260 – Saints, Martyrs, and Saints in waiting (More of the ‘More things’)

Fra Angelico, The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs and The Dominican Blessed, about 1424-25. The National Gallery, London.

This week I reach the end of my exploration of the Fra Angelico exhibition in Florence, looking at his Students and Successors on Monday, 3 November at 6pm. This will include popping back into the Palazzo Strozzi to see the last section of the exhibition I haven’t covered, dealing with the work that he – and his workshop – carried out in Rome. It will also introduce the ‘School of San Marco’ with a rich array of paintings by artists who flourished in the 16th century whose work, like the work of Fra Angelico himself, can best be seen in San Marco itself. If you haven’t managed to catch all four of the talks, I did a slightly reduced version for ARTscapades, and they are still available as ‘catch up’ recordings of two study evenings which I named (slightly inaccurately it turns out) as ‘Origins’ and ‘Influence’.

After so much time among religious orders, I will take a week off before switching to political radicals, with the socially engaged and artistically engaging works of Seurat and his Neo-Impressionist circle. The talk, Radical Harmony, will introduce the National Gallery’s popular exhibition of Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists on Monday 17 November. I will then move back a century, and to the Enlightenment, with another National Gallery exhibition, Wright of Derby: From the Shadows on 24 November. The last two talks this year will look at two single-painting exhibitions, Double Vision: Vermeer at Kenwood  (at Kenwood House, Hampstead) and Caravaggio’s Cupid (at the Wallace Collection), on 1 and 15 December respectively. They’ll go on sale soon, so keep your eye on the diary!

If you read last week’s post you’ll realise that I’m playing catch up. Last week I wanted to talk about all of this painting, the panel to the right of centre of the predella from Fra Angelico’s Fiesole Altarpiece, but I realised that there was just too much to say. So this week I will look at the rest of this panel, and cover the two outer panels as well – although maybe not in quite so much depth. Having talked about the top row of figures already – the forerunners of Christ – what remains are the Saints and Martyrs. I’ll start in the centre row, going from left to right, and then carry on with the bottom row from right to left… I’ve found a different digital file for this week – one which is embedded in the online catalogue entry by Dillian Gordon – and I’m using that here as it isn’t cropped as close as the other version available on the NG’s website. If you look closely you can see the wooden edge of the panel, and the barb where the engaged frame has been removed. Using this one allows you to see the figures round the edges more fully.

The five figures we can see clearly in this detail are all carrying palm leaves – a symbol of victory over death, and often held by angels who are about to hand them to someone who is being martyred: these people are all martyrs, they were all killed because of their beliefs. At the front of the group, on our left, is the protomartyr, the first person to be killed because he was Christian: St Stephen. His story is told in the Acts of the Apostles, Chapters 6 and 7. A deacon in the early church, he criticized the Sanhedrin for not following God’s law, and this led to him being being dragged out of the city of Jerusalem and stoned. He is often shown with a stone, or stones, resting on his head or shoulders, and there is one, looking like a small white blob, at the top of his back where the green robe joins his gold collar. Behind him are Sts Cyprian and Clement, a bishop and a pope respectively, whose names are written on the gold bands of their hats. The next two, in blue and red, have the same robes as St Stephen, with a small, patterned rectangle in front of their chests, apparently hung over their shoulders. They must also be deacons. One supports a millstone, and the other, a grill: the latter is perhaps one of the better known saints, St Lawrence. The other is St Vincent of Saragossa, who was thrown into the sea with this millstone tied around his neck. However, as so often in the attempt to murder Saints, this didn’t work: even tied to a millstone his body floated to the surface.

Moving further back the first two of of these martyrs cannot be identified, but they are followed by St Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, whose name is on his mitre. He was a widely revered figure, and, with a feast day on 29 December, he was a regular part of the extended Christmas celebrations. There was a chapel dedicated to him in Santa Maria Novella, the mother church of San Domenico for which this predella was painted, which might explain his inclusion here. Next to him is the early Dominican martyr, St Peter, his head and shoulder red with the blood from wounds inflicted by the cleaver (head) and dagger (back) with which he was killed. The two men in pink, with blue hats (rather than the red, which becomes more common) are the brothers Cosmas and Damian, doctors, who are best known as patron saints of the Medici family because, unlike the Medici, they were actually medics. However, at the time this was painted the Medici had not yet attained the level of power, or patronage, for which they are now famous, and the inclusion of Cosmas and Damian in this image relates to their high status within the church from as early as the 4th century.

In this detail, the man holding an arrow at the far left is assumed to be St Sebastian – even though he is fully dressed. This seems unusual in Tuscany, where he is almost always depicted in little but a loin cloth (however, he is often shown as a young, well-dressed nobleman in the Marche – notably in paintings by Carlo Crivelli). It is not as if a saint couldn’t be shown nearly naked: the hermit Onuphrius on the opposite panel is wearing nothing but a garland of leaves around his waist, for example. The bishop saint, holding a heart with ‘yhs’ (an abbreviation of ‘Jesus’) inscribed on it many times is St Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, and the soldier with a silver helmet could be St George – but there are plenty of other soldiers to choose from, if we’re honest, and without a dragon we can’t be sure. It is suggested that the man with blood round his forehead could be San Miniato – but he had his head chopped off at the neck, so this wound would seem irrelevant. St Nicasius of Rheims had the top of his head removed, but he doesn’t seem to have been revered much outside of France. However, his story is told in the Golden Legend, apparently – and as that was compiled by a Dominican, Jacopo da Voragine, it would have been well known among the Dominicans who commissioned (and painted) this altarpiece. The identification of St Christopher seems more secure, even if he doesn’t appear in the way you might expect (the Christ Child is not sitting on his shoulder). As a giant who acted as a ferryman across a deep river, he usually carries a staff, which, given his size, is often shown as an uprooted tree – and he is certainly carrying one here. Also, given that he was regularly striding through water, he tends to have bare legs. This figure is one of the four in the predella who are kneeling on one knee rather than two (I mentioned them last week), and this allows Fra Angelico to show that he does indeed have bare legs. Finally, we have Sts Sixtus II and St Erasmus, another pope and bishop, who once more are identified by the inscriptions on their hat bands. However, for three of the martyrs here there is no possibility of guessing who they are – which again begs the question: did Fra Angelico know? Given that there is no documentation for the altarpiece, it is very hard to say. In most commissions for altarpieces, or any church decoration, the patron would get advice from a religious figure, and usually someone from the church for which the work was being commissioned, to help in deciding who or what should be included, and this advisor could also make suggestions to the artist. But in this case, the artist was one of the patrons, as he was painting for his own church. He, and all of his fellow friars, were very well educated… so they could have discussed it amongst themselves. Alternatively, they could have turned to the prior – or some especially gifted theologian among their number – for advice. It seems likely that the Fiesole Altarpiece as a whole was one of the first paintings that Fra Angelico executed on taking the Dominican habit – and I wonder if he is including all of these saints, martyrs, and forerunners of Christ as part of his preparation, or as ‘revision’ of what he has learnt so far having joined the order? I even wonder if these are the ‘notes’ he is taking to visualise – and so learn – who all the saints and martyrs were.

Apart from the Virgin Mary, in the position of honour at Christ’s right hand (at the top right of the left-hand panel), this is the first time we have seen any women. So here they are, finally, on ‘the distaff side’ – at the left hand of Jesus. Unfortunately, though, there is very little that is certain, and few clues to identify the paltry number of figures represented – but then, this was an all-male convent. The woman carrying the cross is St Helen, mother of the Emperor Constantine, who travelled to the Holy Land and discovered the True Cross – the Cross on which Jesus was crucified. Her name is also written on her crown: Sancta Lena. Behind her is a nun carrying a lighted candle. This is St Bridget of Sweden – who we will see on Monday in a later painting by Fra Angelico: the reason for the candle will become clear. Before founding her own order (the Bridgettines), she had been a Franciscan tertiary – one of whom is shown in the Franciscan habit, with a rope belt, just next to her… This could be one of her companions, I suppose, but there is nothing to say precisely who it is.

Again, with the exception of St Catherine, with her wheel, in the centre of this detail, it is hard to tell who any of the figures are – although the woman carrying a cross just next to her is probably St Margaret of Antioch. However, like St George, without her dragon we can’t be sure (there are some tentative suggestions for more of these saints in the catalogue entry, if you would like to follow them up). The fact is, although the names of many saints were known, it’s not as if anyone had researched them and their history. The Golden Legend, the collection of stories of the lives of the saints which I mentioned earlier, was gathered together in the 1260s by Jacopo da Voragine, a Dominican friar and later Archbishop of Genoa. The fact that he was a Dominican is probably not coincidental – but everyone knew the Golden Legend anyway: it was one of the texts which was used to teach people to read.

Even at the front of the group, closest to Jesus, the identification of these women is not obvious – with the exception of St Agnes. She is usually shown carrying a lamb (‘agnus’ in Latin), but here it has become, specifically, agnus dei, the Lamb of God, with the addition of a crossed halo and a red wound in the chest. This is relatively rare, but not unknown. Two of the women are not carrying palms leaves – so they must be saints who were not martyrs. The catalogue suggests they could be Mary and Martha – i.e. Mary Magdalene, identified since the time of Pope Gregory the Great as Martha’s sister – but I can’t see any signs or symbols which could confirm that. Neither is wearing red, nor are there signs of penitence, to imply that one of them could be the Magdalene. Nor is there a jar of precious ointment, which, with her long red hair, is her main attribute. Even the identity of the woman at the front of the group is not clear. She is not a martyr – unlike the woman in red next to her, who is holding a palm leaf. The first female martyr is said to be St Thecla, a follower of St Paul, although as her life is first reported in the apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, dating to the second half of the second century, her feast day was removed from the General Roman Calendar in the 1960s. Nevertheless, she is still revered in some churches, and would have been, generally, in the 15th century. It would certainly make sense to have the female protomartyr just below St Stephen, her male equivalent. However, if this is her, this is the first time I have seen her in a painting. This leaves one last woman, the closest woman to Jesus after the Virgin Mary, but who would that be? The National Gallery catalogue states, quite simply, that it is ‘Saint Anne (diagonally opposite the Virgin)’. This would make sense, but there is no visual evidence to support the identification, nor have I ever come across ‘diagonally opposite’ as a category. Not only that, but I can’t think of another representation of St Anne by Fra Angelico, and I have a feeling that the Dominicans weren’t especially interested in the story of the Virgin’s origins. The Immaculate Conception was a specifically Franciscan doctrine, and the feast day was not approved for the church as a whole until 1476 – and that was by a Franciscan Pope, Sixtus IV. Not only this, but St Anne usually – but not always – wears red: this woman wears a cangiante blue/pink robe. You could argue, of course, that Fra Angelico doesn’t always use the ‘standard’ colours, and indeed, that these colours weren’t ‘official’ anyway. For example, he dresses St Peter in yellow and pink rather than yellow and blue, as we saw when we looked at the opposite panel a couple of weeks ago. However, the blue/pink colours of this woman’s robes are the same blue and pink as the clothes worn by Adam, two rows above her. If Adam leads the forerunners of Christ, who better to lead the only row of women than Eve? A comparison with Andrea Bonaiuti’s Harrowing of Hell (also known as The Descent into Limbo, by the way) might help here, as it did last week.

In Bonaiuti’s painting, Adam is wearing a long blue robe. At his left side (the ‘distaff side’) – just in front of him from our point of view – is a woman in pink. Who else would this be at the front of the gathering than Eve? Fra Angelico’s work for San Marco makes several references to paintings in Santa Maria Novella – most notably the Crucifixion – and I think this is another example. I’m sure that, in this predella panel, he is painting Eve – he’s even chosen to paint Adam and Eve in similar blues and pinks. Bonaiuti shows another woman, in red, in the top row, and this is a similar red to the one worn by St Anne in Masolino and Masaccio’s Virgin and Child with St Anne in the Uffizi. Having said that, I can’t see any reason why St Anne should be placed here in the crowd. At Noah’s left hand, this woman is far more likely to be Mrs Noah, who had a far greater presence in Christian mythology than she does in the Bible.

The remaining two panels include characters we have already met, and who we will meet again when we discuss the School of San Marco in the talk this coming Monday. Narrower than the other panels, they were placed at the base of the two pilasters on either side of the altarpiece. They frame the rest of the predella, and all of the people depicted have something in common: they are members of the Dominican Order, the Order of Preachers. You can see this clearly: they are all wearing the black and white habit – although, if you look closely, a few people are wearing minor variants, a result of their differing status within the order. They kneel in adoration of Jesus and of the heavenly host – which they frame – and, in doing this, they are effectively the predecessors of the Dominican intercessors who are present in the frescoes of Fra Angelico we saw in last Monday’s talk: people setting a good example which we should follow. And the people depicted here are especially good. All but two have beams of light radiating from their heads – and at this point in history, that means that they are on their way to Sainthood, but haven’t got there yet, so are not worthy of a full halo. They have been beatified as a result of their sanctity, but, as yet, no miracles have been performed in their name, so they have not yet been canonised as Saints – although after this image was painted, some were.

This is the bottom row on the left hand panel. The four women at the front wear a white tunic and scapular just like the men above them, but rather than the black, hooded, cappa they have a black cloak, and a black veil over their heads. They are Dominican nuns – considered the secondary order, with the friars as the primary order. Behind them is a man who appears to be one of the friars, but he is wearing a black scapular, rather than a white one. He is a member of the tertiary order – the third order of Dominicans. He follows the Rule of St Dominic, but does not live in the convent – he lives at home, and carries out the normal life of a layman, while remaining entirely devout.

On the other side there are four more women, but they have a white veil over their heads, rather than a black one. Rather than nuns, they are female tertiaries – who, like the male tertiaries, also live outside a convent while following the Rule. Behind them are two men dressed a bit like the others in black and white, but we can see their belts clearly: they are not wearing the scapular, and nor are they wearing the cappa. They wear a cloak without a hood, but they do have black hats. Also, unlike the others in these two panels, they do not have the radiance of the Blessed. In some way they must be related to the commission, they could even be the patrons of the altarpiece. As I’ve said before, though, the Fiesole Altarpiece was paid for by the bequest of Barnaba degli Agli (hence the appearance of St Barnabas, the ‘fourteenth apostle’, on the altarpiece and in the predella). These may be some of his relatives. Dillian Gordon suggests they could be Jacopo and Domenico, two of his sons, as he left his ‘right of patronage’ of the convent to them: their appearance here makes perfect sense. If you want to know more about the Blessed who can be identified it would be worthwhile consulting the catalogue yourselves, as I only want to mention three of them.

All are labelled, either in black or white script, and usually against their white or black clothing: the writing reflects their Dominican heritage. However, this man, in the top row, and closest to the centre on Jesus’s left – so the highest in status on this particular panel – has his name written on his open book. His mitre – the two-pointed hat – tells us he was a bishop, and the open book suggests he was either a preacher, or was learned (or both). That might not help much, as this is the Order of Preachers, so they all preached, and they all had to be learned in order to preach orthodox beliefs as part of their mission to combat heresy. However, they had to learn from someone. Even a scholar as great as St Thomas Aquinas had a master – and this is the man. The Blessed Albertus Magnus, as he is named here (c. 1200-1280), was a German Dominican who wanted to align Aristotelian philosophy with Christian belief, a task that St Thomas Aquinas perfected. He was finally canonised, as St Albert the Great, in 1931.

Two rows below him is the most important of the women in the right panel. She is named as ‘b. caterina’ – Beata (or Blessed) Catherine. Look at the delicacy with which she is painted – the tiny dots of white marking the fringing all around the hem of her headdress, for example, and the gilding of her bible, including the edges of the leaves of parchment. A Dominican tertiary who used her freedom to travel widely and speak truth to (male) power, in 1461 she was canonised as St Catherine of Siena (1347-80) by Pope Pius II – notably a Sienese pope. In 1939 she became co-patron of Italy (alongside St Francis, thus bridging the two major mendicant orders), and since 1999 she has also been one of the patrons of Europe. At the beginning of the 16th century a convent for nuns was dedicated to her on the opposite corner of the piazza from San Marco, and that is where the artist of the image on the right must have learnt to paint: Plautilla Nelli, some of whose works we will see on Monday.

And finally, on the left panel, in the second (or even third?) row down, and third from the right – so in no especially important place – is ‘.b.vi˜ce˜ti.’ – although the squiggles are above the vowels. They mark abbreviations: the Blessed Vincenzo (1350-1419), who was canonised as St Vincent Ferrer in 1455. Given that both St Catherine of Siena and St Vincent Ferrer are named among the Blessed, these names must have been written before 1455. As I said a couple of weeks ago, given that it would have been difficult to add names to the altarpiece after it had been completed – which would have involved either moving a sizeable, weighty altarpiece, or clambering over the altar with the black and white paint – it seems far more likely that these names, and those on the other panels, were part of the original conception of the predella. St Vincent Ferrer would later be painted by one of Fra Angelico’s successors as an ‘official’ Dominican artist, Fra Bartolomeo, and that’s St Vincent, above one of the cells of the extended convent of San Marco, in the detail on the right. We’ll talk about Fra Bartolomeo more on Monday, too – so I do hope you can join me.

If you got to the end of this excessively long post – congratulations! And if you’ve read all four – well, I just hope that they will encourage you to spend more time with the panels themselves the next time you can get to the National Gallery. Thank you!

259 – There are more things in Heaven and Earth…

Fra Angelico, The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs, about 1423-4. The National Gallery, London.

So far I have discussed most of what can be seen in the glorious Fra Angelico exhibition/s in Florence, covering the first room in San Marco and most rooms in the Palazzo Strozzi. However, if you manage to get to Florence, there is always more to see, and that is the reasoning behind the third and fourth talks. This week, on Monday 27 October at 6pm, we will be At home in San Marco, even though Fra Angelico didn’t actually change his allegiance from his own ‘house’ as a friar, San Domenico, just outside Fiesole. He was certainly at home there, and I will start with the work he produced for that convent, before moving back down the hill to San Marco. The majority of the talk will be about the frescoes he and his workshop carried out in the cells and communal spaces there. The week after (3 November) we will will thinks about his Students and Successors, looking at the work he executed outside of Florence towards the end of his life – in Orvieto and Rome – and introducing some of the assistants who worked alongside him (including Benozzo Gozzoli and Zanobi Strozzi). The talk will also cover the so-called ‘School of San Marco’ – artists associated with the convent in the 16th Century who could, as both artists and Dominicans, be counted as Fra Angelico’s ‘successors’. These include Fra Bartolomeo, Fra Paolino, and Suor Plautilla – the first Florentine woman recognised as having had a successful career as an artist.

I’ll need a week off after that for a change of gear, with two talks about exhibitions at the National Gallery: Radical Harmony – Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists on 17 November, and the week after (24 November), Wright of Derby: From the Shadows. I’ve nearly settled on the talks for December, but keep changing my mind – so keep your eyes on the diary for more information.

Today though, having talked about two of the panels from the predella of Fra Angelico’s first major altarpiece (or, at least, the first that survives) I will move on to a third – the one to the right of centre. I had originally intended to cover the whole panel, but there’s so much in it I’ve decided I’ll have to look at it in two posts. This week we’ll look at the top row of figures, with the others to follow next week – and I’ll add in the last two smaller panels at the far left and right as a coda. Trust me, with a couple of notable exceptions the people represented in them are really rather obscure – unless you are a Dominican historian.

At first glance, the structure of this panel looks much the same as the one I discussed last week. Apart from the fact that everyone is facing to our left (because they are looking towards Jesus in the centre of the predella) there are, again, three rows of holy figures kneeling in prayer or adoration. We know that they are all holy, as all have haloes, and, once you get closer, you will see that, as before, the haloes in the lower two rows are ringed with black, but in the top row they are not. However, if you look back at last week’s panel – The Virgin Mary with the Apostles and Other Saints – there is a difference. In that composition there was more space, with figures like the Virgin Mary, St Jerome, and St Paul the Hermit slightly isolated from the others. In this panel the composition is more crowded, and even though one or two figures stand out, on the whole they appear more tightly packed. Indeed, last week’s panel included 52 individuals. This week, there are 65… I can’t explain why this should be, apart from the fact that, in Hamlet’s words (Act 1 Scene 5) ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’. OK, so Shakespeare had not been born when this was painted, but you get the idea – and that’s why I’ve decided to talk about the panel over two posts. The haloes tell us that these figures are holy, and the word ‘saint’ comes from the Latin ‘sanctus’, which also means ‘holy’. However, not all of these figures are Saints, in the traditional sense.

Unlike last week, when I started with the characters nearest to Jesus, who would therefore appear to be the most important, I want to start with those furthest away, at the top right. This will make it far easier to understand what they have in common, and so to work out who some of them are.

The ease of identification is the result – as it was for some of the otherwise obscure Saints last week – of having their names clearly painted on the panel. Two of the characters here have scrolls on which their names are inscribed – we would call them Zeccharia and Habakkuk. They are Old Testament prophets – people from the Jewish scriptures whose prophecies Christians interpret as referring to the coming of Jesus Christ. Even without their names, we would suspect that they are Old Testament prophets, as they hold scrolls. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but more often than not anyone holding a scroll comes from the Old Testament, and anyone with a Codex (a book with turnable pages, as opposed to one you unroll – basically what we would now call a ‘book’) is from the New. That’s quite simply because scrolls came before codices, the latter appearing in the 1st century, and developing to become more dominant by the 4th – thus paralleling the development of Christianity itself. Each of the two prophets points to his scroll, and looks at the other – but neither seems that happy. It could be that they disagree about what will come to pass, but I suspect it’s because they know that things will go badly before they get better: the Messiah will suffer before we are redeemed. The other two in this detail are also thought of as prophets – Daniel’s name is written just below the gold neckline of his robe, while Jonah’s is written on his book – the Book of Jonah (thus demonstrating that the scrolls vs. codices distinction is not clear cut). Why did Fra Angelico use their names rather than symbols to identify them? Well, he’s got to fit 65 people onto this panel, and there probably wasn’t space for a den of lions, let alone a whale.

More prophets in this detail: Joel has his name on his shirt, like Daniel, while Ezekiel’s is on his rather fancy hat. Isaiah and Jeremiah on the other hand have theirs on their scrolls. David’s is on his harp, which is odd, as it is unnecessary. He is wearing a crown, and and everyone here is a prophet. Only two Kings are thought of as prophets, David and Solomon, and David was the one who played the harp (he is believed to have written the Psalms). He would be instantly identifiable, even without the name. However, there are two more here who must remain anonymous: the men in yellow and black. With no name and no identifying features we would be guessing. Nevertheless, they have haloes – so must be ‘holy’. On reflection, this might appear odd. In the Catholic church such Old Testament figures were rarely given the title of ‘Saint’. However, in the Greek Orthodox faith they were – Agios Esaias would be St Isaiah, for example. Because of the close ties between Venice and Constantinople, this tendency crossed the Mediterranean, and there are churches in Venice dedicated to St Moses and St Job as a result. For Fra Angelico’s painting, it is clear that the forerunners of Christ are worthy of a place in heaven, and also that as holy men they should have haloes too.

Getting closer to the centre, and so to Jesus in the central panel, there are two more unidentified people, in black and red. The character in blue is Joshua – his name, written as ‘Jesue’, is on his blue robe (but I couldn’t read that until I found out what it said from Dillian Gordon’s catalogue entry!). The identity of the figure at the left of this detail should be straightforward: a man holding two stones slabs – which we tend to call ‘tablets’ – with writing on them. The one in his right hand is held up towards us, and is inscribed ‘NON ABEBIS DEOS ALIENOS’ – ‘you shall have no other gods’. This is the first of the ten commandments, held by Moses. His brother Aaron, the High Priest, is further to our right. Apart from the fact that the gold band around his hat is labelled ‘ARON’, this type of conical headgear – not unlike the papal triple tiara, but without the three crowns – was often used to represent the High Priest in Italian art. The crossed bands over his chest also suggest a priestly air, as does the otherworldliness of the blue/yellow cangiante robe, even if he is not wearing the breastplate of 12 precious stones with which he is often depicted. The final figure here might come as a bit of a surprise. It is, undoubtedly, St John the Baptist. He wears a camel skin robe under a pink cloak, and carries a staff topped with a cross, picked out in silver leaf. This is an entirely traditional way of representing him. He also looks out and gestures towards our left – so towards Jesus – as if to say ‘Behold the Lamb of God’, the words with which he recognised Jesus as the saviour. I’m not convinced he’s looking at us, though – he seems to be looking over my right shoulder. John the Baptist is an entirely New Testament character, even if he did quote Isaiah (‘I am a voice crying in the wilderness’) – but he was one of the forerunners of Christ. Indeed, because of the quotation from Isaiah 40:3 in John 1:23 he is often regarded as the last in the line of the Old Testament prophets, and is sometimes referred to as the Precursor – the man who came immediately before the Saviour – hence his place among the forerunners of Christ.

One last group – for today. The man in red remains unidentified but the others do not – even if there is some question as to who one of them is. On the right, holding a knife, the silver blade of which has largely worn away, is Abraham, prepared to sacrifice his son, Isaac (who is not seen). The colour combination of a pink robe covered by a blue cloak, lined with yellow, is especially attractive, I think. The man holding the house-shaped box is also well known, although it’s worthwhile bearing in mind that the object he holds is symbolic, or a model. Made up of small sections of light brown material, the ‘roof’ also has a series of dots. These are nails, hammering together planks of wood, and together they make the ark. This is Noah, although clearly you couldn’t get a pair of every animal into this tiny model. It has a hole in the roof – presumably for the raven and the dove to fly out, and for the dove to fly back in.

So, who are the last two? Who would be closest to Jesus in this image? An old man (he has long white hair, and a long white beard), wearing pink and pale blue. All of the people we have discussed so far are probably kneeling: we cannot know that for sure, as we cannot see as far down as their knees, but as the bottom row in this panel – and in the one we saw last week – are all kneeling on two knees, it seems likely. This figure is one of only four in the two panels who are kneeling on one knee, with the other raised (there was an unknown Franciscan and St Peter in last week’s panel, and we’ll get to the fourth next week). This makes him take up more space, and overall he also seems a little larger than the others, suggesting that he must be important in some way. Not only that, but we can see one of his feet – the only visible foot in this panel (and it may be relevant that he is not wearing shoes). It’s also worthwhile noting that, going from left to right, these characters are in the order they appear in the Old Testament – until you get to St John the Baptist, that is. Indeed, those with large, easily identifiable names or symbols are all in order – with the exception of Zechariah and Habakkuk… which might explain their debate. I did wonder if the small names in black could have been added later, but Dillian Gordon points out that, ‘The inscriptions identifying the figures, written in minute white letters on a black background or black letters on a white background, following the Dominican colours, are clearly contemporary. It would have been extremely difficult, not to say impossible, to add them neatly once the altarpiece was in situ’. I should have thought of that. It would have involved clambering over the altar – but I’ll come back to it next week! However given that the figures on the left – at least – are in ‘chronological order’, it would imply that the man on the far left of the panel should have come first – and indeed he did. This is Adam. I’ve always found it surprising that, in paintings of The Harrowing of Hell, the first person out is the first person in: Adam. Even the man responsible for the fall is forgiven, and enters heaven. So who is that who comes just after him? It’s interesting that Dillian Gordon isn’t sure – and I can see why. She suggests that it is either Eve, or Abel. My first response is that this figure has short hair, and so is probably male – but then, so do some of the female martyrs we will see next week. However, the hairstyle and the face look more like those of a young man to me – the cheeks have less of a rosy glow, and the hair doesn’t seem to have been ‘dressed’ in any way – unlike the women. Also, if Adam is fully dressed, in pink and blue, why would Eve be wearing animal skin? I’m sure it’s Abel, Adam’s able son.

However, he has three ears of wheat which appear to be tied to his right thumb (the left hand is covered by his animal skin: I wanted this pale area to be the lamb that he sacrificed, but you can see that it really isn’t, if you zoom in close enough on the National Gallery’s website). This doesn’t seem to make sense, as ‘Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain [his brother], was a tiller of the ground’ (Genesis 4:2). So it might make more sense if this were Cain holding wheat, although as Cain was the first murderer (a result of the first example of sibling rivalry) he seems even less likely to get into heaven. I am convinced that it is Abel. I do think Eve is in the painting, though, and we’ll come back to her next week, and I do have circumstantial evidence that this is Abel.

As I’ve said before, Fra Angelico’s Fiesole Altarpiece was painted for the high altar of the church of San Domenico, just outside of Fiesole. San Domenico was the second Dominican convent in the area of Florence, and was the ‘daughter house’ of the first, Santa Maria Novella. The detail above was painted between 1367 and 1369 by Andrea Bonaiuti in the Chapter House, now known as the ‘Spanish Chapel’, of Sant Maria Novella. I wrote about it over five years ago when discussing The Devils – although I have trimmed them off the right hand side of the image to make the remaining section clearer. Jesus has beaten down the gates of hell, crushing a devil beneath them, and has taken Adam by the hand to lead him out.

Immediately behind Adam is a young man in green carrying a lamb – surely Abel’s sacrificial lamb – and he is followed by Noah, clutching the model ark with a hole in the roof, not unlike the one we’ve seen before. This is effectively – with the exception of one unidentifiable figure – the same order as in Fra Angelico’s painting. This fresco could even have been his model. As the mother convent of his own, it is extremely likely that Fra Angelico would have been familiar with the Chapter House in Santa Maria Novella, and as an artist, he would have been especially interested in the work of his artistic forerunners. I can only assume that the three ears of wheat in the Fiesole predella panel are a reference to an obscure element of Dominican theology… unless you know otherwise?

Further back Aaron and Moses are standing next to David, and beneath the latter’s harp is St John the Baptist, who, as a relatively recent arrival, still appears to be making his way to the back, introducing the saviour to people who would never have seen Jesus in the flesh before. Again, the arrangement is not entirely dissimilar to Fra Angelico’s composition. I think Eve is also one of the number, as is Mary’s mother, St Anne – but not in this detail: I will come back to them next week. Before then, though, we will explore San Domenico, and it’s daughter house, San Marco, in the talk on Monday.

258 – Who’s Who in Heaven?

Fra Angelico, The Virgin Mary with the Apostles and Other Saints, about 1423-4. The National Gallery, London.

Greetings from Florence! I’m currently in the middle of introducing a second group to the delights of the first half of the 15th century, with a rich array of works related to the career of Guido di Pietro, who we now know as Fra Angelico. The day before I left home I talked about the earliest works in his career (as currently exhibited at the exhibition Fra Angelico in San Marco), and on Monday 20 October (the day after I get back) I will explore the superb range of paintings spanning the rest of his life As seen at Palazzo Strozzi.  We will return to the convent to think about Fra Angelico: At Home in San Marco on 27 October, exploring the frescoes he painted for the friars’ cells, and for the communal areas of the building, as well as a selection of manuscripts he made for the Dominican order. My last talk in this series (3 November) will introduce some of his Students and Successors, as well as discovering what remains of the artist’s work after he left Florence. We will also explore the ‘School of San Marco’: painters including Fra Bartolomeo, Fra Paolino and Plautilla Nelli – the first woman recognised as having a successful career as an artist in Florence – who were the most important Dominican artists of their day.

Subsequent talks will cover two exhibitions from the National Gallery, Radical Harmony on 17 November and Wright of Derby: Out of the Shadows on 24 November, and they will go on sale soon. In December I will probably be talking about Vermeer at Kenwood, the Barber Institute at the Courtauld, and Constable and Turner at Tate… Details will be in the diary before too long!

As a reminder, this is the predella of Fra Angelico’s first major altarpiece, originally painted for the high altar of San Domenico in Fiesole, the priory he joined sometime between 1418 and 1423. The convent (a term which can refer to the homes of either nuns or friars) remained his ‘House’ for the rest of his life, despite the widespread assumption that he moved to San Marco in Florence when the Dominicans took over that building in 1436. The church of San Domenico developed over the centuries, and the altarpiece was adapted by Lorenzo di Credi in 1501, changing it from a polyptych to a single-panelled pala. At some point in the 19th century the predella was removed from the convent, ending up in the hands of a dealer, and later, in 1860, it was acquired by the National Gallery. I talked about the central panel two weeks ago, so this week I will turn to the panel which has the next highest status – at Jesus’s right hand (or, from our point of view, to the left of centre).

Similarly to the way in which the angels are arranged in the central panel, there are three rows of figures in brightly coloured clothing. However, as you look from right to left (and so away from the centre of the altarpiece) there is a gradual decrease in colour, with more neutral hues and monochrome costumes. This is related to the decreasing status of the subjects the further away from the centre they are and, more specifically, who they are and why they wear those clothes. Even on this scale it is possible to see that all of the figures have circular gold haloes, and so they must all be saints. What you might not be able to see is that the haloes of the bottom two rows are ringed with black paint, just like the angels in the central panel, whereas those in the top row are not. However, you should be able to see that here.

Starting closest to the centre (on our right), no figure is closer to Jesus than the woman at the top right. Kneeling in prayer – as all the figures are – she wears a long blue cloak which also covers her head. This cloak has an olive green lining, and is trimmed with a gold hem. Her dress is pink. On her shoulder we see a star, derived in part from the medieval canticle Ave Maris Stella – ‘Hail, Star of the Sea’. In it, she is compared to the Pole Star, which sailors use to navigate, the implication being that we should use her example as our guide in life. The Latin for ‘of the Sea’ – Maris – was also a pun on her name: Mary. All Catholics are supposed to have a special devotion to the Virgin Mary, but for Dominicans she has a particular significance. In his superb book, Fra Angelico at San Marco, William Hood compares each convent to a beehive, and,  ‘…like a honeybee every friar had his place in the collective at whose heart was the Virgin Mary, the legal abbess of every Dominican convent, or by extending the metaphor one could even say its queen’. It is perhaps for this reason that Mary is seen not only closest to Jesus in the predella, but also separated from everybody else. Just below her is St John the Evangelist in his older embodiment as the author of the gospel, rather than being shown as the youngest of the apostles. His quill is held, rather curiously, in his left hand: I can only assume that this is for purely aesthetic reasons. But then, he is using his right hand to offer his gospel to Jesus, which might explain also explain it: holding the bible in his right hand might be seen as more suitable (everyone trustworthy was assumed to be right-handed, especially given that the Latin for ‘left’ is sinister). John’s arm is clad in the same rich blue worn by Mary, and this colouristic similarity creates an affinity between them – as does his pink cloak lined with green, colours which are also used for the Virgin’s clothing. Bizarrely, the open page of his bible is illegible, made up of scrawled lines, whereas elsewhere on the panel there is writing which can be read – but perhaps that is because the first verse of St John’s gospel is so well known ‘In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God’. His gesture is therefore important: the bible – the Word of God – is here being held towards Jesus – the Word of God…

The remainder of the figures in this detail (I’ve repeated the same one), have been identified as ‘apostles’, but that creates a bit of a problem. We ‘know’ there were twelve of them, but here there are fourteen. Even after Judas’s suicide there were twelve: the community gathered together to appoint a replacement, St Matthias (see Acts 1:15-26). Nevertheless, St Paul is often represented as one of the number, because, together with St Peter, he was seen as one of the first heads of the Church after Christ. Indeed, he is depicted in this panel. Just to our left of Mary there is a figure with short grey hair and a short grey beard carrying a pair of keys. These are the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven which Jesus said he would give to St Peter. Now, St Peter very often wears yellow and blue, but here he has yellow and pink. There is a real sense that Fra Angelico wanted Mary to stand out, and if Peter was also wearing blue that might not happen. However, given that he is wearing pink he is more closely associated with the man to our left of him, who has a longer, darker beard and a receding hairline. He carries a sword, which, like one of Peter’s keys, is picked out in silver leaf: this is St Paul. Consequently, the first two heads of the Church are in the top row, and are more-or-less the closest to Jesus after Mary. It’s only ‘more-or-less’ because there is another figure squeezed between Peter and Paul. He has white hair and a long white beard, and is wearing green – which is the most common way in which Italians represent St Andrew, the brother of St Peter. However, as yet we haven’t sorted out who all these people are. If we have St Paul and St Matthias numbered among the apostles, that would still only bring us up to thirteen. So – who is the fourteenth? This is what it says in Acts 14:13-14

Then the priest of Jupiter, which was before their city, brought oxen and garlands unto the gates, and would have done sacrifice with the people.
Which when the apostles Barnabas and Paul heard of, they rent their clothes, and ran in among the people…

So Barnabas – who travelled widely with St Paul and is mentioned more often that Matthias – also appears to be counted as one of the twelve. It’s clear, though, that the role of ‘apostle’ is not strictly limited to the number originally chosen by Jesus. Nevertheless, if we include Barnabas together with Matthias and Paul we have arrived at fourteen. However, although St Paul is clearly distinguishable, the others are not. Have a look, though, at one of the figures who stands out in the lower row in the detail above. He wears a cangiante pink and yellow cloak (see the previous post for an explanation), which in itself makes him more prominent. He also seems to take up a bit more space than anyone else in this row, with one elbow sticking out to our left, and the book held up to our right. Now compare him to the figure standing in the position of honour – at the right hand of the throne (i.e. on our left) – in the Fiesole Altarpiece. This part of the predella would have been directly below this Saint.

It is surely no coincidence that both have short grey curly hair and beard, and have a receding hairline. They wear cloaks which are mainly pink, but also include yellow, and their other clothes are blue. Both figures are carrying a red book. It is also no coincidence that the figure in the main panel is St Barnabas. He occupies the position of honour as he is the patron saint of the donor, Barnaba degli Agli, who died in 1418, twelve years after the convent had been founded. It took a long time to finish the building – partly, no doubt, because the Dominicans have a vow of poverty, and had run out of money. In his will Barnaba ‘left 6000 florins towards the completion of the church, as well as liturgical furnishings and chalices’ (quoting from Dillian Gordon’s superb catalogue entry, to which I am also indebted for many of the identifications below). This sum covered not only the completion of the church (which was consecrated in 1435) but also twenty cells for the friars.

It would be all but impossible to name all fourteen of the figures in the detail above, although that hasn’t stopped people trying. St John the Evangelist and St Matthew were both apostles and evangelists, and it is possible that St Matthew is the figure holding a quill to our left of St Barnabas. But then, St Barnabas has a quill as well, and he didn’t write any of the bible. Admittedly there is an apocryphal Epistle of St Barnabas, but no one after the fifth century or so seems to have considered it relevant.

There are even fewer certainties about the members of the group at the bottom right, although it may include the remaining two evangelists, Sts Mark and Luke. Three figures hold a book, and one, on the far right, a quill, so these attributes wouldn’t appear to help. However, it has been suggested that the saint at the bottom right is St Luke. He is closest to Jesus in this row, and as the patron saint of artists, he might have been granted a higher status by one of his own trade. Luke does often (but not always) wear red and blue.

The top row on the left of the panel has some figures who are more easy to recognise. Going from right to left (and so, theoretically, in decreasing order of importance) we can see St Silvester, an early pope, who can be identified quite simply because his name is painted across the white strip on his robes. Behind him are three bishop saints, each wearing a mitre – St Hilary, Bishop of Poitier (with his name on his blue cope), St Martin of Tours (the name is on his book), and another, who remains unidentified. If you can’t see the writing – or any of the other details – look up the panel on the National Gallery website and zoom in! The next figure stands out because he wears the black cappa and white tunic of the Dominican order. He is also wearing the white scapular, which hangs across the chest and down below the waist, although here the end is out of site, hidden behind the saints below. This is the founder of the order, St Dominic himself. The lily is a sign of his purity, while the star in his halo denotes his unquestioned sanctity. The book is open at a paraphrase of Psalm 37:30, ‘The mouth of the righteous speaketh wisdom, and his tongue talketh of judgement’ – which could be taken as expressing the Dominican mission to suppress heresy though preaching, their wisdom founded on a profound study of orthodox beliefs. Next to him is another unidentified bishop, and then St Gregory the Great. He was a pope – hence his ‘hat’, the triple tiara – and was considered to have been especially inspired by the Holy Spirit. Indeed, if you can see a small white blob on his halo in front of his forehead, it is a tiny representation of a dove speaking into his ear. Next to him is another bishop wearing a deep blue cope covered in what I would have assumed were fleur-de-lis – which might have led me to assume that this is St Louis of Toulouse. However, he doesn’t have a Franciscan habit under his cope. Instead, there are three golden balls resting on his bible: it is St Nicholas of Bari (aka Father Christmas – the gold is for giving). The saint to our left of him is wearing a Franciscan habit (brown, with a rope belt) quite simply because this is St Francis – he is holding his hands out to show the stigmata. The row is completed by (yet another) unidentified bishop.

In the middle row, again going from right to left, we can see St Jerome, in his red cardinal’s hat and, unusually, a pink robe, then St Anthony Abbot, with beard and staff. There are two Benedictines in black, one with a stick, St Benedict, and another, who might be one of his followers, St Maurus. The two bishops could be St Augustine and St Zenobius (one of the patrons of Florence), and then another Dominican. Slightly plump, with a star at his chest and a book, this is the great theologian Thomas Aquinas. Another Franciscan is followed by two monks in white. I realise I am in danger of merely listing, and it really is worthwhile looking closely at the details – so here is St Paul the Hermit, wearing something that looks surprisingly like a basket.

St Paul was said to be the first ever Christian hermit, living in the Egyptian desert for 97 years – dying at the age of 113. He lived near a spring of clear water, next to which grew a palm tree which provided not only his food, but also all the materials he needed for clothing – and the detail is fantastic. Look at the care with which every strand of the woven palm leaves is depicted – the frayed ends, the veins, the variations of light and shade, and even the projecting fronds at his right wrist, everything seems so delicately painted, and the figure can only be around ten centimetres high. Now have another look at the predella as a whole (either at the top or bottom of this post), and think about the level of detail which Fra Angelico has included in almost every figure, and you’ll realise that this painting is truly remarkable.

I think it’s rather charming that, as the first hermit, St Paul is shown suitably isolated. Behind him a monk in brown is followed by two Carmelites in white, and then St Giovanni Gualberto, founder of the Vallombrosan Order, with one of his companions. Usually they wear a greyish brown habit, often darker than this, and with far fuller sleeves, but here they really doesn’t look that different from the Franciscans – although there’s no rope belt. Next to them is a bishop saint with a Franciscan habit under his cope – so this is St Louis of Toulouse. The last three are St Onophrius, a hermit who wore nothing but leaves, and two other unidentified monastic figures.

There are several things I find remarkable about all of this. The first is that, although we can’t identify every figure now, Fra Angelico would have known who every single one was. The second is that he could characterise them all, and had designed every single figure – even though there must be a considerable contribution from the workshop. Having said that, the panel is too small for more than one person to be working on it at any one time – but the master could have handed it over to his assistants when he had done the most important parts. The next is that this is just one of five panels from the predella, which would have been on the high altar out of reach of everyone except the officiating Dominicans. Even then, how could they have stopped to look at the whole company of heaven during Mass? Or would they have returned later, individually, for prayer and contemplation, gradually working their way through, naming every figure and addressing a different, appropriate prayer to each individual saint? Or is this painting ‘simply’ an act of devotion, painting each figure to illustrate the respect due to them, even if no one subsequently bothered to address them individually? Or – and this may make more sense – is the fact that we know that the artist knew who they all were enough? This would mean that we know that they are all identified saints, which adds to our understanding of the power of Christianity, given that so many recognised figures witnessed their faith, and died in that faith (the saints who are called ‘confessors’) or died for that faith (the martyrs)? We don’t need to know who they all are, we just need to know that somebody did, and that there are so many of them. And remember, so far we have only seen two of the five panels of this astonishing predella. What we find in the remaining three is in some ways more surprising. But then, the remarkable richness of Fra Angelico’s work is surprising, and that is one of the things we will think about on Monday.

257 – Unite the Kingdom (of Heaven)

Fra Angelico, Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven, about 1423-24. The National Gallery, London.

I have just returned from my first visit to the glorious exhibition Fra Angelico in Florence. Spread across two venues – Palazzo Strozzi and San Marco – it is the most comprehensive collection of works by this Dominican master that have ever been brought together. The curators want us to reassess the way we appreciate his works – and they are entirely successful. Since the 19th Century Fra Angelico has been seen as clinging on to the tails of the medieval (and, as a result, he was very much in vogue post-Pre-Raphaelites), but he now emerges as one of the great innovators of the Florentine Renaissance, up there with Masaccio who was, as it happens, slightly younger than him. To understand his work fully, and to put it in the appropriate contexts – both the artist’s life and faith (which were pretty much one and the same thing) and also the artistic developments of the time – I have planned four talks. The first, this Monday 6 October, is called The Melting Pot, and will reflect the remarkable range of styles and influences current in Florence in the first quarter of the fifteenth century. It will build, as much as anything, on the San Marco section of the exhibition, and on the first room in the Palazzo Strozzi. In addition to the earliest paintings by Fra Angelico, there will also be works by Ghiberti, Masaccio, and Gentile da Fabriano, not to mention an artist from another religious order, Lorenzo Monaco (the clue is in the name). After I’ve been back to Florence to see the exhibition again, I will return to continue the series with As seen in the Palazzo Strozzi (20 October), which will walk us around the remainder of this, the larger part of the exhibition. Fra Angelico 3: At Home in San Marco on 27 October (going on sale after the first talk, with a reduced price for those who have attended that one) will take us back to the Priory to look in detail at the many frescoes which the artist and his workshop carried out in the friars’ cells, and in the communal spaces. Finally, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors (3 November) will look at the artist’s work after he left Florence, and at his heritage. This will include not only the students and assistants with whom he worked, but also some ‘official’ Dominican artists from subsequent generations, including Fra Bartolomeo and Plautilla Nelli – arguably the first successful woman who worked as a painter in Florence.

Beyond that, I’m already looking to cover two exhibitions from the National Gallery (Neo-Impressionism and Joseph Wright of Derby), and three exhibitions of Loans to London (from the Barber, of a Vermeer, and a Caravaggio). But more news about them later – keep an eye on the diary, as I’m still juggling my dates! Today, though, I want to look at one of the National Gallery’s paintings by the hero of the moment.

There are actually eight paintings by Fra Angelico listed in the gallery’s catalogue, only one of which has made it to Florence. Five of them (see above) originally belonged together as the predella panel of one of his earliest surviving works: the San Domenico Altarpiece – painted for the high altar of the eponymous church in Fiesole, which is where Fra Angelico’s vocation and career are first recorded, and which remained his ‘house’ throughout his life. Because of its rich detailing, these five panels are hard to look at thoroughly in the National Gallery. It is, in its own way, encyclopaedic, and given that the individual figures are so small, it is all too easy to assess the amassed company of heaven, marvel at the multitudes, and move straight on without really looking. I’ve shown it to several groups, but don’t feel that I have ever done it justice. As a result, I think it’s time to slow down our looking, and look at each of the five sections individually. Well, one each for the first three weeks, and then two together for the fourth – using each text to introduce one of the talks. Although we read words from left to right it doesn’t make sense to approach the painting in this way. Instead, we will start in the middle this week, and then gradually work our way out.

The title of the central section could equally well be the title for the predella as a whole, Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven – but that will become clear as we work our way through the panels over the next month or so. Starting from this point we see Jesus himself at the centre of the painting, splendidly isolated against a golden background. He wears something akin to a white toga, its colour barely distinguished from that of his skin, or for that matter, the background colour of the flag he is holding – white. The flag also has a red cross, as does his halo. He is surrounded, at a discreet distance, by a vast number of figures dressed in what at first glance appears to be a multitude of colours, but which could be broken down to red, pink, green and blue, with a hint of yellow here and there. Precisely who they are and what they are doing will become clearer as we get closer. Remembering that the best place to be is at the right hand of God – the position of honour – we will start by looking at the top left corner of the panel.

Every single figure has a halo, and every single figure has a pair of wings: these are just some of the angels. All of them also have a flame above their heads – something I would usually associate with Pentecost – which suggests to me that they are all inspired by the Holy Spirit. While there might not appear to be any way to distinguish these angels, the top row are all wearing red or pink, which implies that they are the Seraphim, the highest of the nine choirs of angels. Their name comes from the Hebrew word for ‘burning’, and they were considered by some authorities to be the only beings who could withstand the full glory of the deity. Isaiah describes them as being ‘above’ the throne of God, occupied in constant prayer and praising: ‘And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory’ (Isaiah 6:3). Thomas Aquinas – a leading Dominican theologian – considered them to burn with the love of God, and as Fra Angelico himself was a Dominican this is surely relevant. Looking from right to left you can see how one has both hands raised, one has the palms of his hands pressed together, and a third crosses his hands over his chest. As you keep going along the line you will see that these gestures are repeated: they are all associated with prayer. Fra Angelico went as far as demonstrating these acts of devotion in frescoes for the novices’ cells at San Marco, as we shall see when we get to Fra Angelico 3. Having said that, the two Seraphim at the far left appear to be practicing the hand jive – but then, dance has often been considered an essential part of worship (the National Gallery’s catalogue entry, to which I am indebted, suggests that most of the angels are dancing – but I’m not sure that I would go that far). The second row down in this detail has a wider range of colours, with the addition of green and two shades of blue. Several of the angels play musical instruments. From left to right I can see a tambourine and a tabor, beaten with a drumstick. There is also a portative organ (i.e. a portable organ – the right hand plays the keys while the left hand pumps the bellows) and a harp. The angels at far left and right repeat some of the gestures of prayer we have already seen.

If it is ‘higher’ status to be at the right hand of God, it is not at all bad to be at his left hand: at least you are close – unless you are a soul at the Last Judgement, of course, in which case you be be heading down to hell. The second most important group, then, is made up of the angels at the top on our right. They are all clothed in a rich deep blue – the blue of heaven – and represent the Cherubim. Thomas Aquinas associated them with knowledge – and so in some way, they are the ‘head’ as opposed to the Seraphim who could be seen as the ‘heart’. Having said this, different theologians – and artists – had different ideas, and as a result the colours with which they are represented can also vary. In this case the Cherubim echo the Seraphim’s constant prayer and praising – including the dance-like gestures with one hand held to the chest, and another indicating Christ: this gesture is repeated in some of the larger-scale figures in other altarpieces. Many angels have their mouths open – they are singing – and one, on the far right, looks up towards God the Father in the highest firmament. I’d recommend taking this opportunity to look at each angel individually, as it’s hard to spend the time doing this when you’re surrounded by the general public – and when there are another 2000 or so other paintings to look at in the Gallery. In the second row the angels sport a similar colour palette to the figures on the opposite side, although there is a figure strumming a lute whose robe shifts from yellow to green. Just to our left of him one of the number plays a viol.

If we move back to the left of the painting, and down a tier, there is another colour shift in the figure on the far right. He is clasping a zither, and his robes are a combination of pink and yellow. This is a fabric in which the warp and weft are made from two different coloured threads – a shot silk, effectively – and the colour you see depends on the way the light is catching the fabric as you look at it. In paintings, this changing colour is described with the Italian word cangiante (‘changing’), and although it does exist down here on earth, in paintings it is especially associated with angels, as it tends to dematerialise the form and gives them an other-worldly air. Just to our left of this cangiante robe, one of the angels, wearing the deepest blue, holds an orb in his left hand. He could be a Dominion. According to the most common hierarchy, they were the fourth rank of angels – after Seraphim, Cherubim and Thrones – and they helped to maintain order in the universe. However, although the orb is a common symbol for the Dominions, and we have already seen the Seraphim and Cherubim, Fra Angelico doesn’t appear to be concerned with the enumeration of all of the nine choirs of angels, as described by a number of different theologians, not to mention Dante (who some considered was a theologian anyway). In this painting it would be difficult to point out the Virtues, Powers, and Principalities, for example, or to distinguish between an Archangel and an Angel. I’ll have to try and do that with another painting in another post on another day… There are more musicians here, though, with the angel on the far left blowing a long trumpet picked out in what is now tarnished silver leaf (the organ pipes in the row above were also made of silver). In the centre of this row the angels playing the harp and lute look at each other, as if to keep in time, but none of this row appears to be singing, as none has their mouth open – with the exception of the zither player on the far right, perhaps.

The equivalent, central row of angels on the right of the painting is similarly disposed. Two may be singing, most are praying, and three are instrumentalists. There is another long, silver trumpet – although most of this is hidden behind other angels. Nevertheless, a figure playing double pipes (also silver leaf) looks towards the trumpeter – who is wearing a helmet. It is possible that he represents one of the Powers, the fifth choir of angels, who are sometimes shown wearing armour. Just below the double-pipe player, a figure in blue holds what I take to be an angelic shawm. I say ‘angelic’, as shawms, which can be this shape (particularly if they are higher-pitched examples), tend to be made of wood, whereas this is clearly silver leaf, which I’m taking as being simply more heavenly. On the left of this choir is the only angel in the company that we can name.

In many ways he looks exactly like all the others – short, blonde, curly hair and an innocent face with a perfect complexion. These features remind us that the angels are in a state of grace – they have no taint of sin, and so are without mark or stain: they are immaculate. Like all the other angels (you can go back and check!) his halo is picked out with a black circular outline, and tooled with one circle just inside the black, and two more further in. In between these is a ring of small, circular marks each of which would have been made by tapping a small ring-shaped tool (basically a tiny tube) onto the burnished gold leaf, using a small hammer or mallet. His clothes and wings are all blue, but touched with gold, and while the feathers appear to continue across his clothing, if you look carefully at the gold trims at the shoulders, elbows, cuffs and skirt, you should be able to see that he is wearing blue armour – a different version of ‘heavenly’, perhaps. He also holds a silver shield and sword. This is St Michael, one of the archangels (the 8th choir, just higher in status than the ‘angels’ themselves), responsible for weighing the souls at the Last Judgement. He also defeated the dragon – “that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan” (Revelation 12:9) when some of the angels rebelled – and fell.

At the bottom left of the painting it is worthwhile noticing that relatively few of the figures are dressed in the deeper, richer tones – there are more light blues and pinks, a few yellows, and maybe as deep as a salmon pink and jade green – but this is partly to make a lighter, more ethereal contrast to the dark blue ‘ground’ which slopes up from the bottom left corner of the painting towards the right of this detail. On the right there are more trumpeters, and on the left, two viol players. Others sing, and even dance – there is a sense of movement from left to right, towards the centre of the image, and so towards Christ. All of the haloes are depicted in the same way as St Michael’s, although they overlap here more than anywhere else, telling us not only that the angels are several layers deep, but also that Fra Angelico already knew how to create imaginary space and depth on a two dimensional surface.

For whatever reason there is a greater preponderance of musical instruments at the bottom right: two more trumpets, a tabor, silver cymbals, two more shawms and two more viols (one of which is not being played). The angels on this side lean also lean towards the centre, and again they are layered several rows deep. They are also standing on the same sort of blue slope. On the far right, one of the angels appears to have turned away from us – but look how beautifully his wings are foreshortened, another indicator of Fra Angelico’s spatial awareness.

The blue base of the painting reaches a curved summit in the centre. It is the very top of a blue sphere, the vault of heaven, or, to put it another way, the sky. We are down on earth, in the middle of this, with the blue sky above and around us. Were we to penetrate this blue sphere – which surrounds us on every side – we would be in heaven. The medieval mindset saw the cosmos as being structured by a series of nine crystalline spheres, each of which was moved by one of the nine choirs of angels. Set in these were the sun, moon and five known planets (though not in that order), and the ‘fixed stars’. The blue of the sky – which we now know to be a result of the dispersal of sunlight – was seen as the last boundary between our ‘world’ and the golden light of heaven. The angels in this painting are therefore seen as dancing on the sky, or poised in the heavens above. In the centre of the painting here we see the full length of five silver trumpets, the cheeks of the angelic musicians puffed out as they look up towards Jesus – whose feet are just visible. Below him, two angels kneel playing portative organs, the one in pink again shown with the most brilliantly foreshortened wings, both of which come down on a slight diagonal. It is a beautifully conceived figure, I think, with the back of the head seen tilted subtly to the left, and a twist through the torso. The feet come back to our left, while the shoulders are facing more fully away from us. Even in this tiny detail the colour chords are superb – on the left, blue and gold wings with pale green robes lined with red, and a yellow underskirt. On the right the subtly modulated pink robe is lined with a violet blue, almost as if breathing in the sky beneath, and it is trimmed with the finest hem of gold.

Christ stands in the centre, made prominent not only by the golden radiance surrounding him, but also the white of his robes and flesh, as well as the brilliant red of the crosses on his flag and halo. The gold is incised regularly with lines which – as the word ‘radiance’ suggests – radiate from behind him, reaching slightly different distances into the burnished gold background. They would have been made using a ruler as a guide, and a stylus gently applied to indent the thin gold leaf without cutting through it. As candles flickered in front of this, the central panel of the predella, the glow around Jesus would have been modulated, reflecting the flickering of the candles, while the white of his robes would have maintained a more steady brightness. His right hand is raised in blessing, and shows the wound from one of the nails which held him to the cross. The wound in his chest, caused by a spear, is also visible. This is after the resurrection – indeed, it could be the resurrection itself. His white robe is effectively the shroud in which he was buried, now used as a form of toga, and the pallor of his skin reminds us that he was dead. He stands, as he does sometimes in the resurrection, on wispy white clouds. They are almost invisible now, as they were painted on top of the gold, in between the silver leaf of the trumpets, and much of the paint has worn away: it doesn’t adhere well to gold leaf. His halo is picked out, like those of the angels, with concentric circles, but there is more texturing: groups of four rings arranged in diamonds, and additional indents in the form of dots. His subtly rosy cheeks hint at his new life, and pick up on the red of the cross in his halo. And then there is the flag.

This is the flag of Christ Triumphant. It shows the red of his blood, and of his suffering, in the shape of the cross, the instrument of torture on which he was executed. The red stands out against the white of his purity and innocence. This is the flag he carries to mark his victory over death, and over sin, and he carries it, as often as not, at the resurrection. As a soldier fighting for good, and for God, it was adopted as a sign for St George, a figure shrouded in myth – but, as the first churches dedicated to him appear to date from the 4th century, it seems he was a very early Christian martyr. The dragon, of course, is just a symbol… His precise ‘nationality’ is by no means clear, but the most common belief is that he was from Cappadocia, in Turkey. As soldiers fighting for Christ – theoretically, at least – St George and his flag were adopted by the Crusaders, and finally, at some point in the late 1340s, he became one of the patron saints of England – gradually eclipsing St Edmund and St Edward the Confessor. He may have been born in Turkey, although some people think he may have come from Palestine, Syria, or even Israel. Let’s face it, he was not ‘English’ – even if he is now. Indeed, he is arguably England’s most successful immigrant. So the ignorance of people who have perverted this flag with their racist and xenophobic views appals me. As Jesus himself said (Matthew 25:35-36),

 35For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: 36Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me. 

If you’re doubting the ignorance of these people we may have a problem on our hands. I would go further: it is stupidity. If they are using the flag to support the notion of ‘uniting the Kingdom’ then they have the wrong flag. It is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (for the moment, at least), and, although England is a Kingdom, there is no United Kingdom of England. They should have the Union Flag – or at least a whole collection, including the saltire and dragon alongside the flag of Christ Triumphant.

Pardon the rant, but… But no, I stand by every word of it. However, on Monday I guarantee we will just look at the paintings, with not a word of politics. Well, that’s not true, of course. Art has always been about politics, and in this case there will be the politics of the Dominicans, and of Florence: the politics of the unelected Medici, for example. But that’s history, so it tends to be less divisive (with an emphasis on ‘tends to be’). The pictures are glorious, though – and we are free to make of them what we will. My aim is just to pick out the more relevant interpretations.

256 – Larger than last time

Jacquemart de Hesdin, Pseudo-Jacquemart, Master of Boucicault and Haincelin de Hagenau (Master of Bedford), Grandes Heures du Duc de Berry, fol. 96r., 1409. Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

After last week’s saunter through the twelve calendar months of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, as currently exhibited at the Château de Chantilly, and the subsequent hurried leafing through the remainder of the manuscript, I am sure I will return to the book just before Christmas to look at the some of the remaining illuminations more thoroughly: they are really worthy of attention. Not only that, but it will be a treat – for myself, if no one else! This week, though (22 September), I am going to head back to Chantilly, stopping off at Saint-Denis on the way out of Paris, in order to think about The Duc de Berry: the man himself. Thereafter, as you’ll know, I’m heading to Italy and the Palazzo Strozzi’s much-heralded exhibition on Fra Angelico:

6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors
(3 & 4 will go on sale on 6 October)

Subsequent talks will cover the National Gallery’s exhibitions Radical Harmony: Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists and Wright of Derby: From the Shadows. They will probably be on 17 and 24 November – so there’s plenty of time before I need to post more details. Meanwhile, my next trips with Artemisia are already online – visiting Strasbourg and Colmar (to see the astonishing Isenheim Altarpiece) in June, returning to Liverpool in September and celebrating Siena in November. There is more information in the diary

Last week we enjoyed the Très Riches Heures. However beautiful – and rich – the manuscript is, had it been finished it would have been just one of the books of hours commissioned by the duke. His library consisted of around 300 books – a large number in the days when all books were written by hand. A hundred years later, Pope Julius II had 220 volumes, housed in the Stanza della Segnatura, famously decorated by Raphael – although the Vatican Library was larger, already numbering 3,500 manuscripts by the time of Julius II’s uncle, Sixtus IV. At around the same time, Federigo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, had about 900 volumes… But still, 300 was a lot, and around 127 survive, with many of them in the exhibition we will explore on Monday. They give a remarkable sense of the man, his interests, and his personality. As well as books covering science, history, philosophy and theology, among the books dedicated to his personal faith he owned 6 psalters (books of psalms), 13 breviaries (containing the religious services for each day), and 18 books of hours (for prayer and devotion during the ‘canonical hours’, the regular cyclical of worship established for each day). Of the 18, he commissioned six of them himself. Several of them, like the Très Riches Heures, get their name from references in the inventory created after his death. To give a sense of scale, each folio of the Très Riches Heures measures 290 x 210 mm, whereas the page we are looking at today is a lot larger: 400 x 300 mm. It comes from a manuscript which would have been rather unwieldy for private devotion, which also takes its name from the inventory, which lists “les belles grandes Heures de monseigneur que on appelle les trés riches heures, garnies de fermoers et de pippe d’or et de pierrerie, qui sont en un estuy de cuir” – ‘the beautiful large Hours of monseigneur which are called the very rich hours, adorned with clasps and piping of gold and precious stones, which are in a leather case’. It might seem to be confusing, perhaps, that they were also referred to as ‘very rich’, but the size would have been most striking. Les Grandes Heures, is probably best translated as ‘The Great Hours’, as ‘great’ has far more grandeur than ‘large’…

The Grandes Heures was probably the most richly decorated of the books of hours to be completed during the Duc de Berry’s lifetime, although sadly it has not survived intact. It came into the possession of King Charles VIII by 1488 (we don’t know how), but by then it was already in need of repairs. Originally there were full-page illuminations by Jacquemart de Hesdin. These were cut out – to be exhibited, presumably – and only one has survived. Even that isn’t in a great condition. It is in the exhibition, though, and together with the one surviving full-page image, the Grandes Heures are displayed open at a single spread. This is, as ever, frustrating, but what else could they do? And there are, in any case, many more single spreads to enjoy, with some decorated on both folios. There may have been some double-page illuminations in the Grandes Heures – there are several in the Très Riches Heures – but if there were, they haven’t survived. So today, we are just looking at one page, folio 96 recto – the front of the 96th leaf.

Two columns of text are framed by filigree decorations which extend the full height and breadth of the folio at top, bottom and right, with a narrower version of the same motifs on the left and between the two columns of text. There are also four vignettes at the top and bottom, and three more of the same size on the right. Smaller vignettes are included in the decoration of the left margin and in the centre. A relatively large image is included at the top left, with an illuminated initial – the letter ‘D’ – just below it. What they all represent can be seen more easily if we get a little closer.

I admit that I find the text difficult to read. The vertical strokes use to create the letters ‘i’, ‘m’, ‘n’ and ‘u’ are all the same, so that when you get a word ending ‘-ium’, for example, you have a combination of six identical strokes. On top of this, some words spread from one line to the next with no hyphens. Fortunately, though, I could read ‘Deus in ad…’ in the very first line on this page, and typing this into google instantly suggested ‘Deus in adiutorum intende’. This is followed by ‘Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina’. Together, these form the first verse of Psalm 70 (69 in the Vulgate). In the King James Version of the bible this is translated as ‘Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord’. This verse is used as the introductory prayer to almost every ‘hour’ that is celebrated… which doesn’t help us much. However, I can see that this invocation is followed by the ‘Gloria’: ‘Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, Amen’. At the bottom of the left-hand column (not visible in this detail), the text then returns to the first verse of Psalm 70 – you can see the repeat of the word ‘festina’ at the very top of the right-hand column. This is then followed by verses 2-4 of Psalm 70, all of which are included in the detail above. It is a plea for God’s help, asking him to confound and confuse the enemies of the devout. As it says in verse 2:
Let them be ashamed and confounded that seek after my soul: let them be turned backward, and put to confusion, that desire my hurt.
However, the joyful nature of the decorations do not reflect this almost desperate sense of need. Perhaps this represents the security of the faithful (in this case, the Duc de Berry) that God will come to their aid.

All four of the vignettes in the top margin are quatrefoils – ‘four-leafed’ shapes, with points along the sides. Top left and right we see the gold fleur-de-lis on a blue ground that remind us that the Duc de Berry was a member of the royal family of France. The red border (called a bordure in heraldry), cusped and with points along the inside, tells us that he was not the eldest son of a king. Indeed, he was the third of John II’s four sons – the eldest son succeeding his father as King Charles V in 1364.

The second vignette from the left shows a swan, which first appeared as one of the dukes ‘devices’ or ‘emblems’ around 1377. Notice the red mark on its chest: it is wounded. In addition, the beak is open. Wounded, it is about to die, at which point (according to myth) swans are supposed to sing – quite literally, their ‘swansong’. In medieval chivalry this can be seen as bravery in the face of death. The wound in the heart could also be love, and the pure whiteness of the feathers, purity – in a Christian sense, the purity of love for Christ. However, the swan can also be interpreted as a symbol of romantic love: it was regularly associated with courtly love and fidelity. The myth of the Knight of the Swan was widespread across medieval Europe, and even as late as the 19th century it inspired Wagner’s opera Lohengrin (1850), not to mention the castles of Hohenschwangau (1836) and Neuschwanstein (1869). The great power of medieval and renaissance devices was that they could be susceptible to more than one interpretation, and the more meanings each had the better they were.

That is certainly true for the duke’s other main device, the bear, which he adopted before the swan. The first example dates back to 1364, and he continued to use it for the rest of his life – and even beyond. After his death in 1416 he was buried in the chapel of his château in Bourges (the capital of the Dukedom of Berry), and the heraldic beast at the feet of his effigy was a bear (we’ll see it on Monday). But what was the connection with the duke? He certainly kept bears, and, as we saw last week, he is wearing a bearskin hat in the depiction of January. But why? It helps to know the word in both English and French – and, for that matter, Latin. The French for ‘bear’ is ‘ours’, and that comes from the Latin ‘ursus’. It is not a coincidence that the first Bishop of Bourges – and indeed, the man who is supposed to have converted the town to Christianity – was St Ursinus. By choosing the bear, the duke acknowledged his devotion to this saint, and therefore also to the region of which he was made duke in 1360. In that same year, the Treaty of Brétigny was signed between the English and French, just one of the events of the Hundred Years’ War. The duke’s father, King Jean II, had been captured in 1356 at the Battle of Poitiers, and was still being held by the English four years later. By the terms of the Treaty, Edward III would renounce the title ‘King of France’, but still gained extensive territories in France. Meanwhile Jean II was held to ransom for 3 million écus, but was allowed to return home, with hostages used as a guarantee for the payment. In all around 63 men were sent to England, including two of the King’s four sons: Louis I of Anjou and Jean, now Duc de Berry. By the time Jean II died in 1464, the Duc de Berry had been in England for four years – and would remain for another five. It was at this time that his older brother became King Charles V, but 1464 was also when his use of the bear is first recorded. In the four years since he had arrived in England he must have learnt a lot of English. But then, as an educated man, he probably knew quite a bit before he went. He would certainly have known that the English for ‘ours’ is ‘bear’. And the English, who have always loved a pun (just think about Shakespeare), would surely have pointed out that, with his accent, it sounded like he was the Duke of Bear-y. And, believe it or not, most people think it’s that simple. It is worth pointing out that the bear often wears a collar, and sometimes it is also chained (it certainly is on his tomb): a captive bear, which perhaps also represents the duke’s captivity, the captivity of a strong and valiant warrior.

Some years after his death his great nephew, René d’Anjou, suggested that, in England, the duke had fallen for a woman called ‘Ursine’ – but my guess is that that is pure imagination… Given the homonym of ‘bear’ and ‘Berry’, and the existence of St Ursinus, we already have enough potential sources for his choice. In the vignette above, the bear carries a banner – red, with a white swan. Either the bear is one of the duke’s followers, or even, the duke himself: there is a strong sense of identification. Scattered about the margin in the detail above there are also a wren, a butterfly, what might be a thrush, and a pheasant – wonderful, naturalistic details, just for the joy of it, it would seem.

In the lower half of the page there are two more swans, and three more bears – one walking on the grass, another climbing a tree and a third wielding the duke’s royal standard, with its red bordure. There is also, at the bottom, a slim greenfinch and a large tortoiseshell butterfly. Another butterfly, a red admiral, can be seen above the swan in the left margin. At the top right there is a blue tit (I think – the colours are right, but it’s very long and slim) and further down, a beautifully delicate goldfinch. As elsewhere on the folio, the vignettes are joined by what appear to be the stems of the highly stylised vine, around each of which is wrapped a narrow scroll. To see what that is we will have to look closer.

It may still be too small to read, but each version of this scroll is inscribed with the same phrase twice: ‘le temps venra’. This is medieval French, meaning ‘the time will come’. Elsewhere the same idea is stated in a slightly different way: ‘le temps revient’ – ‘the time is coming back’. I’m intrigued by this, as the second version was one of the mottoes of Lorenzo the Magnificent of Florence – and he also used it in French, with a sense of medieval chivalry. The meaning is not entirely different from the soundtrack to Tony Blair’s New Labour: ‘Things can only get better’. The idea, in all cases, is that we are in good hands, that things will be managed well, and the time is coming that we can Make Berry, (or Florence, or the UK) Great Again. Enough said.

There is another ‘device’ or ‘emblem’ in this detail: the letters ‘EV’ written as a monogram – there are several examples on the page as a whole. The ‘V’ could be meant as a ‘U’ – they are often interchangeable. However, its meaning remains a mystery, even if there are several ideas. One suggestion is that, as a ‘U’, this could be an abbreviation of ‘UrsinE’ – the woman for whom the duke is supposed to have suffered love. I find this interpretation a little dubious. It could stand for Eveniet Tempus, Latin for ‘le temps venra’, while a third idea is that it stands for the words ‘En Vous’ – ‘in you’, as in ‘I believe in you’. This would be a sign of the Duc de Berry’s devotion to the Virgin Mary (with the ‘V’ also standing for ‘Virgin’). But, as I say, no one has been able to pin it down. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that the Duc de Berry was a religious man.

At the top of the folio we see him twice. He is in the centre of the illuminated capital ‘D’ of the word ‘Deus’ – God. In a pink, ermine-lined cloak he kneels at a prie-dieu covered in the fleur-de-lis and royal blue of the house of France. An angel puts one hand on his back and points up – towards heaven, or towards the image directly above, which might be the same thing. The duke looks in the same way while holding his hands aloft in prayer. To the left of this, in the margin, is a rather slim coal tit, and above it yet another bear which, like the duke, also appears to be praying.

In the larger image we see the duke again, this time wearing a red, fur-lined cloak, and holding a jewel which hangs from a thick gold chain round his neck. He is followed by a number of courtiers. More relevant, though, is the fact that his left wrist is being held by a man with short grey hair and a short grey beard who wears a blue cloak. He also has a halo and holds an enormous silver key in front of his shoulder: this is St Peter. A white dove descends from heaven, followed by diagonal beams of light: Peter is clearly inspired by the Holy Spirit, and stands in the round-topped entrance to what is otherwise an elaborate gothic porch with glazed windows. As St Peter is holding the key to the Kingdom of Heaven – as promised him by Jesus – I can only imagine that these are the very gates. In the smaller image Jean, Duc de Berry, humbly kneels in the first letter of the word ‘Deus’, and prays ‘Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord,’ while the angel is pointing him towards his reward: being led into Heaven by none other than St Peter himself. Judging by this manuscript – and everything else we will see on Monday – this would be a wonderful way to go.

255 – Come on in! Let the Good Times begin…

The Limbourg Brothers, January, from Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, 1411-16. Musée Condé, Chantilly.

After a wonderful week in Liverpool with Artemisia, I’ve just been to Chantilly, about half an hour by train from Paris, to see a remarkable exhibition developed around an even more remarkable manuscript: Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. This is all the more imporantant given that, when a facsimile was made in 1984 (current price €3000-€7000, apparently), it was stated that the manuscript would no longer be shown to anyone – not even specialists in the field. “Maybe a visiting head of state might be able to see it”, they said, with the implication that if they wanted to they’d have to ask nicely! Even before then it was probably only seen by 5 or 6 specialists each year… Although it has been seen once in public since then (about 20 years ago), the current exhibition gives unprecedented access, thanks to necessary work to conserve the fragile masterpiece: the 12 calendar pages are all on view, having been taken out of the binding. The Très Riches Heures are joined by as many books belonging to the Duc de Berry as could be located, illuminating (literally… and metaphorically, practically and pictorially) his life and times, his interests, and the role the Limbourg brothers played in the manuscript’s production and in the development of manuscript illumination generally. To give this exhibition the time it deserves I will be delivering two talks. As the title suggests, it is a very richly decorated book of hours: a prayer book related to the different religious church services which take place at different times of the day (the canonical hours) and of the year. The first talk will therefore be dedicated to Good Times: the book itself, and will be this Monday, 15 September, at 6pm. The following Monday, 22 September, I will talk about The Duc de Berry: the man himself – putting the Hours into the context explored by the rest of the exhibition.

After these talks, I will turn to another much-heralded exhibition which opens in Florence later this month: Fra Angelico at the Palazzo Strozzi and San Marco. I will give four talks relating to what promises to be the autumn’s ‘must-see’ blockbuster. The first two are on sale now, and the second two will go on sale after the first, with a reduction in price for those who have just seen it: 
6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors

But for now, I’d like to start with the image that gets the good times rolling – the illustration for the month of January in the calendar at the beginning of the Très Riches Heures.

As I will be talking about the manuscript as a whole on Monday, I’m just going to focus on this particular image today. Painted on parchment with the richest of pigments in a medium of gum Arabic (or maybe tragacanth) mixed with water, the illuminations are also decorated with the finest gold leaf. The initial impact is of wealth and of profusion – these ‘heures’ really are ‘très riches’ – especially in this, the first image from the manuscript. It is an illustration of a regular event in the Duke of Berry’s life in the month of January. At the top is a semi-circle, with rich blues and golds, some figures and a latticework of gold lines. Below this is a depiction of a feast, in which some characters wear the same blues that are seen at the top. The Duke himself, seated behind the table on the right, is in this rich blue (and yes, it’s ultramarine), with the added expense of gold. Others are in reds, greens, and whites, and are gathered around the table, which is covered in a white cloth and laden with food. Yet more appear to enjoy the throng as they push their way in, and some even appear to be arriving on horseback (but don’t trust everything you see).

The top section of the imagery – the semicircle, or lunette – might not, at first glance, be easy to interpret, but it is what marks this out as a calendar. On one side a goat emerges from a shell and on the other a figure pours water. The location of these figures against a blue background covered in gold dots gives us an important clue: they are stars in the night sky. These are the constellations that cover the month of January. The first is Capricorn, which means ‘horned goat’, but is usually shown as a ‘sea goat’ with a curving fish’s tail. Here, rather than a tail, it has a seashell – or conceivably, and octopus’s tentacle. The second is the ‘water bearer’, Aquarius. In the Western astrological systems nowadays Capricorn has the dates 22 December – 19 January, while Aquarius covers 20 January – 18 February. However, this calendar tells us that these dates have not always been fixed. The ‘latticework’ is divided into 31 sections – because there are 31 days in January – and the division between Capricorn and Aquarius comes between what would be the 11th and 12th of January. In other months the dates, and the names of the constellations, are included in these white boxes, but not here: the calendar remained unfinished as a result of the death of the patron – and all three of the artists, Paul, Jean and Herman de Limbourg – in 1416, presumably as the result of plague. As we will see on Monday, the manuscript was completed – as far as it would ever be – by other artists. In the central section of this lunette a bright gold disk sheds light all around, but more so to the lower right. It appears above a form of chariot, pulled by horses with golden wings. This is the chariot of the sun, driven by Phoebus, whose name means ‘bright’: the name was an epithet used by Homer for Apollo, the god of the sun. As the sun crosses the sky, the days pass, and we go from the beginning to the end of the month.

Below the unfinished calendar, we see an image which is chosen to represent the month down on earth. We are in a large room in which the floor is covered with elaborately depicted rush matting. The room is heated by a monumental fireplace which dominates the top right of this detail. A trestle table covered with a white, patterned table cloth stretches two thirds of the width of the image, projecting beyond the picture field so that we cannot see how wide it is – but my guess would be that the Duc de Berry – whose blue and gold robe can be seen both above and below the table – is probably meant to be sitting in the middle. Notice how, at the very top of this detail, there is a sliver of red directly above his head: we will see what that is later. The table is laden with plates, and food, and on the left of the picture a credenza is piled high with golden vessels. People are holding cups and bowls, and there are flagons which presumably contain beer or wine. The man at the bottom left in the bright blue robe is holding both a bowl and a lidded cup: he may well be the Duke’s official cupbearer. This is clearly some form of celebration. January, the first month of the New Year, was associated with parties and gift giving. This could either be New Year’s Day itself, 1 January, or the Feast of the Epiphany on 6 January. Either would fit, but given that this is the Duc de Berry, we are witnessing the étrenne – an exchange of gifts celebrated on New Year’s day, a custom among the royal family of Valois (and elsewhere). Although you can’t see any gifts changing hands in the illumination, it would certainly be one of the ways in which the Duke had acquired so many gold vessels. One New Year the Limbourg Brothers gave the Duc de Berry a book. Only it wasn’t a book, it just looked like a book – a facsimile if you like – a block of wood carved and covered and painted to look exactly like a book. It was a form of trompe l’oeil – a clever work of art (a sculpture in this case) designed to trick the eye into thinking it really was a book. However, you couldn’t leaf through any pages, as there weren’t any. You couldn’t even get into it. As Michael Camille pointed out in a brilliant article published in 1990, this was exactly the experience everyone had of the Très Riches Heures after 1984 – until now, that is! At the top left of the detail above are the people I mentioned earlier who appear to be arriving on horseback – which seems highly inappropriate given the crowded nature of the interior.

The blue at the very top here is the bottom of the semicircular calendar. The gold horizontal feature, which is decorated, and curves away from us, is the ceiling of the room in which the feast is taking place. However, the golden brown colour appears to give way to a blue sky. Two details help us to interpret this. First, the top of the blue is scalloped, curving down and back up to and from specific points: this is a piece of fabric hanging from fixtures at the top of the wall. There are also three sets of four lines of white writing. On the far left, apparently above a gateway with a portcullis, the writing slopes down from left to right: the perspective suggests that this writing must be ‘written’ on the left wall of the room. What we are looking at is, in fact, a tapestry hanging from the top of the wall, and wrapped around the corner to hang in front of the left wall as well. It is long enough to hang down behind the people in the room, and, as the colours used for the real people and the people in the tapestry are the same, it is easy to confuse them. I’m sure this is a game the artists are playing – what is real and what is imaginary? In fact, the tapestry also hangs over the fireplace which projects into the room at the bottom right of this detail. There is a golden brown cornice above the blue headdresses of the two men at the bottom right, and the tapestry seems to be scrunched up over it, tumbling down to the left of the fireplace. Two ranks of foot soldiers, flags raised behind them, charge at each other with spears, while men on horseback, carrying the same flags as the men on the left, arrive from the gateway to support them. The words on the tapestry can be read, and at the top right of the illustration (to the right of this detail) are the words ‘de troyes le grant’, medieval French for ‘of Troy the great’: this is a tapestry depicting the Trojan War. The manuscript was being created during a civil war between two branches of the French Royal Family, the Bourguignons and the Armagnacs, which in itself impacted the 100 Years’ War with England – the tapestry of war might therefore be a very deliberate contrast to the amicable celebrations taking place in the foreground.

The gold-brown bar at the bottom of this detail is the top of the fireplace, whereas the line going up the right-hand side (and across to the left) is the ‘picture frame’: this is the top right corner of the image. The green hills, and, on the right, the helmets, pikes and flags are all part of the tapestry, with the second of the four lines on the right including the words ‘de troyes le grant’ – although it would take quite a while to get your eye in to be able to read that. The undulating profile at the bottom of the tapestry tells us that it has been bunched up over the mantelpiece. The tapestry clearly wasn’t designed for this room, but, like so many courtly luxuries, it could have been be packed up and transferred to any room in any palace – wherever it might be needed, according to the demands of ceremony or festivity. The bottom of the red fabric, which is hanging vertically in front of the tapestry, also seems to be piled up on the mantelpiece. It is topped with an equivalent canopy fringed in red, white and green. This is a throne canopy, with its cloth of state – the same as a cloth of honour you would see in paintings of the Virgin and Child. It tells us that the man sitting below is royalty, while the gold fleur de lis on the blue background tell us that he is a member of the royal family of France. The swans and bears (top left and right) were personal emblems of the Duc de Berry: this is precisely how the patronage of the Hours was identified when they were acquired by Henri d’Orléans, Duc d’Aumale, in 1856 – the date taken to mark the ‘rediscovery’ of the manuscript. Obviously I’ll talk more about the Duc de Berry – The Man Himself – the week after next, and we’ll see plenty more bears and swans then.

But how about the feast itself? The table may be laden with plates and dishes, but how many people are actually eating? Two men stand in front of the table, one of whom is wielding a knife. On the left a man in red and white also has a knife, and is cutting some of the food. They are the Duke’s carvers, responsible for cutting the meat into slices. Given that there are no knives and forks (they weren’t yet in common use) everything had to be finger food. There are more people standing behind the table, but, having eliminated all of them, you will realise that only two people are seated: the Duke, on the right, in blue, and a man wearing a red cloak over a white, hooded robe, on the left. He is identified by some as Martin Gouge, a canon from Bourges (where the Duc de Berry had one of his castles, and where he would be buried), who in 1402 became the Duke’s treasurer and, in 1406, the Bishop of Chartres. However, others suggest that this is Cardinal Alemanno Adimari, Archbishop of Pisa, who had been negotiating for a peace in the civil war between the Armagnacs and Bourguignons, and who was on his way to the Council of Constance. Given that he is dressed in red, it seems more likely that he is a Cardinal rather than a Bishop… Directly above him, two men are dressed in elaborate clothes, with richly coloured and decorated hats. Their arms are extended and their hands raised. At first it might look as if they are greeting the Duke. However, we should remember that it is January, and it is cold outside: they have only just arrived, and they are warming their hands at the fire. Behind them (to our left) are two other guests who are not dressed nearly so elaborately.

The first two men (with blue hats) sport the ‘must-have’ headgear of the day, known as a chaperon. These included three elements: a round bourrelet, a long ‘tail’, called the liripipe, and sort of cape or patte, which flopped over the head rather than the shoulders. The man with the lighter blue version has his liripipe, copiously fringed with gold, hanging over one shoulder, whereas the man next to him, with the brighter, richer blue, has wrapped it round his neck like a scarf: it clearly was cold outside. The artists emphasize the excessive amount of this bright blue material by making it hide the face of the man behind, who wears a far more modest black – and his headgear would appear to be just the bourrelet, without either patte or liripipe. He may have a small fur collar and cuffs, but there are none of the gold decorations which the two guests in front of him display. At the back of this group of four men, the last has far more ‘workaday’ headgear, a modest grey cap. It is baggy, perhaps, but not really tailored or decorated. This face appears in other works by the Limbourg Brothers – and it is usually assumed to be a self portrait by Paul. Yes, he has a bright blue collar, with gold decorations – but maybe this was a gift from the Duke, in recognition of his service? And am I wrong in seeing the letter ‘P’ embroidered on it? I suspect there’s another visual game going on here. If that is Paul, then who is the man in black? And why is his face hidden? Maybe it is another of the Limbourg brothers (Jean has been suggested), with the artist, Paul, rendering his brother ‘anonymous’ by covering his face (but beware of such identifications: the attribution of individual folios in the manuscript is strongly contested!)

Hats are often relevant – whether worn or not. The two young men in the foreground, and the usher in red behind the table, all have the ‘pudding bowl’ haircuts fashionable for young men at the time, with stubble and paler skin where the hair has been shaved from backs of their necks and above their ears. Their lack of headgear marks a lower status, however richly they are apparelled. The host himself wears a bearskin hat – a reminder of his emblem, and an indication that he is, himself, the ‘bear’ (more about that on 22 September, though). There is a small gold bear standing on the far end of the ship-shaped salt cellar at the far right, with a swan standing on the nearer end. Items such as this, and the damask tablecloth, are mentioned in the inventory made after the Duke’s death in 1416 – and this inventory is one of the exhibits currently on show in Chantilly! Also listed in it are “plusiers cayers d’unes très riches heures qui faisoient Pol et ses frères, très richement historiez et enluminez…” – or, ‘several gatherings of a very rich book of hours, richly historiated and illuminated, that Paul and his brothers made’. This entry, first identified in 1881, gives us the manuscript’s now-familiar name – Les Très Riches Heures – and tells us that it was, indeed, created by Paul, Jean and Herman de Limbourg.

The Duke sits by the fire in front of a circular firescreen, with sparks shooting up behind it. It is towards this that the new arrivals are holding up their hands on the left and right. It has exactly the same effect as the The Virgin and Child before a Firescreen, by a follower of Robert Campin, in the National Gallery, which was painted just a couple of decades later. The firescreen frames the Duke, thus emphasizing his presence and status. However, given its larger size, and the fact that the Duke is off-centre, it doesn’t look as much like a halo. The usher in red behind the table wears a very expensive gold collar and carries a staff of office. Above his head, in gold, are written the words ‘aproche, aproche’ – basically ‘come on in!’ He welcomes the new arrivals to the feast, and invites them to approach and greet the host. However, I’m sure these words are also encouraging us to enter the magical world of the book – this is the first page, after all. If you can make it to Chantilly before 5 October it really is worthwhile – and there may not be another chance in the next 20 years or more to see this masterpiece. However, if it’s just not possible, there are two websites where you can examine the manuscript in detail in the privacy of your own home:
Les très riches heures du Duc de Berry as part of the virtual library of medieval manuscripts.
Les Très Riches Heures on the Château de Chantilly website – with ‘turnable’ pages! I’d go for this one.

And of course, we will explore its riches as fully as possible on Monday, so please, ‘aproche, aproche!’ And in case you were wondering, this is what the illumination looks like when you turn the first page:

254 – Joseph Wright, changing your point of view

Joseph Wright of Derby, Three persons viewing The Gladiator by candle-light, 1765. Private Collection, on long term loan to The Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool.

As my next talk, on Monday 25 August at 6pm, will look at the 18th century art in the Walker Art Gallery I thought that today I would think about one of the paintings which is on long term loan to the Gallery, even though it isn’t currently on show there. That’s probably because I’m sure it will be included in the National Gallery’s exhibition Wright of Derby: From the Shadows which will open in November (it would certainly fit the title), and it may have gone for some preparatory checks. We’ll find out nearer the time, of course, and as I will be talking about the exhibition when it opens I’ll be able to let you know. The Walker has a great collection of Wright’s paintings of its own which are on view, though, as well as a representative selection of works by Stubbs, Hogarth, Gainsborough et al – not to mention a number of great works which are not British – and my fifth Stroll around the Walker will cover as many of these as I have time to include.

Down here in Sidmouth (and thanks to all those of you who have come to see the shows!) I have had time to timetable the six subsequent talks, four of which are already on sale. Rather than a description, here’s a list: I thought it would be clearer. You can find more information via these links, or from the diary.

15 September, Good Times – The ‘Très Riches Heures’
22 September, The Duc du Berry: the man himself
6 October, Fra Angelico 1: A Melting Pot
20 October, Fra Angelico 2: As seen at the Palazzo Strozzi

And on sale on 6 October will be
27 October, Fra Angelico 3: At home in San Marco
3 November, Fra Angelico 4: Students and Successors

But, as I always say, keep an eye on the diary for more… Meanwhile, back to Joseph Wright.

We can see the ‘Three persons’ of the title quite clearly, even though the room in which they are sitting is very dark – pitch black, even, in this reproduction. There is apparently only one light source – a candle – which illuminates the scene. The faces are seen from different points of view, and, given that the candle is in between them (although not central) each face is illuminated to a different degree and from a different angle. The Three persons are arranged around The Gladiator, a white sculpture of a man lunging forward on his right leg, with his left arm extended in front of him and his right held behind. On the right side of the painting is a piece of paper which includes an image – a drawing or print – which shows the sculpture from a slightly different point of view.

This is one of the first of Wright’s candlelight paintings, the genre which will form the subject of the National Gallery’s exhibition. The most famous examples are An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump of 1768, and A Philosopher giving that Lecture on the Orrery in which a lamp is put in place of the Sun, which was painted the following year. Today’s painting precedes them both by at least three years, as it was first exhibited in 1765. Although they all seem to be so obviously inspired by the work of Caravaggio, it is not entirely clear if Wright had seen the Italian artist’s work by the time these paintings were made: he didn’t travel to Italy until the end of 1773, some five years after the last was painted. He was in Rome from February 1774 to June 1775, and would finally have had ample opportunity to view the celebrated paintings by the master of chiaroscuro – ‘light and dark’. Previously, he may well have had access to prints – although they would have been monochrome – but he might also have been inspired by the work of Rembrandt (who never left the Netherlands) and the Utrecht Caravaggisti, the Dutch artists who travelled to Rome and studied the paintings of Caravaggio around the time of his death in 1610 and shortly after.

One of the problems of discussing this painting today is that it is very difficult to photograph – if you can capture the full depth of the darkness, as the above image does, you also lose some of the subtler details. So here’s a different photograph.

This one is far more obviously an image of a physical object – you can see light reflecting off the painting, revealing brushstrokes and the craquelure of the surface. The colours appear lighter, and brighter, which allows you to see details such as the lamp hanging from the ceiling more clearly. The lamp constitutes a second light source – but sheds so little light on the scene as to be all but irrelevant. However, it does help to remind us that these men are inside, in a room with a ceiling. However, the darkness was probably not originally quite so intense: while some pigments fade, others darken… In order to differentiate the details of the background, as well as comparing different photographs of the original, it can be helpful to look at a contemporary print.

This one comes from the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. It was published in 1769 (just four years after the painting was exhibited) by the engraver, William Pether. Often engravers would consult the artist to make sure they were getting the details right. Engraving can be very precise, and it would help the engravers to clarify areas which are far more atmospheric in the painted original. As a result, they are often nowhere near as evocative as the originals – although techniques were developing which could help to achieve similar effects. To be entirely accurate, this is a mezzotint, a technique developed in the 17th century precisely to try and achieve some of the subtlety of painting. The copper plate was first stippled with tiny dots using a metal tool called a ‘rocker’, and then areas which should be light (and so not pick up ink) would be burnished smooth. This technique enabled printmakers to achieve a far more subtle variation from light to dark, and, with fewer hard edges and firm outlines, approach the atmospheric blurring that can be achieved with oils.

The print is inscribed at the bottom ‘Done from a PAINTING of Mr Joseph Wright’s of DERBY, by his Oblig’d Friend & Humble Servant’ – which suggests that Pether had indeed been in discussion with Wright as to the nature of certain elements, and there are features in the background which are not visible in the painting. The older man on the left sits in front of a niche, while behind the two younger men on the right there is a door. I suspect that these details could be relevant to the meaning of the painting – but we’ll come back to that.

The sculpture which the men are viewing is a version of a marble known as The Borghese Gladiator. The original (on the right) is far larger than this painted version: at 173cm tall, it is effectively life-size (remembering that, were the man to stand up, the sculpture would be taller). Carved onto the tree-trunk is an inscription in Greek which translates as ‘Agasias, son of Dositheus, from the town of Ephesus’ – a sculptor who is otherwise unknown. It was found in 1611 in Nettuno, near Anzio, south of Rome, as the result of excavations commissioned by Cardinal Scipio Borghese. A later Prince Borghese was constrained to sell it to his brother-in-law – none other than Napoleon Bonaparte – which is why it is now housed in the Louvre. Despite being known – universally – as The Borghese Gladiator it is now known – universally – that the man was never intended to be a gladiator at all, but a warrior fighting someone on horseback – hence his upward gaze. The misidentification resulted in a number of ‘restorations’, adding some ‘missing’ details to make the subject clearer – but some of these (not the ones necessary for structural integrity) have since been removed. From the moment it was rediscovered the sculpture was immensely popular, praised for its anatomical accuracy, and for its dynamic pose. As a result, many reproductions were made for collectors around the known world: we appear to be looking at one of them here.

The man on the left has grey hair, and wears glasses, signs of increased age, but also symbols of wisdom and maturity. Notice the position of his hands: the right holds the edge of the table at the front, while the left rests on the plinth of the statue between the legs. The man’s arms are therefore around the sculpture, the implication being that he is presenting it, in some way, to the other two. Given the extent of the shadows the precise direction of his gaze is not entirely clear, but to my eye he seems to be looking slightly to the left of the sculpture. One of the ideas about this painting is that, like the Air Pump and the Orrery, there is some kind of lesson or explanation going on – his action is, in some way, didactic: this older man is passing on his learning to the younger pair. If this is the case, then I would suggest that the niche behind him represents a form of ‘container’ – the knowledge contained in his head for example. The closed door behind the younger men could represent the knowledge about to be opened up for them, in the same way that the light can represent enlightenment.

The detail above also demonstrates how Wright’s compositions could be extremely rigorous. The older man’s head is tilted on a diagonal from top left to bottom right, and the man who we see more or less full-face – the man with the bright red lapels – has his head tilted the other way. As well as opposing one another, these angles parallel the diagonals of the Gladiator’s legs and body. Between the legs, the arms of the men to the left and right form a ‘V’ (only just visible here), creating a diamond of dark, negative space between the sculpture’s legs. The forward thrust of the form, with the stretched arm and bent knee, frames the man in red’s face, as well as creating a counterpoint with his lapels, which are not only angular, but also, thanks to the deep shadows, incredibly sculptural.

It is this man – with the red lapels – who holds the candle stick. The candle itself is visible, but the flame is hidden by his companion’s shoulder: in true Caravaggesque fashion, you do not see the naked flame. The third man – presumably a fellow student – is actually a self portrait, while the model for the man in the centre was Paul Perez Burdett, a friend of Wright’s, and the man who persuaded him to go to Liverpool. Wright – or the character he represents – holds a drawing of The Gladiator. It is sometimes said to be a print, but it is worthwhile remembering that prints reproduce imagery in reverse, whereas here we clearly see that the figure is in the same orientation. Having said that, at least one 18th century engraver made sure that he reversed the image on the plate so that the print accurately reproduced the sculpture as reaching forward with its left arm. However, I don’t get the feeling that a plate has been applied to this piece of paper – there is no sense of an impression, or of a blank border around the image: I’m sure it is a drawing. Of course, I could be wrong! The sculpture has been drawn from a different point of view from the one we see, although if we were to sit at the front left of the table – just to the right of the older man – we would get more-or-less this point of view, with the back of the head partially hidden by the shoulder.

The different viewpoints are important: points of view – and how you see things and show things – constitute one of the major subjects of this painting. As I’ve already suggested, the candle and the light it sheds are commonly seen as symbols of knowledge and learning – and hence of the Enlightenment, that great intellectual development of the 18th century. But how is the older man enlightening his students? What knowledge could he be imparting? Some sense of the importance of Ancient Greek sculpture, which only began to be appreciated (or even distinguished from Roman) in the 18th century, perhaps? Or the ways in which you can appreciate sculpture. Viewing it by artificial light – lamps or candles – was often advocated, as this creates shadows, thus emphasizing the sculptural form. The tutor might be thinking about the qualities for which one could or should evaluate a work of sculpture – for example accuracy, simplicity, boldness, balance, energy, and ‘purity’ (the mistake was made that the whiteness of the marble should be equated with an ideal, as people had not realised that Greek sculpture was originally highly coloured). However, this man may well not be looking as far back as Ancient Greece. He might have been inspired by the Renaissance, and the debate known as the Paragone –the comparison of one art form with another. In this case, there is a comparison between three forms, sculpture, painting and drawing: what are the relevant values of each, and which is superior? We see a direct comparison in the painting between the sculpture and the drawing – which helps us to see different views of the sculpture itself. This could be seen as one of the strengths of painting, as the painting shows us both. A weakness of drawing, perhaps, is that it only gives us one view, whereas, if we were to walk around the sculpture, we would see many different views. Given that the sculpture is this size, we might not need to walk round it though. It is possible that the tutor is not just presenting it, but also turning it round. Of course, he might actually be evaluating the standard of draftsmanship: the way I see it, he appears to be looking at the drawing, rather than the sculpture, and the two ‘students’ are, I think, looking at him (oddly the direction of a gaze is one of the aspects of painting that different people seem to read differently: there is another example I’ve had to confront when talking about the Air Pump – but we’ll come back to that in November).

Whatever the men are looking at now, were they to look at the sculpture they would all see it from a different point of view, and the limbs of The Gladiator would create different patterns in space for each of them. In this way the painting reminds us of the strengths of sculpture as an art form. However, the painting has advantages over that. Quite apart from our view of teh sculpture, we see each of the men from a different point of view – right profile, three-quarter profile and left profile, roughly speaking – and we can see these points of view without even having to move. Not only that, but the painting, unlike either the sculpture or the drawing, shows us the real colours of things. The intellectual skill required to show a three-dimensional object on a flat surface was also highly valued, and thus considered (by some) to be a sign of a painter’s superiority when compared to a sculptor. And of course painting can also allow us to see something that isn’t there – and that might include the very reproduction of The Gladiator that these persons are viewing. Let’s have another look at the original sculpture.

The tree trunk is clearly not just a convenient surface for Agasius to inscribe his name: it is there to support the mass of marble. Not only would the legs be too thin to support the weight of the torso, but the trunk helps to anchor and balance the forward thrust of the sculpture as a whole. It wasn’t necessary to include the tree trunk in the replica depicted by Joseph Wright, as it is not as large, and so – quite simply – not as massive: there would be little or no chance of the legs crumbling. However, the majority of reproductions of the sculpture were made in bronze.

This is an example from Houghton Hall, the Norfolk house built in the 1720s for Britain’s first Prime Minister, Robert Walpole. The bronze is more-or-less the same size as the original, and was made by Hubert le Sueur some time before 1745 for the Earl of Pembroke. Originally intended for his home, Wilton House, it wasn’t long before he gave it to Walpole. Although life size there is no tree trunk, as bronze has a far greater tensile strength than marble, and can easily support its own weight. However, the reproduction does have a sword (gladius in Latin, hence Gladiator) and a shield – reflecting the 17th century ‘restorations’. Smaller reproductions were also usually made in bronze, as they would be far easier to reproduce – you can cast multiple examples from a single mold. I suspect that Wright chose a marble version because it looks better in the candlelight, and stands out more from the dark background than a bronze would. It would also lend itself to a discussion of the virtues of the pure white marble, thus adding to the meaning of the painting. However, that doesn’t mean that Wright had actually seen an example like this, even if there are quite a few marble copies – but if he did, the version he saw is not known.

It seems unlikely that Wright ever visited Houghton Hall, but if he had he would have seen the sculpture in an ideal setting: it is displayed on a pedestal in the centre of the Grand Staircase. To appreciate the sculpture fully you just need to climb the stairs, and then descend. You would start behind the pedestal, looking up and from the far side. You would then turn left and climb the flight of stairs on the left of this photograph, and then turn left again to get the present view, before walking along the landing on the right. Climbing the next flights of stairs you would see the same side of the sculpture as before, but from above. Going from bottom to top and then top to bottom the stairs take you round the sculpture twice, giving you not only a 360° view around a vertical axis, but also views from below and above. Not only can see it all the way round, but also from top to bottom – every available viewpoint. What could be better? Should you ever find yourself at Houghton Hall do try this – but please, also look where you’re going. I wouldn’t want you to end up in a crumpled heap appreciating the decoration of the ceiling.

The Annunciation, again (again)

Veit Stoss, The Annunciation, 1517-18, St Lorenzkirche, Nuremberg.

Another repost, as I’m on holiday in Shetland (although for obvious reasons I wrote this before I left home). As my talk, this Monday 4 August at 6pm, will be particularly concerned with Duccio’s Annunciation, I thought I’d look back to a far different version of the narrative – as some of the ideas will inevitably be the same. The talk is a repeat of the lunchtime lecture I gave at the National Gallery a while back, and I’m repeating it online because so many of you are nowhere near London. Entitled Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà, we will look at the painting as a whole, consider its context within the Cathedral for which it was painted, together with the paintings which were commissioned later to enhance its meaning. We will also look at some of the details which confirm, for me, that Duccio really was a genius! After that talk I’ll be off acting for a bit, before taking the fifth in my very occasional series of Strolls around the Walker – the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. By now I have got to The 18th Century, and I’ll talk about that on Monday 25 August. The subsequent talk, as far as I can tell, will be on Monday 15 September, as on the previous Monday I will be in Chantilly see the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, one of the world’s most spectacular – and famous – illuminated manuscripts. I never imagined I would get to see it in the flesh, so I thought I’d better tell you all about it when I get home. That is over a month away, though, so there’ll be more news about it as soon as I’ve got some (do check the diary!)

When I first wrote this post, it had been over two months since I had previously discussed The Annunciation. Back then it was the calm, rational, yet mystical version by Piero della Francesca, which is at the heart of his True Cross cycle (Picture Of The Day 7). I’m surprised I haven’t talked about more versions, there are so many. But on the Sunday before, I was talking about Mercury’s caduceus – his staff of office (POTD 67) – and I said that the Archangel Gabriel used to have one too – a staff of office, that is, not a caduceus. As far as I’m aware, Mercury is the only person to have one of those. From classical to medieval times – and beyond – messengers showed their authority to convey messages by carrying a staff or rod, and this is what Gabriel holds in early representations of the Annunciation [including the version by Duccio which we will see on Monday]. He still does in Veit Stoss’s magical polychrome sculpture in the Church of St Laurence – the Lorenzkirche – in Nuremberg, even though that doesn’t really class as ‘early’.

The sculpture hangs from the vaulted ceiling on a chain, and has done almost constantly since it was completed in 1518. At one point there was a petition to replace the chain with a hemp rope, as that would be cheaper, but, although the petition was successful, the rope broke. It was also taken down and stored during the Second World War, which was just as well, given that the church was completely gutted. The ceiling you see here dates from the 1950s, but gives an entirely convincing sense of the lofty heights of the brilliantly illuminated medieval church. The stained glass is also original – like the Annunciation it was removed and preserved – as was the elaborate candelabrum to the right of the image, which is topped by a small sculpture of the Virgin Mary. The candelabrum was commissioned at the same time as the Annunciation, and was intended to illuminate it. The patron was a local businessman – and council member – Anton Tucher, who had a particular devotion to the rosary. The candelabrum was there so that people could see the Annunciation in the hope that it would facilitate their prayers.

The dedication to the rosary explains the structure of the ensemble, which is made up of many different sculptures. Gabriel and Mary are central, perhaps a little too close for comfort given the nature of their exchange, and they stand not on the floor, but on the outstretched cloak of an angel. They are surrounded by a rosary, which is made up of a ring of small, stylised roses, with five circles arranged around it. There are another two of the roundels top left and right, with everything overseen by God the Father, perched on a cloud. Hanging from the bottom is a serpent, an apple in its mouth. Closest to the devout, this would be a constant reminder about the need for prayer. Hanging around the rosary is another string of prayer beads: seven gold beads punctuate sequences of black: there are three of the latter at either end, and then six sets of ten black beads. A rosary would usually have six sets like this, although only one would hang free, with the other five sets looped together. The same structure is replicated by the ring of roses. Although you can only see eight of these in between the roundels, if you look from the back, there are in fact ten – it’s just that each roundel hides two of them. This is a real sign that this is a devotional work, as there is nowhere where you could see the two hidden roses clearly. You say – or ‘tell’ – the rosary by running it through your fingers and saying a prayer on each bead. On each of the large beads (represented by the gold ones on the hanging chain, or by the roundels) you would say the Lord’s Prayer (“Our Father…”), and on each of the smaller ones, a “Hail Mary” – which is a version of the angelic salutation to the Virgin Mary, the very reason why the Annunciation is the central image. While saying the “Our Father” you should meditate on one of the mysteries – but I’ll tell you what those are later. Despite my frequent exhortations to ‘go round the back’ of sculptures (e.g. POTD 68), there is relatively little to be learnt here – although if you move from side to side at the ‘front’ – the full 180˚ – the relationship between Gabriel and Mary will constantly change.

Gabriel looks a little duller here, because this photo was taken before a relatively recent cleaning – and yes, the sculpture has been cleaned and restored numerous times: it would have to be. You will know from your own homes how soon the dust settles. And given that there is a candelabrum that used to be piled high with candles not so far away, it would also have been covered in soot. But all that aside, it is in a remarkably good condition, because from the very beginning the sculpture had its own big, green bag which was only taken off during Mass and on special feast days. The process was expensive, and as a result the frequency with which this happened gradually decreased. And then in 1525 Nuremberg became Protestant, just seven years after the sculpture was completed, so it’s surprising that it survived at all. However, rather than destroy it, they just left it in its bag. It’s only relatively recently that it has been on display all the time. 

The angel Gabriel comes as a messenger from God the Father, who sits atop the sculpture, symbolically outside the world, above the clouds, in heaven. He blesses with his right hand, and holds an orb in his left. The orb represents the world, divided by a loop around the centre (the equator, effectively), and with an additional loop going round the bottom (usually, though, it goes across the top). Thus the globe is divided into three – Europa, Africa and Asia, the three known continents. OK, by the time Stoss carved it, the Americas had been ‘discovered’, but no one ever thought to change the orb. The cross on top represents God’s dominion over the world. When the orb is held by a monarch, it stands for that monarch’s dominion over their particular part of the globe on God’s behalf. Beams of heavenly light radiate out below God, but we can’t see those in this detail. Gabriel is mid-proclamation, his lips open, and a look of awe in his eyes – Mary truly is as beautiful as he had been told. His right hand points up, symbolically, towards God, and he holds his staff of office in his left. This really is a staff of office – there is no hint that it might be even slightly like a lily. Around it is wrapped a scroll, bearing the angelic salutation in full – ‘Ave gratia plena dominus tecum etc.’ – ‘Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee’. The ‘Mary’ was added later for the prayer, and for the sake of clarity.

Gabriel and Mary don’t exactly look at each other – a bit like a skype call or Zoom, they appear to be on the same screen, and yet in different places. They are not quite looking at each other – or the camera. Despite their physical proximity, they should be imagined as being further apart, and facing towards each other – Stoss has abbreviated the space as a result of the requirements of the ensemble. On hearing the greeting – or, given that Gabriel is still speaking, while listening to him – Mary appears duly humble. Her left hand holds the book she was reading – the Jewish scriptures – against her lap, and it presses on the blue lining of her gold cloak, although I can’t help thinking that, with the surprise, she is letting it slip to the ground. Her right hand goes towards her chest as a sign of her humility, although it hasn’t got there yet – it stands free of her torso, a fantastic piece of carving. In all of the ensemble the the wood is carved deeply, notably around the draperies where corners always stand free, looking almost paper thin. To prevent the cloaks falling over the rosary, they are held up by angels, who are multi-tasking: they also ring bells in celebration. This is quite a noisy sculpture. The Holy Spirit has landed on Mary’s head, almost like Philip Larkin’s ‘faint hint of the absurd’. I’m not sure why Stoss chose to do this: he is happy for angels to be mounted on rods, why shouldn’t the dove do the same? It could well be a sign that, as the dove has landed, this is the very moment of conception. The roundels are, I hope, clear enough to read here. They are relief carvings of scenes from the lives of Mary and Jesus, arranged in a sequence starting at the bottom left, just below Gabriel’s feet.

On the left we see the Nativity, with the baby Jesus lying on the floor, in between Mary and Joseph, both kneeling and praying.  On the right, Mary and St Peter kneel on either side, with others in the background. The Holy Spirit flies, wings outstretched, at the top of the image – this is Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended and the Apostles went out to preach to the world (POTD 58 – we’ll hear more about it on Sunday – POTD 74). 

On the left, after the Nativity, comes the Adoration of the Magi. The eldest magus kneels and hands the gift of Gold to Jesus, who sits on Mary’s lap and leans over to touch it. The other two Magi stand behind – the middle-aged one bends over from the left, and the young, black king looks out above Jesus’ head. As well as the three ages of man, the Magi also came to represent the three continents – thus linking to the orb above. To the right we see the Ascension of Christ (POTD 64), which precedes Pentecost by ten days. Mary and Peter kneel on the ground looking up as Christ’s feet, and the hem of his robe disappear behind the top of the roundel.

Finally, at the top, we have the Resurrection (POTD 25) – which completes the cycle. Or rather, it links the images on the left and right, a clockwise narrative, from the Nativity and the Adoration of the Magi, through the Resurrection and on to the Ascension and Pentecost. The two additional scenes continue the story of Mary, with the Death of the Virgin (often referred to as the ‘Dormition’ – as she didn’t so much die as go to sleep – more of that another day), and then, in the top right, an image which combines several different ideas. Mary and Jesus are both crowned as Queen and King of Heaven, with swirling blue around them. Within this is the notion of Mary’s Assumption into heaven, and her subsequent Coronation. There are also angels with a viol and a lute – more music to add to the bells. 

Almost all of these roundels are taken from the ‘mysteries’, those events that should be contemplated while saying an “Our Father” on the larger beads. There were, traditionally, three sets of ‘mysteries’, although Pope John Paul II added a fourth. I’ll just list the traditional three, which were the Joyful, the Sorrowful, and the Glorious Mysteries:

Joyful: the Annunciation; the Visitation; the Nativity; the Presentation at the Temple and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple.

Sorrowful: the Agony in the Garden; the Flagellation; the Crowning with Thorns; the Carrying of the Cross and the Crucifixion and Death of Christ.

Glorious: the Resurrection; the Ascension; the Descent of the Holy Spirit (Pentecost); the Assumption of the Virgin and the Coronation of the Virgin.

Notice, however, that the Adoration of the Magi doesn’t actually feature in these lists – so, although all of the other roundels represent ‘mysteries’ of the Rosary, this should really be elided with the Nativity.

Having said that, listing the mysteries does make this sculpture seem more academic than it really is. What comes across more than any thing else, given the rich colours and the flights of angels, the clanging of bells and sweet angelic music, is that The Annunciation is a truly joyous event. The ‘sorrowful mysteries’ are completely omitted and there is the recognition that, with the Annunciation, Salvation is on its way. So let’s finish with some entirely joyous angels – and then, on Monday, we can see what else Duccio can add to the mix!

Still Triumphing…

Bartolomé Bermejo, St Michael Triumphs over the Devil, 1468. The National Gallery, London

Today I’m reposting something from the early days of this Blog. It was written on the very first day of Lockdown 1 – the day that everyone in the UK was told to stay at home. I’ve gone back to this one because the painting I was writing about will feature in my talk this Monday, 14 July at 6pm – Sainsbury Story 3: In Church and at Home. It is hung in one of the National Gallery’s new thematic rooms, this one dedicated to Gold and its use in European art from 1260-1550, thus spanning the entire range of dates included in the new hang of the Sainsbury Wing. I’m then off on holiday, but back on Monday 4 August to repeat my National Gallery lunchtime talk Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà. I’ll then be acting for a few weeks – appearing in Dial M for Murder and See How they Run! at the Manor Pavilion Theatre in Sidmouth. But I will return to the wonderful Walker Art Gallery on Monday 25 August for A stroll around the Walker V: The 18th Century. By then – but not much before – I’ll know what I’m doing next. Do keep your eye on the diary though, just in case something spontaneous comes up!

I’ve left this post pretty much as it was, although I have improved the images. We had nothing to do, and the few people who’d found the blog by then (at this point still on my Facebook Page) were being very active asking questions and making suggestions for what they would like me to talk about next (I still welcome suggestions, by the way, if anyone has any). The last comment is very much of its time – and relates to the instructions we had been given about not passing on the virus. If only we’d known then that it was primarily airborne.

Originally posted on 23 March 2020:

Thank you all for all your thoughts, suggestions and queries. I’m building up quite a backlog of material, whether it’s the vengeance of the vegetables, or the continued presence of deceased dogs in art… but today I’m going to reply to a question arising from yesterday’s painting, which was  ‘Why such feminine attributes on archangel Raphael? The ballet feet, long hair tied back, beautiful soft face?’ It reminded me of today’s painting, Bermejo’s St Michael Triumphs over the Devil, which I also thought about yesterday because of its connection with Superman.

The connection might at first sight seem obvious – a Superhero has come to the rescue, after all, but that’s not what I was thinking about. Nevertheless, it bears consideration. The Superhero in this case is the Archangel Michael, whose various responsibilities include weighing the souls at the Last Judgement, and defeating the Devil. He is in command of God’s army in the Book of Revelation, making sure all the rebellious angels are vanquished. Rather than the ‘S’ of Superman, Michael has the Heavenly Jerusalem reflected in his golden breastplate.

Even if gold would not in any way be effective as armour, it doesn’t tarnish, so it is pure and unchanging, just like God: it is a symbol of his divine authority. It also reflects beautifully, allowing Bermejo to show off his brilliance as a painter – just look at the way the red of the lining of the cloak is reflected in his calves (in the next detail down).

Unlike Superman (or St Michael’s close equivalent, St George) there is no damsel in distress (not that St George’s damsel was especially distressed – but that’s another story). In this case it is a man, whose kneeling position in this instance tells us he is a normal, everyday human, adopting a position of humility. This is the position adopted by most donors – i.e. the people who gave money for the painting – in religious works. Also know as the patrons, these are the people who commissioned the works of art. The donor of this work was Antonio Juan, Lord of Tous, not so terribly far from Valencia in Spain. He kneels down leafing through his book of psalms, and has carefully held it open at two pages, Psalms 51 and 130. The first of these starts, ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness’ – so he’s clearly worried that he might have done something wrong – while the second says, ‘Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord’. It must have been this ‘cry’ that Michael has responded to.

What does he need saving from? Well, the Devil, naturally, which is fashioned here out of everything most unpleasant. It always reminds me of one of the monsters made by Sid Philips, the psychopath neighbour in Toy Story.

It has at least four eyes – two in its face and two on its nipples. They are red, and with the black pupils they echo the poppies, which are symbols of sleep, and therefore also death. It also has two mouths. The one in its stomach has a snake for a tongue. Lizard mouths form the elbow joints, and the rest is a combination of bat wings, claws, spikes and scales, everything generally unpleasant. And yet, to my eyes, it remains faintly absurd, even comical. There is no doubt to me that he will be defeated. Michael holds his rock crystal shield in his left hand, and raises his right over his head, ready to strike. I suspect that, once his arm has swung round, the head of the Devil will be sliced straight off.

Michael has certainly not wasted any time: he’s only just landed. Look at his cloak (this is the real connection with Superman) – it’s still floating up in the air, and at any moment, it will come swishing down by his side, in the same way that Superman’s cloak flows out behind him in flight, and then, as he lands, falls down heavily and wraps around him. Or maybe I’m just imagining that.

But what of the femininity? Compare the details of the faces. Antonio Juan has wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, is dark and swarthy (he was a Spaniard, after all), has hollow cheeks, a slightly hooked nose and more than a hint of five-o’clock shadow – he hasn’t shaved for a day or two.

Michael on the other hand is blond and blemish free, with a perfect complexion, a high forehead, arched eyebrows, a long, straight nose, red, almost cupid’s-bow lips and a rounded, dimpled chin. In fact, he has all the marks of perfect female beauty as described by François Villon (1431-63?) in Le Testament:

…that smooth forehead,
that fair hair,
those arched eyebrows, 
those well-spaced eyes,
that fine straight nose, 
neither large nor small,
those dainty little ears,
that dimpled chin,
the curve of those bright cheeks,
and those beautiful red lips.

(This quotation is from the Penguin Book of French Verse, I, and is quoted in Lorne Campbell’s superb entry on The Arnolfini Portrait in his catalogue of Fifteenth Century Netherlandish Paintings in the National Gallery)

But why should these ideal feminine features apply to a man called Michael? Are we talking Renaissance gender fluidity here? Not necessarily. After all, he’s not a man, he’s an angel, and unlike us, he hasn’t fallen – he’s in a state of Grace, without Original Sin. It’s only the sinful who, at a certain point, would continue to grow old, get ill and die… Antonio Juan needs help because he is sinful, the marks of that being the swarthiness, the stubble and the wrinkles. And yet – you might still be asking – does Michael have to look so girly? Just think about Shakespeare. Quite apart from the fact that all the girls were played by boys, more than one character talks about young men as if they were girls, with no beard and high voices, and before they have a beard they are clearly not enough of a man to be a lover. This is also Flute’s complaint in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: ‘Let me not play a woman. I have a beard coming’. Curiously perhaps (and yet, in another way, it is obvious) these features are shared, so often, with those of the Virgin Mary. Like the Archangel Michael she is free from Original Sin, and, as a result, in Roman Catholic belief, she never died. She watches over us, a mother to us all. The fact that Michael has these features (as do other angels – we saw Raphael yesterday) shows us that he is pure, and perfect, and that with him, we are in very safe hands. I’m assuming that those hands are very clean.

253 – A vision, closer than you think

Carlo Crivelli, The Vision of the Blessed Gabriele, probably about 1489. The National Gallery, London.

One of the most dramatic vistas I’ve ever seen in a museum is new – and it is one of the splendours of the new hang of the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery in London. Indeed, I’ve been using a photograph of it to advertise my talk this Monday, 7 July at 6pm, the Second Sainsbury Story, At home in the Church. We will look at the ways in which the arrangement of the paintings can help us to understand the context in which they would have been seen when first painted. We will also discover the ingenious ways in which one room is linked to the next. The work I want to explore today is part of the progression through this series of rooms, and it responds to the Crucifix hanging from the ceiling with a vision of the Virgin and Child which can appear to be – if you look at it the right way – in our own space. You’ll have to trust me on that – or read on, to find out what I mean. The third ‘story’ will look at paintings from across the Italian peninsular which were made either for domestic spaces – and these could be religious or secular paintings – or for churches. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, but join me on 14 July for Sainsbury Story 3: In Church and at Home for a few pointers. As an example of this idea we’ll start (probably) with Piero della Francesca, who painted a Nativity for his own domestic devotions. After that I’ll be on holiday for two weeks, returning for Seeing the Light: the art of looking in and around Duccio’s Maestà on 4 August. I’ll then be acting in Sidmouth for a couple of weeks, but plan to give a talk on 25 August, the next in my (very) occasional series A stroll around the Walker, looking at works in my ‘local’ museum, The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool. This will be my fifth visit, and will focus on the 18th Century, and I will post more information about this in the diary by Monday evening.

We see a Franciscan friar kneeling on barren, stony ground in the left foreground of the painting. He looks up to the right, towards a vision of the Virgin and Child, who are apparently hovering in the top right corner. A garland of fruit is slung across the top of the painting, although it is not at all clear how the garland is attached. On the left the landscape rises up as a steep cliff of red, curving rocks, balanced on the right by a renaissance-style building with a dome on the higher section and semi-dome on what could be an apse. This is Crivelli’s representation of San Francesco ad Alto, which in ‘real life’ was – and is – a substantially larger structure, originally in the countryside outside the city walls of Ancona in the Marche. Apart from the fact that the city has expanded, so that the building is now in the suburbs, the church was secularised in 1863 and what was the priory is now home to a military base. However, its origins are are supposed to go back to the founder of the Franciscan order, St Francis himself. He is believed to have designated the site of the priory in 1219 when he was passing through Ancona, using the port as a point of departure for his pilgrimage to Egypt (we’ll see Sassetta’s painting of what happened when he got there on Monday). Gabriele Ferretti – the subject of today’s painting – was the Superior of the priory for three years, starting in 1449, and continued to live there until his death in 1456. Like St Francis he came from a wealthy family, but gave up that wealth to join the Church. He became renowned for the sanctity of his life, and for his regular retreats to the woodland surrounding the priory to pray and to meditate (much as St Francis had done). It was there that he experienced visions of the Virgin and Child. After his death his family sought to have him canonised (recognised as a Saint), but the miracles were never forthcoming. However, he did get as far as being beatified – the first step on the road to Sainthood – although that didn’t happen until 1753. Initially buried in a simple grave outside the church, in 1489 his body was transferred to a marble tomb monument (commissioned by his sister Paolina, one of the rare examples of female patronage) with today’s painting hung above the effigy of the deceased.

I wanted to start by getting in close to give you a sense of where we are. The strength of Ferretti’s devotion is made clear by his bright, wide-open eyes, apparently looking directly upwards. They shine with bright catchlights, which make him look both alert and fervent. His mouth is open with a sense of dumb-struck awe, which helps to convince us about his feelings on seeing the divine vision. In the very top left corner of this detail a few golden beams are visible, radiating from his head. These are often given to the beatified in advance of their full canonisation, at which point they would get a full halo. However, Crivelli has included this beatific radiance some 160 years before he achieved the relevant states – but this was something he did at the family’s request, and with the permission of the Franciscan order: they too would have welcomed a newly canonised Saint among their number. Crivelli’s clear understanding of the structure of the Franciscan habit is marked by the precise delineation of a seam between the neckline and Ferretti’s praying hands, as well as another at the top of his right sleeve: delicate details which add to the image’s authenticity. Just to the right of his fingers – and some distance away – we see a walled city. This is a stylised representation of Ancona, suggesting that we are out in the countryside, some way from the city walls. This makes sense, as this is exactly the sort of place where St Francis wanted his followers to live – and where the priory was in any case located. Further away we see the sea and the coastline, with hills forming promontories reaching out into the blue water. This is a fairly accurate evocation of the coastline of the Marche: we are looking northwards, towards Rimini, Ravenna, and eventually Venice. There are people chatting to one another on the road which winds its way through the sparse trees of the wood, while others come and go, to and from the city, their size dependent on their distance.

If we take a step back we can see that the priory is next to this road. The cave on the left of this detail may have been intended to stress Ferretti’s humility – as if it were an even humbler place to retreat – while the perspective of the church leads our eyes towards the holy man. As he looks up a line of birds flies on a similar diagonal to his gaze. Stepping back further, we would see how this could lead our eyes to the vision. Just beyond Ferretti’s left elbow is the hooded head of another Franciscan, included to enhance the connection between the subject of the painting and the order’s founder. No one had painted The Vision of the Blessed Gabriele before, so how was Crivelli supposed to know how to do it? Presumably by looking at a similar subject. He seems to have based his composition on another which was far more common: The Stigmatisation of St Francis. Here’s a comparison with Sassetta’s version of the Stigmatisation (which will also find its way into Monday’s talk).

Francis has gone out into the countryside to pray, and sees a vision of a winged seraph. One of his followers, a Brother Leo, has accompanied him, and although reports suggest that he did not see the vision, he is often included in the paintings anyway. Usually, though, he is some way off, and often on the other side of a stream. However, Sassetta makes him far more prominent. As well as going out into the countryside to pray – and experience a vision – Gabriele Ferretti, like St Francis, has also been accompanied by one of the other brothers, although we can only see his head. This stress on the similarities between the two may well have been suggested by the Ferretti family, the patrons of the painting, or by the Franciscans of the priory, in the hope that this would speed up the process of canonisation. Francis’s followers named him Alter Christus – another Christ – and in this painting Crivelli shows us Gabriele Ferretti as Alter Franciscus.

The artist encourages us to believe what we are seeing by including some highly realistic details, which not only catch our attention but also draw us in. In the left foreground is the edge of a stream, or just conceivably a pond. We could think about the water of life, or baptism, I suppose – the religious setting would favour such an interpretation – but it is more important for the beautifully painted detail of the duck and duckling, with an excellent distinction between the mature feathers of the former and soft, fluffy down of the latter. The delight we might take at the accuracy of their depiction helps to pull us into the space of the painting, keeping us involved and maybe even encouraging us to seek out other such details. They also help us to trust anything else we see as real. For example, there is a rubricated prayer book (some of the pages are written in red) lying open in front of the kneeling friar. Next to it, the artist’s signature is foreshortened, as if lying on the ground: OPUS KAROLI CRIVELLI VENETI – the work of Carlo Crivelli from Venice. Although Venice played a relatively little part in his career, it was a good place to come from as an artist: a mark of his superior status. Behind Ferretti’s feet are his sandals. Like Moses before the burning bush (Exodus 3:5) he has taken off his footwear because he is on holy ground.

When we look up, following his gaze – and the line of birds – we can see why he considered it to be holy. Just above the church there is a mandorla. The word means ‘almond’, but is used to describe the geometric form which so often surrounds figures appearing in visions – in part, because this was the shape of the structure on which actors would appear (or disappear) when representing holy figures in religious dramas. The arrival of the Archangel Gabriel at the Annunciation, for example, or the Ascension of Christ or Assumption of the Virgin would all use such mechanisms.

The mandorla itself is at an angle – which is unusual. Every other one that I can think of is placed frontally – a formal arrangement which makes it clear that the vision is intended for us, the viewers of the work of art. However here the vision is the Blessed Gabriele’s, and the Virgin and Child are angled towards him. Indeed, Mary holds the child high in front of her chest as if she is about to hand the baby to Ferretti, offering him the chance to hold the divine. Mary and Jesus both have haloes, as do the winged heads of the red seraphim whhich surround not only the mother and child, but also the mandorla, supporting it on its miraculous descent from heaven. The religious figures are radiant with applied gold, and beams of light shine out on all sides, equivalent to Gabriele’s own radiance. This rich and detailed use of gold helps to make the vision stand out from the background, with its sky streaked by numerous clouds in shades of white and grey. The mandorla is neatly framed by the bunches of fruit which make up the garland. The stalks of some of the fruits are tied with pink ribbons, which hang from something unseen at the top of the painting. The mandorla is balanced on the left side of the painting by a tree which reaches more or less the same height. Notice how remarkably horizontal two of the branches are – one reaching to the left, and another to the right – while a third branch rises almost vertically. It is no coincidence that this tree has taken on the shape of the cross: the bird, sitting with its back to us, confirms that this was the intention.

Admittedly it’s not that easy to see, even in this detail, but it has flashes of yellow on its wings, and a splash of red on its head: this is a goldfinch. Jesus was grasping one upside down in last week’s painting, the newly acquired Netherlandish or French Virgin and Child with Saints Louis and Margaret. According to legend, the red colour came from the blood of Christ, which dripped onto the head of one of the ancestors of this little bird when it plucked a thorn from Jesus’s forehead on the way to Calvary. The goldfinch is a symbol of Christ’s Passion – and confirms that the cross shape evoked by the branches of the tree do indeed refer to the crucifixion. But there’s something more surprising than that here. At the top of this detail you can see some of leaves of the fruits, and the ends of one of the ribbons with which they are tied – and they do something unexpected: they cast shadows on the sky. Of course, they are not casting shadows on the sky, they are casting shadows on the painting – of which they themselves are a part. Crivelli is suggesting that this image is so important – given that Ferretti himself was – that it has been decorated, with the garland intended to honour the Blessed Gabriele. It is a remarkable trompe l’oeil invention which shows us how sophisticated the artist was, despite his apparently retardataire (i.e. old fashioned) use of gold. But that’s not all.

Some of the golden beams of light which emanate from the mandorla on the right seem to pass in front of the shadows. And if the shadows are cast on the painting, then the vision, with the mandorla at an angle and the Virgin and Child sculpturally in front of it, must be in front of the painting. Jesus and Mary are painted as if physically in our space. This illusion – with part of the imagery apparently in front of the painted space – would probably have been more convincing when the work was in its original location which, even during the day, would have been the fairly dark interior of a church.

On entering San Francesco ad Alto, the painting would have been in a corner, opposite the door through which the worshipper would enter, but to the left. It hung above the effigy of the deceased lying on his sarcophagus (this section the monument survives in the Diocesan Museum in Ancona). As a result we would have seen the painting, initially at least, from the bottom right. This is why the signature is foreshortened as it is, and would have emphasized the way in which the book leads us into the space. The top of the painting would have been fairly high, and what little light there was would have caught two parts of the image in particular, the two areas which were gilded: the Blessed Gabriele’s radiance, and the rich glory covering and surrounding the Virgin and Child. With the vision glowing in the darkness in front of the grey cloudy sky, it would surely have enhanced the sensation that the mandorla was floating above the deceased, in our space, and that the Virgin and Child were watching over the carved effigy as much as the painted image. If they turned their heads to their left, they would have seen us standing there too. Given this, the new placement of the painting in the Sainsbury Wing is especially brilliant.

Hung like this, we approach with the painting on our left, as we should. Gabriele Ferretti kneels in prayer in front of the miraculous vision, which hovers in the space of the Sainsbury Wing about a quarter of the way between the revered Franciscan and Segna di Bonaventura’s Crucifix hanging from the ceiling of the adjacent room. It really helps to enhance the apparent solidity of the mandorla, and of the Virgin and Child. This is the sort of connection within the rooms and from one room to another which I will be discussing on Monday. Having said all of that, I might have been getting carried away the last time I saw the Crivelli. I couldn’t help but marvel at his skill, and his remarkable ability to create the most unbelievable sense of three-dimensional illusion. It even looked as if he had gone so far as to evoke a genuine Franciscan stepping forward to greet the Blessed Gabriele in front of the painting.