The nineteenth-century French painter Gustave Courbet famously declared that he did not paint angels because he had never seen one. If artists of classical antiquity were ever troubled by such scruples regarding depictions of the supernatural, it is not (so far as I know) documented. This is not to say that the question of how an artist could represent, say, an Olympian deity, went completely unheeded: Dio Chrysostom's Olympic Discourse of ad 97 is one serious attempt to address that topic, with significant implications for the status of an artist (in this case, Pheidias) famed for ‘imagining’ the divine. Yet evidently the task of visualizing spiritual phenomena devolved no less to humble ‘craftsmen’ – as Hélène Collard shows in her monograph, Montrer l'invisible.Footnote ¹ This gathers a catalogue of 164 Athenian vases, mostly of the fifth-century bc, as case studies of the various formulations devised to show religious experience – many of them images upon objects, such as white-ground lekythoi, that may once have been used in particular rites and observances. Graphic traditions of mythology, and an established series of personification (e.g. Nike, Eros, Hypnos), assisted the process. However, many of the scenes collected by Collard do not apparently attempt to ‘show the invisible’. They seem, rather, to evoke the realities of regular practice – processions, libations, sacrifice, adornment of a stele. Such scenes only become ‘paranormal’ when invested with some extra knowing detail: for example, a large owl alighting upon an altar (presumably indicating the favour of Athena). And sometimes we simply have to look a little closer to apprehend the signs of divine agency. So a herm-head appears to lean forwards – as if to sip at the kantharos held up in propitiation – while the phallus of another herm seems distinctly to elongate in the presence of two ecstatic women.

In similar vein, Marjorie Venit explores the eschatological imagery recovered from a number of monumental graves in Ptolemaic and Roman Egypt. Visualizing the Afterlife in the Tombs of Graeco-Roman Egypt Footnote ² recruits evidence not only from Alexandria and the Delta (including the remarkable Saqiya tomb, with scenes that recall the great Nilotic mosaic at Palestrina) but also from sites along the Nile, such as Leontopolis and Hermopolis Magna, and in the oases of the western desert. A principal interest in reading the iconography is how Greek and Egyptian concepts of ‘the next world’ interact; but the study takes account of the Jewish presence too, especially at Leontopolis, where a community of Diaspora Jews settled – and, though reluctant to use images on their gravestones, demonstrably found certain Greek concepts (e.g. Hades) ‘good to think with’. Similarities of practice between respective mystery cults provide more or less obvious clues for interpretation, while some elements of the Greco-Egyptian ‘visual bricolage’ here, such as the generic deployment of sphinxes as tomb guardians and soul-carriers, hardly need explaining. Other elements may perplex precisely because they lack any generic application. One two-storied tomb in the cemetery at Tuna el-Gebel shows scenes from the Oresteia and the Theban saga, including an image of Oedipus stabbing his father. By what logic were these themes suitable for a funerary space? We must suppose that, as in the repertoire of Roman sarcophagi, evocations of tragedy were sufficient to serve as modes of consolatio. I am not sure that it is necessary to entertain the Sophistic theory (outlined with due caution by Venit) whereby Oedipus stands for the initiate who attains a blessed afterlife by the conquest of ‘Ignorance’ (Agnoia).

The images and material remains of domestic cult practice appear, on the face of it, easier to interpret. The approach taken by Alexandra Sofroniew in her monograph Household Gods Footnote ³ is professedly ‘intimate’, ‘focusing on the spiritual beliefs and practices of the individuals who venerated them’ (back cover). But of course statuettes of deities, and other objects of personal devotion, are often found without firm archaeological context, and lacking any verbal testimony of associated belief. So how do we know about individual faith? Quoting a few epigrammatic prayers from The Greek Anthology does not quite answer that question – nor does reproducing Victorian paintings by J. W. Waterhouse, one showing two Roman maidens bringing garlands and libations before a trio of bronze figurines above a brazier (45), the other a languid girl putting flowers in a niche (132). The psychology of interaction between householders and their ‘familiar’ possessions is not, after all, a simple matter. Nonetheless, our author is empathetic to the ancient motives of regular observance, and assured in her presentation of likely historical setting (all the more necessary since the particular objects discussed, including pieces of Roman wall-painting, come mostly from the holdings of the Getty Museum, and have no provenance). The result is a concise, useful, and attractive book.

Thanks to Vesuvius, we know that Roman houses were furnished, sometimes even cluttered, with what we might call ‘works of art’ (including the Lares and Penates). We also know that Romans drew no distinction between ‘art’ and ‘craft’; and a passage of Cicero (Off. 1.150–1) is often cited to prove a paradox about Roman society – that while Romans treasured the fruits of skilful handiwork, they also despised their makers (‘artists’ or ‘craftsmen’ as may be). But is the elite disdain for banausic labour merely a literary topos? Reappraisal of that problem comes with the essays collected in Urban Craftsmen and Traders in the Roman World. Footnote ⁴ The first part of the collection offers critical reviews of the history of scholarship – an important preamble, when one thinks of the disparity of views regarding the Roman economy, between ‘modernists’, ‘primitivists’, et al. Subsequent sections address evidence for ‘strategies’ on the part of craftsmen and traders, with case studies of leather-working and bread-baking; structures in the organization of artisanal activity, such as apprenticeships and professional associations; and the urban topography of various crafts, partly as revealed by literary references (e.g. Rome's vicus sandaliarius, the cobblers’ quarter, just north of the Colosseum), but more substantially as shown by excavations at Silchester, Aquincum, Sagalassos, and elsewhere. In all, there is a rich mass of information in this volume, and plenty to interest the student of Roman art and architecture. That Roman craftsmen could become highly specialized is amply demonstrated; so too the fact that the market for their goods could extend far beyond the local. What remains unclear is whether the elite patrons of these goods perceived the economic potential of investing in production. So were the consumers, as Cicero implies, just too snobbish to get involved?

Markets might be geographically extensive – but specialized practitioners, such as mosaic-makers, are likely to have been peripatetic too. Either way, this situation creates a problem for those scholars who insist upon recognizing ‘provincial’ art in the Roman Empire by reason of technical ineptitude or departure from classical canons. An alternative trend, allowing for ‘synoecism’ of style and the virtues of regional stylistic expression, is borne out by another collection of essays, Beyond Boundaries.Footnote ⁵ This constitutes a sort of memorial volume to Natalie Kampen, who died in 2012. She was a genial presence, and her legacy to Classical archaeology is considerable – not least as manifest in the Getty Foundation's ‘Connecting Art Histories’ programme. ‘Impatient of boundaries but respectful of difference’ (1): Sue Alcock's encapsulation of the Kampen attitude could serve as the motto of this book, which begins by scrutinizing the category of the ‘province’. Immediately we are forced to acknowledge that our own habit of thinking in terms of ‘centre’ and ‘periphery’ has compounded any prejudice in antiquity about ‘provincialism’ – in the sense of ‘wanting the culture or polish of the capital’. It may be significant that I have resorted to an OED definition for such a sense of the provincial: is it ever articulated as such by an ancient author? In any case, as Kampen herself pointed out, there simply is a large quantity of art from the Roman provinces, and explaining the quantity is more important than assessing its quality. The contributors here take us across continents, beyond the Roman Empire to Kushan Gandhara, and range in media from coins to monuments. Artists may have been footloose, but ‘low mileage art’ was on show just about everywhere.