10. For far too often, historians have treated the epistemological claims of cartographical projections as implicit properties–rather than examining their conscious masking of the “limits of perception” by treating maps as images. The highly emblematic image of the ambitious Florentine mapmaker Amerigo Vespucci engraved by Stradanus condenses the aspects of divine revelation, conversion, and providential indication of the New World implicitly staked in Columbus’ narrative of discovery staked for European readers–a point that the humanist cartographer Martin Waldseemüller made for readers in his Cosmographia by claiming of the fourth region of the world that since it was discovered by Vespucci, is named after him–“quam quia Americus invenit, Amerigem quasi America terram sive Americam nuncupare licet”–as if almost denying its existence prior to appearing in maps Europeans might read. In a counter-reformation setting, the engraving celebrates the Christianity that led Vespucci to mediate the location of the New World in ways that later generations could read.
The image of the seeker who has been led by the stars to the New World condenses the similar emblems condensed in Stradanus’ even more famous copperplate print showing Vespucci first viewing the reclining unclothed personification America, more conquistador than cartographer: as he stares grimly ahead, seemingly arrived from a caravel, is the naked crowned embodiment of America rising to greet him, or beckoning to invite him to join enter the hammock in which she reclines, amidst a setting of rich foliage, in an apparent an invitation to sexual congress that prefigures his translation of her riches into cartographical form? If it seems that she invites the sexual violation from the mapper who bears a rigid upright crossed staff in his right hand and a compass in his left, one might do well to remember that the embodiment of the continent celebrated the historical accomplishment of the Florentine cartographer as much as an allegory of voyages of discovery to the New World. (“I am not the wheatfield,/Nor the virgin land,” was Adrienne Rich’s rejoinder to this iconography of embodiment and discovery.)
Jan der Straet, “Americen Americus retexit & semel vocavit inde semper excitam” Antwerp, 1585.
A similar frisson of contact was rehearsed in early modern maps that formulated the problem of mediating an imagined proximate relation to the New World, and indeed of locating the New World in relation to the subject-position of a map-reader. For all maps constitute forms of embodiment–and embodiment of meaning–as Stradanus took the embodiment of America, already familiar from Ortelius had ten years previous embodied the continents on the frontispiece to his Theatris orbis terrarum (1570), the first modern “atlas” figuring “America” as an archetypal “Indian” queen, half-reclining, if armed with arrows and bow–armaments stripped of the continent’s personification who appears in almost inverted form in Stradanus’ later print.
11. Even as these images stake claims for geographical discovery, Stradanus’ engraving of Vespucci as guided by the stars’ providential alignment in the south, also offered the central emblems of his craft–an astrolabe and divider–even as it situated him within a recognizable landscape and expressing devotion to the crucifix, rising from his study and the tools of his trade to acknowledge the discovery of the New World as if he was a visionary divinely inspired, rather than by his craft. The image celebrating the skill of the cartographer celebrates his ability to bridge old world and new by the ingenious tools of his craft: while he remained in Florence, the image forged a link between New World and Old through distinctively Old World emblems of learning, study and devotion.
Much as Stradanus paired Vespucci and Columbus in his highly pictorial atlas Americae Retectio (1585)–“Quis potis est digni pollenti pectore carmen/Condere pro rerum maiestate hisque repertis?”–linking both through Lucretius’ praise for the ambitions of undertaking any description that attempts to reveal comparable intricacies, majesty, and wonder of the created world, the figure of Vespucci was condensed beneath a banner of sovereign possession and a cross of conversion, but in which the astrolabe Vespucci holds proves the means by which he comes to encounter America, this embodiment of the New World. Michel de Certeau aptly described the erect armored traveller as ready to write his history on the body of the other, Stradanus’ condensation of Vespucci and Columbus as a stoic pilgrim who approaches the reclining unclothed figure who seems to proffer her fruit and riches, half rising and half reclining, in what also elides a celebration of Stradanus’ own inventive abilities, the figure of Vespucci in the Nova Repertae employs the astrolabe to constructs his destination by finding the southern cross, in the manner that Vespucci described himself as using a mariner’s astrolabe in 1499 while sailing to America, Stradanus gave central place to the spherical astrological astrolabe as the rational tool for staking his relation to the New World.
The far more dramatic image of Columbus crossing the Atlantic that Stradanus drew by hand showed the navigator balanced delicately on a ship’s prow braving the ocean and heading west on stormy seas, surrounded by the sea monsters he braved encountering on the inhabited world’s edge, openly acknowledging the steep risks and triumphs of cross-Atlantic sea-travel.
Biblioteca Laurenziana Medicea
For all since maps are collectively made documents, whose selective synthesis from different sources are often mediated or translated into curiosity, forms of mapmaking respond to the specific needs of users as much as timeless metrics of accuracy or exactitude: the practice of most data visualizations help process our place in a society and culture where we are ever more increasingly quantified. And the practice of mapping correspond to a variety of needs. For the woodcut images of place that accompanied Columbus’ printed “letter” to his sovereigns that described his encounter (and “discovery”) of the islands of the New World, the producers of the incunable De insults super inventis faced the problem of illustrating actual proximity to the world the letter described. The landscape Columbus conjured in it of a “fertile” land of “may great and beautiful rivers,” “a great diversity of trees [including] seven or eight varieties of palm which in height and beauty, just as with the rest of the trees, herbs and fruit, easily excel our own,” and “vast woodlands and plains very fruitful and very fit for planting,” aimed to establish both the proximity of what he saw to the European world, as much as its difference–Columbus noted only at its very close that the same land “abounds with spices, with gold, and with metals,” peopled with individuals of “no great diversity in appearance,” but who “always go naked, just as they were brought into the world,” and would be ripe for conversion.
The description of how “the inhabitants of both sexes always go naked, just as their mothers bore them, except some women, who cover their pudenda with some leafy frond or cotton skirt” stuck in the imagination of readers, but evoked not only lust but an image of a pre-fall world across the oceans in ways Columbus knew would not able to be resisted as sites of conversion and potential colonization, expectations he seems to have credibly sewn.
If curiosity of the New World and its inhabitants fed the production of contemporaneous world maps, which we are often all too prone to judge by questions of their accuracy and assimilate to criteria not different from our own, as if to ascertain how clearly their their contents were informed by geometric precepts, or the chronological revisions in their content, we neglect the practices maps of different period make in charting a known space. For if it reflects Columbus’ testimony of encountering unselfconscious inhabitants skilled in communication, eager to trade, as a land that is “desirable, once seen, that is never to be relinquished,” problems of naming, staking a clear relation to and placing on a cognitive map are all wrestled with in the images inserted to the widely published “Letter” that narrated the first voyage to the New World–which almost diminish the role of the caravels by which he sailed there, as they create a promise of direct observation in themselves.
For while maps of the discoveries have been provocatively presented as grappling with the existence of a continent not previously known, the practice of mapping on coordinates of latitude and longitude are all too often treated as operations that were designed for the ready understanding and digestion in maps–bracketing processes of translating claims for discoveries and preparing a mapped view too readily cast as a rational tools of processing distance or space, let alone oceanic travel. Can one see the making of maps as a more complex practice of rendering the far-off in terms that might be more readily interpreted?
12. We might begin from appreciating maps less as the sole medium for stating or affirming the existence of a new continent–and indeed registering its presence–by taking the practices of translation concealed in maps’ fabrication as less readily accomplished by the encoding of place in a terrestrial projections, open to uncertainty and even debate, asking how projected maps came to designate a relation to a place that lies at an almost unimaginable spatial remove.
The earliest images of the New World fed a curiosity for a coherence of global settlement and diversity were as important an engine for their creation as the legibility that they offered for presenting a distribution of coherent proportions or scale: the ways that maps acted own claims to power over space and place by embodying a coherent space as often depended on the coherence that they created as the accuracy of rendering routes of arrival or the exactitude of locating place across oceanic divides. For the map consciously and explicitly sought and strove to create a stable sense of meaning in a spatial network, it depended on creating a sense of the meaningful nature of the indexicality of space, in other words, and as a form of producing the legibility of space through a network of indices. How that indexicality functioned in situating the New World in a clear matrix of referentiality was by no means clear, when the otherness and remove of the New World was by no means clear.
Gores of Globe by Martin Waldseemüller, c. 1507
Before the map gained clearcut epistemological authority as a representing regional coherence and spatial contiguity, the problem of mapping the New World turned on the credibility of staking a relation between the reader and a far-off place as a site of encounter with inhabitants, with a convincing reminder of voyages to islands in far-off seas, and interestingly conjoined the possibilities of religious proselytization with economic exchange, re-imagining a harmonized notion of contact that was more directed to problems of domination, enslavement, and taking possession in ways only beginning to be re-examined, but might be condensed in the radical renaming the very islands where the Columban expedition arrived and whose “discovery” Columbus sought to claim as his own, and not only by extension of the Spanish monarchy. The much-cited punning in which Columbus indulged of his first Christian name–“Christo ferens”–magnanimously celebrated his personal role of bearing Christianity to the New World by poetically magnifying the personal role he played in conversion of unknown lands and naturalizing the individual agency by which he did so.
13. For places are the recognized sites from which meaning pours at full force from maps, rather than pre-established.
The places that were illustrated in the first maps of the New World maps are surprisingly interesting and seductive because they conjure a place where few had visited, and seem to provide access into the cognitive tools brought to the process of discovery. The politics of location were somewhat surprisingly important in the very first images of the New World, as were the political relations of regions, considerably before the forms of planispheric mapping enjoyed clear epistemological authority, the letter in which Columbus described how he came to “plurimas Iu[n]sulas innumeris habitatas hominibus” and took “possession” of them “for our most fortunate monarch,” when no dissent was voiced [“contradicente neminem“]–what seems preposterous was a formula, less optimistic–or outright preposterous or comical–than it was inherited from canon law. The absence of objection prefaced the decisive act of renaming of the islands “Guanahanyn” by Christian names in a privileged “Western” cartographical re-writing of space. (The lasciviousness that were widely attributed to the disordered appetites of New World denizens was not only evidence of the fact that they were in need of rule, in fact, and of the ordering of instincts that the Christian monarchy would be able to provide–the magnified sexual appetites of native s were a repeated touchstone of Columbus’ letters and the early printed accounts of the discoveries, both evidence of the need for governance and otherness as much as a source of pleasure, tapping into European fantasia, and became something of a metaphor for the concrete experience of contact.)
What we recognize as a map rarely accompanied or illustrated the narrative of renaming or fantasy of naming in the seven editions of the letter printed Latin translation. But the images accompanying most effectively served their own clear ends of mapping and functions of effectively orienting readers to the recently discovered unknown by inscribing locations within a mapped space, even though the very maps that they created were by necessity improvised. As much as foreground the site of contact, however, which Columbus described, foregrounded in the frontispiece as a focal point that may evoke the sacramental exchange of chalice and wafter and suggest the evangelizing project to which Columbus’ letter repeatedly returned, the figuration of these new shorelines evoke the epistemic claims that engravers increasingly invested in early printed maps–and even the placement of words on a surface that indicates both spatial and terrestrial expanse, as the “Insula hyspana” against which lap the undulating waves of rolling seas that seem to have led Columbus’ caravel across the Atlantic, and in which a small skiff arrives at an island never before mapped but newly named as a part of the recently expanded Spanish state.
Osher Map Library
The unimaginable geographical remoteness of the islands claimed to be Spanish–and subject to Spanish sovereignty–must have necessitated something like a map. But to depict an unknown wilderness not able to be efficiently mediated by what we acknowledge and call cartographical constructs. An absence of familiarity with mapping forms among a large audience of readers was remedied by offering an assemblage of strategies to include the new in the old, and which might be cartographical in a proper sense of writing an unknown space: the context of triumphalism that began from an image of Ferdinand’s ceremoniously armed royal body gracing the title page of a book in which the letter circulated seems of sufficiently capacious authority to comprehend both the recently conquered city of Granada, which a panegyric by the court humanist Sebastian Brandt glorified within the same volume that the famous letter appeared.
The placement of the letter–quickly translated into Latin in a pamphlet dedicated to the expanding realm of the Spanish monarch, who had united the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile–extended his domain of rule to the islands that the Genoese mariner first described. Much has been made of the formulaic nature of the announcement that the mariner ostensibly made on the open seas: but the declaration ceremoniously effectively linked the place where he had arrived to the authority of the spatially removed sovereign in necessary if performative ways. In the root meaning of “performance” of effecting, bringing into being, and completing, the letter was a performance of taking ownership and possession of the islands before they were actually mapped. While a map was secondary, in other words, the letter provided the performance that the map later enacted across space.
Such modes of inscribing regions in print are rarely considered pertinent to projects of rendering of map data in vector tiles and graphics libraries, or construction of GIS maps on the layers of a webmap, but the flexibility with which woodcuts improvised models of inscribing a distant place are particularly compelling–but they suggest the novelty of the cartographic inscription as a notation of place, even as the surprisingly limited prominence of maps interfoliated in editions of the letter contrast with the prominence and authority that we regularly assign maps as if transparent records today. For the woodcuts perform a set of operations for bringing the remote land that Columbus described in his letter to the eyes of its reader as the letter circulated among European audiences, offering the only first-hand testimony of the New World to supplement his account.
The images provided a check or counterpart to the suspicion or alarm the “gente de razon” probably felt before the customs of eating, costumes, and practices of greeting and welcome encountered in the islands, as they mediated and prepared readers the first images of these new lands and their relations to the far off lands whose inhabitants had no clear place in their mental horizons. In the “letter” he adressed to his sovereign, allegedly composed on his return from the New World in one of the caravels he commanded to traverse the oceans, he reported how he had first believed, when he arrived at the islands of Santa Maria Conceptions, Ferdinand, Isabella, Hispaniola, San Domenico and Isabel to have arrived at the continent of Cathay. He only realized, after seeing the absence of towns or cities on its shores, to send two of his men to explore it over three days, searching to see whether it had a ruler, and judged it to be a “place” without “government [regimine]“ that was, in fact, unknown–and, given the rustic costumes of its inhabitants, was implicitly open for re-inscription in a new model of sovereignty and inclusion in a map. Even as he judged the shorelines of the island he circumnavigated at some 322 miles, drawing a “map” was both not possible and anyway somewhat beside the point to convey its trees and hills that seemed to be still in Spring even in November, and the marvels of its wildlife and apparent wealth of metals.
The images situated some seventy pages into the book recreate the experience of encounter for readers even as they bridge the remoteness of the transoceanic travel, effectively carrying news from the New World much as Columbus traversed the oceans in the caravels under his command.
The arrival of images of the New World and fashioning of maps of the discoveries is among the most intensively studied and persistently attractive aspects of early modern cartography: the approximations of the unknown continent’s shores not only created a sensation of novelty, but set the stage for the re-embodiment of geographical landmasses in an innovative whole. That the images in early editions of Columbus’ letter do not employ strategies of hydrographic mapping is not surprising–such strategies of picturing space were familiar to few as a basis for reckoning extent. The images provide a basis to register the remove of New World inhabitants by bringing them into the language of reason by which their place in the world might be clearly inscribed.
The woodcut images rather suggest a variety of strategies to lend legibility to the landing of Columbus on the other side of the Atlantic. Instead of mapping the undefined routes by which he had arrived across the seas or the places he encountered and which he had named, they establish a qualitative sense of the places of the world over which possession was taken by Columbus–“cui aetas rostra multi debet.” They do so to help situate the content of the Latin translation of the Columbus’ letter announcing the discovery of the islands to the Spanish sovereign Ferdinand. While printed and widely disseminated in some seven editions from 1493 in Latin translation, the woodcut images “map” the claims for their discovery in intriguing ways, dominated by tools of landscape rather than hydrographic maps, or with the indices that are associated with the ancient geographer’s Ptolemy’s project of mapping the “inhabited world” or ecumene.
When Tzvetan Todorov claimed–if in ways that were quickly contested–that the Columban voyage might be interpreted marking a point when “men discovered the totality of which they are a part, whereas hitherto they formed a part without a whole,” he made a powerful point about the map as ordering the semantic field of a global landscape. The claiming of place provided a more potent and conceptually compelling figure in the woodcuts designed to accompany the letter in printed form in ways that stand as an alternate map, however, rather than the picturing of the world. The bridging of both shores was itself a sort of confirmation of his regal authority to unite two coastlines, and an image of the numinous authority by which Columbus had himself carried on his caravelle to the New World. Rather than mapping expanse in a global fashion, the letters the earlier concepts of a whole existed, the place across the oceans established the justification for the voyage itself.
From the synthesis of biblical histories with recent Ptolemaic maps in ways that tried to systematize and process a large ancient corpus of geographic texts for a large audience of readers to the deluxe codices of comprehensive works of world geography that were adorned with images, the format of the map assumed a new autonomy both as an invitation to innovate and expand, and even more to a vehicle by which to view far-off lands with an immediacy that would not have been otherwise possible–or would have lacked the tactile immediacy that landscape possessed.
The role of landscape in the first illustrated edition of the letter evoked the presence of and investing immediacy in the far-off and remote. The images, included in the first printed copies of the letters of Columbus, so striking for the multiple narratives that they are able to hold, and indeed the several narratives that can be woven about the discovery of the New World which Columbus was himself particularly careful to create, are the subject of this post, for they offer an early hint both of the limits of the literacy in reading maps and the role of maps in communicating and diffusing geographic knowledge. The stories that were woven about locations gained endowed with a far greater immediacy than in a nautical chart or a planispheric projection of terrestrial expanse, and invested with far greater power as social acts even as they were difficult to invest with the epistemic claims to mediating a record of first-hand observations.
6. The act of mapping relations between place provided a basis to convey oceanic travel not only, as Todorov asserted, by semantically describing “the [global] totality of which [men] are a part, whereas hitherto they formed a part without a whole.” It is striking that frontispieces to early versions of Columbus’ letters describing his successful voyage to “islands in the Indian sea [mari indico],” published in an illustrated edition of the landlocked city Basel from 1494, focus on the point of contact and exchange that followed arrival on the shores of a renamed the “Spanish island” Santa Maria Conception, epitomized by an encounter between clothed and unclothed: woodcuts printed in editions of the letter suggested the bountiful landscape located there in strikingly qualitative terms by the accumulation of local details of fruits, metals, and buildings, rather than place it at a given longitude or latitude or map its distance from Spain in a global map.
The presence of images in this edition of the letter of 1494, how offers important ways to map the relation of readers to the place of discovery. The letter rather described the discovery as an amplification of the majesty of royal rights, in a gesture toward worldly empire that did not require a map to stake claims. The frequent printing of the letter beside a history of the conquest of Granada by Innocent IX’s chamberlain, the humanist Carolus Verardo, created a context of the expanding frontiers of the Spanish monarchy, and a praise of the monarch Ferdinand, king of the Spains, i.e. Castile and Aragon, “besieger, victor and triumphant,” and fit the discovery of the islands within a form of imperial praise. The congratulatory fulsome panegyric dated May, 1492 emphasized the monarch’s power rather than provide geographic information–though the humanist Sebastian Brandt may have combined praise for the island’s discoveries to the victory over the city of Granada, the book presented the new islands as a culmination of this so fortunate conquest that liberated the city from saracens. For Brandt took as promising the likelihood that the “cunctus nostris sub legibus orbis/Iamdudum foret [the world will be soon joined by our laws]” as would befit an empire.
Although the title page to Brandt’s panegyric identified Ferdinand’s royal power as “Hispaniarum regis . . . & regni Granatae,” and united the coats of arms of Granada, open halves of a seeded pomegranate, with the lions rampant and castles that united Castile and Léon, claims to sovereignty over the New World did not rest on a universal claims to authority of classical lineage–as would be later carefully cultivated by heirs of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V–despite the imperious gesture of Ferdinand made from the throne and the evocation of a new Holy Roman Empire, worthy of Maximilian I.
The 1492 panegyric, although printed with the letter of Columbus in seven editions, was indeed originally intended to address the victory over Granada, described as liberated to the Christian world, to which the letter of Columbus that narrated his discovery of the New World was added as if to further augment the monarch’s fortunate triumph. It is not difficult to see the New World islands being included in a new map of worldly power, rather than a geographical map. The augmentation of Ferdinand’s domain as a polycentric entity that had united not only the two Spains (Castile and Aragon) to Granada, but a complex including Sicily and the Kingdom of Naples to which the New World islands could be joined, in a policentered state headed by the monarch who, from his early marriage to Isabella I, had cultivated his claims to worldly sovereignty–becoming Réy Catolico of Aragon, and from 1468 King of Sicily, from 1474 jure uxoris King of Castille and after the conquest of Granada and completion of the Riconquista, of a Spain from which he expelled all Jews as if to increase his sovereign identification with the Catholic church.
The gesture of imperium that the Spanish monarch had made when he indicated the islands of the New World from his throne in the image that is the header to this post resonate with his assumption of imperial rule echoing the Roman empire. Its claims to imperial authority of a military conqueror conjure with the broad claims to sovereignty expressed he expressed over multiple lands, and the praise of his victory in Grenada was effectively extended to the New World, as he had originally charged Columbus to search for a route of passage to Asia.
Osher Map Library
In what might be seen as an early awareness of the centrality of the Colombian exchange–what for Alfred Crosby constituted diseases, crops, and animals, as well as objects, but for Todorov revealed an inability to realize differences–the woodcut below foregrounded the act of exchange at its center and focal point, as a chalice is offered to the unclothed native inhabitants, one of whom holds a circular object. As if to connote the arrival of a circular host or a monetary coin, the presentation of the chalice resonates with the implicit project of conversion–unstated if evident in the letter–and the introduction of monetary exchange, as if to present the project of contact with the inhabitants of the previously unknown islands to a broader audience.
For Todorov, the discovery of the “other” denied natives’ status as subjects, but treated them as uncivilized and lesser subjects–evident in this woodcut only in the clearly unclothed status of the island’s dwellers. The collective classification as willing subjects, but as of nuclear customs, must have made them in need of rule and conversion–so remote that their discovery as subjects are rarely acknowledged–that created the basis for the cognitive bizarreness of claiming sovereignty over a people that denied any social organization among them: the illustration of a Colombian exchange lay here in a presentation of gifts, as if it were a recognition of rule over such remote peoples. The relation of the costumed sailors who disembarked from the offshore caravel in the foreground, who contrast to the unclothed natives crowding the shores and rocky shoals in the image of encounter by the now-tired topos of discovery:
Osher Map Library
14. These significantly ornately framed woodcut images worked by encompassing and creating a politics of location–and providing a tool for describing social relations–by evoking a specific landscape. At the same time as early world maps provided a surface to locate the new toponym that could be embodied for viewers, and reconciled with an ancient tradition of mapping the world’s surface, the Colombian letter suggested that it overcame the difficulties of envisioning the relation of Europe to the New World.
The 1493 frontispiece from a Florentine edition of the letter Columbus had purportedly penned while returning from the New World, and was first printed in Rome that June 15, ostensibly versified at the request of the Italian-born private secretary to Ferdinand, evoked the peoples that Columbus described as dwelling there on islands; the imprint of late October, 1493 included a quite rhetorically significant image rarely described as a map, but reveals a newfound interest in the authority of the map as a medium to train one’s eye accurately on the New World and its unclothed inhabitants.
Osher Map Library
15. The crowned Spanish monarch Ferdinand is regally shown attired in stately robes and royal regalia, indicating with one finger to express sovereign claims on the island where Columbus landed. Although located far away from the unclothed natives–entirely women–in one island that Columbus visited with three ships, his indicated the inhabitants of the isles and the islands as if he were able to do so through a map, which has conveyed the story of the galleons’ voyages to the far-off lands across the Atlantic. If not representing the royal authority that Columbus mediated in the New World, the reference endowed their all too difficult to imagine their existence with a reality able to be effectively converted to territorial claims: for despite a language of universality, little sense of precedent for the expansion of monarchical authority across oceans existed.
The booklet’s very title–La lettera dellisole che ha trouata nuouamente il Re–underscored the “discover” as if it were the monarch’s very own, but was illustrated to make sure that readers clearly understood it as naming a place, and indeed showed the region as a place to which the monarch held clearly spelled out relations: much as if he were locating the islands of Hispaniola on a map or nautical chart, the monarch, spatially removed across the Atlantic ocean whose distance Columbus’ trio of vessels had traversed, appears posed with index finger extended, while seated, fully coiffed and costumed in full regalia at his throne, but leaning forward with decisive eagerness as he gestured to the new land and its long-haired inhabitants.
Did the map not allow him to make this gesture of claiming, naming and designating, even as Columbus had named the region that the letters purported to describe?
Frontispiece, Giuliano Dati’s Italian 1493 versification of Columbus’ letter/Osher Map Library: the Spanish Monarch surveys the caravels arriving at Hispaniola to meet unclothed, long-haired natives
The conspicuously naked natives who huddled in the island were certainly indicated as new subjects of the royal king–and are observed by the clothed sailors who act as representative of the monarch. after their arrival in Hispaniola. The composure and studied poise of the seated monarch contrasts to the native populations of women who the sailors are shown as first encountering as they reach its shores, watching what seems a moving dance from the boats in which they are seated, almost motionless, witnesses of the long-haired women and, it seems, a bearded man, whose figures seem to almost vibrate as they move across the field of vision, the lines of their long wavy hair echoing the lines on the thatched huts behind them, beside a palm tree that bisects the frame of the engraving and seems to define the distance and remove of the far-off island people from the grasses and flowers on the shore where the monarch sits.
Despite the absence of what we might consider a “map,” the politics of location are symbolically underscored by this 1493 frontispiece to a popular book. Indeed, the designation by a pointed finger of the monarch from his throne provided a gesture of internalization and symbolic condensation concretizing relations of power across the seas, less credibly represented in a planispheric or terrestrial map. In ways that revise the frontispiece to De Insulis super in mari Indico repertis (1494) but which dispenses with variations among New World natives, the Dati frontispiece suggests the ability of maps to conjure the far away as if it lay close at hand, transporting the observer as if he were a royal sovereign himself; rather than offering a summary and condensation of what Columbus and his sailors saw, the woodcut symbolizes a sudden contraction of spatial relations across the oceanic expanse of the Atlantic that the Letter promised, and indeed on which it promised to transport those readers who read about the customs, habits and material attractions of this world whose religion and rulership were unknown.
The elevated regal index finger by which the monarch imperiously indicates the island and its inhabitants across the Atlantic–“unless it is pointed as a prelude to a fist,” as Bruno Latour has written recently in quite another context about indicating the frontiers between forest and savannah after his expedition through the Boa Vista forest in Brazil: “the extension of the index finger always signals an access to reality even when it targets a mere piece of paper, an access which in this case encompasses the totality of the site . . . [in which] thanks to inscriptions, we are able to oversee and control a situation . . . and we are able to gather together synoptically all the actions that occurred over many days and that we have since forgotten.” Ferdinand’s indication of the far-off land is a way to bring it within the ambit, however improbably, of his own claims to monarchy and rule, and to bring it closer to be interpreted within the discourses of rule and domination that European viewers would be better able to understand–beckoning to the recently discovered islands to indicate proximity, as if to include the New World within the sphere of a radically expanded monarchy by a gesture towards those lands lying far across the sea.
1494 Basel edition, folio 29v (courtesy Osher Map Library/University of Southern Maine): Columbus’ Landing in the New World
The depiction of the moment of landing in Hispaniola and contact with the New World was imbedded in the volume that reprinted Columbus’ letter, but defined the Colombian moment of knowledge of the other and the unknown.
Columbus had frequently described himself as sailing “in search of the islands that the Indians told him had much gold, and some of which had more gold than earth” shortly before Christmas 1492, in ships whose speed and maneuverability led them to be praised as “ocean-going vessels,” also described by contemporary sailors as Inigo Arrieta as ‘’corredoras extremadas, buenas para descubrir tierras“–but for which no plans or single iconographical tradition exists. The most Christian monarch had of course been most interested in dispatching Columbus to discover a route of trade to Asia, but was readily recast as the interested ruler of these new far-off lands, having recently expelled Muslims and Jews from his state in exercise of his sovereign powers. The wonders of the world revealed to the King of Spain in these far off lands offered an occasion for a prophecy about what the future of the very islands taken by the King would be–and what its inhabitants were.
16. A German-language woodcut imagined the wondrous discoveries in the New World as personally described by Christ to the Spanish monarch, as if the expedition were an extension of a pastoral effort.
Frontispieces that were printed in subsequent editions of his letter met the popularity of the treatise by transposing the “map” onto a landscape view, prominently naming and conjuring the far-off places of the “Insula hyspana” where the Spanish ships encountered “unclothed” inhabitants who lived with the near-absence of built structures, before being renamed subjects of the Spanish monarch. (The nudity of these future colonial subjects, as well as testifying to their vulnerability and aquisition to Europeans’ arrival, echoes the lascivious attributes so famously described in multiple accounts of the New World –in a particularly evident whitewashing of the actual violence against women and children inflicted by Columbus and his sailors after their transatlantic transit, acts of violent possession which led to mass-suicide of inhabitants.
“Spain” was, as is often noted, a new construction in the early modern world. The victory of their “Catholic majesties” Ferdinand and Isabella, whose 1479 marriage had united the previously separate kingdoms of Castille and Aragon, which were recently expanded by the conquest of Granada, the sole territory which Moors ruled in Iberia, celebrated in the very same book that the letter was reprinted and appeared. The context and placement of the letter must have implicitly presented the islands as new possibilities for conversion of their most Catholic majesties, and the 1494 Basel edition prominently included a new mapping of the islands on its seventy-fourth page. The late insertion in this landlocked city of a map within an edition of the Columbus letter, itself claimed to be from the navigator’s own hand, created the first mapping of the islands that Columbus had described.
Although a map was not included in the early editions of the Letter, the Basel edition included one explanatory map, curiously from an edition printed in a landlocked city, without orientational cues or indices of longitude and latitude, to illustrate the plurimas Iu[n]sulas innumeris habitatas hominibus. The image of a set of magical islands in open seas gestured to the romantic poetic tradition of an isolario or book of islands to magnify the romance of discovery and stories of fantastic wealth or riches: in the context of the letter, it seems both to provide a confirmation of the new places located in the ocean that perpetuates the myth of their abundant wealth, and a reminder of the access that the departure of Columbus with the charge from Ferdinand to find an access to the Indies directed his ships to these islands.