Wagner, Tristan and Isolde, The Metropolitan Opera, 2026

The Metropolitan Opera’s 2026 Production of Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde

Reviewed by Kathleen Coyne Kelly

Northeastern University

        Dare I plunge into their aroma and breathe my last? 

        Into the surging swell, into the ringing sound into the waves of the universal breath! 

        Subtitles. Isolde (Lise Davidsen) singing the Liebestod in the Met’s 2026 Tristan und Isolde

                                                                                                                (Listen to an excerpt here.)

 

Timothée Chalamet, in a March 2026 CNN and Variety town hall with Matthew McConaughey, declared: “I don’t want to be working in ballet or opera, or, you know, things where it’s like, Hey, keep this thing alive, even though it’s like, no one cares about this anymore. All respect to the ballet and opera people out there.” A vigorous backlash immediately followed. The Metropolitan Opera responded on Tiktok by showing a montage of workers employed by the company—painters, lighting crew, scenic carpenters, set designers, costume makers, and, finally, and rather waggishly, musicians, singers, and the conductor (“This one’s for you, Timothée Chalamet . . . 👀”). Boundary-pushing Misty Copeland came out of retirement to crash the Oscars during the rendition of the Best Original Song nominee, “I Lied to You” from Sinners (Ryan Coogler, 2025)— challenging Chalamet, perhaps, who was sitting in the audience. In the film (as in the Oscars performance), as Sammie (Miles Caton) plays the blues, the scene becomes hallucinatory as Black dancers and musicians—West African dancers, a banjo player, a rapper, breakdancers, Crip-walkers—and a ballerina—mirror the rhythms of the song in their different ways.

To reference Chalamet when writing about the ballet or the opera is about to become a trope. 

One opera that is being kept alive is Richard Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, which premiered in 1865, and has been performed thousands of times since. Some classics endure because of the weight of tradition, and simply cannot be abandoned. Tristan und Isolde falls into this category—and believe me, I do not want to see it sink into oblivion and be forgotten. Yet I want something more from this Gesamtkunstwerk (a “total, or integrated, work of art” to which Wagner aspired)—and something that it chooses not to offer. Unsophisticated as I am when it comes to opera, I want a hummable aria or two, a bravura performance to be lifted out of the opera and enjoyed, rather than the unendliche Melodie that Wagner actually wrote, resisting what he saw as the staleness of Grand Opera. What I am denied is precisely the point: Wagner never resolves his harmonies, literally; rather, he counts on dissonance—in Tristan und Isolde, this phenomenon is known as “Tristan’s chord”—leaving us hung up, waiting for resolution, which we do not get until the very end, in Act III, when Isolde sings her celebrated aria. The most famous fan of Wagner captures the essence of Wagner’s Tristan: “Powerful waves of tone flood the room, and the murmur of the wind gives way to a terrible roaring frenzy of sound.” So wrote Adolf Hitler, aged seventeen, after seeing a performance at the Vienna Opera House. 

And thus I invoke another trope: one cannot write about Wagner without pulling in Nazis.

Tristan und Isolde, this Musikdrama (a term Wagner detested, but was burdened with because he insisted that he was not writing opera), is one thing in its score, not to be deviated from by the faithful (or, at least, not by much), and quite another in its staging, where directors can innovate, making that “terrible roaring frenzy of sound” visible in their own idiom. One can interpret the music, but one can go further and invent the staging. This practice has come to be called Regieoper (“director’s opera”), a mode very much embraced by Wagner’s grandson Wieland, who directed Wagner’s operas in the 50s and 60s at Bayreuth (and was influenced by Wagner’s own set designer, Adolphe Appia). Staging thus becomes the site of the supplement, if not that of fan fiction. 

In the Metropolitan Opera’s recent production of Tristan und Isolde (March 9-April 4, 2026; I watched it streaming in a movie theatre in Massachusetts), director Yuval Sharon explores the opera’s obsession with the mystical and eros and thanatos (the spectre of death makes possible love and passion; love and passion transcend death) by creating a set that makes the mystical legible. The music remains untampered with (but perhaps over-conducted by Yannick Nézet-Séguin), but the spectacle is a very twenty-first century Regieoper—spare, tonal, and wholly dependent on technology. And Sharon put a baby in it. I’ll get to that. First, let me describe the set.

The Met stage is enormous. It is 80 feet deep, 103 feet wide, and 54 feet high. Sharon exploits this scale by creating two horizontal planes, one at the level of the stage, which takes up about one quarter of the space, and another that fills the rest of the expanse above it. Act I opens with a woman and a man sitting across from each other at a table—a prop repeated and repurposed throughout the opera—at stage level. Something is obviously not right between them: they look as if they desire to speak, to bridge the gulf across the table, but they hesitate, pull back. This scene is duplicated above them, projected on an enormous screen. At first, this feels disorienting, but soon resolves into recognizable allegory: Sharon wants to contrast “this world of the table and this world of the fable” (as he said in an interview given during one of the streaming intermissions). The earthly versus the mythical. At stage level, mere humans reside, playing out the short span of their lives; above them, legend endures, is amplified. Larger than life, as the cliché goes. (See Figure 1.) This is a trick that Sharon uses throughout. Moreover, Tristan (heroic tenor Michael Spyres) and Isolde (dramatic soprano Lise Davidsen) are given body doubles with whom they exchange places, moving from the stage to the set of circles and ellipses above, which slide in and out of one another, sometimes creating a Venn diagram, sometimes a crescent, sometime a full circle. (These circles may well have been borrowed from a previous production; see here.)

 

Figure 1. A scene from Act II of Tristan und Isolde (courtesy Karen Almond)

In Gottfried von Strassburg’s Tristan (c. 1210), Wagner’s ostensible source, the giant Morgold demands tribute from King Mark, and is killed by Tristan. Wounded, he can only be cured by Queen Isolde of Ireland, mother to Isolde. When Isolde discovers that she has helped heal her uncle’s murderer, she seeks vengeance. (Gottfried died before finishing his poem, stopping at around 19,000 lines; it breaks off as Tristan is debating whether to marry Isolde of the White Hands. The poem was then continued by Ulrich von Türheim [1235] and Heinrich von Freiburg [1290]). Wagner heightens the drama by betrothing Isolde to Morgold. Isolde’s desire thus shifts from revenging an uncle to revenging the man she loves—and the only thing that remains of her love is rage. She had faltered once, in Ireland, when she lifted her sword to kill Tristan as he lay recovering—but as their eyes met, she dropped the sword. Isolde has regrets. As the pair sail to Cornwall, Isolde plans to kill Tristan and then herself. She sings of her anguish and pain and persuades Tristan that he must atone for killing Morgold. Tristan acquiesces in her plan for them to drink poison together. (In Gottfried’s telling, the two drink the potion accidentally.) But Brangäne (mezzo-soprano Ekaterina Gubanova), knowing Isolde’s intention, intervenes, and gives Isolde the love potion intended for King Marke instead of the poison. (At stage level, the table is now set with an array of glass bottles filled with elixirs of various colors.) Isolde’s frustrated fury is now turned into desire for her enemy. Tristan’s homosocial bonds with his King cannot withstand newly-aroused passion. We have reached the end of Act I.

In Act II, Tristan and Isolde tryst while the King is away hunting. The scheming courtier Melot (Thomas Glass) has set a trap, as Brangäne had warned Isolde, who ignores her. The lovers sing their ecstatic and despairing Love Duet. (“Tristan is Isolde, Isolde is Tristan,” they sing; listen to part of it here.) They are caught, and King Marke (bass-baritone Ryan Speedo Green) is heartsick and bewildered. (Listen to an excerpt here.) On the stage level, the table holds the remains of a feast, and above, magnified, hands attempt to piece back together a broken plate on the table. Marke asks, how can there be anything like truth if Tristan is capable of betrayal? And Isolde? Marke may have owned her, but he never possessed her, he realizes. Melot wounds Tristan, and the curtain falls as Tristan’s loyal companion Kurwenal (bass-baritone Tomasz Konieczny) catches Tristan as he falls.

Act III demonstrates just how long a death scene can be drawn out. At stage level, the table is transformed into the operating table on which Tristan lies. Surgical instruments are laid out on a cloth. Kurwenal anxiously wonders if Tristan is sleeping or dead. Tristan repeatedly revives, asking after Isolde. Kurwenal wonders again, is given hope again. Tristan moves from the plane of the stage to the circle above, accompanied by dancers in white (which I found unnecessary and distracting) whose ghostly presence makes it clear that this iteration of the circle is a threshold—heaven, or perhaps a blissful nothingness, lies beyond. Does Kurwenal see the white sails? Each time that Kurwenal answers no, but soon, Tristan falls back as if dead, and then revives to ask again. Isolde is too late, of course. Tristan dies on the table as she bends over him.

Throughout the opera, Isolde has worn green; Tristan, blue. The costumes are medievalish; they register as mere costumes, and deliberately so, I think: the fabric is too shiny, the trim seems cheaply made, as if to remind us that what we see are people in dress-up. In this final act, Isolde wear a voluminous, rather shapeless, green satin gown, and as she enters the scene, the audience immediately sees that she is pregnant. She crawls onto the table on which Tristan lies and gives birth. Marke enters, and explains that Brangäne has confessed to administering the love potion, and Marke now forgives Isolde and Tristan. Who can be faulted for the compulsions of rapturous desire? 

Isolde moves from the plane of the stage where humans dwell to the circle above, the plane of the eternal (where the dancers in white annoyingly return, making their Alvin Ailey moves). Her green dress has been exchanged for a simple white shift. A light grows behind her, into which she will soon walk. But first, she sings a final aria, familiarly known as the Liebestod (“love-death” song—though Wagner preferred Verklärung, “transfiguration”). This aria is intended to release the disharmonic tension built up over the four and a half hours of the opera. Isolde sings of watching Tristan rise, radiant, to dwell on an even higher plane than the stage can offer. Is it only she who can hear him singing? She finds herself rushing upwards to meet him. The narrative arc of this aria, as some critics have ventured to suggest, seems to move from initial arousal through to orgasm. (Slavoj Zižek called it “orgasmic self-extinction.”) The love in “love-death” is as physical as it is numinous. She dies. Marke takes the baby and, with Brangäne, exits the stage. The opera is over.

In this final act, the table seems to gesture toward the ending of Jean Delannoy and Jean Cocteau’s L’éternel Retour (1943). Tristan/Patrice (Jean Marais) and Isolde/Natalie (Madeleine Sologne) lie in death side by side on an upturned boat that transforms into a gisant, a tomb effigy. The baby in Sharon’s adaptation of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde might be read as a materialization of l’éternel retour, a concept Cocteau introduces in the opening crawl in the film, here translated: Eternal Return—a title borrowed from Nietzsche—means that the same legends are reborn again and again without the heroes’ knowledge. Eternal return of simple circumstances is the base of all great love stories. This registers as an exquisite tautology, given that Nietzsche was so taken with Wagner’s opera. If the allusion to L’éternel Retour is deliberate, it is rather obscure. (How many medievalists and cinephiles are in the audience each night at the Met or in the movie theatre?) It doesn’t really help us understand why Sharon put a baby where there has never been one. It undermines Cocteau’s (mis)reading of Nietzsche’s point, that some of us are caught in an endless cycle of destructive passion from which we cannot escape—and the only (Wagnerian) response is amor fati. 

Or perhaps Sharon wanted to give us a comfortable ending; new life traditionally signifies hope. Or is the baby a booby prize for Marke?

But there is yet another possibility, one that suggests that Sharon was not willfully rewriting Wagner through staging. Perhaps Sharon understands something about Wagner’s psychology, his apparent fervid and overripe romanticization of eros as Woman, capital W. In 1854, as Wagner first began thinking about Tristan und Isolde, he wrote to Franz Liszt, and declared a desire for “a female spirit in which I could completely submerge myself, that would hold me entire—how little would I then need of this world” (as quoted in Eva Rieger, Richard Wagner’s Women). At the time, Wagner (then married to Minna Planer) was caught up in what we would today call a head affair—in this case, an all-consuming, obsessive affair—with the married Mathilde Wesendonck. Sexual consummation was out of the question. Tristan und Isolde, it could be argued, became the sublimated substitute. What could be more of a tribute to Woman than highlighting the most transcendent expression of her essence—birthing a baby?

Given all the controversy and provocations that Wagner and his operas have caused, given the debates about how to make sense of Tristan und Isolde, we might read the baby in yet another way: its presence on stage deconstructs the entire opera so that it goes poof. Es verschwindet. This creates the necessary space for the next production. Thus the opera (writ large) is kept alive. 

Martin, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

“They have really good puppet shows in Dorne!” —  HBO/HBO Max’s six-part series, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 

Reviewed by Kevin J. Harty, Ph.D.
La Salle University
harty@lasalle.edu

HBO/HBO Max’s six-part series, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, is based on the first of three novellas by George R. R. Martin usually referred to collectively as the Tales of Dunk and Egg.  The formula is that of a buddy film or series, or even a bromance.  Paired are a hulking, rather thick hedge knight, Ser Duncan the Tall, a.k.a. Dunk (Peter Claffey), and a precocious bald-headed boy, Egg (Dexter Sol Ansell), who serves as his squire. 

Hedge knights are the most errant of knights errant, wandering the Seven Kingdoms in search of lords to serve and deeds of derring-do to carry out.  Theirs is a rough, unsatisfying, and unheralded life. 

Such a knight is Ser Arlan of Pennytree (Danny Webb) perhaps most notable for the length and girth of a shaft other than his lance, given a quick shot that we get of him emerging naked from a tent post-coitus. Ser Arlan sleeps rough as he wanders hither and yon with his squire Dunk, who as a boy was rescued from a life of penury in Flea Bottom. When Ser Arlan dies, Dunk, whom his master may or may not have knighted, decides to set out as a knight.  Viewers of the series and readers of this review may recognize that A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms shares this plot element (and several others) with Brian Helgeland’s 2001 film A Knight’s Tale, though the series does not have an as over-the-top musical score as the film does.

In the first episode, Dunk buries Ser Arlan and, after taking a very impressive public dump, heads off with Arlan’s sword, shield, and three horses to a great tournament being held at Ashford, where Dunk hopes to test his mettle and earn real knighthood. Stopping for a rest at an inn, Dunk encounters a motley crew, many three sheets to the wind, and leaves, unknowingly at first, with the bald-headed boy Egg in tow; Egg wants to serve as Dunk’s squire. But Dunk has a bigger problem; he cannot prove that he is indeed a knight and needs someone to vouch for his bona fides. In Ashford, Dunk and Egg watch a puppet show staged by Tanselle from Dorne (Tanzyn Crawford). In that show, a fiery dragon is slain by a knight. Dunk is immediately infatuated with Tanselle; Egg, with the puppets.

Dunk searches without much success for someone to vouch for him until Prince Baelor Targaryen (Bertie Carvel), remembering Ser Arlan’s service to him, agrees to do so. Dunk needs to create his own coat of arms and turns to the talented Tanselle for help. He then sells his favorite horse, Sweetfoot, to the blacksmith Steely Pate (Youssef Kerkour) for a suit of armor. Dunk waxes and wanes in his enthusiasm for the tournament and the life of a knight, especially when he is asked to participate in a rigged tournament designed to recoup the funds spent to stage the event.

As the series progresses, the politics behind the tournament come into relief. Nearly everyone hates the Targaryens—and not without reason.  When they are not drunken cowards like Daeron (Henry Ashton), they are cheating bullies like his brother Aerion (Finn Bennett). When Aerion watches Tanselle’s puppet show, he reacts with violence, breaking her finger for insulting his family, tied as they are to dragons. Dunk then attacks Aerion knocking out one of his teeth. Only Egg’s intervention saves Dunk, because it turns out that he is Daeron and Aerion’s younger brother who shaved his head of the telltale familial silver locks because he is ashamed to be identified with his older brothers.

Dunk is then arrested when Daeron asserts that he kidnapped Egg.  Targaryen word seems to be law, but Dunk asks for trial by combat, which he is granted on the condition that he engage in an ancient ritual known as the Trial by Seven—two sets of seven knights battle each other to determine who is innocent or guilty.  Aerion assembles a group of six impressive knights, but Dunk keeps coming up short until none other than Baelor Targaryen declares for him to uphold the honor of knighthood.

The ensuing tournament is a muddy and bloody mess; horses are slaughtered, and knights are maimed, until a badly wounded Dunk forces an equally badly wounded Aerion to yield.  The victory proves Pyrrhic, as Baelor collapses dead into Dunk’s arms on the field of battle. Dunk is abject in his grief over the prince’s death and once again unsure about how much he really wants to be a knight.  

Maekar Targaryen (Sam Spruell), mindful of his late brother’s kindnesses to Dunk, invites Dunk to Summerhall to complete his proper training as a knight and to tutor Egg in the duties of a squire. Dunk demurs, and says that he is only willing to squire Egg on the road. Maekar refuses Dunk’s counterproposal, so Dunk rides off on his own, soon joined by Egg who lies and says that his father has changed his mind about Dunk squiring him on the road.  The two then set off to explore the Seven Kingdoms—though Egg allows there are nine, not seven, kingdoms (an altered final title card inserts a 9 over the 7)—beginning, Egg insists, with Dorne because “they have really good puppet shows in Dorne!”

The events in A Knight of the Seven [or Nine] Kingdoms take place almost a century before those in A Game of Thrones.  A second and third series are promised dramatizing the remaining two books in the Dunk and Egg trilogy. Much lower budgeted and differently focused than Thrones, Knight nonetheless references and anticipates the internecine strife than informs the chronologically later, dynastically-focused series. But Knight is intentionally microcosmic. It is not concerned with the rise and fall of great kingdoms. No one unharnesses any dragons to lay waste to cities and towns—the only dragon is a puppet. There are no great castles or cites, no windswept vistas or enchanting isles; instead of epic battles, we get a ragtag tournament fought in a seemingly endless downpour—the sun rarely shines. The cameras point downward at the earth and mud and at the people who eke out their existence there as peasants, prostitutes, tradespeople, petty bureaucrats, and the fringes of the noble and royal societies celebrated in Thrones.  

Knight focuses on the glue that supposedly holds all the seven, or nine, kingdoms together: knighthood.  It offers a variation on the Arthurian theme of the fair unknown. Dunk, born in the slums of Flea Bottom, eventually becomes the hedge knight Ser Duncan the Tall—a man trying to rise up in a society that keeps pushing him down.  He is not the brightest, though he certainly doesn’t lack determination. The series pairs him with an at first unlikely sidekick, Prince Aegon Targaryen, a bald-headed boy wise beyond his years.  Fascinated as any child might be with puppets, Egg at the same time trains Dunk’s battle steed, constantly gives him pointers about knighthood, and seamlessly switches from funny to straight man in his banter with Dunk—nuance is not Dunk’s strong suit, but it is Egg’s forte! Cable and television in general have recently offered few buddy/road series as quietly enjoyable as A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and I certainly look forward to seasons two and three, and the further adventures of Dunk and Egg—and, of course, to more of those Dornish puppet shows!

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, created by Ira Parker and George R. R. Martin, based on Tales of Dunk and Egg by George R. R. Martin; produced by Friendly Wolf Productions, GRRM, and HBO Entertainment; six episodes running 30-42 minutes; first broadcast on HBO/HBO Max 18 January to 22 February 2026.

Houghton, The Middle Ages in Computer Games

 

Houghton, Robert. The Middle Ages in Computer Games: Ludic Approaches to the Medieval and Medievalism. (Medievalism vol. 28) Boydell & Brewer, 2024. 327pp. £115.00. ISBN: 9781843847298 

Reviewed by Chris Herde (cherde@wisc.edu) 

Robert Houghton’s The Middle Ages in Computer Games lays out an incredibly thorough groundwork for future studies on the specific intersections of medievalism, ludic interactivity, and the commercial and cultural pressures present in the modern videogame industry[1]. At every turn, Houghton clearly reiterates the ways in which “ludic medievalism” aligns with and diverges from the traditional incarnations of medievalism (particularly those presented in films and television shows) as well as the presentation of other historical periods in videogame form. In so doing, he not only highlights the ways in which these mediums reinforce and contradict one another but also lays out a coherent argument for the existence of a ‘ludic medievalism’ that is informed (but by no means fully defined) by its medium, its subject matter, or the interactions between the two. 

Houghton insists that his object of study is not any specific game or even any individual genre of games but rather the shape of the emergent worlds created by the conscious and unconscious decisions and presuppositions of the people who make and play videogames. I say ‘worlds’ in the plural because one of Houghton’s key points is that supernatural elements and full-blown fantasy cannot and should not be separated from the analysis of ludic medievalism. At no point have the two ever been totally disconnected, but in Houghton’s view fantasy has been so central to the history and development of videogames as a medium that even games purporting to depict ‘accurate’ history cannot be understood without the context of the medium’s fantastic conventions. 

With that in mind, the book is organized into thematic chapters, consciously eschewing the presentation of individual case studies. The first two chapters lay out the unique elements of videogames as a medium for encountering the past by focusing on its essential interactivity. More so than any other medium, videogames must take the audience into account, as their active participation is required not just to ensure commercial success, but also to render the experience “complete.” In particular, Houghton emphasizes the power players have on an individual level to alter the fundamental text of a game in the form of counterplay and emergent narratives. Houghton therefore chooses to expand Alan Chapman’s division of historical game genres with recourse to the still-maturing genre conventions used within the medium itself. In addition to Chapman’s “realist” games—which one might call “narrative” or “immersive”—and “conceptual” games—mostly aligning with the “strategy” genre—Houghton adds “Role-playing” games and the more recently-identified “hardcore” genre. In so doing, he shifts the focus of his analysis toward the active agency of the players: not simply acknowledging their interactions within the game, but also their decisions about what games to pick up in the first place. These four genres provide a solid groundwork for Houghton’s later analysis and furthermore take the necessary step away from considering historical videogames as mechanisms to access an author’s idea of the past and toward conceiving of them as complex objects in their own right that interface simultaneously and dynamically with designers, players, histories and cultures past, present, and imagined. 

Each subsequent chapter presents an exhaustive and self-contained argument about the way in which a given theme (violence, political authority, faith, scientific advancement, morality, race, gender and sexuality) is presented in medievalist games as opposed to its presence in games set in other historical periods or in noninteractive forms of medievalism. The Middle Ages in Computer Games will therefore be a useful reference work for more focused studies, but the chapters are also organized such that a reader engaging with the book cover-to-cover will begin to see the consequences of a relatively complex web of interacting concepts well before Houghton fully elaborates them (for example, the teleological role of science in strategic videogames vs in traditional medievalism and the impact that contradiction has for the presentation of organized religion in medievalist RPGs). 

The question of historical accuracy is present throughout the book, though it is not one on which Houghton particularly focuses. This decision is largely to the book’s benefit. Houghton demonstrates early on that, if a game prioritizes it at all, historical accuracy is almost exclusively confined within the domains of aesthetics and marketing. Given that the unique appeal and power of the medium is in its mechanical interactivity, the aesthetics of accuracy[2]  therefore necessarily always give way to the requirements of a smooth, functional, fun play experience. Thus, rather than focusing overmuch on litigating the accuracy of those aesthetic elements, Houghton explores the implications of the interactive experience: the intended and unintended narratives produced by systems interacting as well as the power of players to exploit and overwrite those systems to produce their own narratives. 

This book succeeds convincingly at Houghton’s stated goal of defining “ludic medievalism” as a distinct category of engagement with the medieval past, governed by its own tropes and pressures and worthy of study. While not every chapter presents equally groundbreaking or unique observations about medievalist videogames as separate from their companions in other medievalist media and digital game studies, they all do important ground-laying work in support of future research. Each chapter concludes with a number of more speculative claims to demonstrate the field’s openness and potential for further debate. For example, Houghton posits that the “hardcore” genre of souls- and rogue-likes might present a divergence from the paradigm of traditional masculine power fantasy, heretofore ubiquitous within the medium, by forcing the player to accept the inevitability of failure and thus their weakness relative to their opposition. This claim seems to me fruitful ground for discussions of differing expressions of masculinity and the power of game audiences to redefine the medium through paratext. “Hardcore” is the game genre which brought us the colloquial phrase “git gud,” after all. 

Ultimately, I believe that the utility of this book as a fundamental reference work within its academic niche is such that it will likely only be superseded in the face of significant shifts in the culture of videogames or popular medievalism.

1. The fact that I will predominately be discussing  “videogames” while Houghton describes “computer games” is exclusively an artifact of American and British vernaculars referring to the same medium.

2. Or perhaps “authenticity,” as Houghton shows that appeals to historical accuracy within aesthetics and marketing are much more concerned with conforming to the expectations of the audience and designers rather than any significant engagement with modern historiography. 

 

Chris Herde

University of Wisconsin-Madison