In these first 17 years of the 21st century, with Modernism and its descendants as part and parcel of everyday life, at least in Western countries, one is struck by the 'Modernism' or modernity of various periods in the history of western art. Even certain aspects of ancient Egyptian art strike us today as 'modern', that is, modern in a 20th or 21st century way; of course, they were 'modern' also in the time in which they were produced! Often we forget, as just alluded to, that when 'ancient' or medieval or Renaissance art was made, at that time it was 'modern'; in fact, Vasari, a 16th century father of art history, referred to the work of some of his contemporaries as 'modern', and said that they were working in 'the modern style'.
At Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Rome, a 1st century BC Greek bronze of a Boxer, seen here from the back, found in Rome during an excavation. This image is included to demonstrate what is was that early and later Christian artists rejected; this is clearly not a religious subject but, just the same, this kind and level of imitation of Nature gradually became of less and less interest for the developing Christian faith.
Here we need to be careful, as with all history, not to read our perceptions of present-day reality into the work of the past; the way we might, for example, describe a social situation today may not have anything to do with the way people of a given earlier period understood that same social situation; much less can we judge them for their social arrangements. Similarly, we need to be careful about applying the term 'modern' to work clearly not produced in a period we today might reasonably refer to as 'modern', with regard to ourselves; seeing a similarity is one thing, interpreting it is another. However, when recently visiting some very beautiful old places in Italy, it often occurred to me just how 'modern' many old things looked.
In this article, I would like to discuss some late medieval works, keeping in mind what has just been said above. We could begin with a carving, a relief-sculpture, on the side of a sarcophagus which is now displayed in the museum at Santa Croce, in Florence. It is a stark, frank and deliberate work, made by the Sienese artist, Tino di Camaino. The subject is the Resurrection and, both in its essential formalism and straightforward statement, easily calls to mind many aspects of early 20th century Modernism. In fact, this carving was made approximately 700 years ago and is not 'Modernist' in the sense that a Mondrian or a Henry Moore is.
Tomb of Gastone della Torre, Archbishop of Milano, later, Patriarch of Aquileia (d. Firenze 1317) by Tino di Camaino, Siena c. 1280-1337; Santa Croce, Florence
Although made around 1317, this powerful smallish work anticipates at least one compositional characteristic of Renaissance painting and that is its dependence on the stability of the triangle or pyramid as a basic structure or armature. The scene is set within a square format and, on closer scrutiny, we can see that the figure of Christ is placed in the vertical centre, with the slope of his shoulders towards his raised knee and his left arm, creating 'linking' lines towards the bottom left and right corners, thereby forming a triangle with Christ's head as its apex. The 'structure' is very solid and is reinforced by the weighty forms of the sleeping guards crowded into the base of the composition, in front of Christ's sarcophagus itself. The clear similarity to the great masterpiece of Piero della Francesca must be obvious, not just in this triangle-based structure but also in the way the Christ is placed, his pose; not to mention the 'incomplete' guards: these figures are forced into the lower third of the scene, as in Piero della Francesca's fresco, but, as well, they are not fully visible - that is to say, parts appear to be missing - as has been noted concerning the guard with the red shield in Piero's painting. In Tino's relief-sculpture here, only one of the guards has any hope of being accommodated in this space, with the remaining two managing to have only their heads and upper torsos squeezed in! Tino's career overlapped that of Giotto (in fact, they died in the same year) and it is interesting to see the re-awakening of awareness of 'Classical' art, meaning normally ancient Roman art, in both men: the more angular, upright, straight-lined approach, so to say, of Tino's Risen Christ, has something more of Rome about it, and somewhat less of Byzantium 1.
The Norman cathedral of Monreale in Sicily, begun 1172, whose incredible mosaics adorn nearly all the interior surfaces of this stupendous building. Note the hierarchical disposition of the saints below Mary and the angels, themselves below Christ Pantokrator.
Typical medieval and Gothic religious art tended to reject Classical models, instead deriving substantially from Byzantine aesthetics 2. The 'modern' look comes from the historical process of a rejection of 'pagan' (Classical) forms - imitating as they did to a very high degree, what was in Nature - and the search for a means of representation much more related to the spiritual aspect of life, a kind of step-up from ephemeral Nature per se, into the realm of the transcendental spirit, as well as a clearly hierarchical view of the 'order' of things. It may be noted here the preponderance of linear or frieze-like structure in much ancient Roman work, in other words, a kind of democratic or republican view, where everyone (theoretically) was on the same level. This view persisted to some extent in the late-classical-Byzantine work to be seen in Ravenna for instance; but gradually, the Orthodox hierarchical attitude took over. And, although ancient Roman art was in many respects quite pared back, and Byzantine work on the other hand quite elaborate, as 'barbarian' tribes and cultures began to overrun the late western Roman world, some visual art became more simplified, that is more schematised, more 'symbolic'. The aim also of much art, particularly and most importantly religious art, was to clearly convey a message, often a quite complex one, to a largely illiterate population; clearly legible forms with easily identifiable actors and attributes were the basic requirements of artistic production, along with the need to have these messages comprehensible from some distance, for instance, from quite high up on the facades of Gothic cathedrals 3, or from the high internal walls of those same churches as well as the walls, both interior and exterior, of public buildings such as town halls.
When we see ancient or very old artworks that remind us of modern aesthetics, we are not therefore necessarily able to read and comprehend either the intentional meaning or the 'artistic' suppositions which produced the work in question. The didactic function (intentional meaning) of much religious art in the medieval period, and therefore its physical forms, are almost at polar variance with the intentional meaning of a lot of early Modernism which, partly as a reaction to the material titillation of Impressionism, sought a far more intellectual approach to both form and content. Such intellectualism would have communicated next to nothing to an illiterate peasant living in medieval Europe; just as the extremely highly-refined illuminated manuscripts, both secular and religious, of the same period, destined for a much smaller, educated elite, would have been so much 'Greek' to those same peasants.
Propagation of the Christian message was the principal scope of religious art, not really individual expression as such. That given however, within the often-repeated themes of the Life and Passion of Jesus for example, with the constant refrain of the same symbols and attributes of both Christ and the other figures in these narratives, it is surprising just how distinct are the individual characteristics of the artists who made that art. Nevertheless, the artist as individual, not to mention the artist as independent intellectual - as opposed to mere tradesman or artisan - was to all intents and purposes, a long way off in the future of art history. What is more surprising then is that artists were able to 'express themselves' to the extent that they did: within the subject of large, suspended wooden crosses, for example, at first glance very similar to one another, there are marked differences between the work of one artist and the next.
This particular subject required a painted image of Christ on the wooden cross - a type known as Christus patiens 4 - itself a very large and heavy piece of carpentry, with images of, on one end of the cross-bar St John, and on the other end, Christ's mother Mary; at the top there was usually the sign with the letters INRI which could be handled in different ways; at the base of the cross, normally some representation of Golgotha and a skull and perhaps some additional elements. Today, in Italy, many of these crosses have been or are being restored and happily, we can now see them once again in their extraordinary beauty - and understand why they were such powerful statements. But here also, given the very restricted iconography, artists were able to imbue these symbols with a high degree of personal formal interpretation and, therefore, individuality.
3 This requirement of easy legibility, especially from a distance, was one which dated back to the Egyptians and Assyrians and helps to explain the often monumental scale of paintings and sculpture in later public buildings such as churches.
4 The 'Christus patiens' type took over from the earlier 'Christus triumphans' type: respectively, an almost-nude figure clearly demonstrating the suffering, both spiritual and physical, of Christ; the latter, a usually clothed, 'living' figure with arms outstretched in (happy?) triumph over death (or sin).
5 In this regard, it is interesting to contemplate the confused approach of the so-called Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, with its astonishingly fanciful notions of the 'purity' and 'simplicity' of the art which preceded Raphael. Part of its members' problem was that they were living in exactly the same period as the heyday of Academicism and, unwittingly it seems, were not able to free themselves from many of the excesses they claimed to stand against. The work of the Pre-Raphaelites is a romantically confused jumble of mis-understood and poorly comprehended art history, fed as much by their Victorian and insular taste as by any clear philosophical conception. I have never seen any Pre-Raphaelite head or composition which even remotely reminded me of the candid, frank and clear-eyed works of a Pisano, a Lorenzetti or a Tino di Camaino, much less a Giotto or a Duccio!
6 Interestingly, this pulpit, and others like it by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano, all have this 'crowded' composition, often with events occurring in successive 'waves' from the top of the image to the bottom; this same characteristic was later picked up by the Mannerist painter Pontormo, although with clear influences from Michelangelo as well. Michelangelo's use of the crowded composition, whose first manifestation is his very early Battle of the Centaurs, may plausibly be a result of looking at the work of those late-Medieval masters, as well as at the antique Roman sculpture available to him at that time - the same which may have influenced those Medieval artists!
David and Ezechiel, in the Palazzo Farnese, Piacenza: 'School of Piacenza'; second half of the 12th century. Note the almost African stylisation of the faces and the Giacometti-like elongation of the bodies, together with the important rhythmic/structural function of the line work. The two figures still have something of the original square form of the blocks of stone they were made from and so we have 'truth to materials' as well, another Modernist concept.
Propagation of the Christian message was the principal scope of religious art, not really individual expression as such. That given however, within the often-repeated themes of the Life and Passion of Jesus for example, with the constant refrain of the same symbols and attributes of both Christ and the other figures in these narratives, it is surprising just how distinct are the individual characteristics of the artists who made that art. Nevertheless, the artist as individual, not to mention the artist as independent intellectual - as opposed to mere tradesman or artisan - was to all intents and purposes, a long way off in the future of art history. What is more surprising then is that artists were able to 'express themselves' to the extent that they did: within the subject of large, suspended wooden crosses, for example, at first glance very similar to one another, there are marked differences between the work of one artist and the next.
This particular subject required a painted image of Christ on the wooden cross - a type known as Christus patiens 4 - itself a very large and heavy piece of carpentry, with images of, on one end of the cross-bar St John, and on the other end, Christ's mother Mary; at the top there was usually the sign with the letters INRI which could be handled in different ways; at the base of the cross, normally some representation of Golgotha and a skull and perhaps some additional elements. Today, in Italy, many of these crosses have been or are being restored and happily, we can now see them once again in their extraordinary beauty - and understand why they were such powerful statements. But here also, given the very restricted iconography, artists were able to imbue these symbols with a high degree of personal formal interpretation and, therefore, individuality.
Crucifix, 1380 by Niccolò di Pietro Gerini and Pietro Nelli, Sta Croce, Florence. This example is complete, having the images of both Mary and St John in place, as well as the sign at the top and the skull together with additional saints or donors at the base. Above the INRI sign is an image of a pelican feeding its heart to its young, an obvious symbol of the sacrifice of Jesus. All the gold-leafed carpentry is intact.
The badly damaged and now restored symbol of the disastrous 1966 flood in Florence, the stupendous Crucifix by Cimabue, in the Sacristy, Sta Croce, Florence. In iconographical terms, it is complete but the flood waters have left irreparable lacunae in the body of Christ. It is remarkable that these Crucifixes are about double life-size, in any case, very big!
The beautifully restored Crucifix by Giotto (c.1315) hanging in the church of Ognissanti, Florence. It is missing its conclusion at the base, the blood from Christ's feet normally shown flowing onto a skull, the symbol of both Golgotha and Adam, below the base of the Cross. This example is interesting in that it has an image of God the Father (?) above the sign at the top; note the 'wings' of decorative work on either side of the body of the cross, below the crossbar. The shape of the frames around the smaller images is that used to enclose narrative scenes in other situations, such as the doors (north and south) of the Baptistry in Florence. Note that the Cross is blue and that blue appears in the three minor sections as well.
Another beautiful Crucifix by Giotto, 1290s (?), this time hanging in the church of Santa Maria Novella, Florence. It has the usual images of Mary and the young St John at either end of the crossbar but, below the base of the Cross, it also has a kind of naturalistic representation of the the hill called Golgotha, where Christ was crucified. In this hill is the skull and, in fact, the blood coming from Christ's feet runs down onto this little hill. Again, as in the other example by Giotto, there are decorative 'wings', as it were behind the body of Christ.
This Crucifix (1265), another by Cimabue (thought to have been Giotto's master), hangs in the church of San Domenico, in Arezzo. Like the Giottos, it has 'wings' below the crossbar and, like the other example here by Cimabue, the body of Christ has a typical Gothic 'sway', forming a kind of elegant 's' shape.
An example of a Christus triumphans-type of Crucifix: note that the figure is 'alive', looking at us, and clothed. This example, also known as the Volto Santo (Holy Face), is in Sansepolcro, near Arezzo, and is thought to date from the 10th or 11th century. Unlike the previous examples, it is a polychrome sculpture, not a painting. See Note 4 below.
One reason why it is relatively easy for contemporary viewers today to see 'modern' traits in older artwork is that, since the advent of the Renaissance, with its heavy focus on imitation of Nature - an explicit goal - art has appeared to look more and more 'real'; we could say that, since the then-renewed interest in classical art (Greek and Roman) artists have indeed developed their 'realism' to an astounding degree. So much so in fact, that the average viewer (as opposed to the specialist), when confronted with many of the 'developments' of the early 20th century, saw nothing other than childish simplification. When we see even older work, that is pre-Renaissance, its apparent simplification is precisely what reminds us of 'modern' art, understood as 20th century Modernism. What seems now more likely, is that early Modernists, those working in a figurative style at any rate, were actually returning to a kind of pared-back statement, a more synthetic, purified symbolism, more akin to some medieval aesthetics than to those developed in and since the Renaissance 5.
A particular hall-mark of say, Nicola Pisano, or Tino di Camaino, and a lot of Modernist figuration, is that both deal with the subject of a given work and not with its embellishment; in other words, they both produce succinct, frank statements, dependent wholly or mostly on the representation of the overt subject of the work, devoid of unnecessary or gratuitous decoration or elaboration. An example of this, by the perhaps less well-known Fra Gugliemo da Pisa, is his pulpit (c. 1270) in the church of San Giovanni Fuorcivitas, in Pistoia 6. This characteristic (of specifically dealing with a work's given subject), especially following the Academic and other excesses of the 19th century, and the subsequent counter-development of Modernism, makes works of this type 'aesthetically' accessible to modern viewers.
The marble pulpit, c. 1270, by Fra Gugliemo in the Romanesque church of San Giovanni Fuorcivitas, Pistoia (Tuscany). Note the almost crowded composition, dealing only with the subject event of each panel; no superfluous details. Influences here from ancient Roman sarcophagi.
1 Compare Tino's Risen Christ with the photos of the David and Ezechiel in this article: note the apparent angularity of Tino's work as compared with the sinuous, flowing 'harmony' of the two Old Testament figures. Tino is searching towards a representation of the way a body actually looks as opposed to simply remaking a standardised symbol.
2 Here we should note that, even in the period we might refer to as 'late medieval', artists, such as Nicola and Giovanni Pisano for instance, were already beginning to look anew at Classical art although the general aesthetic of that time was still 'late-medieval' - also known as Gothic (a long and complex study of its own but a term which covers particularly the late-medieval period).
We may further observe that the monumental or commemorative sarcophagus was itself a 'Classical' art form and still very popular in medieval times. It became even more so during the Renaissance when, however, a declared interest in - and indeed love of - Classical art in all its forms was the prime aesthetic driver of visual art.
3 This requirement of easy legibility, especially from a distance, was one which dated back to the Egyptians and Assyrians and helps to explain the often monumental scale of paintings and sculpture in later public buildings such as churches.
4 The 'Christus patiens' type took over from the earlier 'Christus triumphans' type: respectively, an almost-nude figure clearly demonstrating the suffering, both spiritual and physical, of Christ; the latter, a usually clothed, 'living' figure with arms outstretched in (happy?) triumph over death (or sin).
5 In this regard, it is interesting to contemplate the confused approach of the so-called Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, with its astonishingly fanciful notions of the 'purity' and 'simplicity' of the art which preceded Raphael. Part of its members' problem was that they were living in exactly the same period as the heyday of Academicism and, unwittingly it seems, were not able to free themselves from many of the excesses they claimed to stand against. The work of the Pre-Raphaelites is a romantically confused jumble of mis-understood and poorly comprehended art history, fed as much by their Victorian and insular taste as by any clear philosophical conception. I have never seen any Pre-Raphaelite head or composition which even remotely reminded me of the candid, frank and clear-eyed works of a Pisano, a Lorenzetti or a Tino di Camaino, much less a Giotto or a Duccio!
6 Interestingly, this pulpit, and others like it by Nicola and Giovanni Pisano, all have this 'crowded' composition, often with events occurring in successive 'waves' from the top of the image to the bottom; this same characteristic was later picked up by the Mannerist painter Pontormo, although with clear influences from Michelangelo as well. Michelangelo's use of the crowded composition, whose first manifestation is his very early Battle of the Centaurs, may plausibly be a result of looking at the work of those late-Medieval masters, as well as at the antique Roman sculpture available to him at that time - the same which may have influenced those Medieval artists!
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