Exhibition of Litany of Loreto Embroideries at Hampton Court in London

Anne Gomes, a reader of this blog brought to my attention an exhibition put on by the Royal College of Needlework of fine turn of the century embroidery of vestments which is taking place at Hampton Court and runs through to December. She tells me that 'the set of 12 is on display right now. They look to me to be turn of 20th century in Art Nouveau style. Using a very limited color palette (very baroque!), they are hand embroidered on silk in silk and gold threads. No one is sure of the makers but at one time they belonged to the Convent of the Holy Child which gave them to the Royal College of Needlework when it closed.' Those interested in reading more can follow the link here. I am no expert in the technique of embroidery but looking at the photographs my reaction is that the quality of work on display looks very high. Certainly quality of draughtsmanship is in the design is high.

The Paintings of an American Catholic Master, Carl Schmitt

 Two years ago, I wrote a  feature on the American artist Carl Schmitt (1889-1989).  What has prompted me to look at his work again is the publication of a beautiful book of his work called Carl Schmitt, The Vision of Beauty. Schmitt was a classically trained American artist who was a friend of Hilaire Belloc, who owned work by him, and who contributed a weekly column to Chesterton’s Weekly Review when Belloc was its editor. He was much travelled around Europe, but spent most of his adult life living in Connecticut. I like his still lives particularly see below and at www.carlschmitt.org). He was a faithful Catholic all his life and quite apart from his art his Catholic legacy is strong. He had 10 children who all kept the faith and one of whom was a priest. Descendants of Schmitt were involved at the instigation of Thomas Aquinas College in California and founded and still run Trivium School, an independent Catholic boarding high school with a great books curriculum. This is on the other side of the country and less than an hour south of Thomas More College, in Massachusetts. Sam Schmitt, who wrote this book and works for the foundation that works to preserve his memory is a scholar of chant and the liturgy and I met him before he took his current role when he was working with us at TMC. It was with great pleasure that I received this book to review. What caught my eye at the time was this deposition. This is a good example, in my opinion, to study when considering how to balance the general and the particular characteristics of the person. For good sacred art, that balance has to be right.

Some time ago, I wrote an article (Is Some Sacred Art Too Naturalistic), about the tendency amongst modern naturalistic artists to paint sacred art in which the rendering, especially the faces, is too naturalistic and too particular to one person, like a portrait. The result is paintings that look like the next door neighbor dressed up in old-fashioned clothing in a staged Victorian tableau. In my assessment there was too much emphasis on the particular and not enough on the general human characteristics of the saint or person depicted. It is the general characteristics that enable us to relate to those aspects that we are supposed to be inspired by and imitate, such as virtue. By definition, we can only aspire to imitate those aspects that are common to us. It is not possible to imitate something that is particular to someone else.

The sacred art of baroque of the 17^th century (in contrast to 19^th century naturalism) always plays down the individual characteristics with skillful use of shadow, depletion of color and variation in focus. This is not to exclude the particular altogether; we must know enough to know who is depicted. It is a question of balance. An example of how a baroque artist described this is given here.

In a very 20^th century way, Carl Schmitt has done the same here. I like also the way that he has set up the composition. The circular sweep that contains the main forms is well handled, introducing enough variation (for example in the tilt of the heads of the women) to stop them looking to rigidly bound by the compositional form.

Some might feel that there is too much 'general' and not enough 'particular' for their taste (it is something that crosses my mind). Regardless, I think it is a useful thing for today's artists to see how Schmitt has approached this problem, and at the very least avoided the pitfalls of so many current naturalistic artists.

I am delighted that this book features a large number of his very beautiful still lives. They show the same skillful balance of the general and particular and are reminiscent of the great French Master Chardin. You can read about him in an article I wrote entitled Cosmic Onions, What Does Still Life Have to Do with the Liturgy?. In these Schmitt demonstrates that he understands the baroque sensibility (developed in the century before Chardin) in which large areas of the painting are in soft focus and depleted of colour. This means that the hard edges, deep contrast and most brightly coloured areas correspond to those parts that we focus on naturally within the composition. He gives us information where we naturally seek it. This is how the naturalistic artist appeals to our natural way of look at the cosmos and delighting in it. The focus of the eye is sharp and coloured in the centre, but monochromatic and blurred in the extremes and when we look at the world around us, the intellect process this information so that what we see in our mind's eye delights us. God made us this way so that we delight in the beauty of his creation, and the skilfull artist understands this and gives us visual information that corresponds to this natural desire of the intellect.

I show several of his still lives below.

Photos courtesy of the Carl Schmitt Foundation

The Franciscan Liturgical Art - An Inspiration for Rebuilding the Church Today

The rich artistic fruit of the spirituality of charity and poverty. Following the excellent feature introduced by Shawn Tribe - the Sacred Liturgy and the Apostolate - on how liturgy is the 'indespensable' source of momentum for increased charity and social and cultural regeneration; and my own piece Should We Sell All the Art in the Vatican and Give the Money to the Poor?, I thought that I would explore a little further the part that sacred art and the beautiful decoration of our churches has to play in this. St Francis of Assisi is the figure to whom are encouraged to look in this regard, so perhaps the easiest way to think about this is to consider the effect he had in his day.

 I am no expert on St Francis himself so I am taking a simple approach. I am working on a couple of assumptions that I am hoping are reasonable: that a focus on charity and concern for poor and the art of third order Franciscans artists are all reflective of the Franciscan spirit of the age; and these are consistent with the spirituality of St Francis himself. The artists are those such as Giotto, Cimabue and the anonymous artist known as the 'Master of St Francis'.

 There are a number of points that can be made about the art. Just looking at the interiors of these churches one can say that there is huge importance attached to their beauty and harmony with the liturgy. But it goes further than that. They are highly innovative. Features such as the increased naturalism and heightened sense of the suffering of Christ represented a departure from the strict iconographic prototype that governed the art of period before. However, although innovative the always worked within the broader the principles of what makes art worthy of veneration and it is therefore authentic sacred art that deepens our participation in the liturgy. There is no accounting for how God might choose to inspire individual artists, but it does not seem conceivable to me that a whole culture changing movement which is for the good, (which is what we are talking about here), could happen without a deep attachment to the liturgy.

If we look at the interiors of the churches, for example, notice how much is adorned with geometric patterned art. This suggests to me an deep awareness of the sources of the symbolism that generates such geometry, predominantly scripture and the cosmos. One of the commonly held ideas of Franciscan spirituality is that of an interest in and love of the beauty of the natural world that St Francis inspired. Whatever the truth of this, I would say that as a general principle one could not create such 'cosmic' art unless one was able to read the cosmos symbolically and had a deep understanding of how that symbolism and the beauty of the cosmos points us to something greater, to the rhythms of the heavenly liturgy and ultimately to God.

To the degree that all of this inspires a true liturgical devotion, then, as Shawn's feature points out, this will inspire devotion also to charity for the poor. In addition, one should say that he needs of the poor are spiritual as well as material. The poor need their souls saving just as much as the rich do and this art is for all people, rich and poor.

To my mind, all of this beauty is consistent with the twin aims that I have heard Pope Francis speak of rebuilding the Church - evangelisation - and caring for poor. When one relies on God we rest in an infinite and superabundant source of all that is good (including wealth). Inspiring people, rich and poor alike to come closer to God will create benefits in every area of our lives. Pictures are of the interior of the Basilica of St Francis:

I couldn't find this in high resolution, but I wanted to show it because of the traditional quincunx design on the altar (the shape where four circles spin out of the central circle  - symbolising the creation of the cosmos),

Above: a crucifixion by Cimabue contrasted with an iconographic (Romanesque) cross painted in Umbria in the 12th century. The former focusses on the suffering of Christ, while the latter on his glory on the cross.

Below: St John and Our Lady during the Passion from the Master of St Francis.

And finally my own version of the Franciscan gothic figures painted for the chapel at Thomas More College.

The Pictorial Symbol of a Virgin Before, During and After Giving Birth

One of the tasks that those who are interested in cultural renewal have to face today is one of reawakening to the symbolism of the cosmos. This faculty can be stimulated, I believe, by incorporating a language of symbolism into art. I have written before of how when painting today, the artist has to decide on a case by case basis which symbols to revive and which to ignore (see Pelican Brief - Should We Aim to Revive All Christian Symbols of Sacred Art). A symbol must speak to those who are meant to see it and some symbols are so rooted in a culture that is bound to a different time and place that it is unlikely ever to communicate much to any nowadays but learned art historians. The symbols that seem most prevelant and useful are those that are based on scripture or tradition and furthermore speak naturally of what they are trying to convey. These are the ones that I tend to focus on. So while the halo represents the uncreated light of sanctity it is not an arbitary symbol. It is as much a stylised representation of light eminating from the person.

In contrast colour symbolism is more arbitrary. In fact no strict colour code of symbolism for any of the liturgical traditions, including even iconography (perhaps surprisingly). That is not to say that artists have not chosen colours in order convey spiritual meanings, and temporary trends can develop when artists are influenced by others in their choice. However, it is very difficult to find any colour symbolism that is observed consistently either across different traditions or even within one.

Occasionally I am presented with a colour symbolism as though it is a strict rule. Usually, however, on digging more deeply I discover that over the ages all sorts of different colours have been used; or even where there is a conformity to a colour, the explanation of the symbolism differs, which causes me to wonder to wonder if these are not just explanations after the fact which are not rooted in tradition. The Church Fathers it seems are silent on such matters (although as ever, I am happy to told otherwise and directed to writings I haven't seen yet).

There is one symbol that I am inclined to employ even though I do not know why it has come to symbolise what it does. This is the placement of three stars on the garment of Our Lady that is used in icons - one on each shoulder of her outer robe and one on the forehead. Someone asked me recently what they meant and I knew that it represented perpetual virginity, but couldn't remember why. As was quickly pointed out to me, they correspond to the idea that Our Lady was a virgin before, during and after birth. However, I still have no idea why three stars are used to symbolise this. Our Lady is often associated with the North Star, the Star of the Sea, and so I wondered if it was somehow evoking this. As often happens to, the very next day, there was a reference to this in the liturgy. The reading for the Feast of Saints Anne and Joachim was from John of Damascus and in this he says to Our Lord's grandparents, that : 'By your pure and holy way of life you brought up that jewell of virginity, she who before giving birth was a virgin, who while giving birth was a virgin, and who after giving birth was ever a virgin; yes, she who was always unique, who was to cherish virginity in mind, in spirit and also in body.' So I'm unlikely to forget that again...except there is no direct connection with a star and perhaps taking our lead from St John of Damascus, the three stars might represent a 'cherished virginity' that encompasses the whole person - mind, spirit and body - as well as in perpetuity?

Can anyone help me here?

The reason that I am inclined to use this is that it does seem to be well established across all the differing iconographic traditions. And it is an important message to get across. Furthermore, I can't think of a more natural or appropriate way of symbolising this so that it would speak of it more eloquently or directly. So three stars for perpetual virginity it is.

Why Create New Art or Music When There's Plenty of Good Old Stuff Around?

For me a living tradition in art (and the argument would apply equally to music), is not simply one that preserves and hands on the great work past, it is one also that reapplies its core principles to create new art or music. But one might ask, why bother? With the standard of reproductions in art now, you could have a Fra Angelico in your church at a fraction of a cost of commissioning an original work of art. Similarly, there is so much chant and polyphony already composed, you could have something different but of the highest quality every Sunday for several lifetimes.

Here's why I think it is important. First is variety. It just seems a terrible shame to think of any tradition being a closed door in which there is no possibility of something new. For all that we have much to draw from already, to see how mankind under inspiration can still create something previously unimagined is a wonderful thing. The seemingly limitless variety that is possible, points, I think to the limitless well of grace that is the ultimate source of that inspiration.Second is that we need new expressions in order to attract more people. All the artistic traditions of the Church reflect timeless principles and so have something within them to which every person, potentially, can respond. Traditional chant and polyphony, or great art even in reproduction or original but pastiche, still has the power to touch many people and draw them into the Faith. The timeless principles that unite all good art and music will always have an effect. I speak from personal experience: I was bowled over by my experience of hearing Palestrina at the London Oratory. With a live performance in unity with liturgy, this was old music, but still fresh and new to my ear.Nevertheless, a living tradition will be one in which there are artists and composers who are constantly creating new work, without ever compromising on the core principles that define it. In doing so it will reflect and speak to its time and its place in a unique way. When the timeless and the time-bound aspects are in harmony, you have the most powerful effect. When this harmony is present it will appeal to most people. For many, I believe, it will stimulate into life that part that that can respond otentially to all other traditional forms. Once this is done then there is every chance that many who previously would have been unaffected by centuries old chant or polyphony will now respond. This is the special value of 'new traditional' art and music.If there is an imbalace in the timeless and time-bound aspects (or just a poor attempt at both), you risk creating pastiche on the one hand, or sentimental imitations of modern secular fashion on the other. Iconography demonstrates this perfectly. Aidan Hart, my teacher always says that those who understand iconography well can look at any icon without knowing anything about it, place to a particular geographical location and to a time period within 50-100 years. What is changing here is not the principles that define the tradition - these never waver; but how they are applied. This is how, for example, we can distinguish between Russian icons and Greek icons and within the Russian style Gregory Kroug and Andrei Rublev.

Sometimes the modern expression is not something never seen before, but a re-emergence of an old style, that has its time again. Fra Angelico is an artist who seems to be liked a great deal at the moment, and so any artist who could capture the qualities of his art would do well I think. Having said this, however closely we follow a past form, that time-bound aspect will never be absent altogether. Each artist is a unique individual and even the most cloistered monk will susceptible to the culture of his day. This individual aspect of the work cannot be quashed altogether. The task for the artist, or composer, is to direct it so that it conforms to what is good, true and beautiful. To certain extent this will be an intuitive process but creativity is directed by conscious reason as well. When the artist is responding to a clearly defined need then this latter aspect comes into play particularly.

I think the music of composer Paul Jernberg does this. You can hear is music here. We have been collaborating in developing music for the liturgy of the hours at Thomas More College for the last year and we will be working together at the summer retreat at the college in August where the aim is to teach people how to sing it. What is so great about this is first, how appealing it is and second how easy it is to sing at a satisfying level. This is what the ideal of noble simplicity is all about.

Here's another example. We had a priest who visited regularly and even if celebrating a novus ordo would always lead us in reciting the St Michael prayer after Mass. He used to turn to the tabernacle as he said it. I thought that it would be great if we had an image to focus on, so I painted one for the back wall. Then I then asked Paul if he could come up with an arrangement so that we could sing the prayer. Very quickly he adapted a traditional Byzantine tone to it. In this case there is minimal change musically, because he felt it didn't need it.

This arrangement has been very popular. The students have picked up on it and completely on their own instigation now sing it in four-parts harmony every night after Compline. Dr William Fahey has asked that we sing it after each Mass in response to the attacks on the Church in connection with the new healthcare legislation. Dr Tom Larson, who teaches the choir at the college is so enthusiastic about it that took this up to his men's group in Manchester, New Hampshire. Within 15 minutes they learnt it and enjoying it so much they decided to record it on a mobile phone. Next day it was up on YouTube, and this is what you see here. As you listen to it remember that this is a cell-phone recording of an amateur choir of 5 men of varying ability (including myself on bass - right at the bottom in more ways than one) singing it virtually unrehearsed.

Paul Jernerg has just been made Composer in Residence at Thomas More College. He will be composing music for us to showcase and visiting to give master classes in performance and for those who have the ability, composition. One of the things we have asked him to do is to compose a Vespers of St Michael the Archangel and I can't wait to hear it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwIoAzbo9wA&feature=youtu.be

Pope Gregory IV and the Mystery of the Square Halo

I was contacted recently by a reader, a priest who had concelebrated a Station Mass at San Marco di Campidoglio in Rome. He had notice a square halo on one of the figures in the 9th century mosaic in the apse and wanted to know the reason for this. The figure, he told me, was Pope Gregory IV. A square halo signifies that the person portrayed was alive at the time of its creation. Although this church was founded long before Pope Gregory himself lived, he was responsible for much rebuilding, the bulk of what we see today. This is why, I am guessing, he is also portrayed carrying a church. We see also a very clear example of what my teacher Aidan Hart always referred to as hierarchical perspective. The most important figure portrayed, Christ, is by far the largest. Also we see the Evangelist himself is putting his arm around the Pope in a touching detail that gives more of a sense of personal tenderness than one normally associates with iconographic mosaics of this type.

This is church is not always open to the public so it is interesting to have this insight into the interior.

Raphael's Crucifixion - a Portrayal of the Mass

This article about the 'Mond' crucifixion, which is in the National Gallery in London, is another by Dr Caroline Farey of the Maryvale Institute. She and I worked together to design the Institute's degree level diploma (6US credits): Art, Inspiration and Beauty in a Catholic Perspective. A distance learning course requiring one residential weekend. This can be taken either by application to the Institute in Birmingham, England, or in the US through their centre based at the Diocese of Kansas City, Kansas, (email ecat2@archkck.org for details). In addition to these courses by the Institute, Thomas More College of Liberal Arts in New Hampshire has a summer programme run by myself. This programme includes an icon painting class and weekend retreats for artists, details here.

Caroline writes: Time and eternity, death and life, heaven and earth are represented here as contrasts or paradoxes and yet Raphael also presents them as in harmony.

Contrasts. Look now for as many contrasting elements as you can.Perhaps the most obvious is that of the sun and the moon both appearing together

Look for life and death contrasts.Do you notice that the most animated parts of the picture are the ribbons and dresses of the flying, dancing angels.These, the most alive are positioned closest to the dead figure of Christ.It is as though whatever is touched by the blood of Christ is given abundant life.

Look for time and eternity contrasts.Can you see that the people of the earth seem caught in a seemingly eternal stillness while the eternal beings, the angels, seem to be part of that moment in real time at the actual crucifixion catching Christ’s outpouring blood for every future Mass.

Look at the background contrasts of colour and content.The dark cross rises out of the dark, bare earth, passing barren but golden hills behind, passing on and up through water, always symbolic of Baptism, past a great city and on up into the skies where there is the sun and the moon are attending the great cosmic event of the death of their Creator.

Harmony

How does the painter hold the picture together and illustrate the harmony achieved by Christ through such an ignoble death?The heavy dark cross is the strong uniting feature.This is so theologically and so it is particularly appropriately pictorially as well.Christ’s death on the cross is the great act of love which purifies the created world in order to unite heaven and earth.It is this same act of unity that takes place at every Mass. In the painting it stretches from the top to the bottom of the picture.

The colour red has particularly strong significance. Every figure has a touch of red, every figure in the picture is pictorially touched and redeemed by the blood of Christ.

Other colours also link the elements of the picture.What are the colours in the top half of the picture that are repeated in the bottom half?The blue of the sky is picked up in St Jerome’s clothes; the green of one of the angels is also in St John’s garments; the gold of the second angel is in the sun and the hills and lights up the clo ak of St Mary Magdalene who is radiating light reflected from the sun but also the Son whose love changed her life; the colour of the flesh of all the figures binds them to the body of Christ whose flesh dominates the centre of the picture.

The painting is an altarpiece.It is designed for the Mass.

In a painting, people’s looks are often messages.In this painting the direction of each person’s gaze speaks a language of engagement for the sake of the congregation at Mass inviting them to join the scene at the cross.Let us begin with Jesus.He has his eyes closed so he is not looking at anything on this earth.His concentration we know is on his Father in Heaven.Now look at some of the others.What is the angel in green looking at? The angel in green turns our attention to Jesus’ blood.

Who is the angel in gold looking at?The angel in gold is looking at St John the gospel writer who is looking straight at us.

The two kneeling figures are St Jerome and St. Mary Magdalene.Who are they looking at? St Jerome and Mary Magdalene turn our attention to Jesus’ body on the cross.

The two standing figures are Our Lady and St John.Who are they looking at? When someone looks out at you from a painting he or she is trying to draw or invite you into the scene.Our Lady and St John are painted in a way that suggests that they are quietly hoping that we too will kneel or stand, and beg forgiveness like St. Jerome or adore and give thanks like St Mary Magdalene.

Almost everything in this painting is about the Mass: we gather together at Mass around the sacrifice of Christ on the cross; Mass brings us salvation through the cross; we kneel and worship at Mass like Mary Magdalene kneeling at the foot of the cross;we pray at Mass in different ways, such as asking forgiveness like St Jerome, adoring or thanking God, like Our Lady; we receive the blood of Christ in a chalice at Mass like the cups carried by the angels and, of course, angels are present at Mass.

I would add this one additional reference to the Mass in the comspositional design of the painting. If you trace a line through the four heads of the observers below to the outer feet of each angel and then to their heads, it traces the shape of a regular octagon. This is a visual reference to the 'eighth day' of creation - in which the birth, passion, death and resurrection of Our Lord ushers in the new age. My sense is that this is not intended by Raphael as a symbol to be read, so much as a design feature that he feels is appropriate to the subject and so enhance its beauty will naturally aid the communication of its message at an intuitive level. (DC)

Giusto's Institution of the Eucharist

This article is by Dr Caroline Farey of the Maryvale Institute. She and I worked together to design the Institute's degree level diploma (6 US credits): Art, Beauty and Inspiration in a Catholic Perspective. A distance learning course requiring one residential weekend, this can be taken either by application tothe Institute in Birmingham, England; or in the US through their centre based at the Diocese of Kansas City, Kansas (link here). Dr Farey writes:

Between 1465 and 1474, Giusto executed the Communion of the Apostles (The Institution of the Eucharist) which Vasari has described, and is now in the museum of Urbino. It was painted for the brotherhood of Corpus Christi at the bidding of Frederick of Montefeltro, who was introduced by Caterino Zeno, a Persian envoy at that time on a mission to the court of Urbino. Giusto is Joos van Wassenhove who was a Netherlandish painter, part of whose career was spent in Italy, where he was known as Giusto da Guanto (Justus of Ghent). He brought to Italy some of the characteristics of Dutch painting and combined them with the local Italian style.

This painting unites Jesus Christ, the Church and the Eucharist in a single harmonious illustration of the Catholic faith. It is perhaps important to begin with an initial teaching point: it is worth helping people realise that such a painting as this is has both an historical and a contemporary dimension to it. We do not need to believe, therefore, that the artist wishes us to see every part of the painting as an historical depiction. He is not necessarily wishing to communicate to us that the upper room really looked like this, or that the table was historically laid out like this, or that the apostles necessarily knelt to receive the body and blood of Christ as he has painted it here. Of course, they may have done. However, what the artist is also trying to show us in the painting is that what Christ did at the last supper with the apostles he, personally, still does for his disciples today at Mass.

One way to introduce this painting to those whom we are catechising is to begin by teaching about the Gospel accounts of the Last Supper from this piece of art. Then we can continue by explaining what the painting reveals about Mass today.

Christ at the Last Supper

Let us look at this painting first of all as depicting an event in the life of Christ.For this we can follow the Gospel accounts, especially that of St Luke.

• In the Gospel of Luke chapter 22 we read that, during the Last Supper, a dispute arose amongst the disciples as to who was the greatest. Jesus replied to them ‘which is the greater, one who sits at table or one who serves? Is it not the one who sits at table? But I am among you as one who serves’(Lk 22:27).Much in this painting depicts this dialogue. The Persian in the turban and the members of the confraternity in the red hats are disputing and Christ is portrayed as the one who is not sitting at table now but is among his disciples, serving.Look at the bending figure of Christ, beautifully depicting the reality of Christ the Servant.

• We can also see here an artistic depiction of the central truth of the Faith, that God condescended to be born and to live among us, that the divine Second Person of the Trinity took flesh for our sake In the General Directory for Catechesis the part on the Pedagogy of God opens with a quotation from Hosea, ‘I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws, and I bent down to them and fed them’ (Hos 11:4, in GDC 137). The bending figures of the apostles around Christ also emphasises this mystery. By contrast, the Persian in the turban stands erect, with his head and shoulders thrown back. The painting is also showing us the amazing truth that Christ only ever serves himself to us – ‘This is my Body’. The Church, in her Tradition, follows this truth without deviation, accepting that Christ gives his whole self to us.

• Christ, the one who serves, is portrayed as ‘greater’ by his stature and centrality in the picture. You can see that Christ is painted disproportionately larger in height than any other figure.

• Directly in front of Christ on the floor we can see the jug of water and basin.The Gospel of Lukes tell us that the disciples were to meet a man carrying a jar of water and to follow him into the house which he enters (Lk 22:10).

• John’s Gospel also links the Last Supper scene to water: ‘He rose from supper, laid aside his garments …poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet’ (Jn 13: 4-5). It seems that in this painting this may have already happened – look at the bare feet in the picture!

• John’s Gospel also speaks of Judas as the one with the money box, or bag (Jn 13:29), and we can see him in this painting clutching a moneybag in both hands, looking back into the room as he edges out of the open doorway into the night with dawn breaking already in the distance.

• Eleven reverent apostles remain, three kneeling on the right and eight on the left. One in white at the back, perhaps the young John, still holds a bottle as though he had been serving, too, with his other hand raised as he gazes adoringly at Christ.

• The one next to him is quite different. See how he seems to be staring intently at the disputants.He is holding a lighted candle, representing perhaps the light of faith, of truth, of Christ. He has seen the truth of Christ as the greater who has come among them as a servant and longs for the disputants to be enlightened by this same truth!

Christ in His Church

Let us look now for every indication that the painter is portraying Christ as present and active in his Church. What does the picture tell us about the Mass as it is celebrated in the Church?

·The building is the first sign, with its pillars and its windows portrayed like the apse of a Cathedral Church.

·The sanctuary lamp hangs directly above the figure of Christ, in shadow in the central round window between the pillars of the apse where the tabernacle would usually be found.

·The table is painted as though an altar, and the chalice and sacred hosts are placed as though on the altar at Mass.

·The apostle in white at the back on the left hand side acts like a server acolyte at Mass and the one beside him carries a tall candle.

·The jug and basin directly in front of Jesus remind the congregation of the sprinkling of water that can take place before mass on Sunday to remind us of our Baptism.

·Christ takes up the position that we normally associate with the priest.The priest is called ‘in persona Christi’, ‘in the person of Christ’ at this moment of distribution of the sacred species and throughout the Mass.

• The apostles are painted kneeling and receiving the body of Christ on the tongue, as they would have done for most of the Church’s history until recently, as a sign of the holiness of the moment, hence the use for many centuries of the name ‘holy communion’.

This is the greatest moment possible on this earth of communion with Jesus, the Son of God, and it is the holiest moment possible, receiving the body and blood of Christ himself. The angels kneeling and adoring above the scene help to indicate this holiness.

The Symbolic Content of Rembrandt's Holy Family, by Dr Caroline Farey of the Maryvale Institute

This short posting, which focusses on the symbolic content in a painting is written by Dr Caroline Farey of the Maryvale Institute. She and I work as a double team, teaching in July at the residential weekend of the one-year distance-learning course about Catholic art and culture called Art, Beauty and Inspiration in a Catholic Perspective. This is the first a series on the symbolic content on art by Caroline and Dr Lionel Gracey, also of the Maryvale Institute. The Maryvale Institute is the only Pontifically recognised Higher Institute of Religious Sciences in the English speaking world and the course, in distance learning form with one residential weekend is offered through its base in Birmingham, England and in the US in Kansas City through the Maryvale Center at the Diocese of Kansas City, Kansas. For further information go here.

Caroline writes:

The Holy Family by Rembrandt

In this painting we ponder particularly on Our Lady, as Mother of God, Mother of the saviour of the world, Mother of her Son.We can discern a triple revelation here.

The first act of revelation is from the Old Testament Scriptures to Mary.The light picks out the eager attentionon Mary’s young face and on the Scriptures that she is reading. Mary has suddenly but quietly turned in her chair from the text she has been reading to the fulfilment of those words that she now contemplates as ‘made flesh’ in the basket cot beside her.The Scriptures are telling her who her Son is.

But both her face and the book have parts in shadow too. Similarly Christ’s face is part in shadow and part illuminated.The shadows remind us of the shadow of the suffering and death he will endure, as she will, suffering foretold also in the Jewish Scriptures – the Old Testament.

The second act of revelation is by Mary to the world.She holds back a richly embroidered veil: by this she reveals Christ to us the onlookers.Mary has a place in God’s revealing of his Son.

The third act of revelation is by the sleeping child himself. In his sleep, he holds back a bright red coverlet revealing a lining of lamb’s fleece. Christ reveals himself, even as an infant fast asleep.The red coverlet, as we have seen in paintings before, flows over the edge like blood poured out, and it is highlighted further in its brightness in its juxta-positioning against the richly deep red of Mary ‘s skirt. Mary and the child both wear red. By the fleece Jesus is revealing himself as the lamb of God who is to be led silently to the slaughter.

The revelation taking place at the centre of the painting, through an interplay of light and movements, cloths and colours, is reinforced by other details surrounding Mary and the crib.Firstly, of course in the top left hand corner are the angels bursting in on the scene revealing to us that this is no ordinary carpenter’s child.Where are they looking? One is looking lovingly at Mary, the other looking soberly at the baby.Diagonally opposite the angels in the bottom right hand corner is the fire which, together with the angels is the main source of diffused light across the bare boards of the floor and the barren wall behind, with what look like further parts of the yoke being made by Joseph.A contemplative scene, which, despite looking so humble and ordinary is nonetheless imbued throughout by the grace of the Incarnation of the Son of God through Mary, Theotokos, Mother of God.

Wood Carvings of Johannes Kirchmayer

Here are some photos of carvings by the German born American Johannes Kirchmayer. He lived from 1860-1930 and his Wikipedia entry is here. He lived and worked most of his life in the Boston area and his work is in the American gothic churches of New England. There are some who consider the neo-gothic of the 19th and early 20th century to be faux gothic, that is, just a poor pastiche of earlier styles. I am not of this opinion. While the sacred painting of this period is not so good, I think that in the areas of architecture and sculpture particularly we have a case study of how the study of the past has inspired a tradition that characterises its age in its own way. In fact the writings of AW Pugin, the architect who did so much to inspire the whole movement at the beginning of the 19th century, provide a case study in how study the past in order to establish a living tradition. Pugin who converted to Catholicism in his early 2os and this directly affected his approach to architecture. I think of 19th century gothic not as derivative in an inferior way, but rather as a tradition in its own right that should be taken seriously. The city of Boston has many fine examples of churches in the American gothic style. There are some also who feel that this style is not an authentic New England style, citing the earlier colonial as more genuinely of New England. This I do not agree with this assertion either. In architecture at least, each is a style based upon timeless principles. If anything it is the 19th century gothic that is more clearly a Catholic Christian tradition, owing so much to the work of Pugin. And like all earlier liturgical traditions, it became the standard for the protestant churches too.

These wood carvings are in the protestant Unity Church, Easton, Massachussetts.

What is the Purpose of Veiling? Can you Veil an Icon?

In a recent discussion about the tradition of placing metal cladding around some icons, it was suggested that one purpose of the cladding was to convey a theological message. It performed the function of veiling of outward appearances in order to reveal an inner, or invisible, holiness. This point is worth further discussion I think. My understanding of this principle is not sophisticated (and so may by flawed or incomplete) but nevertheless here it is: that in order emphasise the point that there is an invisible reality to whatever is seen, some of the visible elements are veiled in order to emphasise and so to reveal to us this inner reality. This is true for all veiling - human veils, humeral veils, chalice veils and so on. How does this work?

First veiling is not hiding. When veiled the form beneath may not be visible directly, but it is still perceptible albeit in a less distinct form. We know what is veiled. For example, the form of a person is still discernable when clothes are worn. The form of the chalice is still recognizable even when veiled, as much by how it is handled as by the outer form. It relies on our knowledge of what is beneath it. If we did not know what a woman is, or a chalice is, we would not have a sense of a chalice veiled, but rather of an object in which the fabric we see represents the surface of it and is intrinsic to it.

When we recognize a veiled object it makes the point that there is an inner reality that is not directly visible. So the veil is visible, but beyond it is the chalice, perceptible but invisible. In grasping this reality, it makes the point to us that the object itself, even when unveiled, has essential elements that are both visible and invisible. When unveiled, we can be so absorbed with the visible elements that perhaps we fail to grasp fully the invisible realities. So the partial hiding of the visible elements allows us to focus on the invisible.

In order for this to have any force at all, there must be invisible realities present in the object veiled. The human person is both body and soul; the body is visible, the soul is not. The chalice contains the wine in which after consecration Christ will be truly present, despite outward appearances.

Now to icons: if we apply the same argument, in order for the cladding on an icon to play the part of veiling, the icon must contain essential elements that are invisible and worthy of veneration. In point of fact the icon does not. Therefore, the cladding does not play the part of a veil.

Icon is an image worthy of veneration only to the degree that it is visible. The relationship to the person depicted is set up through the imagination of the viewer and by virtue of what is seen. In this sense the cladding becomes the icon and that part that is hidden ceases to be so. In this we follow the theology of Theodore the Studite, the Eastern Father who settled the iconoclastic controversy in the 9^th century. “Theodore quotes a custom already mentioned by Leontius of Neapolis and by Patriarch Germanus: once an icon is worn and has lost its imprint’ (charakter), it will without hesitation be thrown into the fire “like any useless piece of wood’. If the icon as such were a grace-filled object, nobody would dare burn it. It would in itself be some kind of sacred relic. Different from John Damascene, who positions icons and relics on the same level, Theodore the Studite sees the sacredness of the icon entirely in its character, its portraying depiction.’ ”(p226, Christophe Schonborn, God’s Human Face pub. Ignatius)

Every Artist Should Read This Book

The Techniques of Icon and Wall Painting by Aidan Hart. This is the best art instruction book I know of. In my opinion it should be read and absorbed by all artists regardless of the medium and the tradition they are working in. It is available in the US from Holy Trinity Bookstore, and in the UK from publisher Gracewing's website, here. It has 480 pages, 450 illustrations and 130 drawings. It comes in hardback and costs 40GBP or $70. Aidan Hart does a wonderful job in explaining the methods of the media that he works in: egg tempera, fresco, secco and gilding, with great thoroughness and right through to varnishing and even photographic artwork for publicity shots. As an experienced practitioner and teacher he anticipates the difficulties and questions of the students at every turn. At every stage links what is done to the underlying principles of the tradition, and this opens the door to so much more.

First, once the parameters that define the tradition are well understood, it gives the student the flexibility to start creating original work without straying beyond its bounds. Hart takes us step by step through that process.

Second, for those working in other traditions it gives a deep understanding as to how form (ie style), choice of medium, compositional design, even the framing is affected by the invisible truths that the artist is seeking to communicate. The way I paint man is determined by anthropology – my understanding of what a man is. The reason that we can distinguish between different traditions, for example the gothic and the iconographic, is that each is seeking to emphasize different aspects of the anthropology. Understanding how the iconographic tradition is governed by these considerations will help artists in other traditions, for example the baroque, to see how the theology governs the form of their chosen tradition as well.

The first two considerations are what transforms an artistic style from pastiche into living tradition, that is capable of developing and responding to its time, without compromising its core principles.

Third, he gives a simple and easily understandable explanation of the different variations within the iconographic traditions, and unusually, includes the Western variants such as Celtic, Carolingian, Ottonian and Romanesque icons and explains just why they are iconographic.

Aside from this even much of what he is teaching at a technical level is of use to all painters: especially colour theory, harmonization of design, and the different attributes of using line and tone to articulate form. Although vital, drawing skill is not enough. Hart has as well a wonderful sense of composition and colour harmony and this book gives us great insights into how he does it. He shows us that as well as experience and good judgment, there are many guiding principles that the artist can make use of. For example, as well becoming lighter and darker, colours actually change in light in shade – a green might become bluer in shadow, rather than simply dark green. Aidan explains sytematically, colour by colour, how to adjust for light and dark so as to keep a coherent, unified image. In my opinion it is worth buying the book for his personal insights in this area alone.

All this is supplemented by over 400 pictures, which include not just complete pictures of paintings, but also many which focus on small details that what he describes in the text.

Aidan Hart is Orthodox, but he does not snipe at the Western Church (as sometimes happens with other Orthodox writers) and so Catholics can read and enjoy it without worry. That said there is one small note of caution: in accordance with St John of Damascus, he describes the icon as being ‘grace bearing’. Catholics should be aware that their own tradition can describe it slightly differently. In accordance with the 9^th century Eastern Father St Theodore the Studite, it tends see the action of the icon as one that is analogous to a sacramental, ie, that seeing it makes us more susceptible to the action of grace, but it is not in itself a channel of grace. I discuss this more deeply in a previous article, here.

This book is recommended as reading for anyone interested in sacred art and will, I believe do much in the future to aid the development of sacred art in the Church. Well done Aidan Hart.

Should a saint always have a halo? And should it always be round?

When I was learning to paint icons I was taught that the halo is not simply an arbitrary symbol, but rather a direct representation, albeit stylised, of the uncreated light shining from the saint.This immediately raised the question in my mind as to the validity of some halos I had that were in the form of a detached floating hoop, as we might see in a Raphael or a Leonardo (whose painting is shown below). Although clearly derived from this original idea, it's form had drifted so that it could no longer be seen as uncreated light, but rather an abstract symbol. Initially, my reaction was to argue that this form indicated a lack of understanding of what the halo really is and should not be used. Then it occured to me that given that the art of the High Renaissance and Baroque is aiming to portray historical man (and not as with the icon eschatological man united with God in heaven), what the artists are doing might in fact be consistent with this. One might propose that because the aura of uncreated light, the nimbus, would not be as visible (to the same degree at any rate) in fallen man, even if that man is a saint. So it would seem that the artist might choose not to portray a halo very feintly, as a slight glow, or even not at all; or else to indicate sanctity with a symbol derived from the heavenly sign. We see each of these possible avenues in the art of the 16th and 17th centuries. As a complication to this, recently I became aware of different shapes of icons in both Eastern and Western traditions. I was giving a lecture at Thomas More College about the portrayal of the Trinity in art and one of the students asked about the triangular halo in this example of an iconographic fresco fo the Trinity at a monastery in Mt Athos. I hadn't really thought about this before and guessed that it was an indication of the Trinity but couldn't really account for it with any certainty. Then, the next slide up in the lecture there was a Velazquez with the same triangular halo portrayed as a detached floating triangle on the same person of the Trinity, God the Father.

Later , when digging around a bit to find an explanation I found this site, which gave lists of many different halos, here. This listed quite a number of traditional halo shapes, most of which I had not been aware of. While not always showing a clear understanding of the Catholic view of things, this is good resource, I think, not to say unusually attractively presented for a website.

So there are two different considerations that come out of this. First, in more naturalistic traditions, should it be retained. And second, should we change the shape of the halo in different situations?

My opinion on the first is that we can happily follow the example set by the Masters of the Baroque tradition and employ whichever solution of the three list the artist prefers, for each, it seems to me, is consistent with the theology.

In regard to the second point: for me the debate is similar to that in regard to all the traditional symbols. Symbolism is only useful if it helps to communicate truth. If only a few understand it, it does the opposite, it mystifies. We have to consider this when considering whether or not to resurrect a symbolic language of the past. So if the symbolism is intuitively obvious then it might be worth using; otherwise we would need a huge job of education just to get people to recogniseit. This effort would be to great to make it worthwhile, I suggest, except where that symbolism is drawn directly from scripture.

In regard to triangular halos: it is not drawn from scripture - I am not aware, for example, of Ezekiel describing visions of triangular halos; but you might say that when placing a triangle over God the Father, in these examples shown, because the known symbolism of three, that it is to large degree intuitively obvious what it is saying, so for this reason might be worth using.

In my own case, while I would not object to any other artist using a triangular halo for the reasons given above, I think am going to keep it simple stay pretty simple on halos: a gold disc for eschatological man, and no halo for historical man. This is just a personal choice based upon what I feel looks best.

From top: A triangular nimbus in an iconographic portrayal of the Trinity at a monastery in Mt Athos, Greece; the halo represented as 'floating' triangle and disc in Velazquez and Leonardo in more naturalistic styles of Baroque and High Renaissance respectively; and the 17th century baroque approach in Guido Reni's St Matthew portrayed without halo of any form.

Is There a Place for Modern Art in our Churches?

In a recent address Pope Benedict XVI praised the work of the 20^th century artist Marc Chagal. He described him as a great artist whose work drew inspiration from the Bible, here. At first sight this might seem surprising. In his book, the Spirit of the Liturgy, Benedict talks of the disconnection between the culture of faith and the wider culture which occurred after the Enlightenment. He cites three artistic traditions as authentically liturgical and all were developed prior to the Enlightenment, namely the iconographic, the gothic and the baroque at its best.

The bridge to this world of modern art was built by the Romantics, who established the idea that self-expression was the purpose of art. In this context it meant that the task of the artist was limited to the communication his personal views and feelings. Whether or not these views and feelings were based in truth was not important. Success was measured by how accurately or – to use the buzzword of the art world – ‘sincerely’ they were communicated.

If the Romantics built the bridge to modernism, then it was the Impressionists who crossed it and smashed it behind them. Though academically trained themselves, they taught their students to reject tradition (and by this they meant the Western tradition rooted in Christianity) as any basis for guidance. By doing this, they broke any connection with the past that remained. Sadly, they were so successful and influential that everyone listened to them. Up to this point all artists were given the academic training of the Christian tradition that had been developed for the academies of the 17^th century. By the 19^th century, the training had become detached from its Christian ethos but because the method was still essentially Christian (if misunderstood) the effect was effect on art was visible but subtle (we can distinguish between mid-19^th and mid-17^th century art for example). After the Impressionists, however, all the academies and ateliers of Europe closed down and artists received neither the skills nor the Christian ethos; the result is the rampant individualism that characterizes the modern era.

Marc Chagall’s work is very much a product of this 20^th century spirit of self-expression and individualism.

So this raises the question, how can Chagall, whose work conforms in many ways to form of the modern era, be called great by the Holy Father who elsewhere is so clear in stating that the modern mainstream culture is not Christian? Is there a contradiction?

I think not and here’s why. (I should state here that I am basing this purely on what I have read of the Holy Father’s words. I do not claim to have any special inside knowledge of his views.)

Firstly, if individualism is a principle governing the creative process, while it is likely to produce error, it does allow for the possibility of good art. Subjectivity doesn’t necessarily produce ugliness. It is always a possibility that an artist will exercise his freedom wisely and choose to follow what is true and beautiful. I have heard this described as a subjective objectivity…or was it an objective subjectivity (I forget now)? Anyway, whatever we call it, Chagall might be one of these. In order to be certain of this we will have to wait to see whether or not it will transcend its own time – one of the marks of works that contains the timeless principles of beauty. His work has not done this because we are still, essentially, in the modern era.

Secondly, sacred art can be good devotional art without being appropriate for the liturgy. The art that we choose to for our own private prayer is a personal choice based upon what we feel helps our own prayer life. We have to be more careful when selecting art for our churches, allowing for the fact that personal tastes vary. While for my home I would pick whatever appeals to me; for a church I would always choose that art for which there is the greatest consensus over the longest period of time. Accordingly I am much more inclined to put aside personal preference and allow tradition to be the greatest influence in the choices I make. For the liturgy, therefore, I would always choose that art which conforms to the three established liturgical traditions: the baroque, the gothic and the iconographic. I would not put Chagall in a church.

This does raise the question as to whether or not any new tradition could ever emerge? None of the established liturgical tradition dropped out of heaven fully formed. They developed over a period of time and in different times. There is no reason to believe that we won’t see more liturgical traditions developing in the future. Could it be that Chagall is a spark that ignites the fire of a new Christian liturgical tradition?

In my opinion, this is possible but very unlikely.

When Caravaggio produced his work at the end of the 16^th century it had such an effect on the art of the Rome that nearly all other artists modeled their work on it. However, the basis of this new style was not mysterious. He presented a visual vocabulary that was a fully worked out integration of form and theology. It was the culmination of much work done over a period of time (about 100 years) through a dialogue between artists and the Church’s theologians, philosophers, liturgists. It became the basis for a new tradition because the integration of form and content was articulated and understood, so other artists could learn those principles and apply them in their own work. It was possible to reflect that style, and develop it further, without blindly (so to speak) copying Caravaggio. They copied with understanding.

Chagall’s work is very much more highly individual in its stylization than that of Caravaggio; and it relies much more on an interpretation of ideas that is directed by intuition rather than reason. Unless we can discern the principles that underlie it and characterize them very clearly, we can copy his work, but it is going to be difficult to do so with sufficient understanding for it to be the basis of a new tradition.

There is another factor that mitigates against Chagal: we live in the age where the tradition is one of anti-tradition. Today’s artists spend most of their time trying to be different be from everyone else. So even if Chagall does represent the beginning of a fourth liturgical tradition and somebody worked out his system of iconography,  no tradition derived from it is is going to emerge as long as artists spend most of their time chasing ‘originality’ and consciously trying to differentiate themselves from other work.

Time will tell!

Images from top: White Crucifix; Adam and Eve Expelled from Paradise; Jacob's Dream; Song of Songs; Abraham and the Three Angels; Ruth.

 

Panel Beating Covers for Icons

Full Metal Jacket? I was recently asked a question about the metallic covers that go over icons: what is their purpose?A very gifted student of icon painting who came to the Way of Beauty Summer Atelier was considering learning panel beating in order to be able to make them. I was told that these covers (I gather it is sometimes referred to as ‘riza’ in the Russian tradition, or sometimes an 'oklad'), developed originally when votive offerings of objects made of precious metals and stones were left in gratitude for the prayers of the saint venerated. These would be melted down and be made into a cover that marked the saint out as someone whose prayers were particularly powerful. Also, icons are meant to be physically handled and kissed and so such an icon would be used more causing a greater chance of physical damage. An icon with a metallic cover would be more durable and withstand the bashing of regular use.

Personally I find most of these metallic covers unattractive. And for the purposes of prayer would rather see the painted image than what is in effect a relief carving in metal. I am always frustrated by the fact that some parts of the original image are hidden and find myself trying to work out what the image underneath looks like (if indeed it is really there!) rather than allowing my attention being taken to the real saint in heaven. That is very likely a reflection of my weakness and many I’m sure will have a different reaction however.

The key elements that make an icon an image worthy of veneration are that the characteristics of the person are captured and that the name is written on it. So when covering an icon, either some of those aspects that characterize the person, such as the face, must be left visible; or else the cover must be panel beaten into a image that bears those characteristics that were in the original icon but are now hidden. The cover then becomes an integral part of the icon. If the characteristics of the icon are not visible, then it is not an image worthy of veneration.

There is a danger even when properly made, it seems to me, that the use of these covers might cause some to infer, incorrectly, that the icon is holy in the wrong sort of way: one that considers it to be a grace-filled object.

We need, I think to go back to the great 9^th century Father of the Eastern Church, Theodore the Studite. He articulated the theology that finally cleared up the iconoclastic controversy of this period.

An icon does not, says Theodore, participate in the nature of the individual – that is, it does not contain any aspects of human nature or divine nature, it is just an image. Therefore the relationship between the image in the icon and the saint in heaven is established by our perception and apprehension of the likeness. That relationship cannot exist in a way that involves the icon, therefore, when we are not apprehending the likeness portrayed in the image. A crucial role in establishing this relationship between icon and saint is played by the imagination, which takes our thoughts from image to saint.

Consistent with this, Theodore states that once an icon is worn and has lost its ‘imprint’(charakter), it will without hesitation be thrown into the fire “like any useless piece of wood’. If Theodore considered the icon as such a grace-filled object, he would not dare to suggest that it be burnt.

Theodore sees the sacredness of the icon entirely in its character, its portraying depiction. In this sense, if a characteristic is not visible, it is not portrayed. Putting a metal cover on an icon that did not have the characteristics and name of the saint on it, would be the same as covering the icon surface with a couple of coats of house paint. If the image has been rendered invisible, it might as well not exist.

For those who are interested, I have written at length about Theodore and his impact on the iconoclastic controversy here.

Of the images I have shown, I much prefer the latter two, of the Mother of God and Our Lord and of St Nicholas, because all the painted figures is visible despite the metal covering.

The Importance of Seeing Paintings in Context

I would like to draw readers' attention to a piece in The Catholic Herald written by Fr Anthony Symondson. He has reviewed the exhibition Devotion by Design which is at the National Gallery in London and which runs until October 2nd. The exhibition is unusual in that, commendably, altarpieces are displayed along with simulated altars so that visitors can get a feel for the setting in which they ought be placed. One of the pieces on display is Rogier van der Weyden's Exhumation of St Hubert, shown left. While the only way to get a full sense of the importance of context for such a piece is to see it in church while praying the liturgy, what the museum has done does at least indicate the intended purpose of the piece. It also makes the point that context of a painting is important and open our imaginations to what it might have been like originally. I am pleased to see a gallery thinking about this.

Good sacred art is painted so that it engages the person at precise moments in the liturgy and then directs their attention beyond the work of art to something greater – by for example making sure in the case of the reredos that there is sufficient contrast so that the host is visible when held aloft. This is something that artist should always be aware of. Even within a painting, one part in isolation looks different when viewed in relation to all the other parts. Artists are taught to consider the unified view. Once the form of a painting has been established – the basic shapes, tones and colours – then the so much of the final part of the process is subtle alteration using colour washes, glazes and scumbles so that each part speaks to the others in such way that the piece has unity.

Similarly, the artist must try to consider the wider context into which it is to be placed. Works look different when placed on dark or light backgrounds, or when there are other paintings around. Also and most importantly, the position relative to the liturgy must be considered.

Consider Caravaggio’s Calling of St Matthew. This is a great painting even when viewed in isolation, but the ideal position for this, I suggest, is in a side chapel on the left hand ie north side of the church, on an east wall so that at the point of elevation someone in the main body of the church could see both the painting, in the left hand side of their vision, and the elevated host. This would give the appearance that the source of light was the Blessed Sacrament itself - the Light calling St Matthew - thus reinforcing visually the fact that Christ is really present within it.

One of the wonders of nature for me is how each object can be beautiful and complete in itself, can also be a beautiful part of a wider landscape and, furthermore, contains within it beautiful parts in perfect relation to each other. We need only think of a rose: each petal within it is beautiful and placed so that together they form the flower; and then each bloom is placed in relation to the others, to the stems and leaves so that we have a beautiful rosebush.

When I take commissions I do my best to have this model in mind and consider carefully not just what the form of the painting itself, also where it will be placed and how it can be most beautiful in its final setting.

Should Theology Govern the Process of Painting as well as the Product

  Some say if the wrong method is used, it's not a real icon even if it looks right. I was first introduced to the medium of egg tempera through a teacher at an evening class in London (this was not an icon painting class). The teacher had noticed that I liked to draw and always wanted to paint faithful to a preparatory drawing. He thought that because tempera dries quickly and with a hard edge, that I might take to the medium. He suggested that I go and look at the medieval art in the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery and the Courtauld Gallery to see if I liked the look of it. He told me to look out for an artist called Lorenzo Monaco. This was long before I was a Christian, but nevertheless I was astounded by the beauty of what I saw in his work and the others that I saw, such as Duccio, and wanted therefore use their medium.

The problem was that this tube tempera paint bought from the art shop was very difficult to handle and my work didn’t seem to have the same beautiful bright finish of Lorenzo’s. My teacher suggested a get a book called the Practice of Tempera Painting by Daniel V Thompson and published by Dover. This was first published in the 1930s and was an 20^th century description of the methods that had, in turn, been described in an Italian art text book from perhaps the early 14^th century (the exact date is not known as far as I am aware). The book is Il libro dell’arte by Cennino Cennini.

Thompson’s book is one the best textbooks on artistic method I have ever read. Written in clear prose he deals not only with the methods of making and using the paint, but also the preparation of panels, gilding, and outlines the theory of artistic techniques such as glazes and scumbles. I just followed everything he described and it transformed my work.

Some time later, when I started to learn to paint icons, I brought this book along to my first class and to my surprise was told that it wasn’t relevant. Cennino Cennini, I was informed, used methods that were inconsistent with the theology of the icon. In particular, Cennini described a method in which once the drawing is transferred to the panel requires the production of a monochrome underpainting in ink – effectively painting what my laptop call a ‘grayscale’ image of the icon. Once the monochrome underpainting was created, thin glazes of coloured paint would be applied to produce the final painting. My first icon painting teacher told me that this method had developed in the West as religious images became degenerate and it was different from the method that she was going to show me. The genuine icon painting method, she told me, involved putting a darkest layer of colour down first and then gradually adding layers of lighter colour until you finish with the highlights. This process embodied the theological point that the Light overcomes the darkness.

I was happy to be told how to paint icons, so willingly abandoned Thompson and Cennini and adopted this newly introduced, theologically driven method.

I didn’t say anything at the time, but I never really understood how the theology of method could be quite so important. Surely (assuming it didn't require anything actually immoral) you could use whatever method was best in order to produce the final image? If the final product was consistent with the theology, seemed to me, then so was the method. In other words, if you couldn’t tell once the icon was done what method had been used, why did it matter? Does it really invalidate the icon if a different method is used?

This reaction was reinforced when I read about the theology of the image developed by St Theodore the Studite, the great Eastern Father who settled the iconoclastic period in the 9th century. Theodore was clear, in my reading of him, that two things made an image worthy of veneration: one was the incorporation of the characteristics of the person, and the other was the writing of the name on the image. He attached no importance to the method used to produce such worthy images.

Fifteen years after my first icon lesson, I received a phone call from a good friend who was an Orthodox icon painter. He told me that he had just read a book A History of Icon Painting in which a number of scientific studies of very early icons were described. It turns out that the earliest icons used the Cennini method after all. The method that starts with a dark layer and then moves to light is, in fact, the more recent one. From now on, my friend said, he was going to use the Cennini method; not because it was older, but because he found that by using it he produced better icons in less time.

What about this theology of light from dark? As far as I can work out this is a modern construct applied after the fact by those who re-established the icon painting tradition in the 20^th century. I am not aware of any traditional canon that stipulates this light-out-of-dark method as being preferential (I am open to hear of any, of course).

All of this serves to reinforce a basic point: that the artist can use whatever method he likes (other things being equal) if it allows him to produce the highest quality work at the end of it. This means that the process that produces the best end result is conforming to the theology of the image as this is the end to which it is directed.

Long before I heard about this recent development, I had thought about going back to the method that uses the monochrome underpainting. I do use it selectively now (where I feel the form needs reinforcing) and sometimes use it in classes that I teach as it can be easier to use when people are just learning to use the paint for the first time (I show some examples of a series of demonstration pieces I made for such a class). However, I find that the method I prefer, ironically and unlike my Orthodox friend, especially for flesh painting in my own work is the Eastern method!

Images from top: the Coronation of the Virgin, the Flight from Egypt; and the Nativity, all by Lorenzo Monaco.

Below these are demonstration pieces that I made to show how the different stages of icon painting using the Cennino Cennini method. The image is the Mandylion.

From right: a line drawing, in pencil, is done on paper. This is transferred to the wooden, gessoed panel and the lines painted in; then a monochrome image is painted. After this, bottom, layers of translucent colour are placed over to create the final image.

 

How Do We Revive the Gothic?

When I was given the courage to follow my dream of being an artist (by some inspired vocational guidance 20 years ago) I wanted to paint like the Italian gothic artist Duccio. My reasons were based upon personal preference rather than a deep knowledge of Catholic liturgical art. It was just that I loved what I saw when I went to the National Gallery in London: it had enough naturalism to make it accessible, and enough idealism that gave it a sense of the sacred. It was later that I read The Spirit of the Liturgy in which the then Cardinal Ratzinger wrote of the gothic an authentic liturgical tradition. Once I had decided I wanted to paint like him, it raised the problem of how to learn to do so. I didn't want to create pastiche, but to learn in such a way that it might become my natural way of painting and so if required, I could paint new works of art in this style. The problem was that as far as I was aware, this was not a living tradition and there wasn’t any practising artist who could teach me.

I had a sense that historically, the gothic was a transitionary phase between the iconographic and the classical naturalism of the High Renaissance/Baroque (transmitted through the ‘academic method’ of the academies and ateliers). The methods of both of these traditions were still just about alive, I knew, if not always applied in the full glory of the past. So I decided to seek a training in both traditions and hoped that through this, somehow, I would be able to take elements from both and patch together my own gothic style.

This twin training was extremely valuable to me to this end, but not in the way I had imagined. Rather than learning stylistic elements from two traditions that I could combine to create a hybrid, I learnt how a tradition preserves and passes on its core principles and so was able to see how the gothic could be reestablished as a tradition in its own right, without reference to the other two if necessary.

Both the academic and iconographic methods emphasized the importance of two aspects in the training: first the observation from nature and second the copying, with understanding, of masters in that tradition. The balance of these two aspects was different in each tradition (with the emphasis on observation from nature much stronger, as one would expect, in the naturalistic tradition).

This aspect of understanding when copying is important. Aidan Hart, my teacher, always stressed this strongly. When we studied an icon, he would relate the form of the painting to both the natural form and the theology. Take the example of the eyes: he pointed out that the eyes in an icon have no glint. This is because a glint is reflected light, and this is absent in the icon because it portrays eschatological man who shines with uncreated light which is stronger than the reflected light.

Sometimes he would point out features that might seem at first glance to be an arbitrary stylization but were in fact related to natural form. For example, the dark line above the eye is the deepest point. Below it, the eyeball is curving forward out of the orbit and above it the skull coming out from the orbit towards the brow. (This line only appears in nature if we have deep set eyes.) To accentuate this as a shadow line it is often painted as a red or red-brown shadow line. A warm, reddish shadow is often used in the deepest shadow of flesh even when painting naturalistically (this is what I was taught to do when I was studying in portrait painting in Florence).

So from this lesson I learnt that if I want to learn any tradition, I must learn to draw skillfully from nature as well as copy masters. If I want to paint figures in the style of musclebound superheroes, I would sign up for life drawing classes and copy lots of pictures of Spiderman and Superman. Similarly, if I want to paint like Duccio I can copy his work, while considering how the style relates to the theology; and (as we know the gothic masons did from their surviving manuscripts) draw from nature.

The study of iconography taught me that a tradition can be reestablished as living tradition successfully, even if the line of tradition has been broken. The Enlightenment affected the culture in both East and West and this caused a break in the iconographic tradition. The iconography which we see today is a living tradition that was reestablished in the 20^th century through the devoted work of Greek and Russian iconographers and scholars. These pioneers analysed the tradition for its essential elements, and then sought to account for these by relating them to theology of eschatological man. (The work has not been done yet. It has been developing and changing even in the time that I have been exposed to icons over the last 20 years.)

A similar process is now going on in in the West, both in regard to re-establishing the Baroque and gothic traditions; and in taking a discerning look at the Orthodox interpretation of the iconographic tradition, which is at times limited by its focus on the Greek and Russian traditions to the exclusion of other iconographic forms, for example the Romanesque or the Celtic forms of iconography.

I am confident therefore of a flowering of Catholic culture, especially when one sees how it is underpinned by the liturgical renewal that is taking place under the guiding hand of the Holy Father.

Images from top: Madonna and Child, Duccio; detail of Christ Pantocrator, 6th century; detail from triple portrait of Charles I, Sir Anthony van Dyck, 17th century.

Below: first, a portrait by yours truly in which the eyes are not deep set and so the line above the lids is not visible. Nevertheless, I used a deep red-brown, as instructed, to give the shadow tone in this naturalistic style. Below those we have large scale, full images of those above.

Two Hearts Beat as One - An 'Original Copy' of the Sacred Heart of Jesus!

The painting of the Sacred Heart shown is painted by the Virginia-based Catholic artist, Henry Wingate. The process by which it was commissioned and painted is worth recounting as it demonstrates a number of principles.  Last February I was contacted several months ago by John Fitzpatrick, a seminarian at the Kenrick Seminary in St Louis, who has seen me speak there a couple of months before. He wanted to know if I could recommend an artist who produce a painting based upon his favourite image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus by the 19^th century Mexican artist Jose Maria Ibarraran y Ponce. I recommended that he contacted Henry and passed on the contact details.

I had forgotten all about this until Henry arrived to teach at the summer Way of Beauty Atelier at Thomas More College in New Hampshire, this summer. He had with him the finished piece of work., which was put on show at the college for the duration of the class.

He told me about how it had worked: he wanted to do the commission but was adamant that if at all possible he wanted to work from the original. After a bit of research he found out that the original was owned by David Pappas, a collector who lives in Minnesota. He loves the image and was very happy to make it available for copying. So Henry flew out to Minnesota and copied it there. I show some photographs of the work in progress, next to the original.

I spoke to Mr Pappas who was delighted to have met Henry and to have been helpful in the project. He told me that he enjoyed meeting Henry very much. He told me a little bit about the original. As far as he knows this is the only extant work or the artist, who was the director of Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Mexico City around the turn of the last century. It was commissioned by members of the Miller brewing family, who were Catholics and devoted to the Sacred Heart and completed in 1896.

In my opinion it is a wonderful painting (the original is shown right). Although from the 19^th century, it has a 17^th century feel. The restraint in the use of colour and his careful control of focus is typical of the earlier period (as many NLM readers will have heard me describe before). Also, he has played down the features of the face by putting them partially in shadow. This way he has avoided that look of a portrait of the boy next door in historical costume (which we see in so much 19^th-century and modern naturalistic sacred art).

This process emphasizes the importance of copying the works of Masters in the preservation and transmission of any tradition. Traditionally, the training of artists always included the copying (with understanding) of the works of Masters – Sargent for example, went to Madrid and copied every Velazquez he could see. This is not to devalue the end product. Just as the copying of icons allows for the creation of a new icon worthy of veneration, so Henry has created an work of art, itself worthy of veneration (once the name is placed on it, of course, in accordance with the theology of Theodore the Studite).

John Fitpatrick was delighted with the result: “I am very happy with the finished painting. I was interested in this project for reasons: I have a personal devotion to the Sacred Heart and this is my favourite image.  Ideally, the painting will hang somewhere in my living quarters when all's said and done, maybe even adorning an altar.  

“I'm also very glad to hear you're doing a piece on the commissioning process.” He told me. “I think clerics today--as well as laymen--don't realize that direct commissioning of an artist to create worthy art for sacred use is even possible and so it is good for this to be made known. I also think it's important to remember that it is through the commissioning of artists that all the great works of sacred art came about, but that they were not cheap; when commissioning artists, we have to be ready to bleed a little bit for the product.”  

High quality reproductions of the original are available from David Pappas at his gallery Strawberry Hill Ltd. Also, the original is for sale. Thomas More College of Liberal Arts is dedicated to the Sacred of Jesus and so if any readers feel inclined to buy it and donate it to the college, we would be happy to entertain approaches!

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Henry Wingate at work

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Caravaggio and His Followers - An Exhibition in Ottowa

Thanks go to a reader who told me about an exhibition of the works of Caravaggio and his followers taking place at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa. It's too far away from where I live me to get to it, but it seemed such an interesting theme that I felt compelled to write about it anyway! It acknowledges the influence that this great artist had on the art of the Catholic Counter Reformation. Also, the lists of artists featured gives many familiar names but some not so familiar (ie some I hadn't heard of!) whose work is high quality and this represented a fruitful new seam of interest to me to mine. Working at the period around the beginning of the 17^th century, Caravaggio is often credited as the artist whose work marks the beginning of the baroque period. He developed the visual language of light and dark that characterizes the baroque period by imbuing with a spiritual significance. He also became the figurehead of the more naturalistic stream of artists of the 17^th century baroque, who emphasised very strongly painting what is seen directly onto the canvas. He stood against a group that saw themselves as drawing on classical themes more strongly, with Annibale Caracci as their talisman. Caracci and the classisists, who would later include figures such as Poussin, looked to the work of Raphael and had a more widely coloured and polished feel in their work. Compositionally the work of the more naturalistic group used often depicted figures in contemporary clothes, whereas the classicist stream (and here I characterise the extremes) tended to paint everything as though it was a scene out of ancient Rome. Their methods differed slightly too. Although both emphasised observation from nature very strongly, Caravaggio would paint directly onto the canvas from models, while Carracci would happily base his compositions on drawings and studies of models.

What is interesting is how many artists are listed as being ‘followers’ of Caravaggio. Many would be considered artists in their own right – Ribera, George de la Tour. These would not normally be considered followers in the sense of being in a Caravaggio school, but given that a crucial part of the training of all artists was the copying of masters, I’m guessing that at the very least, they will have copied Caravaggio’s work at some stage at the very least, and this is the reason for their inclusion. The National Gallery acknowledges this broader focus, saying that works are ‘by painters who had direct knowledge of his work, as well as those who were active in Rome during his lifetime and in the first few decades after his death.’ I think that it is all the more interesting for this.

Rubens is another example of one of these artists who would not be classified as a follower of Caravaggio in the usual sense of the word, but is worthy of consideration here. We know from his writings that he was very careful about which Masters he copied as he felt it would influence strongly the taste of the artist. For example, he implored artists not just draw casts for practice, but to consider carefully which casts they drew and only pick the most beautiful because this would influence the work they produced, which is never solely a reproduction of what is seen.

The commentary of this exhibition tells us that even Caravaggio modified what he saw to some degree: ‘He painted directly from live models posed before him in the studio, studying how the light fell over them, and observing the different textures and surfaces. He then transformed what he saw before him with his own distinct artistic vision. As one of his patrons once said his works were “painted partly from observation of reality, partly from his imagination.”’

The imagination is molded by the art we copy, hence Rubens’s concern.

The artists whose works are shown in the exhibition include many that are not household names, and not all sacred art. However, the style is all derived from that which developed as part of the sacred art and speaks of the power of Catholic culture at the time. The images shown here are works of sacred art by some of the lesser names of the exhibition. They are paintings that caught my eye as I was doing my own research and are not necessarily in the exhibition itself.

Above, right: Simon Vouet, the Fortune Teller

Triphome Bigot, St Sebastien

Nicolas Regnier, St Matthew

Lionel Spinada, St Jerome

Gerrit van Honthorst, St Joseph in his Workshop