Maso di Banco was a student and follower of Giotto, and was the author of a beautiful and wonderful fresco cycle in the left transept of the powerful Gothic church of Santa Croce, in Florence (the Bardi di Vernio Chapel, painted about 1340). Maso's frescos have as their theme various episodes in the life of a Pope of the early Christian church, one (Saint) Sylvester (Pope from 314 to 335 AD): the picture we are to consider is The Miracle of the Dragon. The reason for looking at this extraordinary painting has little or nothing to do with the ostensible subject of Maso's image, but rather with the way he has chosen to deal with that content, the way he has composed his picture, and the startling way it appeals to our modern sensibilities.
The Miracle of the Dragon by Maso di Banco, fresco
Santa Croce, Florence (Photo: the author)
Here, as in much figurative painting, we are being asked to observe the action as if it were on a stage, where we can see everything more or less well. Maso has built two distinct but related episodes of one story into one very large painting, on the wall of the chapel. He has distributed the different figures and episodes across the foreground of the fresco, but has linked all the action by his very clever, and beautiful, use of architecture (and, with that therefore, geometry and perspective). Architecture was a common element in Gothic and late-Gothic art but, here, in the Miracle of the Dragon, Maso has treated the architecture in a highly original and personal way, thereby causing the modern viewer to consider this work with an unusual mix of late-Gothic art-historical sensitivity, and a way of seeing conditioned to some extent by Modernism!
One original element is his use of a large part of a ruined wall, situated on the extreme left of the fresco (not completely visible in the photo above), which creates the front-most plane of the picture; this wall forms a kind of enclosed space in the left foreground, thereby increasing the sense of 'reality' of his setting; this device of enclosing part of the drama within a space, within a space, so to speak, not only adds more interest, but serves to isolate and bring especial attention to this part of the miracle. These massive ruins enclose the dragon's lair and contribute to the sense of its being a desolate place - and, not least, also give the figures appropriate scale.
It is in this enclosed space that an important part of the action is taking place, in a hole in the ground! The hole is where the dragon lived and Sylvester's job was to pacify the dragon. According to the legend, the dragon's breath was fatal and this explains not only the latest victims, visible on the ground in the second episode to the right side of the picture (and soon to be revivified), but also the fact that at least one figure, an aid to Sylvester, is holding his nose! The Emperor Constantine and his retinue are watching these events from the right-hand side, as Sylvester's actions are a kind of trial of Christianity.
We now have several different spaces to comprehend: first, the real flat space of the wall of the chapel upon which the painter has made his marks; the suggestion of distance conveyed by the background architectural setting; the semi-enclosed left side creating a three-dimensional interior space (and its partial twin in the right background), and the hole in the floor of that building, which strongly suggests a vertical depth cut into the plane of the floor (and which convincingly argues with - that is, contradicts - our understanding of the flat wall on which the picture is painted!).
But, extremely interesting is the fact that that front part of the building, left foreground, sits on the same plane as the 'real' wall surface, and not, as is usual, at some remove from it, somewhere in the fictive space of the image (see as an example the Giotto [?] image below); in addition, it sets up a dichotomy involving our reading of the 'illusion' of a wall, while at the same time being (unconsciously) aware of the real wall. This too is a device of the theatre, at least in modern times: to have the side curtains function as a kind of frame through which may be seen the action on the stage. Later artists used this device often: witness the innumerable painted curtains pulled aside to reveal what was going on 'in' the picture. But Maso seems to anticipate all this, and in no uncertain terms; his left-side arched wall is an emphatic part of the picture, not a minor detail. With this, he anticipates the 20th century's quasi-obsession with respect for the 'picture-plane', that is, not only not a denial of the fact of the flat picture surface (wall, canvas, board, etc.) but, often, a positive re-statement of it!
A detail of the left side of Maso's fresco showing the ruined arch, the column and the building which 'enclose' the first episode, and the hole where the dragon resides.
Santa Croce, Florence. (Photo: the author)
An obvious but here very important element of this fresco is its colour. The principal colour-scheme is the relationship between the white or off-white buildings and the red one (colours which are replicated or re-stated across the fresco in the clothes of some of the figures in the drama). The first building we come to - a dun colour - is on the left and consists of a wall with a large broken arch looking like it would probably have originally extended over to the lone white column, also in the immediate foreground. Behind the wall on the left is another dun wall which could possibly belong to the same building and which in any case, seems to enclose the action of the first episode; the column acts as a convenient separation between that scene and the second one taking place (or, subsequently to take place) in the central part of the fresco foreground. The large sun-lit ruin in the right background is a sort of off-white, and as such, helps to draw our eyes across the painting, and into the background, in this way establishing, psychologically, a perceived depth. The dull red of the large structure in the left background at once establishes itself as an important compositional component, as well as managing to 'sit back' and not intrude on the action in the foreground. Lastly, a word about the colour of the 'sky': this is nowadays, due to the fresco technique used by Maso, a deep indigo tone but was originally a bright blue (1).
A detail of the centre and right of the fresco showing the 'arch themes' which recur here and elsewhere in this painting; note also the 'framing' red arch above Saint Sylvester in the background. Incidentally, the triangle, formed here by this central group, became a standard of Renaissance composition more than a hundred years later. Santa Croce, Florence. (Photo: the author)
Behind Saint Sylvester in the second scene are two pieces of ruined wall, both having shapes which happily also imply arches: the first is the arch running from the left-hand fragment of dun wall and in a way, transferring to the lower white wall to its right; the second is that created by the shape of Sylvester's assistant, standing behind him, which runs through Sylvester's shoulders, across the right-hand fragment of white wall again, and down the curve of the backs of the two men kneeling before him (especially the yellow-cloaked one; see above). The whitish building in the background on the right, with its three arches, also forms an enclosure which mirrors that of the 'room' in the left foreground; the broken and sloping wall at its front conveniently leads our eyes back to Saint Sylvester from that side of the image. The group of figures surrounding the Emperor on the right - apart from concluding the narrative - forms a kind of balance for the (somewhat more interesting) action and scene on the left. The rear wall of the left-hand building, and the little bit of white, curved wall in the centre, together with a greenish mound, form the middle-ground, separating the principal episodes from the very much more abstract background buildings.
A detail (distorted somewhat by the photo) showing the middle- and background architectural elements, and their colour. Note the extreme abstraction of the architecture and how different that is from the way architecture was usually used by Maso's contemporaries, and by Giotto. Santa Croce, Florence.
(Photo: the author)
And it is those background buildings, those red and white walls, with their arches and open spaces, which are of great interest to modern eyes. Precisely because these 'buildings' have been treated in such an abstract way, precisely because they are little more than planes and arches, precisely because they basically say 'geometry', and whisper 'perspective', is why they speak to us, in the 21st century, and help to make Maso's late-Gothic story into a system of clear, uncluttered 'abstract' statements; these structures are so free of imitative detail that, in all probability, even Adolf Loos would have been happy! As well, the twice-appearing Saint Sylvester is a geometric shape, more or less a cone - as is his mitre - and is cleverly and subtly mirrored on the right side in the inverted cone-shaped, red vestment of the Emperor's advisor. This clear, and to my eyes, radical treatment of architecture, may be compared with some of the scenes on the other walls of the chapel: there, the treatment of buildings and interiors is basically 'normal' for the period, and for a follower of Giotto. Having said that, even in those scenes, Maso manages to be in a certain way, still more 'minimal' than Giotto certainly.
Some may say that the red building is not quite right in terms of its perspective drawing and, in fact, it is a little problematical, especially in the way the isolated red arch which frames Sylvester in the centre is attached; but, interestingly, we are clearly lower than that building, and are made to feel that we are looking up at it. There is no reason why it has to be oriented in the same direction as the whitish ruin on the right and, in general terms, the red cube with its walls and arches on top is quite convincing! The actual fresco is very large, about 5.34 metres across, and is very impressive when seen in person, as it were. The intellectual clarity of the overall conception, and especially of those geometric background structures appeals, I believe, to eyes familiar with the pure geometry of a Mondrian or the minimalist aesthetics of twentieth century architecture and design; or to those who like De Chirico's receding arches!
I have made mention already of the arches in the background, and of the implied ones in the centre-foreground - and of the large broken one in the left foreground: but what else can be said about them? Well, to begin with, it's evident that Maso was quite interested in arches, and in the natural way they provide a contrast to the straight lines of the buildings they are attached to. In terms of the buildings' representing, as symbols, pagan ancient Rome - and perhaps its passing - they are highly abstracted and refined references; but, they are flat! Apart from the human figures (and the hapless dragon!), the only 'round' objects or pieces of architecture, are the lone column in the front and the anonymous dark tower in the far right background; as such, the single white column with its capital provides an elegant foil to the flat planes everywhere else (in the man-made structures). This seems to accentuate the planar quality of these structures, and their abstract geometry.
The Homage of a Simple Man, by Giotto and/or his workshop, in the Basilica of San Francesco, at Assisi. Note that for the buildings, which are small in relation to the figures, there are various vanishing points, all inconsistent with each other; also, while we see these buildings somewhat from the right, the figures are lined up parallel with an imaginary horizontal line running along the bottom of the image, and we see them (the figures) as though from directly in front; that is, from a point of view not consistent with the view of the buildings.
This aspect appears quite a departure from the representation of buildings by Maso's master, Giotto, whose constructions were generally doll's house-like symbols of more or less real structures (such as churches and even a Roman temple - the Temple of Minerva, still extant in the centre of Assisi - as in the image above). Often in late-Gothic art, buildings are rendered disproportionately small in relation to the size of the human actors; Maso, in his Miracle of the Dragon fresco, has overturned that tradition: his structures have a real, possible relationship in terms of proportion to the figures set in his quasi-minimalist environment. To me, it is a matter of some curiosity that Maso's extraordinary conception was accepted by those who commissioned him to paint it; certainly today, his refined and 'purist' architecture would not raise an eyebrow, if anything, it would be the figures to do so! It should also be mentioned that Maso was working in this chapel about 100 years or so before the revival (and perfection) of linear perspective at the hands of artists such as Alberti, Brunelleschi, Donatello, Uccello and Ghiberti. He continues the early enquiry made by Giotto and, I think, in this fresco, as far as buildings are concerned, reaches a point beyond any reached by his master. But, most importantly, his partly-intuitive, partly-scientific attempts at accurate perspective bring him closer to his (surely unexpected) 21st century audience than perhaps the work of any other Gothic painter is. In his use of a 'modern' scale, Maso has implied the actual relationship between man and his environment. Earlier Medieval and Gothic artists, both in painting and in sculpture, had placed man in an unreal scale vis-à-vis his environment; perhaps sometimes to indicate distance but, more usually, because the pertinent actions of human and divine actors were of principal narrative concern, not the literal correctness of the ambience in which those actions occurred.
The symbolic character of the representation of 'place' is evident not only in artists' use of architecture, but also when dealing with certain natural environments, such as where hermits or 'desert fathers' may live: Italian artists used a kind of schematic shorthand to indicate 'desert' or wilderness, having never been anywhere near oriental or African deserts themselves!
St Anthony Abbot in the Wilderness, c 1435, by the Osservanza Master, The Met, NY.
A completely fantastic landscape here provides the ambience for a representation of the Abbot, St Anthony; while the colours, and particularly those of the sky, are beautiful, this early-fifteenth century image has the same connection with the 'real' world as does a children's story-book illustration.
(Photo: the author)
In many religious images of the time of Maso di Banco, a clear hierarchy operated in which God was at the top, then the Church, then Man, then, if at all, everything else! The 'backgrounds' of Medieval and Gothic images were hardly more than stage-sets before which were played out the stories of the Christian faith. As Humanism developed and painting changed, and Man's place in the physical cosmos was better understood from a scientific point of view, his environment took on more and more importance, to the point in the later 15th century where we can have pictures of 'ideal cities' as the sole theme of a painting (see below).
Città Ideale, about 1477 (even 1490 - 1500), kept at the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino. An example from a group of three such views of ideal cities, this one thought by some to have been painted by Francesco di Giorgio Martini, although artists such as Piero della Francesca, and even Alberti himself, have been suggested as well. The other two paintings are in Berlin and Baltimore. (Not a good photo by the author!)
I may mention here in relation to the Ideal City above, the complete absence of human - or divine - figures (2); i.e. although the actions of human beings are clearly implied in the very existence of the buildings themselves, what we see principally is the result of the work of Man's intellectual and logical mind, that is to say, Man functioning without or independently of 'faith' or superstition. There is no religious or other narrative 'excuse' for this picture (the central circular structure could be a temple or a church, it is unclear); in any case, it is a celebration of Man's freedom of thought and his deliberate positive ability. This is also true of the Berlin example although not of the Baltimore painting, which does have human figures (thought by some however to have been added later).
Maso's Miracle of the Dragon is a long way from the philosophical concerns (Humanism, Neo-Platonism) of a century and a half later, and his retelling of the Saint Sylvester story is quite orthodox; what is related nonetheless to later interests is his ability to compose in large geometric masses, at least as far as the buildings are concerned. As already suggested, he unwittingly creates a bridge between the theocratic religious world-view of the late-Gothic environment he lived in, and the purist formalism or minimalism of the 20th century.
1This involved undercoating with a red, known in Italian as 'morellone', directly on the wet plaster; the final blue, its tone altered by the undercoat, being applied when the red was dry. This led subsequently to the blue's falling off and the present appearance of the 'sky'. A similar loss has occurred with the various metals, like gold or tin, which were originally applied in certain areas such as in haloes or on rich garments. This means that what we see now, even after recent restoration, is unfortunately not the intact, complete image Maso had left us, almost 700 years ago.
2 Note however, the presence of two or three white doves below the first floor window, near the corner of the building at the front, on the right side of the Urbino painting!
