An Advent Calendar – 24

‘Myrrh’ – 

Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume
Brings a life of gathering gloom;
Sorrowing, sighing,
Bleeding, dying,
Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.

Once more John Henry Hopkins Jr. proves his knowledge of Origen. To complete the quotation that has built up over the last two days, ‘gold, as to a king; myrrh, as to one who was mortal; and incense, as to a God.’ (Origen of Alexandria, Contra Celsus, c. 248). So myrrh is a symbol for one who will die – it could hardly be otherwise, as one of its most common uses was in the process of embalming the dead. But Hopkins really rachets up the emotional key. I’ve always thought of We Three Kings as a stolid, but somehow jolly, Christmas carol – but this verse is entirely bleak, without the possibility, it would seem, of any respite from its ‘gathering gloom‘.

It is hardly surprising, then, that Balthasar should look entirely serious. Not only that, but he holds the gift with the reverence due to a ciborium, the name of the vessel used to preserve the consecrated host – in Catholic belief the actual body of Christ. Notice that he does not touch it, but holds it with the white, ceremonial stole around his shoulders, the one which his servant – or, at least, chief attendant – is adjusting. However, as it would traditionally be a priest that would wear such a stole, we must ask if Gossaert is suggesting that the Magi were, in some way, priests?

The ends of the stole are beautifully fringed, and also embroidered, bearing the inscription SALV[E]/ REGINA/ MIS[ERICORDIAE]/ V:IT[A DULCEDO ET SPES NOSTRA] (‘Hail, Queen of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope’). The missing letters and words can be filled in as these are the opening lines of the 11th Century antiphon Salve Regina Misericordia, traditionally attributed to Hermann of Reichenau, although most scholars now doubt this (the link will take you to a YouTube recording, illustrated with a lovely detail from a painting by Signorelli – apologies again for any ads). This detail also shows us the remarkable diligence with which Gossaert painted Balthazar’s cloth of gold brocade, and the lynx fur which lines his cloak.

Yesterday I said Melchior’s container for the frankincense was like a reliquary – and then, perversely, illustrated the idea with a monstrance, an object designed to exhibit not a relic, but the consecrated host. I should really have said ‘monstrance’ in the first place, it would have been a better comparison, not just in appearance, but in function. If ‘incense owns a Deity nigh’, then what better way to show a deity, than with a monstrance? The wonderfully wrought vessel which Balthazar holds is every bit as impressive.

Once more it is made from gold, and, despite being held with two hands, it still appears to be suspiciously light – but then, any stress or strain in Balthazar’s hands would take away from the solemnity of the moment. As well as gold, at least one other material is used, and, in the same way that Casper’s gift was contained in a vessel with visual imagery, there are figures here too.

On the left, you can see the very top of Balthazar’s gift, with a miniature column flanked by two seated children. On top of the column there is a third figure, on his feet, stepping forward, and offering a gift. It is entirely self-reflexive: this object was made as a gift to be given. The detail on the right shows the central section. The red elements are part of the lid of the vessel. Just below them, behind the elaborate scrolling leaves, you can see a dark line which rings the object: it marks the join between the cup and its lid, which is ‘disguised’ by the stylised leaves. The gold is inset with a number of cut stones, polished to a shine, and the highlights suggest that they are carved into a series of niches under the gold gothic canopies. The mottled lighter and darker reds make me think that they are supposed to be porphyry, a substance associated with both royalty and death: the Byzantine emperors were buried in porphyry tombs, the name being equivalent to purple, the colour of their robes. So this is another reminder of Christ’s status as King, and of his destiny: to die on our behalf.

So, Myrrh – an omen of death – in a vessel decorated with porphyry – associated with death. There is no getting away from this – the Boy Born to be King was also born to die. We have seen this already. The image of The Sacrifice of Isaac carved on the capital atop the shiny red column is the image of an Old Testament patriarch prepared to sacrifice his only son, a foretelling, in the Christian context, of God the Father prepared to sacrifice his only son. The column itself would undoubtedly have reminded the devout of the column to which Jesus was tied for the flagellation. It is, bizarrely to our modern-day sensibilities, precisely this preparation for suffering and death that Christmas is all about. You can see it in the material values of the painting itself.

If not in the very background, then at least at the back of the foreground section, we can see the shepherds leaning on a wooden fence, the slats broken, or missing, a knot hole visible to emphasize its material nature. The wooden fence closes off a gap in the brick walls, the bricks being down to earth (like the shepherds) as they are little more than baked clay. Closer to us Joseph emerges from a gap in the stone walls: stone is more valuable, and potentially more enduring. It is solid, and reliable, just like Joseph. And if we keep moving forward we get to the gold – here it contains myrrh, elsewhere gold, elsewhere frankincense. All pretty valuable, all fit for a king, someone both god and man, eternal, yet born to die. And closer still – closer than the gold? What is the most valuable thing? From wood to brick, brick to stone, stone to gold – well, the most valuable thing would be Jesus himself. Now there’s a gift. He is embodied in the gift of gold, as the coins are just like wafers, the consecrated host, the body of Christ, gathered in the ciborium-like cup, ready to distribute to the faithful in front of the altar, in front of this painting.

And the carol? Well, the author was a rector, remember, he knew what he was talking about. Balthazar’s verse is entirely without hope, it seems, but it is only the fourth verse of five. There is one to go, and one which draws together the preceding three – all three of the gifts, and their meanings. And it goes that one step further, because, curiously, this carol is not about Christmas, in the end. It is about Easter.

Glorious now behold Him arise,
KING, and GOD, and SACRIFICE;
Heaven sings Hallelujah:
Hallelujah the earth replies.

And of these words, the most important is surely ‘arise’.

An Advent Calendar – 23

‘Frankincense’ –

Frankincense to offer have I, 
Incense owns a Deity nigh:
Prayer and praising
All men raising,
Worship Him, God on high.

We Three Kings was originally written to be sung by three men, each one representing a magus, and each verse was sung as a solo, explaining the choice of gift. The first and last verses were to be sung together. John Henry Hopkins, Jr., who wrote both words and music, was the rector of Christ Episcopal Church in Westport, Pennsylvania,  but he wrote the song for a Christmas pageant which was performed in New York in 1857. So it wasn’t originally intended for church services – or carolling – but nevertheless, as you will know, it has become enormously successful. Maybe that is because it is so entirely appropriate – and Hopkins clearly knew his Origen (or any one of the subsequent authors who took up his interpretation of the gifts). In the same way that the most common interpretation of gold – that it is a gift entirely suitable for a king – goes back to Origen at the very latest, so does the association between frankincense and godhead. Quoting from Contra Celsus (c. 248) again, ‘gold, as to a king… and incense, as to a God’.

If the gift of gold was proffered in a container that outclasses the gift itself, the frankincense outclasses that too. This must be a heavy object, if it really is gold – and only the fact that Melchior can hold it effortlessly on his outstretched hand would lead us to think otherwise. He appears to have superhuman strength. Either that, or it is weightless: maybe its spirituality outweighs its physical heft. While the cup for the gold has a six-fold symmetry, here the symmetry is four-fold. The base is a scalloped square, and a third of the way up, at the ‘hip’ of the cup, there are four circular plates, like shields, each set with a red gemstone. Above this is a lid of some sort, although it looks more like the spire of a church, with openwork inspired by the tracery of gothic windows, topped by an elaborate crown. Rather than a cup, it is more like a reliquary, fashioned of precious materials to contain an even more valuable fragment of a Saint’s earthly remains. Compare it to the Belém Monstrance, made in 1506 in Portugal, for example:

Unlike yesterday’s gold, school children can offer little in the way of alternative interpretations for the Frankincense, I’m afraid, although they frequently call it Frankenstein by mistake (and even that will be a mistake, as, like most people, they will be thinking of the eponymous anti-hero’s monster). But the more down to earth of adult contributors have argued that Frankincense was simply a practical gift, particularly given that the stable probably smelt. Indeed, in the centuries on either side of the birth of Christ it was used to improve on personal odours – given that most people were a couple of millennia away from running water, let alone bathrooms. More recently its health benefits have been subject to scientific investigation, and it has been found to reduce the symptoms of arthritis, for example, and other forms of inflammation, as well as having some impact on immune response. Back in the first century, though, it would have been the smell that counted, and when it was burnt the smoke was seen as rising to god – whichever god you followed – hence its association with ‘a Deity nigh’.

An Advent Calendar – 22

‘Gold’ – 

Born a King on Bethlehem plain, 
Gold I bring to crown Him again,
King forever
Ceasing never
Over us all to reign.

We know what the gifts are – it tells us in the bible. That is how we know there were gifts in the first place. They are in Matthew 2:11, which I quoted from when we met our first magus, but here is the whole verse:

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense and myrrh.

Notice that it doesn’t mention Joseph – and indeed, the earliest images of the Adoration of the Magi show them approaching Mary, with the Child seated on her lap, and Joseph is nowhere to be seen. Luke, however, does mention him, when the shepherds arrive: ‘And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger’ (Luke 2:16) – which just goes to prove that the Oxford comma is vital, or it would have had to be a very large manger. Maybe Matthew’s failure to mention Joseph explains why he is in the doorway in this painting – he might have been in the ‘back room’ when the Kings arrived… But I digress (and not for the first time).

So they brought three gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh. But why these gifts? They are hardly suitable for a baby. Well, the first is fairly obvious. Earlier in Matthew (2:1-2) it says,

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.

So they were looking for ‘he that is born King of the Jews’. And gold is one of the main symbols of Kingship. This is an interpretation which probably goes back as far as the gospel itself, but it was certainly written down in the third century. Origen of Alexandria wrote Contra Celsum around 248, after Celsus had written an excoriating criticism of Christianity. He was worried that it was taking people away from the established religion, and that its continued growth would inevitably lead to a collapse in moral values. Plus ça change – it seems that people have always been worried about that. Anyway, in his defence of Christianity Against Celsus, Origen says that the Magi brought ‘gold, as to a king’. And people have stuck with that interpretation ever since – it is certainly the version we are familiar with from the Christmas carol quoted above. Admittedly it was also suggested, and not without reason, that the gift of gold was entirely practical – after all, there was no room in the inn. With that much gold, they would be able to afford far better lodgings.

But neither is my favourite theory. Gossaert has shown the gift as made up of gold coins, one of which we can see held between the thumb and forefinger of the new-born babe. This precocious ability to co-ordinate his movements should not surprise us: this is the Son of God, after all. At one point, not long after the Magi would have headed home, the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew (written, in all probability, in the first half of the seventh century) has Jesus say, ‘do not consider me to be a little child; for I am and always have been perfect’ – so holding a coin shouldn’t be a problem. However, surely the gold coins are only part of the gift – the ‘gift wrap’ is fairly impressive too! We saw the ‘label’ the other day – the lid of the cup, which is decorated with Casper‘s name. The cup itself must be made of more gold than the coins it contains, and is another wonderful example of the goldsmith’s craft. When set down it would rest on a hexagonal base, a small gold sheep projecting from each corner (just part of the future flock?), and in between there is a series of medallions appropriately decorated with images of Kings.

Anyway, the image of the Christ Child holding a gold coin once led a school group visiting the National Gallery – not one I was with, sadly – to interpret the painting based on their own personal experience. It’s what we all do. This was probably just as mobile phones were starting to take off, but certainly weren’t at all common. So what would happen if Jesus had wanted to phone home? Clearly the coins could be used for a phone box. After all, heaven is quite some long way away, and the rates must be exorbitant. Indeed, there is some evidence that he has already run up a rather worrying bill. What else would the angels you can see below be holding? And why else would they be looking so anxious? Not so much ‘Glory to God in the Highest’ as ‘How much?’ It’s perfect Art History. Look at the details, develop a theory, test it against the available evidence. These schoolchildren did all three – and I for one rather wish their theory had passed the test. Clearly the ‘looking’ is the most important part for the appreciation of art, although admittedly it won’t always glean accurate results for the histories of theology and technology. I’m sorry, I may have digressed again…

An Advent Calendar – 21

‘Mary’ –

Before I start, some breaking news: I will be giving an online lecture this evening (Monday 21 December) entitled ‘The Adoration of the Magi’ – I’m covering for my dear friend Nick Ross who, alas, is not well. Here’s wishing him a speedy recovery, and if you just happen to be free from 5.45 for a 6pm lecture (GMT), click on the link above. There are so many versions of the Adoration that I will make it my aim not to talk about this one! Enough said, back to the Calendar, and today, we have Mary.

This image is standard across Western European art – a young, blonde, white woman, with a perfect complexion, dressed in blue. She wears blue for so many different reasons. The Catholic Church sees her as Queen of Heaven, and the skies are blue, for example. But also, there was a Marian hymn, dating from the 8th Century, called Ave Maris Stella – ‘Hail Star of the Sea’ (this link takes you to a recording by the Westminster Cathedral Choir – apologies for any adverts that precede it!) In the same way that sailors use stars to guide their way, Mary was seen as out guiding star through life. ‘Maris’, meaning ‘of the sea’, is a pun on ‘Maria’ – and the sea is also blue. And finally, as is well known, blue was the most expensive pigment, so it was a sign of the respect due to Mary that money was being spent on her depiction. However, this is not ultramarine, the most expensive blue, derived from lapis lazuli, but azurite, a naturally occurring basic copper carbonate. It was sometimes called ‘German blue’ as it was more readily available in the North of Europe, which is probably why Gossaert used it. It was still fairly pricey, but nowhere near as expensive as ultramarine. Curiously, the is no difference between the paint used for her cloak and that on the robe. However, the cloak was painted directly onto the white ground, whereas the robe was painted over a layer of grey – so on the surface the former looks lighter than the latter, even though the paint is the same colour: it’s the background showing through which makes the difference.

Blue is by no means universal. For the Assumption and Coronation of the Virgin she often wears white, and whereas in Italy she regularly wears a blue cloak over a red robe, in the North of Europe this is usually reversed – a red cloak over a blue robe. Or sometimes, just red one red. Red is associated with royalty, so again affirms her status as Queen of Heaven, and is ultimately derived from Byzantine paintings (which evolve into Orthodox icons), in which Mary wears the Imperial purple.

As this was painted in Northern Europe, the fact that she is blonde should not surprise us – Gossaert is painting for a local audience, and they want something that they can understand, something that is familiar. This is one of the features of the painting that helps it to communicate. Even in Italy, where the majority of the population are dark haired, Mary is blonde, more often than not – and there are numerous reasons for that. Just one was St Bridget’s vision of the Nativity, in which she saw the Virgin, ‘with her beautiful golden hair falling loosely down her shoulders’. St Bridget was from Sweden, so it is hardly surprising that she had this image of Mary in her mind, even if she was in Bethlehem at the time. Her vision was widely promoted, because as a whole it supports the idea of the Virgin Birth – but this really isn’t the place to go into all of that.

Not only does Mary have a perfect complexion, but she is the epitome of beauty for the time. Here is a quotation from ‘Le Testament’, by François Villon (1431-63?), which you can find in The Penguin Book of French Verse, I.  A fifteenth century poem, admittedly, but it still seems entirely apt for the early 16th:  

…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.

Her beauty, and the perfection of her complexion, express the idea that Mary was free of sin. Although I couldn’t say if either Gossaert, or the patron of the painting, believed in the Immaculate Conception, by the early 16th Century most Christians would have believed that Mary was free of sin, whatever the divine mechanism that allowed this. And as I’ve already written about it extensively, I’m just going to direct you back to Day 71 – The Immaculate Conception and Day 72 – The Immaculate Conception 2.

Mary’s perfect beauty is brought into focus by the comparison with Jasper/Casper, the eldest magus – comparing their faces enhances the suspicion that his is a portrait, whereas hers, an ideal. And she is ideal. She is also, as it happens, the only female in the painting. I don’t know what contemporary teaching on angels is (although some of you have tried to enlighten me), but back then they would all have been considered male, an extension of the priesthood, which was all male. Now, if you’d excuse me, I have to prepare a lecture! More tomorrow…

An Advent Calendar – 20

‘Joseph’ –

Oh, Joseph! Poor Joseph! Always off to one side, half in the shadows, but with so much responsibility. Of course, the bible says next to nothing about him – apart from the fact that he was of the house of David, and was thought to be Jesus’s father. So almost everything we know must come from elsewhere. This is how Gossaert chooses to depict him:

An old man, with his left hand resting on a staff, his right against the wall, as he keeps out of the way, half-hidden in the doorway. Half-hidden, yes, but clear for all to see, as he is in such a bright red robe. On the whole bright colours were associated with wealth (we have already seen the shepherds in their dull, monochrome clothing), but here we need to know he is important, so he must stand out. Hence the bright red. However, this is not an excessive display – only one colour, after all, and, unlike the kings and their entourage, no patterns, no elaboration, no jewellery – no accessorizing. A functional belt, yes, and some pattens – outdoor overshoes – but that’s all.

Why so old? Well, apocryphal texts say as much. In the Protoevangelium of St James, dating to the second half of the second century, it says that when Mary was 12, they decided to find a husband for her. Long story short, according to verse 9, ‘And the priest said to Joseph, You have been chosen by lot to take into your keeping the virgin of the Lord. But Joseph refused, saying: I have children, and I am an old man, and she is a young girl.’ In Chapter 8 of the Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew, probably written in the first half of the seventh century (and certainly no later than the ninth), this ‘lottery’ happened when Mary was fourteen. When told that he had been chosen, ‘Joseph began bashfully to address them, saying: I am an old man, and have children; why do you hand over to me this infant, who is younger than my grandsons?’ This inevitably fed through to the Golden Legend, put together in the 1260s, where, in the description of The Nativity of Our Blessed Lady, we read that, ‘Joseph, of the house of David, was there among the others, and him seemd to be a thing unconvenable, a man of so old age as he was to have so tender a maid.’ This last quotation is from William Caxton’s translation of 1483 – ‘unconvenable’ means ‘inappropriate’. It was probably the Golden Legend which was Giotto’s source when he came to illustrate the Betrothal of the Virgin in the Scrovegni Chapel. If you’d like to read more about the story, and the nature of the ‘lottery’, see Day 31 – The Suitors Praying. Given the insistence in all three of these texts that Joseph was an old man – indeed, one even says he had grandchildren older than Mary – we should not be surprised to see him like this in the paintings.

And why so retiring? Well, he accepted his role as a guardian thanks to the intervention of an angel. According to the Protoevangelium, having become betrothed to Mary, Joseph had travel for work. He returned after about six months, before their marriage had been consummated, only to find her pregnant.  The Gospel of Matthew (1:19-21) takes over from there (or rather, the Protoevangelium filled in before this point):

Then Joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily. But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost. And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name Jesus: for he shall save his people from their sins.

Joseph, as we know, takes this responsibility on board: he looks after Mary, he cares for Jesus, he keeps them both safe. However, at no point is he warned, at the birth of his stepson, which will, for reasons beyond his control, take place in the vicinity of a manger, that they would be visited by angels, shepherds and an undefined number of wise men/kings, not to mention their various retinues. I can’t help thinking that he’s keeping out of the way until everyone has gone away again, and things get back to normal. Which, of course, they never will. And, of course, it’s not just the characters in the painting. We are there too, looking in, and Joseph knows that. He must do, he is looking out at us, just like the hidden angel, who is further to the right. In many ways Joseph is the most human, the most approachable person in the story – he is the one most like us – and so it is hardly surprising that he should be the person whose glance brings us into the circle of those gathered around the new-born child. And to me it is hardly surprising that he should be the person who would like us all to go back home.

An Advent Calendar – 19

‘The First Magus’ –

I know – I’ve already talked about two magi, so why is this the First Magus? Well, because I’ve talked about them in reverse order of seniority. Balthazar has a thin, straggly, beard, and I suggested at the time that he was probably the youngest. What I didn’t mention yesterday, when talking about Melchior, is that he had a fine, full beard – and so must be, effectively, the ‘middle aged’ magus. Finally, we get to Casper – who, just to be perverse, doesn’t have a beard at all here: in most paintings his is the longest and whitest. That doesn’t stop him being the most senior – compare and contrast:

Seen next to Melchior, Balthazar’s beard is only the thinnest of whisps, whereas Melchior’s is not only thick, but dark, and lustrous. And Casper? Well, he doesn’t need a beard to show his age – the unmistakeable grey of the hair does that, as does the thinning, not to mention the wrinkles, the bags under the eyes, and other signs of sagging. He may not have a beard, but he does have stubble, a rather wonderful five o’clock shadow, picked out with the lightest specks of paint in different greys.

He even sports a hairy mole, a detail of such striking naturalism that it has often led to the suggestion that this is a portrait. The only contender for the subject would be the man who paid for the painting – the donor – for whom there are suggestions, but let’s not worry about that here. As a portrait, it would also explain why he doesn’t have Casper’s traditional long white beard.

He kneels in obeisance before the Boy Born to be King, the Son of God, and his crown and sceptre have been laid on the ground as a sign of deference. He is the first to do this because he is the most senior, although only Melchior’s servant has followed him in doffing his hat (you can see it here behind Casper’s back). The king is wearing a cloak made of a wonderful, burgundy-coloured, velvet brocade, lined with the softest, thickest fur (look at the rosette of hairs that fans out at his shoulder). He does look entirely European – but then, to my mind, so does Melchior. Perhaps I should say Caucasian, but if we are trying to decide whether Gossaert was following the idea that the kings came from Europe, Africa and Asia, it would be hard to pick which of the two matches the first and the last of these. He is not the only artist to fail to make this distinction: despite the number of different ethnic types available, artists rarely showed a magus who was recognisably Asian. However, the ‘three continents’ idea was not the only theory. As before, to make things simpler, I will quote from the Encyclopedia Britannica: ‘According to Western church tradition, Balthasar is often represented as a king of Arabia or sometimes Ethiopia, Melchior as a king of Persia, and Gaspar as a king of India’. (The spelling differences in the names are common – as are variations in the allocations of ages and origins.) Our Balthazar could conceivably be Ethiopian, but neither of the others would be recognisable as either Persian or Indian. But then, that was not necessarily relevant to the people who originally saw the painting.

I would be hard pressed to recognise this as a crown – although as a hat it is extraordinarily plush. It is a royal hat, certainly, as it is lined with ermine, visible clearly on the upturned brim (which I would assume would be at the back). The hat itself is red velvet, with a band made of elaborate gold links with black tynes. It is topped with an elaborate gold tassel, and the brim is ringed by gold embroidery and pearls. The sceptre is a fantastically elaborate piece of contemporary goldsmithery, as is the object behind the hat, which just happens to be the lid of his gift, which has already been delivered.

Like Balthazar’s hat, it has an inscription, in this case ‘[L]E ROII IASPAR’ – King Jaspar – which is, oddly, another variant of the name Casper. I’ve often been disappointed to think that on the other side of this lid there is not nearly enough space to include the words ‘To Baby Jesus, Happy Christmas, with love from…’ But we’ll get to the gifts in a couple of days.

An Advent Calendar – 18

‘Another Magus’ –

This is Melchior. I know this, because we have met Balthazar already, and tomorrow we will meet Casper – both of their names are included on the painting. Melchior’s is not, but by a process of elimination… He is arguably the most stylishly dressed of the three, but I make that assertion purely on the basis of one item of clothing: red tights. I consider these to have been the must-have fashion item for the well-dressed man in the late 15th/early 16th Centuries, and I’m sure I’ve mentioned the fact before (see Day 4 – Tobias and the Angel).

Like Balthazar, Melchior has two courtiers by his side, each of whom wears dark blue, edging on the darkest turquoise, and the same light olive green worn by Balthazar’s servant. Maybe green and dark blue are Melchior’s colours. Of the two, the one on the right is the more servile (would that be the right word for ‘the most obviously like a servant’?), as he holds the hilt of a very elaborate sword – presumably Melchior’s – and a pink cloak, which is presumably his own. He wears a matching pink hat, which, to my mind, qualifies for the description ‘jaunty’. He is also sporting quite wonderful light blue and white striped tights, which are only just visible. To our left of Melchior the other courtier wears plain white tights, with a green garter, the same colour as the crown of his hat, which is then surrounded by a turban-like brim made of flouncy white fabric, just like the sleeves of his shirt. Melchior wears a long sleeved cloak in cloth of gold, the sleeves reaching almost to the ground, cut to allow him to use his arms, and then tied with black laces at the elbow, below the hands, and at a level with his shins. It is lined with ermine – another clue that he is royalty.

His jacket is quite fabulous. Panels of green fabric lie on top of pink, with the hem of each panel trimmed with pearls. The bottom hem drips with gold ornaments, into each of which is set another pearl. They didn’t have lycra back then, so the knees of the tights are slightly baggy, but not too much – nothing undignified here.

Like Balthazar, Melchior wears a hat and a crown. The hat is red, conical, and topped with a gold tassel. It has a broad brim at the front and at the back, where it is turned up to reveal a blue lining. The brim is decorated in a similar way to the hem of the jacket, with smaller gold pendants and plenty more pearls. Like Balthazar’s, the crown is a gold ring, although more elaborately wrought, but with equivalent tynes set with jewels. His courtiers seem distracted – they pay little attention to the Baby Jesus, if anything looking the wrong way completely. This could be due to overcrowding – and the two faces on the far right, one fairly swarthy, but partly hidden, and another, just the edge of a profile, imply that there is a crush of people trying to get closer (the right side of this detail is the very edge of the painting). The servant in the pink hat could easily be the brother of Balthazar’s servant – although not quite so blonde, and with less lustrous and less curly hair. His attention is presumably taken up by the man in profile, who has rested his hand lightly on his shoulder. The turbaned man on horseback holds what appears to be a war hammer – there are several of these in the Wallace Collection (click on the link if you’d like to see what they look like), and I suppose you’d need to be on your guard making such a long journey. Maybe this is a body guard, or equivalent. I’m intrigued that his horse is one of only three beings in the painting who appear to be aware of our presence – it is definitely looking at us – the others being the hidden angel, and someone we haven’t met yet. I doubt this has any significance, but it does help to keep us involved.

If we are to judge by appearances, I don’t know where Melchior is supposed to be from – but let’s think about that tomorrow when we meet Casper. Have a great day – it’s only a week until Christmas!

An Advent Calendar – 17

‘…and his servants‘ –

Every good king should have his retinue, but how many followers do you need? ‘What need you five and twenty, ten, or five?’ argues Goneril in Act 2, Scene 4 of Shakespeare’s King Lear. Her sister Regan goes further, ‘What need one?’, to which Lear’s response is straightforward: ‘O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars/ Are in the poorest thing superfluous.’ By Lear’s standards, Balthazar might appear an entirely modest king, as his retinue could be as little as two, but it is hard to tell. Is the turbaned figure hugging the column part of his train? The turban certainly conveys the idea of ‘come from afar’. There are also any number of people gathered on the other side of the painting, and it is not easy to tell which king they follow, nor, besides those who are closest to Balthazar, who from the gathered assembly might owe him fealty.

The two closest men do, I’m sure. The one on the left holds his cloak, and adjusts the scarf with which he holds his gift. He is, in some way, a servant – his presence telling us that the man he serves is important – and I have always loved the fact that the black king has a white servant, and one with the blondest of curly hair. This servant is also one of the best dressed men in the painting – another sign of Balthazar’s wealth and status. Very often servants would be dressed in their master’s colours – making Balthazar’s blue and green. While we can’t confirm this, there is certainly a clear harmony with the green swag which serves as a tie for the king’s red cloak.

Unlike the shepherds we have seen before, who tend to wear one plain colour, the servant is dressed in a variety of rich colours – and not only are the colours rich, but the fabrics are patterned, which adds to the impression of wealth. The servants also have accessories – in this case, an elaborately fashioned bag, made of embroidered yellow fabric, with pink piping, a pink tassel on either side and black laces with silver tips in the centre. It has its own belt to attach it around his waist. On the flap is a small blue panel which harmonises with the blue of his skirted doublet, decorated with a pale, geometric logo. The pinks and yellows of the bag echo the red and gold brocade which trim the cuffs at his elbows, and the burgundy colour of his sleeves. It is all remarkable tasteful. The blue panels of the doublet are brocaded with a large repeat of stylised flowers and leaves, while the green panels have thick stitches of gold running horizontally. For a servant, this is an impressive get up.

In between the servant and Balthazar we see a second man of colour. He could be another servant, although he may equally be a higher ranking courtier. He wears a full and elaborate – if somewhat fanciful – turban, and a silver necklet with golden filigree work, from which hangs a small pendant. Apart from this, we can’t see much of him. His face is not as detailed as that of the king, but then, he is not as close. It is, however, the filigree work which is most interesting.

It forms letters which spell out ‘IENNIN GOSS…’ – before becoming illegible as they go around his neck. This is the second signature that Jean Gossart/Jan Gossaert included in the painting: he must have been inordinately proud of it. Not every artist signs their work, but every so often one will get carried away and put their name on more than once, for reasons that vary from vanity to carelessness. What is intriguing about the two signatures on this painting is that each is associated with one of the two black men in the painting. Leslie Primo has suggested that that courtier’s necklet might effectively be a slave collar – a sign of ownership – and that Gossaert put his name on these men because he owned them. You can hear more about this idea on the BP2 podcast, to which I also contributed. And if you’re shocked at the idea of an artist owning slaves, it was not unknown: among other artists, Velázquez also owned a slave (see Day 88 – Juan de Pareja), who worked as his assistant, whom he freed, and who became an artist in his own right (see Day 85 – The Flight into Egypt). If Leslie is right, then it could explain the remarkable detail we see on Balthazar’s face: he had all the time in the world to sit for his portrait.

An Advent Calendar – 16

‘…his hat…’ –

A magus should have a hat, I suppose, and any good king should have a crown. This, I would say, is the latter – or, maybe, both. A crown, in this context, is defined as ‘A circular ornamental headdress worn by a monarch as a symbol of authority, usually made of or decorated with precious metals and jewels’. And this is certainly that – although I am fairly sure that it is a crown placed over a hat. The former is indeed ‘a circular ornamental headdress’, with stylised leafy tynes (the pointy bits), with black pearls at the top of each, and white pearls on either side. The circular band is richly decorated, set with brooch-like elements beneath the tynes, each of which is inset with a ruby. In between these are enamel roses, which look grey and white, but if you can get really close, are actually a deep turquoise and white, with a pearl set in the centre of each.

The hat, over which the crown has been place, is conical. There is a red band top and bottom. At the top a pinnacle is created by short strings of pearls, linked with gold, and pearls also hang from golds ornaments around the band at the bottom. The central section is made of a deep black fabric, embroidered, or in some way appliqued, with filigree gold decorations. The amount of gold from which the headdress as a whole has been wrought is quite staggering, and speaks to the wealth – and therefore the standing – of the king who wears it. But each red band is also embroidered – or appliqued – with an inscription, both of which are informative.

The top one reads, quite simply, ‘BALTAZAR’. This is, of course, the king’s name. At this scale, we can see how brilliantly it has been painted, the basic form in a butterscotch colour, highlighted with cream where it catches the light. This seems to flare slightly at the brightest points – as do the thicker blobs of paint which form highlights on the embossed rings which frame the inscription. From a distance this simply glows, and makes it look like gold.

Each of the three kings has a name, of course – Casper, Melchior and Balthasar – and once upon a time I knew where the names came from. But now I know more, I realise that it is not so obvious, so to makes things simple I’m going to go with the explanation from the Encyclopedia Britannica (online), which states that, ‘In about the 8th century the names of three Magi—Bithisarea, Melichior, and Gathaspa—appear in a chronicle known as the Excerpta latina barbari. They have become known most commonly as Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar (or Casper).’ However, different traditions have different names – the churches in Syria, Ethiopia and Armenia have three completely different sets. And even within the Western Church there is no entirely fixed way to distribute the names – although most commonly Balthasar was seen as the youngest, and was supposed to have come from Ethiopia.

The inscription which runs along the bottom of the hat tells us something altogether different. It reads, ‘IENNI*GOSSART:DEMABV…’ before becoming indecipherable under the crown (which is why I think this is a crown placed over a hat). This inscription tells us something which I think many of you knew already: the painting is by Jan Gossaert. This is his signature. Like many artists he has a nickname, although it is not one in common use nowadays – ‘Mabuse’, after his birthplace, Maubeuge (hence ‘DEMABV’), in French-speaking Hainault. This now straddles the French-Belgian border – so no, it is not east of London on the Central Line. Gossaert did not come from Essex. But if he was born in French-speaking Hainault, why was he called ‘Gossaert’? Well, he wasn’t. That’s not how he signed his name. He signed himself ‘Jenni Gossart’, as you can see from the painting, which we would interpret as ‘Jean Gossart’ – entirely French. However, according to Lorne Campbell’s superb catalogue entry, to which I am entirely indebted, and which is online in it entirety, ‘the Dutch translation ‘Jan Gossaert’ gradually gained currency during the second half of the 19th century and became standard during the 20th century.’  The 19th Century has so much to answer for. However, now we know the name of this king (or magus), and of the artist, what more is there to say? Well, plenty: we haven’t even finished with Balthasar yet…

An Advent Calendar – 15

‘A Magus…‘ –

‘We Three Kings of Orient…’ aren’t in the bible. What it says in Matthew 2:1 is, ‘Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem’. This is all it says – ‘wise men’ – not kings, not three. At least the carol gets the ‘Orient’ bit right, as they were from ‘the east’, according to Matthew, although you always have to wonder, ‘east from where?’ East from Bethlehem, I would assume, although my gut response would be that today’s magus comes from the south west, as far as Bethlehem is concerned.

Why do we think there were three? Why do we think they were kings? And where were they from? I’ll be thinking about all of these questions over the next few days, but mainly, I suspect, today. First of all, the number three. It makes perfect sense. After all, ‘when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense and myrrh’ (Matthew 2:11). So, one gift each. Let’s not consider the possibility that there might have been more of them, and that they pooled their resources, or that two magi were especially beneficent – one gift each is enough to explain the presence of three people. And given that the one Christian God exists in three persons – the Holy Trinity – it is a fitting number. It also means that they can represent all sorts of other ideas that come in threes. More than one Italian painting of the Adoration of the Magi has them dressed in white, green and red, not because the paintings were Italian (‘Italy’ didn’t exist in as a Nation State when they were made), but because they were the colours associated with the theological virtues of Faith, Hope and Charity (in that order). They were also associated with the three ages of man – young, middle-aged and old. With his straggly, thin beard, today’s magus must be the young one, but we can check that out over the next few days. There was also a tradition that if they were kings (see below), then they could have been the kings of the three known continents, Europe, Africa and Asia, and so this is presumably the African king. However, their place of origin was never fixed.

The number three is easy to understand. But then, when you know the reasoning, so is the idea that they were kings (this one certainly has a splendid crown – but more of that tomorrow). The idea relates to (at least) two texts from the Jewish Scriptures. The first comes from the book of Isaiah (1:3&6):

And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising…

The multitude of camels shall cover thee, the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come: they shall bring gold and incense; and they shall shew forth the praises of the Lord.

This ties in with the idea we discussed yesterday that the shepherds ‘were in the same country’, and so came to represent the Jews who converted to Christianity. The Kings represented the Gentiles who became Christian – as prophesied by Isaiah with the words ‘the Gentiles shall come to thy light’. And then, of course, Isaiah mentions ‘kings’ who ‘shall bring gold and incense’ – it’s easy to see why this passage was associated with the Nativity (and, while we’re at it, the quotation also explains the number of camels that appear in paintings of the magi).

So where were they from? Well, Midian, Ephah and Sheba, according to Isaiah. But Psalm 72:10-11 has another idea:

The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall bring presents: the kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts. Yea, all kings shall fall down before him: all nations shall serve him.

Again, we have the idea of kings, and again Sheba comes to the fore. To be honest, no one is entirely clear where it was, although current opinion is that it should be identified as Saba, in South Arabia. However, Josephus, writing in the 1st Century, thought it was in Ethiopia, and this is the opinion that would have been current when our magus was painted. This is more than enough justification for a Black King, although the earliest known example wasn’t painted until around 1360.  It’s not something I know a huge amount about, so I’m looking forward to finding out more: my colleague Leslie Primo will be my guest for the first session of the National Gallery’s Stories of Art: Module 3, which starts on 6 January (the course goes on general sale on Friday), and will be talking about the Black King.

The Psalm also mentions Seba – which may or may not be distinguishable from Sheba, apparently – and Tarshish, which is very hard to pin down. Suggestions have included Sardinia, Spain, Tuscany and even (in the 19th Century) Britain – which might explain the theory that one of the Kings was from Europe. However, other suggestions have also included India, South Africa, and ‘the Phoenician coast’.  Isaiah also mentions Midian (probably in the northwest Arabian peninsula) and Ephah (arguably a bit closer to Bethlehem than Midian). Overall, though, with the possible exception of Tarshish (wherever that was supposed to be), and taking the modern opinion of Sheba as Saba, we could argue that the magi came from Persia. This would make sense, as the Magi were, in all probability, members of a respectable class of Persian astrologer. Let’s face it, they must have been quite highly regarded, as they seem to have had little difficulty in getting access to King Herod.

The story of the Magi – who, what and whence – is common to all paintings of the Adoration. The the Black Magus – or King – on the other hand is a relative newcomer, and not fixture. He appeared first in the second half of the 14th Century, and featured more and more regularly throughout the 15th and 16th Centuries. However, there is one way in which this image stands out: it is not a racial stereotype, unlike so many, but the result of meticulous observation.

As an illustration of this, look at the careful way in which the eye sockets are formed – the right cheek bone (on our left) has a subtle highlight to the left of the shadow marking the socket, and the lower eyelid has a another highlight, going into shadow again as it reaches the bridge of the nose, where shadow takes over once more. The lips, too, are sensitively delineated, and distinguished one from the other by both form and outline. The artist is not making assumptions – he is painting what he has seen – seen, and carefully observed. Today’s magus is also beautifully characterised, transfixed as he is in the presence of the infant Christ. There is plenty more to say about him, but, until tomorrow…