Book of Kells Folio 34 Description!

I sometimes have trouble finding satisfying discussions of illuminated manuscripts in general art history textbooks. I have found that many descriptions, while very informative about a specific illumination or artistic style, tend to focus on illuminated manuscript pages as isolated works of art. Although I realize that such isolated descriptions are part and parcel of the general survey textbook (it's impossible to discuss everything in depth!), I still am a little disappointed. I feel like medieval gospel books were meant to be experienced as cohesive whole, not as merely isolated illuminations.

One such example of an isolated description can be found in a recent edition of Gardner's Art Through the Ages, which discusses the "Chi-rho-iota (XPI)" page, folio 34 recto of the Book of Kells (c. 800, shown right). Although I really like that Gardner's touches on historical context by explaining that this particular passage would be read on Christmas Day, I feel like a sense of the illustration within the biblical text and Book of Kells itself (as a whole) is relatively lacking.

This being said, I was quite delighted when I read the following passage yesterday afternoon (see below). This is one of the best descriptions of Folio 34 that I have seen in an introductory textbook. Although the passage doesn't exactly describe the folio in relation to any other pages in the book (and, as I mentioned earlier, I realize such analysis is largely beyond the scope of an introductory textbook), I really like that the author tries to tie the decoration of the page into the actual context of Saint Matthew's gospel:

"The earliest surviving Hiberno-Saxon religious manuscripts reveal and interest in decorating the letters themselves, a not surprising development when we remember that the words were believed to be proclamations of God. This tendency reaches its peak in the Book of Kells. When the text discussing the life of Christ in the Gospel of Saint Matthew (1:22) reaches the point where the Incarnation of Christ is mentioned, the letters burst out into joyful, exuberant patterns. This whole page is devoted to three words - Christi autem generatio ("the birth of Christ") - with most of the page devoted to the first three letters of Christi (XPI). The X is the dominant form, and it surges outward in bold and varied curves to embrace Hiberno-Saxon whorl patterns. Interlace fills other areas, and simple colored frames set off the large initials amid the consuming excitement. The human head that forms the end of the P also dots the I. Near the lower left base of the X, a small scene shows cats watching while two mice fight over a round wafter similar to those used in the Mass - a scene surely of symbolic intent, even if its meaning is lost to us today. The pulsating vitality of the word of God is thus visually demonstrated."¹

Have you found any descriptions of illuminated manuscripts that you like? Do you know of other descriptions that help the reader to better understand either the biblical context or the folio's physical context within the gospel book itself?

1 David G. Wilkins, Bernard Schultz, Katheryn M. Linduff, Art Past Art Present, 6th edition, (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2009), 171.

St. Benedict and Thornbushes

I have a new appreciation for St. Benedict of Nursia (480-547 CE) this afternoon, just having spent a few hours pulling wild thornbushes out of my backyard. I think that is the most grueling and painful exercise I have ever had while gardening, even though I was equipped with gloves and protective clothing. But back to St. Benedict: while battling these bushes, I couldn't help but think of the the saint. According to legend, Benedict cast himself into a thorn bush while naked, to escape the wily temptation of a woman.

When I discuss Benedict in my art classes, I sometimes joke with my students that the thornbush experience was the early equivalent to "taking a cold shower" today. (And it was, at least for some monks!) But since this morning I have a new appreciation for thornbush hoppers. Anyone who willingly throws himself into a thornbush - with the intent of getting pricked - deserves sainthood in my opinion. Definitely.

I thought it would be fun to post some images of Benedict and the thornbush. I was only familiar with a few examples before writing this post, and frankly, I've been surprised that I can't find more works of art dedicated to this legend online. Perhaps monastics wanted to remember that Benedict overcame temptation, but not necessarily focus on exactly how he overcame temptation? Or perhaps there are more images that exist, but they are cloistered away from the public eye? Any medievalists have thoughts on this topic?

"Saint Benedict Overcomes Temptation" (note the devil in the center scene, who is bringing the woman to tempt Benedict) and "Saint Benedict and the Thornbush" (right), Romanesque choir capital, Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire Abbey, France, 11th century

Sodoma II, Life of Saint Benedict: Benedict is Tempted, fresco cycle from Abbazia, Monteoliveto Maggiore (1505-08)

Giovanni di Cansalvo, Saint Benedict Throwing Himself into the Thornbush, ca. 1435-39, Chiostro degli Aranci, Badia Fiorentina

Hermann Nigg, Saint Benedict Writing the Rules, c. 1926

Although I don't think this painting is fantastic, I think it's interesting that the artist included a thorny bush on the side of the painting. This painting depicts Benedict writing his sacred maxims and precepts; these Rules have come to be part of the foundation for monastic living in Western society.

I found another fresco described online (without an image, unfortunately) at the Subiaco Monastery, just southeast of Rome. In this fresco, Saint Francis is grafting roses onto the thornbushes into which Saint Benedict threw himself. I think that the choice of Saint Francis is especially appropriate, since Saint Francis was also known to throw himself into thornbushes to avoid sexual temptation.

The Minneapolis Institute of Arts has proposed some interesting symbolism for thorny plants, given this context of Saint Francis and Saint Benedict. It may be that in some situations thorny plants symbolized chastity and virtue, since these plants functioned as an aid for sexual abstinence!

Our Mother of Mercy and Y1K

Madonna della Misericordia, Church of San Tomá, Venice, mid 14th century to early 15th century

Remember Y2K? I can't believe that it has been ten years since we experienced the Y2K drama and anxiety. I recall that my mom gave our neighbors hand-powered flashlights as a holiday gift that year (almost entirely in jest).

Remember how some people proclaimed that Y2K would bring the end of the world? This actually isn't surprising, since history has shown a repeated end-of-the-world fear with the approach of a new year/century/millenium. Actually, it's interesting to see how this fear even has affected art. I think the most prominent (and interesting) example is the imagery for Our Mother of Mercy, which displays the Virgin protectively taking her protégés/children underneath her cloak (see a late medieval example above). Henry Kraus has discussed that this iconography developed in the tenth century by the order of Cluny, "possibly in response to the terror of the world's end that spread abroad with the approach of the Year Thousand."¹ This protective, loving image of the Virgin must have brought comfort to devout medieval worshipers who feared that the world was ending in Y1K.

Is it safe to argue, then, that the Middle Ages experienced a "Y1K"? I think so. The iconography for Our Mother of Mercy gives evidence for it! Ha!

Do you have a favorite work of art that is inspired by an end-of-the-world theme?

Having written about this end-of-the-world gloom, it seems a little ironic to wish everyone a Happy New Year. Nonetheless, I hope that this upcoming year is better and brighter for everyone. Personally, I'm not focusing on possibilities that the world will end anytime in 2011. In fact, I've already thought to write a post on Mayan art with the advent of 2012... ;)

Happy New Year!

1 Henry Kraus, "Eve and Mary: Conflicting Images of Medieval Woman," in Feminism and Art History: Questioning the Litany by Norma Broude and Mary D. Garrard, eds. (Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press, 1982), 84. See also Mlle. Chatel, "Le culte de la vierge Marie en France, du Ve au XIIIe siécle," Théses-Sorbonne (Paris, 1945): 151-52.

Crucifix of Gero Conundrum

Okay, Ottonian art experts, I need help. I'm trying to resolve an issue regarding the Crucifix of Gero (c. 970, Cologne Cathedral, shown left). The most recent editions of Gardner's Art Through the Ages and Stokstad's Art History mention that this statue functions as a reliquary. According to both books, a cavity in the back of Christ's head contains a piece of the Host.¹

HOWEVER, I recently read here that no cavity exists behind the sculpture. "Despite older sources even citing the exact dimensions of such a reliquary opening in the Cologne sculpture, the restoration of the Gero Cross in 1976 revealed that no receptacle exists in the corpus' head."²

What's the real story behind this? Who should I believe? I'm inclined to believe the 1976 restoration news, but it seems incredulous that both major art history textbooks would have missed the "There is no reliquary cavity!" memo that was written almost 35 years ago. Did any further evidence come about after the 1976 restoration? Or should I continue to lose faith in canonical art history textbooks?

One other thought. Despite that there might not be an opening in its back, I think this statue could still function as a reliquary: in the 10th century Archbishop Gero allegedly placed the Host and True Cross in the once-cracked wood of the statue (see footnote #2 below). But I guess there's no way to prove that miraculous story through scientific analysis, is there?

1 Marilyn Stokstad, Art History, 4th ed. (Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2011), 448. See also Fred S. Kleiner, Gardner's Art Through the Ages (Backpack Edition: The Middle Ages), 13th ed. (Boston: Wadsworth: 2010), 201304.

2 Søren Kaspersen and Erik Thunø, Decorating the Lord's Table: On the Dynamics Between Image and Altar in the Middle Ages (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), 59 (available online here). This same book also mentions the tradition of how the Crucifix of Gero came to be a so-called reliquary: "The early eleventh century Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg contains a miracle story involving Gero of Cologne, who served as archbishop from 969 to 976. The passage in Chapter Two of Book Three reads: 'Meanwhile, Archbishop Gero of the see of Cologne died. As I have only spoken briefly about him, I will not relate a few things which I previously held back. He had a crucifix artfully made out of wood, which now stands above his grave, in the middle of the church. When he noticed a fissure in the crucifix's head, he healed it, trusting not in himself, but rather in the healthy remedy of the highest artisan. He took a portion of the body of the Lord, our unique comfort in every necessity, and part of the health-bringing cross, and placed them together in the crack. Then, prostrating himself, he tearfully invoked the name of the Lord. When he arose, he found that the damage had been healed through his humble benediction.'" See Kaspersen and Thunø, 45-46 (available online here).

The Capitoline Wolf is Medieval?!?

I don't know how I missed this news (it's over two years old), but I thought that I would post it for others who may not have heard. In recent years scholars have questioned whether the "Capitoline Wolf" (an iconic statue of a she-wolf that is related to the mythological founding of Rome, see left) is Etruscan. Winckelmann first attributed this statue to the Etruscan period; he based his reasoning on the way that the wolf's fur is depicted. In turn, it generally became accepted that the statue was created in the 5th century BC.

However, a couple of scholars have questioned this attribution since the 19th century. The most recent critique was published by art historian Anna Maria Carruba in 2006. Carruba noted that in the 1997 restoration of the statue, it was observed that the she-wolf was cast as a single unit - a technique that was common during the medieval period.

Carruba's work eventually led to radio-carbon dating tests on the sculpture. About twenty dating tests were conducted at the University of Salermo, which resulted in the announcement that the she-wolf was created in the 13th century AD! In other words, she was created at least 1,700 years later than we originally thought. Wow. Sorry Winckelmann: it looks like you've struck out again. Ouch.

This is a crazy paradigm shift for me. I've always connected the Capitoline Wolf with the Etruscans (and the Romans by extension, since she is connected with the story of how Rome was founded). I've always known that the Romulus and Remus figures underneath were made during the Renaissance (they were fashioned in the late 15th century AD, probably by Antonio Pollaiolo), but it's crazy to think that the Capitoline Wolf is medieval.

I should note, though, that the attribution of this statue is still far from resolved. Not only can one get a sense of the ongoing debate here and here, but right now the Capitoline Museum still has the Etruscan date on their official website. As for me, though, I'm currently inclined to go with the radio-carbon tests and the several scholars which have questioned the attribution. (And maybe I feel this way because I often question Winckelmann's judgment, even outside of this Etruscan attribution.)

Is this news for anyone else? Maybe I'm just behind the times. What do other people think about this new date?

Hildesheim Narratives and Experience

I bet I'm the only person who woke up early this morning and began thinking about the doors of the Hildesheim Cathedral.  Oh man, I'm such a nerd!  I have been thinking about these doors because of an interesting article that I read over the weekend (which I'll probably explain in another post, but I wanted to jot down a couple of my own thoughts first). The doors of the Hildesheim Cathedral (also called the "Bernward Doors,") date from 1015 (see a detail of the doors on the left, and click here to see a complete image of the doors).  The left section of the doors includes scenes from the Old Testament, and the right section of the door includes scenes from the New Testament.

The Old Testament scenes appear chronologically from top-to-bottom, whereas the New Testament scenes appear chronologically from bottom-to-top.  I think this layout is especially interesting to consider in terms of how the viewer's physical eyes and head would move when looking at the panels chronologically: the viewer starts by looking up at the Creation of Eve, and the viewer's eyes and head would move downwards (to physically "fall") as the story of The Fall is revealed.  The composition of first Old Testament scene, the Creation of Eve, even encourages the viewer to look downwards - God the Father and Adam's bodies are composed of downward pointing angles (click on the image above to look at the top panel in better detail).

When reaching the end of the Old Testament section (the bottom of the left side of the door), the viewer moves his eyes over to the beginning of the New Testament section (the bottom of the right side of the door).  The first New Testament scene shows the Annunciation.  It's interesting to note that the viewer's eyes stay downwards at the beginning of the New Testament panels, particularly in terms of the redemption and the Fall (since Man is still in his fallen state before Christ's birth and sacrifice).  However, the viewer's eyes and head move (or angle) upward as the narrative progresses, continually rising until Christ's crucifixion and resurrection are completed.  The last panel of the doors depict the Ascension of Christ into heaven.  At this point, the viewer is again looking upward, in the same position that he/she assumed when first looking at the Creation of Eve.  I think that the viewer is even encouraged to continue looking upward, towards heaven, in this Ascension scene.  Christ's body swoops and arcs upward, encouraging the viewer to literally look towards heavenly heights, beyond the physical boundaries of the door (see top panel in this image).

I love when artists consider the physical participation of the viewer when creating a work of art.  The Hildesheim viewer's physical process of "falling" and "rising" with the biblical narrative is really cool.  It's almost like a medieval visitor to the cathedral could travel a mini-pilgrimage by just "moving" through these panels.

Tree of Jesse Imagery

I was first introduced to the Tree of Jesse imagery by this window in Chartres Cathedral (c.1145-1155, shown left). This imagery was popular because it contained both Old Testament and New Testament themes, since Christ was part of Jesse's lineage. At the bottom of the window, Jesse is reclining on a bed, with a tree stem growing out of his loins. (I have to admit, the tree stem growing out of Jesse is my favorite part of this imagery. I like how artists have depicted the scripture Isaiah 11:1 literally, even though sometimes I think the trunk is, uh, a little too suggestive of Jesse's virility.)

The trunk and branches of the tree rise along a central axis of the window. Within the branches are four royal kings, each king filling a square central panel. These kings are not identified by specific attributes, but traditionally David appears as the first king "stemming" from Jesse, followed by Solomon. In this window, it is not certain who the other two kings specifically represent, but they obviously reference the rest of the royal line between Solomon and the Virgin Mary, who is depicted following the four kings. At the top of the tree is Christ, who is depicted after the Virgin.*

The Tree of Jesse has appeared in religious art for centuries, and it is found in all types of mediums. This window from Chartres Cathedral is very similar to the Tree of Jesse window in Saint-Denis (c. 1145), which isn't surprising, since the windows were made about the same time. I especially like this window, because one of the frames contains a depiction of Abbot Suger presenting the Tree of Jesse window (19th century restoration, detail shown right). It's a Tree of Jesse within a Tree of Jesse!

Are you familiar with other Tree of Jesse depictions? Do you have a favorite?

*Some of this paragraph was taken from information that I wrote for an academic database. I don't know if that database will ever get published online, but if it does, just know that I actually did write the content for this post.

The Immortal Peacock

According to ancient legend, the flesh of the peacock is incapable of decay. Yep, that's right. It was thought that a peacock's body would never rot. It would be really cool if this was true, but it isn't. This myth was propagated by early writers (see here for an interesting example in Augustine's City of God).¹ As a result of this myth, the peacock has been associated with immortality in Christian art. Furthermore, because male peacocks shed and regrow their plumage each year, the peacock also is associated with resurrection.

Peacocks have appeared in Christian art for centuries. Some of the earthen lamps used by early Christians were decorated with peacocks.² One of the earliest paintings of a"Christian" peacock decorates the ceiling painting in the catacomb of Priscilla (3rd century AD, Rome, Italy; the peacock is located in the lunette above the "Life of Priscilla" scene). Since catacombs were the tombs for early Christians, it is appropriate that a depiction of a peacock be included here, due to this assocation with resurrection and immortality. I think it is especially interesting that the peacock is located near a depiction of Christ, since Christ is also associated with resurrection and immortality (Christ is shown as the Good Shepherd in the central, circular frame).

Thousands of years later, in the Renaissance, Fra Angelio and Fra Filippo Lippi still included the peacock in their religious art (this is a detail from the Adoration of the Magi, c. 1440/1460). Perched on the stable above the Christ child, the peacock watches the wise men bring gifts to the baby. As a complement to the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, the peacock symbolizes the gift of immortality that is offered by Christianity.³

I know that peacocks have both positive and negative associations in other contexts and cultures. In America, it could be argued that peacocks are most commonly associated with vanity. I think it's fun to look at peacocks in a different light, as a symbol of immortality.

1 To see some other examples of early writings (and a great image of a peacock from a medieval bestiary, see here).

2 "Roman Catacombs," in The Catholic Encyclopedia (2009), accessed 18 May 2009. Found online here.

3 A complete view of the painting (and more information about it) can be found here.

Lilith

I recently read George MacDonald's novel Lilith, which caused me to think about the Jewish legend of Lilith, Adam's first wife. Legend holds that Lilith was God's first, unsuccessful attempt at creating a female companion for Adam. This dreadful attempt resulted in a female demon who attempts to corrupt the human race through lust.

One of the best sources for the Lilith story is a medieval text called Alphabet of Ben-Sira (c. 10th century AD). According to this text, Lilith was made from the earth at the same time as Adam. Lilith was an independent woman. Since she and Adam were created the same way, Lilith refused to acknowledge Adam's superiority (was she the first feminist? ha!). Eventually she left Eden to consort with demons that live in the Red Sea. When making a second female companion for Adam, God made Eve out of Adam's rib so there would be no question of superiority.¹ Some sources also refer to Lilith as a half-woman, half-serpent. Filled with jealousy for Eve, Lilith reportedly took on the form of a serpent in order to provoke the Fall of Man (as recorded in Genesis).² You can read a little more about the Lilith legend and history here.

The story of Lilith has inspired artists for many centuries. In the Middle Ages, many artists included a half-female serpent in depictions of the Temptation of Adam and Eve.³ One Renaissance example of the half-serpent Lilith is by Michelangelo, found on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. In the late 19th century, Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote a poem about Lilith and also painted a scene of the seductress combing her golden hair (Lady Lilith, painted 1868-69, shown to the left). Scholars agree that this painting was inspired by the description of Lilith in Goethe's Faust (Walpurgisnacht scene).²

The most interesting article I've read about Lilith is by Virginia Tuttle. She argues that Hieronymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights (1505-1510, left panel of altarpiece shown below) actually includes a depiction of Adam and Lilith, not Adam and Eve. I have always wondered why there are demonic beasts in the foreground of this Garden of Eden scene (it doesn't seem too paradisaical, does it? Although, one can't take Bosch too seriously; this whole altarpiece is a little absurd.). However, if one considers this woman to be Lilith instead of Eve, the presence of demonic beasts makes sense.

Tuttle also convincingly argues that this left panel scene does not conform to the iconography of traditional Creation of Eve scenes. Traditionally, Adam is shown asleep or lying on his side, so that Eve easily can be created out of his rib. In other triptychs, Bosch follows this traditional iconographic format (see details in his Last Judgment triptych and Haywain triptych). However, in the Garden of Earthly Delights, Tuttle argues that it appears Lilith has been "raised up from the earth, as if she were created independently and immediately following Adam's creation."² I think this is a convincing argument and I recommend that people read Tuttle's article (it can be found in JSTOR). My only reservation about this argument is that it doesn't seem to be widely accepted. This article was written almost twenty years ago, but recent art history texts continue to label this panel as Creation of Eve. Does anyone know of (or have) criticisms for this argument?

What do other people think?

1 To read a synopsis Lilith story in the Alphabet of Ben-Sira, see Virginia Tuttle, "Lilith in Bosch's 'Garden of Earthly Delights," Simiolus 15, no. 2 (1985): 123.-24.

2 Jeffrey M. Hoffeld, "Adam's Two Wives," The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin, New Series 26, no. 10 (June 1968): 434.

3 For Medieval examples, see Ibid., 430-40.
4 Virginia M. Allen, "'One Strangling Golden Hair': Dante Gabriel Rossetti's Lady Lilith," The Art Bulletin 66, no. 2 (June 1984): 286.

5 Tuttle, 123.