So we come back a day later, and Peter, James and John are still asleep. We are now outside the Garden of Gethsemane, looking in through a gate. This gate – or equivalent – is a common feature of depictions of the Garden, as you will see if you have another look at the relief carving in Tilman Riemenschneider’s Holy Blood Altarpiece, which I linked to yesterday. It is depicted on the wing to the right of the Last Supper, and the gate can be seen – with people coming through it – in the top right. As it happens Jesus is kneeling at the foot of a very similar rock to the one we saw yesterday. Back in our painting, we can see that one of the horizontal bars of the gate casts a shadow on the grass on the other side. At least, I assume that’s what it is, although as the sky is so cloudy in this part of the painting a shadow would seem unlikely – so it could be a pentimento showing through.

A path winds through the garden, the regular footfalls having worn away the grass. The gate bars the entrance to the garden in a dip, or at the foot of a hill – the bush on the right means that we can’t quite see the lie of the land here. In front of it we see the shaft of the potentially-giant spear which we saw yesterday, but there is still not enough context to determine its true size.

Outside the gate someone stands and points towards Jesus, whose legs can just be seen at the top right of the detail, wearing the same grey/black robe we saw him in yesterday (of course it’s the same, this is the same bit of the painting). I’ll come back to that robe another day. The truly unnerving thing about this detail – for me at least – is that the person who is gesturing towards Jesus can only be Judas, and yet he is dressed in the blue robe and red cloak that we would associate with the man he is about to betray. If we didn’t know that Jesus is in the background, we would assume that this is him. I cannot explain why Judas is dressed like this, although I suspect it might be something to do with the structure of the workshop which produced the painting – more of that another day, too. That aside, I love the slight shock – the frisson, even – that seeing betrayer dressed as betrayed gives. It is almost sacrilegious.

Yesterday I ended with Jesus’s prediction, ‘behold, he is at hand that doth betray me‘. The verse which follows in Matthew’s Gospel (26:47) proves, of course, that he was right:

And while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve, came, and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and elders of the people.

Judas gestures towards Jesus with his right hand, but looks over his left shoulder. Maybe he is looking towards the ‘great multitude’. His left hand is not visible – it is cut off by the tree which frames the left-hand side of this detail. It’ll be interesting to see what this ‘great multitude’ looks like. If you don’t know where we are yet (and don’t worry, there really is no reason why you should) – and even if you do – it might be interesting to imagine how they will appear.

As well as grief, whatever is going on in our painting can also inspire derision. This man – a soldier, judging by his helmet – sticks out his tongue and points, the finger almost serving as a continuation of his tongue. There is something almost obscene about it. It reminds me of the very opening of Romeo and Juliet, after the chorus, Act 1, Scene 1: ‘Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?’ – it was a sign of disrespect. No thumb-biting here, admittedly, but the proximity of mouth and digit is nevertheless not good. The focus of the disrespect is demonstrated by the pointing finger, and enhanced by the soldier’s gaze, by the angle of the sharp peak of his helmet, and by the diagonal made by the rope. The soldier’s unpleasant character is emphasized by the way in which he shows his teeth, although something strange is going on here: there appears to be something circular emphasizing how pointed his teeth are, which might be damage to the painting, a knot in the wood, or a nail. I would have to ask a conservator, though, to find out what it is.

This detail is a wonderful demonstration of the ways in which an artist can abbreviate to create the illusion of reality. The curves of the helmet, and the seams running around its brim and up past the ear, are implied by brilliant white highlights painted on a basic black, for example, whereas the rope is a brown line (or maybe two – one lighter, one darker) with diagonal dashes of beige to create the twist. The mail sleeve of the man holding the rope is a dark grey, with lighter grey dashes creating the ‘weave’ of the fabric, and white dots added to create the highlights at the top. It’s not standard chain mail, though, as these are not circular links, but I’m sure that’s what it’s meant to be. Our eyes see the signs, and our brains accept what is supposed to be there, even if that is not what it looks like on closer examination.

If you look carefully, you will see that the rope was actually painted before this bit of sleeve: the lighter grey dashes, and the cream ones on the ‘gold’ hem, go over the rope. There are various layers visible: it is quite common, as paintings get older, for the paints to go slightly transparent. All across this man’s face and arms there are scrawly lines: this is the underdrawing, resulting from the transfer of the basic design of the image from a preparatory drawing to the picture surface. You can see traces in the tendons of his wrist (in the top detail), and marking the position of his chin(s) and the shape – slightly shifted – of his pointing finger. It would have been ‘sketched’ out on the prepared panel as a guideline. Once the painting was complete, it would have been covered, only to be revealed, gradually, as the paint aged. There is a single line that crosses the bridge of the nose and cheek, crossing to the lower brim of his helmet. I suspect that this is the underdrawing which helped to plan the position of the rope. Yes, it has moved somewhat, but the general position and direction is more or less the same. Tomorrow we will see further evidence of the artist’s planning, and of the way he changed his mind.

Our painting is one that can inspire grief. The woman who is the focus of today’s detail is weeping, although I suspect she is trying to do so silently, and to herself. Her brow is furrowed, and tears fall from her eyes, which are sparkling with fresh tears, and a little red. Her mouth is only a slightly open – no loud wailing, no grand display of lamentation here. She lifts a hand to her face, maybe to wipe the tears away with her fingers, or with her scarf, or maybe to hide her eyes. Given the proximity of that rope, and the sheathed sword running alongside her head, she probably doesn’t want to step out of line. Next to her is a child – I think it’s a child – with the most extraordinary headgear.

Of course, it is a child, but one of the features of this artist’s style is that he (or maybe she?) couldn’t do children. Or rather, it might be more art historically accurate to say that the artist painted children like small, gnarled adults (exactly like some babies, if we’re honest). It’s not that they ‘couldn’t do children’, but that they chose ‘to do children’ like this: we’re not in a position to hypothesize why. And as for the headgear – well, fashion is clearly important today. I’m not an expert on historical clothing, but it’s a fair guess to say that no one has ever worn anything like that child has on its head. This is just a hint that, as far as the artist is concerned, we are ‘elsewhere’, even ‘far away’.

The woman’s outfit does not seem so unusual, being familiar from many costume dramas on stage and screen, not to mention the occasional painting, of course. She wears what is called a reticulated headdress – i.e. her hair is caught up in a net. Have said that, it is made to look as if her hair is caught up in a net – that’s not her hair though, the headdress it is padded to look as if it is. As you can see, her own hair is tied into plaits which emerge on either side – although the plaits could, of course, be extensions. Now yesterday we were talking about court musicians in the early 16^th Century, and the day before I said that I thought that parts of the palace dated to the same period. However, as far as I can tell, reticulated headdresses like this date to the end of the 14^th and beginning of the 15^th centuries. And that might not be a scarf, but an attachment to the hat – it does look to be more or less the same colour as the hat band. If it is, then it is a liripipe, an item of fashion that women adopted from the male chaperon at some time in the 1440s – still a long time before the 16th Century. The decorations – i.e. the tear-drop gold beads hanging from the gold band – are not a feature of European dress though. Basically, if this is an early 16^th Century painting, as other indications suggest, then with these two hats the artist is saying, ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…’ just like the opening of Star Wars. So maybe we should be looking for a young rebel from out in the sticks fighting against an evil empire…

Meanwhile, thank you to all those of you who came to Going for Gold 2 yesterday. Both talks were sold out (hoorah! thank you again!) and there are just a few tickets left for next Monday’s lectures. As well as those, I’ve just updated the diary page with other talks that are coming up over the next few weeks and months, in case you are interested.

Whatever is going on, it is clearly important – a trumpeter is heralding important news. Given the shadows on the slopes – and the blue remembered hills in the distance – he leans out from the very palace we saw yesterday. Stepping up onto a parapet with his left foot, he rests his left hand on his knee. His right arm stretches straight to support the long, single arc of his instrument, which, in a subtle, but charmingly artistic detail, echoes the curve of the track leading through the landscape beyond what must be the city wall. The musician looks over his right shoulder at something – or someone – just to our left, as his cheeks puff out to sound the trumpet. His dress is some way between exotic – with a striped scarf going round his left shoulder and tied under his right arm, and a bright yellow, full-sleeved tunic – and standard, however bright the broad-brimmed red hat.

Two weapons – a halberd and some form of spear – are held by people who must be in between us and the musician. Whatever the event, ceremonial or ‘actual’, it requires the presence of guards, but as the two weapons are different, and not held upright, I would think that this is not a formal occasion.

What most intrigues me about today’s detail is the fact that the artist has painted a black trumpeter. Given that there are so few people of colour represented in paintings in the National Gallery (so now you know where it is!) I am amazed that I only became aware of this man’s existence when I began looking at this work in preparation for this Lenten series. But then, that is the value of looking at anything without preconceptions. If you think you know what is there, as I thought I did, you only see what you expect. By taking the details out of context, as we are, you get more of a chance to see everything that is needed to make a painting work. As my PhD supervisor once advised me (it may have been the only advice I got), keep looking until you’ve seen everything, and can’t possibly see any more. And then look again.

As it happens, there were a number of black musicians in Western Europe in the 16^th Century, one of the most notable being John Blanke, a trumpeter in the courts of Henry VII and VIII. He is the only black Tudor for whom we have an identifiable image, and we know enough about him to know that he was well-paid, and well-respected. In 1512 he successfully petitioned Henry VIII for a promotion, and his wage was doubled. In the same year he got married, and the king gave him a wedding present: a new suit of clothes, including a hat and a violet velvet gown. There are two images of him that survive, dating from 1511, in the Westminster Tournament Roll, held by the College of Arms.

If you want to know more about him, you can find almost everything there is from the Historic Royal Palaces website, on a page entitled John Blanke: A black musician at the Tudor court. Or, for that matter, you could read the entry on the same website by independent art historian Michael Ohajuru, on The Black Presence at the Tudor court.

The English Court wasn’t the only one to have black musicians. I’ll leave you for today with a tapestry illustrating a wrestling match during the infamous Field of the Cloth of Gold, a meeting between Henry VIII and François I of France, which took place in 1520. I can’t for the life of me work out who owns this tapestry now – it was sold at Sotheby’s in 2014, and may have passed through Christie’s four years later. However, it is due to feature in an exhibition at Hampton Court between 1 April and 5 September this year to mark the 501^st anniversary of the event (yes, a year late because… well, you know). At the top left is another black trumpeter, with the fleur-de-lis on his banner, as if François I, watching the bout at the top right, was all-too conscious of the need to keep up with the Tudors. Maybe our musician is playing for yet another monarch…

It turns out we have a sizeable palace, built from stone, and decorated with architectural detailing and sculptures, all of which imply wealth and status. The arcade at the bottom right of the building is lofty and spacious, and the tall, thin windows at the top left suggest that there is a grand interior hall. Whoever this palace belongs to, they clearly want to impress.

The architecture itself is giving off different messages. The broadly-curving, round-topped arches look more Romanesque than Renaissance, and are reminiscent of the type of architecture that Northern European artists (by which I mean German, Flemish or Netherlandish generally) would use to imply ‘pre-Christian’. The sort of buildings, in fact, that we saw in Jan van Gossaert’s Adoration of the Magi (c. 1510-15), if you were around before Christmas, and following my Advent series. Above what appears to be the doorway, at the bottom left, the rounded arch is topped by an ogee arch – i.e. an arch made of two mirror-image ogees, s-shaped, curved sections of masonry, consisting of a concave and a convex element. In this case, each ogee is a cyma reversa, as the convex element (of stonework) is above the concave, relative to the inside of the arch. At the top of the arch is a capstone, which here is topped with a stylised lily. This, when combined with the undulating leaf forms which top the ogee, is common in Venetian architecture in the 15^th Century, but does occur elsewhere as well. Meanwhile, down the side of the building there is a more regular structure, with large, rectangular windows, including one in the pointed gable. These upper stories project slightly from the lower levels, and this section of the building, to my eye, at least, has a more 16^th Century feel.

The sculptures also give off different messages. The larger of the two presents a standing male figure in a long robe, wearing a cowl, and some form of hat – although not the sort that makes him appear monastic. Next to him is a figure in a rather undignified posture. Rather than the elegant, upright stance of his neighbour, he is all angles, the posture suggesting the character of the person represented. It doesn’t help, to be honest, that as he bends down his buttocks are turned towards us, and surprisingly (under any circumstance, but especially as the sculpture is at such a distance), there is more than a hint of testicle. The character depicted is clearly not one to be respected by right-minded people. With right arm bent and left fully extended, he could easily be an archer, although any bow, had it existed, is missing – but that would happen easily with any stone sculpture open to the elements. He would appear to be shooting directly at the other sculpture, though quite what he is aiming at I shall leave you to decide.

His bow and arrow may have gone, but he still has a sword and buckler – a circular shield, common in the medieval period. The sword does not appear to be European. It is curved in a broad arc, the end being cut across in a straight line leading to a sharp point: it is a scimitar. Originating in the 9^th century in central Europe, scimitars were perhaps best known as the swords faced by the crusaders, wielded by ‘the Turk’, or members of the Ottoman Empire. It is another suggestion that this building is not Christian, however familiar most of the individual features might be. But to find out who it belongs to, we may have to wait several days, or even weeks…

Don’t know why
There’s no sun up in the sky
Stormy weather
Since my man and I ain’t together
Keeps raining all the time

When Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler wrote Stormy Weather in 1933 they probably weren’t thinking about the Pathetic Fallacy. The idea that the weather, and nature as a whole, could share the same emotions as us, the human occupants of the planet, was, of course, particularly prevalent for the Romantics in the first half of the 19^th Century, when it wasn’t uncommon for clouds to be lonely, especially given that, not so far away, daffodils were clearly so gregarious. The term itself, ‘the Pathetic Fallacy’, was coined by none other than John Ruskin, artist, author and all-round thinker. I’d call him a Renaissance Man if he hadn’t been such an advocate of the pre-Raphaelites (so, an ‘Early Renaissance Man’?), or for that matter, of the Neo-Gothic. ‘Gothic’ was, for him, the only truly Christian form of architecture. But I digress. I had started, though, so I’ll finish. Ruskin introduced the term in Volume 3 of his Modern Painters, published in 1856, which is, I suspect, a little late to be relevant to our Lent painting, given that I have already suggested that the naturalistic details and particular form of modelling in light and shade suggest that it is a work from the 15^th or 16^th Centuries.

Having said that, I can’t help thinking that these clouds look a little ominous – i.e. ‘giving the worrying impression that something bad is going to happen’ – from ‘omen’, of course. Now, when we say that clouds look ominous, I think we usually mean that it is going to rain. It is possible, though, that this particular meteorological phenomenon could portend some other ‘bad’ event. The Pathetic Fallacy wasn’t the exclusive reserve of the Romantics, after all, going back centuries and lasting – via 1933 and ‘Stormy Weather’ – up until the present day. Here is a completely unnecessary list of the Top Weather Songs of the 21^st Century, just to prove the point. Or maybe, as far as our painting is concerned, this is just what the weather was like when the artist went to work.