All language subtitles for BBC.Civilisations.2of9.How.Do.We.Look.1080p.HDTV.x264.AAC.MVGroup.org.eng

There are many places
where you can come face-to-face

with the ancient world,

but I have to say,
this is hard to beat.

This colossal stone head is
almost 3,000 years old.

It was made by the Olmec,

the earliest civilisation
in Central America.

It really is big.

His eyeballs are
more than a foot across

and he weighs in
at almost 20 tonnes.

Between his lips, you can
just about glimpse his teeth.

And his irises are traced out
on his eyes,

and he has
a furled, slightly frumpy brow.

It's hard not to feel
just a little bit moved

by this close encounter

with the image of a person
from the distant past.

Since it was unearthed in 1939,

this head has been a real puzzle.

Who does it depict?

Why was it made?

And why just a head?

The Olmec left us very few clues.

But what they did give us
is a powerful, in-your-face reminder

that, no matter where in the world,
when civilisations first made art,

they made it about us.

I want to explore why that is.

What were those early people
doing this for?

What part did
images of the body play

in the societies
which first created them?

I'm not just going to be
concentrating on the artists -

I want to take a different approach.

I'll be trying to see these bodies
through the eyes of the people

who lived with them, used them,
and looked at them.

And that's not all.

I want to show how one particular
way of representing the human body -

one that goes all the way back
to ancient Greece -

became more influential
than any other,

coming to shape
our Western ways of seeing.

And returning in the end
to the Olmec,

we'll see how the way we look
can confuse and even distort

our understanding of civilisations
beyond our own.

Can we ever look through the eyes
of people in the distant past?

It's hard, but just occasionally
we get the chance.

It was some 2,000 years ago

when the Roman Emperor Hadrian
arrived in Thebes

with his entourage.

He'd come for a look-see around
the fringes of his empire,

and to take in the wonders
of ancient Egypt,

already thousands of years old.

Hadrian was by far
the most committed traveller

of all the Roman emperors.

He seems to have got everywhere.

And on this occasion,
he wanted to visit

perhaps the most famous
heritage site in Egypt,

perhaps the greatest
five-star tourist attraction

of the whole of the ancient world.

It wasn't the great pyramids
he longed to see,

but these colossal statues.

Made around 1300 BC,

they were originally statues
of the Egyptian pharaoh Amenhotep,

marking his tomb.

But over time,
their meaning had changed.

And by Hadrian's day,

they were thought to depict
a mythical African king, Memnon.

And what had made them such a draw

was that one of the statues could do
things no other statues could.

If you were lucky
and came early in the morning,

believe it or not, he could sing.

It was a bit like a lyre
with a broken string.

And even in its prime,

it couldn't be relied upon
to make a sound every day.

It was taken as a very good omen
if it did.

What's amazing is that
Hadrian's encounter is recorded

thanks to a piece of vandalism.

For ancient tourists, part of
the fun was to have their reactions

carved onto the statue's leg.

In Hadrian's party, the vandal was
a lady-in-waiting, Julia Balbilla,

who recorded her impressions
in Greek verse.

I've waited half my life
to be up here,

searching out Balbilla's poetry.

Here is one of the things she wrote,

and in some ways this is
the beginning of her diary

of the Memnon experience,

because on this occasion she says
that they got here really early

but didn't hear anything.

But there's another one.

It's got Julia Balbilla's name
written at the top

and this is a bit more
triumphalist

cos here she says her Lord Hadrian
actually heard Memnon.

The truth is, it's not great poetry,

but the verses do give us
that kind of first-hand glimpse

of what it felt like to be here.

And there's something touching
about being able to

tread in the footsteps
of Hadrian's party,

to share their gaze,

even if we can't actually hear
the singing.

Nobody knows exactly how the sound
was made or why it stopped

because the statue is
completely silent now.

But one thing I think is clear -

the story of Memnon's statue
is a great example

of how images of the human body
operate in the world.

Not just as passive objects
to be admired or wondered at,

but as players, as part of an
interactive, two-way relationship.

Singing might be a rarity,
but images often do something.

Even more, the story is a reminder
that the history of art

isn't just the history of artists,

of the men and women
who painted and sculpted -

it's also the history of the men
and women like Julia Balbilla

who looked, who interpreted
what they saw,

and of the changing ways
in which they did so.

If we want to understand images
of the body,

I think we've really got to put
those viewers

back into the picture of art.

And one of the best places
to do that is ancient Greece -

in particular, the city of Athens
from around 700 BC.

Never much more than a small town
in our terms,

it was a place where you could find
people of different classes

and backgrounds cheek by jowl in
a grand experiment in urban living.

And one of the most distinctive
things about Athenian culture

was an intense focus
on the youthful, athletic body.

This body was a symbol
of political and moral virtue.

And Athens became a whole city of
images devoted to the human form.

Greek art almost never means
landscape.

It almost never means still life.

Greek art means statues
and drawings,

paintings and models
of human beings.

These images were everywhere.

They were out in the world
playing their part.

Imagine the public plazas
and the shady sanctuaries

full of people in stone as well
as people in flesh and blood.

We begin to get the point of
all this if we look at the art form

that contained more bodies
than any other.

The red and black
of Athenian ceramics.

These are some of
the finest examples we have.

Made from around 600 BC,

they were produced
in luscious colours

using an intricate process
of multiple firings.

They were turned out
in their millions.

And with almost every surface
displaying pictures of people,

it was pottery that made the human
image ubiquitous across Athens.

These are two of my very favourite
Greek pots.

This is ordinary crockery,

it's everyday homeware,

the kind of thing you might have
found on the kitchen shelf

in an Athenian house.

The larger of the two is
a rich man's wine cooler

to be brought out
at his drinking parties.

The smaller one is
an ordinary water jug.

But the images on both are much more
than just pleasing decorations.

These images are telling
the Athenians how to be Athenians.

This one here is,
in a sense, a template

for being an Athenian wife.

There she is.

She's sitting down,
she's being handed her baby

by a servant girl

and, at her feet,
she's got a wool basket.

That about sums up the answer
to the question,

what were Athenian wives for?

They were for making babies
and making wool.

This one is a bit different

because it's covered with
mythical creatures called satyrs

who are half human and half animal,

and they're all over this
getting absolutely plastered.

They're balancing goblets
in very silly places

and this one here is having wine
poured straight into his mouth

from an animal skin.

It's kind of the equivalent

of drinking whisky
straight from the bottle.

Now, what was that doing
on the drinking party table?

If this pot was telling
Athenian women how to be women,

this one was raising
more difficult questions

about where the boundary really lies

between the human and the animal,

about how much wine
you have to consume

before you really do
turn into a beast.

These aren't government health
warnings in our sense,

but the images are one way
in which the Athenians paraded

their idea of what civilisation was,

defining themselves against
the barbarians beyond the city.

And it's a version of civilisation
that's a long way

from the lofty ideas of
Greek culture we're often pedalled.

It's deeply gendered
and rigidly hierarchical,

and it explicitly derides all those

who have faces or bodies or habits
that somehow don't fit -

from barbarous foreigners
to the old and ugly,

the fat and the flabby.

But, like it or not,

what we are seeing here
are visual images

constructing one idea
of a civilised human being.

Of course, the human body can do
many different things

and so can its images.

And the Athenians exploited
that range,

creating other bodies
for very different purposes.

This is one of the most gorgeous
memorial statues

ever to have been found
in ancient Greece.

Her name is Phrasikleia

and that means something like
"aware of her own renown".

Phrasikleia was carved in marble
around 550 BC,

and was only rediscovered in 1972.

She has a wonderfully
patterned dress,

clothed for eternity in her finest.

And the traces of red pigment
are a useful reminder

that most Greek sculpture was
richly, even gaudily, painted.

And she wears that smile -

that sign of life so common
in early Greek sculpture.

What I like about her so much is the
way that she engages us as viewers.

She's looking straight ahead

and she's challenging us
to look back at her.

She's got a flower in her hand -

it's not quite clear
whether it's for her

or she's about to give it to us.

And in the inscription,
she actually almost speaks to us.

It says that it is
the tomb sculpture of Phrasikleia

and then, as if in her own voice,
it says,

"And I shall always be called
a maiden

"because I got that name from
the gods, instead of marriage."

That is, she died
before her wedding day.

But what's great about it is
the encounter it sets up,

and it's the encounter
that, if we try hard,

I think we can still enjoy.

Phrasikleia faces death
in the most forthright way,

resolutely refusing to be forgotten.

But can an image of a person
ever fix time,

suspended death,

or even, for a moment, deny it?

That's what these vivid faces
from Roman Egypt appear to do.

Though 2,000 years have passed
since these people died,

it feels like they're still with us.

They looks like
the kind of portraits

that hang on gallery walls.

And that's where we often see them.

But these portraits actually
belong on coffins.

Few have remained intact,
but this is one of them.

It contains a man named Artemidorus,

and his extravagant
sarcophagus portrays

a cosmopolitan way of death.

His mummy is a wonderful amalgam

of the traditions of Egypt,
of Greece and of Rome.

On the casing, you can see
typically Egyptian scenes -

there's a mummy being laid out
on a couch,

and those strange animal-headed
Egyptian gods.

His name is Greek.

"Artemidorus, farewell," it says.

His face is
a quintessentially Roman portrait.

Of course, other cultures before
had represented the human face,

but it was the Romans who made
this kind of individual likeness

very much their own.

Modelled with light and shade,

flesh layered in paint and wax,

and a clever catch light
in the eyes,

these were the means
by which Roman painters captured

the infinite variety
that we see in the human face.

When Romans thought about where the
impulse to portraiture came from -

even the impulse to painting
as a whole -

they had a very vivid story to tell

about a young woman
who was the creative genius

behind the very first portrait.

Her lover was going away
on a long journey

and before he went, she got a lamp

and she threw his shadow
against a wall

and traced round it
to create a silhouette.

She was trying
not just to memorialise him,

but to keep his presence
in her world.

I think there's
something like that going on

with the face of Artemidorus.

Domestic ware and tear,

even children's scribbles
on some coffins,

suggest that they weren't
instantly confined to the grave.

For a while, they may have stood
in the land of the living,

perhaps in the family home.

These portraits, then,
are not just memorials -

they're attempts to keep
the presence of the dead

among the living

and to blur the boundary
between this world and the next.

Painted faces and sculpted bodies
always played vital roles

in the lives of ancient people who
lived with them and looked at them.

But how do we make sense
of those ancient statues

that were not designed
to be seen at all?

China, as we know it, was born
around 200 BC,

united under its first emperor, Qin.

Just as the Romans would do
in the West,

he standardised everything
in his efforts to exert control.

Currency, weights and measures,
taxes, roads and transport.

They were sweeping reforms

and he left his mark
on all aspects of Chinese life.

But no Roman emperor would ever be
buried on the same grand scale

as Qin, or with so many bodies.

TV: It was just a mile away
from the mound to the east

that the Chinese made
their historic discovery.

It was 1974 when farmers
in Shaanxi province discovered

fragments of human forms
buried in the earth.

Scenes of mass archaeology followed,

the finds assembled
in an extraordinary display.

It lies beneath
this vast hangar-like structure.

It would capture
the world's attention

as the most surprising
archaeological find

of the 20th century.

It was, of course,
the Terracotta Army.

It's a menacing sight,

this grey, ghostly remnant
of an army,

rows and rows of life-sized
terracotta soldiers.

These figures represent the
Imperial Guard of the Emperor Qin.

They were buried with him
at his funeral

and stand guard over his tomb.

There were once more than 7,000
of them,

but only a fraction have been
excavated,

and that alone gives an idea of the
vast scale of this whole complex.

This is quite simply the biggest
tableau of sculpture

made anywhere in the planet ever.

Millions come here to be wowed
by the sight of the army.

But it's not just the scale that's
impressive - it's the detail, too.

Up close, you can see the individual
plates and rivets of their armour.

And their heads have been modelled
so no two look alike.

The contours of their faces differ,

eyes and ears delicately worked.

And a range of styles and textures
have been used for the hair.

But the individuality
that we're at first so struck by

isn't quite as simple as it seems.

It's true that no two of
these figures are quite alike

but the differences between them
that the craftsmen have introduced

turn out to be rather formulaic.

There's not much more than a handful
of different eyebrow types

or different moustache types,
for example.

They're a very standardised,
institutionalised version

of individuality.

As one archaeologist has
nicely put it -

their faces are likenesses,

but they are likenesses of no-one.

They're not, in the terms of
Western art history, true portraits.

Some have admired this ancient form
of artistic mass production,

others feel it a perfect way
of expressing a regimented army.

Whatever you feel about them,

they certainly raise all kinds of
questions about what a likeness is.

But one thing is for sure -

in the scale and complexity
of the tomb

and even, I think,
in the artistic detail

that the Emperor, dead or alive,
could command,

there's a strong assertion
of imperial power.

And that's definitely
the message of what happened

just a few years after
the Emperor's death.

Because the famous Terracotta Army
that we see

were discovered in pieces,

smashed and burnt by a rebel

against the dynasty
of the first Emperor

who launched a direct attack
on his tomb.

There's something in
that keen desire to destroy them

that gives us our clearest sense
of the power of these images.

It was one thing to destroy
the images

of the Emperor's
terracotta protectors,

and so to nullify his power
beyond the grave...

..but power in the here and now
called for

bodies of an entirely
different order.

This is the figure of Ramesses II,

who ruled Egypt around 1200 BC.

He was the pharaoh who invested more
in his image than any other.

And his figure is found
all over Egypt.

But by far the most imposing
and memorable

are these great colossal statues

that stand guard
at his temple in Thebes.

The one thing you really get here
is that size matters.

These vast monumental figures

with that nice hint
that they'd be even bigger

if they bothered to stand up
for you, simply dominate.

They take over your field of vision.

It's an assertion of the power
of the Pharaoh

through his huge,
superhuman enthroned body.

However fragile that power
might have been in real life,

the modern world has
comprehensively bought in

to the monumentality
of the Egyptian ruler.

And it's impossible not to think
that when people walked past here

3,500 years ago

that they, too, would have got
what the message was intended to be.

This kind of bombastic,
bare-chested display

fits the picture we have
of autocrats today.

Impressive though such images are,

I'm sure some ancient Egyptians
would have found them as vulgar

or as irritating as we might.

But beyond the gates of the temple
there's another set of statues

whose power and purpose is
harder to fathom.

Deep inside, we're dominated by
yet more vast images of Ramesses

that can't be explained away
as propaganda to the people.

Only those closest to the king
were allowed

into this part of the temple.

So what was the point
of these towering statues?

Some think they were aimed
at powerful elites

to remind them who was boss.

Others think they were aimed at
the all-seeing eye of the gods.

I've got a different viewer in mind.

And that's the pharaoh himself.

Those of us with no inkling of power
on a grand scale often forget

how hard it must be to believe
in oneself as monarch or autocrat.

The person who really needs to be
convinced that he is pre-eminent

above the common herd

is that ordinary human being who is
masquerading as omnipotent ruler.

That's why,
as a basic rule of thumb,

we find more pictures of kings
and queens in all their finery

in royal palaces
than anywhere else in the world -

and here in Egypt, too.

Monumental images of pharaohs,

commissioned by pharaohs
themselves in vast numbers,

played their part in convincing
the pharaoh

of his own pharaonic power.

These sculptures help the name of
Ramesses live on.

But the style of this statuary
would have a different

and very extraordinary legacy.

Almost certainly inspiring
the earliest statues

of the human form in Ancient Greece.

We are now on the Greek
island of Naxos.

It's a place famed since
ancient times for its marble.

With a coarse grain
and grey-blue tint,

it was easy to quarry
and easy to work.

From way back, it was
shipped off to make

some of the earliest
monumental Greek sculptures.

They were large, rigid
and stylised figures like this.

And up in the hills of Naxos,
there's a disused quarry

where you can find one of those
giant figures

which never made it off the island.

I've read lots about this.

But I've never actually seen it.

What it is, is a vast marble statue,

half-finished, still in its quarry.

This half-man, half-mountain was
hewn out perhaps as early as 700 BC.

As you can see, it was going to be

one of those massive,
static early Greek sculptures.

Here are his feet.

And I'm now walking up
past his legs.

This thing here,
this must be his outstretched arm

and then right up here,
we come to his head.

And by the looks of it,

he was going to have a beard,
and they have already

roughed out the shape.

LAUGHS: Makes me think that some
men can be very stubborn.

But this guy hasn't budged
in 2,500 years.

Quite why he's still here
is a mystery.

Something must have gone wrong but,
whatever, this figure gives us

a great view of how the Greek
sculptors went about their work.

They must have cut a trench out all
the way round it

in order to get to it to work,

and you can see a rather
neatly worked trench at the back.

For me, it's just a
wonderful illustration

of the number of people

that must have been involved
in making a statue like this.

And every one of these
little pockmarks

has been made by somebody's tool,

with hundreds of men hacking away
to get this statue like this.

I find it a bit sort of weirdly
surreal.

But his feet make an extremely nice
place to sit.

Forever lying here in repose,

he's a remnant of the style

that the Greeks
were soon to leave behind.

Because shortly after
he'd been abandoned,

Greek sculptors developed
an astonishing new style

that was distinctly their own.

There is a fundamental

and universal paradox at the heart
of the sculptors' art.

The lived human body,

its mobility, it's warmth,

its changing character,
has to be fixed...

..suspended in the cold
and lifeless mass that is stone.

It's always an artificial
compromise.

But the beginnings of
the fifth century BC

sees Greek sculpture
spring almost to life.

The rigid figures
of the past give way

to daring experiments in form...

..nuance and subtlety...

..movement and musculature.

In under 200 years, Greek sculptors
seemed to have developed

the tricks and techniques to weave
the illusion of a living human body.

So radical was the change

that it has been called
the Greek Revolution.

The exact cause of this revolution

is one of the great
mysteries of the history of art.

Some believe it was Greek democracy,

of its new respect for the
individual that launched it.

Others, that Greek artists
just got better.

In truth, we don't know.

But whatever the causes,
over the next centuries,

it was to have some truly
astonishing artistic consequences.

This is one of the places that
the Greek Revolution leaves.

It's impossible not to see
this as an amazing work of art.

Dating is hard, but my guess
is that it was cast around 100 BC.

Here, the hallmarks of
the Greek Revolution

are brought together
and trained on the body

of a battered and bruised boxer.

Boxing was always an important part
of the ancient athletic repertoire.

And you can tell that he once had
a fit body,

but it's really suffered.

What is equally striking
is the loving care

with which this wreck of a human
being has been depicted.

He's got a broken nose
and cauliflower ears,

flabby from where
he has taken all those blows.

And, in fact, he is still
bleeding from fresh wounds.

There, the blood is shown in copper

and the bruises on his cheeks
are brought out

by the slightly different colour

of a slightly different
bronze alloy.

It's almost as if the bronze

has become the man's skin.

What makes the boxer so impressive

isn't just the extraordinary
technique.

It's the point the piece is making.

The artist has used
the descriptive powers

of this version of realism to launch
a devastating attack

on the body culture that obsessed
the Ancient Greeks.

He introduces a very different
type of character

from those early,
youthful, well-toned athletes.

Not just in the wounds and the
scars,

but in the emotional collapse.

In a world in which there was
something of a cult

of youthful athletic prowess,

all those telling realistic
details add up to a reminder

that the body beautiful was not so
very far from the body brutalised.

This work of art is prodding

at the awkward underbelly
of Greek culture.

It's the incisive brilliance
of sculptures like The Boxer

that gives the impression
that the Greek Revolution

was an unalloyed triumph
of artistic achievement.

But there is another way of looking
at the Greek Revolution,

and at its losses as well
as its gains.

Remember Phrasikleia,
who died unmarried?

She was made long before that
revolutionary change.

What I love is her elegance
and simplicity.

The way she reaches out, offering
a gift, or meeting us eye-to-eye.

That directness is exactly what gets
lost in the Greek Revolution.

Later sculptures may be more
supple than Phrasikleia,

they may seem to move more
adventurously,

but they don't engage us
in the same way.

In fact, if you try to look them in
the eye,

many of them coyly avoid your gaze.

And many of them, like The Boxer,
seem lost in their own world.

It's almost as if
the involved viewer

has become an admiring voyeur,

and we are one step on the way to
sculpture becoming an art object.

Phrasikleia is determinedly
resisting being an art object,

and one thing she is not is coy.

But the problems of the
Greek Revolution don't stop here.

Just a few hundred years after
Phrasikleia,

this is what female sculptures
in the Greek world had become.

This sculpture exposes
some of the dangers

in the pursuit of realism,

and that blurry and perilous
boundary between artefact and flesh.

This notorious body belongs to
the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

It is a Roman version
of a ground-breaking

statue by the sculptor Praxiteles

in the fourth century BC.

In the ancient world,
this was celebrated

as a milestone in classical art

because it was the first naked
statue of a woman.

Today, it's difficult to see beyond

the ubiquity of images like this

and recapture just how
daring and dangerous

it would have been
for the ancient Greeks.

This sculpture broke through
social conventions.

It wasn't just that up to this point

female statues had been clothed.

In some parts of the Greek
world, real-life women -

at least among the upper-class -
went around veiled.

But, in fact, it wasn't just
the nakedness -

this Aphrodite broke the mould
in a decidedly erotic way.

Just look at her hands.

Are they modestly trying to cover
herself up?

Are they pointing us
in the direction

of what we want to see most?

Or are they simply a tease?

Whatever the answer,

Praxiteles has established
that edgy relationship

between a statue of a woman

and an assumed male viewer

that has never been lost

from the history of European art.

But that difficult boundary
between statue and flesh

was understood
by the Greeks themselves.

They told a tale that shows how
they, too, knew of the perils

they faced in creating what they saw

as realistic images
of the human body.

One night, it was said, a young man
became so aroused by this statue,

he forced himself upon it, leaving
a stain of lust on her thigh.

He later threw himself over a cliff
to his death, in shame.

That story of the stain
not only shows

how a female statue
can drive a man mad,

but also how art can act as an alibi

for what was - let's face it - rape.

Don't forget - Aphrodite
never consented.

But however troubling

the Greek Revolution was in its
own time,

there's a deeper legacy that
reaches the modern age.

One to which we are often blind.

Inherited by Ancient Rome, rekindled
in the European Renaissance,

faith in the Greek version
of realism persisted through time.

And as the reverence
for the classical style grew,

it would be invested
with even greater meaning.

Not just as a model for figurative
art to aspire to,

but nothing less than a barometer
of civilisation itself.

To understand the forces at work,

you have to follow in the footsteps
of the classical bodies

that left their original
habitat of Greece and Rome...

..and by the 18th century

had found themselves in
distinctly foreign worlds,

adorning the mansions
and palaces of Northern Europe.

Syon House was once the fashionable
country house

of the first
Duke and Duchess of Northumberland.

In the mid-1700s,
they transformed the house

into a vivid and imagined
expression of the classical world.

Here, we're in the company of
ancient bodies -

both originals and imitations.

And it can seem an oppressive space

in which no other way

of representing the human
form is permitted.

The climactic set
piece of the house

is in a central hall

where two great masterpieces of
ancient sculpture face off.

At one end, the Dying Gaul...

..a figure who is said to
embody the ancient virtue

of nobility in defeat.

But in this room,

he is forever overshadowed
by what stands opposite.

By far the most important sculpture
in the entire house is this one.

It's a replica of a classical work

originally made
perhaps around 300 BC.

In the 18th century,
it would achieve

unparalleled fame
as the greatest sculpture ever made.

He is known
as the Apollo Belvedere.

The Apollo takes his name from
the Belvedere Sculpture Court

in the Vatican, where,
since the early 16th century,

he stood on display.

Lovely as he is, that is
probably where he would have stayed,

one sculpture among many, had it not
been for the international fame

given to him by one man -
Johann Joachim Winckelmann.

"This was quite simply", he wrote,

"the most sublime statue of
antiquity

"to have escaped destruction.

"An eternal spring time,"
he went on,

"clothes the alluring virility
of his mature years

"with a pleasing youth

"and plays with soft tenderness upon
the lofty structure of his limbs."

"How is it possible,"
he asked, "to describe it?"

Winckelmann had worked his way
up as librarian

and right-hand man to some of the
biggest art collectors of the day,

and, finally, he had become
Director of Antiquities

at the Vatican itself,

and the author of some of the most
important books on art history ever.

Winckelmann was a man who had
enthused over

any number of Greco-Roman bodies,

but the Apollo Belvedere really
tipped him over the edge.

But Winckelmann offered more than
words of adoration.

He would devise a brand-new theory

that would leave an awkward
and lasting legacy.

In the library at Syon is the book

in which Winckelmann
first laid out his theories.

Originally published in 1764,

it was in these pages that
the Apollo was elevated

above a mere artwork to stand

as the ultimate symbol
of civilisation itself.

This is Winckelmann's most
influential book,

History Of The Art
Of The Ancient World,

and on the front page,
there is, in fact,

a lovely drawing which includes
the Apollo Belvedere.

And what he did that no-one had
systematically done before

was to say that the best art

was made at the time
of the best politics.

It was almost as if he was
wanting to argue

that you could track the history,

the rise and fall of civilisation

through the rise and fall

of the representation
of the human body.

Winckelmann's views would seduce

even our most esteemed
art historians.

KENNETH CLARK: This is the figure
of the most admired

piece of sculpture in the world.

The Apollo surely embodies a higher
state of civilisation.

For more than 200 years,

Greek sculpture was regarded

as a beacon of a superior
Western civilisation.

The northern imagination takes shape
in an image of fear and darkness.

The Hellenistic imagination

in an image of harmonised
proportion and human reason.

But for me, Winckelmann's
legacy goes even further.

The inheritance of Winckelmann

has been a distorting
and sometimes divisive lens,

deeply affecting the way
people in the West

have encountered and judged

the art of other very
different civilisations.

I think Winckelmann

has caught us in a narrow
way of seeing

that's difficult to perceive,
much harder to escape.

But there is a place we can pin down
the legacy of Winckelmann.

It is back where we started,
with the art of the Olmec.

It was 1964,

and Mexico was investing
in a new national identity

that asserted the glories
of its ancient past,

and central to the project was art.

A new museum was purpose-built

to showcase the depth
of Mexican history...

..and the treasures of
its great civilisations

laid out for all to see.

Of vital importance

was the celebration of Mexico's
earliest civilisation -

the Olmec.

Along with this
and other colossal heads

was an array of extraordinary
Olmec bodies.

This gathering of stone figurines

was found exactly as you see them.

Whether religious symbolism
or ancient vanity,

this clay figure clasps
a mirror to its chest.

And what looks like a baby

was one of hundreds known
from Olmec cemeteries.

But star of the show was
a brand-new acquisition.

It was the statue known as
The Olmec Wrestler.

Its display of anatomical detail

and Greek-style proportion

made it one of a kind
in Olmec art.

Held as proof that the
Olmec Civilisation

was every bit as sophisticated
as any in the classical world,

he quickly became a poster boy.

Not just for the Olmec,
but for all of ancient Mexico.

And it is with The Wrestler that we
see the impact of Winckelmann

and his version of classical form
on our Western way of seeing.

What appeals to us about him
are those shades of Greco-Roman art

that seem to fit with our own
expectations

of artistic achievement -

the expressive twist of the body,

the apparently naturalistic muscles

and strikingly realistic face.

There's even the name
that he's been given

with its echo of classical
Greek sport.

If this is the work
of an outstanding Olmec sculptor,

it's one who, by chance,
got later Western tastes spot-on.

But so perfectly does
he measure up to Western ideals,

that some now believe that he
is, in fact, a fake -

the work of someone who understood
the all pervasive allure

of the classical style.

If true, it shows how
Winckelmann's legacy

can cloud our appreciation
of other cultures,

even taint our understanding
of the past.

But, real or fake,

The Olmec Wrestler shows that
ancient images of human figures

can tell us much about the past,
and even more about ourselves.

When we admire The Olmec Wrestler,

we are also facing our own
assumptions

about what makes a satisfying image
of a human being.

But it does more than that.

Because it always shifts the focus
onto us as viewers

and onto our own prejudices.

So in a way, The Wrestler
is an acute reminder

of one fundamental truth
of the art of the body -

that it's not just about how people
in the past

chose to represent themselves
or what they looked like.

It is also about how we look.

The Open University has produced
a free poster

that explores the history of
different civilisations

through artefacts.

To order your free copy,
please call...

Or go to the address on screen

and follow the links for
The Open University.