A persistent trope in numismatic literature and exhibitions is that coins are art. It is seen, perhaps, as a way of making these small objects more engaging or of asserting their equivalence with other works found in galleries. It is perhaps also a projection onto the Middle Ages of the phenomenon developed in the fifteenth century of the decorative medal as a form of artistic expression. The idea of medieval coins as art, however, faces a twofold problem. First, the concept of “art” in the Middle Ages is contested by historians of visual and material culture because although objects might have been beautifully made in the Middle Ages this was always secondary to and in service of another (non-aesthetic) primary purpose. The concepts of beauty as its own purpose and the artist as individual were absent. Second, while many medieval coins are attractive and enticing to modern eyes, others challenge even the most culturally relativist viewer to assert with confidence that these objects were created to be admired for their beauty. They were all, however certainly intended to be tools of representation. Indeed, representation is integral to the identity of a coin. Without designs marking it apart, a lump of metal is not a coin; it is simply a lump of metal, or perhaps an ingot. Marking a coin with a representation to make it recognizable theoretically simplifies transactions, as people are able simply to exchange coins in specified amounts rather than having to test the purity and weight of metal themselves or pay somebody else to do so. In the medieval world this did not always work perfectly in practice, as some examples in this chapter will demonstrate, and the rationale for issuing coins in the Middle Ages was not necessarily exclusively to facilitate transactions. Nevertheless, the aims and consequences of representation are in all cases fundamental to understanding the role of money in the Middle Ages.
Consequently this chapter focuses not on coins as art but on the interactions which made representation on a medieval coin possible and meaningful. These interactions are usually discussed in terms of the connection between the authority which caused a coin to be made and the intended audience for its use, as a top-down communication, which only rarely extended into a visible dialogue, for example when an intended audience rejected a coin or a contemporary commentator mentioned some change in design. (...) Such interpretation is, however, implicitly grounded in the idea of coins as art (or perhaps propaganda - also a problematic term in medieval contexts since it is closely associated with modern ideas about the conscious aim and capacity of states to influence directly and totally the political consciousness of their subjects), in which the authority becomes the artist and minute details or changes in coin design have been read as sensitive barometers revealing the personal feelings and political preferences of kings and emperors. A medieval coin, though, was fundamentally an object of use, created to mediate a range of social contexts, from paying taxes and armies, or engaging in commerce, to giving religious donations, or distributing imperial largesse. Its uses thus all required an audience which both understood and accepted the social role played by that coin.
Consequently, this chapter begins with the intended audience, examining the ways in which people in the Middle Ages encountered coins and what this tells us about the capacity for representation on coins to communicate within, and to create, shared visual contexts. Only then does it turn to the authority, examining how and why issuers of coins decided to situate their representational choices on a spectrum between conservatism and innovation. These choices, however, were not usually enacted by the authorities who ordered coins to be made. The often overlooked role played by makers of medieval money is considered as a separate and vital component in representation and visual communication. Finally, this chapter turns to unintended audiences. Medieval money travelled, as money has always done, and representation on coins influenced visual culture far beyond the spaces controlled by its issuing authority. Differences in the responses of unintended and intended audiences to medieval money bring us closer to understanding complex landscapes of visual familiarity and foreignness, both during the Middle Ages, as coins traversed space and time, and in the present, where the ultimate unintended audience - the modern viewer, collector, scholar or curator - responds to representation on medieval coins, but also generates new understandings of it.
When this chapter talks about representation it takes in all of the intentional visual symbols placed on coins by their makers. It includes human images and other complex designs of animals, buildings or abstract patterns. It also includes smaller, simpler representations, which might be part of these complex images or which might appear beside them. Some of these formed part of the wider visual culture of the coin’s intended audience, such as crosses on coinages issues by Christian polities. Crosses could be encountered in multiple contexts, such as in wall paintings, manuscripts and sculpture, and were probably immediately familiar to most of their viewers. Other images and marks had more esoteric and specific meanings which may have been irrelevant or unknown to many users of these coins, such as mint marks. Other marks, though useful to numismatists today for identifying and seriating coins, are still not always understood and may have had specific meaning or have been purely decorative, such as stars or dots (often termed “pellets”) around the main design. Representation on coins can also refer to text in the form of inscriptions making political statements, proclaiming titles and religious views, or naming the maker, the mint or the 4 value or denomination of the coin. The balance of image and word itself became an issue of political representation in the Middle Ages, discussed below.
by Rebecca R. Darley, Birkbeck/University of London | Read more (pdf):
by Rebecca R. Darley, Birkbeck/University of London | Read more (pdf):
Image: via
[ed. Probably of limited interest here, but I found it quite fascinating (for the most part). Everybody thinks about money, but not usually in this way (except when special or limited run currencies are produced to commemorate someone or something. Citations have been removed for easier reading. Have to laugh at the last item here about meanings evolving or devolving over time: thus a Roman emperor eventually becomes a porcupine:]!
[ed. Probably of limited interest here, but I found it quite fascinating (for the most part). Everybody thinks about money, but not usually in this way (except when special or limited run currencies are produced to commemorate someone or something. Citations have been removed for easier reading. Have to laugh at the last item here about meanings evolving or devolving over time: thus a Roman emperor eventually becomes a porcupine:]!
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"Much of what we think of as representation on coins was thus the direct product not of the commissioning authority, nor even the moneyer in the sense of overseer, but of the die cutters. These were the people who created the images that we see on coins. Their skill, or apparent lack thereof, created many of the fine details which have optimistically been read as insights into the minds of issuing authorities. This can sometimes overlook fairly significant gaps in our knowledge, such as how designs, even if sanctioned by an authority, were transmitted to mints further away for die cutters to engrave. (...)
In addition to the die-cutters, who were almost certainly skilled and valued artisans, the term “maker” included other individuals relevant to the issue of representation. Working through the stages of making a medieval coin highlights a number of processes which might have fallen within the remit of a variable number of people. Somebody had to calculate the metallic composition of the blank flans onto which coins were struck, or decide not to and select an appropriate number of old coins and poorly-formed pieces of metal, with serious implications for representation. An even mixture would take a struck design better than a mixture full of different metals. A heavily leadbased copper alloy, for instance, such as that used in a series of coins produced in Sri Lanka during the fifth and sixth centuries, limited the design that could be impressed on the coins, as it made the metal friable and likely to crack under pressure. (...)
In addition to the die-cutters, who were almost certainly skilled and valued artisans, the term “maker” included other individuals relevant to the issue of representation. Working through the stages of making a medieval coin highlights a number of processes which might have fallen within the remit of a variable number of people. Somebody had to calculate the metallic composition of the blank flans onto which coins were struck, or decide not to and select an appropriate number of old coins and poorly-formed pieces of metal, with serious implications for representation. An even mixture would take a struck design better than a mixture full of different metals. A heavily leadbased copper alloy, for instance, such as that used in a series of coins produced in Sri Lanka during the fifth and sixth centuries, limited the design that could be impressed on the coins, as it made the metal friable and likely to crack under pressure. (...)
The Frisian and Anglo-Saxon sceattas mentioned previously suggest similar processes. Many of these carry an image resembling a porcupine (Fig, 10), which evolved from a Late Roman portrait of an emperor, in which the hair became an increasingly prominent crest that eventually replaced a recognizable human bust altogether. Its original meaning and eventually its original appearance faded in importance in comparison to the role of the image as a symbol with a newly constructed set of social meanings."
[ed. See also: Your Book Review: Autobiography Of Yukichi Fukuzawa (ACX):]
"I had been living in Japan for a year before I got the idea to look up whose portraits were on the banknotes I was handling every day. In the United States, the faces of presidents and statesmen adorn our currency. So I was surprised to learn that the mustachioed man on the ¥1,000 note with which I purchased my daily bento box was a bacteriologist. It was a pleasant surprise, though. It seems to me that a society that esteems bacteriologists over politicians is in many ways a healthy one."
