Symposium on Art, Aesthetics and International Justice: Honouring the Samians? Aesthetic Strategies of International Legitimacy in Three Athenian Decrees (IG II2 1)

[Emiliano J. Buis is a Professor of Public International Law (Law School) and Ancient Greek (Department of Classics) at the University of Buenos Aires (UBA) in Argentina and Permanent Researcher at the CONICET (National Research Council for Science and Technology)]

In her inspiring monograph Art, Aesthetics and International Justice, Marina Aksenova presents a profound reimagining of the foundations of international legal authority. She departs from deterrence and state-centric paradigms, advocating instead for an aesthetic mode of engagement rooted in imagination, affect, and perception. Drawing from philosophical traditions as diverse as Kantian disinterested judgment and Abhinavagupta’s theory of rasas, Aksenova builds a compelling case for what she terms “international justice 2.0”: a cooperative, experiential, and emotionally resonant model of global justice grounded in shared human faculties. She convincingly argues that an aesthetic process of perception—based upon the universality of affect—can serve as a new basis for legitimacy in international legal institutions, especially amid the fragmentation and pluralism that characterize today’s global order.

One of her key insights —that “the ability to perceive (beauty) is truly universal” (pp. 15-16)— opens the possibility for a new form of legal validity, one that circumvents coercion by fostering perceptual alignment. Yet, as compelling as this vision is, it demands a complementary critique. In fact, universality in perception is not always neutral. Visual strategies may forge empathy and cohesion, but at the same time they can also serve as rhetorical mechanisms of hegemony, aestheticizing unfairness as concord. In this sense, I offer here some ideas to justify that Aksenova’s optimistic framing could benefit from greater recognition of how easily aesthetic universality can be co-opted to reinforce existing hierarchies, particularly when uncritically taken as a neutral or global value.

To examine this aspect, I have opted to turn to a historical example from classical antiquity that can illustrate the performative power of aesthetics in international relations: the Athenian decrees of Samos (original text available here, here and here), preserved on a late-fifth-century BCE marble stele found in 1876 and now exhibited at the Acropolis Museum.

Reconstructed from four fragments, the stele features a main legal inscription alongside an upper relief of the goddesses Athena and Hera clasping hands. Elsner has analysed this imagery to challenge the primacy of textual records in ancient history, emphasizing the importance of visual, material-cultural, and literary cues often ignored by historians. His interest in recognizing the gaps and omissions that can exist between written laws and their visual representations —shaped by ideological, economic, and aesthetic influences— aligns with Aksenova’s broader emphasis on the universal human capacity for perception and the importance of imagination in understanding legal and cultural symbols.
The image of Athena and Hera, depicted atop the three interconnected decrees —dated from 405/4 to 403/2 BCE— serves as a pivotal example. As I will explain, this visual representation asserts divine harmony between Athens and Samos, whereas underneath lies a legal text explicitly underscoring Athenian dominance.

Let me explain this apparent contradiction. At first glance, the relief showing Athena and Hera exchanging a handshake offers a powerful symbol of divine alliance. This gesture of dexiōsis (Greek δεξίωσις, ‘greeting’; cf. δεξιόομαι, dexioomai‚ ‘to give someone the right hand’), common in funerary and civic iconography, visually conveys friendship, peace, and mutual recognition. In this context, the goddesses —protective deities of Athens and Samos, respectively— embody the supposed harmony between the two poleis. However, as I have argued elsewhere, this visual message starkly contrasts with the written content beneath it. The decrees, issued unilaterally by the Athenian Boulē, bestow privileges on the Samians as a reward for their loyalty during the Peloponnesian War. Unlike the harmony suggested by the image, there is no bilateral agreement or diplomatic equality here —only a generous act of Athenian ‘imperial’ clemency.

As portrayed by Blanshard in a collective volume on art and inscriptions in the ancient world, the normative text carved in the stele conceals the internal realities of both poleis: the decrees consolidate a unifying image both of the Athenians —suggesting a much stronger power than they possessed, especially after the defeat against the Spartans— and of the Samians, who were a politically fragmented community (only some exiles and refugees were granted Athenian citizenship in the decrees). Despite these limitations, the image of the goddesses standing together endorses a fiction of unity. The handshake serves as a bodily metaphor of equality and bilateral correspondence which does not parallel the content and form of the legal provisions.

The decrees (psēphismata) were adopted by the local Council “to praise the Samian envoys” (ἐπαινέσαι τοῖς πρέσβεσι τοῖς Σαμίοις, line 7), as translated by Lambert and Rhodes. As a norm endorsed by the Athenian people, its main purpose was to “decide that the Samians shall be Athenians living under whatever constitution they wish” (Σαμίος Ἀθηναίος ἐ͂ναι, / πολιτευομένος ὅπως ἂν αὐτοὶ βόλωνται, lines 12-13), letting them “use their own laws, being autonomous” in accordance with previous agreements. It is clear that the inscription ultimately translates a unilateral decision, favouring Athens and its interests. The Samians are only allowed to perform their rights and duties as the result of an act of gratitude acknowledged by the mightier polis. The one-sided nature of this rule is made explicit in the prescript of the second decree, where the provision that “everything shall be valid which previously the people of Athens voted for the people of Samos” (ἅπ[αντα] / [κύρια ἐ͂ναι ἃ πρότερον ὁ δῆμος] ἐψηφίσατο ὁ Ἀθηναίων τῶι δήμωι τῶι Σα[μίων], lines 43-44) reinforces Athens’ overarching authority over its ally.

This disconnect between the visual image and the inscription reveals how aesthetic forms can suppress underlying political and legal inequalities. The visual rhetoric of the stele presents domination as harmony. While the text depicts the Samians as passive recipients of Athenian favour, the image elevates them to an equal divine status, implying mutual recognition. In this way, the artwork functions as a juridical tool: it uses aesthetic coherence to legitimize political hierarchy. Essentially, the visual composition acts as a fiction—crafting an illusion of agreement that covers up the reality of unequal power relations.

While building on Aksenova’s pioneering framework, I believe that exploring these decrees helps to further understand the dual role of aesthetics in law—not only as a vehicle for cooperation but also as a potential avenue for subtle domination. A question arises when comparing these ancient precedents with contemporary legal visuals, such as those explored by Aksenova: what new insights can be gleaned when we view aesthetics not just as a tool of engagement but also as a mechanism of control?

In my view, this historical example resonates deeply with Aksenova’s argument. She clearly notes how international legal institutions today draw on visual tropes —architectural classicism, ceremonial robes, balanced scales—to evoke legitimacy and neutrality. These forms rely on a grammar of perception that presumes global intelligibility but often reflects Eurocentric traditions. Like the handshake of Hera and Athena, these strategies seem to project universality while encoding asymmetry. The Athenian stele does not merely invite participation; it also prescribes roles. The viewer is invited to see harmony where there may be coercion, to feel unity where there is hierarchy. Instead of fostering “new geometries of international justice”, it showcases the desire to control others. 

It should be said here that this tension does not undermine Aksenova’s project —it rather strengthens it by revealing its stakes. If the goal of “international justice 2.0” is to move beyond deterrence and toward cooperation, then we must also account for how aesthetic universality can itself become a tool of normative imposition. Aesthetic contemplation is never fully disinterested in practice. Rather, it must be critically contextualized within the material and historical frameworks that shape perception.

To Aksenova’s credit, she acknowledges the risk of manipulating images to impose power. Her analysis of the aesthetic mode of justice includes a circumspect awareness of instrumentalization and the limits of cultural translatability. Yet her normative framework remains optimistic: aesthetic judgment, she argues, offers a basis for shared understanding that can revitalize global law. I agree —but only if we attend carefully to the political stakes of artistic strategies.

The Samos stele teaches us that visual representation is not ancillary to legal meaning—it is constitutive. Aesthetic form shapes reception, frames legitimacy, and, at times, imposes fictions of fairness and parity. The modern equivalent can be found not only in the architecture of The Hague but also in the choreographed performances of international trials, the symbolic acts of reparation ceremonies, or the curated images of human rights campaigns. All these visual acts generate meaning, elicit emotion, and construct authority. They may inspire solidarity— but also silence contestation.

Aksenova’s vision of international justice is both timely and necessary. Her turn to perception and imagination challenges the rigidity of legal formalism and opens space for a more human-centred jurisprudence. But, as the case of the Samians can show, every exercise of imagination must be reflexive. The power to define what is seen —and how it is seen— is itself a means of authority. Thus, the aesthetic claim to universality may be sometimes received not as inclusion, but as imposition.

My take should not be interpreted as an argument against aesthetics. On the contrary: it is an argument for a more critical aesthetics of law, one that examines not only the affective power of images, but also their ideological foundations and normative effects. One that asks: Whose aesthetic? Whose universality? Whose justice?

The case of the Samos stele exemplifies how aesthetic and visual strategies have functioned as powerful tools for construction and maintenance of legitimacy —both in ancient and modern contexts. Today’s international institutions frequently rely on imagery and gestures to evoke neutrality, fairness, and authority. However, much like the Athenian inscription, contemporary symbols can also hide political disparity and power asymmetries. 

To conclude, Art, Aesthetics and International Justice makes a substantial contribution to the understanding of global law by repositioning perception, affect, and imagination as central to legal authority. I have brought the decrees of Samos to the discussion in order to exemplify how visual harmony may mask underlying inequalities: a dissonance between the appearance of unity and the reality of political hierarchy. This persistent gap reminds us that the universal gaze promoted by Aksenova’s framework must be continuously interrogated for its normative assumptions. 

Aesthetic strategies —whether in ancient decrees or modern international institutions—are not merely expressive but performative and political. They shape legitimacy, elicit emotional responses, and often serve specific interests under the guise of neutrality. The power of imagery to reinforce hierarchies demands a vigilant, reflexive approach —capable of questioning whose perspectives are validated, who might be silenced, and what interests are ultimately served by these visual acts. Only through such careful scrutiny can we move toward a more inclusive and truthful conception of justice. As the Athenians knew well, law, much like art, must be seen not only with feeling, but also with critical clarity and cautious creativity.