Medieval microchips
The October 22, 2010, issue of the TLS, alas not available genreally, has a fine review of a book by Paul Williamson, Medieval Ivory Carvings: Early Christianity to Romanesque, which describes the collection held at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Some paragraphs of the review that struck me:
A single plaque rarely measures more than 20 cm by 15 cm; which meant that, when there was a lot to fit in, an intricate scene might need to be carved in a square whose sides were no longer than a thumb. One twelfth-century English liturgical comb, 11 cm across, carries no fewer than twelve gospel scenes,
all decipherable…. Among medieval artistic media it was the microchip.
The skill ivory required of its carver, added to the market value of his material, made a product expensive. So it was all the more important to get the imagery right. Even in this one collection we sense the constancy of artists’ efforts to ensure this. Christian imagery called for two kinds of imagination, corresponding to the two natures that theologians [sic!] attributed to Christ. Christ’s human nature demanded a purely visual imagination. This is nowhere better illustrated than in the Nativity, the traditional ingredients of which could be rearranged and augmented from direct or indirect real-life observation. An eleventh-century Cologne Nativity shows the Virgin’s shoes neatly placed on a stool beside her bed. A twelfth-century panel, possibly from Outremer, has the Christ child being washed in a tub. This kind of imaginative detail could also extend before and after the Nativity itself. An annunciation panel made in central Italy around 1200 adds a handmaid, peeping from behind a curtain at Mary’s meeting with the angel. One Carolingian plaque shows post-Nativity scenes with particularly arresting vividness: Herod’s soldiers dash babies to the ground like blacksmiths hammering at their anvils, while in the neighboring panel, a bare-breasted mother flings out her arms as if on Géricault’s “Raft of the Medusa,” in anguish at her child’s death–all this in a frame less than 5 cm. across.
I have always thought that attention to Christian art and popular piety would go far toward disproving the common view that for most of Christian history such emphasis was placed on the divinity of Christ that his full humanity was overlooked.
Spirit has no dimensions, so its depiction is harder for artists the more dimensions they work in: harder, that is, in three dimensions than in two, from which plane ivory sculptures happily inherited a repertoire of recognized symbols. Even in solid ivory, the holy have haloes and angels have wings (often haloes too). As to Christ himself, he wears a halo when immersed in human society, but in gospel episodes where his divinity appears at its purest, his supreme rank of spirituality is denoted by the lozenge-shaped super-halo, framing his whole figure, known as the mandorla…
Symbols easily become clichés. The more conscious an artist was of the reality behind the symbol, the more restlessly he would attempt to express in his own way, each attempt ncessarily a failure, but a different one. This originality is detectable in a French Ascension plaque made around 1160-70, a time when sculptors at Chartres were making similar attempts in stone. The Ascension plaque in question drops the mandorla, and also the traditional Ascension image of Christ as rising vertically, as in a lift or a rocket. Instead, Christ climbs through the air as if on a ladder, one leg high above the other, while his Father’s hand (usually just pointing down from a cloud to show he is there) reaches down to grasp his Son by the wrist, to pull him back home to heaven.
You and can see some of the Vand A’s collection here and here.
I have to ask: do you have any idea what a “liturgical comb” was used for? Straightening out tassels, perhaps? Checking tonsured heads for nits?
I checked the museum’s site, which says: “Liturgical combs were used by priests or bishops for liturgical functions. Its use symbolises the concentration of thoughts towards the liturgy.” Come on. That’s the kind of thing kids write on religion quizzes when they have no idea what the real answer is but are hoping for partial credit.
I wondered that, too. Google liturgical comb, and you’ll find that it was a holdover from Roman times, combing the emperor’s beard, etc. The liturgical comb was used to comb the bishop or priest’s hair (beard, too?) before a service. Orthodox and Roman Catholic. There were prayers that accompanied the use of the comb. Some sources say the prayers are lost, but I found one source that seemed to have them, but it had no look inside feature.
Often buried with bishops.
http://www.religionfacts.com/christianity/things/vestments_bishops.htm
Such an item might come in handy when the Church finally gets around to ordaining women …
Checking tonsured heads for nits?
No doubt used to remove those of the doctrinal sort.
http://www.google.com/#sclient=psy&hl=en&site=&source=hp&q=swear+oath+by+beard&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&oq=swear+oath+by+beard&gs_rfai=&pbx=1&fp=21d89d71a8e9aff0
Reminders of how important beards were (and hair, too) in swearing oaths. (Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, etc.)
Sideshow Bob: “By Lucifer’s beard!”
I had to look it up, too. OK, now that we’ve got that out of our systems, how about those carvings!
I assume depicting the scale of the artworks in some way would have been intrusive.
These are indeed beautiful objects but I couldn’t help noting the Liberal Arts casket.
The comb was used during the service as well as at the beginning.
http://tiny.cc/lq28f
“Whenever the officiating minister stood up after having been seated for some time, and took off his cap, his hair was combed before he ascended the altar. While the process of combing was going on a cloth was spread over the shoulders to prevent the sacred vestments from being soiled.”
Not all were ivory. One that Henry VIII got during the looting of the monasteries, etc., was “of golde, garnishede with small turquases and other course stones”.
Agree about the Liberal Arts casket. Fabulous. The More Information tab says it may have been used to store a scholar’s pens, etc.
A nice reminder that artistic genius is an integral part of the human condition in general, from the Caves of Lascaux to the present.
Thanks for bringing these amazing art objects to our attention, Fr. K. I’m ivory with envy of the artists’ work.
The V&A ivories also make me wonder about the craftsmen. Surely there was some sort of guild with apprentices, etc. What sort of economy could have supported such a guild? Furthermore, the delicacy of the work makes one wonder about how long a worker could ply his craft on any one day, or for how many years. Life expectancy then could not have been that great. What about their eyesight and the available lighting? What sort of prestige was attached to doing this exquisite work?
I have to admit that I’ve never pursued these questions, but would like to know more about these extraordinary craftsmen and the conditions in which they worked. Does anyone know of sources?
With regard to the level of craft and technology required to produce such works, my recollection is that the exquisite gold miniatures on display in the Hermitage were produced by the Scythians in the era from 500 to 300 BC.
These small, anonymous treasures reinforce one of my hobby=horses, viz., that a person doesn’t have to be a great, original artist to produce art worth savoring and saving. Yes, art generally takes training and critical guidance, but there is a lot more talent in this world than the world realizes.
The style and subject matter of these works are not very original, yet they are very beautiful and we treasure them. They’re destroy the Romantic/Nietzschean/individualism claim that worthwhile art must be original. Nonsense. Further, latter mindset has led to chaos and trash.
This seems to catch the spirit and character of such anonymous artists
C A T H E D R A L B U I L D E R S
John Ormand
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
They climbed on sketchy ladders towards God,
with winch and pulley hoisted hewn rock into heaven,
inhabited sky with hammers,
defied gravity,
deified stone,
took up God’s house to meet him,
and came down to their suppers
and small beer,
every night slept, lay with their smelly wives,
quarreled and cuffed the children,
lied, spat, sang, were happy, or unhappy,
and every day took to the ladders again,
impeded the rights of way of another summer’s swallows,
grew grayer, shakier,
became less inclined to fix a neighbor’s roof of a fine evening,
saw naves sprout arches, clerestories soar,
cursed the loud fancy glaziers for their luck,
somehow escaped the plague,
got rheumatism,
decided it was time to give it up,
to leave the spire to others,
stood in the crowd, well back from the vestments at the consecration,
envied the fat bishop his warm boots,
cocked up a squint eye,
and said, “I bloody did that.”
Thanks for the poem, Antonio, I very much enjoyed it, especially the lines “defied gravity, deified stone.”
Thanks, Antonio. I can hear them huffing and puffing in this line:
“with winch and pulley hoisted hewn rock into heaven,”
Yes, what a wonderful time of it they must have had. Especially the architect. Most of all the glaziers. Did you know that Antonio Gaudi, the architect of the Holy Family Cathedral in Barcelona has been proposed for canonization? Or so I’ve read.
I should have said “artists and artisans”, although I don’t know to what extent the distinction applied in those days.
Did you know that Antonio Gaudi, the architect of the Holy Family Cathedral in Barcelona has been proposed for canonization? Or so I’ve read.
Gaudi’s sainthood candidacy is discussed at:
http://www.theworld.org/2009/12/15/antoni-gaudi-architect-and-saint/
Upon being asked when the Sagrada Familia would be finished. Gaudi replied “My client“is in no hurry”.
Thanks, Antonio. Hmm. Saints don’t have to be perfect, do they? Besides builders have a obligation to make sure their buildings don’t fall down on people’s heads.