility across Iberia as inquisitorial pressures and courtly taste favored the repeated use of accepted models, particularly Netherlandish prints. Numerous painted

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versions of St. Michael the Archangel in Spain testify to how this iconographically distinctive image proved to be extraordinarily adaptable as a model for Iberian painters. At the final meeting of the Council of Trent in December 1563, the Church stressed the pedagogical and profitable nature of religious images, yet it also cautioned against all lascivious, indecorous, or unusual imagery.87 Spanish synodal constitutions followed these recommendations. For example, the 1596 regulations on religious images in Toledo forbade the painting of retablos or religious works prior to inspection by church authorities.88 Although Spain’s Holy Office of the Inquisition predated Tridentine reforms by nearly a century, Philip II strengthened the office’s censorial role and broadened the remit of Spanish inquisitors. The 1583 Index of the Santo Oficio took official responsibility for the policing of religious imagery:

“We prohibit all and any portraits, figures, coins, prints, large printed letters and books, inventions, representations, medals, or any material that are printed, drawn, or made that ridicule the sacraments or the saints or their images.”89 The 1640 index elaborated further: artists could be fined or exiled for producing lascivious works, and the Inquisition was given authority to inspect and confiscate uncensored printed texts and/or images.90 The unusual iconography of St. Michael the Archangel could have been singled out as potentially problematic; however, again, the dedication to Montano may have allayed such concerns. As royal expurgator at the Escorial, Montano’s name on the 1584 engraving may have functioned as evidence of the image’s orthodoxy. If the print started as a plea to Montano for support, that entreaty turned into its own authorization and led to the print’s use as a model across the Spanish world, both at the royal Spanish court in Madrid and across the Iberian Peninsula. Extant painted versions of the compositions testify to the print’s value as a sign of doctrinal and imperial allegiance. The use of engravings as models for paintings was an established part of early modern workshop practice, but the pressures of religious conformity in Spain likely contributed to the amplification of this custom. Zahira Véliz Bomford’s survey of sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury Spanish artists’ inventories, practical manuals, and artist treatises demonstrates that even Iberian artists working in smaller provincial centers could own hundreds of prints.91 Francisco Pacheco’s posthumously published 1649 Arte de la pintura makes reference to numerous Flemish prints, particularly those published in the middle to late sixteenth century, testifying to these sheets’ enduring use in Spain. Patrons, too, could

provide artists with prints to ensure the doctrinal compliance of commissioned works. Surviving Spanish contracts document this practice; when the prior of Seville’s Merced Calzada employed Zurbarán to produce a series of paintings of the life of St. Peter Nolasco in 1628, the priest also delivered a series of engravings for the artist to follow.92 The Sevillian artist and author Pacheco sought to elevate the intellectual and social status of painters with the Arte; the text documents how artists, patrons, and authors faced thorny questions of decorum and propriety in religious paintings in the seventeenth century.93 Throughout the volume, Pacheco makes reference to engravings and woodcuts as models, using prints as evidence of both dogmatically sound and spurious iconographic models. When describing the correct way to paint the Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple, for example, he critiques a specific 1570 print by Cornelis Cort for its biblical inaccuracies, lamenting that, despite this fact, still “many painters use this sheet.”94 Pacheco surveyed religious artworks for the Office of the Inquisition in Seville; the author specifically and repeatedly cites Molanus’s 1570 De picturis et imaginibus sacris and Gabriele Paleotti’s 1582 De sacris et profanes imaginibus as authorities on the question of religious art, but he also makes reference to famous or esteemed visual exemplars by artists like Albrecht Dürer, Michelangelo, and Raphael. For Pacheco, the artist’s primary aim is fidelity to the biblical text, but he also draws upon the consensual authority of religious scholarship and the aesthetic merits of established artistic models by esteemed painters or printmakers.95 The use and reliance upon vetted prototypes, primarily prints, thus aided and abetted religious conformity.

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Figure 50. View of the stairwell at Las Descalzas Reales, with paintings of Philip IV and his family accompanied by the archangels. Madrid, Convent of Las Descalzas Reales. Patrimonio Nacional PDP0E1-20100210_03.

In practice, biblical authority, papal decree, and Spanish royal taste could come to markedly different conclusions regarding religious imagery. After the Council of Trent, the Church prohibited the elevation of archangels other than Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, citing St. Zachary’s pronouncement at the Roman Council of 745.96 But Spanish royalty since the reign of Ferdinand and Isabel had promoted devotion to the cult of seven archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Barachiel, Sealtiel, and Jerudiel. The Spanish Jesuit Juan Eusebio Nieremberg described how the first Habsburg emperor, Rudolph I, was elected on the feast day of St. Michael in recognition of the archangel’s particular significance for the Habsburg crown.97 Philip IV thus had himself depicted surrounded by the seven archangels in paintings lining the great stairway at the convent

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of Las Descalzas Reales in Madrid (fig. 50).98 Using the de Vos engraving and other prints from the Escorial Library, Bartholomé Román produced paintings of the archangels for the Spanish royal convents of Las Descalzas Reales and La Encarnación in Madrid (fig. 51).99 In 1644/45, at nearly the same moment as these prestigious royal commissions, the Madrid Inquisition summoned a painter for displaying large paintings of the named seven archangels on the city’s Calle Mayor. Inquisitors heard conflicting opinions from a range of theologians—many saw the display as harmless, given the prevalence of artistic exemplars depicting all seven archangels in both Spain and Italy, while other clergymen vehemently condemned the paintings as superstitious and dangerous to the faith.100 Within the very boundaries of the imperial capital

Figure 51. Bartolomé Román, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Oil on canvas. Madrid, Convent of Las Descalzas Reales. Patrimonio Nacional 00610710-DG113295.

of Madrid, then, Catholic artworks were themselves contested sites of negotiation and debate. In comparison to the more problematic depiction of all seven archangels, de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel had the advantage of compatibility both with courtly aesthetic inclinations and with the doctrinal concerns of Inquisitorial officials. For approximately sixty years, between 1584 and 1640, de Vos’s design served as the exemplary model for images of the archangel across Spain

and the Spanish world. In the north of the peninsula, Burgo de Osma-Ciudad de Osma and the Monasterio de San Millán de Yuso hold paintings of St. Michael based on the engraving. In Valencia, Juan Sariñena included a de Vos–inspired archangel in his retablo of the souls in the parish church of Santa Cruz.101 South of Madrid, Belmonte’s Iglesia Colegial de San Bartolomé houses another version of the archangel painted by Bartolomé Matarana between 1590 and 1595.102 In Granada, there are paintings based on this same design in the Antigua Iglesia de San Miguel (Guadix) and the basilica of San Juan de Dios.103 Córdoba’s Iglesia de San Miguel holds a related painting; Cristóbal Vela Cobo painted another St. Michael for the monastery of San Jerónimo de Valparaíso, also in Córdoba, in the 1630s (fig. 52). Vela could have seen the print design during his early training in Madrid, or, more likely, he acquired the printed model from the vibrant art market at Seville, where, as we have seen, Flemish prints were readily available. A map of surviving Spanish paintings based on the de Vos design reveals the astounding viral mobility of the print across the Iberian peninsula, from Castile and León and Valencia to Andalucia (fig. 53). In addition to those variants noted in Spain, there is also at least one copy in Lisbon, in the Jesuit church of São Roque, where the familiar figure of St. Michael occupies the awkward triangle atop one of the nave’s arches. The church’s decoration dates from the period of the union of the Spanish and Portuguese Crowns, suggesting the design was popular across Iberia. The 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel, supplemented perhaps by the circulation of the later Sadeler engraving (see fig. 39), traveled relatively quickly, as the painted versions listed above were all pro-

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Figure 52. Cristóbal Vela Cobo, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1631. Oil on canvas. Córdoba, Museo de Bellas Artes. Courtesy of the Museo de Bellas Artes de Córdoba.

duced within sixty years of one another. The wide geographic distribution of this particular iconography and its use by different ecclesiastical foundations suggest the print was being distributed among distinct and overlapping social networks— not via a single monastic order or solely by artists affiliated with the court in Madrid. Most surviving paintings appear to have been produced for dis-

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play in a church rather than for domestic devotion. These publicly accessible artworks could, in practice, spur the rhizomatic production of further copies and variants, even if the print was not accessible in a given region.104 For example, there are multiple versions of the design in Granada and Córdoba, which may be based on one another, on the Wierix, and/or the Sadeler engraving. Both the availability of the model in print (in multiple versions and editions) and the visibility of multiple painted versions of the design contributed to the viral spread of the St. Michael the Archangel iconography across the Iberian peninsula. The widespread Iberian reception of de Vos’s image of the unarmed archangel rapidly outstripped the engraving’s immediate aim to rehabilitate or to obscure doubt about the doctrinal and/or political reputations of the Antwerp artist, printmakers, and publishers. But the prints’ successful generation of numerous painted versions of the composition retained political purpose, even when geographically and temporally removed from the proximate orbit of the print’s original dedicatee. The repetition of this particular iconography served to align diverse publics with the Spanish Crown through decades of tremendous volatility: the failure of the Armada against the English in 1588, the ongoing war in the Low Countries, the 1609 expulsion of the Moriscos, the state bankruptcy of 1627, and years of plague, failed harvests, and inflation at home.105 The legible fidelity between printed source and its various painted reimaginings across the peninsula created a shared visual language of Spanish Catholic imperium triumphant over both internal and external enemies.106 The 1584 St. Michael the Archangel’s coupling of Montano’s name and the familiar Counter-­

Figure 53. Map of related images of St. Michael the Archangel in Spain. © OpenStreetMap Contributors (CC BY-SA 2.0).

Reformation figure of the archangel advertised the design as an orthodox, Catholic image, despite its unusual depiction of Michael as unarmed. The St. Michael the Archangel could be mobilized to serve new ends, even outside the Iberian Peninsula. But the iconography could also, as in the case of the 1581 painting’s reinstallation at the Third Provincial Council, be used to promote specific doctrinal interpretations and to critique the overreliance on force in the spiritual conversion of the Americas. The dedication to Montano traded upon the Spanish theologian’s reputation as a tastemaker at the Spanish court and Spanish royalty’s long-standing appreciation for Antwerp’s artistic legacy. But because the design was so quickly adopted in various church settings across the peninsula, it gained its own legitimacy, and the print continued to

operate as an iconographic touchstone for depictions of the archangel long after Montano’s death and well beyond the Iberian Peninsula. Crucially, St. Michael the Archangel was a design that fit both highly specific, variable local contexts and the goals of broader Counter-Reformation networks, enabling the iconography to truly go viral.

Going Viral The double movement of both people and artworks allowed St. Michael the Archangel to move beyond Antwerp, via social and trading networks that extended throughout the Spanish world so that the design could be forwarded from new centers of production and distribution, like the Sadeler shop in Venice or the myriad Spanish

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churches that housed painted versions. Both the export of art and the movement of immigrants from war-torn Flanders, across and beyond the bounds of the Spanish empire, accelerated and expanded the commercial appreciation for Antwerp’s artistic products and styles. Here, it is helpful to return to Sampson’s model of virality as a relational encounter in a social world.107 Viral replication requires movement and interaction; in this period, an object had to be carried to a new place and be copied by artists. Virality, as a social phenomenon, requires networks and infrastructure; it relies upon rapid and sustained reproduction. Thus far, I have identified the key gatekeepers, the web of social connections, and the mechanisms of trade and patronage involved in the production of both the painted and engraved St. Michael the Archangel. But with the shift to the medium of print and with the apparent sanction of devotional and imperial infrastructures, the reproduction of St. Michael the Archangel begins to speed up and to move in multiple directions simultaneously. This is when the design went viral. Karine Nahon and Jeff Hemsley use a distinctive sigmoid or S-curve to describe graphically the number of people exposed to a viral event over time: first there is a slowly ascending vertical as the image/event is shared within limited social networks, then a steep upward climb in the number of individuals exposed to the message and its copies—when the number of people combined with the inertia of existing patterns of diffusion across diverse social networks enables deep and sustained penetration of the content—before a leveling off and return to slow growth.108 In the digital era, this process is quantified by immaterial metrics such as “likes” and “shares.” But in the early modern era, a

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design had to be moved, and it had to be copied in order to be forwarded to a new audience. Print technology not only allowed for the production of thousands of impressions from a single matrix, but these multiples themselves could also generate further copies. The graphic language of the printed image—the use of crosshatching and linear forms—lent it itself to replication in various media. In early modern artists’ workshops, engravings were adapted and scaled to multiple media and purposes, via pouncing and squaring or recombination with other sources.109 The relative affordability and portability of print enabled the wide geographic distribution of St. Michael the Archangel, but the historian must confront the fact that the very material instability of paper means there are often no surviving impressions of an engraving in places the design may have traveled. For example, to my knowledge, there is no surviving impression of an engraved St. Michael the Archangel in Latin America or Asia, yet the following two chapters identify dozens of painted and sculpted copies after the design made outside of Europe. To find evidence of viral spread, then, we must look for copies in a range of artistic media, extrapolating the presence of the perishable print from extant copies. Reconstructing these trajectories becomes even more complicated once lines of replication begin to cross: for example, when both printed and painted versions of St. Michael the Archangel arrive in New Spain and generate their own artistic responses. Given the political circumstances surrounding the export of the 1581 painting, its arrival on the high altar of the cathedral in Mexico City was only conceivable with the involvement of powerful gatekeepers—not only religious authorities but also royal tastemakers. The 1584 print called

upon these same gatekeepers to rehabilitate the reputation of its makers, but unlike the painting, print’s nature as a multiple, its portability and relative affordability, enabled a much more sustained and geographically varied distribution across and beyond the Spanish world. By the early years of the seventeenth century, the design was being simultaneously used and copied across multiple social networks. In this way, a design originating in besieged Antwerp, on the cusp of reconversion and reintegration within the Spanish empire, came to be used within fifty years to represent the divine ordination of Habsburg power in a royal convent and to be replicated in a commercially successful print published by an Antwerp expatriate in Venice. Rather than homogeneity, the circulation and use of the de Vos design reveals the inher-

ent instability of the Spanish empire, in a state of permanent spiritual warfare and political conquest against a range of infidels—Moors and Jews, heretics and pagans—in Europe and across the globe.110 While the print could be repurposed and reimagined as it moved through time and space, both the painting’s and the print’s inscriptions invoke their origins in Antwerp at a moment of political and religious rebellion. But these tethers to a singular location and author could alternately be recalled or forgotten.111 Not simply errant or forgetful of their origin, these repetitions of the de Vos St. Michael the Archangel could produce new modes of authenticity divorced from those of its designer, as we shall see in the following two chapters as we follow the print across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

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Chapter 4

Local Mediators in Latin America

T

he archangel Michael made his first appearance on American soil in 1631, in the village of San Bernabé, halfway between Puebla and Tlaxcala in the viceroyalty of New Spain. An Indigenous youth, Diego Lázaro, was taking part in a religious procession, an appeal for divine relief from a plague (called cocolixtli by inhabitants of the region) then ravaging central Mexico. The archangel appeared to Lázaro and spoke to him about a curative spring that would heal the afflicted. However, when Lázaro failed to publicize this vision, the archangel chastised the young man, who then fell ill himself. When all hope of recovery seemed lost, the archangel reappeared in a burst of light, restoring the young man to health.1 The ensuing fame of this angelophany and the resuscitating waters revealed by San Miguel del Milagro led to the resurgence of de Vos’s image of St. Michael, fifty years after the painting’s initial import to Mexico. The revelation of a miraculous healing spring dramatically amplified existing devotion to the archangel, but St. Michael was already seen as a communal figure of the divine in the Poblano landscape. Puebla, the viceroyalty’s secondmost populous city, was founded in 1530 on St. Michael’s feast day, when the city’s first bishop, Julián Garcés, beheld angels outlining Puebla’s location in a dream.2 Subsequently, Puebla’s annual civic procession was dedicated to the archangel, the city’s first and primary patron saint. This elaborate and costly ritual included the paseo

del pendón, during which the royal standard was paraded on horseback to ritually reenact the city’s Spanish founding.3 From 1617 onward, a statue of the archangel was processed through the city streets as part of the celebration, and at some point, the ritual seems to have incorporated the de Vos design. The 1670 painting of this event, retouched by Gaspar Muñoz in 1726, indicates that this statue was clothed in a manner strikingly similar to that of de Vos’s 1581 St. Michael the Archangel, with antique-style armor, voluminous drapery, and a martyr’s palm, although the processional statue of the archangel is shown sporting a plumed headpiece (fig. 54).4 The many artists who produced images and statues of the archangel in Puebla may have known of the 1581 de Vos painting hanging in the cathedral of Mexico City, but it is more likely they would have been working from later prints of the design or copies after those prints. As in Spain, prints were often contractually provided to artists in New Spain as sanctioned models for devotional art.5 The 1584 engraved St. Michael the Archangel and possibly the later version published by Sadeler (see fig. 39) were distributed widely in Latin America, encouraging the artistic adoption of the iconography outside Mexico City, where the 1581 painting remained on display. While individual artists or patrons may or may not have known the Mexico City painting, they more than likely had one of the prints on hand when commissioning or producing their own versions; it is

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Figure 54. Anonymous artist working in New Spain and Gaspar Muñoz, Procession of San Miguel, 1670, repainted 1726. Oil on canvas. Tlaxcala, Santuario de San Miguel del Milagro. © Álbum 2068, by Catedrales e Iglesias, Diócesis de Tlaxcala / CC BY 2.0.

settings. Transported and multiplied across the viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru, the unarmed archangel acquired distinct meanings tied to specific local contexts, referencing religious devotions, the formation of social and ethnic identities, and the particular ambitions of artists and patrons. Just as the iconography had previously shifted in meaning as the design was repeated across Spain or when the Antwerp painting was repurposed for the retablo of the 1585 Third Provincial Council in Mexico City, as de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel continued to proliferate, it was continually amended to speak to local and/or regional concerns in the viceregal Americas.

San Miguel del Milagro also possible that, as the iconography began to circulate more broadly, artists worked from intermediary painted or drawn models referencing the de Vos design. The accretive power of the de Vos design in New Spain thus initially derived both from the authoritative provenance of the painting in the spiritual and political capital, and the availability of the print across the viceroyalty. These citations of the de Vos archangel form an intertextual web, where formal citations can refer both to an originary model and to related variants, as Aaron Hyman has described the later profusion of Rubens-derived imagery in colonial Latin America.6 References to the de Vos St. Michael in New Spain and Peru functioned differently depending on their locations within these networks. This chapter traces the intersecting movements and replications of the de Vos design in viceregal Latin America and the ways this archangel came to be reembedded in different local

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Unlike singular copies after the de Vos painting such as de la Concha’s St. Michael the Archangel version of circa 1584 in Oaxaca (see fig. 47) or the popularity of the engraving as a model for Spanish paintings (see fig. 53), the widespread adoption of the de Vos design as a template for images of San Miguel del Milagro obviated the design’s geographic and artistic origins. Rather than a singular originary object, artist, or royal patron, the practice of replication and repetition shifted focus to the collective local agency of these images.7 In seventeenth-century Puebla, urban rival to the viceregal capital and the closest civic center to the San Bernabé site of the Lázaro miracle, a range of important gatekeepers promoted and redeployed the St. Michael the Archangel. Depictions of San Miguel del Milagro anchored the archangel to the local devotional landscape, superseding the authorial reference to de Vos, the 1584 print as authorized by Montano, or even to the 1581 painting in Mexico City’s cathedral.

One of the earliest surviving representations of the Lázaro narrative is the alabaster relief of the miracle, now mounted on the façade of the aedicule built above the curative spring about thirty kilometers northwest of Puebla (fig. 55).8 This archangel, sculpted around 1670, is recognizably clad in the square-necked armor and elaborate boots of the de Vos design. The sculptor has exchanged the painted angel’s delicate contrapposto pose for a wide-legged stance with feet turned outward. While the angel’s left hand still holds the martyr’s palm of the elect, his right hand now holds a corkscrewlike form indicating the presence of the miraculous healing waters in the ground below. The phrase that encircled the angel’s raised right hand in the engraved and painted versions of St. Michael the Archangel now stretches across the top of the relief: “Quis ut deus?” These changes to the archangel’s pose and setting result in a St. Michael the Archangel completely divorced from his biblical role as military leader of the heavenly host and conqueror of Satan. Instead, the sculptor stresses the supernatural nature of the angel and his otherworldly appearance to Lázaro: Michael floats aloft with his feet supported by a swirling form of clouds and cherub heads—an inversion of the de Vos design, where cherubim encircle the angel’s upper body. The sculptor transforms the image of the archangel: while pacific in de Vos’s design, Michael nevertheless remained a figure of judgment and retribution. Here he is a guide and spiritual intercessor. The open palm of the de Vos design now holds a heavenly gift—he gestures to the curative spring sent by God to address the local plague. Instead of suppressing the rebellious Lucifer, this St. Michael is paired with the kneeling and grateful figure of Lázaro, the Indigenous witness to the

angelophany. These alterations to the de Vos design reimagine the beautiful and triumphant archangel as a figure connected to the local landscape and its residents, as a mediator to the divine. So why did the sculptor turn to the de Vos design of a victorious archangel when called upon to depict the archangel’s first miraculous appearance in New Spain? The sculptor of the alabaster relief may have been contractually required to model his archangel on the de Vos image. It is just as likely, however, that the de Vos–inspired archangel was already familiar to the artist via cumulative operation of St. Michael imagery associated with Puebla’s annual civic procession and the frenzied local devotion to the miraculous spring. Only two years after Lázaro’s 1631 vision, crowds were visiting the site and venerating a now-lost image of the archangel.9 The Jesuit Francisco de Florencia describes two paintings supposedly made by Lázaro himself that recorded the miracle “so that the memory of the apparition would not be lost.”10 Florencia also records the production of a mapa that “would serve as a book,” describing an account of the San Miguel del Milagro narrative in the form of pictorial history, likely similar to those pre-Conquest codices or lienzos that recorded local historical events.11 At the time of Florencia’s publication in 1692, the Jesuit claimed “all the diocese of Puebla is full of images, statues painted and sculpted of that supreme archangel. Hardly a home or santocale [house of the saints or prayer room] of an indio does not have a San Miguel del Milagro.”12 De Vos’s archangel, then, was only a distant antecedent for the alabaster image of the peaceful angel, a ready model of the archangel to be reinserted within the new local iconography of San Miguel del Milagro. For most viewers, the

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Figure 55. Anonymous artist working in New Spain, St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro, seventeenth century. Alabaster. Tlaxcala, San Miguel del Milagro. Photo: Fernando Franciles Lopez / Flickr.

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archangel of the alabaster relief or the Muñoz painting would not have been seen as a citation of de Vos as an author. Instead of referencing the authorial and contextual power of the altarpiece in Mexico City or of the Flemish print, this alabaster St. Michael would have been seen as part of a community of images in the immediate vicinity of Puebla, where figures of the archangel proliferated with various local iconographical alterations, such as the plumed helmet or the addition of the divining rod.13 However, a critical mass of these St. Michaels repeat key elements of the de Vos design in varying combinations, most typically citing the angel’s pose and costume, the raised hand, and/ or the inclusion of a martyr’s palm. The primary operational referent of these St. Michaels was to other images of the American angelophany and not to the engraving after de Vos or to the Mexico City painting. That is, this network of images conformed to one another more than they referred to the singularity of de Vos’s design.14 These de Vos–inflected San Miguel del Milagros share a rhizomatic rather than linear relation to the model.15 By the time of their production, what had been a markedly unusual image of the unarmed archangel had come to dominate the local iconographic conception of St. Michael by virtue of its viral spread. The story of Lázaro’s miraculous vision is itself rooted in the repetition of both European miracle narratives and the representation of local Indigenous knowledge. The narrative framework of Lázaro’s encounter, with the angel appearing three times in the face of a reticent witness, is a familiar convention of medieval and early modern Catholic miracle stories. The archangel Michael appeared in Rome to Pope Gregory in the ninth century, on the day of the Greater Litanies, halting a deadly pestilence.16 The miracle in New

Spain thus repeated the timing of the earlier Roman angelophany and its efficacy in stopping a local plague. The protagonist’s name—Diego Lázaro—relates him to Juan Diego of Tepeyac and Juan Diego of Ocotlán; all three Indigenous young men were blessed by encountering the divine within the local landscape of New Spain.17 In fact, Florencia writes that when Bishop Quirós was first told Lázaro’s story, the bishop was reminded of Juan Diego’s vision of the Virgin of Guadalupe.18 The sanctity of the Lázaro apparition is, in part, established via its repetition of Catholic miracle stories known from both local oral traditions and written ecclesiastical histories. Yet the import of this narrative into New Spain and the archangel’s appearance to Lázaro, an Indigenous man, marks a key shift. The angel’s appearance on New Spanish soil was not to a European believer but to a devout Indigenous youth.19 Local church officials at first disbelieved Lázaro’s story precisely because the site of the spring, in a small valley, was already known by local peoples as tzopiloatl, or the water of vultures.20 The incredulous Tlaxcalan governor saw Lázaro’s attribution of divine power to the waters as evidence of the young man’s retention of preHispanic beliefs, proof of the dangerous idolatrous predisposition of the Indigenous populace. But with the official acceptance of the miracle at San Bernabé, this potential idolatry was recast as revelatory. The water’s healing power, although it may have been known prior to the Conquest, is reframed as deriving from the Catholic God. The Lázaro narrative, then, exploits the memory of both European miracles and long-standing local belief in order to demonstrate the divine potential of the American landscape and the powerful faith of the Indigenous believer.

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The miracle story is not simply transported wholesale into a New Spanish context but is given the pretense of Indigenous agency. The archangel’s appearance to Lázaro tested his faith, and his account was not immediately believed by viceregal and church officials. At first, the popular veneration of San Miguel Milagro in rural Tlaxcala (to the north of Puebla) contrasted with Creole and Indigenous elites’ patronage of the Conquistadora, a miracle-working Flemish statue in Puebla supposedly given by Hernán Cortés to his local Indigenous allies during the Conquest.21 But the cult of San Miguel del Milagro soon came to serve the interests of Spanish ecclesiastics and colonial administrators, and it was recognized and promoted by successive bishops of Puebla, namely, Gutiérrez Bernardo de Quirós and Juan de Palafox y Mendoza. Leveraging the local popularity of the saint allowed church authorities in Puebla to claim a broader territorial jurisdiction, uniting rural and urban communities of the region in a shared devotion. The miraculous spring and the Indigenous witness anchored the event to the Poblana landscape, allowing the narrative to serve diverse local interests simultaneously, engaging Indigenous and Creole elites as well as those of more humble means.22 Puebla’s existing veneration of St. Michael as the city’s patron saint became conflated with the specific cultic significance of San Miguel del Milagro in the rural communities to the north of the city; this shift from local cult to broader regional symbol echoed the evolving devotion to the Virgin of Guadalupe after her initial 1531 appearance to Juan Diego in Tepeyac.23 The support of patrons like Palafox encouraged the identification of St. Michael with the entire Puebla region, underscoring both the civic

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and ecclesiastic importance of the city within New Spain. While Mexico City became the dominant financial center of the viceroyalty in the seventeenth century, Puebla was a rival urban center, a crucial stopping point that provided critical agricultural supplies for the port city of Veracruz, as well as pottery and woolen textiles. The two largest cities in New Spain competed for prestige. In 1642, Palafox, then bishop of Puebla, helped recall the sitting viceroy; he himself served as the interim ruler of New Spain. The bishop’s highprofile patronage of the arts and education— which included the foundation of the first public library in the Americas and several educational institutions, the establishment of a printing press in Puebla, and a role in overseeing construction of the city’s new cathedral—contributed to the city’s unique sense of civic and cultural identity.24 Co-opting the rural religious devotion to San Miguel del Milagro tied the broader region to the city. To this end, Palafox visited the shrine at the spring multiple times and endorsed the cult. The ties between the urban worship of the archangel in Puebla and the broader regional devotion to San Miguel del Milagro is made manifest in the patronage of the esteemed prelate José Salazar Varona. Varona began his religious career at the cult site and performed ecclesiastical investigations of the miracles attributed to the archangel. For a 1670 painting produced for the sanctuary at the miracle site, he had himself depicted in the center foreground, alongside other Poblano dignitaries (see fig. 54).25 In addition, Varona commissioned another painting of the Lázaro narrative for the Puebla cathedral from the painter Juan Tinoco (fig. 56). The figure of St. Michael in Tinoco’s painting recalls the de Vos model, but the angel’s pose is rotated, and he holds a rod toward

Figure 56. Juan Tinoco, St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro, 1680s. Oil on copper. Puebla, Catedral Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción, Ochavo Chapel. Courtesy of Manuel Toussaint Photographic Archive, UNAM.

the spring instead of a martyr’s palm. Although he wears a helmet, the square-necked breastplate and the voluminous fabric surrounding him remains close to the de Vos type. Through the multiplication and repetition of the design at the cult shrine, in the Puebla Cathedral, and across the region, the cult of San Miguel del Milagro became ideologically rooted in the local landscape, consolidating the power of the diocese beyond the urban center of Puebla.26 Pilgrimage to the spring by devout Indigenous believers, the favor of ecclesiastical patrons, and the representation of the miracle in elite spaces like Puebla’s cathedral and in the private santocales of the rural populace all helped to make the

archangel a local figure. The viral success of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel in New Spain, as on the Iberian Peninsula, demonstrates the varied composition of ecclesiastical and political networks. In Puebla, powerful gatekeepers, operating sometimes independently and sometimes in concert with one another, responded to the popularity of the cult site to transform the familiar archangel into San Miguel del Milagro.

Villalpando and de Vos While the iconography’s replication in and around Puebla in the mid-seventeenth century largely depended on knowledge of printed source(s) and

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the subsequent rhizomatic production of multiple variants of the design, in Mexico City, the continued presence of the 1581 painting on the high altar of the cathedral meant that de Vos’s canvas served as a recognizable foundational image for contemporary versions of St. Michael produced in and around that city. The canvas almost immediately spawned variant copies, such as de la Concha’s early version now in Oaxaca (see fig. 47). De Vos’s painting had already hung on the high altar for nearly fifty years by the time of Lázaro’s vision and thus served as an enduring iconographic touchstone for depictions of the archangel in the viceregal capital. Ambitious artists like Cristóbal de Villalpando continued to reference de Vos’s version of the archangel, relying on the familiarity of the painted model. In the 1680s, when six new enormous sacristy paintings for Mexico City’s cathedral were completed by Villalpando and Juan Correa, four prominently featured the figure of Michael. Perhaps surprisingly, none of these images reference the miraculous vision of Lázaro outside of Puebla, by then a popular cult site. Instead of including Lázaro or indeed any allusion to San Miguel del Milagro, Villalpando’s Apparition of St. Michael depicts the archangel before a coterie of Church elites from Mexico City (fig. 57).27 Refraining from representing the Poblano miracle and the archangel’s celebrated appearance in a rival region allowed Catholic officials from the viceregal capital to claim angelic favor as their own. These sacristy paintings in Mexico City’s cathedral instead refer to the memory of the de Vos archangel in order to proclaim the artistic ambitions of their authors, including their art-historical knowledge and emulation of a renowned imported model. The allusion to de

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Vos’s earlier St. Michael the Archangel in Villalpando’s gargantuan canvas is subtle. Only the costume of Villalpando’s archangel seems derived from the Flemish painting, although it is considerably elaborated. Like de Vos’s Michael, Villalpando’s archangel sports open-toed boots and elaborate skintight blue armor with a golden sun and moon on his chest; in both paintings the archangel is surrounded by billowing arcs of red and green cloth, although Villalpando has dramatically extended and enlarged the red fabric behind his archangel. In addition to these restrained formal quotations, it is Villalpando’s signature that most specifically alludes to the historically prominent place of the de Vos painting within the cathedral. The 1686 painting is signed “Cristóbal del Villalpando, Yventor, Pintó por su mano” (Cristóbal del Villalpando, inventor, painted by his hand), repeating the authorial term inventor used by de Vos on his St. Michael of a century before (fig. 40). As Hyman shows, Villalpando’s signature both affirms his emulation of de Vos’s painted model and asserts the artist’s familiarity with European artworks via printed matter, where the term “inventor” was more commonly found. In this way, Villalpando formulated his own artistic identity in dialogue with de Vos’s earlier designs, both painted and printed.28 The signature thus places Villalpando’s and de Vos’s archangels within the same artistic canon, despite the considerable distances in time and space between their respective places of production. At approximately the same moment as he painted the monumental sacristy canvases for Mexico City’s cathedral, Villalpando also produced an image of the archangel Michael for Poblano patrons that more directly cites the de Vos St. Michael the Archangel. The painting on copper

Figure 57. Cristóbal Villalpando, Apparition of St. Michael, 1686–88. Oil on canvas. Mexico City, Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de la Santísima Virgen María a los cielos, sacristy. Photo courtesy of Aaron M. Hyman.

of the martyrdom of St. Catherine of Alexandria is in the Capilla del Ochavo in Puebla’s cathedral (fig. 58). Here, the female saint is comforted by the figure of Michael, whose right hand is raised as he glances downward. The pose of the angel’s shoulders and the form of his exposed left leg clearly mimic de Vos’s design, as does his costume. Although the formal reference to de Vos is clear, the painterly style is completely Villalpando’s own, the execution more ethereal and dramatically lit

than de Vos’s earlier canvas. Excerpted from the earlier design, Michael is completely integrated within the stylistic logic of Villalpando’s martyrdom scene. It was not in Mexico City, then, that Villalpando made his most direct formal quotation of the de Vos archangel but in Puebla, a city and a region where, as we have seen, there were a multitude of de Vos–inflected archangels. St. Michael’s role in Villalpando’s painting is as personal ­intercessor

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Figure 58. Cristóbal Villalpando, Martyrdom of St. Catherine, 1680s. Oil on copper. Puebla, Catedral Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción, Ochavo Chapel. Courtesy of Manuel Toussaint Photographic Archive, UNAM.

and comforter to St. Catherine, mirroring the local veneration of San Miguel del Milagro in Puebla. While in the Mexico City paintings, Villalpando’s St. Michael is shown aloft in the heavens, here Villalpando emphasizes the archangel’s role as earthly conduit to the divine. Since this painting hung in Puebla’s cathedral, the dominant point of reference for this archangel would have been, for most viewers, the regional aggregation of

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San Miguel del Milagros. In Puebla, Villalpando cleaves more closely to the de Vos model, making the connection between these various local archangels and the de Vos prototype more insistently visible via direct formal citation. Villalpando’s nod toward de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel is not necessary to the compositional legibility of the Puebla painting, but it is supplemental evidence of the painter’s erudition, addressing a knowing subset of viewers familiar either with the Mexico City painting and/or the print by de Vos. For the viewer who recognizes the citation, however, the closeness of the angel’s costume and pose clearly tethers the composition to the canvas in Mexico City, where knowledge of the iconography was a point of professional pride. To “see” the de Vos figure as recalled within Villalpando’s painting requires connoisseurial memory: the ability to recall compositional particulars and stylistic features, to assign authorship and, thus, relative value to art objects. In Mexico City and Puebla, Villalpando’s engagement with the signing practices of de Vos and his sophisticated redeployment of de Vos’s archangel speaks to the cultivation of such a mindset in New Spain, one that actively sought to bring together European and colonial Latin American artists and viewers in a shared art history.29 But there are competing local and regional registers to this narrative. In some ways, Villalpando’s reference to the de Vos canvas positions the Mexico City canvas as the autochthonous model for the multitude of later Poblano figures of San Miguel del Milagro, although, as we have seen, the iconography had its own historic trajectories in the city and wider region in the aftermath of the 1631 miracle at San Bernabé. Hung in Puebla Cathedral, Villalpando’s St. Michael figure in the Martyrdom of St. Catherine of Alexandria tes-

tifies to the overlap of multiple viral networks in New Spain. Villalpando’s painting thus activates numerous kinds of legibility, yielding different potential meanings for this archangel depending upon how and where the viewer locates the de Vos citation within these networks.

A Limeña Donor Twenty-six hundred miles from Mexico City, another version of St. Michael the Archangel, dating to approximately the same decade as Lázaro’s 1631 vision, hangs in a side chapel of the Jesuit church in Lima (fig. 59). While the colors of this archangel closely match those of de Vos’s canvas in New Spain, the Lima painting clearly derives from the engraving: the now familiar serpentine devil has the corkscrew tail of the print rather than curved appendage found in de Vos’s painting, and the archangel’s palm bows away from Michael, as in the engraving, rather than the branch’s more upright position in the 1581 canvas. The Limeño artist remained faithful to the iconographic details of the print: the poses of the angel and devil replicate those of the engraving; the archangel’s square-necked breastplate is adorned with the same cherub heads and voluminous sleeves. But there is a notable addition to the printed composition: the half-length female figure at lower left, clothed in Indigenous textiles. This donor portrait is unusual: she is shown alone, without a spouse or child, superimposed directly into de Vos’s design. Far from Mexico City and de Vos’s canvas, the Lima painting reflects the viral movement of the related print(s) across the viceroyalty of Peru, where, much as in New Spain, the design was adapted to suit the intersecting needs of regional and local actors.

Surviving artist contracts from viceregal Peru often stipulate that the artist had to follow a given print or model.30 This practice, as we have seen already in our discussion of the numerous versions of St. Michael the Archangel produced in Spain and New Spain after the de Vos print, was not unique to colonial Latin America, although concerns about doctrinal compliance and legibility brought urgency to the practice in a colonial context. As Thomas Cummins points out, European prints “were simultaneously the most democratic and oppressive of all forms of images,” not only used by colonial authorities to police religious imagery but also continually reconfigured by artists and patrons for different local doctrinal contexts.31 The use of prints in viceregal Peru underscores this paradoxical relation. Prints were provided to deliver doctrinally sound models to artists, but their portability and wide availability meant that they could be used outside of the Church’s direct control. The adoption of St. Michael the Archangel in Lima demonstrates the continued appeal of Flemish prints across the Spanish territories, offering insight into how such prints were utilized within the particular local devotional climate of the viceroyalty. The Antwerp print’s circulation in the viceroyalty of Peru relied on many of the same trading networks that allowed de Vos’s 1581 painting to travel from Antwerp to Mexico via Seville. Flemish artworks were imported into the viceroyalty extremely early: in 1553, the cathedral of Cusco received a Flemish retable, while in 1572, Pedro Gomez sent Flemish canvases to the same city.32 In the summer of 1586 alone, ship manifests record dozens of Flemish paintings and hundreds of prints (“60 dozen devotional images,” “15 dozen devotional prints”) sent from Seville to South America.33

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Figure 59. Limeño artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Oil on canvas. Lima, San Pedro. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Iglesia San Pedro de Lima © Compañía de Jesús - Comunidad de San Pedro.

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Immigrant artists also carried prints across the Atlantic. The Italian painter Mateo Pérez de Alesio came to Lima in 1587 from Seville with a volume of prints, including the works of the already-famous Dürer.34 Artists from the Low Countries were also among the very first European artists working in South America. The Franciscan Joos de Rijcke (Jodoco Rique) was in Peru by 1535, and his contemporary Pieter (Pedro) Gossael from Leuven founded an art school in Quito in the sixteenth century.35 The Jesuit Order, after the death of the Italian Jesuit painter Bernardo Bitti in Peru, sent Pieter van der Brucke (Diego de la Puente) from Mechelen to the viceroyalty in 1620, and his painting workshop produced works throughout colonial South America, before his 1663 death in Lima.36 All these Flemish artists likely settled in the viceroyalty with a ready stock of European prints as part of their workshop material. Peruvian religious orders specifically imported European prints for use in instruction and conversion. In 1629, some thirty-three boxes of books (“33 pesados cajones de libros”) were sent from Spain to Lima’s Jesuit College; in 1655, a single ship carried one hundred boxes of books to the viceroyalty for the order.37 Around 1600, Diego Ocaña, a Castilian Hieronymite friar who traveled to the viceroyalty to promote the cult of Guadalupe, lamented that his Spanish monastic order did not respond to his repeated requests for more estampas (prints), claiming that he could have sold twenty or thirty thousand prints at the fiesta held in honor of the Virgin at Potosí.38 While St. Michael the Archangel was likely more expensive than the cheaper devotional prints Ocaña desired, his request suggests the broader market for printed imagery. Books and prints often traveled together to the libraries of the missionary orders in Peru. Specific prints

are difficult to trace in transatlantic shipping records, either because they were bound in albums or described in generic terms (papeles de devoción, imagenes de devoción), but somewhere in the tide of paper, multiple copies of St. Michael the Archangel crossed the Atlantic. Prints, as relatively affordable and mobile objects, could easily be mobilized to serve local religious practices, whether or not Peruvian church officials authorized their use. In 1661, for example, an Indigenous man in the parish of Ambar, along the Huacho coast north of Lima, performed an unsanctioned form of the Eucharist before an altar adorned with estampas, small printed images of saints.39 Even when used for Catholic devotion, the distance between local cult worship in Peru and recognized Spanish saints worried churchmen like Ocaña, who sought to promote the Extremeduran Virgin of Guadalupe and to tether devotion and alms back to the Spanish shrine.40 Rather than unidirectional tools of acculturation and conversion, then, prints allowed for individual artistic and devotional responses, even those that may have deviated from Church doctrine or the specific intent of those who distributed them. Judging by surviving versions of the composition, the engraved St. Michael the Archangel was used across the viceroyalty for close to a century. An early painting made after the print around 1600 is in the monastery of Santa Catalina in Cusco, which closely follows the engraving (fig. 60). In the monastery of San Francisco in Quito, another version of the composition is signed by Mateo Mexia and dated 1615; also in Quito, in the lower cloister of the convent of La Merced, there is a related work executed by Antonio Gualoto from the 1650s.41 In Lima alone, there

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are three extant versions of the composition. The Jesuit church holds both the aforementioned locally produced St. Michael the Archangel with the female donor, as well as an imported canvas from the Madrid workshop of Bartholomé Román that was also based on the de Vos design, though differently costumed (see fig. 69). In the archbishop’s palace, there is yet another St. Michael the Archangel dating from the 1630s or 1640s, tentatively attributed to Antonio Mermejo (fig. 61). Mermejo (or Bermejo) may have been of Italian or Spanish origin, but he worked in Lima and Potosí in the 1620s and 1630s.42 Taken together, this network of related artworks suggests the print had multiple points of entry into different artists’ workshops and religious communities across the viceroyalty. Whether selected by the patron or produced from a model in the artist’s workshop, the artist and patron of the Limeño painting inserted themselves into a local and regional network of images, the larger viral wake of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel. The San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel with female donor is unique among these related works, however, in that it is the only version of the iconography to include a portrait. The colonial copy, as Bhabha reminds us, is a manifestation of cultural distance and difference, an activation of ambivalence that potentially disrupts colonial authority.43 Drawing on Bhabha’s insights, Dean describes how in seventeenth-century Peru, colonial powers encouraged acts of cultural mimesis in order to legitimate Spanish rule, while Andean elites interpreted these models to formulate their own status within the viceroyalty.44 The use of the de Vos design draws on the authority of the print as a model sanctioned by the Church and the aesthetic preferences of colonial and missionary powers; however, the presence of the Indigenous donor,

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with her lifelike features and closely observed costume, also distinguishes the Indigenous patron’s privileged status within Lima. In Bhabha’s terms, the portrait activates an awareness of difference. The inclusion of the Indigenous donor portrait suggests ways in which the appropriation of the viral image could be used to figure identity, as well as personal and communal acts of devotion, reflecting on the local negotiation of colonial authority.45 Here the print serves as the foundation for the projection of a distinct and multifaceted social, ethnic, religious, and gender identity—one that was carefully orchestrated by the donor herself. The patron is Indigenous but not necessarily Inca, devout and in some way associated with Lima’s Jesuits but unaligned with a specific male figure. By virtue of her portrait, she stakes a claim for her status within the corporate chapel, the Jesuit church, and the larger urban community. The inclusion of a female Indigenous donor portrait is unusual but not unique in colonial South American painting, and it speaks to the powerful role women of Indigenous descent (that is, Indigenous and mixed-race) played as patrons of the Church in the viceroyalty.46 Judging by her costume, the donor does not appear to be a member of the Inca-descended local elite. She does not wear the folded head covering (nañaca) associated with Inca noblewomen.47 Instead, she wears a striped blanket-like cloth (uncuña) draped over her head like a mantle. This textile is adorned with parrots—animals often associated with the Indigenous nobility48—and may speak to her status as a cacique, a member of the nonInca Indigenous nobility. Textiles were some of the most potent bearers of cultural identity in the Indigenous cultures of Peru.49 In 1575, the viceroy of Peru had formally prohibited the wearing of

Figure 60. Cusqueño artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1600. Oil on canvas. Cusco, Museo de Vida Monástica, Monasterio de Santa Catalina. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Figure 61. Attributed to Antonio Mermejo, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Oil on canvas. Lima, Palacio Arzobispal. Museo Palacio Arzobispal de Lima.

Indigenous dress, but its use nevertheless continued, particularly among elite Andean women.50 The painter of the Lima St. Michael carefully articulates the pattern of the donor’s mantle, testifying to the continued use of Indigenous fabrics and indicating the donor’s elite privilege and position. Beyond Lima, the depiction of female Indigenous dress played an important role in signaling social status within the viceregal Peruvian

Church. Clothed in a similar costume to the patron of the San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel, the wife of cacique Martín Pacci Pati is shown on a canvas depicting the Presentation of Mary, now in the church of San Pedro Tiahuanaco, in the region of La Paz.51 Another, similarly garbed Indigenous female donor is depicted at life-size scale in the monumental painting Christ Carrying the Cross in the church of San Domingo, Cusco (fig. 62). In

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Figure 62. Cusqueño artist, Christ Carrying the Cross, seventeenth century. Oil on canvas. Cusco, Museo del Convento de Santo Domingo Qorikancha, Pinacoteca. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe.

the Cusco painting, the donor’s costume appears black, but there is the suggestion of patterning below her arms, which is evocative of Indigenous textiles. This patron’s lliclla (shawl) is worn over her shoulders and held together with a prominent silver tupu, a large pin worn by high-ranking Andean women.52 She wears another cloth over her head, like the Lima patron, but her hands are folded in prayer directly in front of the tupu, and a large rosary with a silver cross hangs from her wrists. The Lima patron also appears to wear a tupu, visible beside her praying hands. In the San Pedro Tiahuanaco, Lima, and Cusco paintings, then, all three female Indigenous donors

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prominently (and simultaneously) display local textiles, Catholic forms of devotion, and Indigenous markers of social prestige.53 These patrons proclaim their authority via their dress and their painted presence; the direct juxtaposition of their likeness with authoritative religious iconography demonstrates their erudition and piety. The specific ethnicity of the donor in the Lima St. Michael the Archangel is unclear. By 1613, most indios recorded in the viceregal capital were migrants from other regions.54 The city’s indios were not a homogenous faction but represented a mélange of different ethnic groups, speaking different languages (Quechua, Aymara, Puquina, and

others).55 Here the patron displays both her devotion to the Catholic faith and her maintenance of local regional costume as a symbol of her elite status as well as possibly her specific ethnic or regional identity.56 In its combination of a donor dressed in Indigenous textiles before a Europeanderived devotional image, the Lima St. Michael the Archangel could summarily be described as a kind of mestizo image, caught between Indigenous and Spanish modes of signification.57 Yet this conceptual frame reinforces the presumed homogeneity of both Spanish and Indigenous identities as given and irresolvable polarities.58 In fact, the “Spanish” design originated in Protestant Flanders and was apparently well known as a model across the viceroyalty, and the specific “Indigenous” identity of the patron is unknown and is here specifically aligned with Catholic piety. The painting demonstrates how the viral image, via its replication and redeployment, can simultaneously address multiple and overlapping audiences: those familiar with the origin of the archangel’s design and/or that of the donor’s textiles. When read together, the painting’s multiplicity of referents reflects the complexities of Catholic indigene identity in viceregal Lima.59

Picturing Community The setting of the St. Michael the Archangel with donor reveals the spatial, stylistic, and iconographic strategies by which the de Vos design accrued meaning in Peru. The painting hangs in one of the lateral chapels of the viceregal capital’s flagship Jesuit church, rebuilt between 1624 and 1638. The Society of Jesus was a relatively late arrival to the viceroyalty of Peru. In 1568, the Jesuits landed in South America at the invita-

tion of Philip II; the order devoted itself to rural missionary work and to urban pedagogy. Lima, a new colonial capital built by the Spanish, was the administrative center of the viceroyalty, and it is here where the order founded its flagship colegio and church of San Pablo (now called San Pedro, which I use here for clarity). The new church was, in part, modeled on the church of the Gesù in Rome, with significant concessions to the region’s propensity for seismic activity.60 The ten lateral chapels opening onto the nave were sponsored and subsequently decorated by wealthy families and various confraternities representing Lima’s diverse social and ethnic groups. In addition to training peninsular-born youths and Creoles, Jesuit colegios were intended to educate the sons of caciques, local Indigenous chiefs, instilling Christian tenets and the basics of a humanist education.61 Via the tutelage of the next generation of local rulers, the order helped to ensure doctrinal compliance and cooperation with the apparatus of Spanish rule. Bringing elite Indigenous young men into the colegio also worked to reify and exploit precontact social distinctions in the service of the enduring Christian conversion and Hispanicization of Peru. Neither a professed Jesuit nor one of these young local male elites, the female patron pictured in St. Michael the Archangel was likely a member of an Indigenous confraternity promoted by the Jesuits. The painting hangs in the chapel formerly dedicated to the Niño de Huanca (in its modern organization, the chapel is dedicated to a later statue of the Virgin of the O). The Niño de Huanca is a polychrome statue of circa 1610 from San Pedro that represents the Christ Child (fig. 63). The Jesuit Bitti carved the original cult statue in Cusco, and the Jesuits promoted the Niño’s cult

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Figure 63. Limeño artist, Niño de Huanca, ca. 1600– 1610. Polychromed wood with gilding. Lima, San Pedro. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Iglesia San Pedro de Lima © Compañía de Jesús - Comunidad de San Pedro.

across the viceroyalty.62 The confraternity responsible for the decoration and maintenance of the San Pedro chapel furnished the space with myriad statues of the Christ Child, all of which could be dressed in a variety of costumes, including Indigenous garments.63 While the practice of dressing religious statues for processions and celebration was well established in Catholic tradition, the specific use of Indigenous vestments may have also had additional resonances for Peruvian viewers.64 Locally produced textiles were mobilized by church authorities to appeal to local elites, emphasizing kinship with established modes of

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marking nobility. The costume of the donor of the San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel, then, did not signal distance from the Christian faith. Paralleling the Indigenous costuming of the cult statue of Niño de Huanca, the painting mobilizes precontact aesthetic values within devout Catholic ritual. St. Michael the Archangel hangs in a chapel decorated and maintained by Lima’s Indigenous Catholic elite. Between 1660 and 1662, a new retablo dedicated to the Niño de Huanca was paid for by a “congregation of Indian soldiers and other officials.”65 At the top of the chapel’s retablo is a painting of the Circumcision of Christ that contains the portraits of six donors, likely members of this same confraternity, who look down at the viewer and the altar below (fig. 64).66 These prominent portraits underscore the contemporary wealth, social power, and active devotion of Indigenous populations in seventeenth-century Lima. The distinctiveness of these portraits suggests they correspond to specific individuals, anchoring the chapel’s decoration to a specific local community and moment in time. St. Michael the Archangel is one of three paintings in the Niño de Huanca chapel that prominently include the portraits of Indigenous and mixed-race donors,67 suggesting how this iteration of the de Vos design was part of a larger strategic use of Indigenous portraiture within the Jesuit church. As well as the Circumcision atop the central retablo, both chapel sidewalls include paintings with portraits, setting the space apart from San Pedro’s other lateral chapels. When facing the central retablo, to the left is St. Michael the Archangel and to the right, held within a matching frame, is a Virgin of the Rosary with a donor (fig. 65). Here a portrait of a female donor is shown before the Virgin; she is accompanied

Figure 64. Limeño artist, Circumcision of Christ, ca. 1660. Oil on canvas. Lima, San Pedro, retablo de Nuestra Señora de O. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Iglesia San Pedro de Lima © Compañía de Jesús - Comunidad de San Pedro.

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Figure 65. Limeño artist, Virgin of the Rosary, ca. 1640. Oil on canvas. Lima, San Pedro. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Iglesia San Pedro de Lima © Compañía de Jesús - Comunidad de San Pedro.

by St. John the Baptist. The donor appears to be of Indigenous or mixed-race descent (see the contrast between this figure and that of the Baptist); her dress is primarily European in style, although she sports a local textile draped across one shoulder. Though both pictured female donors in the chapel of Niño de Huanca were likely members of the same confraternity, the

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social and ethnic identity of this donor is figured differently from that of the donor of the St. Michael the Archangel, directly opposite her. In addition to her European dress, the patron of the Virgin of the Rosary looks out at us, the viewers; in contrast, the donor of St. Michael the Archangel looks reverently up at Michael. It has been suggested that both donors are eighteenth-century descendants of a Huanca cacique, but as Ramón Mujica Pinilla points out, no surviving documentation can confirm this hypothesis, and the paintings appear to be of a significantly earlier date than this attribution allows.68 It is unclear if the patron chose the de Vos design specifically for this space. Despite the formal similarities between the two paintings, St. Michael the Archangel and Virgin of the Rosary were not necessarily produced at the same moment. While the Virgin of the Rosary’s composition fits neatly into its current frame (although perhaps with some losses at the top), the canvas of St. Michael the Archangel appears to have been extended beyond the original composition along the bottom edge, and the archangel’s upraised right hand, surrounded by Quis ut deus?, is awkwardly cut off by the irregular shape of the top of the frame, suggesting the canvas was resized to fit into the chapel’s elaborate framework.69 The unusual shape and measurements of this frame exactly mirror those of the Virgin of the Rosary across the altar, establishing a symmetrical pairing with another canvas on the same wall, across the arch leading to the next chapel (see fig. 66). These frames are integrated into a complex gilt screen of intertwined vegetal ornament blanketing the walls of San Pedro’s chapels. The paintings inserted within these fields of golden scrolls are of different ages and origins. Other lateral chapels

contain (to name just a few) an exquisite series of female saints made around 1640 in a Madrid workshop and a number of paintings by an earlier generation of artists working in Lima, such as the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Jesuit painters Bitti and de la Puente. While no archival smoking gun has yet provided the name of the donor of the San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel, it seems most likely, given the physical evidence, that the painting was resized and that it was created prior to the 1660/62 installation of the new retablo dedicated to the Niño de Huanca. The resizing suggests the canvas was relocated from elsewhere: either it was moved from an existing chapel within the previous iteration of the Jesuit church (prior to its 1638 reconstruction), or the canvas was taken from a domestic setting. It is also possible that the donor portrait was added to an extant canvas when the painting was placed in the chapel in the 1630s or 1640s or when the new retablo was installed a few decades later. While there were significant changes to the layout of the church after the Jesuit expulsion of 1767, the size and complexity of the lateral chapels’ frames suggests the largest canvases (including St. Michael the Archangel) were not moved after the seventeenth century. Reading the donations and bequests that funded the Jesuits’ renovation of the new San Pedro, one is struck by the number of powerful and affluent female donors whose lavish gifts proclaimed their wealth in the service of eternal favor during this period of the church’s reconstruction and decoration. In 1637, María de Espina provided funds and goods for the foundation of a chapel at the Jesuit church; in 1645, Ursula de Peralta Pacheco left the church and colegio funds, as well as enslaved individuals, textiles, metalwork, and

Figure 66. View of lateral chapels in San Pedro, Lima. Photo: author.

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Figure 67. Chimú artist, feathered tabard, fifteenth to sixteenth century. Cotton and feathers. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Fletcher Fund, 1959.

a guitar.70 Possibly reflecting a similar donation, the donor portrait may have already been part of the painting when it was installed in the chapel. Alternately, the donor portrait could have been added at that time or at a later moment, either inspiring, or responding to, the portraits within the later paintings of the Virgin of the Rosary and the Circumcision in this chapel. The Jesuit cult of the angels provides a framework for understanding the relationship between the Indigenous donor portrait and the figure of the archangel in San Pedro. In Lima, the Society

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of Jesus made St. Michael the patron saint of the Indian orders; the saint was also the namesake of the local confraternity for Indigenous stone­ masons and wood-carvers.71 At the 1661 dedication of a new retablo at San Pedro, a procession including the archbishop, viceroy, and other dignitaries was escorted by three soldiers dressed as Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, while soldiers dressed as the other four archangels tossed flowers before them.72 The painting fits within conventional depictions of a donor as a supplicant, appealing to a saint particularly venerated in Lima, drawing upon a familiar iconography of the archangel. In his 1648 sermon on the Second Coming of Christ, the Jesuit Francisco de Ávila wrote, “These [angels] will come first in their legions, distinguished by their different finery and appearances, the various colors of their clothing, and exquisite feather-wear.”73 Ávila describes the raiment of the angels as akin to the ancient tradition of Peruvian featherwork, decorative cloths fashioned of feathers that served as ceremonial garments and hangings (fig. 67). Educated at the Jesuit college in Cusco, Ávila wrote his book of sermons in both Quechua and Spanish, and it was posthumously published in Lima. As Ávila’s sermon attests, Peruvian Jesuits promoted the invocation of the angels, both in deference to Spanish royal taste and to exploit perceived parallels with pre-Hispanic beliefs.74 An anonymous Jesuit tract of the midseventeenth century claimed that the Inca people were already familiar with angels as, according to the author, pre-Hispanic Inca religion described “invisible servants” of the god Illa Tecce Viracocha; the priest conflated a Quechua word for Indigenous winged soldiers with the European iconography of the militant archangel.75 The

author equates the term huaminca (Inca’s hawk) with miles coelestis (heavenly soldier). The Jesuit strategy of accommodation underpins both this fortuitous mistranslation and Ávila’s vernacular reference to the magnificence of the feathered angelic host; both were intended to resonate with a local audience and to appease imagined Indigenous aesthetic sensibilities. Ignatius of Loyola advised missionaries to assume the manner of those they sought to convert: Omnia omnibus factus sum (To be all things to all people).76 The iconography of the archangel then takes on multiple, potentially simultaneous readings: signaling the social status for the donor and her embrace of the Jesuit cult of the archangels while modeling Indigenous piety and projecting an image of the missionary order’s success in the project of acculturation and conversion. Thus in Lima, as we have seen already in New Spain, St. Michael the Archangel engendered new resonances, reflecting upon the metaphoric pairing of conquest and conversion in de Vos’s design, appropriating and recasting the pacific nature of this archangel to suit multiple local and regional devotional concerns. Perhaps seizing upon the Jesuit assumption that angels were particularly suited to Andean spirituality, the choice of the de Vos model here demonstrates the patron’s piety and embrace of Ignatian spirituality. The unarmed angel does not conquer the donor but serves as her divine mediator. The patron simultaneously aligns herself with St. Michael, with the devotional program encouraged by the Society of Jesus, and, through her dress and place within the confraternity chapel, with the Indigenous elite of Lima. The painting of St. Michael the Archangel with donor in San Pedro reflects the dynamic construction of social knowledge in viceregal Lima.77

Rather than viewing this donor portrait as depicting an irresolvable polarity between “fully Hispanicized subjectivity” and “Indigenous resistance,” the painting troubles these binaries.78 Its place within the chapel of the Niño de Huanca contributed to the magnificent display of the Indigenous confraternity’s devotion, wealth, and corporate power within the Jesuit’s flagship church in the viceroyalty. The Indigenous patroness, via her portrait, assumes a position of spiritual and temporal authority within this space. In retaining Indigenous attire, she asserts the continued potency of local cultural traditions and social norms. The donor portrait thus reflects the complex historical reality of elite Indigenous women in the viceregal capital who navigated the colonial system on their own terms.79

Seeing in San Pedro Within Lima’s Jesuit church, the donor portrait points to the ways in which artworks were used to mediate divine presence, Indigenous agency, and geographic distance. Seen alongside imported and locally made artworks, those within the Niño de Huanca chapel and the entirety of the newly renovated church interior of San Pedro, St. Michael the Archangel with donor pictures the patroness in direct communication with the divine while also positioning the viewer within the Spanish imperial orbit. Distance is reconfigured within the walls of the Jesuit church in Lima, where two versions of St. Michael the Archangel, one made in Lima and the other in Madrid, hang meters away from each other. St. Michael the Archangel with donor emphasizes the patron’s proximity to the biblical event, rather than depicting the donor as situated within

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Figure 68. Mateo Pérez de Alesio, Doña Inés Muñoz, 1595. Oil on canvas. Lima, Monasterio de la Concepción. Photo: author.

a recognizable domestic or devotional space. This method contrasts markedly with other viceregal Peruvian paintings: for example, the 1595 portrait of Doña Inés Muñoz by Alesio for Lima’s Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Limpia Concepción, which shows the donor depicted in prayer before an image, a painting of the Virgin of the Apocalypse (fig. 68).80 As Maya Stanfield-Mazzi argues, viceregal Peruvian donor portraits often emphasize specific recognizable settings for their donors—who are positioned in front of celebrated cult statues or represented as witnesses to particular civic religious festivals or events, like the celebration of Corpus Christi.81 In contrast, in the San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel, the patron is positioned directly before the archangel without the mediation of explanatory text or the suggestion of

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an enclosing spatial environment, religious procession, or event. Rather than documenting religious practice, a physical site, or miraculous image, this donor is shown unmediated, occupying the same physical space as the archangel. The same direct relationship between the spiritual realm and the foregrounded, reverent patron characterizes the other portraits in the San Pedro chapel dedicated to Niño de Huanca (see figs. 64 and 65), as well as the paintings of other solo female donors described above, all of which directly juxtapose half-length portraits with a biblical narrative or devotional image (see fig. 62). In these examples, that religious scene is likely based on a printed exemplar, showing the artist’s facility with aggregating or combining multiple models to create a single scene.82 In the case of St. Michael the Archangel, the composition of the engraved model for this archangel is closely followed, though dramatically enlarged and enlivened with vibrant colors. The experience of holding a monochrome print in one’s hands is transformed into full corporeal participation, as the patron’s likeness is inserted directly into the space of the religious image. This painting pictures an immersive act of devotion, one that collapses physical and temporal distances and allows the Indigenous patron direct access to the divine event. In St. Michael the Archangel and in the other paintings in the confraternity’s chapel, the inclusion of donor portraits cast their patrons as mediators and potential intercessors for the devout visitor to the chapel. A 1631 Quechua handbook for priests gave St. Michael the name Capac Cuzco San Miguel and Tampu Toco San Miguel, associating the archangel with the highest-ranking Inca.83 While donor portraits, as memorials and monuments to ensure the donor’s

eternal salvation, were common in early modern churches, in viceregal Peru portraits of Indigenous elites and their ancestors may have had an additional valence rooted in local practices. Dean and Leibsohn suggest that oil paintings of Incans, hung alongside saints in eighteenth-century Peruvian churches, may have functioned as a way of providing material presence to the continued veneration of ancestors, not in opposition to Catholic belief but in concert with it.84 Similarly, the concentration of seventeenth-century Indigenous donor portraits in the chapel of Niño de Huanca suggests that this confraternity particularly valued the role of portraits in communicating the historic and contemporary social standing of urban Indigenous communities. The pictured presence of the Indigenous faithful within the Jesuit chapel celebrated the social capital and devotion of this community as both a historic and living presence. The San Pedro St. Michael the Archangel not only replicates the iconography of the de Vos print but also pictures how Lima’s Christian Indigenous elite appropriated the figure of the archangel to signal their own social status and access to religious power in the city. Countering European suspicions of South American idolatry, the patron and artist demonstrate their mastery of Christian devotional tropes. Within the newly renovated San Pedro, the locally produced St. Michael the Archangel with donor hung alongside artworks originating from the workshops of artists employed by the Spanish Crown, placing the patron and artist in dialogue with contemporary artists and elite patrons on both sides of the Atlantic. Lima’s Jesuit church holds sculptures by the esteemed Sevillian sculptors Juan Martínez Montañés and Juan de Mesa.85 Román’s St.

Figure 69. Bartolomé Román, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Oil on canvas. Lima, San Pedro. Photo: Raul Montero Quispe. Iglesia San Pedro de Lima © Compañía de Jesús - Comunidad de San Pedro.

Michael the Archangel of approximately the same date also hangs nearby (fig. 69). Comparing the two canvases, the Limeño painting is much closer to the 1584 print than the Spanish painting is to the same model. Of course, Román could have been working from the print or one of the many Spanish paintings after the engraving (see fig. 53). Here, and in a related painting of the same date in Spain (see fig. 51), Román swapped out the archangel’s all’antica armor for a flowing blue robe, and

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the richly embroidered and tasseled garment is far looser than de Vos’s skintight breastplate; the form of Michael’s boots and the golden cherubhead ornaments on his sleeves, however, invoke the memory of the earlier engraving. Comparing the two versions of the design, moreover, should not suggest the colonial artist as “late” or “archaic” in comparison to the Madrid painter. Rather, on both sides of the Atlantic, artists responded and reworked the imported St. Michael the Archangel to suit local needs. Each artist addressed a distinct set of concerns in appropriating this iconography. While Román responded to the rhizomatic spread of the design across Spain, spurred by the centrifugal replication of the tastes of royal court in Madrid, the Lima painter likely responded to the Jesuit promotion of the cult of the archangel to Lima’s Indigenous elite. Yet both exploited a shared Counter-Reformation interest in angelic subjects as marketable images intended to spur devotion, and both paintings ended up in the same Lima church. The presence of both canvases in Lima, as well as further variants of the design across the viceroyalty, suggests the range of vectors by which St. Michael the Archangel traversed the Spanish world to arrive in South America, as well as how these different infrastructures could overlap—so that both Román’s canvas and the Limeño painting could end up in the same Jesuit church within a few years of each other, thousands of miles from Antwerp, where the print was first published. A golden field of vegetal ornament cloaks the interior walls of San Pedro, collapsing and concealing the distances traveled by these imported artworks, connecting them into a singular decorative program (see fig. 66). The visual rhetoric of the St. Michael the Archangel with female donor

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and the ambitiously renovated chapels of San Pedro make a powerful claim about Lima’s artistic ambitions and the sophistication of local viewers. An imported design like St. Michael the Archangel could operate in the specific local context of the confraternity chapel while also invoking a shared aesthetic and devotional purpose communicated across the Atlantic and celebrated in the visual abundance of Lima’s Jesuit church. St. Michael was not only promoted to the Indigenous confraternities of Lima but also associated with the role of the Spanish empire as defender and promoter of the Church. The existence of two images of St. Michael the Archangel in San Pedro—one made locally and the other produced in the royal orbit of Madrid, but both modeled on the same Antwerp design—­ suggests how viral streams could intersect across time and space, amplifying one another and confusing linear assumptions about influence. While the presence of the donor anchored the St. Michael the Archangel in the chapel of Niño de Huanca specifically to the social and religious context of colonial Lima, the shared model gestured toward a mutual aesthetic language of Spanish empire, the ambitions of patrons and artists in the viceregal capital. Locally produced versions of St. Michael the Archangel could also generate their own reproductions of the iconography, divorced from the authority of the print and establishing their own networks of relation. Viral repetition of this iconography generated separate but occasionally coinciding local, regional, and global momentums that enabled the design to function in different ways wherever it landed and multiplied. Potentially decoupled from references to de Vos, Antwerp, or Montano, the multitude of local versions of St. Michaels in Puebla, Mexico City,

and Lima produced St. Michael the Archangel’s ­distinctive local and regional identities. While outside of Puebla the iconography could be connected to the miracle-working stream of San Miguel del Milagro, elite and well-traveled viewers could connect the design to the retablo in Mexico City’s cathedral. In the Jesuit church of Lima, the iconography could be seen as reflecting Counter-Reformation artistic ideals shared by artists in Lima and Madrid and as an expression of Indigenous social capital. The same image, repeated and repurposed, could be mobilized and manipulated to serve different kinds of local interests, including those of Indigenous believers, colonial ecclesiastics, and Creole artists.86 In both New Spain and Peru, the viral spread of St. Michael the Archangel depended on the simultaneous actions of different networks

and gatekeepers, each utilizing the image in their own way—from Poblano churchmen and their brethren in Mexico City to an Indigenous female patron in Lima—so that each could claim the archangel as a local image. Although inextricably bound to the machinery of colonial and ecclesiastical power that brought this design to the Americas, the interpretative potential of St. Michael the Archangel meant the design could be used to embody competing and intersecting subject positions as it moved and was replicated and referenced across multiple networks. The viral momentum of St. Michael the Archangel propelled the design’s even further transmission across the Pacific, where the iconography would be materially transformed, yet again, into a new artistic product to be exported back across these same networks.

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Chapter 5

Silver and Souls in Manila

O

n October 19, 1655, a Manila galleon ship christened the San Francisco Javier sank in the Bay of Baronga, off the coast of the Philippine island of Samar, on its return journey from Acapulco. Intense tropical storms and navigational errors contributed to the loss of the vessel, which was built in Cambodia specifically for the transpacific trade. Many of the surviving officers were imprisoned, as creditors and merchants sought recompense for the disaster. The pleito (lawsuit) addressed to the Spanish Crown accounts for the eleven tons of lost silver and lists the goods transported to the Americas by the San Francisco Javier together with the prices fetched for these wares in Acapulco. In the claim of the silk merchant Francisco Vello, alongside the thousands of pesos, worth of luxury fabrics he transported to Acapulco, we find a record for: First a box with four figures of Crucifixions in ivory • the largest cost thirty-seven pesos, • one that cost thirty-five pesos, • the third cost thirty-two pesos, • the fourth and smallest cost eighteen pesos • a figure of the Virgin that cost forty-four pesos • a figure of St. Michael costing forty-five pesos • Three figures of Saint Joseph • One costing thirty-three pesos • The other costing twenty-seven pesos • The other costing twenty-five pesos • a figure of St. Diego that costs twenty pesos • a figure of St. Pedro costing twenty-one pesos.1

This is the earliest known record of prices fetched in Latin America for ivory sculptures made in the Philippines. The figure of St. Michael was notably the most expensive sculpture in Vello’s cargo, likely the largest and most elaborately carved ivory sent to New Spain on the San Francisco Javier. Named patron saint of the Philippine archipelago in a royal cedula of 1645, the archangel was a popular subject for ivory sculptures made in Manila in the seventeenth century.2 De Vos’s design, transported to Manila in print, became by far the most dominant figural model for these depictions of Michael, recognizable due to the angel’s curly hair, all’antica armor, prominently knotted sash, and distinctive boots adorned with cherub heads, whose soles often tread upon a recumbent serpentine or chimeric devil (fig. 70). This chapter reconstructs and completes the viral circuit of de Vos’s St. Michael the Archangel, tracing how the ivory versions of the design, transformed in Manila yet still recognizable, were sent back to New Spain and Europe. As in the viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru, artists working in the Philippines utilized imported prints as models for their works, adapting the iconography to suit local contexts. Across the Spanish world, the use of the de Vos engraving allowed for doctrinal compliance, providing a marketable model that allowed for the assertion of local artistic ambitions. But in Manila, there was a key difference. The majority of artists working in the Spanish entrepôt were unconverted Chinese

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Figure 70. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Mexico City, Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. Photo: author.

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immigrants, known as Sangleys. While missionaries in the Americas may have fretted about the endurance of pre-Hispanic beliefs, the economic realities of the Spanish colony in the Pacific depended on the labor of the unconverted. The Chinese diaspora also produced artworks for the evangelization and conversion of the islands. How this print came to operate as a model in Manila offers insight into the limits and failures of the conversion effort, caught between the foundational economic role of the Sangleys in the Philippines and the repeated “rebellions” of this Chinese populace against Spanish rule. Critically, whatever their religious status, these ivory carvers participated in a transoceanic market of luxury goods, as the cargo record of San Francisco Javier demonstrates; these Sangley workshops were responsible for the St. Michael the Archangel’s viral spread across the Pacific. In Manila, where immigrant artistic labor used imported African ivory to fashion sculptures for the purposes of Catholic conversion and trans­ oceanic commerce, “local” was not a stable category. The global infrastructures and market demands that allowed de Vos’s design to reach Manila also fostered a desire for new artistic variants, which Sangley carvers exploited via the production of ivory archangels. The viral success of these sculptures documented in the 1655 pleito thus forces a reassessment of the relationship between the local and the global.

Flanders in the Philippines First, how did de Vos’s engraving get to the ivorycarving workshops of Manila, and why was it used there as a model for ivory sculpture? In discussing the de Vos print’s viral circulation in New Spain

and Peru, we have already seen how Flemish prints and paintings were exported to the American viceroyalties via Seville. But Flemish sculpture, moving along similar routes, also played a key role in Spanish claims to divine and terrestrial authority over the newly conquered islands. This chapter traces how de Vos’s design traveled to the archipelago and how its transmission and appropriation in the Philippines intersected with the political aesthetics of conversion in Asia, both replicating and diverging from paths taken in Europe, New Spain, and Peru. Antwerp’s status as the premier print publishing center of the Spanish empire accounts for the print’s presence in Manila.3 We have seen how printed images from Antwerp, which were relatively cheap and easy to transport, are recorded in transatlantic shipping records. The preferred Spanish route to the Philippines was via New Spain: clergy, merchants, and colonial administrators sailed first from Seville to Veracruz, then traveled overland to Mexico City, where they would overwinter before continuing onward on the Camino de China to Acapulco and undertaking the approximately one-hundred-day sea voyage to Manila.4 Even during the period of the Iberian union (1580–1640), when the kingdoms of Spain and Portugal were both ruled by the Spanish king, the Spanish route to the Pacific was kept separate from the Portuguese seaward itinerary to Asia, which originated in Lisbon and traversed the Cape of Good Hope to Goa before another five months’ sailing to Macau. Surviving Jesuit annual letters (carta anua) from Manila are addressed to their brethren in Seville, confirming that the Spanish route remained the preferred itinerary for both goods and correspondence. For example, in 1620, the

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Jesuit procurator in Manila, Francisco Gutiérrez, wrote to Alonso de Escobar in Seville, noting “the prints that I received are so excellent.”5 This correspondence suggests that religious orders specifically sent printed images from Seville to Manila via New Spain to meet the demand for devotional and instructional imagery. There are scattered references to prints, books, and other objects being sent to Manila from New Spain as gifts and bequests. The bishop of Puerto Rico, Pedro Solier, had been a missionary to the Philippines; in 1615, Solier sent a gift of fabric and a box of songbooks on the Manila galleon to the new Augustinian convent in the archipelago.6 At the turn of the seventeenth century, the soldier-merchant Pedro de Zúñiga also imported books to the islands in partnership with a cleric from Mexico City.7 The very first piece of European artwork to reach the Philippines, according to legend, was a piece of Flemish sculpture. In 1521, when Ferdinand Magellan “discovered” the archipelago now known as the Philippines, his crew left behind a small statue of the Christ Child gifted to the unnamed wife of Rajah Humabon, the ruler of the island of Cebu, upon her baptism into the Christian faith. When Spanish troops under the command of Miguel López de Legazpi returned to conquer the islands in 1565, a soldier rediscovered this sculpture (now known as the Santo Niño de Cebu), which was described by the chronicler Fernando Riquiel as “a child Jesus like those of Flanders.”8 While there is no physical evidence corroborating the Flemish origins of the Santo Niño de Cebu, the figure type—a standing, curly-haired Christ Child, holding an orb in his left hand while making a gesture of blessing with his right—has iconographic and stylistic correspondences with statues of the infant Christ produced for export

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in Mechelen throughout the sixteenth century (fig. 71).9 Mechelen dominated the European export market for small-scale devotional sculpture, called poupée de Malines (fig. 72).10 Spain and New Spain were key markets for these works. Regardless of its actual place of facture, the “rediscovered” Santo Niño de Cebu was immediately recognized by Legazpi’s soldiers in large part because of the preponderance of similar Flemish statues in the Spanish Americas. Legazpi had lived in New Spain for thirty years before sailing to the Philippines; in the archipelago, he established a brotherhood devoted to the Santo Niño de Cebu, modeled on the Mexican priory of San Agustin. The apparently miraculous survival of the statue was interpreted as divine legitimization of the Spanish campaign of conquest in the Philippines in the name of the Christian conversion of the archipelago.11 Via the cultivation of the cult of the Santo Niño de Cebu, then, the colonial and ecclesiastical administration of the Philippines was conceptually linked to other Spanish territories, namely, Flanders and New Spain. This linkage is made clear in a letter written by the first bishop of Manila, Domingo de Salazar. A member of the Dominican Order, Salazar arrived in Manila from Mexico a decade after Legazpi declared that city capital of the new Spanish colony. In 1590, Salazar wrote to Philip II, describing the ingenuity of the thousands of Chinese immigrants residing in Manila and specifically praising their artistic abilities as copyists: The mechanical arts pursued by Spaniards have all died out, because people visit and buy from the Sangleys, who are very good craftsmen in Spanish fashion, and make everything cheaply. . . . They are so ingenious that, as soon as they see any object made by a Spanish workman,

Figure 71. Flemish or Filipino (?) artist, Santo Niño de Cebu, ca. 1570. Wood with silver and silver-gilt accessories. Cebu City, Basilica Minore del Santo Niño de Cebu. Cofradiabsn / CC BY-SA 4.0. Figure 72. Mechelen artist, Christ Child, ca. 1510. Polychromed walnut. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

they make it their own. What arouses my wonder most

images that come from Spain, I understand that it

is, that when I arrived no Sangley knew how to paint

should not be long when even those made in Flanders

anything; but now have so perfected themselves in this

will not be missed.12

art, that they have wrought marvelous works both with the chisel and with the brush. Having seen some infant Jesus figures in ivory, it seems to me that nothing more perfect than these could be produced; and such is the opinion of those who have seen them. The churches are now being provided with these images, which they sorely lacked before; with their ability to replicate those

Salazar’s 1590 letter suggests Flemish sculpture was still the stylistic barometer against which all other sculptural work was assessed. This metric is in itself unsurprising—since the fifteenth century, there had been robust Iberian demand for imported Netherlandish prints, sculpture,

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Figure 73. Manila artists, installation view of two sculptures of the Christ Child, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding, silver-gilt jewelry. Monterrey, Museo de Historia Mexicana. Photo: author.

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and other luxury goods, and we have seen how the taste for Flemish artwork was transmitted to Spanish America.13 Crucially, however, Salazar’s letter also attests to the Spanish desire to supplant this demand for imported Flemish sculpture with locally produced works (fig. 73). Salazar singles out the Sangley carvers’ ability to reproduce (retratar, to represent or portray) European images. The Dominican’s narration of the Chinese artists’ skillful copying parallels the stories told by Christian missionaries to New Spain (see chapter 3) regarding Indigenous Americans’ talents for replication. Hispano-Philippine ivory sculptures from the late sixteenth to seventeenth centuries reproduce iconographies familiar from Flemish and Spanish sculpture: Crucifixions (see fig. 77); figures of standing saints, the Virgin, or the Christ Child (see figs. 73 and 75); heads and hands for imagenes de vestir (sculptures that were dressed in garments, such as fig. 76); as well as small triptychs or plaques carved in relief.14 The most popular forms of Mechelen export statuary—images of the standing infant Christ and the Virgin of the Apocalypse atop a crescent moon—are also the predominant forms of Hispano-­Philippine ivories. Two surviving ivory sculptures of the standing Christ Child, with close stylistic links to Mechelen poupées, suggest there may have even been some European precedent for the execution of such devotional statuary in ivory.15 Crucially, however, seventeenth-century Philippine ivory-carving workshops superseded these earlier exemplars. Hispano-Philippine ivories can dwarf earlier Mechelen models, with some surviving sculptures more than a meter in height (see fig. 77). Manila’s carvers rapidly expanded upon the iconographic range of Flem-

ish poupées, in response to both local and overseas devotional demands. A high number of surviving sculptures depict key saints of the missionary orders most active in the islands: St. Francis, St. Dominic, and St. Ignatius of Antioch. Later in the seventeenth century, Philippine workshops produced images of the newly canonized saints Francis Xavier and Rose of Lima, indicating their responsiveness to American tastes.16 The astonishing scale and craftsmanship of these ivory sculptures and the development of new iconographies, like the numerous figures of St. Michael the Archangel, represent more than an emulative engagement with Flemish models or simply meeting local demand for devotional objects. Salazar’s letter orients local sculptural production in relation to European models while predicting that the ingenuity and inventive capabilities of Manila’s carvers would soon eliminate the need for imported sculpture at all. Salazar links the imitative ability of the Sangley carvers to the eventual self-sufficiency of Manila’s art market. Yet the ways in which immigrant Chinese artists utilized the de Vos design in Manila’s sculptural workshops far exceeds Salazar’s narrative about skillful Sangley mimicry, illuminating how these artists capitalized upon global networks and infrastructures of exchange to produce a rival luxury export. Flanders was undoubtedly a source of the sculpted and engraved models used by Manila’s Chinese ivory carvers, but it also represented an economic exemplar for the Spanish colony in the Pacific. Flanders and the Philippines both exported luxury goods across the Spanish world. The numerous ivory statues of St. Michael made in the Philippines, then, reveal more than the dominance of Flemish artistic exemplars or the successful conversion of the

local Chinese population; instead they demonstrate ways in which Chinese immigrants to the Philippines entered and exploited transoceanic trade networks.

The Sangley Workshop The makers of objects like the ivory St. Michael the Archangel statue remain anonymous (see fig. 70). No surviving ivory sculpture of St. Michael is signed or dated; there are no surviving contracts or known artist names attached to these works. Yet the relatively few archival references to ivory sculptures and Chinese artists in Manila can be read alongside a close study of the objects’ material facture in order to gain insight into the Sangley artists’ workshops of seventeenth-century Manila. Since the Song Dynasty (960–1279), Chinese carvers had used African ivory to produce sculptures of deities and revered figures (fig. 74).17 In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, ivory carving was particularly associated with artists working along the southeastern coast in Fujian province. A 1628 gazette describing the industries of Zhangzhou complained that ivory was no longer available in the prefecture as it was monopolized by the port markets, where it was carved into “immortals and that sort of thing, supplying them for the purposes of providing pleasure . . . ivory chopsticks, ivory cups, ivory belt plaques and ivory fans are also to be had.”18 The heavily lidded eyes and simplified drapery of some surviving Hispano-Philippine sculptures, such as the Virgin and Child in Seville (fig. 75), has led Gauvin Alexander Bailey to suggest that many so-called Hispano-Philippine works may have been produced in Fujian to be

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Figure 74. Anonymous Ming artist, probably from Zhangzhou, China, Guanyin, 1580–1640. Carved and stained ivory. London, Victoria and Albert Museum. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

sold in Manila.19 Indeed, Hernando Riquel’s 1574 description of the first Chinese ships arriving in Manila makes reference to Chinese crucifixes.20 Ivory as well as “ornaments of little value” are both listed by Antonio de Morga as among the trade goods offered by Chinese junks in Manila.21 But as the 1655 pleito documents, larger figural ivory sculptures, like St. Michael the Archangel, were certainly more than “of little value.” Salazar’s 1590 letter is also early evidence that there

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were local Chinese carvers working from European models in the Philippines by the end of the sixteenth century. The resultant sculptures were not only used in churches but also collected by powerful colonial administrators from an early date. Alonso Fajardo, governor of the islands from 1616 to his death in 1624, owned at least nine ivories, including four statues of the Virgin, two crucifixes, and a figure of the Christ Child.22 The earliest archival sources referencing artistic production in Spanish colonial Manila emphasize the central role of the Chinese immigrant population. These Chinese immigrants to Manila were largely from southern Fujian province, known as Minnan.23 The Spanish term for this population, Sangley, derives from sing-li, the Hokkien (a Fujian dialect) term for “trade” or “doing business.”24 In 1590, Salazar estimated that there were three to four thousand Chinese resident in Manila, housed within the Parián, the designated residential and commercial district for such immigrants, outside the city walls.25 The Chinese population of Manila rose substantially when the seasonal trading junks arrived. Continued immigration meant that by 1602 there were an estimated twenty thousand Chinese in Manila; the 1603 “uprising” of the Sangleys and the Spaniards’ subsequent brutal decimation of the local Chinese population drastically reduced this number—but only temporarily.26 An official cap on Chinese and Japanese immigration was imposed by Spanish colonial authorities but never enforced—in large part because this immigrant population was the lifeblood of Manila, both brokering trade and providing the colony with labor and supplies. In 1606, only three years after the first ­disastrous massacre of the Chinese Philippine

population, there were 243 shops recorded in Manila’s Parián, demonstrating both the resilience of the diaspora and the Spanish need for Chinese labor.27 In 1614, a resident of Manila described how his fellow citizens relied on the Sangleys “for all the things necessary for a republic”: the five or six Spanish shops in the city, he noted, only sold goods from Castile, whereas the Sangleys were “captains, tailors, carpenters, blacksmiths, ropemakers and silversmiths, and bakers, hatters.”28 In 1632, a petition from Manila again noted the Parián housed all of the city’s “shops of the merchants . . . and other workshops.”29 This was apparently still the case as late as 1704, when the Italian traveler Gemelli Careri described the Parián: “Here are found all arts and trades.”30 While subject to periodic violence and geographically contained within designated residential zones, the Chinese population of colonial Manila was clearly indispensable to the survival of the Spanish colony throughout the seventeenth century—despite the fact they were largely resistant to conversion to Christianity. While Parián baptism records from the 1620s include several Sangley artisans who did convert to the Catholic faith, this community’s wholesale resistance to conversion continually vexed the city’s Dominican Order, who held ecclesiastical jurisdiction over the Parián.31 Converts could marry Tagalog women and permanently settle outside the Parián; they were also exempted from repartimiento labor and tributes for ten years.32 These incentives often meant that even those Sangleys who did convert were viewed with suspicion by Spanish colonial administrators and church officials who worried about the durability of such conversions. After several uprisings by the Chinese immigrant population of the city (in

Figure 75. Manila artist, Virgin and Child, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding; silver-gilt crown. Seville, Catedral Santa María de la Sede. Photo: author.

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Figure 76. Manila artist, Nuestra Señora del Santísimo Rosario—La Naval de Manila, 1593–96, and restored in the nineteenth century. Ivory face and hands with polychromy, glass eyes, and hair on a wooden body. Quezon City, Santo Domingo. Estancabigas / Alamy Stock Photo.

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1603, 1639, 1662, and 1668), tributes from Christian Sangleys rose, suggesting conversions were, in fact, often forced concessions on remaining inhabitants.33 In the course of the seventeenth century, then, the Dominicans of the Parián went from treating Sangleys outside Manila’s walls as a doctrina ripe for conversion to a convivencia, a foreign community voluntarily resident in a land nominally ruled by a Christian king.34 In contemporary accounts, however, artworks were credited with the potential to convert Manila’s Chinese population. The Dominican priest Diego Aduarte, who arrived in the archipelago in 1595, described how an unconverted and unnamed Sangley artist under the direction of Hernando de los Rios Coronel fashioned the ivory head and hands of the Virgin of the Rosary for Manila’s Dominican monastery (fig. 76).35 Years later, the artist converted before this same Virgin, in eventual recognition of the image’s devotional efficacy. But crucially, when the Sangley artist was first employed to carve the figure, he was not yet a Christian. European patrons, then, did not have a problem contracting unconverted Sangleys to produce devotional artworks for local churches; the 1655 shipping record also attests that Sangley ivory workshops in Manila fashioned sculptures to be sold across the Pacific Ocean. Here, then, is a surprising parallel to the situation in post-1585 Antwerp, where the Spanish used the oubli du passé to forget Protestant rebellion and where the Jesuits were willing to employ printmakers of dubious confessional status to produce the Evangelicae historiae imagines; similarly, in Manila, the projects of church and empire could only prosper with the contributing labor of the Sangleys, no matter their beliefs. Without the Sangleys, the colony could produce nothing.

Ivory and the Indian Ocean Trade As liminal, often threatened residents of the Philippine colony, these immigrant artists utilized mercantile networks and artistic models both inside and outside Spanish imperial control. Recognizing the African origin of some of the ivory used in the Sangley workshops of Manila, and analyzing the techniques of carving used by these artists, helps to complicate Salazar’s narrative about the adept Sangley carvers working solely from European models in service of the Catholic conversion of the region. Sangley artists had access to ivory from both Asia and Africa, in both worked and unworked forms. Foregrounding the role of trade across the Indian Ocean thus reorients our understanding of these ivory carvings of St. Michael the Archangel, illustrating how the perpetuation of a viral image can surpass its original networks and audiences. The material ingenuity and innovation of the makers of these ivory sculptures is particularly self-evident in the case of the numerous statues of St. Michael the Archangel—for the model used by these sculptors was a two-dimensional print rather than a Flemish poupée. To craft ivory figural sculptures based on a print, which was the case for the numerous ivory St. Michaels following the de Vos engraving (see figs. 70, 78, 79, 82, 85, and 86), required access to models, materials, and skills from a variety of sources. First, Sangley carvers had to acquire the engravings, either from patrons or elsewhere. No documentary evidence has yet been located about the commissioning or manufacture of these sculptures, but the correspondence between ivory carving and European printed exemplars has long been noted—both for figural works like St. Michael and for small triptychs or plaquettes.36 I would propose that printed

models or drawn copies made after these engravings must have been held in Sangley workshops, given the significant number of related surviving versions of specific iconographies.37 This situation suggests that Manila’s ivory carvers recognized and responded to a demand for popular subjects and forms, developing original artistic products based on engraved models. European gatekeepers may have controlled official access to prints, but the sheer number of extant copies made after the 1584 St. Michael the Archangel testify to how intermediary copies—both drawn and sculpted— could propel a design’s continued use beyond the singular encounter of a direct commission. In ivory sculptors’ workshops, this smallscale, two-dimensional print had to be enlarged dramatically and reconceived as a three-dimensional form. One must recall that the system of graphic crosshatching used in European engravings to convey weight and volume was largely unfamiliar to Chinese artists working outside the imperial court until the eighteenth century.38 Interpreting the dense network of hatchings and foreign iconographic details necessitated familiarity with Western conventions of perspective and chiaroscuro as well as basic theological concepts. Working with ivory presented additional challenges beyond the translation into three dimensions, since the sculptor had to figure out how to efficiently use single or multiple pieces of ivory to craft the figure. Although restored in the eighteenth century, the Virgin described by Aduarte and now known as La Naval testifies to the skills of Chinese carvers in Manila around 1600 (fig. 76).39 The form of the sculpture—a near lifesize head and pair of hands for a wooden image to be dressed (known in Spanish as an imagen de vestir)—was unprecedented in the Fujian carv-

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ing tradition. While numerous surviving Crucifixions rendered in ivory demonstrate how the bent form of the crucified Christ is an obvious subject for the exploitation of the tusk’s natural arc (fig. 77), the figure of St. Michael reveals the complex spatial logic of the sculptor in overcoming the constraints of ivory as a material. The sculptor uses the inherent curve of the elephant tusk in the archangel’s torso to impart a sense of forward motion akin to the contrapposto of the engraved figure. The gentle bend of the tusk emphasizes the coil of the serpentine devil’s body (fig. 78). Multiple pieces of ivory are joined in such a way that the resulting figure completely breaks away from the tusk form. Asian elephant ivory had been available in the Philippines since the tenth century; in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, official embassies as well as merchant junks from the kingdoms of Siam (Thailand) and Cambodia carried marfil to the archipelago.40 A fourteenth-century gift of elephants from the sultan of Java to the ruler of Sulu meant that there was an elephant population on this southern Philippine island until the eighteenth century; however, there is no record of a seventeenth-century ivory trade between Manila and Sulu, where Spanish forces fought multiple campaigns to eradicate Islam.41 The size of many of the surviving statues of St. Michael strongly suggests that ivory from African, as well as Asian elephants, was available to Manila’s sculptural workshops. Artifacts with sections of ivory wider than eleven centimeters are commonly understood to derive from the African elephants, given the discrepancy in tusk size between the two species (although this can only be confirmed via genetic testing).42 Each wing of the St. Michael the Archangel from the Viceregal

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Figure 77. Manila artist, Crucifixion, ca. 1630. Ivory with polychromy and gilding; wooden cross. Mexico City, Museo Soumaya. Photo: author.

Figure 78. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1630. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum. Courtesy of the Walters Art Museum (CC0 1.0).

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Art Museum in Tepotzotlán is formed from the hollow tops of the elephant tusk (the pulp cavity), whose diameter indicates a probable African origin for the material (fig. 79). The sculptor took advantage of the natural concavity to convincingly suggest unfurling wings. In contrast, the figure’s arms and legs work against the memory of the tusk’s original form, as they are carved separately from whole pieces of ivory attached together with joins ingeniously masked by the figure’s costume. In other versions of the archangel, the wings are carefully formed from multiple sections of ivory (see figs. 70 and 78). Even the addition of the elaborately knotted sash at the archangel’s side typically necessitated the covert addition of an additional piece of ivory; this knot is not an iconographic necessity, yet its repeated presence in these sculptures suggests that it was seen as a key formal element of this design. (Notably it is not a knot in the engraving but a tucked loop of drapery.) The resulting compound sculptures recall almost nothing of the original tusk’s shape, masking the intensive labor required to conceive and craft these figures. The size of these sculptures required the availability of African ivory, necessitating the involvement of further trade networks, stretching across the Indian Ocean. Ivory, both as raw material and in the form of finished sculptures, was brought to the Philippines from Portuguese and South Indian traders operating in East African ports (Malindi, Zanzibar, and later Mozambique) who sent tusks onward to Goa and Macau.43 The union of the Portuguese and Spanish Crowns may have assisted in the movement of ivory from East Africa to Manila—either via Goa and Macau or from the Indian coast via the Moluccas to the archipelago. It is possible tusks were sent as donations and legacies

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from wealthy Portuguese and Indian Christians across the Indian Ocean. In 1596, a Portuguese captain “donated” several enslaved persons of African origin to the Jesuit Church in Manila, suggesting the possibility of this kind of transfer of material wealth across the Indian Ocean.44 The availability of African ivory in Manila appears to have continued even after the dissolution of the Portuguese union and the decline in direct trade between Manila and Portuguese Asia,45 evidence of the continuing dominance of Asian merchants active in the Indian Ocean trade. Finished ivory sculptures as well as tusks were also traded across the Indian Ocean to the Philippines. The 1615 shipwreck of the Nossa Senhora da Luz, which sank in the Azores on its way from Goa to Portugal, contained an ivory Christ Child, Crucifixion, Virgin, and assorted decorative ivory items.46 Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century ivories from Goa are distinguished by their more delicate facial features and the stiffer modeling of both their bodies and drapery.47 They are also recognizable for their distinctive iconographies, such as Christ as the Good Shepherd shown seated on an elaborate floral throne, with his face resting on his hand (fig. 80). Carvers in Sri Lanka (Ceylon, known as Singhalese) produced opulently decorated ivory caskets, plaquettes, and fans, as well as some smaller figural carvings, which were all exported to Europe on Portuguese ships from the mid-sixteenth century. Marjorie Trusted has raised the possibility that some of the recovered ivories from the 1601 wreck of the Santa Margarita, a Manila galleon ship bound for Acapulco, may be Goan in origin, citing the presence of a small figure of Christ very similar to Goan exemplars (fig. 81).48 This archaeological evidence suggests Manila was a place both where ivories were carved and where

Figure 79. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Tepotzotlán, Museo Nacional del Virreinato. Secretaría de Cultura—INAH.-MNV.-MEX. Reproduction authorized by the National Institute of Anthropology and History.

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Figure 80. Goan artist, Christ as the Good Shepherd, seventeenth century. Ivory. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum. Courtesy of the Walters Art Museum (CC0 1.0). Figure 81. Goan artist (?), Christ Child [fragment], ca. 1600. Ivory. Bellevue, Washington, private collection.

ivories from the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea were traded. The production of these ivory St. Michael the Archangel statues, then, required the activation of trade networks and mercantile infrastructures outside of the Spanish orbit—including Chinese immigration and trading junks as well as established South Asian and Portuguese imperial merchant routes. Manila’s ivory workshops were where all of these networks overlapped with Spanish colonial administration and market demand from Latin America. Sangley carvers utilized European prints and ivory sculptural models originating on the Indian

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subcontinent as well as the local availability of African ivory to push the boundaries of the sculptural medium in terms of scale, composition, and surface detail. St. Michael the Archangel’s viral leap from print to sculpture in the Philippines responded to the Indian Ocean’s circuits of trade and concepts of value, which involved the accessibility of African ivory in the Philippines, Sangley artists’ exposure to Chinese and Indian techniques of ivory carving, and European and Latin American demand for this innovative new luxury good. In the absence of archival records documenting the Sangley workshops of Manila, close

consideration of the materials and techniques used to create the ivory statues of St. Michael helps to reconstruct the artistic and commercial ambition of Manila’s Sangley artists. Drawing on the meshworks of the South China Sea, as well as South Asian and Portuguese networks across the Indian Ocean, Manila’s ivory workshops supplemented the Spanish imperial and Catholic infrastructures that had enabled St. Michael the Archangel’s earlier viral spread, forwarding these new artistic products back across the Pacific and amplifying the design’s viral reach.

St. Michael the Archangel Across the Pacific Why did Manila’s seventeenth-century ivory sculptors produce so many carvings of St. Michael the Archangel? More than a dozen large-scale figures survive, many of which are extremely close to the de Vos iconography in their rendering. As we shall see, there are scattered references to the archangel in archival sources. The 1655 pleito quoted at the start of this chapter implies there was not only a local market for ivories of the angel but also transoceanic demand for this kind of ambitious, luxurious sculpture. Whereas previous scholarship on these sculptures has attempted to link the “Chineseness” of their makers with stylistic and iconographic features of the objects, here I want to push back against a reading of these objects as syncretic, cultural hybrids.49 Instead, I would like to reflect on conversion as both a spiritual and economic process in order to consider how these objects and their use embody the intertwining of devotional and commercial networks within the global Spanish empire. These ivory statues of St. Michael the Archangel

were made not only to serve the devotional needs of the local population but also to participate in a larger Habsburg imperial trading network between Asia and Mexico. Although Michael was only named patron saint of the islands in 1645, there is earlier evidence that the archangel was the subject of local devotion in the Philippines. The 1610 carta anua, the annual letter from the Jesuit missionaries in the Philippines to their superiors in Europe, mentions that Manila’s colegio had that year purchased a statue of Michael the Archangel made for the adornment of a pueblo church used for preaching to the Tagalog population just outside the city.50 The 1639 carta anua describes how the Church encouraged local devotion to the angels, particularly the archangel Michael as “molded to our institution.”51 The Jesuits in the Philippines, then, as in Peru, appear to have been key promoters of the cult of St. Michael. It is possible that the sculpture of St. Michael mentioned in the 1610 carta anua was based on the de Vos print. This publicly accessible sculpture may have stimulated the rhizomatic production of related ivories of this image in the archipelago. The majority of the surviving seventeenthcentury Hispano-Philippine depictions of the archangel share key features with the de Vos design: the figure’s pose, curly hair, and costume, particularly the prominently knotted sash. But there are significant variations within this corpus. Most, but not all, of the archangels wear cherubheaded boots; some have the square collar of de Vos’s design and others do not. All retain the archangel’s pose with the raised right hand. But a key element of the iconography seen in both the painted and printed versions of design cannot be conveyed in ivory: namely, the inscription and the halo of light around the archangel’s open hand. In

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the ivory versions of St. Michael the Archangel, this hand often grips a silver or ivory sword, a marked change from the unarmed iconography of the print (see figs. 78 and 82). The insertion of the sword allowed viewers to easily identify the militant archangel, but it also provided Sangley artists an opportunity to add further commercial value to these luxurious statues. In the transformation from printed model to sculptural form, the “Quis ut Deus” of Michael’s name necessarily fell away, as did the radiant light of the engraving. The sword’s presence also remilitarized an iconography that had been notably pacific in its painted and printed iterations. The weapon transforms Michael back into the militant, avenging archangel, sweeping away associations of accommodation and mercy mobilized by artists and audiences elsewhere. While this iconographic change likely had material rather than dogmatic motivations, the rearming of the archangel would have had particular resonance in Manila, where the Chinese diaspora had led numerous unsuccessful uprisings against Spanish rule. These ivory statues allowed for an unambiguous identification of the archangel with the threat of the sword, positioning conversion as military concession. But these ivory or silver weapons also enhanced the material value of these sculptures. An ivory sword added another level of complexity and fragility to these objects, while the addition of a silver weapon incorporated the skills of another local industry dominated by Chinese immigrants. Like the growth in size afforded by the use of African ivory, the rearming of St. Michael represents an artistic innovation in response to the demands of a luxury export market. Sangley sculptors accentuated the unique material characteristics of ivory—its gentle

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luster and whiteness. Areas corresponding to the angel’s skin were left unpainted but polished to evoke supernatural brilliance. Incisions and polychromy carefully indicate variations in surface texture, from the curled locks of the angel’s hair to the striations of his feathered wings. Where preserved, the forms of polychromy and gilding on these statues extend from the simple coloring of the hair, eyes, and lips to more elaborate decoration of textiles and feathers in a number of colors.52 The patterns painted on Hispano-Philippine sculpture—from sinuous florals to elaborate stripes and dashes—are distinct from those used on contemporaneous polychrome wooden sculpture of New Spain or Flanders, and they appear particular to ivories carved in the Philippines (see figs. 70, 75, 78, 82, and 85). Preliminary technical analysis of the gilding of the St. Michael in Baltimore revealed that Asian lacquer was used in the binder to adhere the gold leaf to the figure, evidence that many of these works were painted in Asia prior to being exported (see fig. 78).53 The carving techniques used in several Hispano-Philippine ivories of St. Michael also point to how Manila’s sculptors utilized both European printed and Asian sculpted exemplars. The examples now in Monterrey, Mexico (see fig. 82), and San Esteban, Salamanca (see fig. 86), while indebted in overall form to the de Vos engraving, also include a type of ornamental decoration typically found on Goan and Singhalese ivories— incised circles with a central drilled hole, seen here along the figure’s skirt and sash (fig. 82).54 Sangley carvers took inspiration from an array of artworks originating from diverse places. This multiplicity of influence is particularly evident in the most adaptable element of de Vos’s

Figure 82. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Monterrey, Museo de Historia Mexicana. Photo: author.

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Figure 83. Goan or Singhalese artist, Virgin, ca. 1650. Ivory. Monterrey, Museo de Historia Mexicana. Photo: author.

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composition, the form of the devil: often rendered as a serpent as in the print (see fig. 78) but sometimes shown as a bat-winged creature (fig. 82) that resembles other prints of the archangel and conquered devil (fig. 84). Perhaps most intriguing, the version in Badajoz does away with the humanoid devil entirely, placing a Chinese guardian lion below the archangel (fig. 85). This kind of substitution of forms—a guardian lion intended to ward off evil spirits transformed into a conquered devil—is often described in art-historical literature as evidence of the object’s status as “syncretic” or a “cultural hybrid.”55 However, as Leibsohn and Dean’s pivotal critique of hybridity as a model of cultural analysis reminds us, describing an object as “hybrid” often works to reify cultural difference, reinscribing processes of colonial erasure.56 As we have seen, in their facture and material, these objects are indebted to the availability of African ivory and South Asian models, further dismantling the supposed binary between “Chinese” and “European” referents for these objects. The sculptor did not seek to make a figure of St. Michael more “Chinese”—indeed it is difficult to satisfactorily define “Chineseness” in the context of the early modern Minnan diaspora of the South China Sea and the Chinese-mestizo population of colonial Manila. The Sangleys of Manila were a heterogeneous population of immigrants: some itinerant, some resistant to conversion and colonial rule, some converted and married to local residents. At what point do the Chinese carvers of Manila, intermarried and resident in the city for generations, become Filipino? The paucity of the archive and the complexity of the immigrant community yields a concomitant difficulty in defining and describing these ivories’ Chineseness.57

Further complicating an already irresolvable question of Chineseness is the fact that many of these objects may have been made for commercial export, possibly by unconverted artists. Motivated by the market demand for such objects, these artists borrowed forms that suited perceived needs, utilizing their existing craft knowledge and appropriating suitable iconographies, styles, and techniques from a variety of local and imported sources.58 While spiritual gatekeepers may have promoted the model of St. Michael the Archangel, Sangley carvers propelled its viral reproduction in Manila. That is not to say that the production of these ivories can be completely divorced from spiritual concerns. The proximity of the de Vos print to the surviving ivory versions means artists sought to ensure doctrinal compliance by seeking out publicly available models, working from devotional prints that were provided by patrons or those bought, borrowed, or copied from other artist workshops. But one should not overemphasize these sculptors’ reliance on the engraving alone. Sangley carvers also drew on a range of sculptural models and techniques—originating both in Europe and Asia. Rigid fidelity to a singular model was not a necessity in Manila, where viral replication of St. Michael the Archangel responded to the influx of African ivory and Asian sculptures, as well as to transpacific market demand. The “hybridity” of these objects is thus impossible to parse, resulting from a multitude of inputs transmitted via overlapping yet distinct networks and meshworks (shaped by missions, commerce, the Spanish and Portuguese empires, Chinese immigrants, as well as South Asian merchants). As we have seen in Latin America, St. Michael the Archangel could be put to use to serve various

Figure 84. Hieronymus Wierix, St. Michael the Archangel, 1619. Engraving. Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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local contexts—whether defined by a devotional cult, an ambitious artist, or a powerful patron or institution—but what does “local” mean in Manila, a city of immigrants at the crossroads of global trade, where Chinese carvers made sculptures out of African ivory to be sold in Latin America? The local context for the production of these ivories reflects the diverse iconographic, technical, and material sources for these artworks, designed in anticipation of the desires of foreign markets. So the guardian lion of the St. Michael in Badajoz announced its distant origins to its overseas buyer, fulfilling its role as an exotic and lavish gift sent from abroad (see fig. 85). Several ivory sculptures of St. Michael survive in today’s Mexico (New Spain), where these sculptures would have been seen in dialogue with the widespread devotion to San Miguel del Milagro, perhaps even decorating spaces dedicated to the American angelophany. The Sangleys of Manila, then, were producing ivories for the same market that wanted painted versions of the design; the viral replication of this iconography via the global movement of goods and people relativizes and complicates the opposition of the local and the foreign. Ivory carvings of St. Michael the Archangel were made in Manila to be legibly (and simultaneously) exotic and familiar. The 1655 pleito transcribed at the start of this chapter records the shipment of a box of ivory sculptures, including a St. Michael, in the cargo of a silk merchant. The selection of saints in this consignment, alongside more standard iconographies of the Crucifixion and the Virgin, indicates an awareness of colonial Latin American taste. St. Diego (James the Greater) and St. Joseph were among the most popular saints in the Spanish Atlantic world, ideologically reinforcing Spanish

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colonial power over their Indigenous subjects. James, as one of Christ’s disciples who brought Christianity to Spain, was also known as Santiago Matamoros, or the Moor-slayer, making him a powerful symbolic antecedent for Spanish efforts at evangelization and the expurgation of “idolatry” across the Iberian world.59 The cult of St. Joseph was particularly promoted by Spanish clergy and missionaries to commend Spanish social and familial structures to Indigenous peoples in New Spain.60 Recall also that after his miraculous appearance at Tlaxcala in 1631, devotion to St. Michael the Archangel in New Spain exploded. Michael is the most expensive sculpture in the 1655 pleito record, probably reflecting the more complex and materially demanding facture of the archangel’s wings. Trusted’s study of the ivories recovered from the 1601 shipwreck of the galleon Santa Margarita provides even earlier evidence for the commercial export of Philippine-made ivory sculptures.61 Excavation of the forecastle of the wrecked ship yielded the remains of twentyone smaller ivory sculptures and a number of fragments; further planned excavations of the Santa Margarita’s midship and stern castle may soon reveal more about the extent of this early trade.62 Crucially, the statues sent aboard the San Francisco Javier or the Santa Margarita were not made to assist in the conversion of Filipino or Chinese souls. Like the costly fabrics sent across the Pacific, ivory statues were luxury export products destined for Acapulco, where Asian goods like porcelain, Japanese lacquer, jewels, beeswax, and textiles from China and India were all converted into American silver.63 The entirety of the Spanish colony in Manila relied upon this trade. The taste for Asian luxury

Figure 85. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Badajoz, Catedral de San Juan Bautista. Museo de la Catedral de Badajoz, Arzobispado de Mérida-Badajoz. Photo: author.

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goods in the Americas has been well documented in recent years,64 while economic historians have established the seminal role of the Manila galleon trade in early modern globalization.65 Manila’s strategic importance as a missionary base for Asian evangelization was far exceeded by its advantageous position in existing intra-Asian trading networks. Imperial citizens were entitled to commercial space on the annual galleon conveying Asian goods to American, and eventually European, markets. The returning ship brought back Spanish and Mexican goods and silver, as well as the annual situado (colonial administrators’ and soldiers’ salaries) and the subsidy granted to the various missionary orders from their brethren in the Americas and Europe.66 The spiritual conversion of Asia necessitated ecclesiastical participation in the transpacific trade. In 1638, at the ecclesiastical cabildo of Manila, eleven secular priests who formed the chapter of Manila Cathedral were given formal permission from the Spanish king to ship silk to Mexico, but it is clear that Philippine clerics had already been participating in the Asian trade since their arrival in the archipelago fifty years earlier.67 Likewise the export of ivory sculptures from Manila may have been promoted by the church as a sanctioned fundraising mechanism for the Catholic mission in Asia. In 1627, Juan Oñez defended the church’s involvement in transpacific trade, citing the poverty of the Philippine Jesuits and stipulating that as long as priests did not step foot into the Chinese market and worked only with intermediaries, the church’s involvement in the galleon trade was permissible.68 In practical terms, this practice of using laymen as commercial middlemen conceals the extent of the mission-

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ary orders’ involvement in the export market, as religious transactions are unrecorded in the archive or difficult to trace back to religious institutions. Although the galleon trade was supposed to adhere to specific caps on tonnage and value set by the Spanish Crown, these were regularly exceeded by overloading the ships and by passengers and crew including commercially valuable items in their personal baggage.69 Even the official surviving textual records of the seventeenth-century Manila galleon trade are minimal. Parties on both sides of the Pacific, far from the control of the Spanish Crown, had a vested interest in concealing from royal officials the true volume of silver flowing eastward.70 The gap between official policy and historical practice is clear when one considers the Jesuit Order in the Philippines’ involvement in the galleon trade. Recorded debates within the Society of Jesus offer insight into how export ivories may have simultaneously served commercial and devotional markets. While Rome strongly discouraged the Society of Jesus from participating in the galleon trade, the Jesuits of Asia, who lacked rental estates, had few other options to fund their Philippine mission.71 The seventeenth-century records of the archdioceses of Manila record the relative poverty of the Filipino church and its numerous, repeated requests for funds for basic materials like oil and wine for the celebration of the Mass.72 In a 1630 lecture at Manila’s Jesuit College of St. Ignatius, Diego de Bobadilla, professor of philosophy and theology, condemned the order’s participation in the silk trade, even via third parties.73 The only morally acceptable exception for Bobadilla was if the value of goods traded by the order was increased by paid labor. So instead of

shipping raw silk to Mexico, the order could send finished merchandise like clothes (or, I would suggest, ivory statues).74 A cleric could send a box of goods on the galleon, or individuals traveling to New Spain could carry merchandise to cover expenses without condemnation. At the same time that the Jesuits assembled a rich collection of locally made and imported artworks to decorate their new church in Lima, the Manila Jesuits procured luxury goods primarily for export in order to raise funds for their local mission. The poorer Jesuits of Manila may have relied upon donated tusks from their Goan brethren to furnish their churches with impressive statuary, but they also could use these gifts as capital, commissioning artworks and luxury goods to sell in Latin America in order to fund the Asian mission. Although the Sangley population of Manila was the doctrinal responsibility of the Dominican Order, the Jesuits may have employed skilled craftsmen of the Parián, converted or not, to produce luxury goods to be sent on the Manila galleon to New Spain. Although the Dominicans had official doctrinal jurisdiction over the Sangley population, the Jesuits apparently acted as crucial gatekeepers in the promotion of the St. Michael design in Manila and its export back to Latin America and beyond.

Exporting the Local The largest surviving Hispano-Philippine ivories, including nearly all of the versions of St. Michael the Archangel discussed in this chapter, were exported from the archipelago. African ivory, then, may have been reserved for these high-end export goods or for prestigious commissions or gifts destined for overseas patrons. For example,

in 1640, the recently arrived viceroy of New Spain, Marqués de Villena, described a “Crucifixion of ivory, more than a vara in height” in the Castillo of Chapultepec.75 Large-scale ivory Crucifixions (from roughly seventy centimeters to a meter in length) can be found in the cathedral of Lima and in multiple conventos in Cusco.76 The Antwerp print design helped to create a market for the St. Michael the Archangel iconography in Latin America; these Philippine-made ivories were made to meet the demands of this same market. Latin American demand for Asian goods preceded, both geographically and commercially, that of Europe. Eventually, these ivory sculptures of St. Michael— based on the design of an Antwerp artist, carved in Manila, and shipped via the Americas—were brought back to the Spanish peninsula as expensive and exotic gifts to religious foundations and family members. In 1686, the Manila Dominican Francisco Antonio Vargas shipped three ivory statues (a St. Michael, a St. Francis, and a St. Dominic) to the Dominican monastery San Esteban in Salamanca (fig. 86).77 The aforementioned statue of St. Michael the Archangel with the guardian lion (fig. 85) likely accompanied the 1682 donation of a large statue of St. John (measuring around seventy centimeters) by the father-in-law of the viceroy of the Philippines, Pedro Ardila, to the cathedral of Badajoz.78 Donations like these bound clerics and colonial administrators of the Philippines, living oceans away, back to their Spanish homelands, while demonstrating the value (both material and spiritual) of the Spanish colonial project. Upon arriving on Spanish soil, these costly and rare donations reperformed the Spanish empire’s geographic reach and the entanglement of its Catholic, political, and

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Figure 86. Manila artist, St. Michael the Archangel, ca. 1640. Ivory with polychromy and gilding. Salamanca, Convento de San Esteban. Photo: author.

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commercial ambitions. Although the Christian conversion of Asia remained a distant fantasy, for the Spanish viewer, the image of St. Michael, whose apocalyptic triumph over the devil had been foretold in the book of Revelation, suggested the Church would emerge victorious. The Spanish Crown’s association with the victorious archangel resonated powerfully in an empire that saw continual rebellions within its vast ambit during the seventeenth century: from the Low Countries to Catalonia and from Portugal to the Philippines. In seventeenth-century Manila, Spanish imperial priorities placed the spiritual conversion of the Sangleys below this population’s contribution of labor and merchandise for the transpacific trade. Scholarship on Hispano-Philippine ivory sculpture often assumes such works were made primarily to suit the devotional needs of the Asian mission. However, sculptors were not just employed by the missionary orders of Manila to fill their churches with ivory santos but were also, in all likelihood, working for religious orders interested in monetizing Latin American and European demand for Asian luxury goods in order to raise funds for their missionary projects. Patrons used the donation of such ivory sculptures to validate imperial ambitions in Asia, the promise of both temporal gain and spiritual purpose. Referencing the de Vos print did not necessarily bring the Sangley carvers into the Christian spiritual community, but it made them part of an emerging Habsburg global economy. Fittingly, when in 1703 a newly built market opened in the plaza before Mexico City’s cathedral, it took its very name from the Parián of Manila, home of the unconverted Chinese immigrants so essential to the galleon trade.

Recognizing the intertwined material and spiritual motivations behind the viral production of these ivory sculptures of St. Michael the Archangel emphasizes the creative and commercial agency of the anonymous Sangley artists who created them as more than mere copyists. The sculptors of Manila’s Parián drew on material and models imported across the Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific Oceans to create a distinctly new kind of artistic product—largescale, multipart ivory sculptures. Coupled with their anonymous facture, the recognizable use of prints as models has obscured the innovative nature of these objects. Analyzing these ivories of St. Michael the Archangel offers unique insight into the Sangley workshops of colonial Manila, addressing lacunae in both the colonial archive and art-historical scholarship. Moreover, connecting the production of these ivory sculptures to the multiplicity of images of St. Michael the Archangel made in Europe and in the viceregal Americas enables the recognition of the economic and infrastructural conditions that allowed this design to move and to be read across the early modern world, to be mobilized by patrons and audiences with their own distinct agendas. In the Americas and Asia, there were shared gatekeepers for this particular image, most notably the Jesuit Order. But the production of ivories of St. Michael the Archangel also required the activation of networks beyond the orbit of Catholic or Spanish imperial controls, including the Chinese (Minnan) diaspora and the South Asian traders plying the Indian Ocean. Elite patrons prized such paintings and sculptures as desirable luxury goods, but their production depended on the design’s mobility and the anonymous labor of copyists across the globe.

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Viral Relations A design published in Antwerp to rehabilitate its printmakers’ reputation in Europe was adopted as a model across the Spanish world. In Manila, carvers fashioned an entirely new kind of object based on this print in order to capitalize on a growing demand for Asian luxury goods. Thus St. Michael the Archangel, now rendered in ivory, traveled back to Europe along the very same networks the earlier printed design had navigated to reach the Pacific. It is likely that these ivory sculptures of St. Michael could have landed in the very same places where other versions of the same composition existed. Churches and monasteries in Lima and Cusco, cities where images of this St. Michael the Archangel were familiar, also possess large ivory sculptures carved in Manila. Today an ivory St. Michael the Archangel sits in a former Jesuit colegio in Tepotzotlán, Mexico, some five miles from Cuautitlán, where the 1581 painting by de Vos now hangs (see figs. 79 and 40). Would a contemporary viewer in New Spain have recognized the armed ivory archangel and the graceful angel of the de Vos painting as related? Seen together, the two iterations of St. Michael the Archangel could be seen to reflect dialectically on the Church’s role in New Spain, the tension between the dictates of the Third Provincial Council and the violent subjugation of those Indigenous peoples resistant to conversion. Perhaps the unarmed archangel would instead be associated with the local veneration San Miguel del Milagro; the popularity of the miraculous spring outside Puebla likely helped drive American demand for ivory figures of the archangel in the mid-seventeenth century. Yet from the perspective of another viewer in the orbit of the Madrid court, the same juxtaposition of an imported ivory

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(fig. 86) and a locally produced painting (such as fig. 51) of St. Michael the Archangel could have evoked the geographic breadth of the Spanish empire and the power of the Habsburg king. Would the juxtaposition of two objects that look alike but that traveled to their destinations via very different trajectories spur the viewer to think about the networks and infrastructures that enabled this reproductive proximity? Would the material differences and iconographic variances between these related versions of St. Michael the Archangel prompt ruminations on the impact of distance on the construction of meaning and value? Would these differences even be visible at all, or would they instead collapse into a set of mirror reflections of Spanish Catholic triumph on the global stage? The symbolic power of the viral image comes from accretion, the accumulation of meanings generated by proliferation, often losing the original point of reference along the way. The past three chapters have traced how the same design moved between Antwerp, Seville, Madrid, Venice, Puebla, Lima, Mexico City, and Manila—all within a century. Even if the ivory sculptures of St. Michael the Archangel discussed in this chapter did not cross paths with the paintings encountered in the previous chapters, they were often received in the same urban and courtly landscapes, viewed by audiences in Spain and in Latin America already conditioned to be familiar with this design. The particularity of this iconography, the peculiar unarmed Michael in his distinctive costume and pose, offers the possibility that contemporary viewers recognized different material iterations of the design as related in some way. Identifying these images as relating to a common “source” is merely the first step. See-

ing these versions of St. Michael the Archangel in aggregate, as viral images, has allowed for a reconstruction of the various infrastructures that enabled the image simultaneously to become a successful commercial product for Filipino ivory carvers, to be utilized by an Indigenous Catholic patron in Lima, and to be cited by ambitious painters in Mexico City. The relation between these different forms of St. Michael the Archangel articulates how viral movement reinforced the

imagined scope of the Spanish empire and of Catholic efforts at conversion. But the story of this design’s use as a model for ivory sculptures made in Manila for export to Latin America and Europe also demonstrates how the same design, recognizable but materially transformed, could be mobilized and repurposed by different artists, actors, and viewers to their own ends: how viral spread complicates the opposition of the local and the global.

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Conclusion Imaginings This is the difference we see: there are things that could be described as fixed and immobile which the ancients made primarily from marble, bronze and gold, whereas we create light images that can easily be transported, as they are printed on paper. This is what is rightly considered to be the best and most useful way for everyone, as the ancient manner can be of use almost exclusively only to the inhabitants of a single city, while ours, wandering through all the lands under the sun, stimulates the heart to great feats, for vast numbers of people far from one another, at the same time. —Pieter Baltens1

W

riting in Antwerp shortly before de Vos first painted St. Michael the Archangel, Pieter Baltens reflected upon the extra­ ordinary mobility of print, its capacity to collapse time and space. Reconstructing the global reproduction of St. Michael the Archangel, we have seen how engraving was a crucial engine of the design’s virality, enabling its broad geographic distribution. Not only relatively cheap and portable, print, as a binary medium of inked and uninked areas, also operates like black-and-white source code, inviting reconfiguration.2 As we have tracked the production of printed, painted, and sculpted versions of St. Michael the Archangel, we have seen how viral images operate as a similarly latent material in their replicative mobility, regardless of their medium. Rather than reifying a singular author, the viral image activates the potential distribution of creative agency, allowing for conformity, resistance, and/or disruption. This book has explored just how the early modern viral image was, in Baltens’s words, seen and used by “vast numbers of people far from one another, at the same time.” While acknowledging the dominance of Antwerp artworks across the Spanish world, this book has emphasized how these artworks negotiated the push and pull between commercial, imperial, and ecclesiastical infrastructures and between individual and collective responses. Nadal and the Jesuit Order were some of the earliest to recognize the viral potential of Antwerp printed products, but even when a powerful patron like the Society

of Jesus sought to monitor and eliminate interpretative ambiguity, as in the fraught production of the Evangelicae historiae imagines, this task proved impossible. Viral images move and multiply across temporal and geographic axes in messy, accretive, and occasionally recursive vectors, encouraging further reuse and adaptation. In the case of the Imagines, the sheer number of illustrations, coupled with the volume’s broad geographic circulation and long printing history, make specific vectors of viral spread difficult to untangle and explore fully. For this reason, I have primarily focused on the more manageable example of St. Michael the Archangel—a design whose iconographic uniqueness and repeated reoccurrence within relatively well-documented Spanish imperial orbits can be traced via various trajectories across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The movement of St. Michael the Archangel involved many of the same artists, printmakers, infrastructures, and gatekeepers as the Imagines, demonstrating how the early modern viral image traveled; what kinds of networks, infrastructures, and gatekeepers enabled and promoted its global distribution and use; and how the viral image was remade everywhere it landed. In exploring these different iterations of the same design, I have lingered on each object’s specific and overlapping local contexts. The patterns of viral replication traced in this book demonstrate how repeated encounters with the same design could allow for a multiplicity of responses and the activation of a

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Figure 87. Diego Valadés (?), Franciscan Preaching in New Spain, 1579. Etching and engraving from Diego Valadés, Rhetorica Christiana (Perugia: Pietro Giacomo Petrucci). Los Angeles, Getty Research Institute. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.

distributed artistic agency. While the ivory carvers of Manila used the St. Michael the Archangel design to create a globally prized commodity, an artist in Spanish America, working for a Limeña patron, figured the same motif of the archangel as an intercessor for an urban Indigenous elite. In

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investigating how artists and patrons redeployed and remade the design time and again, I have suggested ways in which the reproductive mobility of artworks modeled how patrons, artists, and viewers navigated and imagined the early modern world as connected by trade, faith, and/or empire. Missionary orders were some of the first to recognize how mobility and reproduction impacted both the viewing and interpretation of artworks.3 Diego Valadés, a Franciscan missionary, described how students at San José de los Naturales in Mexico City were indoctrinated into the Christian faith via the use of printed and painted images, which were used to explain and memorize the catechism and other key concepts of the Christian worldview, thus becoming loci for memory (fig. 87).4 Valadés’s text, an illustrated treatise on rhetoric and its uses in the missionary field, employs both European and Indigenous American representational conventions, inculcating the idea that the image is a neutral site for cross-cultural exchange.5 This persuasive fiction motivated the missionary use of images and the production of colonial copies as tools of acculturation; it is an assumption that continues to undergird art-historical studies presenting these artworks as vehicles of cultural translation to be parsed for their place of origin. But the case studies considered in this book have demonstrated that the mobility of early modern artworks was not simply vehicular, relaying Catholic iconography or stylistic features from center to periphery. The availability of the same print in multiple places did not necessarily produce a collective sense of aesthetic values or a set of fixed interpretative possibilities. While traversing networks and infrastructures of colonization, commercial expansion, and conversion, the divergent

uses of the Imagines prints and the St. Michael the Archangel design demonstrate how the viral image could be seized, manipulated, and utilized by artists and patrons with their own agendas. Seen and used in Madrid, Lima, or Manila, an Antwerp print came alternately to signal imperial Catholicism, local devotion, and/or commercial opportunity. Repetition also allowed for new forms of seeing and making. Both the painter in Lima and the sculptor in Manila copied the same source, a printed St. Michael the Archangel—a stubbornly nonmimetic model, a black-and-white image composed of a mesh of lines, dashes, and dots—to generate new artistic forms. To be copied, an engraving had to be visually legible, but that did not mean it was always seen in the same way. Viral images could simultaneously produce both a shared visuality and the recognition of difference, of alternative ways of seeing. For example, when the Jesuits brought the Imagines to the Mughal courts of South Asia as courtly gifts aimed at converting local rulers, the use of the prints themselves varied: they were painted over and copied (see fig. 5), as well as cut down and inserted into courtly albums (fig. 88). These assorted uses reveal the different ways the prints were seen and valued as compositional formulae and/or valued for their formal relation to local calligraphic practice. This use of the Imagines— excerpted, cut, and painted over—is a physical manifestation of what Whitney Davis calls the bivisibility of an artwork—that is, how an image is seen by viewers accustomed to visual systems outside the one in which the image was made.6 The Mughal artist who selected and adhered the print to the illuminated page recognizes and responds to features of the print (here, the art of the line), appropriating and incorporating it

Figure 88. Hieronymus Wierix, Christ and the Samaritan Woman, 1593. Engraving from Gerónimo Nadal, S.J., Evangelicae historiae imagines (Antwerp: Societas Iesu), trimmed or overpainted and pasted in the Gulshan Album, with a border decorated by Mughal artist(s), early seventeenth century. Opaque watercolor and gold on paper. Tehran, Gulistan Palace Library.

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within a system of visuality and value not anticipated by the engraving’s authors.7 In this way, the insertion of an Imagines engraving into the artistic context of the Mughal album is like the meeting of de Vos’s 1581 painting and the Philippine-made ivory carvings of St. Michael the Archangel in New Spain or the two versions of the same composition (one imported, one made locally) now found hanging in Lima’s Jesuit church. The makers and viewers of these objects could all recognize the archangel as subject, but they activated coordinating and competing visualities simultaneously to place each artwork within its local context. It is the juxtaposition of these viral images that makes the operations of globalization visible—specifically the ways in which globalization requires the establishment of communicable value to be extracted, cross registered, and exchanged across vast distances. Globalization here then describes more than just the flow of people and goods across geographies, whether propelled by force or by the desire for material gain—it is an epistemic shift in how one knows the world. In a prescient remark on this fact, Philip II supposedly quoted a Latin dictum: “What is not in the documents is not in the world.”8 Mobile art objects like those traced in this volume made empire visible and tangible to those both within and outside of its control. When Europeans settled in the Americas and Asia, they brought art objects with them—paintings and prints like the St. Michael the Archangel, devotional statuary like the Santo Niño de Cebu (see fig. 71), and illustrated books like the Evangelicae historiae imagines. These objects explained political and

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religious systems and introduced foreign rulers, customs, stories, and artistic styles: here is a king, a country, a city, a building you will never see. Here is an invisible God in three parts. Viral images, then, did not operate as agents of globalization just because they were carried by missionaries, merchants, soldiers, and sailors across continents and oceans. Rather, by virtue of the networks and infrastructures required for their distribution and propagation, viral images operated as “infrastructural media,” not just describing or relaying information but making it operable.9 These artworks helped to create the very idea of Spain, of Christianity, of Europe as they traveled and were reproduced across the globe.10 While leaving space for the subjectivity and the creativity agency of individual responses, we have also seen how a viral image could be put to work in order to place individual viewers/consumers within a community—be it spiritual (the Jesuit novitiate), imperial (we are all subjects of the Spanish king), mercantile (this is an iconography that buyers want), or otherwise.11 The early modern viral image thus had an epistemological as well as ontological role in the process of globalization: controlling time and space; organizing and orienting people, places, and property into communities, markets, and subjects.12 That is to say, wherever viral images multiplied, they rendered the abstract concepts of sovereignty, religion, and commerce both visible and materially present. Seen by “vast numbers of people far from one another, at the same time,” these early modern viral images constituted a new sense of the globe—and of knowledge itself.

Notes All translations and transcriptions are my own, unless otherwise noted.

Chapter 1 1. Sampson, Virality, 1–16. Drawing on both the assemblage theory of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari and the sociological approach of Gabriel Tarde, Sampson focuses on the social rather than epidemiological notion of virality, though he relates both to the distribution of biopolitical power. 2. Pinney, “Creole Europe,” 128. 3. P. Mitchell, Contagious Metaphor, 6. 4. This conceptualization contrasts with Susan Sontag’s famous critique of the use of cancer as a metaphor that “simplifies what is complex” (Illness as Metaphor, 85). 5. Kopytoff, “Cultural Biography of Things.” 6. Most recently, see Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines,” and Ojeda di Ninno, Project on the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art (hereafter PESSCA), https://‌colonialart‌.org. 7. See parallel themes elaborated by Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 8–16. 8. The word “meme” was first coined by Richard Dawkins in 1976, combining the words “mimesis” and “gene,” shortened so that it forms a syntactic parallel with “gene.” See Dawkins, Selfish Gene, 192. Dawkins used “meme” to describe any self-perpetuating unit of cultural transmission, but today the word is primarily used to describe things or actions that repeat an essential format but are rescripted or reperformed in various iterations on the Internet; see Shifman, Memes in Digital Culture, 56. 9. See Parikka, Geology of Media. 10. For the argument that this particular moment was crucial to economic globalization, see Flynn and Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon.’” 11. Oxford English Dictionary, 3rd ed. (2005), s.v. “to go viral.”

12. Nahon and Hemsley, Going Viral, 42, 60. 13. Kaufmann, Dossin, and JoyeuxPrunel, Circulations. 14. Werner and Zimmermann. “Beyond Comparison,” and Thomas, Entangled Objects, 1–34. 15. Clossey, Salvation and Globalization, 149. 16. The carta anua of 1621 mentions “animos in magniam devotionem in durunt Aecessit ad hoc Sanctissimi fransci effigies miero que festa opera”; Rome / St. Louis, ARSI, Filipinas 6, fol. 292. 17. See Siegert, Passagiere und Papiere. 18. Here I am indebted to Peta Mitchell’s description of contagion as describing both disease and its spread (Contagious Metaphor, 13). 19. Latour, Reassembling the Social. 20. Ingold, Lines, 35. 21. See W. Mitchell, What Do Pictures Want?, and Bredekamp, Theorie des Bil­dakts. See also Bennett, Vibrant Matter, 21, 32. 22. For a related study of how mobility produces multiple versions of objects, in this case various copies of the Codex Mendoza, see Daniela Bleichmar, “Translation, Mobility, and Mediation.” 23. Farago, Reframing the Renaissance. On the “global turn” in Renaissance art history, see Flood et al., “Roundtable”; Kaufmann, Dossin, and Joyeux-Prunel, Circulations; Savoy, Globalization of Renaissance Art. 24. De la Maza, Pintor Martín de Vos; Olivares Torres, “Imágenes y significados”; Esponda de la Campa and Hernández-Ying, “Arcángel San Miguel”; Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica,” 1:241–45; Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines.” 25. Ojeda di Ninno, PESSCA, https://‌colonialart‌.org. 26. On the definition of rhizome as heterogeneous and composed of direction

in motion, see Deleuze and Guattari, Thousand Plateaus, 6–21. 27. Cupperi, Multiples in Pre-Modern Art; Marchand, “Image and Thing”; Ryu, “Molded and Modeled”; Van den Brink and Allart, Brueghel Enterprises. 28. Cropper, Domenichino Affair; Loh, Titian Remade; Pon, Raphael, Dürer, and Marcantonio Raimondi; Powell, Depositions. 29. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man.” I follow Barbara Fuchs and Natasha Eaton in relying on Michael Taussig’s description of mimesis as a mirror reflecting instability back onto the West. See Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire; Eaton, Mimesis Across Empire; Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity. 30. Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, 250. 31. Kaufmann, Toward a Geography of Art. See also Farago, review of Toward a Geography of Art; Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions; San Juan, Vertiginous Mirrors; Mochizuki, “Sacred Art.” 32. Mochizuki, “Jesuit Visual Culture,” 475. 33. Kaufmann and North, Mediating Netherlandish Art; Swan, Rarities of These Lands; Weststeijn, “Introduction”; Hochstrasser, Still Life and Trade. 34. The exception is economic studies on artistic exports; see Stols and Bleys, Vlaanderen en Latijns-Amerika; Stols and Thomas, Een wereld op papier. On economics, see also De Marchi and Van Miegroet, “Exploring Markets,” and Van Ginhoven, Connecting Art Markets. 35. Bleichmar and Mancall, Collecting Across Cultures; Bleichmar and Martin, Objects in Motion; Göttler and Mochizuki, Nomadic Object. 36. On prints’ roles in extra-European encounters, see Dean, “Copied Carts”; Bargellini, “Originality and Invention”; Cummins, “Indulgent Image”; Mochizuki, “Sacred Art”; Rice, “Lines of Perception.” On transculturation as an alternative model, see Mignolo and Schiwy, “Double

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Translation,” 13–15, and Ortiz, Cuban Counterpoint. 37. Hyman, Rubens in Repeat. 38. See Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, and Russo, Untranslatable Image. 39. Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents.” 40. Gruzinski, Mestizo Mind, and Russo, Untranslatable Image. I would note George Kubler critiqued this ethnocentric model of creativity as early as 1961 in “On the Colonial Extinction”; most recently, the use of the term “mestizo” has been beautifully dismantled by Josefina Schenke, “Sobre el uso del término mestizo.” 41. Russo gives a definition of untranslatable in her recent study of mestizo art objects (such as feather mosaics and graffiti) as produced and producing a perpetual process of “never (not) translating” (Untranslatable Image, 6–7). 42. On the history of the term, with particular attention to the English tradition derived from early twentieth-century anthropologists Branislaw Malinowski and Edward Evans Pritchard, see Burke, Cultural Hybridity, 55–61. Cultural translation is also related to the Übersetzungskultur described by Frank (“‘Translation as System’”), as well as “la sociologie de la traduction,” or actornetwork-theory; see Callon, “Some Elements,” and Latour, Reassembling the Social. 43. Russo, Untranslatable Image; Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica”; Kaufmann, “Cultural Transfer,” 19–25; Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné.” 44. Behiels, Thomas, and Pistor, “Translation as an Instrument of Empire,” and Manrique and Thomas, “Infraestructura de la globalización.” 45. See Debray, Transmitting Culture, 120. 46. Siegert, Cultural Techniques, and Durham Peters, Marvelous Clouds. 47. See Mochizuki, Nomadic Object, 10. 48. See Elkins, “Art History,” 3–23, and Wolff, “Zones of Indifference.”

Chapter 2 1. “Illam reputant esse quietissimam atque amoenissimam habitaticnem, si perpetuo peregrinari, orbem terrarium circumire, nullibi in suo habitare.”

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Gerónimo Nadal, “Dialogus II,” 188, in Nadal, Epistolae et monumenta, 774; translation from O’Malley, “To Travel to Any Part of the World,” iv. 2. The Imagines was published in 1593, 1596, and 1647; the Adnotationes was published in 1594/5, 1595, and 1607. 3. Bowen and Imhof, “Publishing and Selling,” 311. 4. For the chronology of Nadal’s travels, see Ruiz Jurado, “Cronologia,” 248–76. 5. O’Malley, “To Travel,” 1–21. 6. The various preparatory drawings for the Imagines are now in the Biblioteca nazionale, Rome; the Royal Collection, Windsor; and Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, Brussels. Correspondence related to the production of the Imagines held in the Museum Plantin Moretus in Antwerp was first gathered and transcribed in Rooses, “De Plaatsnijders.” 7. See the drawings now in the Biblioteca nazionale, Rome, first identified by BritWadell, Evangelicae historiae imagines: Entstehungsgeschichte, 31–42. The paper has an Italian watermark dating between circa 1550 and 1560, which Brit-Wadell uses to establish the chronology above; Rheinbay, in contrast, sees these as later drawings (Biblische Bilder). 8. Brit-Wadell, Evangelicae historiae imagines: Entstehungsgeschichte, 31. The compositions of several drawings relate to the woodcuts of Lieve de Witte from the 1537 Iesu Christi vita by Willem van Branteghem. This connection was first suggested in Münch, Geteiltes Leid, 187–97. 9. See the letters between General Mercurian, Nadal, and members of the Antwerp Jesuit college in 1576, which mention Plantin (Rheinbay, Biblische Bilder, 62–64). 10. On Plantin’s liturgical output, see Bowen and Imhof, Christopher Plantin, 122–76. Other important engraved religious works published in Antwerp included the innovative 1579 picture Bible Thesaurus Sacrarum historiarum Veteris et Novi Testamenti published by Gerard de Jode, Philip Galle’s 1573 Christi Iesu vitae, and Benito Arias Montano’s illustrated Humanae salutis monumenta. 11. Limberger, “‘No Town in the World,’” 62.

12. De Nave, “Printing Capital,” 92, and Waterschoot, “Antwerp,” 233–48. 13. Voet, Golden Compasses; Van Grieken, Van der Stock, and Luijten, Hieronymus Cock; Stols and Thomas, Een wereld op papier. 14. “Nella di 20, vista la voluntà di V.P. ho date le imagini, annotationi et meditationi al P. Florentio. Non dubito ch’ el Signor agiutti, poi si fa per obedientia, etiam contra quell che io sentiva, ma entendo dal P. Florentio che seria, non so si diceva necessario, che V.P. dassi calor y animassi quelli Padri, specialmente il P. Harlemio y Trigoso, y io ensieme lo prego a V.P.” Nadal to P. Everardus Mercuriam, September 27, 1576, reproduced in Nadal, Epistolae et monumenta, 725. 15. Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 115–16. 16. Melion, “Haec per imagines,” 5. 17. Bowen and Imhof, Christopher Plantin, 257, and Sellink, “Phillips Galle,” 89–91. 18. The possibility of publishing in Venice was raised by Petrus Canisius in a letter to Mercurian: “ut suum opus, iam satis elaboratum multisue probatum, in lucem Venetiis edat, desideramus. Sed non faciet, nisi serio urgeat P.T.,” Canisius Epistulae 7.418, cited in Rheinbay, Biblische Bilder, 67 n. 146. 19. Brit-Wadell, “Evangelicae historiae imagines,” and Brit-Wadell, Evangelicae historiae imagines: Entstehungsgeschichte. 20. On Fiammeri, see Strinati, “Giovan Battista di Benedetto Fiammeri,” and Bailey, “Florentine Reformers,” 147–48. 21. Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 281. 22. The inscription “Rom 1579” appears on Adoration of the Shepherds (Windsor, Royal Collection, inv. no. 14772), and “C. K. Ianuari 1582” is in the foreground of Christ Resting with His Disciples (Windsor, Royal Collection, inv. no. 14804). 23. “Il fratello Giovan Battista florentino . . . ha anco da intagliare l’opera del P. Natale, la quale, perchè sarà di molto servigio del Signore, siamo risolti che vada avanti.” Claudio Acquaviva to Bartolomeo Ricci, Neap.2. 89v, reprinted in Pirri, “Intagliatori gesuiti,” 37 n. 66. 24. See Windsor, Royal Collection, inv. Transfiguration, inv. no. 14861, Arrest in the

Garden. See the provision of an alternate version of Mary’s head, Assumption of the Virgin, inv. no. 14896. 25. Brit-Wadell, Evangelicae historiae imagines: Entstehungsgeschichte. 26. Leo van Puyvelde suggests the sheets in Brussels are the work of Hieronymus Wierix, the primary engraver of the resultant prints; the drawing of the Adoration of the Magi includes his name: “Hier. Wierix sculpsit” (“Bernardo Passeri,” 59–64). While the highly finished style of the sheets recalls those autonomous drawings produced by Jan Wierix, the handling of the figures’ faces and the level of detail are different from the resultant prints executed by either Wierix. 27. The book is Vita et miracvla sanctiss. mi patris Benedicti (Rome, 1579); the engravings are by Aliprando Capriolo after Bernardino Passeri. 28. “Reliqui vero novitii vel Gallaeo vel Sadelero sunt obligati qui plures desiderant neque quicquam suscipere volunt quod apud se non maneat. . . . Proinde nunc jam mitto delineations duarum figurarum quas interea curaveram fieri a Martino de Vos ut sequi possent artifices.” Plantin to Ludovicus Tovardus, November 5, 1585, reprinted in Rooses, “De Plaatsnijders,” 283. 29. “Reliqui vero novitii vel Gallaeo vel Sadelero sunt obligati qui plures desiderant neque quicquam suscipere volunt quod apud se non maneat. . . . Proinde nunc jam mitto delineations duarum figurarum quas interea curaveram fieri a Martino de Vos ut sequi possent artifices.” Ibid. 30. See the letters published by Rooses, “De Plaatsnijders,” and Sellink, “Illustrated Religious Publications,” 29–36. 31. “Litteras R.P.V. Romae XIII Augusti datas 21 hujus accepi quibus ut paucis respondeam multo melius mihi videtur ut Imagines istic sculpentur a vestris et aliis in eadem urbe habitantibus quam si huc mittantur hoc tempore quo experior celatores morosissimos esse et iniquiores in preciis postulandis quam hactenus experis fuerim.” Plantin to Jacobus Ximenes, October 22, 1586, reprinted in Rooses, “De Plaatsnijders,” 285. 32. See Mauquoy-Hendrickx, Estampes des Wierix, 3.2:30–33.

33. “Lesdicts Wieriz font à la fois et puis ayants besongné ung ou deux jours ils vont despendre le tout avec gens desbaucheés et lieux publicquement deshonnestes jusques à laisser outre cela en gage leurs hardes et habillements.” Plantin to Ferdinand Ximenz, January 2, 1587, reprinted in Rooses, “De Plaatsnijders,” 286. 34. “Nam iustum imaginum minus eleganter incisam volumen quis vel precibus evolvere, nedum pretio emere volet!” Claudio Acquaviva to Franciscus Costerus, 1586, Rome, ARSI, Belgae Epistulae. Gen, 1573–1610, I, 294, quoted in Rheinbay, Biblische Bilder, 88 n. 242. 35. See de Boer, Enenkel, and Melion, Jesuit Image Theory; Dekoninck, Ad imaginem; Freedberg, Power of Images, 161–91. 36. “Ut Pater Ximinez magno labore et solicitudine liberetur, qui iam aliquot annos conqirendis excellentibus artificibus insumpsit et tamen nullum hactenus habere potuit.” Acquaviva to Costerus, Rome ARSI, Belgae Epistulae. Gen 1573– 1610 1/I, 294, quoted in Rheinbay, Biblische Bilder, 82 n. 222. 37. Dekoninck, Ad imaginem, 243. 38. See Margócsy, Somos, and Joffe, Fabrica of Andreas Vesalius. 39. Freedberg, Power of Images, 180. 40. Melion, “Art of Vision,” 17. 41. Melion, “Mortis illius imagines ut vitae,” 6. 42. Melion, “Ex libera meditatione.” 43. Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 282–84. 44. Dekoninck, Ad imaginem, 37–39. 45. “Quest’opera pretiosa et molto desiderata, non solo in Europa da persone contemplative, ma etiamdio bramata nell’una et l’altra India dagli operaii della Compagnia per poter con più facilità imprimere per mezzo dell’imagini in quei nuovi christiani tuttil gli misterii della redentione humana, quali per via di predicatione et catechism difficilmente ritengono, per esser communmente di basso ingegno.” Paulus Hoffaeus to Clement VIII, Nadal, Epistolae et Monumenta 4:726–27. English translation in Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 277. 46. Diego Jiménez, quoted in Nadal, Annotations and Meditations, 1:99. 47. Ibid.

48. Melion, “‘Quis non intelliget hoc voluisse Christum,’” 5–17. 49. Freedberg, Power of Images, 183. 50. Diego Jiménez, quoted in Nadal, Annotations and Meditations, 1:102. 51. Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 281. 52. On the virtual and physical animation of the Jesuit image, see San Juan, Vertiginous Mirrors. 53. Jesuit college records, Rome, ARSI, Fondo Gesuitico, “Collegia,” busta 1618a, Tivoli doc 16, October 6, 1595, reprinted in Vacalebre, “Produzione e distribuzione,” 317. 54. Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines,” 168. 55. Ojeda di Ninno, PESSCA, https://‌colonialart‌.org. 56. See Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 37–55. 57. De Mesa and Gisbert, Historia de la pintura cuzqueña, 105–6. 58. See Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 13–16; for Hyman’s reconstruction and exploration of Rubens-related imagery across Cusco and the highlands, see pp. 29–118. 59. “Più utile è anco quell libro che questo della Bibbia per adesso, poichè con quello dichiariamo, anzi poniamo Avanti agli occhi quello che alle volte con parole non possiamo dichiarare.” Matteo Ricci to Giovanni Alvarez, 12 May 1605, reprinted in Ricci, Lettere, no. 43, 406. 60. Yi, Song Nianzhu Guicheng, 195–290, and Standaert, Illustrated Life of Christ. 61. Standaert, Illustrated Life of Christ, and Shin, “Supernatural.” 62. Standaert, Illustrated Life of Christ. 63. Clunas, Art in China, 130. 64. Purtle, “Double Take,” 89–96. 65. Clunas, Pictures and Visuality, 173. See also Menegon, Ancestors, Virgins and Friars. 66. Mungello, Chinese Rites Controversy, and Standaert, Chinese Voices. 67. Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines,” 178–82. 68. Ibid., 169. 69. Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 285–87. 70. Boase, “Seventeenth-Century Typological Cycle,” and Laporte-Eftekharian, “Transmission et metamorphose.” 71. Alcalá, “Imágenes de Jerónimo Nadal.”

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72. Deluga, “Printed Sources,” 229. 73. Bowen and Imhof, “Publishing and Selling.” 74. Ibid., 312, and Plantin-Moretus transaction log, Antwerp, MPM, Arch. 21, “Grand livre,” 1590–99, fols. 250, 264, 332, 342. 75. Bowen and Imhof, “Publishing and Selling,” 313. Plantin-Moretus transaction log, Antwerp, MPM, Arch. 101, “Grand livre des affaires de famille,” 1605–57, fols. 6–8, 21. 76. Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Mission, 129, and Bailey, “Truth Showing Mirror,” 392, quoting in translation: “Made of every scene that could possibly be depicted. . . . He was not content with the scenes that were engraved by Father Nadal; he [had] these painted, and many others.” Bailey cites Jesuit records from Goa, Rome, ARSI, Goa 46I, fols. 52b–53a. 77. According the Friedericke Weis, these include: in the Victoria and Albert Museum, impressions of fol. 14, 31 and 39 from the Imagines (Large Clive Album IS133–99, 14r; 132–885, fol. 25; 132–885, fol. 28), and impressions of fols. 25, 53, 66, and 71 of the Imagines in an album at the Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore (W771). See Weis, “Impact.” 78. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. no. D.402–1885; see Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines,” 204. 79. Rice, “Lines of Perception.” 80. Bosc-Tiessé, “Use of Occidental Engravings,” 83–84. 81. Van Heurck cites the records of the plates in Antwerp, Collège Notre-Dame, Actes de la Sodalité de la Sainte-Vierge, fol. 42 (“Images de devotion,” 95–96). 82. Hsia, World of Catholic Renewal, 167. 83. Bowen and Imhof, “Publishing and Selling,” 334. 84. Ibid., 335. 85. Ibid. 86. Massing, “Jerome Nadal’s Evangelicae Historiae Imagines,” 168. 87. Ibid. 88. Ivins, Prints and Visual Communication, 3. 89. Latour, “Visualization and Cognition,” 21.

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90. On this point in regards to the digital, see Cubitt, Practice of Light, 31–32. 91. For a discussion of the problem of context when considering print’s mobility, see Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 20–25. 92. Amy Powell calls an image “errant” when it is forgetful of its original context, in contrast to art history’s typical focus (“Errant Image”). The situation I describe is less a case of a singular trail through space and time than a simultaneous, erratic spread—what I call the viral image.

Chapter 3 1. “Et factum est proelium in caelo Michahel et angeli eius proeliabantur cum dracone et draco pugnabat et angeli eius . . . et proiectus est draco ille magnus serpens antiquus qui vocatur Diabolus et Satanas qui seducit universum orbem proiectus est in terram et angeli eius cum illo missi sunt.” Vulg. Rev. 12:7 and 12:9. 2. On the Spanish versions, see Olivares Torres, “Imágenes y significados,” and Esponda de la Campa and Hernández-Ying, “Arcángel San Miguel”; on the Latin American versions as a related corpus, see Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica,” 1:243. 3. For my initial attempts to describe aspects of this movement and replication, see Porras, “Going Viral?,” and Porras, “St. Michael the Archangel.” 4. Letters written by Scipio Fabius to Abraham Ortelius in 1561 and 1565 suggest that de Vos either traveled, or at least spent time with, Pieter Bruegel while in Italy. See Hessels, Abrahami Ortelii epistulae, letters number 11 and 15, dated June 16, 1561, and April 14, 1565, respectively, which mention Bruegel and de Vos together. 5. “Italien, Room, Venetien, en ander Landen besocht hebbende.” Van Mander, Lives, 4: fol. 264v. 6. Ridolfi, Maraviglie dell’arte, 2:75. 7. Porras, “Real, Rejected and Virtual Travels.” 8. Silver, Peasant Scenes and Landscapes, 226. 9. Filipzak, Picturing Art in Antwerp, and Vermeylen, Painting for the Market, 50. 10. Voet, Golden Compasses; Van Grieken, Van der Stock, and Luijten, Hieronymus

Cock; Stols and Thomas, Een wereld op papier. 11. Antwerp, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, inv. nos. 245–49. See Zweite, Marten de Vos, 24–26. 12. See Bock, “In diesen letzten bösen Zeiten”; Loeper and Shmieglitz-Otten, Die Celler Schlosskapelle; Borham, “Art of Confessionalism,” 199–200. 13. Sulzberger, “À propos de deux peintures.” 14. On the confessional politics of Antwerp painters and their work in this period, see Jonckheere, Antwerp Art After Iconoclasm. 15. Van Roey, “De Antwerpse schilders.” On Phillips Lisaerts as a dealer, see Vermeylen, “Between Hope and Despair,” 102. De Vos and Lisaerts testified together on June 20, 1579, further indicating the men knew each other. See Certificatieboeken records, Antwerp, SAA, Cert. 40, fol. 160 and 163v (my thanks to Filip Vermeylen for this reference). 16. The guild membership records, “Merten van Halewyn: verfverkooper.” Rombouts and van Lerius, De Liggeren, 224, and see Vermeylen, Painting for the Market, 73–74. On Alleyns, see Groenendijk, Beknopt biografisch lexicon, 59, and Vermeylen, “Colour of Money,” 358. Alleyns was dead by 1583, when de Vos is listed in his estate; see Antwerp, SAA, N. 1478, P. Fabri, unpaginated folio. 17. “Merten de Vos schilder en zijn vrouw Jehanne de Bock machtigen Ritsaert de Bock hun goederen te Valencijn te beheren.” Certificatieboeken records, January 28, 1578, Antwerp, SAA, Cert. 38, fol. 318v. 18. Soen, “Reconquista and Reconciliation,” 14. 19. Ibid., 11. 20. Junot, “Pratiques et limites.” 21. Schuckman and De Hoop Scheffer, Hollstein’s Dutch and Flemish Etchings, vols. 44 and 46: no. 1332, Portrait of Willem, Prince of Orange and Charlotte de Bourbon. 22. On de Vos’s Lutheranism, see Zweite, Marten de Vos, 26–27. On the religious orientation of Antwerp’s artistic community in this period, see Van Roey, “De Antwerpse schilders,” 107–20.

23. Mauquoy-Hendrickx, Estampes des Wierix, 3.2:542 (no. 38). 24. See Clifton, “Adriaen Huybrechts.” 25. Rekers describes Montano as a covert Familist (Benito Arias Montano). For thorough analysis of the circumstantial and relational nature of the evidence used by Rekers and others who describe Antwerp’s so-called Family of Love, see Harris, “Religious Position of Abraham Ortelius.” For an overview of the historiography, see Portuondo, Spanish Disquiet, 96–97. 26. See Dávila Pérez, “Arias Montano y Amberes,” and Dávila Pérez, “Correspondencia inédita.” 27. See Hänsel, Benito Arias Montano. 28. See the numerous paintings by Pieter van der Borcht and the undescribed prints, likely of Antwerp origin, in the inventory published in Salazar, “Arias Montano y Pedro de Valencia.” 29. Delen, “Christoffel Plantin als prentenhandelaar,” 6; McDonald, “Print Collection of Philip II,” 21; Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,” 55. 30. A letter mentions books, engravings, plants, and a small piece of furniture sent to Spain via the publisher Jan Poelman: Montano to Plantin, September 22, 1583, in London, British Library, MS Egerton 2189, fols. 4r–6v. See also De Nave, Christoffel Plantijn, cat. no. 98 (Leveringen aan Benito Arias Montano). De Nave cites Antwerp, MPM, Arch. 20, fol. 209. 31. Delen, “Christoffel Plantin als prentenhandelaar,” 20. Delen transcribes the document as: “Adi ditto ce fust en Jan. passé appresté ung coffre avec bandes de fer et couvert de vachettes auquel tout les livres et figures de cuivre etc’ lesquels ont esté apprestez suivant l’ordre du Sr B. A. Montanus et est signé B A M a la marge.” 32. After 1584, there are documented works by de Vos, Wierix, and Huybrechts in Montano’s personal collection. See n. 39 below and Dávila Pérez, “Arias Montano y Amberes,” and Dávila Pérez, “Correspondencia inédita.” 33. McDonald, “Print Collection of Philip II,” 18–22. 34. Here I agree with Clifton (“Adriaen Huybrechts”), who argues against the hypothesis first proposed by Hänsel that the

prints were purposely given an earlier date (Der spanische Humanist Benito Arias Montanus, 22–23). Wierix and Huybrechts did work together a fair amount in the early 1580s and the later states of this same print show the brackets from the excudit removed, indicating this was a short period of collaboration, datable to around 1580 to 1584. 35. “Accorde pardon & oubliance generalle & perpetuelle a tous & chacun des bourgeois & inhabitas prefens & absens de ladite ville . . . de tous les exces, fautes , desordres, mesuz, fourfaicts, crimes de lese Matr & aultres.” Articles et conditions, fol. A3. 36. Soen, “Reconquista and Reconciliation,” 1–22. 37. Cobergher first moved to Paris in 1579, before traveling to Rome and eventually Naples. See Previtali, “Fiamminghia Napoli.” 38. Van Roey, “De Antwerpse schilders,” 113. 39. “Aliam tibi curabo fieri in tela uti noster Prunius superiori nuntio missit crucifixum a Martino de Vos depictum.” Plantin to Montano, August 27, 1588, reprinted in Rooses and Denucé, Correspondance de Christophe Plantin, 8/9:430. 40. “E il gran Martin de Vos parimenti di Anversa pittore. . . . Il quale oltre moltre altre opere portate qua e là per il mondo a diversi Principi ne ha mandato quattro al Cattolico Filippo Re di Spagna, uno di Cristo all’Orto coi Discepoli . . . l’altro dell’ Angelo con Lotto, e le figlie che fuggono dalle arse Città, il terzo di Santa Maria con figlio, con S. Giuseppe . . . e l’ultimo d’ una venere ignuda.” Lomazzo, Idea del tempio della pittura, 162. 41. In addition to the works published while Montano lived in Antwerp, Plantin also published editions of the Humanae salutis monumenta (1581, 1583), Commentaria in duodecim Prophetas (1583), De optimo imperio, sive in librum Josuae commentarium (1583), and Liber Jeremiae, sive de actione, ad sacri apparatus instructionem (1583) after Montano returned to Spain and before the Spanish retook the city. 42. Schuckman and De Hoop Scheffer, Hollstein’s Dutch and Flemish Etchings, vols. 44 and 46: no. 1127d.

43. Sénéchal, “Justus Sadeler,” 28–29. 44. Interestingly, the Sadeler family appointed Philips Lisaert (into whose family de Vos’s sister Barbara had married) to handle the disposition of Jan Sadeler’s property after his 1600 death in Venice. See ibid., 25. 45. Zweite, Marten de Vos, 26–27. 46. López de la Torre, “Trabajo misional.” 47. For a description and analysis of the educational program by Fray Diego Valadés in his Retórica Cristiana, see Edgerton, Theaters of Conversion, 237–46. On the contemporary decorative program utilizing European printed sources at the Augustinian monastery at Malinalco, see Favrot Peterson, Paradise Garden Murals of Malinalco. On the use of prints generally, see Bargellini, “Originality and Invention.” 48. “Mas después que fueron cristianos y vieron nuestras imágenes de Flandes y de Italia, no hay retablo ni imagen, por prima que sea, que no la retraten y contrahagan,” Mendieta, Historia eclesiástica Indiana, 404. 49. De Torquemada, Monarquía Indiana, 5:313–14 (book 17). 50. “Hacen tan perfectas y con tanta gracia cuanto los más propios oficiales [imagines] de Flandes.” De las Casas, Apologética historia de las Indias, 159–61 (cap. 61). 51. See, for example, Gruzinski, Images at War, 72; Russo, Untranslatable Image, chapter 4; Russo, “Artistic Humanity.” 52. Stols, “Artesanos, mercaderes y religiosos flamencos,” 19–39. 53. On Flemish artistic links to the Canaries, see Negrín Delgado, Arte de Flandes, and Rodríguez Morales, Homenaje. On the mercantile links to the islands, see Gómez Gómez, “Bienes del Mercader flamenco.” 54. Fagel, “En busca de fortuna,” 329. See also Stols and Thomas, “Integración,” 35–54. 55. Stols, “Artesanos, mercaderes y religiosos flamencos,” 22. On the Flemish community in Seville, see Crailsheim, Spanish Connection; Jiménez Montes, “Comunidad flamenca”; Stols, De Spaanse Brabanders. 56. Dekoninck, “Engraving,” 118, and Brown, “Pintura en Sevilla,” 932.

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57. In 1575, Martin Alonso sent various boxes of goods to Alonso Fernandez in Seville. See Seville, AGI, Contratación 1789, registros de venida de Nueva España, registros de venida, las naos que vinieron de Nueva España con la flota del general don Antonio Manrique, año de 1575, fol. 31. Alonso’s confirmation as notary can be found in Seville, AGI, México 172, N.37. 58. Plantin archive, Antwerp, MPM, Archief 62, Journal 1584/5, fol. 2r, cited in Imhof, “De Officina Plantiniana.” 59. The print was first published by Jan Sadeler in 1581; see Schuckman and De Hoop Scheffer, Hollstein’s Dutch and Flemish Etchings, vols. 44 and 46: no. 261. On Sadeler’s peripatetic life, see Veldman, “Sadeler, Phillip,” 309. 60. “Libros de cualquier facultad, en cualquier lengua castellana, latina o extranjera o lienzos de Flandes o pinturas, otras en lienzo o en papel, o tabla, de molde, pincel o mano.” Shipping order, Mexico, AGN, Inquisición, vol. 77, exp. 21, fols. 65–111, transcribed and cited in Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,” 66 n. 131. 61. Bowen and Imhof, Christopher Plantin, 125. 62. Receipt, Antwerp, MPM, Arch. 60. fol. 160r, cited in ibid., 44. 63. Plantin archive, Antwerp, MPM, Arch. 61, fol. 28v, cited in ibid., 44–45. 64. Imhof, “De Spaanse koopman Luys Perez,” 151, and De Nave, “Amberes como centro tipografico,”110. 65. Voet, Golden Compasses, 2:436–37, and Vermeylen, “Exporting Art.” 66. Evans, “Het Tapissierspand,” 175. 67. See Porras, “Trading with the Enemy.” 68. Poole, “Opposition to the Third Mexican Council,” 124. 69. Martínez Ferrer et al., Decretos del Concilio Tercero Provincial Mexicano. 70. Berkeley, MM, Concilios provincials 269, fol. 258, as cited and quoted in translation by Poole, “Opposition to the Third Mexican Council,” 134. 71. Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,”124–31. 72. Méndez Rodríguez, “Aproximación,” 539. 73. “A Simon Perines pintor setetenta y

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dos Pesos del dicho oro que se dío y pagó por las pinturas de seis lienzos del retablo quo se hizo para la dicha iglesia. Y por las molduras que hizo para los dichos lienzos dorado y estofados a doce pesos cada uno que montó lo dicho como.” Records of the cathedral reconstruction, Mexico City, AGN, Historia 112, fol. 516, cited in Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,” 127. 74. Ibid., 127–29. 75. Ibid., 124–31, 174–76. 76. Ibid., 167–68. 77. Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica,” 1:241–45. 78. Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,” 174–76. 79. Ibid., 174–76. 80. Fernández Soriano, “Michel Coxcie,” 191–97; Martens, Peinture flamande et goût ibérique, 187–95; Santa Clara, “Exotisme flamand.” 81. Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco” 134–36. 82. “Two very fine paintings, a panel with pedestals and doors sufficiently large as to place on an altar; on one a crucifix, and on the doors Our Lady and St. John and the other the Conception or the Adoration of the Kings, and finally one of Our Lady.” Ovando to Montano, August 4, 1569, reprinted in Jiménez de la Espada, Correspondencia, 477. 83. “Un retablo grande del altar mayor con los Apóstoles, la Asunción de Nuestra Señora en medio y más arriba San Miguel.” Inventory of 1654, Mexico City, ACCMM, Inventarios, legajo 2, fol. 12v, cited by Arroyo, “Cómo pintar a lo flamenco,” 123. 84. In a fresco in Naples Cathedral, Domenichino depicted the archangel defeating Luther and Calvin (MacCulloch and Brooke, Reformation, 640); the Duke of Bavaria, Wilhelm, dedicated Munich’s new Jesuit church to the militant archangel as a defender of the Catholic faith (Smith, Sensuous Worship, 69). 85. “Sed significatur hac pinturâ, quos debeamus deposuisse omne pondus et circumstans nos peccatum ut signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet nosin lucem sanctam.” Molanus, De picturis et imaginibus sacris, 43v.

86. Grafton and Mills, introduction to Conversion Old Worlds and New, xi. 87. For an overview of the Council of Trent, see O’Malley, Trent. 88. “Que no se pintan historias de sanctos ni retablos sin que sean primero examinados.” From the section “De Ymaginibus et Reliquiis Sanctorum,” Constituciones Synodales Loaysa de 1596, 251 decree IV.1, fol. 573r, reprinted in Sáez, “Contribution à l’historie religieuse.” 89. “Prohibense assimismo todos qualesquiera retratos, figuras, monedas, empresas, letras grandes de imprenta y libros impresos, invenciones, mascaras, medallas o qualquier materia que esten estampadas, figuradas o hechas, que sean en irrisión escarnio de los santos sacramentos o de los santos, de sus imagines.” Index et catalogus librorum prohibitorum, regla XII, A5r and v. 90. Sotomayor, Novissimus librorum prohibitorum ex expurgandorum index, regla XI, fol. 24. 91. Véliz Bomford cites a 1581 inventory of an artist’s possessions in Toro, in the province of Zamora, and documents a collection of close to four hundred prints after works by Raphael, Michelangelo, Titian, Parmigianino, and Frans Floris, as well as the inventory of Sevillian painter Vasco Pereira, who owned 2,407 prints upon his death in 1609 (“Authority of Prints”). 92. Navarrete Prieto, Pintura andaluza, 77–83. 93. Roe and Gutiérrez Sanfeliu, introduction to On Christian Iconography, and Pereda, “Sombras y cuadros,” 81–86. 94. “Antes de dar noticia del acierto con quese deve pintar esta sagrada istoria, pondremos delante de los ojos el desacierto que usó Cornelio en su Estampa del año 1570 . . . porque deste papel se valen muchos pintores.” Pacheco, Arte de la pintura, 491. 95. On Pacheco’s related practice of visual philology in the construction of historical portraits, see Meissen, “Francisco Pacheco’s Book of True Portraits.” 96. Mujica Pinilla, “Angels and Demons,” 174. 97. Nieremberg, Devoción y patrocinio de

san Miguel. See also the discussion in Mujica Pinilla, “Angels and Demons,” 179. 98. Goodman, “Portraits of Empire,” 401–7. 99. Morán Turina, “Escalera del monasterio,” 45–46. 100. Soyer, “Inquisition, Art, and SelfCensorship,” 269–92. 101. Olivares Torres, “Imágenes y significados,” 38. 102. Ibid. 103. For these versions, I am indebted to the list compiled by Olivares Torres (“Imágenes y significados”) and Esponda de la Campa and Hernández-Ying (“Arcángel San Miguel”). 104. Here I am indebted to the discussion of a related phenomenon by Aaron Hyman, wherein he traces the adoption of compositions by Rubens across the Andes as synonymous with Cusco’s artistic products, by virtue of “multiple conforming copies sent out to create rhizomatic webs” (Rubens in Repeat, 106). 105. Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Spanish Golden Age, and Schroth and Baer, El Greco to Velázquez, 36–46. 106. Dekoninck, “Engraving,” 120. 107. Sampson, Virality, 4–5. 108. Nahon and Hemsley, Going Viral, 22. 109. See Hyman, “Patterns of Colonial Transfer.” 110. De la Flor, “En las fronteras.” 111. See, for example, the reinscription of Rogier van der Weyden’s Deposition with its author’s name after a century of reproduction (Powell, “Errant Image”) or the absence of Rubens’s presence as author in the proliferation of related objects in Cusco (Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 73–117).

Chapter 4 1. Cuadriello, “Angels and Demons,” 229. 2. Leyva-Gutierrez, “Conflict and Imagery,” 428. 3. F. Ramos, Identity, Ritual, and Power, 98. 4. Leyva-Gutierrez, “Conflict and Imagery,” 428. 5. See the foundational work of Soria, “Nota sobre pintura colonial,” 42–49; Manrique, “Estampa como fuente del arte,” 55–56; and the ongoing work of Ojeda di Ninno, PESSCA, https://‌colonialart‌.org.

6. Hyman, “Inventing Painting,” 110, and Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, chapter 5. 7. Aaron Hyman has described this process as an “aesthetics of sameness” (Rubens in Repeat, 37–71). 8. Jaime Cuadriello suggests the alabaster should be dated to circa 1670 and may have originally been on the principal façade of the chapel (Glories of the Republic of Tlaxcala, 302 n. 23). 9. On the events after the miracle, see Florencia, Narracion de la marabillosa aparicion, and Salmerón, “Relación de la aparición.” 10. “Dos tablas de pintura, que lo declaraban: las quales Diego Lazaro havia mandado pintar, para que no se perdiesse la memoria de la Apparicion.” Florencia, Narracion de la marabillosa aparicion, 95. 11. “Dicho Mapa, el qual sin duda hizo pintar dicho Indio [Lázaro], para memoria de toda la Historia, y despertador de su agradecimiento al Santo Arcangel, y que le serviria de libro en que leeria los puntos de la meditacion.” Ibid., 97. 12. “Todo el Obispado de la Puebla està lleno de Imagenes de Pincel y de talla de este Soberano Archangel. Apenas se vè casa, o Santocale de Indio, que no tenga San Miguel del Milagro.” Ibid., 162. 13. For a similar community of iconographically related images of the Descent from the Cross, understood as synonymous with Cusco, see Hymans, Rubens in Repeat, 77–84. 14. For the definition of “conforming copies,” see ibid., 14–16. On how processes of artistic diffusion both continually transformed the model and formed an absolute community, see Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica,” 1:254. 15. For a similar formulation regarding the profusion of Rubens-derived imagery in seventeenth-century Cusco, see Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 57. 16. Baéz Macías, Arcangel San Miguel, 41. 17. Cuadriello, “Virgen Como Territorio,” 91. 18. Florencia, Narracion de la marabillosa aparicion, 29. On the Guadalupe image’s multiple referents, see Favrot Peterson, Visualizing Guadalupe.

19. On the trope of the devout Indigenous figure, see Alcalá, “Images of the Devout Indian.” 20. Florencia, Narracion de la marabillosa aparicion, 14–15, and Baéz Macías, Arcangel San Miguel, 42. 21. Taylor, Theater of a Thousand Wonders, 61. 22. Gruzinksi, Images at War, 136. 23. In the case of the Guadalupe, the local shrine at Tepeyac only rose to broader prominence in the viceroyalty with the publication of Miguel Sanchez’s 1648 account of the miracle and Florencia, Estrella del norte de México. See Poole, Our Lady of Guadalupe, and Favrot Peterson, Visualizing Guadalupe. 24. See Fee, “Patronage of Juan De Palafox.” 25. Baéz Macías, Arcangel San Miguel, 46–47. 26. For the continuation of this practice into the eighteenth century, see Cuadriello, Glories of the Republic of Tlaxcala, especially 161–72. 27. Leyva-Gutierrez, “Conflict and Imagery,” 440. 28. Hyman, “Inventing Painting,” 118–20. 29. Ibid., and Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 138–54. 30. On viceregal Peruvian contracts stipulating that the artist copy a specific print, see Cornejo Bouroncle, Derroteros de arte cuzqueño; Penhos, “Pintura de la region andina,” 836–53; Ojeda di Ninno, “Grabado como fuente,” 18–19; Hyman, Rubens in Repeat, 51–55. 31. Cummins, “Indulgent Image,” 225. 32. De Mesa and Gisbert, “Flandre et le monde andin,” 178. De Mesa and Gisbert cite the inventory of Cusco Cathedral, book 1 of Actas capitulares, fol. 43, and Archivo departamental de Cuzco, Libro de protocoles, Luis Quezada, 1572, fol. 87. 33. “Sesenta docenas de imagenes de devocion”; “quince docenas de papeles de devocion.” The quotes above are taken from the manifest for the San Buenaventura, sent to Tierra Firme in the viceroyalty of Peru in 1586; see Seville, AGI, Contratación 1084, N.2, fol. 62, discussed in Quintana Echeverría, “Notas sobre el comercio,” 109.

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34. Mujica Pinilla, “Arte e identidad,” 14. 35. Moreno Proaño, Fray Jodoco Ricke, 103–5; Verdi Webster, Lettered Artists, 91–93. 36. Gisbert, “Identidad étnica,” 102. 37. Guibovich Pérez, Edificio de letras, 148. 38. “Y en esta ocasión no puedo dejar de quejarme del descuido, de la casa de Guadalupe, que tuvieron en enviarme algunas cosas que yo envié a pedir, en particular las estampas; que si a esta sazón tuviera yo en Potosí, sobre la mesa donde estaba, veinte mil o treinta mil estampas, todas las gastara, porque cada uno la llevara para tenella en su aposento. Y por cada una, lo menos que podían dar era un peso de plata, que son ocho reales. Ya lo envié a pedir muchas veces y no me lo enviaron.” De Ocaña, Memoria, 486 (fol. 158v). 39. Inquisitorial documents, December 20, 1661, Lima, AAL, Sección hechizerías y idolatrías, II-A, 12, Ambar, fols. 29v–33, cited by Brosseder, Power of Huacas, 221. 40. Mills, “Diego de Ocaña’s Hagiography,” 68. 41. Verdi Webster, Lettered Artists, 199–204. 42. On this painting in the cathedral of Lima, see Flores Flores and Fernández Flores, “En torno a la koineización pictórica,” figs. 25 and 239. On Mermejo’s work in San Pedro, see Mujica Pinilla, “Retablos y devociones,” 213. 43. Bhabha, “Of Mimicry and Man,” 127–29. 44. Dean, Inka Bodies, 47. 45. See Stanfield-Mazzi, “Cult, Countenance, and Community.” 46. On portraits in viceregal Peruvian painting, see ibid.; Dean, “Inka Nobles”; Cummins, “We Are the Other.” 47. For the description of various garments, see Phipps, “Garments and Identity.” 48. O’Phelan Godoy, “Vestido como identidad étnica,” 123. 49. On the value, production, and use of Indigenous-made textiles not used as garments, see McHugh, “Dressing Andean Spaces.” 50. Phipps, “Garments and Identity,” 27–30; O’Phelan Godoy, “Vestido como identidad étnica”; Dean, Inka Bodies, 122–

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59. Elite women were more likely to have themselves depicted in Indigenous dress than men. In a related fashion, women of African descent were prohibited from wearing silks in 1631, yet the repeated institution of these sumptuary laws through the 1660s suggest women did not follow these proscriptions. See Walker, Exquisite Slaves, 33–34. 51. O’Phelan Godoy, “Vestido como identidad étnica,” 124. 52. On colonial Peruvian production of lliclla, see McHugh, “Dressing Andean Spaces,” 62–68. 53. On the broader use of textiles in the testaments of Indigenous women as a way of signaling prestige and cultural continuity with the precontact past, see PrządkaGiersz, “Supervivencia.” 54. G. Ramos, “Indigenous Intellectuals,” 25. 55. Ibid., 29. 56. Teresa Gisbert sees her textiles as identifying this patron as Aymara (Iconographía y mitos indígenas, 87), but I have been unable to corroborate this ethnic designation. 57. See Mujica Pinilla on the long historic use and problems with the term “mestizo” in relation to colonial Latin American art (“Arte e identidad”). For a related critique of the “conceptual vagueness” of invoking mestizaje to describe Andean Christianization, see Brosseder, Power of Huacas, 223. 58. For a foundational critique of “hybridity” in discussions of colonial art, see Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents,” 5–35; see also the recent rebuttal of this term’s use in discussions of viceregal Peru by Mujica Pinilla, “Arte e identidad.” 59. On the polyvalence of identity in viceregal Peruvian society, see Mujica Pinilla, “Arte e identidad,” 53. 60. See Bailey, “Arquitectura,” 108–23. 61. Alaperrine-Bouyer, Educación. 62. On the Limeño confraternity and its relation to practices of devotion in Cusco, see Mujica Pinilla, “Retablos y devociones,” 165–72. 63. Mujica Pinilla, “Retablos y devociones,” 169. On a related surviving Indig-

enous tunic for a Christ Child, see Phipps and Iriarte, “Tunic (Uncu) for a Statue,” 273–76. 64. See Stanfield-Mazzi, Object and Apparition, on how the continued ritual adornment of three-dimensional objects (Christian cult statues) met Indigenous desires in the foundation of Peruvian Christian devotion. On the continued use of South American Indigenous textiles in Catholic settings, see Stanfield-Mazzi, Clothing the New World Church, 175–226. On the suspicion with which textile adornment could be viewed, see Brosseder’s discussion of the use of textile bundles and wrapping in a 1661 case of suspected idolatry in Ambar, Brosseder, “To Make Christianity Fit.” 65. “una nueva congrecación de los soldados indios y otros oficiales ladinos.” Rome / St. Louis, ARSI, Peru, carta anua 1660–62, np. 66. The donors, with one exception, appear to be male. The third figure from the left could be a female donor. 67. Capel, Iglesia de San Pedro, 52–53. 68. See Mujica Pinilla, “Retablos y devociones,” 172 n. 128. Mujica Pinilla notes José B. Peñaloza Jarrín’s theory that the two donors are Doña Petrona Apolaya (d. 1751, before St. Michael) and Teresa Apolaya (d. 1735, before the Virgin). Countering this claim, Mujica Pinilla dates the painting of St. Michael to the 1630s/50s and notes there is no documentation to support Peñaloza’s hypothesis. Unfortunately, I have been unable to locate Peñaloza Jarrín’s text, which Mujica Pinilla cites as: Los Huancas: Desde sus orígenes hasta la gesta de la emancipación (Lima, 2006). 69. Without a technical examination of the frame, the canvas weave, and the paint layers, the date and sequence of these alterations is unclear. 70. María de Espina’s foundation of a chapel, San Pablo, October 24, 1637, Lima, AGN, Donaciones, leg. 47/9; Testament of Ursula de Peralta Pacheco, gifts to San Pablo, April 26, 1639, Lima, AGN, Donaciones, leg. 47/1. 71. Gisbert, Iconografía y mitos indígenas, 87, and Bailey, Art of Colonial Latin America, 198.

72. Carta anua 1660/61, Rome, ARSI, Peru, cited in Mujica Pinilla, “Retablos y devociones,” 149 n. 27. 73. “Estos Pues vendran los primeros por sus legions, y diferencias, con diferentes galas , y apariencias, vestidos de varios colores, y plumajes muy hermosos.” Francisco Dávila, Tratado de los Evangelios, 27–28. See also King, Peruvian Featherworks. 74. Mujica Pinilla, “Sermón a las aves,” 57–68, and Mujica Pinilla, “Angels and Demons,” 184–87. 75. Relación de las costumbres antiguas de los naturales del Piru, written by an anonymous sixteenth-century Jesuit, Madrid, Biblioteca nacional España, MS 3177, cited in Ramón Mujica Pinilla, “Sermón a las aves,” 57–68. 76. Burke, “Jesuits and the Art of Translation,” 24. 77. Here I echo the argument of Thomas Cummins, who critiques how the prism of dependency dominates scholarly consideration of such images (“Imitación e invención,” 27–38). 78. Although Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann argued against such a polarity nearly twenty years ago (Toward a Geography of Art, 272–302), scholarship on paintings like St. Michael the Archangel with the donor figure is still dominated by such assumptions; see, for example, the problematic discussion of race and “indigenization” in Escardiel González Estévez, “Indigenous Angels.” Recent studies of Jesuit-educated Indigenous elites have instead stressed the “ambiguity” of Jesuit education in both policing and helping to train resistance to colonial rule. See Charles, “Trained by Jesuits,” 62–63, 74. 79. On tactics of Indigenous urban women in Lima, across social classes, in confronting colonial political and social discipline, see Osorio, “Callejón de la soledad.” 80. Wuffarden, “Dos obras inéditas.” 81. Stanfield-Mazzi, “Cult, Countenance, and Community.” 82. The Circumcision’s composition is remarkably similar to the Circumcision of Adriaen Collaert in Vita Iesu Salvatoris, which is based on the design by de Vos,

engraved by Jacques de Bie and published by Adraien Collaert around 1598: Schuckman and De Hoop Scheffer, Hollstein’s Dutch and Flemish Etchings, vols. 44 and 46: no. 279. The correspondence to the de Bie composition is noted in Ojeda di Ninno, PESSCA, 4962A/4962B, https://‌colonialart‌. org‌/archives‌/locations‌/peru‌/departamento‌-de‌-lima‌/ciudad‌-de‌-lima‌/iglesia‌-de‌san‌-pedro‌-y‌-antiguo‌-colegio‌-mayor‌-de‌san‌-pablo‌/4962a‌-4962b, but the vertical orientation of Collaert’s print in the Vita Iesu Salvatoris version is even closer to the painting. I have not identified a specific model for the Virgin with Rosary or Christ Carrying the Cross, but both resemble a number of printed exemplars. 83. Durston, Pastoral Quechua, 96, 251. 84. Dean and Leibsohn, “Scorned Subjects,” 429–30. 85. See Wuffarden, “Pintura y los programos iconográficos,” 205–64, and Alcalá, Fundaciones Jesuíticas, 91–107. 86. Here I am following Rogelio Ruiz Gomar’s advice to see colonial contexts not as closed and fixed but as dynamic, shifting, and competing metropolitan identities (“Nueva España,” 2:590).

Chapter 5 1. “Primeramente un caxonçillos donde van quarto figuras de Crucifixos de marfil • el maior costo treinta y siete pessos • el que le sigue costo treinta y cinco pessos • el terzero costo treinta y dos pessos • el quarto y mas pequeno costo dies y ocho pessos • Item una figura de Nuestra señora q costo quarenta y quarto pessos • Item una figura de Sn. Miguel costo quarenta y cinco pessos • Item tres figuras de Sanct Josseph • El uno costo treinta y tres pessos • El otro costo veinte y siete pessos • El otro costo veinte y cinco pessos • Item una figura de So. Diego que costso veinte ps. • Item una figura de So. Pedro costo veinte y cinco ps.” Seville, AGI, Escribania 404a, legajo 2, numero 10, 1 quaderno 1655, fol. 147r. Court documents related to the loss of the silver

aboard the San Francisco Javier, “Memoria de la Plata que trae este Galeon en Registro de Quenta de su Magestad en Reales del situado de las Yslas Filipinas” (1655), first published in Porras, “Locating HispanoPhilippine Ivories.” 2. Trota José and Villegas, Power + Faith + Image, 85. 3. See chapters 2, 3, and 4. 4. On the Jesuit waystations along this route, see Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization,” 48–49. On the Camino de China, see Serrera, “Camino de Asia.” 5. “Los estampas recivi que son tan excelentes.” Francisco Gutiérrez to P. Alonso de Escobar, August 4, 1620, Madrid, RAH, 9/2667, leg. 1, no. 36, fol. 1v. 6. Memoria del maestro fray Pedro de Solier, Seville, AGI, Filipinas, 79, no. 117, cited in Irving, Colonial Counterpoint, 45. 7. Testament of Pedro de Zúñiga, February 23, 1608, Manila, Autos sobre los bienes del Alférez Pedro de Zúñiga, Seville, AGI, Contratación, 276, no. 1, r. 15, quoted in García-Abásolo, “Private Environment,” 365. 8. Fernando Riquiel, Relacion, English translation from Blair and Robertson, Philippine Islands, 2:120–21. 9. On Mechelen poupées, see the catalogue entries in Preisig and Reif, Niederländische Skulpturen. 10. Victoria, “Présence de l’art flamand,” 165. On Mechelen’s status as an export center, for both sculpted single figures and relatively cheap waterverf paintings, see Van Miegroet, “New Data Visualizations.” 11. See Bautista, “Archipelago Twice ‘Discovered.’” 12. “Los oficios mecanicos de los Spañoles an cessado todos por que todos se visten y calçan con sangleies Por ser muy Buenos officiales al uso de Spaña y háçenlo todo muy barato; . . . Yngeniosos que en biendo alguna Pieça hecha de official de Spaña la sacan muy al propio y lo que mas me a admirado es que con no haver quando yo aqui llegue Hombre dellos que supiese Pintar cosa que algo fuese se an perfiçinado tanto En este arte que ansy en lo de Pinzel como de bulto an sacado maravillosas Pieças y algunos nyños Jesús que yo e visto

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Un marfil me pareçe que no se Puede hazer cosa mas Perfecta y ansy lo afirman todos los que los am bisto. Bense Proveyendo las yglesias de las ymagines q estos hazen de q antes havia mucha falta y segun la avilidad que muestran en retrartar y las ymagines q bienen de Spaña entiendo que antes de mucho no nos haran falta las que se hazen en flandes.” Salazar to Philip II, June 24, 1590, Seville, AGI, Filipinas, 74 n. 38, fols. 185r–186v. 13. Stols and Bleys, Vlaanderen en Latijns-Amerika; Van Heesch, Janssen, and Stock, Netherlandish Art. 14. The fundamental catalogues are Marcos, Escultura barroca de marfil, and Marcos, Ivories from the Far Eastern Provinces. 15. An ivory Christ Child sculpture, ca. 1500, was sold at auction in July 2019 and is now in a private collection; a closely related work, also from a private collection, is on view at the Amparo Museum in Puebla, https://‌museoamparo‌.com‌/ exposiciones‌/pieza‌/2563‌/nino‌-jesus. My thanks to Dagmar Eichberger for bringing these works to my attention. 16. Ruiz Gutiérrez, “Marfiles hispanofilipinos en Granada.” 17. Gilman, “Ming and Qing Ivories,” and Clunas, Chinese Carving. 18. Gazette, 1628, cited by Gilman, “Ming and Qing Ivories,” 39, and Clunas, Chinese Carving, 19. 19. Bailey (“Translation and Metamorphosis,” 235) cites a 1561 letter from the Jesuit Luís Fróis in Goa to Gonzalo Vaz, describing a Chinese workshop where crucifixes were being made for export (Ruiz de Medina, Documentos del Japon, 476–77). 20. “They also made images of crucifixes, chairs very curious in our own way . . . one of the Chinese that has been among us for more than a year, and returned to their land, gave these people the news that they could contract all the things that would, and to understand it, they made the trip, and they arrived with the aforementioned boats” (Asimismo traxeron Imágenes de Crucifixos, Sillas muy curiosas á nuestra modo. La causa desta venida demás de la ordinaria que ellos tienen fue uno de los Chinas que ha

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estado entre nosotros tiempo de mas de una año, y vuelto á su tierra dio noticia desta Población, y que en ella se podran contratár todas las cosas que tubiesen, y para entenderlo asi hiceron el viaje, y llegaron con los Navios ya referidos). Hernando Riquel, “Relación muy cierta y verdadera de lo que agora nuevamente se ha sabido de las nuebas Islas del Poniente (1574),” Madrid, AMN, colección Fernández de Navarrete, nav. II, dto. 7o, fol. 247, transcribed in Ruiz Gutiérrez, Galeón de Manila, 182 n. 342. 21. De Morga and Retana, Sucesos de las islas Filipinas, 219–20. 22. See the inventory published by Kawamura, “Manila.” 23. Chia, “The Butcher, the Baker, and the Carpenter,” 509–34. 24. Chin, “Junk Trade,” 188. 25. On the Parián, see Pinto, “Parian”; Santamaria, “Chinese Parian”; Reed, Colonial Manila; Gil, Chinos en Manila; Kueh, “Manila Chinese”; Leibsohn, “Dentro y fuera de los muros.” 26. Wickberg, Chinese in Philippine Life. 27. Carta de Díaz Guiral sobre sangleys, hospitals, May 27, 1606, Seville, AGI, Filipinas 19, n. 105, r. 7, first published in Ollé, “Interacción y conflicto,” 74. 28. “Como de carpinteros y lanteros y todos los demas que son nesesarios en una RePublica Los usan los sangleeys infieles y son muy pocos o ningunos. Los Espanoles que exersen los dichos ofizios ni tartan de ello solo de tener algunas tiendas dentro de la ciudad en que vender algunas cossas de Castilla y que estan desta fuerte El trato y comercio desta ciudad es Imposible.” Pleytos de Manila, La ciudad de Manila de las Islas philipinas con El fiscal de su Magd. de las Juron del Parián, 1620, Seville, AGI, Escribania 403b, leg. 10. N.14, fol. 100v and 101r. 29. “Con sus oficios y siendo esto tan en servicio de Dios nuestro sr. y de su Magd y biengen de toda esta republica contraviniendo a ello muy gran numero de los dichos sangleeys . . . se han estado y estan y vuien con sus Tiendas de Mercaderes sabes capateros plateros bodegonos sombrereros y otros officious mecanicos.” Peticion de Manila sobre Parián de sangleys, February

12, 1632, Seville, AGI, Escribania, 403b, N.148, fol. 889r. 30. Careri, “Voyage Round the World,” 420. 31. See, for example, the conversions of Hyacinto, a silversmith, and two carpenters, Thomas and Raymundo, on May 21, 1626, or the conversion of Domingo the painter on July 22, 1627, recorded in Manila, AUST, Libro de Bautizos Siglo XVII 1626–1700, sección de Parián, roll 47, vol. 2. The discovery of this baptismal record book was first published in Kueh, “Manila Chinese.” 32. Crewe, “Pacific Purgatory,” 358. 33. Gil, Chinos en Manila, 323–24, and Lee, “Chinese Problem,” 11. 34. Crewe, “Pacific Purgatory,” 364. 35. Aduarte, Historia de la provincia del Sancto Rosario, 36. 36. Marjorie Trusted has shown how ivory triptychs of the Tota Pulchra and St. Jerome, as well as ivory plaquettes of Christ as the Divine Pilot, all reproduce multiple printed exemplars. See Trusted, “Survivors of a Shipwreck,” and Trusted, Baroque and Later Ivories, cat. nos. 347 and 348. 37. See the proximity of the surviving versions of the Tota Pulchra iconography in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (99 to B-1864), one found in the shipwreck of the Santa Margarita (now owned by IOTA Partners), and in a private collection in Mexico City; note the close compositional proximity between the St. Jerome from the Santa Margarita (now owned by IOTA Partners), and two polychromed versions reproduced by Sánchez Navarro de Pintado (Marfiles christianos del Oriente en Mexico, fig. 88), as well as the versions of Christ as the Divine Pilot held by the Victoria and Albert Museum (267–1879), the British Museum (1959,0721.1), the Museo de Historia Mexicana, Monterrey, a Mexican private collection (reproduced in ibid., fig. 87), and another version formerly in a Madrid private collection. 38. On the presence of European stylistic elements in Qing court painting, see especially the pioneering work of Sullivan, Meeting of Eastern and Western Art, 66–86, recently summarized in Cheng-Hua, “Global Perspective.” However, recall that Aleni published the Tianzhu jiangsheng

zhuxiang jingjie (figs. 6 and 24) in Fuzhou in 1637, so European prints were not totally unknown along the southern coast. 39. See Trota José, “Veneranda imagen,” 44–73. 40. For references to the ivory goods (marfiles) sent as gifts by the kingdoms of Siam and Cambodia to Manila, see de Morga, Sucesos de las islas Filipinas, 18, 102. On the earliest evidence for ivory in the Philippines, see Trota José and Villegas, Power + Faith + Image. 41. Trota José, Images of Faith and Devotion, 3, 15. 42. Thanks to Sarah Guérin for her help. On distinctions between ivory derived from Asian and African elephants, see Cutler, Craft of Ivory, 27–29. 43. On the links between East Africa, Indian, and Portuguese merchants, see Pearson, Port Cities and Intruders, and Machado, Ocean of Trade. In 1619 alone, the annual value of the Portuguese Mozambique ivory trade is estimated at 100,000 cruzados, or approximately 5 to 10 percent of the total carreira trade (Newitt, “East Africa and Indian Ocean Trade,” 215). Shipping records tend to record the total weight of ivory shipped, so it is difficult to reconstruct the price of a single tusk. On the total value of the carreira trade in the early seventeenth century, see Boyajian, Portuguese Trade in Asia. Afzal Ahmed has traced the import of more than 200,000 kilograms of ivory from East Africa to Goa between 1613 and 1661—that is more than 25,000 tusks (Indo-Portuguese Trade, 101). 44. Irving, Colonial Counterpoint, 42. 45. Souza, Survival of Empire, 83. On Manila and Macau’s trade, see Flynn and Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon.’” 46. Vassallo e Silva, “Inequity and Excellence,” 148. 47. Marcos, Ivories from the Far Eastern Provinces, 165–77, and Vassallo e Silva, “Missionary Industry.” 48. Trusted, “Survivors of a Shipwreck,” 456. 49. This is not to slight the foundational work on identifying Hispano-Philippine sculptures and accounting for their stylistic features but to question the unproblematized use of the term “hybrid” or analyses

that stress these sculptures’ similarity to Buddhist figures can be found in much of the art-historical literature on these works, including Marcos, Escultura barroca de marfil; Sánchez Navarro de Pintado, Marfiles cristianos; Trusted, Baroque and Later Ivories; Trusted, “Survivors of a Shipwreck”; and Bailey, “Translation and Metamorphosis.” 50. “Tiene tambien este Collegio avegargo un pueblo pequeno muy cercano a manila del la nacion Talaga los quales se doctrinan lo mas del ano en nra iglesia. Per estar cerca, y algunas veses en su propria iglesia la qual han hecho este ano de nuebo muy Buena y adelantandola con un st. Miguel de bulto q es su vocacion y una Hermosa Imagen de Nra. Sa. y hecho para adorno de toda la iglessia de varios sedas y comprador un organo pa. celebrar sus fiestas.” Carta anua de la Provincia de Philippinas de la Compania de Jesus del Ano de 1610, Madrid, RAH, 9/2667, Legajo 1, no. 14, fol. 4r. 51. “Tocar a las almas ganava muchas Indulgencias y era devotos particulamente del Arcangel S. Miguel . . . un perfecto y exemplar Religioso de la Compañia, muy amoldado a nuestro instituto.” Carta anua, May 14, 1639. Rome / St. Louis, ARSI, Filipinas, 7.I, 1638/9 311–94, fol. 322r. 52. Julie Lauffenburger of the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore is currently conducting a study of the pigments and techniques of polychromy and gilding on these statues. Previously there has only been one study of the polychromy and gilding of a single ivory in Granada: Rozalen and Ruiz Gutiérrez, “Study of the Origin.” 53. The sample extracted from the Walters St. Michael was analyzed using Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy in transmitted mode following compression in a diamond cell at 256 scans with four wave number resolution; a very good match to urushi was achieved using the IRUG database (InfraRed Users Group, standard INR00230). My thanks to Julie Lauffenburger for sharing these results with me. 54. Similar incised decoration can be found on figures of St. Michael the Archangel now in the San Esteban, Salamanca,

and the Monasterio de Carmelitas Descalzas, Vélez-Málaga, both of which may originate in the same workshop as the Monterrey sculpture. 55. See, for example, Trusted’s description of a piece with a “distinctive hybrid style of West and East” (“Survivors of a Shipwreck,” 458). Scholars also often stress the connection between figures of the Virgin and the Buddhist bodhisattva Guanyin (for example, Sánchez Navarro de Pintado, Marfiles cristianos, 98) or identify iconographic links to other Buddhist iconography (for example, Bailey, “Translation and Metamorphosis”). 56. Dean and Leibsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents.” 57. Indeed, in a recent catalogue, Alan Chong cautioned art historians to acknowledge precisely what we do not know about these ivories (Christianity in Asia). Here I am slightly more optimistic: there is more these objects can tell us. 58. See the related argument made about the use of Asian motifs by Puebla potters made by Priyadarshini, Chinese Porcelain in Colonial Mexico, 173. 59. González López, Galicia, Santiago y América. 60. Villaseñor Black, Creating the Cult of Saint Joseph. 61. Trusted, “Survivors of a Shipwreck.” 62. Personal correspondence with Jack Harbeston, IOTA Partners, January 30, 2018. 63. Flynn and Giraldez, “Silk for Silver,” 52–68. 64. Curiel, “Al remedo de la China”; Leibsohn, “Made in China”; Pierce, At the Crossroads; Bonialian, China en la América colonial; Carr, Made in the Americas; Leibsohn and Priyadarshini, “Introduction”; Priyadarshini, Chinese Porcelain in Colonial Mexico. 65. Flynn and Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon.’” 66. On the galleon trade, see Bjork, “The Link That Kept the Philippines Spanish,” 25–50. 67. Cushner, “Merchants and Missionaries,” 367–68. 68. Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization,” 46, and

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Cushner, “Merchants and Missionaries.” 69. Crailsheim, “Seville and Manila,” 175–81. 70. Priyadarshini, Chinese Porcelain in Colonial Mexico, 82. 71. For a discussion of the complex role of the Jesuit procurator, who was sent to Europe every six years to buy goods for the mission but often also engaged in additional commercial activities, see Alcalá, “Jesuits and the Visual Arts,” 126–71. 72. See, for example, the letters of June 21, 1624; February 11, 1636; and October 1, 1645, which all request crown funds for Manila churches and specifically request “vino y aceite.” Manila, AAM, Cedularios, a. 1573–1749 (1624, 1636, 1645); RG I S.01 General Administration, 7, 3.A.1, folder 2, fol. 11; folder 2, fol. 125; folder 3, fol. 35. 73. Cushner, “Merchants and Missionaries.” 74. “Segunda parte de las resoluciones de casos dadas en la conferencias de este colegio de la Compañía de Jésus de manila por el padre Diego de Bobadilla, Provincial que fué de esta provincial.” Casos resueltos en esto colegio de Manila en las conferencias ordinarias desde el mes de octubre de 1630, October 1630, Barcelona, APTSI, no pressmark, partially transcribed in ibid. 75. “Cristo de marfil, de más de una vara de alto.” Marqués de Villena, 1640, cited in Sánchez Navarro de Pintado, Marfiles cristianos, 115. 76. There are three large Hispano-Philippine Cristos in the cathedral of Lima (see

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Mujica Pinilla, Cristos de Lima). Seventeenth-century ivory sculptures of Christ from the Philippines, all more than fifty centimeters in height, can be found in the Cusco conventos of San Francisco, Santo Domingo, and La Merced. 77. “Portes de unas ymágenes. Más de gasto 114 reales que pagó de los portes de tres ymágenes de marfil que están en poder del Rmo. P. Mo. Confesor de su Mag. D.fr. Pedro Matilla, que son un S. Miguel de vara de alto y los dos Patriarchas n.o. P.S. Francisco y Sto. Domingo de a dos tercias cada uno que remitió para este Convento desde Manila el P. fr. Franc.co de Vargas, hijo deste Convento.” Antonio Vargas, quoted in Trota José and Villegas, Power + Faith + Image, 115. On the three ivories, see Marcos, Ivories from the Far Eastern Provinces, 27, and Marcos, Escultura barroca de marfil, cat. nos. 597, 631, 632. 78. Marcos, Escultura barroca de marfil, cat. no. 594.

Conclusion 1. “Hoc tamen intereesse videmus, quod quas veteres ut plurimum ex marmore, aere, aureo, statarias (ut ita dicam) & immobiles fecerunt: nos leues, & quae facile circumferri possunt, charta impressas, imagines facimus. Qui modus & optimus, & toti orbi vtilissimus merito censetur: nam vetus ille, tantum fere civitatis vnius incolis prodesse potest, hic vagus per quidquid terrarium sub Sole est vno tempore plurimus, magno spatio diui-

sis, ad ingentia facta pectus exacuit.” Baltens, preface to C. Martin, Généalogies. English translation from Dekoninck, “Graphic Koiné,” 273. 2. On the binary nature of the print matrix, see Roberts, “Contact.” 3. Mochizuki, “Jesuit Visual Culture,” 475. 4. See Edgerton, Theaters of Conversion. On Valadés, see Báez Rubi, Mnemosine Novohispánica, and Leone, “(In)efficacy of Words and Images.” 5. Cummins, “From Lies to Truth,” 161. 6. Davis, Vision and Virtuality, 24. 7. Koch, “Visual Strategies,” 101–2, and Rice, “Lines of Perception.” 8. “Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo.” Durham Peters, Marvelous Clouds, 20. 9. Ibid., 37, 176. 10. See Jennifer Roberts’s insight that for early Americans, “England” was a cargo of ideas that arrived by ship and had to be concretized (Transporting Visions, 46). 11. In this way, the study of the viral image is a decolonial gesture, as it forces a recognition of the manufactured nature of modernity, the ways in which Western epistemology prescribes an ontology of the world as given. See Mignolo and Walsh, On Decoloniality, 147. 12. On the role of media as agents of subject constitution, see Siegert, “The Map Is the Territory”; Siegert, Cultural Techniques; Krämer and Bredekamp, “Culture, Technology, Cultural Techniques”; Bredekamp, Theorie des Bildakts.

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Index Italicized page references indicate illustrations. Endnotes are referenced with “n” following by the endnote number. Acapulco (New Spain/Mexico), 8, 117, 119, 130, 138 Acquaviva, Claudio, 24, 31 Act of Abjuration, 55 actor-network theory, 9 Adnotationes et meditations (Nadal) content descriptions, 17–18, 25, 32 exportation to Spain, 37 illustrations from, 48, 49 Imagines imagery corresponding to, 17– 18, 20, 32–33 printing conventions for, 17–18, 33 publishing of, 17, 47 Adoration of the Kings, from Imagines (Wierix, H.), 48, 48 Adoration of the Shepherds (Agresti), 20, 21, 24, 26 Adoration of the Shepherds (Fiammeri), 22, 23, 24, 26, 34 Adoration of the Shepherds (Passeri), 26, 27, 34, 153n26 Adoration of the Shepherds (Van Groningen), 22, 22 Adoration of the Shepherds (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 30, 31, 34 Aduarte, Diego, 126, 127 Africa, enslaved peoples from, 130 African ivory, 123, 127, 128, 130, 132, 136, 141 Agresti, Livio Adoration of the Shepherds, 20, 21, 24, 26, 34 Imagines illustration drafts, 20, 24, 32 Ahmed, Afzal, 161n43 Akbar, Jalal al-Din Muhammad, 22, 44 Albert (archduke of Austria), 43 Aleni, Giulio, 17, 18, 39, 41, 160–61n38 Alesio, Mateo Pérez de Doña Inés Muñoz, 112, 112 print importations, 101 allegiance, 9, 81 Alleyns, Marten, 55 Alonso de Flandes, Martin, 72 alphabetic labeling, 17, 32 Alvarez, Giovanni, 38 ancestral veneration, 62, 113

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angels and archangels, 82–83, 110–11 See also Michael (archangel); Miguel del Milagro, San; St. Michael the Archangel artworks Annuae litterae (Carta anua), 8, 119, 133 Annunciation, from Song nianzhu guicheng (Ming artist), 39, 40 Annunciation, from Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (Ming artist), 39, 41 Annunciation (Wierix, H. after Passeri), 39, 42 Antwerp contemporary descriptions of, 13, 21, 22, 54, 68–69 engraving style of, 34 exportation challenges, 73 Imagines publication significance, 32, 35 paintings with descriptors of, 68 political instability, 13, 22, 26, 54–56, 58, 63, 66 as publishing center, 20–21, 31 publishing challenges, 13, 22, 26 publishing formats in, 24 Apolaya, Petrona, 158n68 Apolaya, Teresa, 158n68 Apparition of St. Michael (Villalpando), 96, 98 Ardila, Pedro, 141 Arrest in the Garden (Fiammeri), 24, 25, 25 Arroyo, Elsa, 74, 74, 75–76, 79 art collecting, 4, 43, 45–47, 64, 124 Arte de la pintura (Pacheco), 81 Asian ivory, 127, 128 Assche, Paul van, 73 Assumption of the Virgin (Concha), 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 Augustinians, 74, 120, 155n47 Ávila, Francisco de, 110–11 Azores, 71 Badajoz, Catedral de San Juan Bautista, 136, 138, 139, 141 Bailey, Gauvin Alexander, 123–24 Baltens, Pieter, 146, 147 Barachiel (archangel), 82 Belmonte, Iglesia Colegial de San Bartolomé, 83, 85 Berson, Jacques (Jacobus Bersonius), 59 Bhabha, Homi, 11, 102 Bible, 50, 51, 81

Bie, Jacques de, 159n82 Bitti, Bernardo, 101, 105, 109 bivisibility, 149 Bobadilla, Diego de, 140–41 Bock, Ritsaert de, 55 Bogotá, Convento Santo Domingo, 37, 38 Bomford, Zahira Véliz, 81 Borcht, Pieter van der, 155n28 Borgia, Francis de, 20 Bosch, Hieronymus, 64 Boucq, Richard le, 55 Bourgeois, Jean, 46 Bowen, Karen, 45 Branteghem, Willem van, 20, 152n8 Brucke, Pieter van der (Diego de la Puente), 101, 109 Bruegel, Pieter, 28, 54, 154n4 Brunswick-Lüneburg, William, Duke of, 55 Bry, Theodor de: Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange, or Wierix, H. after De Vos, 58, 58 Burgo de Osma-Ciudad de Osma, Spain, 83 cacique, 37, 102, 103, 105, 108 Calvaert, Denys: Conversion of Paul, 79, 80 Calzada, Merced, 81 Camaña, Pedro de, 71 Cambodian ivory trade, 128 Camino de China (ship), 119 Canary Islands, 71, 74 Capac Cuzco San Miguel, 112 Capriolo, Aliprando: Vita et miracvla santiss engravings, after Passeri, 26(153n27), 27, 31 Careri, Gemelli, 125 Carta anua, 8, 119, 133 Castillo of Chapultepec, 141 Catherine, St., 96–98, 98 Catholicism De Vos patronage, 55, 58 political-religious rebellions, 13, 22, 31, 54–55, 58 prints as Counter-Reformation tools, 13, 58–59, 63–64, 65 religious imagery conformity, 80–83 See also Franciscans; missionaries; Society of Jesus Cebu City, Basilica Minore del Santo Niño de Cebu, 120, 121, 150

Ceylon (Singhalese) ivory sculpture, 130, 134, 136 Champaigne, Philippe de, 41 Charles V (king of Spain, Holy Roman Emperor), 64 Charlotte of Bourbon, 58, 58 cherubs, 91, 99, 114, 117, 133 Chimchimec people, 74 Chimú featherworks, 110, 110 China Christian-themed woodcut block prints from, 17, 18, 39, 40, 41, 160–61n38 guardian lion imagery, 136, 139 Imagines missionary value in, 38–41 ivory sculpture industry in, 123 ivory statues from, 123–24, 124 ivory trade routes through, 119, 130 publishing centers of, 39 Chinese immigrants. See Sangleys of Manila Christ donor portraits on Peruvian paintings of, 103–4, 104, 112 Goan ivory statues of Good Shepherd, 132, 132 illustrated books on life of, 4, 17, 22, 37 incredulity of Thomas triptychs with, 56, 56 painting series on life of, 41 Peruvian painted reproductions featuring, 37, 38 Philippine ivory sculptures in Peru, 162n76 Pietà prints with, 59, 61 See also Christ Child; Crucifixion Christ and the Samaritan Woman (Wierix, H.), 149, 149 Christ and the Woman from Canaan (De Vos, M.), 28, 29, 30, 46 Christ and the Woman from Canaan (Passeri), 28, 29, 46 Christ and the Woman from Canaan (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 30, 30–31, 46 Christ as the Good Shepherd (Goan artist), 130, 132 Christ Before the Woman from Canaan (Cusco school), 37, 38 Christ Carrying the Cross (Cusqueño artist), 103–4, 104, 112 Christ Child Circumcision-themed paintings, 106, 107, 110, 159n82 Goan ivory statue fragment, 130, 132, 132 Limeño cult statues of, 105–6, 106

Michelen small-scale devotional statues of, 120, 121 Philippine ivory statues of, 122, 122 Philippine Virgin of the Rosary with, 126, 126 Philippine wood statues of, 120, 121 Christ Child fragment (Goan artist, poss. attrib.), 130, 132, 132 Christ Child (Manila artist), 122, 122 Christ Child (Mechelen artist), 120, 121 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute (Wierix, H. after Passeri, Los Angeles), 35, 36 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute (Wierix, H. after Passeri, Rome), 35, 36 Christi Iesu vitae (Montano), 22, 22, 24, 31, 152n10 Circumcision (Collaert after De Vos), 159n82 Circumcision of Christ (Limeño artist), 106, 107, 110, 159n82 Ciudad de Osma, Burgo de Osma, 83, 85 clemency, 15, 58, 63, 64, 79 Clement VIII (pope), 34 Cobergher, Wenzel, 63 Cobo, Cristóbal Vela: St. Michael the Archangel, 83, 84 Cock, Hieronymus, 21 cocolixtli, 89 Colegio de San Borja, 37 Collaert, Adriaen Circumcision, after De Vos, 159n82 Imagines engraver, 33, 35 Concha, Andrés de la Assumption of the Virgin, 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 Cuautitlán Cathedral subcontracting, 75 St. Michael the Archangel, 75, 77, 96 conforming copies, 12, 38 Conquistadora (statue), 94 Considerationi sopra tutta la Vita di NS Giesu Christo (Ricci, B.), 46 Contreras, Pedro Moya de, 72, 73, 78 conversion of Chinese immigrants in Manila, 119, 125–26, 143 illustrated books for, 17 of Indigenous people of the Americas, 74, 79 Jesuit acculturation practices for, 111 Michael the Archangel themes of, 9, 59, 79, 111, 134 prints as tools of, 13, 58–59, 63, 101 Conversion of Paul (Calvaert), 79, 80 Coppens van Diest, Anthonis, 22 Cordoba, Iglesia de San Miguel, 83, 84

Cordoba, San Jerónimo de Valparaiso, 83, 84, 85 Coronation of the Virgin (Jan Sadeler after De Vos, M.), 55, 55 Coronel, Hernando de los Rios, 126 Correa, Juan, 96 Cort, Cornelis, 81 Cortés, Hernán, 94 Costerus, Franciscus, 31 costumes and accessories archangel processions with, 110 of Michael the Archangel, 51, 91, 99, 114, 117, 133, 134 of Peruvian Indigenous female donor portraits, 100, 102–4, 104, 106, 108, 108 Peruvian statues with Indigenous, 106 Philippine devotional statues with, 122, 126, 127 Council of Trent, 74, 80, 82 Counter-Reformation, 13, 58–59, 63–64, 65, 79–82 Coxcie, Michiel: Senhor Jesus Altarpiece, 76, 78, 78 Crucifixion Chinese woodcut block prints, 39, 40, 41, 41 Flemish engraved prints, 59, 59–61, 60, 63, 65 Philippine ivories, 122, 128, 128, 141 Crucifixion (Manila artist), 122, 128, 128 Crucifixion with Mary Madgalene (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 59–61, 60, 63, 65 Crucifixion with Virgin and St. John (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 59, 59, 63, 65 Cruz, Alonso de la Vera, 72 cultural translation, 12, 148 Cummins, Thomas, 99 Cusco, La Merced, 162n76 Cusco, San Francisco, 162n76 Cusco, Santa Catalina, 101, 103 Cusco, Santo Domingo, 103–4, 104, 162n76 Cusco Cathedral, 99 Cusco (Peru) donor portrait paintings in, 103–4, 104, 112 Flemish retablos in, 99 Imagines reproductions from, 37, 38 Michael the Archangel paintings from, 101, 103 Philippine ivory statues in, 141, 162n76 Cusqueño artists Christ Before the Woman from Canaan, 37, 38

index

177

Christ Carrying the Cross, 103–4, 104, 112 St. Michael the Archangel, 101, 103 Davis, Whitney, 149 Dawkins, Richard, 151n8 Dean, Carolyn, 12, 102, 113, 136 Dekoninck, Ralph, 35 De optimo imperio (Montano), 155n41 De picturis et imaginibus sacris (Molanus), 79, 81 Deposition (Van der Weyden), 157n111 De sacris et profanes imaginibus (Paleotti), 81 De Vos, Barbara, 55 De Vos, Maerten associates, 54, 62, 73, 154n4 biographical information, 54–56 Imagines illustration commissions, 28, 73 mercantile networks of, 55, 73 patrons, 55, 64 portraits of, 65 religion, 55, 58, 66 reputation, 28 signatures, 28, 56, 65–66, 68 students of, 63 wealth of, 63 works of Adoration of the Shepherds, Wierix, H. after, 30, 31, 34 Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 28, 29, 30, 46 Christ and the Woman from Canaan, Wierix H. after, 30, 30–31 Coronation of the Virgin, Jan Sadeler after, 55, 55 Crucifixion with Mary Madgalene, Wierix, H. after, 59–61, 60, 63, 65 Crucifixion with Virgin and St. John, Wierix, H. after, 59, 59, 63, 65 Evangelicae historiae imagines title page, Wierix, H. after, 3, 28 Furriers’ Altarpiece (The Incredulity of St. Thomas), 56, 56 Last Judgment drawings, 73 Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange, Bry or Wierix, H. after, 58, 58 Pietà, Wierix, H. after, 59, 61 St. John Writing the Apocalypse, 69, 69, 74, 74, 75, 76 St. Michael the Archangel, Justus Sadeler, after, 65–66, 66 St. Michael the Archangel, Wierix, H. after, 3

178

index

St. Michael the Archangel (1584, pen and ink wash), 51, 53 St. Paul, 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 St. Peter, 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 Tobias and the Angel, 68, 68, 74, 74, 75 See also St. Michael the Archangel (De Vos, M., 1581 painting); St. Michael the Archangel (De Vos iconography); St. Michael the Archangel (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M., 1584) De Vos, Paul, 54 Diaz, Manuel, 39 Diego, Juan, of Ocotlán, 93 Diego, Juan, of Tepeyac, 93, 94 Diego, St., 138 Domenichino, 156n84 Dominic, St., 123, 141 Dominicans, 71, 74, 125, 126, 141 Doña Inés Muñoz (Alesio), 112, 112 donor portraits, 106, 107, 112–13 donor portraits, female composition descriptions, 99, 106, 108, 112 costumes and textiles, 102–4, 106, 108 ethnicity distinctions, 104–5, 108 function of, 112–13 paintings with, 100, 104, 108, 112 settings, 112 Dürer, Albrecht, 81, 101 Elizabeth of England (queen), 55 England, 54–55, 63 enslaved persons, 130 Escobar, Alonso de, 120 Escorial Library, 62, 81, 82 Escorial Palace, 64 Espina, María de, 109 Estrella del norte de México (Sanchez), 157n23 Esturmio, Hernando de, 71 Ethiopia, 44 Eucharist, 101 Evangelicae historiae imagines (Nadal) artistic sourcing restrictions, 10, 37 audience, 17, 34, 43, 44, 45–47 binding, 18, 24, 46, 46–47 composition history, 20 content descriptions, 4, 17, 32 copperplates of, 43–44, 45, 46, 47 cost and value of, 10, 37, 45–46 distribution control of, 7–8 editions and printing statistics, 46 engravers of, 31, 33, 34, 35

engravings’ alphabetic labels, 32–33 engravings and viewer response expectations, 33, 34, 35 engravings as artistic sources, 17, 18, 37–41, 43, 44, 149–50 engravings’ commercial value, 45 engravings’ design format, 17, 32, 33 engravings’ design process, 20, 21, 22–28, 23, 25, 26, 28 engravings’ production, 32, 33 engravings’ reproduction popularity, 17, 18–20, 47–49 engravings reused in other publications, 47 engravings’ style descriptions, 34–35 engravings’ value perceptions, 34 function of, 17, 19, 32, 37, 44 geographic distribution and range, 4, 17 influence of, 5, 45 layout descriptions, 24 meditation volumes with, 17–18, 20, 32–33 missionary value of, 36–43 narrative, 4, 17, 22, 37 publication location, 4, 17, 19–22, 24, 26 publication of, 4, 13, 17, 20, 152n2 title page, 3, 28 Adoration of the Kings, 48, 48 Adoration of the Shepherds, 30, 31, 34 Annunciation, 39, 42 Christ and the Samaritan Woman, 149, 149 Christ and the Woman from Canaan, 30, 30–31, 46 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, 35, 36 Nativity, 17, 19 ex libera meditatione, 33 Eyck, Jan van, 64 Facebook, 6, 7, 8 Fajardo, Alonso, 124 Familism, 62 Farago, Claire, 9–10 Farnese, Alessandro, Duke of Parma, 56, 58, 63 featherwork, 110, 110 Fernandes de Flandes, Alonso, 72 Ferreira, Gaspar (Fei Qikuei), 39, 40 Fiammeri, Benedetto Adoration of the Shepherds, 22, 23, 24, 26, 34 Arrest in the Garden, 24, 25, 25 biographical information, 22, 24 Imagines draft drawings, 22, 24–25 Transfiguration, 24–25

fidelity, 81 Flagellation (Taurino, Taurino, and Taurino), 41, 43 flamencos, 71–73, 75 Flemish art, 64, 71, 72, 99, 101, 121 See also specific Flemish artists and artwork titles Flemish artists in New Spain (Mexico), 71–72, 75 in Peru, 101 Santo Niño de Cebu, or Filipino artist, 120, 121, 150 See also specific names of artists Florencia, Francisco de, 91, 93 Floris, Frans Fall of the Rebel Angels, 51, 52 in Spanish collections, 156n91 forgetfulness, as policy and theme, 58, 59, 61, 63 forgiveness of sins, 59, 61 Francis, St., 123, 141 Franciscan Preaching in New Spain (Valadéz, attrib.), 148, 148 Franciscans in New Spain, 12, 69–70, 71, 72 painted reproduction models, 72 in Peru, 101 print reproductions uses, 148, 148 prints dedicated to, 59 Third Provincial Council attendance, 74 Francis Xavier, St., 8, 123 Fujian (China), 39, 41, 41, 123–24 Funchal, Sé Catedral de Nossa Senhora da Assunção, 76, 78, 78 Furriers’ Altarpiece (The Incredulity of St. Thomas) (De Vos, M.), 56, 56 Gabriel (archangel), 82, 110 Galle, Jan, 45, 46, 46–47 Galle, Philip, 22, 22, 24, 26, 62, 152n10 Galle, Theodore, 43 Gante, Pedro de, 71 Garcés, Julián, 89 gatekeepers Antwerp commerce and trading, 13 art exportation, 64, 72–73, 78, 86 Counter-Reformation and Church as, 13 cult development and promotion, 90, 94–95, 115 descriptions and impact of, 7–8 iconographic controls of, 79, 141 modern, 7

print distribution and accessibility, 7–8, 48–49, 63, 86–87, 127, 147 publishers as, 21, 73 religious imagery conformity, 80–82 trade and, 127, 143 Gent, Pieter van, 71 globalization agents of, 12 art history theoretical models, 9–10 Spanish royalty and principles of, 64, 150 of viral images, 6, 15, 49, 150 See also gatekeepers; infrastructures; trade Goa (India), 119, 130, 132, 132, 134, 136 Goan artists Christ as the Good Shepherd (ivory), 130, 132 Christ Child [fragment], possibly attributed to, 130, 132, 132 Virgin and Child, or Singhalese artist, 134, 136 Goltzius, Hendrick, 31 Gomez, Pedro, 99 Gossael, Pieter (Pedro), 101 Granada, Iglesia of San Miguel, 83, 85 Granada, San Juan de Dios, 83, 85 Groningen, Gerard van: Adoration of the Shepherds, 22, 22 Gruzinksi, Serge, 12 Gualoto, Antonio, 101 Guanyin, 123–24, 124, 161n55 Guanyin (Ming artist), 123–24, 124 Gulshan Album, 149, 149 Gutiérrez, Francisco, 120 Hemsley, Jeff, 7, 86 heresy, 32, 79 Hernandez, Michael, 31 hieroglyphs, 34 Hoffaeus, Paulus, 34 Hooftman, Gilles, 55 Huejotzingo, 72 Humabon, Rajah, 120 Humanae salutis monumenta (Montano), 21, 152n10, 155n41 Huybrechts, Adriaen associates, 62 engravings published by, 56, 57, 58, 58, 59, 60, 61, 61 publication motivations, 58 hybridity, 12, 136 Hyman, Aaron, 12, 38, 90, 96 Iesu Christi vita (Van Branteghem), 152n8 Ignatius of Antioch, St., 123

Ignatius of Loyola, 20, 33, 111 Illa Tecce Viracocha (god), 110 imagen de vestir, 127 Imhof, Dirk, 45 Incans, 102, 110–11, 112, 113 Indigenous peoples of New Spain (Mexico) archangel appearances to, 89, 91–94, 92 artists, 71 councils on treatment of, 69, 74, 79 education programs for, 71 replication talents, 122 Spanish conflicts with, 74 Indigenous peoples of Peru donor portraits, 99, 100, 102–10, 107, 108, 112, 112–13, 158n58 nobility status, 37, 102, 103, 105, 108 patronesses, 109–10 patron saints of, 110 religious beliefs and Jesuit accommodations, 110–11 See also Cusqueño artists; Limeño artists infrastructures of Antwerp, 13, 21, 22, 54, 68–69 descriptions, 7 early modern viral relations, 147, 148–49, 150 ivory sculpture mobility, 119, 132, 133, 144–45 painting mobility, 49, 73 print mobility, 31, 48, 86, 119–20 virality and requirement of, 7, 11, 12, 13, 14–15, 86 Ingold, Tim, 9 Inquisition, Holy Office of the, 80–81, 82 intercessors, 45, 91, 97–98, 112 Isabella (archduchess of Austria), 43 Isfahan, New Julfa cathedral, 41, 43 Ivins, William, 47 ivory sculptures from China, 123–24, 124, 141 from Southeast Asia, 130, 132, 132, 134, 136 ivory sculptures from Manila carvers of (see Sangleys of Manila) Chinese attribution theories, 123–24 Christ Child, 122, 122 in costume, 122, 126 Crucifixions, 122, 128, 128 exportation of, 117, 127, 138, 141 iconographic expansion, 122–23 ivory sources for, 123, 128, 130, 132, 136, 141 John, 141 markets for, 124, 133, 137

index

179

models for, 119–20, 121, 122, 124, 127, 132, 134 print to three-dimensional interpretations, 127 production process, 127–28, 130 Virgin and Child, 122, 123–24, 125, 134 Virgin of the Rosary, 122, 126, 126, 127–28 See also ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel in Badajoz (fig. 85), 127, 134, 136, 138, 139, 141 in Baltimore (fig. 78), 127, 128, 129, 130, 134, 136 carving style and polychromy, 134 commercial value, 137–38 cultural hybridity, 136–37 devil imagery, 136 exportation of, 141 gilding, 134 iconography overview, 133–34 as infrastructural media, 143 in Mexico City (fig. 70), 1, 2, 117, 118, 127, 130, 134 models for, 117, 119, 127, 132, 134, 136, 137 in Monterrey (fig. 82), 127, 134, 135, 136 in Salamanca (fig. 86), 127, 134, 141, 142, 144, 161n54 in Tepotzotlán (fig. 79), 127, 128, 130, 131, 144 virality of, 144–45 Jahangir (Mughal emperor), 44 James the Greater, St., 138 Jarríin, José B. Peñaloza, 158n68 Jerudiel (archangel), 82 Jesuit College, Lima, 101 Jesuit College of St. Ignatius, Manila, 140 Jesuits. See Society of Jesus Jesús de Ágreda, María de, 47 Jiménez, Diego (Jacobus Ximenes), 20, 24, 31, 34, 35 Jiménez, Emanuel, 31 Jiménez, Ferdinand, 31 Jode, Gerard de, 24, 25, 152n10 John, St., 141 John the Baptist, 108, 108 John the Evangelist, St., 59, 59 Joseph, St., 138 Judgment of Solomon (Snellinck), 24, 25 judgment themes, 61, 91 Kaufmann, Thomas DaCosta, 11, 159n78

180

index

Kempeneer, Pieter de, 71 kinship, 106 Kopytoff, Igor, 4 Kubler, George, 152n40 La Paz, San Pedro Tiahuanaco, 103, 104 La Roija, Monasterio de San Millán de Yuso, 83 Latour, Bruno, 47–48 Lauffenburger, Julie, 161n52 Lázaro, Diego, 89, 91–95, 92, 95 Legazpi, Miguel López de, 120 Leibsohn, Dana, 12, 113, 136 Liber Jeremiae (Montano), 155n41 Lima, Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Concepción, 112, 112 Lima, San Pedro Christ Child cults and rituals, 105–6 Christian schools at, 105 Circumcision of Christ (Limeño artist), 106, 107, 112, 159n82 construction and building descriptions, 105 interior views of lateral chapels, 109, 114 Niño de Huanca (Limeño artist), 105–6, 106 renovation and donor gifts, 109–10 retablo dedication ceremony, 110 saints paintings at, 108–9 sculptures at, 113 St. Michael the Archangel (Román), 102, 113, 113–14 Virgin of the Rosary (Limeño artist), 106, 108, 108, 109, 112 See also St. Michael the Archangel (Limeño artist) Lima Cathedral, 162n76 Lima (Peru) as capital city, 105 Indigenous people of, 104–5 monasteries with donor portraits in, 112, 112 palaces with Michael the Archangel paintings in, 101–2, 103 Philippine ivory statues in, 141, 162n76 See also Lima, San Pedro Limeño artists Circumcision of Christ, 106, 107, 110, 159n82 Niño de Huanca, 105–6, 106 Virgin of the Rosary, 106, 108, 108, 109, 112 See also St. Michael the Archangel (Limeño artist)

lions, Chinese guardian, 136, 139 Lisaert, Peter, 55 Lisaerts, Phillips, 154n15, 155n44 Lisbon, São Roque, 83 Lithuanian reproductions, 43 lliclla (shawls), 104 Lomazzo, Gian Paolo, 64 Low Countries adjectives to describe people from, 71 New Spain residents from, 71–72 Peru residents from, 101 political/religious instability, 13, 22, 26, 54–56, 66, 84 See also Antwerp Macau (China), 130 Madeira, Funchal cathedral, 76, 78 Madrid, Convent of Las Descalzas Reales and Encarnación, 82, 82, 83, 85 Magellan, Ferdinand, 120 Mallery, Karel van, 33, 35 Mander, Karel van, 54 Manila Cathedral, 140 Manila (Philippines) Chinese immigration restrictions, 124 Chinese ivory carvings exported to, 123– 24 enslaved Africans in, 130 ivory importation to, 123, 127, 128, 130 ivory sculpture importation to, 123–24, 130, 132 missionaries in, 119, 125–26, 130, 133, 140 prints as models in, 117, 119–20, 127 prints transported to, 119–20 trade industry and routes, 8, 117, 119, 130, 132, 138, 140–41 See also ivory sculptures from Manila; ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel; Sangleys of Manila Mareantes (Tenerife), Nuestra Señora de la Peña de Francia, 74 Marian sodality, 45 Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange (Bry or Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 58, 58 Martyrdom of St. Catherine (Villalpando), 96–99, 98 Mary Magdalene, 59–60, 60, 63 Mary of Hungary, 64 Massing, Jean Michel, 37 Matarana, Bartolomé, 83 Mechelen sculpture, 120, 121, 122–23 meditation, 17, 33, 35, 112

Melion, Walter, 33, 34 memes (term origins and usage), 151n8 memory connoisseurial, 98 selective, 58, 59, 61, 63 Mendieta, Gerónimo de, 71 Mendoza, Juan de Palafox y, 94 Mermejo, Antonio: St. Michael the Archangel, 102, 103 Mesa, Juan de, 113 mestizo, 12 Mexia, Mateo, 101 Mexico City, Basílica de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, 1, 2, 117, 118, 130, 134 Mexico City, Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de la Santísima Virgen María a los cielos, 96, 97 Mexico City, Cuautitlán Cathedral paintings now in, 56, 66, 67, 70, 74, 74, 75 Mexico City Cathedral, 143 council decrees read at, 74 remodeling of, 75 retablo altarpieces of, 68, 70, 74, 74, 75, 76, 78 sacristy paintings in, 96, 97 Mexico City (New Spain/Mexico) Christian schools in, 71, 148 councils convening in, 69, 71–72, 73–75, 74, 78–80 Flemish people in, 71–72, 75 plaza markets in, 143 St. Michael ivory statues in, 1, 2, 117, 118, 127, 130, 134 as trade route waystation, 119 See also Mexico City Cathedral Michael (archangel) appearances of, 89, 93 biblical references to, 50, 51 Counter-Reformation elevation of, 82 early modern iconography of, 51, 52 Peruvian (Quechua) names for, 112 roles of, 89, 110, 114, 117, 133, 156n84 theological iconography of, 79 See also Miguel del Milagro, San; St. Michael the Archangel entries Miguel del Milagro, San appearances and miracles of, 89, 91–94, 138 cult of, 9, 91, 94, 95, 138, 144 paintings of, 75, 77, 90, 94–95, 95, 115 Philippine ivory statues for devotion of, 138 popularity of, 90

processions honoring, 89, 90, 94 roles of, 89 sculptural reliefs of, 91–93, 92 Milan, San Fedele, 41, 43 mimicry, 11, 123 Ming artists Annunciation, from Song nianzhu guicheng, 39, 40 Annunciation, from Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie, 39, 41 Guanyin ivory statue, 123–24, 124 Nativity, from Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie, 17, 18 miracles, 89, 91, 92, 93 Miranda, Diego Fernando de, 73 missionaries devotional books as value to, 36–43 as gatekeepers, 7 in New Spain (Mexico), 69–70, 71, 72 in Peru, 101 in Philippines, 119, 125–26, 130, 133, 140– 41 principles of, 11, 16, 19, 20, 111 prints for education and indoctrination, 148, 148 reproduction and ideals of, 9 Third Provincial Council attendance, 74 transpacific travel and departure locations, 37 transpacific travel routes preferred by, 119 See also conversion Mitchell, Peta, 4 Mochizuki, Mia, 11 Molanus, Joannes, 79, 81 Moluccas (Indonesia), 130 Montañés, Juan Martínez, 113 Montano, Benito Arias associates, 62, 78 Flemish art agent roles, 64, 78 prints dedicated to, 56, 59, 62–63, 64–65, 68–69, 78, 81 publications by, 21, 22, 22, 24, 31, 152n10, 155n41 Spanish court positions of, 62, 81 Moretus, Jan, 43–44, 45, 47 Moretus, Jan, II, 43 Morga, Antonio de, 124 Moriglio, Hernando de, 37 Mughal albums, 44, 149, 149–50 Mughal Empire art aesthetic appreciation, 44 books gifted to court of, 17, 44

Imagines engravings in albums, 44, 149, 149–50 miniature paintings based on Imagines imagery, 17, 18, 44, 149–50 prints as gifts to, 22 Muñoz, Doña Inés, 112, 112 Muñoz, Gaspar: Procession of San Miguel, with anonymous artist, 89, 90, 94 Mystica Ciudad de Dios (Ágreda), 47 Nadal, Gerónimo, 16, 20, 33 See also Adnotationes et meditations (Nadal); Evangelicae historiae imagines (Nadal) Nahon, Karine, 7, 86 Nanjing (China), 39, 40 Naples Cathedral, 156n84 Nativity, from Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (Ming artist), 17, 18 Nativity (Mughal artist), 17, 18, 44, 149–50 Nativity (Wierix, H.), 17, 19 Nec spe nec metu (motto), 64 networks commercial, 14, 43, 44, 45, 71, 72, 133 connoisseurial, 18, 43–49, 65, 97–98, 115 missionary, 18, 44 publishing, 21, 22, 62, 64, 73, 78 Spanish colonial, 8 virality requirements, 7, 9, 43 See also gatekeepers; infrastructures; missionaries; trade New Spain (Mexico) Flemish art popularity in, 69, 120 Flemish people residing in, 71–73, 75 Imagines prints as artistic models, 43 Indigenous education programs in, 71 Jesuit missionaries in, 1 painting iconography reflecting colonial principles in, 69, 78–80 Philippine ivory statue imports, 138, 144 provincial councils in, 69, 71–72, 73–76, 74, 78–80 Spanish conflicts in, 74 trade route waystations, 119 See also Indigenous of New Spain; Mexico City, Cathedral; Mexico City (New Spain/Mexico); Miguel del Milagro, San Niclaes, Hendrick, 62 Nicodemism, 62 Nieremberg, Juan Eusebio, 82 Niño de Huanca (Limeño artist), 105–6, 106 Non sufficit orbis (motto), 64

index

181

Nossa Senhora da Luz (ship), 130 Nuestra Señorea del Santísimo Rosario–La Naval de Manila (Manila artist), 122, 126, 126, 127–28 Ocaña, Diego, 101 Officina Plantiniana, 21, 54 Omnia omnibus factus sum (motto), 111 Oñez, Juan, 140 Ortelius, Abraham, 22, 55, 62 oubli du passé policies, 58, 63 Ovando, Juan de, 78 Pacheco, Francisco, 81 Pacheco, Ursula de Peralta, 109 Palacio Arzobispal (Lima), 102, 103 Paleotti, Gabriele, 81 palms, martyr’s, 13, 51, 53, 54, 89, 91, 92, 93 Panhuys, Peter, 55 Parián district (Manila), 124–25 Parián market (Mexico City), 143 parrots, 102 paseo del pendón, 89 Passeri, Bernardo Adoration of the Shepherds, 26, 27, 34, 153n26 Annunciation, Wierix, H. after, 42 biographical information, 26 Christ and the Woman from Canaan (Brussels, 1585), 28, 29, 46 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, Wierix, H. after (Los Angeles), 35, 36 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, Wierix, H. after (Rome), 35, 36 Imagines illustration drafts, 26, 28 Imagines second edition and removal of signature, 35 Imagines title page designs by, 26, 28 signature removal, 35 Vita et miracvla sanctiss. engravings after, 26(153n27), 27, 31 Pati, Martín Pacci, 103 Paul, St., 79, 80 Paul V (pope), 8 PC User Magazine, 7 Pereira, Vasco, 156n91 Pereyns, Simon, 72, 75 perpetuo peregrinari, 16, 19 Peru cultural mimesis for Spanish legitimacy, 102 featherwork, 110, 110 Flemish artists in, 101

182

index

Flemish art prints in, 99, 101 Flemish art schools in, 101 portrait hanging practices, 113 textiles of, symbolism, 102–3 trading networks of, 99 See also Cusco (Peru); donor portraits; Indigenous of Peru; Lima, San Pedro; Lima (Peru) Philip II (king of Spain) Flemish art collecting, 64 globalization quotes, 150 Jesuits in South America, 105 mottos of, 64 Philippine correspondence to, 120–21 religious imagery censorship, 80 royal printers of, 73 Philip IV (king of Spain), 47, 82, 82 Philippines elephant populations on, 128 Flemish artwork in, first, 120 Jesuit missionaries in, 1 patron saints of, 117, 133 Santo Niño de Cebu cult and statues in, 120, 121, 150 trade routes to, 119 See also ivory sculptures from Manila; ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel; Manila (Philippines); Sangleys of Manila Pietà (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.), 59, 61 Pinilla, Ramón Mujica, 108 plagues, 89, 93 Plantin, Christopher associates of, 62, 79 books published by, 155n41 Flemish art and publications export, 64, 72, 73 as Imagines publishing intermediary, 21, 22, 26, 28, 31, 73 publishing houses of, 21, 54 Spanish rebellion, 22, 73 Poelman, Jan, 73 Poland, 43 Polyglot Bible, 21, 22, 59, 62 Portugal missionaries to China, 39 Spanish union with, 64, 76, 83 trade industry and routes, 21, 119, 130, 132–33 poupée de Malines, 120, 121, 122–23 prints advantages of, 48, 56, 87, 147 colonial function of, 102

latency of, 47 missionary use of, 148 mobility of, 146, 147 in New Spain (Mexico), 89 in Peru, 99, 101, 121 in Philippines, 117, 119–20 for religious conformity and policing, 99 in Spain, 81, 83–85 as a technology, 47, 86 See also specific titles of prints Procession of San Miguel (Muño with anonymous artist), 89, 90, 94 Project on the Engraved Sources of Spanish Colonial Art (database), 10, 37, 38 Protestants, 13, 22, 31, 54–55, 58, 73 Puebla, Catedral Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción, 93, 95, 97–98, 98 Puebla (New Spain/Mexico), 89, 91, 94–98, 97, 98 Puente, Diego de la, 101, 109 Puyvelde, Leo van, 153n26 Quatre Vents, Aux, 21, 54 Quezon City, Santo Domingo, 126 Quirós, Gutiérrez Bernardo de, 93, 94 “Quis ut deus” (motto), 51, 91, 108, 134 Quito, Convent of La Merced, 101 Quito, Monastery of San Francisco, 101 Raphael (archangel), 82, 110 Raphael Sanzio, 81, 156n91 Reframing the Renaissance (Farago), 9–10 religious art censorship, 56, 80–83 reproduction (copying) artist contracts and practices, 81, 89, 99, 157n30 colonial function of, 78, 90, 95, 99, 102, 120–23, 148 Imagines globalization, 37–41, 44, 149–50 meaning shifts with, 8–9, 44, 48, 66, 84, 93, 95, 99, 105, 113, 138, 149 and mobility, 12, 36–43, 49, 113, 141, 144– 45 patterns of, 10, 37–38, 83, 98, 101, 138 requirements of, 13 See also prints retablos Flemish-influenced in Mexico City, 68, 70, 74, 74, 75, 76, 78 Imagines imagery in New Spain, 43 Netherlandish formats, 76 Spanish formats, 76

Revelation (biblical book), 50, 51 Rhetorica Christiana (Valadéz), 148, 148 Ricci, Bartolomeo, 24, 46 Ricci, Matteo, 38–39 Rice, Yael, 44 Ridolfi, Carlo, 54 Rijcke, Joos de, 101 Rique, Jodoco, 101 Riquel, Hernando, 124 Riquiel, Fernando, 120 Rocha, João (Luo Ruwang), 39, 40 rods, 93, 94–95, 95 Román, Bartolomé St. Michael the Archangel (Lima), 102, 113, 113–14 St. Michael the Archangel (Madrid), 82, 83 Roman Council, 82 Rose of Lima, St., 123 Rouen (France), 55, 73 Rubens, Peter Paul, 41, 90, 157n104 Rubens in Repeat (Hyman), 12 Rudolph I (Holy Roman emperor), 82 Russo, Alessandra, 12 Sadeler, Aegidius, II, 65 Sadeler, Jan Coronation of the Virgin, after De Vos, 55, 55 Crucifixion engravings, 73 death and estate, 155n44 Imagines engravings, 26 prints of, as New Spain models, 72 Sadeler, Justus biographical information, 65 print publishing, 65, 66 St. Michael the Archangel, after De Vos, 65–66, 66, 83, 84 Salamanca, San Esteban, 134, 141, 142, 161n54 Salazar, Domingo de, 120–22, 123, 124, 125 Salim (Mughal prince), 44 sameness, aesthetic of, 12 Sampson, Tony D., 1, 86 San Bernabé miracle, 89, 91–94, 92 Sanchez, Miguel, 157n23 San Francisco Javier (ship), 117, 138 Sangleys of Manila anonymity of, 123 conversion of, 119, 125–26, 143 craftsmanship of, 120–21, 122–23 geographic origins, 124 ivory carving production, 119, 122, 126 patrons of, 143

population statistics, 124 rebellions of, 117, 124, 125, 134 residential and commercial districts of, 124–25, 143 Spanish economic dependency on, 125, 126, 143 term origins, 124 See also ivory sculptures from Manila; ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel San José de los Naturales, 71, 148 San Millán de Cogolia, Monasterio de San Millán de Yuso, 83, 85 Santa Lucía (Jesuit hacienda), 43 Santa Margarita (ship), 130, 138, 160n37 Santiago Matamoros, St., 138 Santo Niño de Cebu (1521), 120 Santo Niño de Cebu (1570), 120, 121 Sariñena, Juan, 83 Satan De Vos iconography, 51, 57, 61, 63, 79–80 early modern iconography, 51, 52 Philippine ivory sculpture with, 128, 129, 135, 136, 139 Wierix, H. iconography, 136, 137 sculpture alabaster reliefs, 91–93, 92 Christ Child, 105–6, 106, 120, 121, 150 Flemish, first in Philippines, 120 small-scale devotional, 120, 121 See also ivory sculptures; ivory sculptures from Manila; ivory sculptures of Michael the Archangel Sealtiel (archangel), 82 Senhor Jesus Altarpiece (Coxcie), 76, 78, 78 Seville, Catedral Santa Maria de la Sede, 123, 125 Seville (Spain) Flemish artisans in, 71–72 Flemish prints exports from, 83, 99, 101, 119–20 Images/Adnotationes shipments for missionaries at, 37 Philippine ivory statues in cathedrals of, 123, 125 ports of, 7, 8, 37, 71, 72, 119 religious artwork surveys, 81 Zurbarán commission and reproductions, 81 shipwrecks, 117, 130, 138, 160n37 Siam, 128 signatures, 28, 56, 66, 68, 96 Silent Iconoclasm, 56

silver Christ Child statues with, 121, 121, 122 female donor portraits with jewelry of, 104, 104 Michael the Archangel with swords of, 129, 134, 135 Philippine ivory statues with, 125 transpacific trade of, 117, 140 Silver, Larry, 54 Singhalese artist: Virgin, or Goan artist, 134, 136 Singhalese ivory sculpture, 130 Snellinck, Jan: Judgment of Solomon, 24, 25 Society of Jesus (Jesuits) Antwerp prints as commodities, 21–22 in China, 38–39, 41 conversion and acculturation practices, 111 devotional books commissioned by, 4, 7–8, 22, 31, 32, 35, 36–44 engraving aesthetic styles valued by, 35 enslaved persons donated to church, 130 Indigenous beliefs and acculturation practices, 110–11 mnemonic commissions, 31–32 in New Spain (Mexico), 1, 74, 94 in Peru, 101, 105–6, 110–11 (see also Lima, San Pedro) in Philippines, 130, 133, 140–41 principles of, 11, 16, 19, 20 print publications of, 45 trade commerce, 140–41 trade route itineraries preferred by, 119 Solier, Pedro, 120 Song nianzhu guicheng (Ferreira/Rocha attrib.), 39, 40 Sontag, Susan, 151n4 Spain Flemish art popularity in, 64 Flemish small-scale devotional sculpture popular in, 120 information dissemination, 8 Low Countries rebellion against rule of, 13, 22, 26, 54–56, 66, 84 Low Country reconquered by, 56, 58–63 Michael the Archangel iconographic symbolism, 84–85 Michael the Archangel reproductions in, 83–85, 84, 85 official publishers for, 73 Philippine ivory sculpture exported to, 134, 136, 138, 139, 141, 142, 161n54 political instability of, 84, 87

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prints as painting models in, 81 publications commissioned by, 21 religious conformity and imagery regulations, 79–80 See also Seville (Spain) Spanish Fury, 55 Spanish trade routes, 119–20 springs, curative, 89, 91–94, 92 Sri Lanka (Singhalese) ivory sculpture, 130, 134, 136 St. John Writing the Apocalypse (De Vos, M.), 69, 69, 74, 74, 75, 76 St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro (Anonymous artist), 91, 92 St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro (Tinoco), 94–95, 95 St. Michael the Archangel (Concha), 75, 77, 96 St. Michael the Archangel (Cusqueño artist), 101, 103 St. Michael the Archangel (De Vos, M., 1581 painting) authority of, 78, 90 commission, 56, 75, 76 composition, 13–14, 79 date, 56, 68 geographic origins inscriptions, 68, 72 location and display, 56, 66, 68, 70, 75, 79 materials, 75 paintings based on iconography of, 75, 77, 90, 96–99, 97, 98 print reproduction lending authority to, 78 processional statues based on, 89, 90 production and historical context, 61, 66, 69 as reproduction foundational image, 96 retablo altarpiece with, 74, 74, 75, 78 sacristy paintings with references to, 96, 97 signature, 28, 56, 66, 68 (detail) thematic adaptation, 68, 69, 78–80 views of, 5, 67 wooden supports for, 75 St. Michael the Archangel (De Vos, M., 1584 pen and ink wash), 51, 53 St. Michael the Archangel (De Vos iconography) alabaster reliefs based on, 91–94, 92 composition, 51, 114, 133 function, 84–85 global transmission of, 1, 4–5 New Spain paintings based on, 94–99, 95, 97, 98

184

index

Peruvian paintings based on, 99, 100, 101–2, 103, 112, 113, 113–14 Philippine ivory statues based on, 1, 5, 117, 119, 127, 130, 133 popularity of, 51, 53, 83–87, 89–90, 114–15 as religious imagery exemplary model, 83 reproductions and media adapability, 5 reproductive mobility of, 51 Spanish paintings based on, 102, 113, 113–14 thematic adaptations, 8–9, 79–80 theological interpretations and design conformity for, 79 St. Michael the Archangel (Justus Sadeler after De Vos, M.), 65–66, 66, 83, 84 St. Michael the Archangel (Limeño artist) female donor portraits, 99, 102–5, 106, 108, 109–13 framing, 108, 109 location and display, 105, 109 models for, 99, 112, 113, 114 production timeline, 108 setting, 105, 111–12 view of, 100 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Badajoz, fig. 85), 127, 134, 136, 138, 139, 141 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Baltimore, fig. 78), 127, 128, 129, 130, 134, 136 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Mexico City, fig. 70) artist identity, 123 composition descriptions, 117 models for, 1, 5, 127 polychrome patterns, 134 production, 130 views of, 2, 118 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Monterrey, fig. 82), 127, 134, 135, 136 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Salamanca, fig. 86), 127, 134, 141, 142, 144, 161n54 St. Michael the Archangel (Manila artist, Tepotzotlán, fig. 79), 127, 128, 130, 131, 144 St. Michael the Archangel (Mermejo), 102, 103 St. Michael the Archangel (Román, Lima), 102, 113, 113–14 St. Michael the Archangel (Román, Madrid), 82, 83 St. Michael the Archangel (Vela Cobo), 83, 84 St. Michael the Archangel (Wierix, H.), 136, 137

St. Michael the Archangel (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M.,1584) authority of, 81 dedication of, 56, 62–63, 78, 81 engravings after, 65–66, 66, 83, 84 historical context and significance, 56, 58–59, 63–64 inscriptions, 61, 64, 65 New Spain paintings based on, 95–96, 98 Peruvian paintings based on, 99, 100, 101–2, 112, 113, 114 Philippine ivory statues based on, 1, 5, 117, 119, 127, 133, 136 print publishers of, 56, 62, 63 print reproductions and mobility of, 1, 51, 53, 63 print reproductions and popularity of, 56, 65, 86–87, 89–90, 101, 117, 119 processional statues based on, 89, 90 production of, 53, 56 Spanish paintings based on, 83–85, 84, 85 style descriptions, 65 thematic interpretations, 15, 58, 61–62, 63, 79 views of, 3, 57 St. Paul (De Vos, M.), 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 St. Peter (De Vos, M.), 70, 74, 74, 75, 76 Stanfield-Mazzi, Maya, 112 Stols, Eddy, 71 Straet, Jan van der (Stradanus), 54 Sturm, Fernand, 71 suffragia, 45 Sulu (Philippines), 128 Sūsinyōs (king of Ethiopia), 44 Suster, Adrian, 75 Swan, Claudia, 11 swords, 51, 52, 129, 134, 135 Tampu Toco San Miguel, 112 Taurino, Giacomo, Gian Paolo, and Giovanni: Flagellation, 41, 43 textiles, Peruvian, 100, 102–4, 104, 106, 108, 108 Thailand, 128 Theatrum Orbis Terrarum (Ortelius), 22 Thesaurus Sacrarum historiarium Veteris et Novi Testamenti (Jode, publ.), 24, 25, 152n10 Third Provincial Council, 69, 71–72, 73–76, 74, 78–80 Tianzhu jiangsheng zhuxiang jingjie (Aleni), 17, 18, 39, 41, 160–61n38

Tinoco, Juan: St. Michael the Archangel Appearing to Diego Lázaro, 94–95, 95 Tintoretto, 54 Tlaxcala, San Miguel del Milagro, 90, 91, 92 Tobias and the Angel (De Vos, M.), 68, 68, 74, 74, 75 Toledo, Francisco de, 20 Torquemada, Juan de, 71 Tota Pulchra, 160n36–37 Tovardus, Ludovicus, 26, 31 trade Catholic Church and transpacific, 140–41 De Vos mercantile business, 55 ivory importation to Manila, 128, 130 ivory sculptures from Manila to Latin America, 117, 127 ivory statues from China to Manila, 123– 24 merchant junks to Manila, 124, 128 Portuguese routes, 21, 119, 130, 132–33 print importation to Manila, 119–20 Transfiguration (Fiammeri), 24–25 Trusted, Marjorie, 130, 138, 160n36 tupu, 104 Twitter, 6, 8 tzopiloatl, 93 Uriel (archangel), 82 Ursprache (hieroglyphs), 34 Valadés, Diego: Franciscan Preaching in New Spain, attrib., 148, 148 Valencia, Santa Cruz (Santisima Cruze), 83, 85 Vargas, Francisco Antonio, 141 Varona, José Salazar, 94 Vélez-Málaga, Monasterio de Carmelitas Descalzas, 161n54 Vello, Francisco, 117 Veracruz (New Spain/Mexico), 119 Verdussens, 47 Vesalius, Andreas, 32 Villalpando, Cristóbal Apparition of St. Michael, 96, 98 Martyrdom of St. Catherine, 96–99, 98 Villena, Marqués de, 141 virality, overview artistic labor and, 6, 11

epidemiology comparisons, 4 globalization and art history theories, 9–10 of Imagines engravings, 18–19 mobility and meaning shifts, 8–9 modern concept of, 1, 6 modern process of, 1, 4, 6, 7 modern terminology usage, 7 seventeenth-century process descriptions, 7, 8, 9, 86 Virgin (Goan or Singhalese artist), 134, 136 Virgin and Child (Manila artist), 122, 123– 24, 125, 134 Virgin Mary Adoration of the Kings with, 48, 49 Adoration of the Shepherd with, 21, 23, 24, 26, 27 Annunciation with, 39, 40, 42 Buddhist iconography and cultural hybridity, 161n55 Coronation engravings, 55 Crucifixion engravings with, 59, 59 Goan or Singhalese ivory statues of, 134, 136 Virgin and Child ivory statues, 122, 123– 24, 125, 134 Virgin of the Apocalypse paintings of, 112, 112 Virgin of the Rosary ivory statues, 122, 126, 126, 127–28 Virgin of the Rosary paintings, 106, 108, 108, 109, 112 Virgin of Guadalupe, 93, 94, 101 Virgin of the Rosary (Limeño artist), 106, 108, 108, 109, 112 visions, 89, 91, 92, 93 Vitae et passionis et mortis Jesu Christi (Bourgeois), 46 Vita et miracvla sanctiss. mi patris Benedicti, 26(153n27), 27, 31 Vita Iesu Salvatoris, 159n82 Wadell, Maj-Brit, 22 Weyden, Rogier, van der: Deposition, 157n111 Wierix, Antonis, 31, 35, 58 Wierix, Hieronymus associates, 62

commission, 31 Imagines draft drawings attributed to, 153n26 print publishing of, 56, 57, 58, 59, 59, 60, 61, 61 religion, 31, 58 works of Adoration of the Kings, from Adnotationes, 48, 49 Adoration of the Kings, from Imagines, 48, 48 Adoration of the Shepherds, after De Vos, 30, 31, 34 Annunciation, after Passeri, 39, 42 Christ and the Samaritan Woman, 149, 149 Christ and the Woman from Canaan, after De Vos, 30, 30–31, 46 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, after Passeri (Los Angeles), 35, 36 Christ Healing the Deaf-Mute, after Passeri (Rome), 35, 36 Crucifixion with Mary Madgalene, after De Vos, 59–61, 60, 63, 65 Crucifixion with Virgin and St. John, after De Vos, 59, 59, 63, 65 Evangelicae historiae imagines title page, after De Vos, 3 Marriage of Charlotte of Bourbon and William of Orange, or Bry after De Vos, 58, 58 Nativity, 17, 19 Pietà, after De Vos, 59, 61 St. Michael the Archangel, 136, 137 See also St. Michael the Archangel (Wierix, H. after De Vos, M., 1584) Wierix, Jan, 31, 35, 58 Wilhelm, Duke of Bavaria, 156n84 William of Orange, 54–55, 58, 58 Witte, Lieve de, 152n8 Woonsel, Melchior van, 45 Ximenes, Jacobus (Diego Jiménez), 20, 24, 31, 34, 35 Zachary, St., 82 Zhangzhou (China), 123 Zúñiga, Pedro de, 120 Zurbarán, Francisco de, 41, 81

index

185