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An analysis of the historiography on the late

medieval German sculptor Tilman Riemenschneider suggests that

art history's attempt, after the Second World War, to distance itself

from the interpretive excesses of German art writing during the

Nazi era has often led to a reductive positivism, a form of history

reluctant to engage in "strong" interpretation and thus impover-

ished of its narrative potential. The paradox of this essay lies in the

fact that it both criticizes the interpretations put forward by the

nationalists and argues that art historians should demonstrate a

greater willingness to forsake the alleged neutrality of the "facts"

for forms of understanding that attempt to make the past relevant

and significant for the present and future. Rather than suggest that

past historians somehow failed to make historically justifiable argu-

ments, I claim that their interpretations cannot convince us today

because we find their assumptions and their conclusions repug-

nant. Their work therefore is to be rejected as unpersuasive rather

than untruthful, for rhetoric can only be countered by another,

contrary, form of argumentation.

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In this world of dissolution, the BELOVED has become

the only power that has retained the ability to return us to the warmth of life.

If this world were not being endlessly criss-crossed by the convulsive

movements of individuals in search of one another, were it not transfigured

by the face 'whose absence brings pain', it would appear a joke to those who

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Counsel—Manuel Bandeira The world is pitiless and lewdly jeers All tragedy. Anticipate your loss. Weep silently, in secret. Hide your tears. So to become accustomed to your cross. Alone grief can ennoble us. She only Is grand and pure. Then learn to love her now To be your muse, when you are left and lonely. And lay the last green laurels on your brow.

She will be sent from Heaven. The seraphic Language she speaks in, you should learn, for she Can talk no other in your daily traffic. When you receive her to replace your bride. Pray humbly, too, to God, that she may be A constant, kind companion at your side.

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I, too, have burned the wind with fiery flags Who now am but a roost for empty words. An island of the sea whose only trade Is in the voyages of its wandering birds.

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There is no sea so wide, no waste so steril But holds a rapture for the sons of strife:

There shines upon the topmost peak of peril A throne for spirits that abound in life:

There is no joy like theirs who fight alone, Whom lust or gluttony have never tied, Who in their purity have built a throne, And in their solitude a tower of pride.