ANTONIA SERRA SANNA
Pezza (sic) Antonia, positivo, 1899. (c) Museo di Antropologia Criminale Cesare Lombroso, courtesy Catalogo Generale dei Beni Culturali.
Afterimage by Elisa Medde:
For a long time now, I have been obsessed with a mugshot from 1899, taken in Nuoro, my hometown in Sardinia. The woman in the photograph, whose identity is somewhat opaque today, was photographed during her arrest. Her image is now part of a collection gathered by Cesare Lombroso, a pioneer in criminal anthropology. His theories on anthropological criminology, race, and genetics had lasting consequences and continue to affect us today.
Sardinia was undergoing massive changes at the time. The move from being subjected to Spanish rule to becoming a possession of the House of Savoy in 1720 meant major social and political changes, amongst which moving from a substantially communal land management to a private property-based economy under the House of Savoy. The 19th century saw periods of intense struggle, famine and upheaval, and also saw the introduction of photography on the Island as a tool of colonial control and documentation. Towards the end of the century, by royal command, every person arrested on the island had to be photographed, and a dossier had to be made following the method Berthillon. Of each photograph 6 prints had to be made, and a large selection of those ended up being used as materials for the “new studies” in criminal anthropology. During one night in 1899, almost 700 were arrested in the centre of the Island. Amongst them, is the “mysterious woman” whose portrait hunts me. Her identity is known on the Island: at the time, she was likely one of the most feared women on the island. Books have been written about her, movies have been made, and legends have been created. She was sister to the two “most feared brigantes of the time, eventually slaughtered by the Royal Forces after the largest police operation chronicled in the century, known as Caccia Grossa (the big hunt). Their massacred bodies were photographed as trophies and exposed to the public gaze, a testament to the power of the newborn Italian kingdom. Sardinia’s stability was key to Italy's unification, and her image reflects the broader political context. This woman was called Sa Reina, the queen, equally feared and admired. After her arrest, her brothers were murdered, she spent some time in jail, was eventually liberated, married someone and died in substantial oblivion. We know that the photograph was taken as part of a specific mass arrest. She’s wearing traditional Sardinian clothing, standing straight in front of the camera. Her expression became an act of defiance and rebellion, unreadable and unforgiving.
This portrait became part of the Lombroso Archive, and it was included (together with other mugshots) in an accordion-shaped display format, used to illustrate Lombroso’s thinking in congresses and symposia. Today, the woman depicted is identified with a name that is not hers. Her name was known at the time, her fame being the reason why she got included amongst some of the most famous male bandits. It is also handwritten in the photographs, now hidden under the passpartout holding them. Yet, in current official documents, her real name has been misrecorded due to confusion with identifying Sardinian surnames.
Pezza (sic) Antonia, positivo, 1899. (c) Museo di Antropologia Criminale Cesare Lombroso, courtesy Catalogo Generale dei Beni Culturali.
This photograph could trigger many conversations: about the historical role of photography within colonial contexts, such as the one my Island found itself in, about gender matters related to consent and narrative, about the complexities of relations within dominant and subordinate groups with and within archival entities and the power dynamics they enact and often enable at many conscious and subconscious levels, up to the very complex issue of how identity is constructed, both through photography and despite it. The photograph and the history of the woman it depicts offer an interesting case study in observing how women’s lives and actions were more often than not depicted in historical accounts - their complexities flattened into dichotomies of passive submissions versus terrifying, evil power. Her story is tied to patriarchal and colonial power structures that still influence how we read our past, and understand our present. She is just one in the very long list of historical figures and individuals fetishized as exotic specimens, hyper-sexualised in their fierce barbarism, forced to become almost mythical figures.
Then there is my favourite part: the photograph’s afterlife, its uses and abuses, its purposes, and the meaning it acquired and lost over time. But this part of the story is for another time. For now, it starts with her name:
Antonia Serra Sanna.
Afterimage is an ekphrastic series about that one image you see when you close your eyes, the one still lingering in your mind. We invite artists and writers to reflect on an image they can't shake. This column has been a part of Objektiv since our very first issue in 2010.