In Stone-Heng Restored (1655), Inigo Jones, the father of English neoclassicism, used drawings, histories, and questionable logic to argue that Stonehenge was built by the ancient Romans and that it originally exhibited perfect Platonic geometries. This argument was never given much credence, but by 1725 the subject matter and the architect had received enough attention that two book-length responses (a challenge and a defense) were published, and both were then republished in a single volume alongside Jones's original text. While most Jones scholars have neglected this work because of its logical and historical shortcomings, Ryan Roark argues in “Stonehenge in the Mind” and “Stonehenge on the Ground”: Reader, Viewer, and Object in Inigo Jones's Stone-Heng Restored (1655) that it was in fact exemplary of what made Jones, for many, a protomodern architect and scholar. Rather than viewing Jones's book as an earnest attempt to prove a historical inaccuracy, Roark considers it as an exercise in formal analysis, one that set the precedent for the contemporary pedagogical trend of using geometric simplifications of existing structures as a first step in new design. Jones's idiosyncratic reading of Stonehenge belied the idea that such analysis could be anything but intensely reliant on the subjectivity of both architect and viewer.

In 1620, King James I commissioned his surveyor general, Inigo Jones, to investigate the origins of England's most celebrated ruin, Stonehenge. Jones dutifully performed what some have called the first archaeological study of Stonehenge.1 His conclusions were not made public until three years after his death, when in 1655 his assistant John Webb published Stone-Heng Restored, a book written by Webb from Jones's notes and including drawings made by Jones.2 The book, written in the first person as though by Jones, asserted that Stonehenge was a Roman ruin and restored it through Jones's drawings to its status as an original work of classicism, derived from basic Platonic geometries. This theory was considered ridiculous even at the time of the book's publication, resulting in sales so low that nearly every copy was destroyed when the publisher's house burned down in the Great Fire of London in September 1666.3 

Despite Jones's reputation as the father of neoclassicism in England and Stonehenge's reputation as England's greatest prehistoric treasure, Stone-Heng Restored has received little in-depth scholarly attention until recently.4 Throughout the twentieth century it was treated as an embarrassment by most English architectural historians and admirers of Jones, who found themselves unable to reconcile the architect's creative and intellectual stature with a theory that was dead wrong.5 In some cases, this meant that the book received only brief, dismissive mentions.6 In others, historic context was leveraged to apologize for Jones's faulty conclusions, as when John Summerson called Jones's logic “in its time, intelligent.”7 This treatment ignored the fact that almost no one believed the story even in its time and that Jones was intimately familiar with the architectural thinking of the day, including the arguments against Stonehenge's Roman origins. Because it is unknown, and likely unknowable, just how much of the book represents Jones's thinking and how much was fabricated by Webb, some scholars went so far as to declare Jones entirely innocent and Webb entirely guilty. Historians Timothy Mowl and Brian Earnshaw were particularly indignant on Jones's behalf, proposing that Jones was not “responsible for a word of the book” and that Webb was “in fact, a natural confidence trickster” seeking to advance his career as Jones's successor.8 Most writers on the subject, however, have recognized that Webb was a faithful assistant to Jones for many years and that none of his independent work suggests that he was capable of producing from scratch the drawings and organized argument of Stone-Heng Restored.9 Accordingly, in this article I will not question the subtleties of attribution but will treat the book as Jones's work.

In fact, Stone-Heng Restored is the only surviving text attributed to Jones and thus the best remaining evidence of his thoughts on architecture, apart from the extensive notes he made in the margins of books he owned, notably those in Andrea Palladio's I quattro libri dell'architettura (1570). For this reason, Jones's book has received more attention in recent years, with Stephen Orgel, noted scholar of the English Renaissance, singling it out as “Inigo Jones's most imaginative work of architecture.”10 Orgel and others have written about Jones's attitudes toward English history, Protestantism, monarchy, and theater, as well as architecture, through the lens of Stone-Heng Restored, understanding that Jones's theory does not have to be right in any absolute sense in order to be valuable. What these scholars have failed to underscore, however, is that Jones himself disclaimed the importance of his book's correctness in his closing passage:

But such as sail in the vast Ocean of time, amongst the craggy rocks of Antiquity, steering their course, betwixt anciently approved customs, and convincing arguments, guided by good Authority, and sound judgement, arrive much safer, and with better repute, in the secure Haven of undoubted Truth. For mine own part, I had rather erre happily with venerable Antiquity, then so much as trouble my thoughts with modern conceits. Whether, in this adventure, I have wafted my Barque into the wished Ports of Truths discovery concerning Stoneheng, I leave to the judgement of skilfull Pilots. I have endevoured, at least, to give life to the attempt, trending perhaps, to such a degree, as either may invite others to undertake the Voyage anew, or prosecute the same in more ample manner, in which, I wish them their desired successe, and that with prosperous gales they may make a more full and certain discovery.11 

Thus, for Jones, the process and methods of making his argument were more important than its outcome; his hope was that he would push research and inquiry forward so that later scholars would be inspired to pursue and arrive closer to the truth. Although even Jones's apologists point out the scientific failures of his project, his statement reads surprisingly like a modern understanding of scientific method, outlining a search that edges asymptotically closer to the truth without ever reaching it definitively. His reference to the “craggy rocks of Antiquity” evokes the infinitely fractal image of a coastline that can be zoomed in on but never pinpointed, like the once-pristine surface of a crumbling ruin.

Although Jones's book is remote from the “truth” about Stonehenge, it certainly prompted further interest and investigation, much of it speculative. English novelist and history enthusiast John Fowles credited Jones's imaginative approach to the monument with its survival into the present day, writing that Jones's interest in “Stonehenge in the mind rather than Stonehenge on the ground [was] scientifically absurd and yet infinitely beneficial to the actual monument.” In Fowles's view, had Jones employed and encouraged methods more likely to result in scientific truth (i.e., more digging, less philosophizing), “it is very unlikely that we should have had much left to look at.”12 In calling Jones's project a “Stonehenge in the mind,” Fowles raised the question of how much direct correspondence there was for the architect between the physical monument he observed and the book he wrote.

It is typically accepted by those commenting on the book that Jones was attempting to restore Stonehenge with his drawings, as his title suggests. Today, the word restoration is most commonly used in the sense of one-to-one re-creation of an original object (e.g., a restoration of a building); the once equally familiar use of the term to denote the representation of an original object has fallen out of common parlance. Such semantic subtlety may seem a minor or even anachronistic point, but it is clear that there was slippage in the term's use during Jones's lifetime, as seen in the titles of his book and of Dr. Walter Charleton's response to it, Chorea gigantum, or, The most famous antiquity of Great-Britain, vulgarly called Stone-Heng, standing on Salisbury Plain, restored to the Danes.13 In Jones's title, Stonehenge is “restored by Inigo Jones,” while in Charleton's title, apparently alluding directly to Jones's, it is “restored to the Danes.” Notably, Charleton produced no new drawings of Stonehenge—and hence no restoration of it in the sense of Stone-Heng Restored—but only logical arguments for its construction by the Danes. Thus, Charleton used restoration in his title in a different sense than did Jones. This could have been unconscious elision or clever wordplay, which was popular at the time among people of Jones's and Charleton's class; either way, the word had multiple meanings even in the context of these two book titles. Jones, unlike Charleton or Webb after him, produced a full set of drawings of Stonehenge both “as found” and “as restored” (Figures 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5).14 

Figure 1

Inigo Jones, site plan of Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 38).

Figure 1

Inigo Jones, site plan of Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 38).

Figure 2

Inigo Jones, restored plan of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 40).

Figure 2

Inigo Jones, restored plan of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 40).

Figure 3

Inigo Jones, restored elevations of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 41).

Figure 3

Inigo Jones, restored elevations of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 41).

Figure 4

Inigo Jones, restored orthographic view of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 42).

Figure 4

Inigo Jones, restored orthographic view of Roman Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 42).

Figure 5

Inigo Jones, plan (above) and three-dimensional orthographic view (below) of as-found seventeenth-century Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 42).

Figure 5

Inigo Jones, plan (above) and three-dimensional orthographic view (below) of as-found seventeenth-century Stonehenge, 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], plate 42).

Pivotal to Jones's argument for Roman origins was his assumption that Stonehenge, as Architecture with a capital A, could have been produced only by a civilization that used measured drawings, such as the restored plan he inscribed within pure Platonic geometries (see Figure 2). Furthermore, he proposed a set of generative diagrammatic plans showing how a Roman mind would have developed Stonehenge, proceeding logically through classical organization and Platonic geometric relationships (Figures 6, 7, and 8). Thus, while Jones may have been attempting to restore Stonehenge in one sense of the word, he was also restoring (in his own words, “giving life” to) both an original set of working drawings and the original design process as he imagined it.

Figure 6

Inigo Jones, “The Plan of the Monopteros” (A) and “The Order of Pillars which continued round about it” (B), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 55).

Figure 6

Inigo Jones, “The Plan of the Monopteros” (A) and “The Order of Pillars which continued round about it” (B), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 55).

Figure 7

Inigo Jones, “The Plan of the Peripteros” (C), “The Portico continuing about the Cell” (D), and “The circular Cell enclosed with a Wall” (E), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 56).

Figure 7

Inigo Jones, “The Plan of the Peripteros” (C), “The Portico continuing about the Cell” (D), and “The circular Cell enclosed with a Wall” (E), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 56).

Figure 8

Inigo Jones, “The Rank of Pillars which made the Portico of the Peripteros” (F), “The Architectonicall Scheam by which Stonheng formed” (G), “The circular wall environing the Cell of the Peripteros” (H), and “the stones of the greater Hexagon at Stoneheng” (I), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 56).

Figure 8

Inigo Jones, “The Rank of Pillars which made the Portico of the Peripteros” (F), “The Architectonicall Scheam by which Stonheng formed” (G), “The circular wall environing the Cell of the Peripteros” (H), and “the stones of the greater Hexagon at Stoneheng” (I), 1655 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725], 56).

Inigo Jones has consistently been described by twentieth- and twenty-first-century biographers and other enthusiasts as strangely modern and ahead of his time, and as a pivotal figure in English architecture and culture. Architectural historian Stanley C. Ramsey, for instance, introduced his 1924 monograph on the architect by saying, “Inigo Jones holds a unique position amongst English architects. He is one of those outstanding figures that mark a definite change in the civilization of a country … by reason of the epoch in which they live, almost as much as by their own personal accomplishment.”15 It was common for early twentieth-century historians like Ramsey to put Jones in competition for greatness with noncontemporary architects, including Christopher Wren and Palladio, declaring one to be indisputably above the others in terms of genius.16 Ramsey lamented that it was Wren, not Jones, who worked in London during the building boom that followed the Great Fire.17 Still, for Ramsey and others, Jones's timing was paramount, allowing him to introduce classicism to Britain after Palladio did his work on the Continent and before the rest of Britain caught on.

Perhaps the most auspicious feature of Jones's historical context was the timing of his birth, which occurred just as a printed discourse on architecture was burgeoning on the Continent, allowing architects for the first time to participate in a conversation that would span generations and national borders (even if it was not as internally competitive as Ramsey and other historians would later claim). Jones was born in 1573, three years after the first publication of Palladio's I quattro libri, which was not published in English until 1663. Jones spent much of his youth in Europe and learned to read Italian, while his assistant Webb read Latin; these linguistic abilities allowed Jones to gain access to the growing body of European architectural writings before most of his countrymen could. Thus, he pioneered the model of the intellectual and philosophical architect in England. Following Vitruvius's prescription, he believed the architect should be learned in all topics. As Christy Anderson has pointed out, books made that goal attainable for him.18 Not only did books allow Jones to learn more and faster than had his English predecessors, but they also fundamentally shaped how he saw architecture and his own contribution to it. As Anderson observes:

Books framed the experience of architecture for Jones before he studied the buildings first hand, and served as a reminder of what he had seen when he returned to England. Through books Jones could study with the masters. … Books allowed Jones to enter into what Michel de Montaigne described as a conversation with the dead, and the marginal annotations are the evidence of those debates between reader and author. Although Jones traveled widely for the period and had the opportunity to study continental architecture first hand, that experience was filtered through the representation of architecture in books, both in image and text.19 

Jones offered his responses to dead masters, and he was aware of his own place in the middle, or near the beginning, of an architectural conversation unfolding across several generations. Jones alluded to the enduring nature of printed material when he wrote that his goal was “to vindicate … the Founders of this venerable Antiquity from oblivion, and to make the truth, as far forth as possibly I may, appeare to all men.”20 Thus, Jones believed that Stonehenge the monument was not itself sufficient to keep memory alive—and he lamented the lack of written records to help in his efforts to discover its past—but by putting his drawings and theories into print, he could further its restoration to the memory of “all men.”

Jones was a believer in Leon Battista Alberti's method of autopsia, which required firsthand experience of the monuments he studied, and yet, as Anderson points out, book plates provided the first visual experiences Jones had of the Italian architecture he admired and adapted.21 The importance of these images was reinforced when he finally saw the buildings in person and then returned to the texts where he had first encountered them. Alberti famously refused to illustrate his architectural treatise De re aedificatoria (1452), largely because he believed that drawings must be measurable, and he doubted the ability of the existing technology to reproduce drawings accurately.22 Perhaps Alberti also doubted the mind's capacity to durably and accurately retain such images. By the time of Jones's youth, however, printed drawings were foundational for architectural study, and through them, for the first time, relatively large numbers of people could experience important buildings at a distance.23 For those who possessed them, books allowed unlimited visual access to buildings wherever they stood.

Jones, then, recognized the power of print and leveraged it as a persuasive tool in his case for a Roman Stonehenge. His argument was inextricable from his agenda of asserting England's place in the lineage following the Roman Empire—an agenda whose importance may have trumped scientific accuracy in his mind. In acknowledgment of this, Caroline van Eck has written that Jones's “ground plans and reconstructions clearly show that he was not primarily interested in archaeology or an antiquarian search for the material remains of England's oldest past.”24 Instead, Jones unabashedly argued for his preferred style of Roman classicism mixed with English medieval elements, for simplicity of design (as exemplified in the Tuscan order) as opposed to contemporary continental baroque and mannerist architecture, for England's status as heir to what he believed to be the greatest civilization in history, for the elevation of Stonehenge to the status of high Architecture, and for the increased status of the Architect himself. The major intellectual fault of Jones's work is not its lack of scientific process, but the circular logic required to accept all of these ideals simultaneously.

Jones established one congruence after another, with small elisions and assumptions entering at each stage. For instance, if one accepted that Stonehenge is sophisticated—which Jones argued by claiming it could not have been built without advanced geometry, tools, and drawing techniques—and one concurred that the only civilization sophisticated enough to produce such things (and therefore such a structure) before recorded British history was Roman, then one must accept that Stonehenge was Roman. Jones assumed that ancient Britons were not sophisticated enough to have built Stonehenge, and he spent much of his book explaining why. The prevailing theory before, and after, his book was that some tribe of ancient Britons built the monument, although there was heated debate about which tribes were involved.25 Jones did not account for ancient British tribes' ability to understand mechanics and construction without Roman intervention. Once one accepted that the chief monument of prehistoric Britain was Roman, one must also accept that prehistoric Britain itself was highly sophisticated. In Jones's words: “For, if look upon this Antiquity, as an admired and magnificent building, who more magnificent then the Romans?”26 Among the false assumptions here are the notion that drawings were required to build Stonehenge (and, indeed, that Stonehenge looks like Jones's drawings either restored or “as found,” drawings that were manipulated significantly to support his argument) and the “more profound conviction that history is essentially linear and progressive and that civilization comes from the classical world.”27 

Twenty-first-century architectural historians are typically wary of “operative criticism”—the use of critical theories about history to promote contemporary design agendas. Stone-Heng Restored is a textbook example of what Manfredo Tafuri called “an analysis of architecture [that] has as its objective the planning of a precise poetical tendency … [that] plans past history by projecting it towards the future.”28 Jones's primary goal in arguing that Stonehenge was Roman was almost certainly the promotion of classicism in England, where it was still mistrusted as a style that went against native tendencies.29 Specifically, Jones advocated for the use of the Tuscan order in civic buildings in England; he claimed that Stonehenge was of the Tuscan order, with each upright originating as a minimally adorned column.30 In an act of perhaps consciously faulty logic, he argued that because Stonehenge has an order (Tuscan) and because there were no orders in England before the Romans, Stonehenge must be Roman. His language throughout his book was never neutral but always rhetorical, persuasive. For instance, in discrediting the ancient Britons, he lavished great detail on the barbarism of Celtic queen Boudica, who was sometimes associated with Stonehenge and who led a bloody rebellion against the Roman Empire in the first century CE: “Boadicia, that ript up the bellies of the Roman Legionaries, and cutting out their bowels impal'd their bodies upon burning stakes; that hanged up the most noble and honourable Roman Dames naked, and slicing off their paps, sowed them to their mouths, as in act of eating them.”31 His recounting only got bloodier from there. By contrast, he did not so much describe the Romans as a people but rather personified them by means of their most admirable creations. Of the Tuscan order, Jones wrote that it was “of this … plain, grave, and humble manner of Building, very solid and strong Stoneheng principally consists.”32 

Following his arguments against the monument's ancient British origins and for the similarities between it and Roman design, Jones included three drawings intended to convey the building process (see Figures 6, 7, and 8), his single most operative act (in Tafuri's sense of the word). With these, he proposed a way of working for contemporary English architects who wished to tap into their country's true architectural heritage:

Now considering this discourse may happen into the hands of those, who cannot by words so easily apprehend things of this Art, I have for their satisfaction brought into Design, the plants of both the aforesaid Temples mentioned by Vitruvius, whereby their conformity with Stoneheng, and the invention thereof taken from them, is more clearly manifested.33 

Jones described two ancient circular temple types from which he derived his own drawings of Stonehenge: the monopteros, a covered open-air temple supported by a circular colonnade, and the peripteros, an enclosed temple surrounded by an open colonnade and roof. In fact, Jones had specific historical precedents for his drawings: Palladio's ground plan of Le Galluce, the temple of Minerva Medica (Figure 9), and a Vitruvian scheme for a Roman theater as illustrated in Daniele Barbaro's 1556 edition of the Ten Books (Figure 10). The latter provided the end point for Jones's pseudohistoric investigation (compare Figures 2 and 8 to Figure 10). That investigation began with his “restored” original site and footprint plans of Roman Stonehenge, the latter resembling the Vitruvian theater (see Figures 1 and 2). The footprint plan included all the regulating Platonic geometry embedded in the Vitruvian drawing, lending Jones's Stonehenge plan a sense of inevitability and allowing the reader to see from the beginning where the story would end (see Figure 2).

Figure 9

Andrea Palladio and Inigo Jones, “Le Galluce” (temple of Minerva Medica), as annotated by Inigo Jones in his copy of Palladio's I quattro libri dell'architettura (Inigo Jones, Inigo Jones on Palladio: Being the Notes by Inigo Jones in the Copy of I quattro libri dell architettura di Andrea Palladio, 1601, in the Library of Worcester College, Oxford [Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Oriel Press, 1970]; image reproduced courtesy of the Provost and Fellows of Worcester College, Oxford).

Figure 9

Andrea Palladio and Inigo Jones, “Le Galluce” (temple of Minerva Medica), as annotated by Inigo Jones in his copy of Palladio's I quattro libri dell'architettura (Inigo Jones, Inigo Jones on Palladio: Being the Notes by Inigo Jones in the Copy of I quattro libri dell architettura di Andrea Palladio, 1601, in the Library of Worcester College, Oxford [Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Oriel Press, 1970]; image reproduced courtesy of the Provost and Fellows of Worcester College, Oxford).

Figure 10

Daniele Barbaro, Vitruvian plan for a Roman theater, 1556 (from Barbaro's illustrated edition of Vitruvius's Ten Books on Architecture [Vinegia: Marcollini, 1556], 154; Max Planck Institute for the History of Science, online archive, http://libcoll.mpiwg-berlin.mpg.de/libview?url=/mpiwg/online/permanent/library/XYTWCGV1/pageimg&start= 171& viewMode=image&mode=imagepath&pn=171).

Figure 10

Daniele Barbaro, Vitruvian plan for a Roman theater, 1556 (from Barbaro's illustrated edition of Vitruvius's Ten Books on Architecture [Vinegia: Marcollini, 1556], 154; Max Planck Institute for the History of Science, online archive, http://libcoll.mpiwg-berlin.mpg.de/libview?url=/mpiwg/online/permanent/library/XYTWCGV1/pageimg&start= 171& viewMode=image&mode=imagepath&pn=171).

Jones, who believed the history of civilization to be “progressive and linear,” assumed the same of Stonehenge's design process. The move from monopteros to peripteros included only one added element—a circular wall within the monopteros colonnade (see Figures 6 and 7). The move to his third drawing of the design process, however, involved a huge leap, and the reader was expected to have assimilated both the textual and the graphic arguments well enough to fill in the gaps. The second drawing showed a circular cell surrounded by a portico (the peripteros)—a scheme still abstract enough to resemble the double circle of Stonehenge (see Figure 7). The next drawing, however, was significantly less abstract, showing twelve individual rectangular stones in the inner circle that appeared to correspond to six trilithons (with two uprights each) arranged in a perfect hexagon (see Figure 8). In fact, there are only five trilithons in Stonehenge's inner circle, and they form a loose horseshoe in plan, rather than a regular hexagon.34 The drawing was additionally overlaid with Jones's proposed regulating geometry: four equilateral triangles circumscribing the inner circle and inscribed within the outer circle. Although Jones's argument was unconvincing to his audience because its conclusion was so obviously suspect, the geometry itself is rarely interrogated. If one accepts Jones's conclusion (as shown in the plan of Figure 2), two of the regulating triangles hit outer “columns” at each of their vertices and define the edges of inner trilithons with each of their edges, but the other two triangles appear to do little except to echo the Vitruvian precedent. As art historian A. A. Tait has observed, “The points where the triangles touch the [outer] circle at G were without any true purpose.”35 

This sort of geometric transformation of historical precedents is today a mainstay of architecture studio education.36 Among Jones's gifts to English architecture, this transformative process is arguably as important as was his classicism. In 1958, when James Stirling and James Gowan were designing Churchill College, Cambridge, in what was then an open field, they saw their design “in terms of something like Stonehenge,” by which they meant that they “[took] out [their] compasses and cut a piece of Platonic geometry into the site.”37 Historian Rosemary Hill suggests that this association of Platonic geometry with Stonehenge by architects can be traced to Jones; she points out that Sir John Soane used Jones's drawings of Stonehenge (instead of more accurate drawings that were by then available) to teach architecture at the Royal Academy in the early nineteenth century.38 Jones's drawings may not have persuaded either contemporary readers or later ones such as Stirling and Gowan that Stonehenge was Roman, but they inextricably linked Stonehenge—and English design by association—with primitive geometry in the collective architectural imagination.

Jones is usually remembered as a staunch advocate of classicism, the man who introduced it to England, but his own buildings were a mix of classical and medieval elements. Accordingly, the operative message of Stone-Heng Restored was significantly more nuanced than a simple discounting of the barbaric native Britons in favor of the civilized Romans. Jones was emphatic that the Druids did not have the sophistication to create such advanced architecture, yet he also showed what Orgel has called an “ambivalent allegiance to the British past,” evincing admiration for the Druids' asceticism, their ties to nature, and their presumably Edenic existence.39 Even at its purest, Jones's classicism was sometimes seen as a throwback by those continental Europeans committed to baroque and mannerist architecture.40 Jones's relatively retardataire enthusiasms were attributable partly to his location in England and his bookish education, with many of the volumes he studied being a generation or more behind those favored by his contemporaries in Europe. Indeed, Ramsey has suggested that Jones was disappointed when he first arrived in Italy and saw the “full tideway of the Baroque.”41 More to the point, Jones was architect to the king of a newly Protestant, newly united nation, and he was conscious of defining a new national architecture in contrast to the Catholic extravagance of continental Europe. He wanted to take the best from the classical tradition, distill it to its essence, and combine it with what was already admired at home. Thus, the Tuscan order, perceived as simple and strong, was particularly English in his mind at a time when it was not in favor on the Continent.

Among Jones's most celebrated buildings, and one of the few still standing, Saint Paul's at Covent Garden (1631)—severe and stripped to Vitruvian essentials—was the first “classical” church in England and the first church built in London after the Protestant Reformation.42 The legend of the church's origins, perpetuated by Horace Walpole in the eighteenth century, was that the Earl of Bedford commissioned it but wanted to keep it as inexpensive and humble as possible, prompting Jones to promise him “the handsomest barn in England.”43 Summerson later claimed that Jones imagined the Tuscan order as used at Covent Garden as “the order closest to natural ideas of construction.”44 Thus, it represented for him both the purity of nature and the sophistication of organized Roman architecture. The earl's insistence on simplicity at Covent Garden calls to mind some of Jones's words about the Druids:

The Druid's led a solitary contemplative life, contenting themselves with such habitations, as either meer necessity invented, to shelter them from contrariety of seasons, without Art … such as Nature alone had prepared for them in dens … esteeming it, questionlesse, the highest secret of their mystery, rather to command in caves and cottages, then live like Kings, in Palaces, and stately houses.45 

At the same time, Jones took care to underscore the corruption, lack of culture, and “pretended sanctity” of the Druids, who were neither Christian nor architects.46 Ultimately, the implication was that the ancient Britons were a particularly noble primitive stock who combined with Roman civilization to produce something uniquely British—for Stonehenge was nothing if not quintessentially British to Jones and his patriotic countrymen—an intermingling that culminated in a society that was the rightful successor to the Roman Empire.

Other designs by Jones more explicitly mixed the classical with existing English architectural traditions, as seen in his design for the façade of Old Saint Paul's Cathedral (Figure 11). Jones proposed Corinthian pilasters and classical pediments and statuary, yet Gothic towers remained prominent and a cross surmounted the whole.47 Orgel has explained that this mixing of styles was neither accidental nor singular but instead represented a “pointed and deliberate” choice that Jones made time and time again throughout his career.48 This tendency was made explicit in Jones's work over several decades as a designer of theatrical masques for the Stuart court, a position that in many ways did more immediately for the reception of Renaissance art in England than did Jones's architectural career.49 Jones frequently worked on these masques with playwright Ben Jonson, who saw classical Greek and Roman mythology as continuous with British tradition.50 Jonson and Jones often disagreed—Jonson thought Jones overly rational and too reliant on Euclidean geometry to the exclusion of Neoplatonic magic—but the products of their collaboration consistently fused the classical with English tradition, influencing the aesthetics of British theater for generations to come.51 In their design for The Speeches of Prince Henry's Barriers (1610), written in honor of King James's son Henry and borrowing heavily from Arthurian legend, Merlin was outfitted as a Greek god or, perhaps, as Greek statuary (Figure 12). The following year, Prince Henry performed in another masque by Jonson and Jones, Oberon, the Faery Prince, in which medieval fairies cohabited with satyrs and budded crosses graced the towers of a rusticated, crenellated, classically domed castle (Figure 13).

Figure 11

Inigo Jones (architect) and Henry Flitcroft (artist), façade for Old Saint Paul's Cathedral, 1727 (The Designs of Inigo Jones, vol. 2 [London, 1727], plates 55–56).

Figure 11

Inigo Jones (architect) and Henry Flitcroft (artist), façade for Old Saint Paul's Cathedral, 1727 (The Designs of Inigo Jones, vol. 2 [London, 1727], plates 55–56).

Figure 12
Inigo Jones, “Merlin,” ca. 1610, pen and ink on paper (designed for Ben Jonson's masque The Speeches of Prince Henry's Barriers, 1610; Collection of the Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth House, UK; © Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth; reproduced by permission of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images).
Figure 12
Inigo Jones, “Merlin,” ca. 1610, pen and ink on paper (designed for Ben Jonson's masque The Speeches of Prince Henry's Barriers, 1610; Collection of the Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth House, UK; © Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth; reproduced by permission of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images).
Figure 13

Inigo Jones, “Oberon's Palace,” ca. 1611, pen and ink on paper (designed for Ben Jonson's masque Oberon, the Faery Prince, 1611; Collection of the Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth House, UK; © Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth; reproduced by permission of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images).

Figure 13

Inigo Jones, “Oberon's Palace,” ca. 1611, pen and ink on paper (designed for Ben Jonson's masque Oberon, the Faery Prince, 1611; Collection of the Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth House, UK; © Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth; reproduced by permission of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images).

Even Jones's interpretation of the Roman use of Stonehenge, as a temple to the primal Roman god of the sky, Coelus, has been read as “Christianising [the ruin] in a very Protestant way.”52 Jones reached the conclusion that Stonehenge was a temple to Coelus for two reasons: first, in his restoration, the building had no roof; and second, in a highly selective study of iconography, focusing on Pierio Valeriano's popular handbook Hieroglyphica (1556), Jones learned that for the ancient Egyptians, the circle represented Coelus.53 He omitted mention of the dozen or more other meanings of the circle and double circle given by Valeriano, however.54 John Harris, Stephen Orgel, and Roy Strong argue that this interpretation was Christianizing because Coelus was never worshipped by the ancients but was instead a “personification of the heavens,” seen as “an imperfectly realized version of God the Father” by those who chose to see classical and Christian civilization as continuous.55 Thus, for Jones, Stonehenge became the prototype for a simple house of God similar to his first Protestant church in Covent Garden.

Jones cited the Vitruvian precedent for the geometry he proposed, yet failed to mention that the Vitruvian plan was for a theater, not a temple (see Figure 10). While some historians have seen this as a willfully obfuscating omission in the same vein as his simplified reading of Valeriano, Christiane Hille finds in Jones's marginal annotations of Barbaro's Vitruvius acknowledgment of a formal and symbolic relationship between the spaces of the theater and those of the temple.56 In 1599, the London Globe installed a painted wooden canopy referred to within the theater as “the heavens,” which was painted with stars and used to lower actors-as-deities onto the stage during performances—a mechanism believed to date back to Roman theater. At the same time Jones was working on the drawings of Stonehenge, he was also building his own machines for the king's masques to allow the actors to simulate the movements of the gods through the heavens, and thus would have recognized the potentially theatrical and illusionistic implications of religious space.57 Frances Yates was the first historian to give Inigo Jones a place in the hermetic tradition of John Dee and Robert Fludd, occultist astrologers and polymaths whose explanations of the physical universe and its unseen forces relied heavily on natural magic.58 Jones's colleague Jonson was more interested in their magical thinking than was Jones, but Jones also knew their work and cited Dee's writing on “menadry” (the “art of ordering engines for raising weights”) in explaining how Stonehenge might have been erected.59 Yates wrote just one sentence about Stone-Heng Restored, but given Roy Strong's later description of her chapter on Jones (primarily about his work in masques) as her “study of the architect's extraordinary analysis of Stonehenge, which Jones somehow squares with Vitruvius' plan of an ancient theatre,” the reader cannot help but imagine Jones himself as an illusionist.60 

The illusionism in Stone-Heng Restored relied on the reader's acceptance of a design project—Jones's drawings of Stonehenge—as something more scientific or objective than it was. Yet it is by no means clear that Jones intended his audience to accept his work unquestioningly. A successful illusion, like one of Jones's courtly masques, requires not belief but the suspension of disbelief, the willingness to participate.61 Caroline van Eck has recently opined that the types of drawings Jones made of Stonehenge, using techniques of orthographic projection borrowed from Alberti and Palladio, were not neutral or scientific at all, but rather active and creative.62 These were techniques used in Jones's time to design buildings, not to record history. Van Eck explains that Stone-Heng Restored exemplified a peculiar and recurring tendency in architectural history written by architects: while the primary object of study is ostensibly the building or design, the relationship of the historian/architect to that object is often evident as highly personal and subjective, and is, in fact, sometimes the central element.

The Most Notable Antiquity shows very clearly that underlying all this is the essential role of the viewer who identifies and selects sources, filters and defines them, and presents them to the reader. Therefore it is not the architectonic object, design or building history that figure most prominently in the themes mentioned here, but the spectator, who looks, records or orders an architectural history to be written or a reconstruction to be made.63 

The building in Van Eck's formulation is more a sounding board or canvas for the writer/architect's own ideas and designs than it is an actual object of study—which is not to say that the building's material presence and character are not critical to the outcome of the architect's encounter with the building.

For Jones, Stonehenge was almost a blank canvas in terms of how little he and his contemporaries knew about its history and purpose. It became for him the vehicle by which neoclassicism entered England, even though it had nothing to do with Greco-Roman classical architecture. Horace Walpole, who found Stonehenge “barbarous,” said of it, “It is remarkable, that whoever has treated of that monument, has bestowed on it whatever class of antiquity he was peculiarly fond of.”64 In this way, Stonehenge was a substrate or a medium of Jones's project, rather than its subject matter. Fowles hinted at the site's seductive power and mutability when he wrote that “something in the human mind craves these blank spaces, and theories about them … because they can never be quite disproved.”65 

Much more is known about Stonehenge's origins now than when Fowles wrote, but as his language suggests, even as archaeologists learn more about the monument, still more questions arise. This fact recalls Jones's own language at the end of Stone-Heng Restored, acknowledging the difficulty of piloting one's ship into the “Ports of Truths.” The idea of Stonehenge as canvas or medium may seem like a specifically postmodern one, yet even for Sebastiano Serlio (whom Jones read and annotated) the value of ruins for the architect was in large part how they taught him to analyze composition, to “extend his grasp of [architectural] language.”66 Thus, it is not anachronistic to suggest that Jones found as much value in the process of analysis as in the product of his “restoration.”

The role of the viewer is central to the images of Stonehenge made by printmaker Elisha Kirkall and added to the 1725 edition that brought Jones's text together with Charleton's response and Webb's vindication (Figures 14 and 15). In these drawings, significantly more naturalistic and accurate than Jones's, the viewer is part of the view, as several figures admire, comment upon, and give scale to the monument. These images indicate a rising appreciation for the ruin following the work of Jones and his contemporaries, and also the later seventeenth-century archaeological studies of John Aubrey. Unlike Jones's drawings—showing the monument standing in undifferentiated generic space—Kirkall's feature clear indicators of the English countryside, including landscape, plants, and atmosphere. It is tempting to contrast Kirkall's highly affective drawings with Jones's more sober, academic ones; the latter call to mind the rationalist formal analyses that were so much a part of architectural education in the mid-twentieth century, when perspective drawings like Kirkall's fell out of favor.

Figure 14

Elisha Kirkall, “The North Prospect of Stone Henge” (top) and “The North West Prospect of Stone Henge,” 1725 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725]; images digitized by the Library of the University of Wisconsin).

Figure 14

Elisha Kirkall, “The North Prospect of Stone Henge” (top) and “The North West Prospect of Stone Henge,” 1725 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725]; images digitized by the Library of the University of Wisconsin).

Figure 15

Elisha Kirkall, “The South East Prospect of Stone Henge” (top) and “The South West Prospect of Stone Henge,” 1725 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725]; images digitized by the Library of the University of Wisconsin).

Figure 15

Elisha Kirkall, “The South East Prospect of Stone Henge” (top) and “The South West Prospect of Stone Henge,” 1725 (Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored [1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725]; images digitized by the Library of the University of Wisconsin).

Indeed, a modern analogue to Jones's operative drawings (masquerading as unassailably scientific diagrams) can be seen in Rudolf Wittkower's modernist-inflected project of finding a “single geometrical formula” for all of Palladio's villas.67 Just as Jones took the leap from a simple circle within a circle to a more complex geometry echoing that of Vitruvius (see Figures 8 and 10), Wittkower distilled Palladian drawings into images sometimes bearing only tenuous relationships to the originals (Figures 16 and 17). The final grid pattern that he extracted from eleven of Palladio's villa plans hardly resembles any one of the villas, yet it is so abstract it cannot easily be challenged. Wittkower, like Jones, relied heavily on the reader's willingness to suspend disbelief. His student Colin Rowe took this diagrammatic abstraction one step further when he established Le Corbusier's Palladianism in his foundational essay “The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa,” ensuring that structure and formalist idealism transcended the details of history for the next several decades of architectural pedagogy.68 

Figure 16

Rudolf Wittkower, “Schematized Plans of Eleven of Palladio's Villas,” 1949, with the twelfth image showing the idealized geometry extracted from these (Rudolf Wittkower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism [London: Warburg Institute, University of London 1949]; reproduced with the permission of Wiley and Sons from the second edition published in 1998).

Figure 16

Rudolf Wittkower, “Schematized Plans of Eleven of Palladio's Villas,” 1949, with the twelfth image showing the idealized geometry extracted from these (Rudolf Wittkower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism [London: Warburg Institute, University of London 1949]; reproduced with the permission of Wiley and Sons from the second edition published in 1998).

Figure 17

Andrea Palladio, Villa Cornaro, Piombino Dese, Italy, 1552 (Andrea Palladio, I quattro libri dell'architettura [1570]; from the Dover Edition facsimile of Isaac Ware's 1738 translation [1965], book 2, plate 36).

Figure 17

Andrea Palladio, Villa Cornaro, Piombino Dese, Italy, 1552 (Andrea Palladio, I quattro libri dell'architettura [1570]; from the Dover Edition facsimile of Isaac Ware's 1738 translation [1965], book 2, plate 36).

Wittkower's and Rowe's many followers so effectively positioned themselves as rigorous and rational interpreters, as opposed to affective ones, that only recently has “affect” again become a legitimate response to architecture and an acceptable avenue of study in many architecture schools.69 “Affect” is understood even by its major advocates and apologists as based in emotion and divorced from rigorous formal analysis.70 Van Eck's insistence on the primacy of Jones as viewer/reader and his experience with Stonehenge is provocative precisely because of its implications for the highly personal, designed actions that complement his colorful storytelling about the Druids and Boudica, among others—implications of affect.

Jones's experience with Stonehenge, the visual and textual records of his responses to it, might call into question our understanding of what it means both to be intellectually rigorous and to allow emotional response a place in architectural analysis and design. In Van Eck's reading, it is possible to understand Jones's work—so rigorously scientific and analytical at first glance—as an intensely affective reading of architecture. This results from the highly deterministic role Jones played in making and presenting his drawings of the monument—drawings that alternate in the viewer's eye between contrivance and fact, between fiction and history—as well as from his expectation of an empathetic relationship between himself and his object and, more crucially, between himself and his readers. Jones's lifelong work in theatrical design and illusion taught him the power of an active audience. Reliance on a relatively new print culture and an almost conversational relationship with his predecessors made him well aware of what he was asking of his readers. Jones instrumentalized Stonehenge to justify a new architectural style that would eventually come to define English architecture, but he also introduced a new way to think about the architect's transformative relationship to precedent and the centrality of the viewer. It was this above all that made him a model for the modern architect.

Notes

Notes
1.
See, for instance, novelist and English history enthusiast John Fowles's claim that Jones's book, when reprinted with Charleton's and Webb's responses (discussed below) in 1725, “mark[s] the beginning of the modern history of both Stonehenges, archaeological and imaginative.” John Fowles, The Enigma of Stonehenge, photographs by Barry Brukoff (New York: Summit Books, 1980), 91. More recently, archaeologist Klavs Randsborg has called Jones's work “the first scientific study of Stonehenge.” Klavs Randsborg, “Inigo Jones and Christian IV: Archaeological Encounters in Architecture,” Acta Archaeologica 75 (2004), 4. Others have reserved the title of first English archaeologist for John Aubrey, who in the late seventeenth century was the first to produce more or less accurate measured drawings of the Stonehenge site. Jones's drawings, by contrast, deviate significantly from the actual layout. For more on Aubrey at Stonehenge, see Christopher Chippindale, Stonehenge Complete (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1983), 66–81.
2.
Inigo Jones, The most notable antiquity of Great Britain, vulgarly called Stone-Heng, on Salisbury plain. Restored by Inigo Jones esquire, architect generall to the late king (London: James Flesher, 1655). The text I have consulted is the 1725 edition cited in note 11, below, which includes a response to Jones by Dr. Charleton and a rebuttal by John Webb, discussed below.
3.
Chippindale, Stonehenge Complete, 60. Although few believed in the Roman origins story, the book prompted a response in 1663 by Dr. Walter Charleton, a physician and philosopher whose book Chorea gigantum promised to “restore” Stonehenge to the Danes. Charleton did not produce drawings or an argument based on scientific evidence, nor did he question Jones's drawings, idealized as they were; instead, he pointed to previously written histories that contradicted the Roman argument. Charleton's book in turn prompted Webb's Vindication of Stone-Heng Restored (1665), in which Webb used the same discursive, nonscientific tactics as Charleton, with more than four times as many words, to defend his deceased mentor. Walter Charleton, Chorea gigantum, or, The most famous antiquity of Great-Britain, vulgarly called Stone-Heng, standing on Salisbury Plain, restored to the Danes (London: Printed for Henry Herringman …, 1663); John Webb, A vindication of Stone-Heng restored: In which the orders and rules of architecture observed by the ancient Romans, are discussed. Together with the customs and manners of several nations of the world in matters of building of greatest antiquity. As also an historical narration of the most memorable actions of the Danes in England (London: T. Bassett, 1665).
4.
Recent scholarship on Stone-Heng Restored includes Randsborg, “Inigo Jones and Christian IV,” 3–98; Rosemary Hill, Stonehenge (London: Profile Books, 2008); Caroline van Eck, Inigo Jones on Stonehenge: Architectural Representation, Memory, and Narrative (Amsterdam: Architectura & Natura, 2009); Tessa Morrison, “Solomon's Temple, Stonehenge, and Divine Architecture in the English Enlightenment,” Parergon 29, no. 1 (2012), 135–63.
5.
As Morrison points out, and as seen in the examples given in this paragraph, “Jones's writings on Stonehenge are rarely discussed by scholars and if they are mentioned at all it is only in passing and without any detailed analysis.” Morrison, “Solomon's Temple, Stonehenge, and Divine Architecture,” 137.
6.
For example, in 1928, architect and historian J. Alfred Gotch wrote, “How Inigo, who had studied and drawn Roman remains in Italy, and was himself a skilful designer of the revived Classic architecture, could have led Webb to confound the uncouth and rugged stones of Stonehenge with the carefully wrought and well-proportioned work of the Romans, is incomprehensible. It is equally hard to understand how Webb, who was as serious a student of Classic architecture as his master, could have adopted and elaborated such a theory.” J. Alfred Gotch, Inigo Jones (London: Methuen, 1928), 17. Gotch, like many other biographers, referenced Stone-Heng Restored primarily for the biographical tidbits included in it, as there are few records of many of the details of Jones's life.
7.
John Summerson, Inigo Jones (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1966), 64.
8.
Timothy Mowl and Brian Earnshaw, Architecture without Kings: The Rise of Puritan Classicism under Cromwell (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995), 87.
9.
Rosemary Hill argues that Webb was too loyal to Jones to have strayed far from his notes and that Webb's “dull and chaotic” Vindication (1665), which he wrote in response to Dr. Charleton's book, could not have the same author as a book as “well organised and well written” as Stone-Heng Restored, suggesting that authorship of the latter is essentially Jones's. Hill, Stonehenge, 71. As Michael Leapman points out, since most of the biographical information available on Jones comes from Webb, discounting Webb's credibility would open up scholarship on Jones to “endless imaginative speculation.” Michael Leapman, Inigo: The Troubled Life of Inigo Jones, Architect of the English Renaissance (London: Review, 2003), 200.
10.
Stephen Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” Prose 3 (1971), 110.
11.
Inigo Jones, Stone-Heng Restored (1655; repr., London: D. Browne, 1725), 109.
12.
Fowles, The Enigma of Stonehenge, 92.
13.
The Oxford English Dictionary, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), includes several definitions of restoration, among them “The action of building up again or reconstructing; (now) spec. the process of carrying out alterations and repairs with the idea of restoring a building to something like its original form; a general renovation” and “A model or drawing representing the supposed original form of a ruined building, extinct animal, etc.” The latter seems to be the meaning intended by Jones's book title, yet the OED's first exemplar of it comes from 1772, while the first exemplar for the former definition is from Charleton's Chorea gigantum, where he asks the king to honor his “Restoration of that Gigantick Pile.” As neither Jones nor Charleton was proposing to reconstruct Stonehenge, the OED's use of this quote is confusing.
14.
Jones's plans and elevations are not accurate representations of what he would have found when he visited Stonehenge.
15.
Stanley C. Ramsey, Inigo Jones (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1924), 7.
16.
For instance, according to Ramsey, “Of the two men Palladio and Inigo Jones, the latter was incomparably the greater architect.” Ibid., 10.
17.
Ibid., 7.
18.
Christy Anderson, Inigo Jones and the Classical Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 1.
19.
Ibid., 12.
20.
Jones, Stone-Heng Restored, 2.
21.
On Jones's use of Alberti's strategy of autopsia, see Van Eck, Inigo Jones on Stonehenge, 12.
22.
Mario Carpo, The Alphabet and the Algorithm (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2011), sec. 2.1, para. 2.
23.
Of course, books did not yet circulate as freely as they later would. Their audience would still have been small and elite.
24.
Van Eck, Inigo Jones on Stonehenge, 15.
25.
Caroline van Eck, Christy Anderson, and Stephen Orgel have all written at length about Jones's attitudes toward the ancient Britons in their respective works cited here.
26.
Jones, Stone-Heng Restored, 66.
27.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 114.
28.
Manfredo Tafuri, “Operative Criticism,” in Theories and History of Architecture, trans. Giorgio Verrecchia (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), 141.
29.
Van Eck, Inigo Jones on Stonehenge, 14.
30.
Jones, Stone-Heng Restored, 67.
31.
Ibid., 51.
32.
Ibid., 67.
33.
Ibid., 81.
34.
Chippindale, Stonehenge Complete, 58.
35.
A. A. Tait, “Inigo Jones's ‘Stone-Heng,’ ”Burlington Magazine 120 (1978), 158.
36.
For instance, Peter Eisenman teaches a class in “formal analysis” to first-year students at the Yale School of Architecture. The most recently listed version of the class is described as follows: “This course studies the object of architecture—canonical buildings in the history of architecture—not through the lens of reaction and nostalgia but through a filter of contemporary thought. The emphasis is on learning how to see and to think architecture by a method that can be loosely called ‘formal analysis.’ The analyses move through history and conclude with examples of high modernism and postmodernism.” The “analyses” are drawings derived from or made on top of original drawings. Peter Eisenman and Elisa Iturbe, “Theories of Authority: Seeing as an Architect,” fall 2016 course syllabus, https://www.architecture.yale.edu/courses/13867-theories-of-authority-seeing-as-an-architect (accessed 2 Feb. 2018).
37.
James Gowan, quoted in Hill, Stonehenge, 71. Hill notes that these comments by Gowan were recounted to her by Ellis Woodman.
38.
Ibid.
39.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 113.
40.
Giles Worsley, Inigo Jones and the European Classicist Tradition (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2007), 1.
41.
Ramsey, Inigo Jones, 10.
42.
Robert Lutyens, Six Great Architects (London: H. Hamilton, 1959), 54.
43.
Summerson, Inigo Jones, 79.
44.
Ibid., 82.
45.
Jones, Stone-Heng Restored, 4.
46.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 113.
47.
See Vaughan Hart, Inigo Jones: The Architect of Kings (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2011), 41.
48.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 118.
49.
John Peacock, The Stage Designs of Inigo Jones: The European Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 6.
50.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 119.
51.
Hart, Inigo Jones, 147.
52.
John Harris, Stephen Orgel, and Roy Strong, The King's Arcadia (London: Arts Council of Great Britain, 1973), 82.
53.
Roy Strong, Britannia Triumphans: Inigo Jones, Rubens and Whitehall Palace (London: Thames and Hudson, 1980), 59.
54.
Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 116.
55.
Harris et al., The King's Arcadia, 82.
56.
Christiane Hille, Visions of the Courtly Body: The Patronage of George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham, and the Triumph of Painting at the Stuart Court (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2012), 204. Stephen Orgel, for one, points out Jones's misleading failure to mention that the Vitruvian plan was for a theater. Orgel, “Inigo Jones on Stonehenge,” 116.
57.
Hille, Visions of the Courtly Body, 205–6.
58.
Frances A. Yates, Theatre of the World (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969), 79.
59.
Jones, Stone-Heng Restored, 34.
60.
Strong, Britannia Triumphans, 58.
61.
Sales of the first edition of Stone-Heng Restored were low, but the 1725 reprint fared significantly better.
62.
Van Eck, Inigo Jones on Stonehenge, 19.
63.
Ibid., 47.
64.
Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting in England, with Some Account of the Principal Artists; and Incidental Notes on Other Arts (1762; repr., London: Henry G. Bohn, 1849), 405.
65.
Fowles, The Enigma of Stonehenge, 110.
66.
Peacock, Stage Designs of Inigo Jones, 272.
67.
Rudolf Wittkower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism (1949; repr., London: Alec Tiranti, 1971), 71.
68.
Colin Rowe, “The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa” (1947), in The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa, and Other Essays (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990). As Wittkower's student at the Warburg Institute (1945–46), Rowe wrote a master's thesis claiming that Inigo Jones planned to publish an ambitious architectural treatise similar to Palladio's. For Wittkower's own take on Jones's intellectualism—and his claim that Jones “determined the course of English architecture for almost three centuries”—see his essay “Inigo Jones, Architect and Man of Letters” (1953), in Palladio and English Palladianism (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1983), 51. For a discussion of Rowe's far-reaching influence on architectural pedagogy of the twentieth century, from Peter Eisenman to Bernard Tschumi to Greg Lynn, among others, see Emmanuel Petit, “Rowe after Colin Rowe,” in Reckoning with Colin Rowe: Ten Architects Take Position, ed. Emmanuel Petit (New York: Routledge, 2015), 3–21. Petit traces the various productive deployments of the diagram in pedagogy through the end of the twentieth century, when digital technology gave rise to a new standard for the diagram—one of seemingly endless iterations rather than idealism. Describing formalism's suppression of other potential strains of inquiry, Petit writes: “The diagram undermines the iconographic and representational dimension of the architectural drawing—including its subservience to external preconceptions about a more ethical world and technological progress, and substitutes it with an internalized, self-reflexive, speculative, and self-referential formal reality” (10).
69.
Wittkower's highly rational approach to architecture was a direct response to, and reaction against, what might today be called the “affective” readings of history popular at the beginning of the twentieth century. Wittkower was especially critical of Geoffrey Scott, whose Architecture of Humanism: A Study in the History of Taste (London: Constable, 1914) argued for a personal and emotional response to architecture rather than a stable scientific or logical reading. Scott himself was influenced by the European school of thought concerned with Einfühlung, philosopher Robert Vischer's term for an empathetic aesthetic response. For a discussion of Wittkower's reading of Renaissance architecture versus Scott's reading, as well as the latter's intellectual affiliation with Theodor Lipps, Bernard Berenson, and Heinrich Wölfflin, among others, see Alina Payne, “Rudolf Wittkower and Architectural Principles in the Age of Modernism,” JSAH 53, no. 3 (1994), 322–42. Notably, Payne explains Wittkower's and Scott's divergent interpretations of humanism: “For Wittkower, humanism is an intellectual configuration based on an appropriation of ancient thought, that is, of Platonic philosophy, Pythagorean mathematics, and Euclidian geometry, at the hands of humanists, that is absorbed by an act of cultural osmosis into architectural theory. For Scott, on the other hand, humanism describes the body consciousness of Renaissance artistic production, the preeminence of the physical/perceptual moment over the rational/intellectual one” (333). Following Wittkower's and Rowe's examples, mid- and late twentieth-century architectural pedagogy maintained standards of rationality and logic. In the late twentieth century, largely because of Gilles Deleuze's influence, architecture academics once again became interested in the bodily and the emotional, this time using the term affect, inherited from Freud. See Petit, “Rowe after Colin Rowe,” 10–11. See also Gregory J. Seigworth and Melissa Gregg, “An Inventory of Shimmers,” in The Affect Theory Reader, ed. Melissa Gregg and Gregory J. Seigworth (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2010), 1–25; Sylvia Lavin, “The New Mood or Affective Disorder,” Assemblage 41 (2000), 40. Lavin offers a summary: “The work of Gilles Deleuze has permitted the affective terrain of buildings to organize itself anew and the discipline seems to be entering an almost hyperemotional state” (40).
70.
Throughout Gregg and Seigworth's Affect Theory Reader, the collection's contributing multidisciplinary scholars of affect—including Sara Ahmed, Brian Massumi, and Lawrence Grossberg—often use the terms affect and emotion interchangeably (as does Lavin in her article cited in note 69, above). In their introduction, Seigworth and Gregg set affect opposite reason, conscious thought, and straightforward study: “Affect … is the name we give to those … visceral forces beneath, alongside, or generally other than conscious knowing, vital forces insisting beyond emotion.” Seigworth and Gregg, “Inventory of Shimmers,” 1.