The stated aim of this essay collection is to examine "the means by which human memory could be activated or manipulated through the interaction between monuments, their setting, and the visitor". (1) Although some parts are inevitably stronger than others, the editors succeed admirably in bringing together the different viewpoints that in large part define the current study of medieval tombs. While the appearance of this book in 2000 was a bit of an anticlimax, and the papers that it contains were much more visibly innovative when they were first given at conferences in 1994 and 1995, the collection will still have considerable utility for anyone studying tomb monuments, medieval memory, or the interaction between intellectual/emotional and physical constructs. This will be true whether the book is used by individual scholars or (as in the case of the present reviewers) by a graduate class. Three of the eleven essays included here were published elsewhere in the interval between the original conferences and 2000 (Valdez del Alamo, Morganstern, Johnson), and one draws heavily on an earlier publication (Dale). The value of this book is that it brings together articles either published in isolation or not otherwise available. For the Anglophone audience it can provide a radical updating of the standard work of Erwin Panofsky (Tomb Sculpture, 1964), though like Panofsky the editors decline to offer a full survey of the subject. Indeed, almost all of the works discussed appear to have been chosen for their departures from the 'average' memorial, whatever that may be. Although this collection skips over the formative period between the sixth century and the eleventh, it has the major virtue of including studies of the currently marginalized Spanish and Scandinavian cultures, and of placing both early Christian catacombs and Donatello into the logical context of a developing medieval tradition.

The book opens with a very useful Introduction that surveys recent work on medieval memory. Memory is here defined as "the faculty for recollection, trained or untrained, by an individual or group as stimulated by image, object, ritual, space, and action". (2) Such definition is necessary because even after a great deal of recent discussion, the term is still vague and used in a variety of ways by different scholars (including the authors collected in this book). Valdez del Alamo and Pendergast refer to many theoretical studies, but are most clearly influenced by the work of Mary Carruthers. Indeed, almost all of the essays published here make overt reference to Carruthers, and the book could be seen as an attempt to apply her theories (as stated in The Book of Memory, 1990) to the analysis of physical objects. So while the editors make reference to the work of J. P. Small (Wax Tablets of the Mind, 1997), they clearly do not agree with Small's biting critique of Carruthers (The Medieval Review 99.07.04) that demands the separation of "memory how" and "memory for". Nor do they accept J.-C. Schmitt's argument that the business of tomb memorials is comfortably to separate the dead from the living (Ghosts in the Middle Ages, 1994, trans. 1998), though Schmitt too is referenced in their Introduction.

Perhaps in order to emphasize that their book is not a chronological survey, the editors have organized the essays into two main divisions, "The tomb: between the living and the dead" and "Shaping communal memory" (with a further final subsection on the "transformation from individual memorial to institutional statement" [9]).

One begins, therefore, with Stephen Lamia's "Souvenir, synaesthesia, and the sepulchrum Domini: sensory stimuli as memory stratagems". Lamia immediately takes the reader away from the tomb of any medieval individual, to what could be regarded as the medieval tomb par excellence: the tomb of Christ. He approaches the complex associations between real pilgrimage, souvenir objects, and medieval memory through some unusual twelfth-century images that seem to evoke the contemporary appearance of the Holy Sepulchre. Basing his reconstruction on ampullae, the earlier accounts of Paula and Egeria, and the twelfth-century descriptions of Daniel and Theoderich, he proposes that the Sepulchre was masked by a marble slab that allowed pilgrims to touch or kiss the sacred rock only by placing their heads or hands through one of three round openings. That experience of both visual and tactile access to the holy relic inspired spiritual ecstasy, creating a vivid memory of the visit that could be evoked by a 'souvenir' image close in appearance to the actual tomb. Up to this point, Lamia is convincing. More problematic is his argument that such images could function as 'reminders' even for those who had never been to Jerusalem. Such memory function was, he argues, enabled by the more widespread and locally understood practice of accessing a saint's shrine through a similar fenestella confessionis, as known in examples from the sixth to the early twelfth century. Memory is not, then, merely recollection of past experience, but rather an imaginative extension of related concepts. This definition of memory as an active, creative process accords well with the theories of Carruthers, and indeed Lamia makes more overt reference to those theories than any other author in this collection--perhaps the reason for the prominent position of his essay. Unfortunately his idiosyncratic use of the term 'synaesthesia' to refer to the multi-sensory physical experience of a pilgrim at the Sepulchre, rather than to the way visual images of the pierced tomb might have evoked that experience (and therefore other senses such as sound, touch, and smell), weakens his argument. Lamia briefly mentions the connection between the memory of pilgrimage and the imitation of Christ's Passion (26). His detailed discussions of the sensory experience of the pilgrim and the evocation of that memory through souvenir beg for a deeper investigation of this aspect of experience, memory, and sensory stimulation.

With the second essay, Elizabeth Valdez del Alamo's "Lament for a lost Queen: the sarcophagus of Dona Blanca in Najera", we turn to the tomb of a very particular individual. Blanca, wife of King Sancho III el Deseado, died in 1156 as a result of childbirth complications. Valdez del Alamo convincingly argues that the scenes carved on the tomb, focusing on themes of motherhood, female prudence, and sacrifice, were chosen to memorialize the sterling qualities of the queen herself. Juxtaposition of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, the Judgment of Solomon, the Massacre of the Innocents, and the Descent from the Cross with the mourners at Blanca's funeral identifies the royal Spanish experience with events in the biblical past, and connects with the twelfth-century emphasis on motherhood as a metaphor for Christ's love noted by Caroline Walker Bynum (Jesus as Mother, 1982). The different scenes are connected, in this interpretation, by a series of typological links that is complex but compelling. Valdez del Alamo calls attention to Sancho's surprisingly demonstrative lament and to the scene of Blanca's deathbed. Uniquely, her eidolon is depicted as a newborn baby supported by two "angel-midwives". This, Valdez del Alamo argues, "simultaneously signifies the birth of her son, her death, and the rebirth of her soul" (52), a perceptive analysis of the visual composition though not, perhaps, as obvious as she suggests. (One puzzling contradiction involves the last two women to the right of the Foolish Virgins, here described as the suitably maternal Mary and Elizabeth, but in Valdez del Alamo's catalog entry for The Art of Medieval Spain [New York 1993] interpreted as oil vendors.) All of this suggests a highly erudite and well- read tomb designer, whom Valdez del Alamo does not attempt to identify. She early proposes that King Sancho might have been involved in the design, and at another point mentions the sculptor as the creative force. Could there have been input from a clergy member? If this combination of scenes was so revolutionary and so sophisticated, it might be worthwhile to explore the issue of its inventor. And while the liturgical reading of the tomb's imagery, including processional figures on all sides meant to relate to perambulating visitors, is eminently reasonable, were such visitors truly able to walk all around the tomb? Need images of the Apostles with books and scrolls be related to the Cluniac clergy and libri memoriales? However one may question some specific points, Valdez del Alamo offers a strong argument that makes intelligent use of recent scholarship on medieval memory and liturgical commemoration, without over analyzing the tomb in terms of mnemotechnique. While the reader will want to refer to the original Art Bulletin (1996) publication for additional illustrations, the Postscript printed here should also be of use.

Ann McGee Morganstern's brief "The tomb as prompter for the chantry: four examples from Late Medieval England" is developed more fully in her 2000 book, Gothic Tombs of Kinship in France, the Low Countries, and England. While she presents intriguing ideas here, she unfortunately does not give them the support that they need in this article. Morganstern begins with the useful observation that the 'weepers' on the tomb of Elizabeth de Montfort, Lady Montacute (d.1354), do not in fact weep. She then clearly outlines her own methodology: "Establishing that prayer foundations are reflected in the design of tombs equipped with 'weepers' requires that the figures represented on them or signified by their heraldry, be identified, and that the resulting program be compared with the commendations of individuals specified in the chantry ordinances." (81) In this case she identifies ten arcade figures as Montacute's children. Difficulties arise with the chantry comparison. The Montacute ordinance in fact lists a great many more recipients for prayers than just the children. To resolve this problem, Morganstern turns to the theoretical construct of Mary Carruthers, calling the 'weepers' an "abbreviation of the chantry commendations" (83) sufficient for the trained memories of the clergy. Carruthers, however, notes that images chosen to trigger memory must have a particular significance. While these children may have had such resonance because of their lineage, their relationship to their mother, or their name, Morganstern argues instead that "the choice of those to be represented from a long list of loved ones suggests a mother's solicitude for the welfare of her children". (84) Did such solicitude extend to the clergy, the ones who needed to remember? The chantry documents stipulate prayer for all those mentioned in the rolls. Proposing that Lady Montacute would depict her children out of concern for their eternal well-being suggests that those represented had a better chance than others to receive those prayers. If particular figures were placed here so that they received additional or more assured prayer, the theory of mnemonics (the depictions standing for the entire list) falls apart. Morganstern also mentions features that do not fit into her mnemonic scheme: on the Montacute tomb, devotional images on the short ends of the tomb, a Virgin and Child with two evangelists, and a 'maiden saint' with two more; and on the Burghersh tombs, linkage with the Shrine of St. Hugh's head, and the varying roles assigned to shields above secular couples (identification of the figures depicted) and clerics (reminders of those to benefit from the prayers depicted below). One hopes that Morganstern will elsewhere explore these features more fully, along with her intriguing suggestion that "sometimes named references in the ordinances seem to preclude representation on the tombs or vice versa". (85)

Geraldine A. Johnson's "Activating the effigy: Donatello's Pecci Tomb in Siena Cathedral" examines the work of a well known artist, but that notoriety does not change the issues to be considered, as usefully highlighted by inclusion of the essay here. The illusionistic 1427-52 tomb is generally thought to evoke the bishop lying in his concave bier. Basing her argument on the viewing position that best demonstrates the three dimensional effect, Johnson suggests that Pecci is depicted during the funeral mass, at the moment when the celebrant grants him absolution. A priest at the high altar, standing at the foot of the tomb, would "symbolically reenact the funeral's absolution rituals," transforming "every Mass said...into a commemorative Mass for the dead Bishop's soul." (107) The priest need not see or be aware of the tomb itself, and would indeed be otherwise engaged at the very moment when called upon to function as the ideal 'viewer'. He reenacts the funeral rituals for someone else who can appreciate the symbolism. But what kind of a viewer is this someone else who, in order to see the reenactment, will not herself be able to stand before or look at the Pecci tomb at all? In her concentration on the historically specific viewer, Johnson has made viewing itself highly problematic. Another available viewer has left his signature in the correct spot: Donatello. Johnson does not discuss the signature, the scroll overlapping it, the putti holding that scroll, or the scallop shell behind Pecci's head, all details that detract from the illusionistic effect. The shell belongs to a medieval tradition of unresolved tension between a dead horizontal effigy and a living, erect figure; and the shell, putti, and scroll belong to Donatello's standard repertoire. If Pecci was meant to be seen as if during his funeral, why retain features that deny the specificity of time and place? Donatello's flat design could instead represent a three dimensional effigy, complete with all appropriate flourishes, combining the humility of a floor tomb with aggrandizement of the deceased. The historically specific viewer of his own creation might well be Donatello. This alternative reading is meant to suggest that one approach to this complex work can be as convincing as another. Pecci's tomb may call for a fluid approach that does not inscribe the monument within a rigidly particularized notion of moment and viewer. Johnson's conclusion is problematic because the tomb design may not, in fact, seek to replicate the appearance and location of Pecci's bier during his funeral. And an officiating priest could never stand at the foot of Pecci's tomb because the high altar, since 1362 located in the elevated chancel, is simply too far away from the tomb's original location in the old choir (a distance masked by Johnson's diagram showing the present location). If the screen separating the antechoir from the high altar resembled the one in a 1483 image, it would have created a substantial barrier between altar and tomb. While Johnson's research is wide-ranging and thorough, she ignores some fundamental issues. It is difficult to understand how she could build such a complex and bold construct--viewers who cannot view and a perpetual drama between the unwitting priest and the dead bishop--on so frail a foundation.

While Johnson proposes that one tomb recreates a specific historical funeral, Patrick Lenaghan argues in "Commemorating a real bastard: the chapel of Alvaro de Luna" that another substitutes for a funeral that never happened. Alvaro was executed for treason in 1453. His tomb, erected in 1489 by the sculptor Sebastian de Almonacid, creates an image of a Christian knight driven by virtue, part of a respected Castillian family, who was buried in an elaborate state funeral--an effort on the part of his daughter to use commemoration for the creation of new memory. Alvaro had earlier purchased and destroyed three chapels in Toledo cathedral. The ostentatious tomb that he built there was itself destroyed in a 1441 revolt, but the present tomb still occupies the architectural space decorated for that first monument. Since this article addresses the function of memory, a consideration of the social memory implied by such a space would have been welcome. Was a viewer of the second tomb likely to have the first in mind? Lenaghan's larger argument is based on both history and iconography. He emphasizes the figures of Justice, Temperance, Fortitude, and Prudence on the sides of Alvaro's bier, though he cites insufficient comparative material (here and elsewhere) for the reader to evaluate a claim of uniqueness. He likewise foregrounds shields of the Order of Santiago, which Alvaro headed, and of the Luna family, to which the illegitimate Constable was not strictly entitled. But like Johnson, Lenaghan also supports his argument with stylistic observations: mourning corner figures (dependents?) are, he notes, much less than usually differentiated in scale, movement, and specificity from the central gisant of Alvaro himself. The proposed comparanda, however, suggest that there may have been a general tendency toward such a stylistic development over time, particularly in the work of Almonacid, reducing the significance of this tomb's style as a radical break with past practice. If the trademark of this particular sculptor is the suggestion of a specific moment in time, perhaps the Luna sculpture is merely a particularly successful example. It would be interesting to explore additional explanations for the family's effort to redeem the political and social legend of the Constable. In the later Middle Ages, the perceived need for a series of masses and commemorative prayers was growing. Familial concern for the salvation of Alvaro's soul could be another motivating factor here. Over all, however, this article stands as a well documented micro-reading of a cultural use of commemoration.

Lenaghan provides a smooth transition into the second major section of the book, on communal memory. The section begins with the essay dealing with the earliest material of the collection, Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk's "The font is a kind of grave: remembrance in the Via Latina catacombs", which explores paintings not associated with any particular individual. Verkerk examines Exodus imagery in relation to early Christian baptisms (spiritual death and rebirth) and funerals, liturgies connected by recitation of the same psalms and lessons and by the sacrament of the Eucharist/viaticum. The relevance of Exodus to these liturgies is clear and convincing: a Christian passed through the baptismal font just as the Jews crossed through the Red Sea, and to die was to come out of exile and see the face of God, as Moses did. The relevance of the Ashburnham Pentateuch to this discussion is less clear. While there are interesting iconographic parallels with the catacomb paintings (obscured here by the book's one truly egregious printing error, the cropping of a marginal candle in plate 6.5), Verkerk makes little use of those parallels in establishing a viable argument. She leans more heavily on the scene previously interpreted as the Raising of Lazarus (or the Israelites with the new sanctuary, or Joshua leading the way into the promised land), which she identifies as "Christ, the Shepherd, leading the people through the valley of death to dwell in the House of the Lord". (163) But why must this interpretation replace William Tronzo's (Joshua)? Surely intentional ambiguity is possible, and both interpretations could be valid, with Joshua serving to prefigure Christ. The scene could both complete the Old Testament narrative of the Red Sea and carry the further salvific significance that Verkerk suggests. If, however, we can truly assume that no scroll or tablet has been lost from the Moses scene above, then Verkerk's identification as Moses seeing God on Mt. Sinai (the anticipated face-to-face meeting with God after death) is more satisfying than previous proposals. Verkerk's most original idea, the relationship of the scenes to the psalms and sermons associated with contemporary funerals, is dependent on her assumption that these liturgies took place at the tomb. But we lack historical evidence about exactly where funerals were held, who placed bodies in the catacombs, and how frequently anyone would go there to visit the dead. Fourth-century Christian burial practices were still in flux, influenced by both pagan and Jewish customs. In the later Roman ordo defunctorum an antiphon was chanted as the body was placed into the tomb, but burial was in a cemetery, not a catacomb. Christian catacombs were more highly decorated than Jewish ones and so may have been used for ceremonial purposes, but this is only a supposition. Does Verkerk's interpretation still hold if in fact the psalms and ceremonies were conducted elsewhere? Is there evidence of liturgical imagery in other contemporary tombs or burial chambers? Perhaps in a future article she will let us know.

Kyle R. Crocker's "Memory and the social landscape in eleventh- century Upplandic commemorative practice" removes us not only from the individual, but also from the body. The stones he examines are usually cenotaphs rather than grave markers, and their function apparently has more to do with social interactions than with individualized memorials, manipulating communal memory and consolidating ties among the living by promoting community participation in defining the past. Crocker argues that the custom of raising runic stones, common in eastern Scandinavia between the late tenth and early twelfth centuries, constructed on the landscape itself a visual map of social and economic relationships between the living and the dead. Like previous scholars he notes that these memorials most likely record or legitimize rights of inheritance, but insists that the practice of raising the stones "constitutes more...than the simple equivalent of posting a certificate of title". (184) Crocker builds on the important work of Birgit Sawyer, now detailed in her The Viking age rune-stones: custom and commemoration in early medieval Scandinavia (Oxford, 2000). He argues that the stones, "dynamic structures of memory" (185), reflected and visually reinforced such complex social relationships as land tenancy, political support and dependency, and rivalry between elite families. Stones erected in Sigtuna by the Skulhambr and Jarlebanke families manifest power by strategic placement, inscriptions, and sometimes deliberately archaizing ornament. The numerous economic and social functions of the rune-stones have been articulated by other scholars, but Crocker pushes these ideas toward a more comprehensive interpretation that places them in the context of communal memory, and his arguments are ultimately convincing. Although he does not cite the work of Carruthers, he concurs with her ideas about how a text, mental or written, becomes 'institutionalized' as part of group memory. The rune-stones offered visual cues to create memories that 'textualized' both the deceased and land/family relationships. A more thorough examination of the role of religion, as new Christian burial practices supplanted older pagan ones, would be welcome. The large number of rune-stones that refer to good deeds and ask for prayers on behalf of the dead makes clear that while communal function was important, individual memorials to the deceased were also desired. A deeper investigation of their spiritual aspects could provide an even more convincing interpretation of these complex monuments.

Thomas E.A. Dale's "Stolen Property: St. Mark's first Venetian Tomb and the politics of communal memory" is an extract, with altered focus, of his 1994 article in Dumbarton Oaks Papers. Concentrating on twelfth/thirteenth-century mosaics of the advent and rediscovery of the relics of St. Mark, he focuses on the memory of the original Venetian tomb site. The image of the relics' arrival depicts the column that later housed them, making the site as significant as the bones themselves. Additional mosaics depicting the Deposition, the relics' rediscovery in their column and the preceding prayers (in a recognizable San Marco), the reentombment, and Constantine and Helena reflect the Doge's new festival of the Apparitio and his emphasis on the miraculous survival of the True Cross. The miracle of the column justified the initial acquisition of St. Mark's relics, the preservation of the Cross justified its theft from Constantinople, and the mosaics reinforced the political power structure of Venice. Unfortunately Dale fails to reflect about his very compelling ideas in light of current work on medieval memory. The role of the reliquary column in Venetian political and communal life and the need to reiterate the translation of the relics are richly evocative of the sort of creative memory work that Mary Carruthers describes. Certain features in the mosaics have a clear mnemonic function. St. Mark's relics were concealed in a barrel of pork, drawing alarmed reactions from the exotically garbed Saracens exclaiming "Kanzir!" (pork). The mosaics highlight this attention-getting and memorable incident, even though it is relatively unimportant to the story. One isolated, oversized Alexandrian could have served as a visual mnemonic for the entire narrative of the theft, and the startling image of the exploding column may have done the same for the Apparitio. But why would such mnemonic devices be necessary? The stories of the theft and the Apparitio are relatively simple, without subplots or large numbers of actors. Mnemonics here may serve a different kind of remembering, one we might call recollection or, simply, remembering to remember. Arguably, the cohesion of the city state depended on the communal willingness to keep remembering the story--the tricked Saracens, the miraculous column, the perpetually active body of St. Mark. The mosaics could be the politico/religious expression of the communal act of remembering to remember. Thomas Dale's analysis is multifaceted and cogent, so we can hope that he will return to this material in a more 'meditative' frame of mind.

Carolyn M. Carty more overtly uses memory theory in "Dream images, memoria, and the Heribert Shrine", invoking remembrance of the saint's Vita, his worldly and spiritual leadership, and his intercessory and exemplary roles. The twelfth-century reliquary is, she argues, shaped as a "compartmented treasure chest", an analogue of memory, its narrative roundels both coins and windows into the life of the saint (232, citing Carruthers). It stimulates ruminative amplifications that help the viewer construct a new present and future. While many reliquaries could be subjected to an identical analysis, Carty also sees great significance in the Heribert dream roundels in particular. Dreams connect the saint to other dreamers, both ordinary viewers and biblical or saintly characters. Like other dreams that authorized construction of major buildings (a continuing interest of Carty's), Heribert's vision stands outside the typology identified by Barbara Abou-El-Haj (The Medieval Cult of Saints, 1994), here inaugurating his miraculous acts. Carty's short article is compelling, but cannot address many other physical, cultural, and political issues that informed reception of the reliquary and its memorial functions. From afar, the shrine's opulence would have had the greatest impact. Small, intricate "memorial mediators" affected only those few viewers who could experience them up close, members of the clergy or lay people with privileged visual access. And that select audience was shown a heavily edited Vita. Heribert was never a monk, and his life was played out in the world of dynastic and papal politics. He served twice as Chancellor before becoming archbishop, was charged with returning Otto III's remains over the Alps to Aachen, and became involved in the succession struggle between Henry II and Hermann II of Swabia. A text Vita of 1021 celebrated the miracles of the monastic founder of Deutz; and another of 1147 embraced traditional Cluniac opposition to the secular state, virtually ignoring his association with the highly politicized Abbey of Gorze. The reliquary is another shaped Vita, forming the memory of the saint to specific monastic ends. Heribert's service to Emperor Otto III and his involvement in Ottonian power plays had no place within a saintly narrative. But why are dream images foregrounded here, when they are not on some other reliquaries? Is this shrine in fact to be interpreted as a unique object, its content crafted to influence medieval memory in a very specific way, or should it be seen as a generic example of mnemotechnique applied in metalwork? Carty's very helpful interpretation would benefit from an acknowledgment of the specific forces selectively shaping the process of memorialization, putting forward particular stories and associations for the viewer's rumination and meditatio.

In "The Queen's body and institutional memory: the tomb of Adelaide of Maurienne", Kathleen Nolan places the burial of the queen (d. 1154) into the context of reginal tombs, a tradition that she argues is distinct from that of French kings. Although Adelaide played an unusually active role alongside her husband Louis VI, Alain Erlande-Brandenburg has argued that she was purposely denied burial within the abbey of Saint-Denis because of her remarriage (Le Roi Est Mort, 1975). Nolan counters that reginal burial in the royal necropolis had not yet become standard, and that Adelaide was buried at Saint- Pierre-de-Montmartre because of her particular ties to that women's monastery as co-founder. While this monument is of undoubted interest, and Nolan has usefully put it into the context of memory manipulation, it would be nice to see the issues that it raises explored further. Did this effigy, an extremely early example of figural tomb sculpture in Paris, have an effect on later royal tombs? How does it relate to memorial brasses and enamels? Aside from a distant evocation of mosaic, why else might stone inlay have been used here? How is the very purpose of a queen defined in this tomb, as compared to the concept manifested in, for example, the sarcophagus of Dona Blanca? How does the rhetoric of memorials differ from that of the architectural sculpture that has been Nolan's focus until now?

The volume ends with "Monumenta et memoriae: the thirteenth-century episcopal pantheon of Leon Cathedral" by Rocio Sanchez Ameijeiras, a scholar whose work will be largely unfamiliar to an Anglophone audience. Her scholarship may well merit seeking out, for this essay is among the strongest in the volume, well structured and convincing. Ameijeiras explains a group of bishops' tombs as a "combination of commemoration and propaganda, with the intention of manipulating the collective memory of the city in order to articulate episcopal authority". (269) Several earlier monuments, some newly renovated, were moved into the Gothic church and supplemented by additional burials in the thirteenth century. It is this change, implemented by Bishop Martin Fernandez (d. 1289), that interests Ameijeiras (unlike previous scholars), though she also analyzes individual memorials. Rodrigo Alvarez (d. 1232), for example, was buried under sculpture that includes a Crucifixion with an executioner collecting the blood of Gestas- -a detail worthy of more note than Ameijeiras can give it, which she interprets as an allusion to the Albigensian heresy. Bishop Fernandez restricted cathedral burial to bishops only, and stylistically regularized earlier episcopal tombs, expressing "not only the centralization of power...but also the apostolic notion of episcopal dignity, and...an ideologically shaped history of the See itself." (276) Fernandez was, then, manipulating communal memory as he memorialized specific individuals (as Patrick Lenaghan proposes was done by Alvaro de Luna's daughter). This manipulation, like the incorporation of remains within church walls to manifest both physical and spiritual support, echoes similar Venetian phenomena described by Thomas Dale. There are, of course, questions remaining. Was there really a standard design for episcopal tombs at this point in history, so that the Leon episcopal pantheon becomes significant in its different from that norm? Can we truly assume that because content was complex, it must have been designed by a bishop or a learned colleague and not by a sculptor? This is exactly the opposite of the claim made for Donatello by Geraldine Johnson. But despite such questions, Ameijeiras' argument is ultimately persuasive. It therefore makes an excellent conclusion for the entire volume, despite its lack of overt theoretical discussion in the terms proposed by Valdez del Alamo and Pendergast.

Perhaps as the theoretical constructs of Mary Carruthers and others become more standard tools in the art historical repertoire, the combination of theory with traditional scholarship will come to seem less remarkable than it is, over all, in this volume.