Tag Archives: Historical Maps

Mapping Worldly Entrances to Hell

We are forced carry our very own hells with us, and to know their maps but even the routes of access to them.   If the location of Hell has been mapped and re-mapped as a personal experience since the Renaissance, defining fixed locations of Hell projects something of a state of mind to the world’s physical geography.  If, to quote Marlowe’s Mephistopheles, “Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib’d/ In one self place; but where we are is hell,/ And where hell is, there must we ever be,” the places Hell resides is almost a practice of mapping that reflects a culture’s cartographical imagination, hell has proliferated in the age of genocide on an unknown scale, as the atrocities of Armenia, Cambodia, Argentina, Bosnia, Iraq and Rwanda have created new landscapes from hell that have proliferated in the world as real places of a level of trauma that transcends any normalcy, including the normalcy of a map.

If we carry around our personal hells with us, the worldly entrances to hell came back with a vengeance in the Second World War and long before.  For the problems of these atrocities challenges on an ethical and moral scale the commensurability of our conventions of mapping, and with it any commensurability itself.  Perhaps the muted colors and odd grey zones by which earlier concentration camps in the Nazi era suggest that they are zones “off of the map,” indeterminate spaces ringed by green fields, all but exempts them from conventions of mapping, their primitive barracks, gates, transports, mess halls, work fields, ditches and crematoria all outside of “normal” space, and unmapped, left to strain credibility–even if they were viewed from space by reconaissance flights, these spaces and their modern proliferation cannot be adequately morally mapped in ways we know the world.

FARBEN_DWORY

This sense of places out of the normal, hardly part of humanity, has perhaps led to the proliferation of maps of hell online.  The problem of proliferating hells is a one good way to describe modernity.  From Samantha Powers’ attempt to map “problems from Hell”  as eventualities the United States government will be condemned to face to the problems of mapping atrocities that recurred in the terrifying landscapes of Hades, Argentina, worldly hells have proliferated in the world from Nazi concentration camps to sites of disappearing that ask us to map the presence of hell in the world, in a grim geography of devasttion that challenged pallettes and iconography to describe adequately.

grim geogrqphy of devastationaBefore these maps of spaces of dehumanization and devastation, we are really looking into hellish worlds we had not been able to see before.   But even these dots cannot capture the scale of the hellscapes that emerged for the accelerated loss of life within the industrialization of death that proceeded from Heinrich Himmler’s order of 19 July 1942 stated that unleashed mass-killings from bullets, fire, and gas extermination to fullifll the demand that by the end of December 1942, all Jews, gypsied in Greater Germany be killed, leading to an unprecedented intensity of rates of mass-killings almost impossible to map on paper or by a graph, challenging as the spatial dynamics of the three-month long burst of killings is poorly documented–intentionally–and indicate a terrifying challenge to the world of the data vis that challenges the imagination to even attempt to “map” in the over 40,000 camps of imprisonment and mass-killing that were built between 1933 and 1945, dedicated to imprisonment, forced labor, or mass killing sites dedicated to exterminating Jews, Sinti, Roma, Communists, and so-called “enemies of the state.”

extermination

aau7292-f1

There is a sense of the utter inadequacy of an aerial view–or indeed even Google maps–to map the horrors of sites commensurate to their moral and ethical existence, as if they lay resolutely and stubbornly outside the known world and could not be assimilated to the categories by which we map it.

Landscap

Aerial Reconnoissance Flight over Auschwitz-Birkenau, April 4, 1944 

It’s perhaps not a surprise that every culture seems to have its own notion of Hell but of where the location of hell and its entrance is.  If one can pinpoint and map it in an image of the known world, perhaps one can escape its presence in one’s own mind.  The poet Czeslaw Miłosz wondered, in a very late poem of 2003, “Have we really lost our faith in that other space?/ Have they vanished forever, Heaven and Hell?/ . . . And where will the damned find suitable quarters?” and bemoaned almost tearfully the unimaginable proportions of the “enormity of the loss,” but there is considerable existential comfort in being able to map Hell with security, and indeed to map the intersection between hell and the world that seems normal, as if the presence of Hell demands of expressibility that elicit stubborn difficulties in placing recurring reappearances of Hell on the relative poverty of conventions we use in a global map of human settlement. The problem of mapping hell was perhaps long a part of humanity, as much as the evils of genocide stupefy in their excess, and raise questions of how to map not only people and places but souls in the world.  Mapping hell is, indeed, something of a poetic feat.

Mapping was long about finding a place for the soul in the world, however, as much as ordering spaces or offering way-finding.  You know the lay of the land, and the parts you want to avoid.  As if consciously and quite intentionally one-upping Christopher Marlowe, on seeing the efflux of modern industry afflicting  London, Percy Bysshe Shelley imagined “Hell is a city much like London— A populous and a smoky city,” to comment on the transformation of England; his belief that “It is not necessary to consider Hell and the Devil as supernatural machinery” is uncannily similar to the many maps that pinpoint Hell’s multiple worldly entrances for those eager to read them.  It has long been far more satisfying if one can try to pinpoint the entrance points in informed fashion, using some sort of knowledge or evidence to buttress the choice.  The location of “Hell” or the underworld was, of course, pre-Christian, even if it is now colored by Christian sources; Hell is a pre-Christian mental geography that was mediated by Christianity and its own specific notions of suffering  and remorse, but also is a place that we all know exists, and are eager to find–although not to go there ourselves.  Is it any surprise that the dominance of point-based mapping, with its comprehensive tally of location, raises the fundamental moral question of mapping a common relation to hell?

Perhaps it is a coincidence that the proliferation of hells began with the dominance of new national maps, and new military maps, crafted to enable us to think outside of a national frontiers, created a point-based mapping system like the Universal Transversal Mercator, that raised moral questions of where hell was, and that hell exists in the lives of most modern refugees, who live not only outside the edges of borders, but, as the unhoused, outside of geolocation systems.

But perhaps our current maps, dominated by geodata, force the question of the lack of location of a hell, at the same time as we are seeing a proliferation of global hells, all absent from the point-based maps that we treat as surrogates for reality.  According scripture, Hell is located deep down in the earth, without either geographic specificity and far more figuratively evocative than precise.  Hell is  reality and state of mind for the Gospels and Apocalypse; it is not a precise location:  it is a place where in “outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth” (Matthew 25:30), whose inhabitants are “in agony in this fire” (Luke 16:24), surrounded by “the devil and his angels” (Matthew 25:41).  The topography of the new camps made little sense in rational mapping systems, but as a vampiric relation to the enslavement of people, before the scale of atrocities could be imagined.

nazi-vampire-1941

The image of perpetual burning, self-consumed bodies has been embellished with extensive pictorial detail as a place of eternal punishment, and a site of the destruction of both body and soul and of unending separation from both; it was based on the Old Testament idea of  “Sheol” as an abode of the dead (Psalm 49:13-14)–or of those with no abode or place to be, but this place with no life was always seen as closely connected to our own.  Hell was deeply spiritual for Dante and in his age–the appeal that we had an informant who had in fact been their to survey its complex topography and descending rings of punishments bore the satisfying sense that we knew where we are in the moral compass of life.  The appeal of Dante’s map of hell is evident in the considerable care and detail which Sandro Botticelli and others used to delineate the space through which where Virgil led Dante and navigated among the inhabitants of hell’s circles–an image popular in the late fifteenth century–that could be examined with some recognition and even more amazement as a site of the afterlife.

Botticelli's Ms Map of Dante's Hell

When Dante’s Florentine editor Girolamo Benivieni’s prepared a printed edition including engraved maps, the portal to Hell was strikingly placed in explicitly modern geographic terms within the terraqueous sublunary world:

Benivieni 1506 Dante's Hell

The deep comfort of this clearly mapped ontology of the afterlife is to some extent preserved today.  Online, we can also navigate this image, thanks to digitization of manuscript images, on one’s very own, and explore the mind-blowing map that Sandro Botticelli drew as if confronting the page from inches away in all its gloriously imagined Dantesque details.  The mapping of Hell has taken off in ways that oddly reflects a pretty secular age; sites of anguish and suffering are, it turns out, still pretty compelling to map in a geographical lens.

Compelling woodcut maps described the topography of the realm of the Dantesque afterlife with exquisite geographic care:

1527_33.wc1.150dpi

Hell was long an individualized affair, and rightly so, the culmination to a balance of sins physical and of mind.  But the mapping of a public geography of hell–entrances to the underworld, now navigated not only but Virgil and Vulcan, or even Percy Jackson, but able to be pinpointed on a map.  There seems to be somewhat of a flourishing of the addition of “Hell”-sites on the web today, in fact, something of a response to the absence of this all-too-concrete state of mind from the reaches of Google Earth–not that some folks haven’t tried.  Perhaps the absence of hell’s location on Google Maps–or how Hell frustrates that portal promising ubiquitous coverage to any user–may have helped generate something like a proliferation  of on-line pseudo-erudition about Hell’s possible locations, and the curiosity that it could be in fact right around the corner in some pretty familiar sites that we can arrive at by our devices.

The appeal of mapping hell–and at looking at the sites where others map hell–is a branch of the Googlish compulsion to provide a total mapping of humanity, as much as a religious ontology, and is reflected in the proliferation of models of Hell that circulate online and provide some sort of satisfaction that we known where we are.

Continue reading

1 Comment

Filed under Apocalypse, Biblical Geography, Global Displacement, Google Earth, Hell

Alberto Uderzo’s Maps

“All Gaul Was Divided into Three Parts . . . “

The cynicism of the Republican party’s attempt to redraw the electoral map of the United States certainly withdraws from reality:  when you’ve lost a big election, just take a few steps back, breathe deeply . . . and re-write the map.  It’s hard to take seriously the attempt–as if gerrymandering wasn’t recent history.  If votes didn’t materialize the first time, just change the rules of the game:  these are only conventions; why not protect the economic homogeneity of the electoral district to get more votes?  We’ve recently obsessed as a nation with questions of boundaries and drawing firm lines in maps, a pursuit which hasn’t got us that far in international affairs, or anywhere worth being.

If drawing boundary lines in the sand or in Ohio are powerful exercises in power, my favorite case of delineating boundaries for readers is from the popular comic, drawn by Uderzo from 1959, each issue of which began from the stark boundaries of an imagined ancient world:  even without consulting Ferdinand Lot’s Les invasions Germaniques:  La pénétration mutuelle du monde barbare et du monde Romain (1945), the identity of Gaul/France was the recurrent theme of Goscinny and Uderzo’s rendering of the adventures of the blond Gaul Asterix and his band of fellow-villagers as they continue to resist Roman invaders to their lands.  Indeed, the Gaulist conceit of the cartoon series plays with the idea of national and linguistic diversity in the ancient Roman world, imagining a past of fixed territories, clear borders, and national aggression that mirrors our own, or mirrored what would be a clearly defined region of Gaul–as if by a modern boundary line–from which a magic potion allows them to undertake the against-all-odds deviance of one city, not yet fallen to the Roman troops, and to preserve their identity even if they are within the Roman empire.

 

Fearful Gauls.png

The potent image of Gallic resistance that the comic strip has inspired has spawned theme-parks, stuffed animals, live-action films, and legions–sorry–of admirers, as well as probably having directed the imaginations of more kids to antiquity than any other media.  (So powerful were the connotations of resistance that when Uderzo’s daughter wrote a column for Le Monde in 2009, protesting the sale of the series to the French publisher Hachette Livre, she wrote that it was “as if the gates of the Gaulish village had been thrown open to the Roman Empire,” to give voice to fears that the resourceful cartoon characters discovered in 1959 would be exploited by marketing, as if they would be Disneyfied–a fear Uderzo himself counter-charged was only motivate by greed.

 

 

 

Uderzo’s now-iconic “Map of Gaul” introduces every one of Asterix’s adventures.  But the map becomes a them of a relatively early book in the multi-volume collections that is un-coincidentally entitled Asterix and the Goths.  On the comic book’s cover, the imaginary boundary line that bound Gaul/France was concretized for readers of the strip, as the boundary line between became the stage for action:  Uderzo marked a dashed line (familiar from road maps or national atlases) on the ground, to essentialize differences between France and Germany, if not intentionally to mask how the historical determination was actually more fluid than Uderzo rendered the boundary line between Gaul and Germania for readers, but which the wily Francs were about to invade, even if that meant leaving the flagstones that Roman conquerors had used to pave roads in Gaul.

 

9780752872636-1

Border of Germania.png

Border to Germania

 

Historical accuracy or verisimilitude wasn’t exactly the point for the authors or readers of Asterix.  But celebrating a mythistory very much was:  much as our hero stands for the defense of Gaul against the invading Roman Empire, the looming shadows of the helmeted Goths in this image echo the Bismarck-style helmet that date from World War I, and cause our hero to turn his attention from the Roman legions that Obelix stands posed to clobber, reaching for the sword to face a new enemy.  After all, the colors of the map are evident in the land that he defends:  Gaul is green; Germania yellow.  The border marking is clear, and the border sign notes the different fonts used in each land just as the Germans speak in Gothic letters in the speech bubbles in this comic book.

Demarcating regional boundaries was of course not so much a reality for the ancient world, or migratory Goths, as they are in historical reconstructions.  But the comic essentialized France by the gallantry and derring-do of its Gallic ancestors–as the counter-weight and barbaric other of the Goths to the east.  In each adventure, Gallic wiles defied the formal boundaries displayed in the frontispiece in Uderzo’s map of Gaul’s division into three parts in they year 50 BC, where all of Gual is indeed divided, . . . save one town that holds out to the north in Caesar’s time . . .

 

Gaul 50 BC.png

The regional divisions of Gaul are pseudo-scholarly, if not antiquarian, and the joke of the towns that are revealed, surrounded by Roman camps, by the magnifying glass, is matched nicely by the cracks of the earth caused by the cracks in the Gallic landscape, as if by an earthquake, caused by the aggressive planting of the Roman standard in the south of France, casting more than a shadow over the region’s fertile plains.

There was a something of a tradition of an imagined creation of boundary-lines in Renaissance editions of Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic Wars, to be sure, that is echoed in Uderzo’s clever cartographical cartoon.  The insertion of such boundary lines into the landscape is  reflected the increased national segregation of regions in Renaissance maps and national atlases.  They paralleled, to be sure, the fantasy among Germans that the region Tacitus described to the Romans in his Germania revealed the antiquity of the Germanic people.  National maps were popular in France from regional maps from 1550, or the national atlases of Bougereau and others, and commissioned by the monarchy–even if they were far less colorful than Uderzo’s cartoons.

 

IG6515-2

 

The notion of the invasions of Goths in a later date was rendered as a cartographical violation of French territory in the great medieval philologist and demographer Ferdinand Lot’s 1935 Les invasions germaniques, an erudite study republished in two years as Les invasions barbares, a work whose cover oriented the work around its central subject–France, in the guise of Francs–despite Lot’s positivistic evaluation of historical evidence.

 

 

Lot.png

 

A subsequent edition of the map was noticeably far more reticent:

 

invasions_barbares_L25.jpg

But let’s go back to the comic books.  Uderzo’s boundary line in the two-color Asterix map is an actual sequence of dashes, thick dashes, beside a marker which seems to have been drawn in the Gaulish/Roman side–Gaul is predominantly indicated in the sign, and, betraying the question of who wrote/drew it, the presence of Gaul in the Roman Empire is noted as something of a parenthetical afterthought. This is a boundary line for twentieth-century observers of the map, in ways unavoidable when the first comic was printed in 1959:  Asterix is a national hero who brilliantly and craftily defended, after all, occupied Gaul with ingenuity and help from a magic potion. The region’s bounding is totally unlike the tribal distributions that characterized Europe’s peninsula:

 

Unknown

 

And so it’s not a surprise that maps are always coyly present as a conceit in Asterix, as well as national identities that the Gallic hero visits with or without his local bard, including not only Spain, England, and Rome itself, but even America.  This fantasy of mapping was part of the fun, as well as part of the creative anachronism.  Why were maps such a recurrent part of the comic, save as guides to narrate the Gaul’s worldly adventures?

Asterix was only something of a semi-serious hero who defended the cultural boundaries of occupied Gaul.  But the defense of occupied Gaul was of course a powerful motif in the twentieth century, and the recurrence of maps in the entire series–from the brilliant  frontispiece that begins each book, and is included below, by way of summation–repeatedly employed maps as the perfect stage for Gallic ingenuity and wit.  The man from Gaul had a certain international fame recognized on the covers of later volumes:

 

images-1

 

Well, that combines a map and aerial view, but seems straight out of a classroom map, if not a Michelin touring guide.  But Asterix and Obelix encountered plenty of signs like that of Paris carefully marked on their travels and itineraries across the ancient landscape that looked suspiciously modern in the iconography of their design:

 

250px-Asterixcover-the_golden-sickle

 

But the line between Gaul and Germania, or the land of the Goths, is the on-the-ground view of the clear demarcation that existed in the minds of all the Gauls at that time, runs the conceit of the comic book, or, er . . . all except in one town.

 

images-2

Such is the beauty of maps, and their power as iconic images.  It’s not surprising that such resistance was shown when  Uderzo, who had worked so lovingly and hard to create these characters got slammed in the national press in 2009 by his own daughter for planning to sell the franchise after his own death as betraying a national hero to “the modern-day Romans–the men of finance and industry.”  Uderzo eventually appointed his own assistants to continue Asterix’s adventures.

Unknown-1

Leave a comment

Filed under Asterix, boundaries, Gaul, historical atlas, Roman Empire