This chapter examines glass production in Late Antiquity, with a particular focus on technological advancements, economic significance and regional variations. Drawing on archaeological evidence, chemical analyses, typological studies and historical texts, it traces the evolution of glass manufacturing and distribution across the Roman and Byzantine worlds. The authors argue that glass production in Late Antiquity was highly adaptable, responding to shifts in economic structures, raw material availability and technological innovations. A key factor in this development was the dominance of large-scale glass furnaces in Egypt and the Levant, which supplied raw glass to secondary workshops throughout the empire. The chapter also explores how glassmakers refined shaping and decorating techniques, incorporating blown glass, engraved patterns, gold-leaf applications and coloured blobs. In terms of function, it demonstrates that glass was used across a wide range of contexts, from everyday tableware to luxury drinking vessels, lamps and even windowpanes. Regional differences are evident, with eastern Mediterranean workshops favoring elaborate embellishments, while western traditions drew inspiration from ceramic and metal vessels. A key conclusion is that glass was not only a practical commodity but also a marker of status and innovation.

This chapter explores late antique wall painting, with special emphasis on its stylistic transformation, evolving iconography and the challenges of preservation and interpretation. It traces the shift from illusionistic Roman painting to the more abstract, linear styles that characterised Late Antiquity. A central argument is that late antique wall painting represents not a decline in artistic quality but rather an adaptive response to new cultural, religious and spatial demands. The chapter examines the rise of Liniendekoration (linear decoration), a geometric style that became dominant in funerary contexts, particularly in Roman catacombs, Egyptian monasteries and Mediterranean hypogea. It also explores the coexistence of early Christian imagery with traditional pagan motifs, emphasising continuity rather than abrupt change. In analysing these shifts, the chapter highlights how late antique painters simplified classical techniques in response to changing workshop practices, economic factors and environmental constraints. It also addresses key methodological challenges, including dating wall paintings, identifying regional styles and assessing the influence of early Christian and Jewish artistic traditions. This study stresses the crucial role of wall painting in Late Antiquity as a medium for shaping religious and social identities, demonstrating its artistic innovation and cultural significance.

Following a brief historical overview of the birth of the organised movement, Chapter 1 introduces literary figures and texts promoted by antivivisection periodicals such as the Zoophilist, the Home Chronicler, and the Animals Guardian. Adopting a literary-critical approach offers a fresh perspective on the movement’s association pamphlets and periodicals which have, thus far, largely been examined as historical documents. Poems, stories, and ‘humane words’ from notable writers were sourced and deployed to shape a common antivivisectionist identity, articulate the movement’s ideology, and mobilise activists. Analysis of antivivisection poems by Christina Rossetti, Robert Browning, Alfred Tennyson, and Robert Buchanan is complemented by attention to the framing and reception of these works in antivivisection publications and the wider press.

My final chapter looks to a post-Independence text and reads India’s first Partition memorial that was designed by modernist architect and iconoclast Le Corbusier at Nehru’s invitation. I provide the background to Le Corbusier’s surprising contribution to Indian modernism and read the monument’s passive resistance as it presents its visitor with two modes of interpretation. The outside offers representational language promoting a nationalist reading of the monument, while the inside offers only empty space. The exterior elevation with its symbolic iconography operates in stark contrast to the shadowy interior that resists the realm of knowing and the division on which identity is based. Through the absence at its center, the "Martyr’s Memorial" monumentalizes doing nothing, demanding nothing, even forgetting the events it is meant to commemorate. The monument stands as a marker of lost ground, the ground lost to violent divisions founded upon identity, and contemplates the costs through its modernist lines.

This chapter argues that a significant number of central figures shown on stelae were not the dedicants of the stelae, but instead used visual markers that identified them as children. In the first century BCE, children were most often aged and gendered in depictions by their nudity. At sites of the second and third centuries CE, by contrast, the images of children shared iconographies and conceptualizations of their subjects with funerary monuments for children from across the empire. In particular, togas, scrolls, pets, and hairstyles, as well as showing the figures older than they were, reflects how child offerings were being reconceived as social persons and subjects of empire.

Chapter 3 introduces the eight Byzantine churches housing visual depictions of Christ’s miracles and presents a thematic analysis of the cycle. The first part of this chapter examines the selection process of the episodes depicted in early Palaiologan cycles and their iconography. It theorizes how the choices were made about which miracles were included or excluded and delves into the political and theological concerns that might have affected this selection. The second part of the chapter assesses and explains the iconographic peculiarities of this period by examining the development of Christ’s miracles in the early Palaiologan period in comparison to earlier visual material.

Like names, the ‘physiognomy’ attributed to the gods by the Greeks helps to differentiate divine entities from one another or, conversely, to link them together, making explicit the nature and the scope of their powers. This chapter addresses the meaning of the adjective khruskomas, ‘with golden hair’, frequently attributed to Apollo: does it mean that the Greeks had in mind a blond god? The analysis of texts and images shows that it is much more complicated. First, onomastic attributes and iconographic attributes do not necessarily coincide. Depending on the media, craftsmen may represent a dark-haired Apollo without this being seen as a contradiction with the images conveyed by the poets. Immortals, unlike humans, take on any appearance they want. Second, the colour of gold is not exactly equivalent to blondness (for example, that of Demeter xanthe): the brilliance of the incorruptible metal expresses the radiance that emanates from the young god, notably through his eternally young hair. Khrusokomas thus expresses one of the manifold facets of Phoibos by summoning the image of his delphic sanctuary, where opulence reigns. The chapter thus shows that the colour of Apollo’s hair deserves to be taken seriously.

The first occurrences of the onomastic formula ‘Zeus Helios great Sarapis’ belongs to the reign of Trajan. Appearing in the military and economic context of the quarries of the Egyptian eastern desert, this divine name associates, in a single henotheistic entity, the great gods of Egypt (Amon-Ra-Helios), the Greco-Roman world (Zeus-Iuppiter) and Alexandria (Sarapis), giving pre-eminence to the latter. The iconographic translation of this theological evolution can be found in the provincial coinage of Alexandria during the Antonine period.

This chapter offers an account of the circumstances surrounding the creation of The Magic Flute and its earliest performances. Through an examination of the latest research and documentary evidence, alongside established accounts and early iconography, this essay considers how audiences may have experienced the opera in 1791. “The Magic Flute in 1791” thus contextualizes the genesis and earliest stagings of the work not as Mozart’s final opera, but rather as the product of a particular historical moment.

This penultimate chapter shows how the story of the constitution is not only told by the written text of a constitution but (even predominantly so) by symbols, images, icons, gestures, behaviour, flags, rituals and so on. The constitutional story is conveyed directly and indirectly in very many (unstudied) ways.

Early Christians used biblical narratives and motifs often and extensively. Supplementing literary evidence, Christian funerary inscriptions and inscriptions in church buildings reveal the dissemination of biblical tradition by the naming of children and by allusions to and citations from the Bible. Ekphrastic reference to and depiction of scenes from the Bible—like Moses splitting the Red Sea, Jonah and the big fish, the seven-eyed lamb of the Apocalypse or the paradisiacal peace of Isaiah 11—in stone or as mosaics and dipinti could be admired in churches or on graveyards. Through inscriptions, mosaics, literary works (such as those of Pseudo-Athanasius, Theodoret of Cyrus, or Amphilochius of Iconium), and liturgical practices, biblical stories and traditions were kept alive and woven into a network of knowledge and imagination, connecting Christians all over the ancient world.