The Byzantines, whom we are accustomed to despise and consider a people of decadence, were—there can no longer be any doubt—admirable builders. They were perhaps the greatest, from the standpoint of the original and bold implementation of techniques and the fertility of their methods, to have existed before the builders of our own French 12th century. One need only browse Auguste Choisy's L'Art de bâtir chez les Byzantins (The Art of Building Among the Byzantines) to be convinced of the decisive influence they exerted on the architectural development of the Middle Ages, and I would even say on the artistic destiny of the modern world. Even today, we would profit greatly from studying the rational logic of their works and the intimate structure of their monuments.
The examination of the construction problems posed and so remarkably solved by the Byzantines was well-suited to tempt a man of the trade. The task was vast, new, and arduous. It required a mind possessing at once scientific rigor, an extreme ingenuity of analysis, and great freedom of judgment. Mr. Auguste Choisy, chief engineer of the Ponts et Chaussées (Bridges and Roads) and author of works already highly regarded by specialists,1 possessed these diverse qualities to an eminent degree. I will say without hesitation that this latest work, in which he gives us such a complete anatomy of Byzantine architecture, seems to me one of the most remarkable that French criticism has produced. This is true for its substance, which is of an unassailable coherence, as well as for its form, which is a model of clarity, simplicity, and concision.
I would add that the form is not its least interesting aspect. Mr. Choisy's style is very particular; it is neither brilliant nor striking at first glance, but it gradually wins you over with its very concision and an unparalleled propriety of terms. It seems that the author, in the manner of Michelet, has made it a challenge to prune every useless or accessory word, every repetition of an idea, every idle periphrasis. He does not forbid himself, on occasion, a more vivid accent, a quick touch of color, or an unexpected turn of thought, but he pursues everywhere and always, with imperturbable scrupulousness, the scientific precision of expression. The result of this effort is most curious, and in many respects, it can be proposed as a model.
At a time when Mr. Sardou's play Théodora has given this period of art history a sort of passing topicality, it seemed opportune to say a few words about Mr. Choisy's work. The Byzantines are in fashion for a few weeks. Let us take advantage of it.
The Scope and Method of a New Study
In an introduction that must be read with the most careful attention, the author defines with perfect clarity the goal and limits of his research. He first traces the distant connections of Byzantine art to Roman art and its Eastern origins, then follows its development in the Greek empire up to the construction of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. As for the documents utilized by Mr. Choisy, for such a practical mind, they could be none other than the monuments themselves, along with the local traditions attached to them. Entrusted with an official mission, he gathered the materials for his work on-site, in the places where the characteristic remains of Byzantine art still survive—throughout the basin of the Archipelago, in Greece, in Constantinople, and in Asia Minor.
However, he has not attempted to embrace Byzantine art in its entirety or to describe it in all the variety of its applications. He has narrowed the question by approaching it from the technical side, abstracting away from decorative forms to consider the structure specifically. For the Byzantines, building was the essential role of the architect. The artists who raised the Cistern of the 1001 Columns in Constantinople, the Great Mosque of Damascus, the Palace of Diocletian in Split, and the churches of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki and Constantinople were, above all, great constructors.