'In Choirs and Places Where They Sing': The English Church

Beyond the ancient gates of York and out into the hillsides of the North, the hills are greening with the first hints of spring.  Bells chime the muted songs of old; distant spires soar over sleepy towns blearily blinking back the rare sunny ray.  Snow bells frost the grave-tops and daffodils sprout gold - one here; one there; another bundle-full braving the cool shade of a wise oak.

Recently, my research into the art and theology Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne-Jones has led me into a vast and dynamically complex history of the English Church - particularly, that of the architectural Gothic revival.  More and more I am taken to them; in my readings and, with the growth of pregnant spring, actually physically inside them!   There are churches everywhere here in England: an incredible church with portions dating from as far back as the ninth century is tucked on a square in the quiet village of Kirk Hammerton, a secret treasure box where paintings and stained glass windows pulsate in the slow, steady rhythms of inconceivably deep timelessness.  These monuments of faith, withstanding the physical and political abuse of ages past, are a considerable and oft-forgotten presence in the complex tapestry of English history nowadays; like the crumbling pillars of Athens, their towers might seem a testament to a distant, almost mythological, way of belief, of life, that might be hard to relate to today in the highly secularised discourse of politics and Academia.

As the daffodils bloom and pass on the graves; as the bells chime over their villages in a call to bells over other hillsides, over other villages; as homilies, weddings, funerals are given week after week after passing year, decade, century, I am moved by how profoundly they embody the human experience - its complications, its mysteries, and its soul-penetrating desire for spiritual understanding that our generation might flinch from or even seek to deny in today's rationalistic, Post-Enlightenment, 'Theory of Everything' and 'I-can-Google-it' mentality.

The Victorians were our precedents in this attitude.  The industrial revolution prioritised knowledge, efficiency, simplicity, and production over the 'mysteries' of faith, of love, of life.  Simply put, this led to an identity crisis, and in response, many people sought solutions in many different ways.  One of those ways to return to the days of old, represented architecturally and theologically by churches like the one at Kirk Hammerton.  So with the boom of industry, came the boom of religious controversy, came the boom of church renovation and construction.

Burne-Jones designed a (literally, not exaggerating) endless number of stained glass windows and tapestries for these churches that were being built and revived during the nineteenth century.  Many of these were in the Gothic style, reflecting the desire of the Christians in England to turn away from the brutal industry of their new world and instead return to a perceptively 'truer' form of faith founded in the past.  Ultimately, Burne-Jones participated in this movement, not simply as an artist supplying this public demand, but as someone who had initially had studied theology - and not art - in his youth with the original desire to become a minister of the High Church 'Tractarian' variety most often controversially associated with the ritualistic 'Romanism' of the Catholic Church.  For him, art became a particular and pertinent form of religious ministry in that it related to the distinct experience of worship that the mentors of his youth sought and encouraged in the theological, liturgical and physical atmosphere of the Gothic Church.  Burne-Jones later would profess his preference for public, religious works, declaring ‘I want big things to do and vast spaces, and for common people to see them and say Oh! – only Oh!'  He further lamented that ‘the chance of doing public work seldom comes to me, if I could I would work only in public buildings and in choirs and places where they sing.’

It is therefore necessary for my research not simply to consult the sketchbooks where he actually contemplated the compositional layouts of the designs, but to see those designs 'in action,' as it were, in the churches they were designed for.   Among the first churches I visited was rather a surprise, and although it did not possess any Burne-Jones designs, the specifically 'Tractarian' architecture of Hoar Cross Church put into direct practice many of the texts that Burne-Jones (and I) had read in the course of his intense theological study, first in Birmingham in his adolescence and then at the University of Oxford.

HOAR CROSS was built in the 19th century, commissioned by a widow who had just lost her husband.  She came from a very 'Tractarian' High Church background, and the church, as a highly personal creation, reflects these very particular set of beliefs.

Latin engravings covered both exterior and interior surfaces. This is a particularly pertinent reminder for High Anglican worshippers who revered the Latin words spoken in the rituals of the liturgy. 

The patroness saw examples of a series of wooden 'Stations of the Cross' during her travels in Northern Europe. She immediately commissioned the artists to make some for her own church.  All of them were gold-gilded and shining in the relative darkness of the desolate aisle where lower laymen would have worshipped. 

Classic Gothic arches, a golden cross, and a highly ornate, traditionally medieval screen very much in line with the decadence of Tractarian worship. 

Gilded, highly decorative Thuribles: These carry the incense to be used during the rituals of the Mass. 

The wall behind the altar.  This space, and the entirety of the church,was filled with an abundance of sculpted saints, popes and Biblical figures. 

The tomb of the patroness's husband, to whom she had wanted to build the church for in memoriam.  She originally had controversially wanted to place him directly in front of the altar, a space reserved for saints and relics.  The Church persuaded her to move it off to the side in this position. 

ST. COLUMBA'S was an ancient church restored in the nineteenth century by architect William Butterfield, associated with the High Church 'Ecclesiastical Society' for architecture in Cambridge. Here we get the first of our Burne-Jones stained glass: an Annunciation window that was itself one of his first designs in stained glass.

The interior exemplifies the English country church of this period: stripped, white washed and bare following the Protestant Reformation.  Nevertheless, Butterfield would have been hired to restore and exemplify the Gothic arches seen here that evidence that much-revered Gothic past the Tractarians sought in their rituals and environs of worship. 

Burne-Jones's early Annunciation window on the furthest left. The design, featuring the Virgin cradling the dove of the Holy Spirit, was considered controversially 'sacrilegious' by architect William Butterfield, who thereafter refused to hire Burne-Jones (This window and the controversy surrounding it - Burne-Jones considered it an 'innovation' himself - is the subject of the chapter I am currently researching).

NUN MONKTON contrasts St. Columba's in its intense emphasis on decadent detail.  Much like Hoar Cross, Nun Monkton reflects the interests of the patrons, who commissioned the restoration of this church in light of the fact that it had once been home to a sisterhood of nuns.  It's ancient Romanesque detail maintained on exterior (see the arch below) and interior of the church, Nun Monkton gives one the impression of a large and fabulous cathedral when it is actually about the same size as the churches above.  Here also are some wonderful examples of Burne-Jones window, dating from the mid-point in his career when he was the chief designer for Morris & Co.

The Burne-Jones window, featuring an extraordinary foliage Morris design that beautifully ties together Burne-Jones's scenes from the life of Mary and angel-musician figures.  These designs are in tune with the legacy of the church as a home to a sisterhood of nuns; rather than being 'sacrilegious,' Burne-Jones's focus on Mary at significantly intimate points of her life was extraordinarily pertinent for the patrons here.' 

St. Anne and the Virgin Reading; The Annunciation; and Virgin and Child were all positioned in a register below the central Nativity scene. 

Though not designed by Burne-Jones, this window gave me my new 'motto': TAKE THY PEN AND WRITE QUICKLY! 

These Churches, dynamic and different as they are, thus become an integral primary source of an essential primary experience of a history and a faith still living today.  They represent not only the ageless human desire for a relationship with eternity, but a specific way of life endlessly and inseparably informed by that desire.  To see them as such, as Burne-Jones and many of his Victorian peers did, is to start to recognise the central mysteries of our own existence we may try to forget in our attempts to make life, on academic and personal levels, easier... 

At Kirk Hammerton (Photo courtesy Simon Crouch)

I will be presenting a bit of my research on theological frameworks in Burne-Jones's work at the History of Art's PhD Conference on Framing, 17 March in the Berrick Saul Treehouse.  Please do come along!

Research bite: Caravaggio’s Madonna of the Rosary

Here follows a taster of my PhD research, looking at Caravaggio’s Madonna of the Rosary and its acquisition by the Dominican Church in Antwerp (today the Sint-Pauluskerk).

The altarpiece, today in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, was painted in Rome c.1601, just as Caravaggio exploded on the city’s religious art scene with the Contarelli Chapel altarpieces, most spectacularly the Martyrdom of St Matthew (San Luigi dei Francesi). It was put up for sale in 1607, brought to Naples probably by Caravaggio himself when on the run. It was offered by two Caravaggesque artists, Louis Finson and Abraham Vinck, to the Duke of Mantua via his court portraitist, Frans Pourbus. Its high price (400 ducats) was probably what deterred its purchase by Vincenzo I Gonzaga.

It next appears in Amsterdam, bequeathed in full to Vinck by the dying Finson. The Rosary Madonna is then purchased before Vinck’s death in 1619 by Peter Paul Rubens and a consortium of artists and “liefhebbers” – amatori. A painting by Pieter Neefs has it displayed amidst a painting cycle depicting the 15 Mysteries of the Rosary. Its function is nominally devotional, yet more apparently secular, like a masterpiece shown off in a princely kunstkammer.

Its price, 1800 gulden, is extraordinarily high, vastly outvaluing the iconic Death of the Virgin today in the Louvre (purchased by the Duke of Mantua on Rubens’ recommendation). Like the ideal home of Richard Hamilton’s pop collage, what made the Rosary Madonna so different, so appealing?

Its large scale and high finish put it at a premium among Caravaggio’s works for sale. Its many figures are choreographed within a clear pyramidal hierarchy of intercession, from Virgin and Child at the apex to saints and prostrate pilgrims below. The theology expressed is entirely orthodox, the composition conservative – as a didactic tool, it fits in nicely with any “Counter-Reformation” decorative scheme, crystallising devotion to the rosary, a cult intensified in the Battle of Lepanto’s victorious wake.

My argument is, this altarpiece was purchased not as mere ecclesiastical furniture or even an “icon”, but as a Caravaggio, described as ‘outstandingly great art’ and a ‘rare piece’. Caravaggio’s brand equity was at a premium in the early years of the seventeenth century, before being cast out as an anathema by later Italian critics, most prominently Bellori. Above all I am interested in this altarpiece’s value as a commodity, accumulating as it changed hands from Caravaggio to Finson, by association with Vincenzo I Gonzaga, Rubens and the European aristocracy, including Marie de’ Medici. My critical apparatus is constructed from economic and sociological theory, beginning with Karl Marx and Adam Smith.

On Friday 17 March 2017, I will present my research at the York HoA PhD conference. Be there, or be square!

'Arts and Crafts': A Different Kind of PhD Forum

As you all might remember, one of my main 'PhD New Year's Resolutions' was to get more involved in the social events hosted by the department's PhD History of Art group 'SHADY.'  The group has had fantastic get-together's so far, adding an initial coffee-meet-up at the very hip Fossgate Social at the beginning of term and several sessions of theory readings and discussions to their regular pub night on Thursdays.  However, I personally think that this latest addition, 'SHADY Crafting Potluck,' has been its latest smash hit.

In this pot-luck-turned-pizza-party, we had a mix of 'colourers' and 'knitters' - all laughing, all relieving our stress over some delicious baked goods contributed by the lovely bakers amongst us. Though we all joked about the trendiness of 'mindful' colouring, I for one felt considerably more 'mindful' and relaxed after, even when the 'William Morris' colouring book at my disposal was considerably too small and too intricate to finish in an evening (especially when giggling made me draw outside the lines like a Kindergartener!).   

My 'work-in-progress'....

It wasn't a conventional 'History of Art PhD Forum' but hey...what better way to connect with your fellow art historians then through a little 'Arts and Crafts' of our own! This is certainly one of the reasons I am so happy to be at York as a research student - the community of both PhD and Masters students is so large, there is always time and room for some fantastically dynamic exchanges, whether after the latest departmental lecture or over a piece of pizza and some crayons! 

Smoke and Mirrors: Museum Display and Historical Accuracy

The museum is a sacred space: art lovers near and far traverse to the city capitals here, there and everywhere for entry into the latest exhibition. We purchase tickets; we process, ambulate, and circumambulate thoughtfully circumscribed galleries; we stop and gather to worship before the altarpieces of great masters of Renaissance and modern ages, if only for a brief moment.  In the gift shop, we collect our books, t-shirts, postcards – any token of our own little (sometimes arduous) pilgrimage.  However, while these museums may look and feel like modern cathedrals to art (the gothic Victoria and Albert and the colossally classical British Museum), many of the art pieces they house were not originally created for such spaces and instances of display.  This is particularly problematic when we find ourselves, as viewers, absorbing whatever visual or factual truth presented by the setting of a museum, which may or may not consider its original purpose or place of display. 

In this blog, Hannah (green) and I (Katherine-blue) will consider some of the ups and down of museum display: in some instances citing theory; in most, offering our own experiences, thoughts and questions on art works we’ve loved, exhibits we’ve hated, and gallery lay-outs we’ve found inspiring and why. 

Labels

Labelling and signage is a tricky one. Obviously, as a viewer, we want to know all about the piece in front of us. But we don’t want the description to detract from the art, encouraging us to stand too close amongst a huddle of other people all struggling to read the too-small grey-on-grey print that never seems to give quite the right amount of detail. Indeed sometimes it is possible that labels and guides don’t even give the right detail. Following a departmental seminar by Daniel Wallace Maze earlier on this week, we have become very aware of the fact that museums rarely allow for any degree of uncertainty when it comes to the attribution of a work. Perhaps this is a response to public demand for concrete knowledge, something that is understandable but perhaps not entirely useful in terms of encouraging productive engagement and research.  As art historians, chances are we will often know something about the images and objects we seek out – but what of those we don’t? Audioguides offer a solution, as do large-print guides, catalogues and swatting up beforehand on selected pieces that you intend to view on the day, or making notes to follow up afterwards. Again, none of these are foolproof but certainly encourage a more active engagement with a work of art than simple viewing. That said, there is much to gain from soaking up the art and appreciating it from an aesthetic point of view or, indeed, viewing a piece actively and engaging with colour, material, form and content before worrying about the details of who and when and where. It doesn’t always have to be about academics and I fear that sometimes we get hung up (if you’ll pardon the pun) on the hang or the labels and stop enjoying the art. Striking this balance is a thorny issue and sadly, labelling choices are unlikely to please everyone. Perhaps this is why minimalism seems to be preferred for labels in general, leaving the viewer to fill in the gaps themselves. Some will find this frustrating, others rewarding, but perhaps it is worth remembering that any experience is what you make of it – absorb or study as you will, but most importantly - enjoy it!

...

A label, unassuming and plain as it is, has power.  Often, its words determine how and why you look at a painting; sometimes many people look at a label even before considering the painting itself.  The clear-cut, didactic precision of a label gives you what seems to be the undisputed facts, leaving little room for the complexities and complications, interpretation and questioning inherent to the creation and existence of any art piece.  If a viewer does not bring any prior knowledge to the painting, words can simply explain away any curiosities that otherwise may entice him/her.  Read text – look at painting – okay, see what the text is saying, makes sense – moves on.  Off course, I am generalizing in the largest sense (and also not considering the necessary personal aesthetic choices each person makes when they choose to look at, linger, or question a painting)…but is there a better way to approach most labels? Can we, as Art Historians and Curators, work together not to just ‘tell-it-how-it-is’ at the most basic level and instead, offer places for questions; describe the art work so that it may lead people to ask ‘how-it-might-be/have-been’?  I often think back to the curiosity and excitement of the Natural Science museums of my youth in NYC, or even the child-like exuberance I feel still today in the Natural History Museum in London.  Without making galleries Kindergarten-playrooms, is there a way we can inspire even a little bit of that sense of wonder and youthful inspiration in the world of art?  I think engagement, like in the Museum of Modern Art in Middlesborough (see my blog about its curator and purpose here), is one answer, especially with contemporary art.  But what about something as simple as labels, whose sheer simplicity doesn’t lead us to question their authority…or even what they really say?  A lack of inquiry, of openness, of engagement even at that core intellectual level, can be dangerous in some circles – with art, I believe, it might threaten to cover over its beauty and historical pertinence with a layer of stale curatorial dust, separating us from that relatable fundamental act, and the essential joy, that comes with any creative activity.

Lighting

Unfortunately, one of the most memorable instances of ‘bad’ lighting was at the otherwise gorgeous Beyond Caravaggio exhibit at the National Gallery (see my blog here for further thoughts on this and other aspects of my visit).  One of the most beautiful aspects of Caravaggio-style Baroque painting is their incredible sense of contrast – brilliantly lit figures, all covered with shadow, emerging from near absolute darkness.  In their original state, they would have been displayed in the beautiful semi-darkness of a smoky, candle-lit chapel and the ‘emerging’ effect of the figures would have been even more profound.  The lighting of Caravaggio paintings I have seen in-situ in Rome, like stunning The Conversion on the Way to Damascus, is so perfect that the work has you feeling much like St. Paul must have at the hoof of that horse! 

To my disappointment, the lighting at the National Gallery seemed like exactly opposite: instead of the murky mystery of the dim Italian chapels, the exhibit paraded the paintings as if they were Vegas showgirls, lighting them with what seemed to be overly-strong, very direct, almost theatrical spots.  While it says a lot about Caravaggio’s brilliance that the profundity of his paintings still shone out against the disfiguring harshness of these lights, it leads us to deeper questions about what kind of lighting not only suits a painting, but how that suitable lighting leads to a greater historical understanding of the way that painting worked and was displayed originally.  Such inaccurate lighting, in this and other instances, does injustice to the true innovatory power of painters like Caravaggio, their significance in their own time, and an understanding of that time in ours.       

...

Lighting is another issue fraught with problems. Katherine alludes, in the introduction to this piece, to the fact that works of art in museums are outside of their natural habitat. In both of our experiences, this is particularly the case with altar pieces. Altar pieces are regularly displayed in bright lighting, which could not be more different from the softly candlelit interiors of the churches for which they were originally intended. We found this to be starkly true of the Beyond Caravaggio exhibition at the National Gallery (we might be a little biased because we heart Caravaggio). However, in my recent visit to the main body of the National Gallery, I stumbled upon a room created to complement the Caravaggio exhibition and dedicated to two altarpieces by Juan Bautista Maíno: The Adoration of the Shepherds and The Adoration of the Kings. This were dimly lit and atmospheric, inspiring an atmosphere of hushed calm that one might expect to find in a church and entirely appropriate for two altarpieces. The contrast between the exhibition and this rooms could not be more pronounced and, rather than indicative of insensitivity on the part of curators, may actually demonstrate awareness of the demands of public display and the ways in which this interacts with a desire to be faithful to original context. Unfortunately, logistics mean that paintings can’t always be hung in small, intimate spaces, and different works require different lighting, so it may be that a one-size-fits all approach is the most appropriate.

 

Through the Looking Glass: Glass Casings and Audio Tours

One thing we’ve all been frustrated with in museums: glass casings over paintings and pieces. How many times have we tried to snap a shot of our favourite Simone Martini altarpiece but only see our own reflection in the glass rather than capture an image of the gorgeously revolted face of his Annunciation Mary? (That being said, I do largely disagree with excessive photo/selfie taking in a gallery – a thousand better images of the piece can not only usually be found on the museum website but [I’m sorry] Google Images [Blasphemy!].  As Art Historians, it is useful to get an angle or note a detail with a camera, but for the most part, a lot of picture-taking just creates crowd-traffic and disturbs the flow of the gallery).  There are, of course, the obvious benefits of a class encasement for preservation, safety and security - we certainly do not want another instance of that little boy being pushed by a crowd full on into the centre of a multi-million dollar painting (watch the video here if you missed it)! However, here are just a few questions that we might think about: how much does the glass change our viewing of the picture? It certainly is a divergence from the way the piece was originally displayed, especially in older pieces like a Renaissance altarpiece. How much does it change the actual colour or overall visual coherence of a painting when, intense lighting for instance, reflects off its surface and distorts the image? These and other questions concerning its actual state of purpose and original display that glass casing, while necessary and useful, brings up.

Making Materials Matter?

At Dulwich Picture Gallery back in October (see my blog ‘Old Masters, New Exhibits’ here), I really admired the Hans van de Welde exhibit’s choice of arrangement in a certain room where a central painting was surrounded by prepatory drawings, which differed in their medium, composition, and respective stage of finish and un-finish.  As someone who heralds drawings and designs in my own thesis, I thought it wonderfully productive for the viewer to actually envision the extraordinary artistic efforts that go into the process of the ‘final work’ of a painting.  Many if not most of the drawings were extraordinarily beautiful and worthy (and no doubt collected privately in some instances) for display in their own right, and yet, to see them collectively arguably adds a level of appreciation to art that a beautiful drawing or painting could not achieve alone.  The material handling of charcoal, the mastery of graphite, the first layerings-on of wash and watercolour and oil all become apparent as the ideas of artist shift, his composition is honed, his skill is executed in the timeless mastery of a craft that took incredible amounts of time and patience, love and frustration, years of blood, sweat and tears (yes, I could also be talking about graduate theses).  I think an increased understanding of the material and mental processes, shown hand-in-hand in this way – for not only a Renaissance man like van de Welde but for later more contemporary artists as well – can truly underscore the beauty of artworks which otherwise may be problematically worshipped as a single stroke of genius.  (I believe this ‘genius’ complex is problematic in two, maybe different, but significant ways for the way we not only view but make art today.  Not only does it herald the singularity of the individual as completely outside of his historical time and context, but it also has the potential to lead to a relative ‘laziness’ among viewers and aspiring artists who may think Rothko is a just a big block of colour, Duchamp is all about toilets, and Pollock just splattered paint and ‘I could do that’ when actually so much more theorizing, conceptualizing, drafting and process was involved.  Such a mentality, devoid of an appreciation of process and effort, material or mental, leads some art of today to absolute absurdity.)

...

As Katherine says, the materiality of a work of art can have a huge impact upon the way we view it. Working on material culture, as I do, this is something very close to my heart. And in direct contrast to Katherine's comments regarding drawing and painting, what might be considered very ordinary and everyday objects can be elevated to works of fine art by the ways in which they are displayed. In the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum,  whole rooms full of ceramics are to be found. It cannot be denied that these objects are beautiful, ingeniously crafted and often highly entertaining in their original function (see, for example the eighteenth-century puzzle jug in the V&A).

Their display in great class cabinets that allow a 360^o view of these objects allows us to appreciate the master craftsmanship that went into their creation, to marvel and the sheer variety of tableware available to the early modern diner and to have a giggle at someone spilling wine all over themselves whilst attempting to drink from a puzzle jug. But this display leads us away from their original purpose. Yes, silver and ceramic plate was regularly on display in the home as a symbol of the householders' status and taste, but we mustn't forget the Renaissance emphasis on beauty and utility. These objects were made for use and display, and I wonder if preserving them for display as we do, with an emphasis on whole pieces and whole sets, glosses over their essentially ephemeral nature and practical purpose. That said, however, we do encounter the occasional reminder in a museum of the connection between use and beauty: the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford contains a recreation of a dining table laid for a meal that truly emphasises the impact and effect where these two purposes collide.

Layout

I must say, one of the most striking layouts I have ever seen was the National Portrait Gallery’s exhibit, Vogue 100.  Its reverse-chronological structure, at first confusing, presented its beautiful material ingeniously, connecting past to present in a way I have not seen in any gallery before.  Beginning with towers of magazine covers from a random variety of eras, it subsequently launched viewers into rooms starting with our current era, working back to the magazine’s founding in 1892.  (As a side note, some of the magazine photographs were gorgeously displayed, blown up in all their fabulous colour, and several strikingly abstract ones back-lit in darkened rooms.)  It wrapped it all up with one long room flanked on both sides by runway-like glass cases laying out the magazines themselves in the opposite direction – beginning bringing right back to the end in the present. Coming in with the mentality that ‘standards of beauty are so different than they have been in the past,’ I was surprised to see more patterns and connections than I expected, viewing ‘Womanhood’ in all its paradoxically changeful timelessness.  

...

A layout that caused an awful lot of consternation was that of the Botticelli Reimagined exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Chaotic, shiny -black-walled modern art gave way to a grubby-looking nineteenth-century room followed by the stark, white-box-like, brightly lit Botticelli room. The reverse chronological order employed in this case seemed sadly to gloss over a lot of the nineteenth century art, focusing on Botticelli as the real 'goal' of the exhibition. This did seem odd, as the absence of both The Birth of Venus and Primavera made for a distinct lack of continuity, as it was these paintings that seem to have inspired so many of the artists that followed.

The first room, containing the twentieth-century work was an assault to the senses, incorporating audio-visual work and neon lighting with reflective walls and flooring and cramped conditions that meant that you could rarely step back and appreciate a work in its full glory. After this, the grey-carpeted nineteenth-century room felt like a bit of a dingy afterthought and the final room felt overly clinical and stark. I understand the concept that was being aimed at - capturing the mood of each era and moving back to the purity of Botticelli's original works. But sadly it fell so far short of this mark, it ended up feeling like three separate exhibitions and left me confused and alienated despite having been exposed to great artists such as Warhol and Rossetti and some interesting new pieces. In another layout, these may have been thrilling. I'm no student of museum theory, but this, more than anything else, really brought home the impact that layout and types of display can have on the way that we experience art. 

PhD's New Year Resolutions 2017

The start of a new year marks the start of a new term! For us first-year PhD students, it marks one of our first significant landmarks: we are now no longer 'freshers' and can look ahead to the more distant future.  What have we learned from our first term? What did we miss in the buzz of department orientations and campus maps?  With all this considered, how do we want to move forward in the remainder of our first year?  Though we might not keep them all, our New Year's Resolutions - PhD style - might help get all of us thinking of how we might move forward these first few chilly months of 2017.

Katherine: Having missed 'Fresher's Week' last term, I focused on my new apartment in the city, finding the department, and using Berrick Saul and the library.  So this year, I am hoping to join a new society or two!  I also have resolved to begin attending the SHADY pub meetings more regularly.  Starting this term, the group for us York Art Historians will be conducting short theory readings/discussions over a friendly pint.  First up: Plato's Cave! 

Hannah: Like Katherine, I have resolved to be better at attending departmental and SHADY events, especially the discussion groups, as these will help to flesh out my theoretical grounding.  I'm also really looking forward to this term's departmental lecture series.  My biggest and most important resolution, though, is to keep pushing ahead with my Italian language training in preparation for my first research trip to Florence in April!

Adam: Central to Cartesian philosophy is the concept of Dualism, whereby mind and body coexist independently. Scientifically however this has been proven otherwise, so in 2017 I will resolve to exercise more frequently, without necessarily acquiring Arnold Schwarzenegger's biceps (I was thinking more Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man, preferably without Nazi dentists on my tail). Where brain-exercise is concerned, I will seek to work harder on my Latin grammar and brush up my Dutch!

A set of Whistler fireworks to ring in the New Year - James McNeill Whistler, Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket, 1875

Epiphanies: some art and some exciting news...

In honour of Epiphany and the fact that we haven’t posted much over the festive period, I thought I’d share one of my favourite (somewhat) festive works of art – Benezzo Gozzoli’s fresco, The Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem (c.1459) in what is now Palazzo Medici Riccardi in Florence.

I first came across this work during an MA module on The Italian Domestic interior and was intrigued by the ways in which it combined religious devotion, political statement and self-aggrandisement.

At first glance, this is an extremely devout work, aligning the Medici patrons with the Magi in their journey to find the Christ child. Indeed, portraits of Cosimo and Piero de’Medici can be found amongst the faces of participants in the procession, associating them even more closely with the religious subject matter.

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
Detail - Piero de'Medici
(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
Detail - Cosimo de'Medici
(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

But it is so much more than this. The Medici built their brand new palace, in which this chapel can be found, as a concrete, urban symbol of their power. The chapel was not simply the locus for private family devotion, but a place for business transactions and important meetings to take place. It was one of the points within the Renaissance palazzo where public and private collided in a way that has fascinated historians for a long time, and it’s message would have been clear to see for all those admitted within its walls.

The Medici family were patrons of the Compagnia dei Magi (also known as the Compagnia della Stella), a religious confraternity that was responsible for the organisation of the very public procession in celebration of Epiphany that wound its way through the streets of Florence each year. Indeed, it seems likely that this procession, passing outside the Palazzo Medici, followed the exact path of its fictive counterpart upon the walls of the chapel. Thus, as patrons of art, architecture and religion, the Medici were able to help consolidate their power within the city over which they effectively ruled.

I have had the privilege of standing inside this chapel on a visit to Florence a couple of years ago, and it was then that I was able to realise the extent of its impact. Following restoration work that was completed in 1992, the chapel is a riot of colour and gilding that surrounds and envelops the viewer, attesting to the Cosimo de’Medici’s pride in his own artistic taste and patronage as well as his political motivations.

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

There is another, slightly ulterior, motive for this blog post… I am excited to have firmed up the details of my first research trip and to be returning to Florence in April! Watch this space for more lovely Florentine art and architecture over the coming months!

(This is a somewhat abbreviated account of the frescoes... if you're interested in finding out a bit more, check out Cristina Acidini Luchinat's book, The Chapel of the Magi : Benozzo Gozzoli's frescoes in the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi Florence (London and  New York: Thames and Hudson, 1994).

Rubens at King's: the elephant in the chapel?

At the East End of King’s College Chapel stands Rubens’ monumental altarpiece The Adoration of the Magi. Painted c.1634 for the Dames Blanches convent in Louvain, its luminous colours and arresting nocturnal effects are familiar to all fans of A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, broadcast on Christmas Eve, a picturesque occasion quintessentially English in spirit.

One would hardly have guessed the controversy that surrounds its installation. While the vacuous display of intellectual self-gratification that is this year’s Turner Prize challenges the viewer only in their ability to stifle a yawn, this seemingly innocent artwork has fomented the ire of many a conservationist and Edwardian enthusiast, many calling for its removal, an opinion gaining ground among the general public. Not that this is sensible: in 1968 the floor of the East End was lowered to specifically accommodate it, demolishing Tudor brick archways (apparently recycled as crazy paving) and exhuming graves dating back to the fifteenth century. The Edwardian panelling that once covered the stonework is in storage, and the altarpiece itself is challenging to manoeuvre, taking ten men two hours to carry it across the college courtyard when it was first acquired; moreover, the terms of Major Alnatt’s bequest preclude the Rubens being displayed anywhere else, the chapel’s oblong shape and altarpiece’s colossal size not allowing for a change in position. The proverbial toothpaste cannot be put back in the tube so easily.

Many of those opposing the altarpiece today apparently hold Rubens' art in some disdain. Graham Chainey cites Joshua Reynolds’ dismissal of it as a ‘slight work’, carelessly banged out in just over a week, as if Reynolds’ aesthetic judgements are somehow infallible (just like his experiments with bitumen). Writing in the Spectator, Simon Blow, grandson of Detmar Blow, who designed the chapel’s Edwardian reredos, laments how ‘the Rubens dominates’ and ‘blank stone walls stare at you’. The acquisition, lament the critics, is the fallout of titanic egos clashing, namely Michael Jaffé, a “Rubens obsessive”. Cambridge’s first lecturer in Fine Arts and later director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, he is accused in the Spectator of bisexual promiscuity and bloody-minded arrogance. Is this deserved?

‘This munificent gift and rare addition to the worship, dignity, and beauty of the Chapel’ was how King’s described the Rubens in 1961. Kenneth Clark urged its acceptance with his watershed BBC series Civilization in production; only Nikolaus Pevsner opposed its installation. Detmar Blow’s romanticised painting from the 1900s, with warm sunlight flooding the East End, fails to capture the dismal gloom of winter months that precipitated its renovation. The ‘brown Windsor soup’ of Blow’s ‘Edwardian mannerist’ panelling, as Jaffé so aptly described it, is no great loss to the Chapel’s glorious Tudor filigree stonework. As handsome as the reconstructed stained glass is, services in the East End required a focal point at eye level.

By today’s standards, the renovation of the East End in the 1960s was certainly a botched job. The naked stone walls are too austere, and the risible reframing of the Rubens as a faux triptych (the original sold to Michael Heseltine) has something of the Ikea aesthetic, to say nothing of the desecration of the chapel's crypt. Vandalised by the IRA in the 1970s, it is kept behind absurdly distant barriers to this day, keeping the hoi-polloi at a football stadium's distance. Nevertheless, the painting as it stands does great justice to the spectacular setting of King’s, and vice-versa. Rubens’ warmly luminous palette gives colour to an otherwise forbidding architectural space, its grandiose proportions comfortably accommodated by the chapel’s soaring vaults. The combination is best appreciated during services, where art, architecture and exquisite choral singing intertwine in what could be called a Gesamtkunstwerk – a total work of art. Although flawed, the special candlelit atmosphere of evensong or Christmas Eve does much to iron out the creases.