In the lecture series Medieval Art of the West, historian and medievalist Oleg Voskoboynikov presents both significant and lesser-known monuments of artistic culture from the Middle Ages, offering insights through the medieval person’s perspective. The second lecture explores how medieval artists expressed creative freedom within the confines of strict tradition.
In order to look at medieval art objectively, one must abandon the notions of millennial stagnation, the repetition of art, and total ecclesiastical dictates, which supposedly preceded the Renaissance, that have persisted since the times of Vasari. On the contrary, one should note the variability and amazing ingenuity of medieval art in general, and one must not take away the medieval artist’s freedom. The existence of a dominant ideology or religion in society today, of course, can shock and suppress the will to creativity. In traditional societies, this does not necessarily lead to cultural stagnation. Conversely, in the absence of ideological pressure from the state or other institutions of power, the apparent freedom of society may be accompanied by a decline or absence of cultural activity.
Within Christian civilizations, art had a formal role in serving the Church and fulfilling its objectives regarding the spread of its worldview. Simultaneously, art employed its own expressive means to convey these ideas. Therefore, the language of art and the language of religion should not be confused since they do not always coincide. No single form of medieval art—whether architecture, sculpture, small plastic arts, artifacts or book illustration, stained glass or iconography—was simply an illustration of any doctrine, regardless of whether it was religious, political, philosophical, or anything else. However, by its very freedom and ingenuity, as well as the richness of its expressive means, art helped develop these doctrines. In the 1280s, the codifier of Catholic worship Bishop Guillaume Durand, who possessed an unmistakable aesthetic flair, quoted Horace1
I know: Painters and poets
Have always shared the right to dare anything. Everything is possible to them, whatever they want.
He explained that ‘artists depict the different stories of the Old and New Testament2
The Bible, widely acknowledged as a comprehensive guide to all aspects of life, became canon for art. However, no true artist would ever attempt to imaginatively express anything that could not possibly be displayed in such a way. The Church was aware of this universal human law. As a result, connecting medieval Christian art to predetermined formulas, its well-known ‘canonism’, does not serve as evidence of monotony or stagnation. Nor does it serve as a justification for labeling a particular artifact as seemingly ‘the same as everything else’ at first glance.
Any religion, just as all kinds of science, is suspicious of fantasy and the imagination, and this was particularly true of medieval Christianity. However, the history of art shows that the Church not only came to terms with the imagination of artists, but also stimulated them. It is quite something else that like any other period, medieval fantasy had its own characteristics and challenges.
When a historian identifies a piece from which an artifact has been copied, it is not an indication of pointless imitation. Mimicry is not imitation or plagiarism, and it is better to overlook the term ‘copy’ in general because it deprives each individual object of its historical content. Any borrowing is culturally justified and can sometimes tell us more about social and political alliances or conflicts than written evidence can. We should abandon the presumption that the written word is more objective than an object or image.
Consider the example of the Church of Germigny-des-Prés near Orléans, commissioned by Bishop Theodulf of Orléans at the beginning of the ninth century as a tribute to the Chapel of Aachen. It was a sign of a certain cultural unity among the educated elite at the court of the Charlemagne ‘academy’.3
Similarly, there exists no written record that the Chapel of Aachen was a tribute to the Basilicai
While reviving the empire, the king of the Franks was looking for a new artistic language that was suitably imperial in form and content.6
‘When looking at this holy image of this chapel and the cherubim,
How it shines, look at the ark with the God of the Covenant.
Looking at them and begging the Almighty to touch,
In this prayer of yours, please don’t forget Theodulf.’
For Theodulf, his personal chapel, a house chapel, as we know it, carried at least the same meaning as for all believers—the Ark of the Covenant, the promise of eternal life.8
When analyzing specific phenomena or artifacts, it is important to remember the degree of tradition and innovation that is critical to the universal history of culture. They should be evaluated primarily with consideration for the evolving attitudes toward the authority of antiquity during the Middle Ages. It is also important not to fully rely on written testimonies of historians of the time as these can be subjective and shouldn't be treated as absolute idols by current historians. No matter how informative they are, when reading descriptions of monuments, documents on their creation, charters, guides to sacred places, and other written sources on the history of art, one must not overlook that by definition these texts cannot express what images can represent. The antique and Byzantine ekphrasis,i
In the 530s, after having drowned the Nika revolt9
It is enough to look across Istanbul today from Galata.i
The Ottoman architects of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries rose to the challenge, particularly Sinan,10
The Süleymaniye’s dome stands higher above sea level than the Hagia Sophia’s, but it is still smaller in diameter and lower in relation to the base of the building. Indeed, in the Russian Empire as well, at the turn of the twentieth century, amid dreams of the return of St. Andrew’s colors over the Dardanelles and the cross to the dome of Sophia of Constantinople, Vasily Kosyakov built the luxurious Nikolsky Sea Cathedral on the island of Kronstadt according to ‘a project approved at the highest level’. This, the main cathedral of the Russian Navy, is similar to its template in Constantinople in every way. In the West, most were well aware of the greatness of this building, and I believe the Romans also understood the connection that this domed basilica had with the Pantheon and Basilica Maxentius, which it seems to have visually brought together into a single architectural body. But these ‘copies’ were only marginally reminiscent of the original.
We can also look at an example from around the year 760. The ambitious south Italian ruler of Lombardy Duke Arechis11
'Duke Arechis erected a cathedral from Parian stone here,
In the image of that building of yours which as always,
Justinian in beauty knows no compare.'
Santa Sofia of Benevento is several times smaller than the prototype in Constantinople and cannot compare in terms of complexity and the sheer scale of its architectural and engineering solutions, the luxury of its decoration, or the amazing use of lighting effects. However, the courage of the unknown Lombard architects cannot be denied. They used an original plan, perhaps unique at the time, combining rectangular corbels, slightly rounded walls on the sides of the apses, and two concentric rows of support-–bearing arches. The inner space is broken down into strictly calibrated geometric shapes: circles, squares, and triangles.
This results in a visual effect that no photograph can convey, in something that must be experienced first -hand to appreciate fully. This corporeal, if you will, perception of architectural volumes is shared by the two churches bearing the same name, even if they appear so different from one another. There is no doubt that this kinship was felt by those who commissioned this building, which is possibly the most original of the surviving Lombardy architecture. Various chronicles tell us that the dukes and kings of Lombardy, these secular donors,i
The assertions or values conveyed by these images could be commented upon or supplemented with descriptions or by accompanying inscriptions within the images themselves. This is a characteristic if not unique feature of medieval art. The famous Last Judgment,12
Only I can give a crown to the worthy
For every evil deed, I pass judgment and punish.
Omnia dispono solus meritosque corono,
Quos scelus exercet me iudice pena coercet.
It is characteristic that in the middle of each phrase in the Latin text, and therefore on the horizontal axis of the mandorla and the body of Christ, there is an epithet that points toward God: ‘solus’i
Let those on eearth who are bound by sin fear,
For surely all in this image of horror shall be fulfilled.
Of course, the phrase in Latin is far more expressive than the translation:
Terreat hic terror quos terrenus alligat error.,
Nam fore sic vero notat hic horror specierum.
The alliteration of the text, using the double ‘r’ and establishing a correlation between 'horror, terror', 'earthly' (terrenus) and 'sin' (error), serves to underline the 'horror' of this image using the poetic language of the church sermon because if seen without the text, the image could be misconstrued as the work of a capricious master or as being specific to the rapidly developing Romanesque style in Burgundy. The horror specierum is right there to see. To the right of the judge, the scene is calm and peaceful, with all the faces turned directly or in three quarters toward the viewer since they have nothing to fear. But to the left, we see masterfully carved chaos—the gnashing of teeth and the grimaces of demons bent into unimaginable poses. The words of the church confirm what the sculptor had already expressed in stone.
This brief analysis may seem far-fetched: how does the placement of words and the choice of consonances make a difference? This rhetoric was much better understood by a learned twelfth-century clerici