Robin Mason -Words
Sunday, 5 July 2009
The Isenheim Altarpiece as Medieval Metaphor
Five Meditations on the Metaphor of the Altarpiece
1
Why the Metaphor?
The term Metaphor derives from the Greek (metaphora) or transference. As paper absorbs the pigment from a pen, static on its surface - so too does the Isenheim Altarpiece absorb from the static viewer something metaphorically linked to the ink, bearing, carrying and transferring constantly in its ability to absorb into itself, and to reverse this action, to act as the pen seeping its fluidity into the paper, with us becoming the sheets of paper, absorbing its seepage, forming new possibilities that are not scribed by the pen nib but that ooze organically as new creative images full of possibility. A symbiotic relationship that harnesses the past and present, form and content, the paper and the ink inseparable. We stain it as it stains us. The Isemheim Altarpiece as Metaphor for biblical narrative and sociopolitical circumstances of its time of creation, is paralllled by its positioning to guide as Metaphor for the sociopolitical circumstances of its union or contact with those who have and do view and use it or its reproduction.
2
Living with its Stain
Waiting with anticipation for the next parcel to arrive, during the long hours of winter darkness, I had no idea that I was about to be sucked into a life long relationship with a work of art that, no matter how hard I've tried since to avoid its clenching fascination, has kept me engaged ever since. It was the latest publication of the Time Life books, The Lives of the Great Artists. My parents had ordered the whole series. Leonardo da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Rubens, Bellini... each book full of potential and past that highlighted my fascination with Giles cartoons, Disney imagery and artists in general. That was the day I was stained by the Isenheim Altar Piece. It was in the book on Durer (Mathias Grunewald who painted it around 1512 was a contemporary of Durers). At first the pages made no sense, fragments of image sat juxtaposed alongside images that seemed to have no relationship to each other, then I noticed a fold line and a diagram instructing the reader to fold the pages back on themselves. I started folding, until, there in the centre of the book sat an image of crucifixion the like of which I had never seen before. The pain and terror of the image was overwhelming, I had just constructed this and it confused me, at that moment it stained my being. As I folded open the folded pages of this reproduction of the polyptych, which is the Isenheim Altar piece, I was unfolded. While uncovering the inner body of this piece the turned to revealing behind the Death of the frontispiece, the Resurrection of Christ, the Annunciation, The Madonna and Child mused by an orchestra of Angels. The polar bedfellows of Thanatos and Eros rushed through an adolescent as I absorbed the imagery. That moment was the height of the wonderous experiences those books gave me. I think as I open the pages of books now which so often fail to excite, its that model of experiencing I'm comparing each new books content with. Unfair and unfulfillable, but still a desire. Maybe its that moment I am trying to understand or share as I exchange time with Grunewald, spending thousands of hours making the hundreds of studies as drawings and paintings from his altarpiece, living with it's stain.
The Day I Stained it
When ever we had a new artist book, I'd show it to my friend Howard. We spent hours tracing from comics and from art books, merging Superman and Catwoman with Renaissance classic figures into Giles Cartoon interiors. Sometimes we'd strip them bare other times we'd leave them clothed. The stripped ones often found their way onto lamp posts in the area. Now looking back these were my (our) first transcriptions and first public exhibitions of work. Soon, after these collaborations, Howard Cave was killed, his bike was nudged by a bus and he fell under the wheels. The next time I looked at the folded pages of the altarpiece in the book, it felt different. I poured some of my grief into it. It seemed to absorb some of my confusion. At that moment I think I stained it with something of myself. The day I stained it, we entered into a private dialogue.
4
Echoes of Folding, a Proustian Moment
Colmar for the First Time
"Homage to Bocklins Rock", the series of works I'd made, as transcriptions from Arnold Bocklins Island of the Dead paintings, were being shown at a second venue in Basel. Part of the journey to Basel included a stop over in Colmar. Driving through the vast forests of the Vosge Mountains on a darkening evening, accompanied by the burning glows of hot air balloons drifting through the shadowed valleys, we descended into Colmar to a dark town that we knew held the building that held the Isenheim Altarpiece.
Revealing and Concealing in the Iconography of the Isenheim Altarpice
Meditate on the Isenheim Altar Piece and you’ll find the painting revealing its contents, gradually. Not unlike a developing photograph filmed and shown at slow speed, frame by frame over a period of months or years, it gradually shows more and more. In my case meditation took the form of Transcription, drawing and inventing from the iconography in a search for an understanding of what it is that captivates in an obsessional way the followers of this work. As Picasso discussed, when drawing from it, even though initially a close following, a version or a transposition into another medium or style may be required, it doesn’t obey, its not like other works, it disobeys the rules, it forces a new energy and direction to be followed, it sustains itself for only moments before it is guiding towards imagery that is unexpected, unthinkable. Grunewalds drawings have a spirit of occasion about them, they were made, without ego, they retain the very essence of the moment they were made, seemingly holding the sounds, atmosphere, sensitivity, brutality of their moment of conception. As the Black Kimono is flicked with the foot to reveal its pink wink towards Venus so too does this work of majestic Darkness and Light, but ever so quietly and
gently, so quiet in fact that nobody seems to notice.
As I discussed in perfect imperfection an essay on the drawings of Grunewald, he leaves his drawings open ended, they remain with eros in the possibility of creative future, they are not held by Thanatos like Durer or Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings, they don’t end, they are not there to demonstrate virtuosity, but are the productions of a search for the poetic image, metaphors that hold the essence of the subject of narrative and of drawing in the moment. Most importantly they are drawings with all the trials and erasure in their body, they breath, they are not smothered into mere image.
The starkness of the figure representing Christ is cut up and stabbed with thorns. His fingers gripping as if the aged elbowing oak tree is within the taught skin now pierced with nails. I have previously described this Christ as ‘always newly dead’. He is held on the surface of this painting, waiting to have his limb dismembered temporarily as the doors that this altarpiece is, are opened once more, his exhaled breath in limbo. But as it stands in the Museum Unterlinden, it does not open. The panels are standing free, to be mused past at will, passing through time, through emotion, through biblical tale, dream and nightmare imagery. It wraps up the soul as it wonders at the wanderings of the mind that has created this. But it is the minds of many, rather than the mind of the individual, that focused a collective of images and words onto the palette, onto the wooden panels and into the mind of the viewer. It performs the role of contemporary newspapers, television and computer monitors, unfolding the wonders and tragedies of each day, into forms of expression or repression.
As thoughts and readings of this experience begin to unfold, inherent ethical imperatives stand between me, and my reading of it. I am staring at, but for a tattered rag of a loincloth (that on another panel holds a baby) a nude man. His torso taut, muscles tight, known only through the ‘petit mal’. The genitalia, covered, are positioned at the centre of the axis of the corners of the main panel. The figures around swoon at his presence, or stare out at my staring in. A veil of moral decency filters and censors my viewing of the erotic within this painting. To read this painting beyond its theological message pokes at my conscience, my protestant high-church upbringing. Blasphemy pushes its way to the forefront of my mind. Some would express outrage at the suggestive readings of this painting. This painting expresses outrage and enables outrage to be expressed.
The very idea that Christ has a sexuality still shocks. Leo Steinberg in The Sexuality of Christ[1] explores Christ’s male image from infancy to adulthood. In his very personal exploration of The Isenheim Altar Piece, Jungian analyst Eugene Monick[2] looks at the idea that Christ’s sexuality is confirmed through his contraction of the sexually transmitted disease syphilis. He discusses the possible readings of sexual relationships, through Jungian analysis, of the main characters in the painting (homosexuality, incest etc). In his introduction, he emphasises that this is his personal interpretation of the imagery. Accepting this, I find his reading of Christ’s body as showing signs of syphilis, debatable. He claims that a teacher of his introduced this fact to him, however years later when he discussed it the teacher denied having stated this. My thoughts on this are that he could have been told that there is a figure in the altarpiece that shows signs of syphilitic sores. This could relate (I think ) to the figure propped in the left corner of the Torment of St Anthony panel. This figure that could be seen as a miner (the Alsace being a mining area), wears a yellow and red hood and has a body covered in sores and puss oozing boils. He grasps onto a book, thought to be the bible (faith) and onto St Anthony’s cloak with a stump of a hand that seems to have lost its fingers. Of course we now know these physical attributes to be the outward sign of Ergotism, visually linked to syphilitic sores. The inward outcome of Ergotism was hallucinations and madness, represented in the painting by the monsters and creatures making the attack on St Anthony. This figure of Ergotic suffering was used by Jasper Johns as a transcribed metaphor for the horror of Aids.[3]
It was one day at the National Gallery in London that I had my first piece of evidence to support the possibility of Grunewald deliberately placing these stylized wounds, these orifices, these entrances to the inner flesh of the body, in his painting. The Image of Christ exhibition[4] was crowded most days. Down into the basement, down the grey granite steps into the darkness of the underbelly of the gallery, where the spot lights enabled the exhibits to glow in their spaces on the wall and the visitors to slink in and out of the shadows, as they wandered through ecclesiastic history. Each work was being studied, read about, admired. Room after room of admiring gestures and under breath sounds of approval, until one framed print seemed to receive very short stabbing glances, before the viewers quickly scurried onto the next exhibit. There it was, a guide to prayer, a representation of the wounds of Christ and the nails of the crucifixion, metamorphosed into penises and vaginas. The representation of these images was used in meditational prayer, the user releasing their libido and entering into a deeper more personal (sexualised) relationship with Christ. Other imagery in the exhibition, prayer rings, carvings and prayer books all had representations of the wounds, stylized to form lozenge shaped, eroticised forms that at times danced free from the body as abstract representations of the wound. Out of this stylization and worship of the wound evolved the Sacred Heart and ultimately this evolved into the love heart of contemporary culture.
What is important is that here, as in children's play, the reality represented by the object is not located in that object but in subjective experience. And indeed we are reminded of the games of a child with her doll when Margarethe Ebner tells us how she takes the figure of the Christ Jesus out of his cradle because he has been “naughty” in the night and kept her awake, how she places him on her lap and speaks to him, holds him to her bare breast to suckle him and is shocked to feel “a human touch of his mouth.” The game passes over into the erotic, even the pathological, when she tells us that she takes a life-size wooden model of the crucified Christ into her bed at night and lays it on top of her.
An extreme example of mystical meditational vision through the use of stylized wound imagery is the vision of St Catherine of Sienna. Ramond of Capua described the event
And putting his right hand on her virginal neck and drawing her towards the wound in His own side, He whispered to her “Drink, daughter, the liquid from my side, and it will fill your soul with such sweetness that its wonderful effects even by the body which for my sake you despise.” And she, finding herself thus near to the source of the fountain of life, put the lips of her body, but much more those of her soul, over the most holy wound, and long and eagerly and abundantly drank that indescribable and unfathomable liquid. Finally, at a sign from the Lord, she detached herself from the fountain, sated and yet at the same time still longing for more.[5]
So where am I? The use of sexualised imagery within pre reformation Christian iconography was in circulation both in imagery and in the writings of the mystical visionaries. The duality of this erotic imagery in relation to Christ can be seen as addressing the heterosexual female, gay female, gay male and heterosexual male as the vaginal and the masculine combined creating an arena for the libidinal release.
So I return to the Isenheim Altar Piece with the realisation that the readings of this imagery are not only in my reading of it, but were laid down knowingly during the period of heightened mystical revelations. Now I look again at Mary Magdalene, her flowing colourful robes contrasting starkly with the Virgin Mother Mary’s stiff white robe. I seek for the same contrasts in other crucifixion scenes and I become intrigued with the representation of the Virgin’s clothing in contrast to the Magdalene’s clothing. More often than not, the Virgin’s clothing is flattened without a fold at the front of her robes, whereas the Magdalene often has suggestive folds of fabric filling the area between her opened legs. There is a way into the robing of the Magdalene. Her body is accessible whereas the Virgin is closed, the symbolic representation of her virginity as a walled garden without a door is clearly seen when compared to Mary Magdlene. Mary Magdalene has a sexualized presence.
I see it in museum after museum. Then in Aachen two sculptures of Mary Magdalene point towards a possible evolutional development of her image from pagan into Christian iconography. At the base of one wooden cross kneels Mary Magdalene, but this time her sexuality is not in the folds of fabric but in a mandorla shape, formed by lengths of chain, a belt that hangs from her waist. The mandorla is an almond shaped image that was the symbol of Venus. Formed by the crescent waxing and waning moons, it is the gateway to the universe, the heavens. In another wooden sculpture Mary Magdalene is seen being carried up into heaven by angels. She is wearing or is covered in a hairy neglige type garment. A book illumination in the collection of the British Library is clearly described as Mary Magdalene being lifted by angels. This image of the Magdalene bares close relationship to the Botticelli’s Venus. The flowing hair, the near nakedness and the surrounding air flowing with angels or flowers. The Sheelagh which is thought to be a celtic representation of a goddess of fertility, often stood as the keystone to the entrance doorway of early churches. Many were destroyed by iconoclasts, but enough remain to see its importance alongside the image of the green man as soothers in the take over of sites of worship by the Christians and along with that, the merging of belief images to encourage attendance at the newly forming religion. I am proposing that this image can be seen as an evolution from the Venus mandorla, which has its image firmly placed in Christian iconography with that of the worship of the female sexualized goddess from Venus into the Sheelagh and into that of the Magdalene within Northern European, pre reformation imagery.
The Parish Church of St John the Baptist in Newton, Porthcawl was my place of worship as a child, and it was there at the pulpit that I would stare at my first encounters with the stylizations of the wounds of Christ. A Norman church, the carved pulpit dates back to 15th century. Just above the pulpit are five carved flower like marks, these represented the wounds of Christ. My mind would jump from wound to flower; flower to wound and then the moment would become a reverie, different wounds, different flowers; wounds with flowers and flowers with wounds. It is little surprise that I found the Ascension of the Virgin at the National Gallery, a fascinating painting, where the grave of death has been transformed into a grave of flowering lilies. Above the wounds in the church is a chalice lifted by angels and below, around the pulpit, a vine with leaves and grapes is said to secretly spell Agnus Dei, but I find it hard to read this. Below the vines there is a figure tied at the feet by rope and held by two figures brandishing whips. This is thought to be the figure of Christ. Returning to the stylized wounds, I have a recollection of there also being five flowers carved into the altars stone slab. The five wounds, the stigmata, there to be meditated on, to be wondered at, the stylized flowers converting the horror and terror into something of beauty, a scent to cover the stench. Simon Watney explores how, when meditating on lilies, the meditators saw crucifixions in lilies and the artisans created lily images supporting crucifixions, which were meditated on and no doubt created new poetic images, that were written about and then read about and then made into carvings, illuminations, paintings and stained glass windows.
At Colmar I had uncovered four openings in the clothing, in the painting. But more obvious than any of the others is the opening in the flowing robe of the rising Christ. Rising like the image of the ascending Mary Magdalene, Christ’s robe is open for all to enter, gaping with the warmth of fleshiness as he rises into the universe. This Christ is not seen resurrected, but is seen ascending, white faced, ghost like out of the grave in a blinding light that absorbs and emits everything around it. So these wounds, these openings are seducers, are erotic iconographic symbols that counterbalance the stench, fear and fantasy across the works, where the Virgin Mary gives a very telling glance to the Archangel Gabriel and Lucifer plays the cello, hidden from Gods view by a long green curtain. Where the prophets from the Old Testament are dotted around as St Anthony deals with his torments and temptations, as the inhabitants of Isenheim had to, as they fought with the hallucinations and gangrenous terrors of disease caused by ergotic rye bread. The journey into day and night through the beauty and awfulness of life strikes you in your gut, heart and groin as you infiltrate the extraordinary world that was born out of Mystical Enlightenment and which continues to abuse, confuse and help those who delve into its subliminal territories.
I am still intrigued by this piece of the world called the Isenheim Altar Piece, but now am more at ease with the inherent ethical imperatives that run through our society. I see more clearly the impact of the fearful periods of terror that raged across Europe in an attempt to destroy the evolved imagery that linked the pagan past with the Christian faith of the 16th Century. The reformation did all it could to destroy freedom of thought within society and with it any inherited relationship with imagery of the past. The belief that it was the word that would bring people closer to God came to a crushing end in the trenches of the First World War. The blind faith, the unthinking followers, who were led to slaughter in the name of God in the support of a society that saw blindness as the most loyal form of religious follower. The blind could not be deterred from the word of god by the visual seduction of imagery. All rules and regulations of right and wrong, societal structures and beliefs were torn to shreds. The traditional graveyard surrounding the village church where at the rising of the sun on the day of resurrection, as depicted by Stanley Spencer at Cookham, was gone. The millions of brothers, fathers and sons who were blown to pieces and left deep in the mud of Flanders ruined the wonderful plan set out in peoples minds for the future. How could the post reformation society carved out of blood shed resurrect itself now?
[1] Sexuality of Christ - Leo Steinberg University Of Chicago Press; 2nd Rev edition (January 1, 1997)
[2] Evil, Sexuality and Disease in Grunewalds Body of Christ, Eugene Monick
[3] Jasper Johns: Privileged Information - Jill Johnston Thames & Hudson (October 1996
[5] James Clifton - Blood - Prestel