Devotion by Design
Tonight I went to see Devotion by Design, an exhibition of Italian altarpieces at the National Gallery. They've tried to reduce the sense of being in an art gallery by using dimmer lighting, and creating in one room a high altar complete with cross, candles, and Gregorian chant. The illusion was sufficiently good that I was disappointed by the absence of the tabernacle, and thus the real presence of the Body of Christ. It reminded me of Hagia Sophia in conjuring a very specific sense of place and time and culture that was still seamlessly part of the universal church. In this case, that specific time and place and culture of medieval Italy owed a lot to what Andrew Greeley calls the 'Catholic imagination' - a Catholicism inherited primarily through stories and pictures and poetry, and a sense of God's immanent and omnipresent grace working through the whole of creation. This outpouring of artistic devotion in the service of God renewed my sorrow over the stripping of the altars, and my gratitude that many churches are flourishing again in their use of paintings and icons.
(Sidebar on vocational choices: The exhibition film explored the investigations needed to match different parts of an altarpiece back together, and the conservation techniques used to restore the paintings, which I found fascinating, and almost started pondering as a missed career, before something in my head snapped and I started feeling that the whole enterprise of matching and restoration was a self-indulgent intellectual exercise that I couldn't possibly allow to distract me from helping people in a practical manner. That last statement might be an exaggeration of what I actually felt, but it does reflect a recurring internal battle about what is worthwhile in life, and what God most wants of people in general, and me in particular. I'm fairly sure I'm not mad at Tolkien for writing Lord of the Rings rather than, say, becoming a medical doctor, and I do genuinely appreciate the art that has resulted from all this painstaking work, yet I seem to insist on making my own vocational decisions based on things I rationally believe are the most important for me to do rather than the things I am most drawn to. This conflict is something that's been building for a few years now, and I'm intrigued to see where it's headed, though I'm rather scared that it ends up with me abandoning all my principles in some sort of hedonistic frenzy.)
Here are my thoughts on my three favourite pictures from the exhibition:
Christ on the Cross
This was my favourite example of the polyptych style, because it used the different frames to show different facets and moments of a story, rather than lots of seemingly separate figures. I suspect it is more integrated because it's unusually late for a polyptych, which had by the late 1400s mainly been replaced by single-frame 'palas'. It certainly includes other interesting 15th century features, such as setting Bible scenes in familiar environments; in this case the rolling Italian countryside. As an icon for meditation, I find it really helpful to be able to move between these different aspects and emotions in my contemplation of Christ's crucifixion, from the anguish and abandonment of Gethsemane to the joy and peace of the risen Christ. I fell in love with St Francis in the central painting, not just standing at the foot of the cross but embracing it: a suitably inspiring example for the Franciscan convent which commissioned the altarpiece.
Another motif which appeared in several paintings (including this one) was the idea of angels catching the blood of Christ in chalices as it is poured out on the cross, while recoiling in horror from this terrible event. For me, this was a lovely interpretation of the words of consecration, linking the redemption of Christ crucified to communion: "this is the chalice of my blood… poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins" without softening the agony of the cross.
The Madonna of Humility
Of the three, this picture loses the most in reproduction, because of the scale and brightness of the original. When I was standing in front of it, the Madonna and Child glowed with a joyful, contented adoration of each other, and the golden brightness of the circle drew me into that adoration. It actually reminded me strongly of Catholic understandings of both the Trinity and marriage, as being all-encompassing, contented and creative love which overflows into generous hospitality towards others.
Virgin and Child Enthroned
This is such a quintessentially Catholic painting that there are hundreds of variations on the theme: a 'wedding photo' of Christ's nativity, showing everyone's favourite saints arrayed in diplomatically-negotiated positions according to how important the painters and patrons thought they were. This image of the Holy Family and the saints as a big extended Catholic family all together is one I automatically accept, because I have an increasing strong sense of the saints as older brothers and sisters who have left some great diaries to help me on my way (except Therese of Lisieux, who I still find unbearingly and irritatingly nice). I do occasionally wonder exactly where this picture is being taken, since the incarnation of the Christ-child is for me a very earth-bound thing, whereas clearly the communion of saints means everyone is in heaven. Fortunately it's once again in the rolling Italian countryside, so I can side-step that argument for now, and geography's never been particularly important to me anyway. As well as the general image, I enjoyed the halos with people's names. I'm slightly rusty on recognising some of the more obscure saints, so they were really helpful, and I think in general that name-halos are much more awesome than the usual plastic name-tags that characterise current events. Let's bring back name-halos!
On a practical note, the exhibition closes this weekend, so if you're London-based and going anywhere near Trafalgar Square, I thoroughly recommend a visit. : )
(Sidebar on vocational choices: The exhibition film explored the investigations needed to match different parts of an altarpiece back together, and the conservation techniques used to restore the paintings, which I found fascinating, and almost started pondering as a missed career, before something in my head snapped and I started feeling that the whole enterprise of matching and restoration was a self-indulgent intellectual exercise that I couldn't possibly allow to distract me from helping people in a practical manner. That last statement might be an exaggeration of what I actually felt, but it does reflect a recurring internal battle about what is worthwhile in life, and what God most wants of people in general, and me in particular. I'm fairly sure I'm not mad at Tolkien for writing Lord of the Rings rather than, say, becoming a medical doctor, and I do genuinely appreciate the art that has resulted from all this painstaking work, yet I seem to insist on making my own vocational decisions based on things I rationally believe are the most important for me to do rather than the things I am most drawn to. This conflict is something that's been building for a few years now, and I'm intrigued to see where it's headed, though I'm rather scared that it ends up with me abandoning all my principles in some sort of hedonistic frenzy.)
Here are my thoughts on my three favourite pictures from the exhibition:
Christ on the Cross
This was my favourite example of the polyptych style, because it used the different frames to show different facets and moments of a story, rather than lots of seemingly separate figures. I suspect it is more integrated because it's unusually late for a polyptych, which had by the late 1400s mainly been replaced by single-frame 'palas'. It certainly includes other interesting 15th century features, such as setting Bible scenes in familiar environments; in this case the rolling Italian countryside. As an icon for meditation, I find it really helpful to be able to move between these different aspects and emotions in my contemplation of Christ's crucifixion, from the anguish and abandonment of Gethsemane to the joy and peace of the risen Christ. I fell in love with St Francis in the central painting, not just standing at the foot of the cross but embracing it: a suitably inspiring example for the Franciscan convent which commissioned the altarpiece.
Another motif which appeared in several paintings (including this one) was the idea of angels catching the blood of Christ in chalices as it is poured out on the cross, while recoiling in horror from this terrible event. For me, this was a lovely interpretation of the words of consecration, linking the redemption of Christ crucified to communion: "this is the chalice of my blood… poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins" without softening the agony of the cross.
The Madonna of Humility
Of the three, this picture loses the most in reproduction, because of the scale and brightness of the original. When I was standing in front of it, the Madonna and Child glowed with a joyful, contented adoration of each other, and the golden brightness of the circle drew me into that adoration. It actually reminded me strongly of Catholic understandings of both the Trinity and marriage, as being all-encompassing, contented and creative love which overflows into generous hospitality towards others.
Virgin and Child Enthroned
This is such a quintessentially Catholic painting that there are hundreds of variations on the theme: a 'wedding photo' of Christ's nativity, showing everyone's favourite saints arrayed in diplomatically-negotiated positions according to how important the painters and patrons thought they were. This image of the Holy Family and the saints as a big extended Catholic family all together is one I automatically accept, because I have an increasing strong sense of the saints as older brothers and sisters who have left some great diaries to help me on my way (except Therese of Lisieux, who I still find unbearingly and irritatingly nice). I do occasionally wonder exactly where this picture is being taken, since the incarnation of the Christ-child is for me a very earth-bound thing, whereas clearly the communion of saints means everyone is in heaven. Fortunately it's once again in the rolling Italian countryside, so I can side-step that argument for now, and geography's never been particularly important to me anyway. As well as the general image, I enjoyed the halos with people's names. I'm slightly rusty on recognising some of the more obscure saints, so they were really helpful, and I think in general that name-halos are much more awesome than the usual plastic name-tags that characterise current events. Let's bring back name-halos!
On a practical note, the exhibition closes this weekend, so if you're London-based and going anywhere near Trafalgar Square, I thoroughly recommend a visit. : )