Imaging Utopia: New Perspectives on Northern Renaissance Art: Papers Presented at the Twentieth Symposium for the Study of Underdrawing and Technology in Painting held in Mechelen and Leuven, 11-13 January 2017 9789042941526, 9789042941533, 9042941529

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IMAGING UTOPIA: NEW PERSPECTIVES ON NORTHERN RENAISSANCE ART Papers Presented at the Twentieth Symposium for the Study of Underdrawing and Technology in Painting

PEETERS

IMAGING UTOPIA: NEW PERSPECTIVES ON NORTHERN RENAISSANCE ART

UNDERDRAWING AND TECHNOLOGY IN PAINTING SYMPOSIUM XX

The Symposium XX for the Study of Underdrawing and Technology in Painting has been organized by: Illuminare - Centre for Study of Medieval Art - University of Leuven

in collaboration with Erfgoed Mechelen (Museums & Heritage Mechelen) Université catholique de Louvain KIK-IRPA, Royal Institute for Cultural Heritage Flemish Research Centre for the Arts in the Burgundian Netherlands (Musea Brugge)

IMAGING UTOPIA: NEW PERSPECTIVES ON NORTHERN RENAISSANCE ART Papers Presented at the Twentieth Symposium for the Study of Underdrawing and Technology in Painting held in Mechelen and Leuven, 11-13 January 2017

Edited by Julie Beckers, Annelies Vogels, Jan Van der Stock and Lieve Watteeuw

PEETERS PARIS – LEUVEN – BRISTOL, CT

2021

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © Peeters Leuven, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated in any form or by any means, by print, photoprint, microfilm, microfiche or any other means without written permission from the Publisher. ISBN: 978-90-429-4152-6 eISBN: 978-90-429-4153-3 D/2021/0602/48

COVER:

Lucas Cranach the Elder, The Golden Age (Primitive Humanity), 1530, mixed technique on panel, Munich, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek.

Table of Contents Preface 1 2 3 4

5 6 7 8

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11 12

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1 The Nymph of the Grotto. Silence and Genius loci Barbara Baert

2

Visualizing Caliban’s New World Kin Larry Silver

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The Golden Age as an Imaginary and Imaginable Utopia Maria Aresin

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Reviving the locus amoenus: Jan van de Velde II and Batavian Antiquarianism during the Twelve Years’ Truce (1609-1621) Robert Fucci

44

Democritus: the Laughing Philosopher Maximiliaan P. J. Martens

56

Social Networks, Wooden Connections – Two Portraits by Quentin Massys Malve Anna Falk

62

Visualizing the Divine. New Insights into Jean Bellegambe’s Working Methods Anna Koopstra

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Indians and Fools versus Glorious Prince-Bischops. The Palace of Liège as a Utopian Construction with Dystopian References Stefaan Grieten and Krista De Jonge

86

Civitas Lovaniensis: An Integrated Analysis of the Oldest City Portrait of Leuven and the Woodcuts of Monogrammist AP Jeroen Luyckx

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The City between Piety and Vanity. City Portraits in Religious Iconography in Early Modern Netherlandish Painting Jochen Suy

112

Alabaster and Gold. Material-Technical Study of the Exceptional Altarpiece of Boussu Judy De Roy

124

Part of the Picture – The Underdrawing and its Use in the Painting-Technique of Hans Holbein the Elder Stephanie Dietz

138

The Function of Colorless Powdered Glass as an Additive to Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century Oil Paints Indra Kneepkens

150

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The Painted Panels of the Early Sixteenth Century Mechelen Enclosed Gardens. Art Technical Examination with the Photometric Stereo: White Light and Multispectral Microdomes Hendrik Hameeuw, Lieve Watteeuw, Bruno Vandermeulen, Marc Proesmans

164

The Enclosed Gardens of Mechelen: Revealed from Beneath the Dust Willemien Anaf, Marjolijn Debulpaep, Marina Van Bos

176

Bibliography

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Preface The present volume contains the proceedings of the conference Imaging Utopia: New Perspectives on Northern Renaissance Art, organised in Leuven and Mechelen on 11 January – 13 January 2017. The impetus for this conference and hence these proceedings was the launch of the exhibition In Search of Utopia, which opened on 20 October 2016, at M museum Leuven. The exhibition brought together a number of exceptional works of art, most of them by masters who were active in Flanders and Brabant in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The exhibition at M commemorated the fact that December 2016 marked the 500th anniversary of the publication of Utopia, written by the English humanist and statesman Thomas More, a true European in spirit. With his now famous book, More brilliantly analysed the lamentable social and economic conditions prevailing in England during his lifetime, and subsequently offered an ideal solution by describing a ‘utopian’ alternative that was to be found on an island where everything was ‘perfectly’ regulated. The exhibition, broadly visualising the Utopian theme, was proceeded by a considerable amount of academic research. This research was carried out under the auspices of Illuminare – Centre for the Study of Medieval Art (KU Leuven). The extensive examination of Mechelen’s Enclosed Gardens, the systematic study of compositions from the tradition of Hieronymus Bosch, the analysis and the conservation of the unique, large-scale woodcut city portrait of Leuven and various other objects, were the subjects of thorough scholarly research. The results of this extensive research were presented at the XXth Symposium for the Study of Underdrawing and Technology in Painting; yet the scope of this colloquium went beyond the technical examination of paintings, and allowed the speakers to approach the topic of Imaging Utopia in a diverse and inventive way. In the proceedings published here, fifteen contributions are included, examining such topics as the study of the work by Quinten Massys in the context of his relation with Erasmus and More, the Utopian construction of the Prince Bishop’s Palace of Liège, and City Portraits in religious iconography. A number of entries discuss the art technical research on the 16th century Enclosed Gardens of Mechelen. Some of the essays, based on the presentations shared on the first day of the Imaging Utopia conference held in the Museum Hof van Busleyden and Lamot in Mechelen, have been published in the monograph Enclosed Gardens of Mechelen: Late Medieval Paradise Gardens Revealed (2018). On the first page of his book, Thomas More describes Utopia as a Libellus vere aureas, a little true golden book. This little book proved to become one of the greatest works of socio-political analysis of all time; the new spirit attached to More’s work continues to inspire, and seeps through the veins of this publication.

Ill. 1.1. Ariadne, previously known as the Cleopatra fountain, found in 1515, marble, Rome, Vatican Museum.

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The Nymph of the Grotto. Silence and Genius loci * Barbara Baert - KU Leuven

For the pagan each thing has its nymph or genius. Each thing is a captive nymph, or a dryad caught by our gaze; that’s why everything, for him, has an astonishing direct reality, and he feels fellowships with each thing when he sees it, and friendship when he touches it. Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)

By the end of the 15th century, Michael Fabricius Ferrarinus (died between 1488-1493), prior of the Carmelite cloister in Reggio Emilia, launched the rumour, in his chronicle (c. 1477-1484), that super ripam Danuvii a fountain had been found with the ancient sculpture of a sleeping nymph. According to Ferrarinus, the ensemble wears a peculiar tetrastichon epigraphy. HVIVS NYMPHA LOCI, SACRI CVSTODIA FONTIS, DORMIO, DVM BLANDAE SENTIO MVRMVR AQVAE. PARCE MEVM, QVISQVIS TANGIS CAVA MARMORA, SOMNVM RVMPERE. SIVE BIBAS SIVE LAVERE TACE.

(Nymph of the grotto, these sacred Springs I keep,/ And to the Murmur of these Waters sleep; / Ah spare my Slumbers, gently tread the Cave! / And drink in silence, or in silence leave.)

Otto Kurz, Huius Nympha Loci (1953), Millard Meiss, Sleep in Venice (1966), Michael Liebmann, On the Iconography of the Nymph of the Fountain (1968), Leonard Barkan, The Beholder’s Tale (1993), Zita Ágota Pataki, Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Bild und Text (2003), Franz Matsche, Nympha super ripam Danubii (2007) and Matthias Müller, Von der allegorischen Historia zur Historisierung eines germanischen Mythos (2008) have all discussed the impact of this rumour as prototypical for the naissance of sculptures of the sleeping nymph in Rome, and for the development of the well-known genre of the sleeping Venus in painting. Building on their work, this essay contextualizes the phenomenon of the sleeping nymph and its textual and artistic Nachleben from the point of view of the Utopic locus amoenus. This essay contributes to a better understanding of sleep, voyeurism and silence within the context of the nymph’s particular genius loci. 1. The birth of an artistic motif. Status Quaestionis In 1512, a sculpture of a sleeping, half-naked woman and a part of an antique fountain were discovered and displayed in the Belvedere of the Vatican. (ill. 1.1). We still know about this sculpture and the way it was set up because of a drawing by Francisco de Holanda (1517-1585)

* This article contains new insights regarding my former study in Baert 2016. A shorter version was published in Baert 2018: 149-176. With gratitude to dr. Julie Beckers - KU Leuven.

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Ill. 1.2. Francisco de Holanda, Cleopatra fountain at the Belvedere, 1539, drawing, Madrid, San Lorenzo de El Escorial.

(1539) (ill. 1.2).1 Nowadays, the sculpture of this woman lying in the niche of a cave is identified as Ariadne. At the time, it was thought to represent Cleopatra.2 Both the setting and the pose of the scantily clad goddess refer to the then current genre of nymphean sculpture, of which a prototype was reportedly located on the banks of the Danube. The alleged group of sculptures on the Danube bore a Latin epigram. The epigram was included in a compilation by Michael Fabricius Ferrarinus. Ferrarinus writes: Super ripam Danuvii in quo est sculpta nympha ad amoenum fontem dormiens, sub figura est hoc epigramma (On the banks of the Danube where there is a sculpture of a sleeping nymph at a beautiful spring and under the image is also an epigram).3 The epigram read: Hvivs nympha loci, sacri cvstodia fontis/ Dormio dvm blandae sentio mvrmvr aqvae/ Parce meum qvisqvis tangis cava

marmora somnvm/ Rvmpere. Sive bibas, sive lavere tace.4 (Nymph of the grotto, these sacred Springs I keep,/ And to the Murmur of these Waters sleep;/ Ah spare my Slumbers, gently tread the Cave!/ And drink in silence, or in silence leave).5 When the sleeping goddess was discovered at the Belvedere, those in Rome realised its connection to this passus, according to a poem by Evangelista Maddaleni Fausto di Capodiferro (second half of the 15th century-1527) written for Pope Julius II (1443-1514) in 1513: Fessa soporifero Fontis susurro/ Perspicui, dulcis frigidulique fruor;/ Accedas tacitus, tacitusque lavere bibasque.6 The connection between the sleeping nymph in a cave and the fascinating tetrastichon about silence and water was a beloved motif in 16th-century Roman gardens and fountains.7 Angelo Colocci (1474-1549) used the epigram on one of his fountains for the court of Pope Leo X, which can still be seen on a woodcut featuring a sleeping nymph (ill. 1.3).8 Where did this topos come from? And what is the origin of the epigram? Elisabeth MacDougall points out that an excerpt of the epigram had circulated prior to Ferrarinus, in a compilation made by Bartolomeo della Fonte (1446-1513).9 Della Fonte adds to the poem that it was “recently invented in Rome. It is by Campanus.”10 The genre of rhyming epigrams was very popular amongst humanists. It suits the pastoral lyric of the Ancients, based on Greek Hellenist pastoral poetry.11 Publius Ovidius Naso (43 BC17 AD) refers to nymph springs and the silence of the water several times. In his Fasti III, 11-20, Ovidius, describes the Rhea Sylvia as a girl that sweetly dozes off with her urn, to the sound of the softly ‘murmuring’ water (murmur blandae aquae).12 It was not only the type of verse that was en vogue, the figure of the nymph was also regaining popularity. With Giovanni Boccaccio’s (13131375) Ninfa Fiesole (1340)13 the creature emerged as a subject within the 15th-century revival of ancient literature and poetry,14 with Francesco Colonna’s (1433-1527) Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499) as the most important mediator.15 The text

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Ill. 1.3. After Janus Jacobus Boissard, Relief with sleeping nymph in the garden of Angelo Collocci, before 1515, in Romanae Urbis Topographiae, 3 vols., pars I-IV (Frankfurt am Main, 1597-1602). Ill. 1.4. Francesco Colonna, Nymph spring, woodcut, in Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (Venice, 1499).

describes and illustrates the relief between two pillars of an octagon building as Venus’ fountain (ill. 1.4). The illustration shows a half-covered nymph lying on the floor. According to the text, the water coming from one breast was hot, the water from the other was cool, and it was caught in a porphyry pitcher. A satyr discovers her, while two satyr children hold snakes and urns. Contemporaries of the Cleopatra fountain in Rome clearly saw the connection with the Hypnerotomachia, as can be seen in a letter from Pico della Mirandola (14631494) to Gregorio Giraldi (1479-1552). Pico says the Cleopatra also sprays water from her breasts.16 The sleeping nymphs belong to a typological group. They are all half reclining, their head

resting on one arm, legs crossed at the ankles or lower leg. This was actually the ancient convention for indicating sleep.17 Two myths provide the basis of the motif of the sleeping nymph near a spring or riverbank. Amymone was attacked by a satyr, but saved and seduced by Neptune; Byblis was transformed into a water nymph as punishment for her incestuous love for her brother.18 Gradually, the sleeping pose on riverbanks or near springs became an erotic topos.19 Women in this pose were called ἀναπαυόμεναι (anapauomenai).20 Besides the pose, the setting in the cave was also a constant in the typology. It is well known that

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ancient nymphs were worshipped in caves as their domus nympharum.21 The Roman nymphaeum or the architectural fountain also originated from these natural grottoes with their chambers, shafts and water sources that were said to have been caused by nymphs. In the underground tunnels and chambers, nymphs were visited and worshipped with small altars, which Pausanias (c. 115-180) and Pliny the Elder (23/24-79) both attest to in his Naturalis Historia.22 Elisabeth MacDougall asks where the sudden popularity of this nymph fountain (in Rome) came from. The Hypnerotomachia certainly had an impact on both the style and the erotic-humanist perception of those sites. According to the author, the sitespecific use of image groups forms the core of the réveil.23 It is well known that the gardens of humanists such as Angelo Colocci were used to organise gatherings of literati.24 They called these meetings academies.25 The use of a garden as the most suitable place and space for artistic and intellectual gatherings dates back to Plato (c. 427 BC-347 BC).26 Plato’s academics met with one another in a cave in the garden with a shrine to the nymphs and the muses.27 Nymphs were considered muses and muses had nymph-like qualities, for they were mostly seen near water and springs.28 The academies of Rome – but there were also those in Florence and Naples29 – seem to be based on this intellectual usage as a form of ancient emulatio. Elisabeth MacDougall defends the hypothesis (following Millard Meiss, infra) that the sleeping nymph found next to fountains was supposed to summon muses, or at least instill a special kind of inspiration and power.30 But why does the nymph/ muse have to be asleep? Millard Meiss thinks this is a metaphor for rebirth.31 The nymph has been sleeping for centuries, but she will awaken as a muse in the new era of the Renaissance. In short, she sleeps to prepare for her rebirth that will take place in the academies. In his important study ‘Sleep in Venice’, Millard Meiss starts with the declaration that around 1500, a specific nymph motif also gained popularity in the

pictorial arts, for example in the work of Giorgione (1477-1510) (Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister) (c. 1508/1510) (ill. 1.5) and Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553) (Leipzig, Museum der Bildende Künste) (c. 1518) (ill. 1.6).32 Giorgione’s painting was named Sleeping Venus.33 However, ancient Venuses were never pictured sleeping and the Greco-Roman literary tradition never connects Venus with this position or setting.34 Meiss sees Giorgione’s prototype of the Venus in Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, where the sleeping maenad nymph is described and introduced. Secondly, Meiss connects the Giorgione motif with the epigram from Ferrarinus’ collection previously discussed by MacDougall. The connection between the epigram and the sleeping nymph was made quickly in the world of drawing and graphic arts. Otto Kurz, with his 1953 article Huius Nympha Loci, was the first to make the connection between the famous epigram and Albrecht Dürer’s (1471-1528) drawing of the sleeping nymph at the Museum of Art History in Vienna (1514) (ill. 1.7).35 The inscription on the stone fountain is indeed the same epigram. While, according to Meiss, the motif of the sleeping Venus in a landscape is ‘nonsense’ from an ancient perspective,36 it was an authentic invention in the Venetian pictorial arts based on conflations between the abovementioned sources. This created ample room for a pictorial counterpart in Venice. Meiss aptly writes: “few confusions, or perhaps deliberate combinations, have had as great an effect upon the Western iconographic tradition.”37 Meiss therefore wanted to understand what this sleep meant, specifically within the pictorial genre. “The significance of sleep may thus sometimes be bound up with awakening. The sleeper is always unaware of spectators, and the vacation serves along with important aspects of Renaissance style to maintain a distance between the pictorial and the real world. Sleep is a means of idealization, especially valuable in the new and emotionally charged sphere of the erotici.”38

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Ill. 1.5. Giorgione, Sleeping Venus, c. 1508-10, oil on canvas, Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister.

Ill. 1.6. Lucas Cranach the Elder, Sleeping Nymph at the Spring, c. 1518, oil on canvas, Leipzig, Museum der Bildende Künste.

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Ill. 1.7. Albrecht Dürer, Sleeping Nymph at a Spring, 1514, drawing, Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum.

2. Genius loci or the hermeneutics of silence In Bomarzo, near Rome, Vicino Orsini (1523-1584) founded the so-called sacro bosco or parco dei Mostri between 1552-1580.39 It is a mysterious place where nature becomes one with sculptures of monsters, gods, and fantasy creatures from other realities.40 The park naturally does not lack a sleeping nymph (ill. 1.8).41 Visitors find themselves in a dream world and are confronted with mysterious artworks. Strolling around and discovering these spirited creatures is similar to Poliphilo’s experience. It is a locus amoenus that seeks contact with the chtonic underworld. The nymph here is a meraviglia. For centuries she has been allowed to rest here, becoming one with nature. She lies buried under her protective layer of moss, just like Echo’s body slowly and sclerotically merged with the rocks. She sleeps, but do not be mistaken: she hears the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the trees, the murmur of a spring. And she hears your footsteps. Do not wake her. The hour of the démon de midi has arrived. Just listen, the earth is already humming.42 “The rocks, springs, caves and woods venerated from the earliest historic times are still, in different forms, held as sacred. But what the continuity of the sacred places in fact indicates is the autonomy of hierophanies. The sacred expresses itself accord-

ing to the laws of its own dialectic and this expression comes to man from without. If the ‘choice’ of his sacred places were left to man, then there could be no explanation for this continuity” (Mircea Eliade).43 Eliade suggests that the sacredness of the places escapes men, is paradoxically handed down to him from above, given to him through a hierophany, through a flash of the divine that breaks through in a certain place. The nymph, as a being somewhere between gods and humans, is also tasked with the special continuity of the sacred place. The nymph rests on banks and in grottoes, in an unspoilt nature that brims with mystery and desire. She has her own genius loci.44 According to Richard Broxton Onians, in his The Origins of European Thought, the Latin lympha, lymphatus refers to the element of water, but also to panic, fear, stupefaction and even insanity. “The current explanation of lymphatus, lymphaticus is that persons who saw a nymph or water spirit went mad.” The nymph is related to hydrophobia and lymphatus refers primarily to a ‘crazy fear’. This stupefaction is caused by something liquid.45 In the following, I shall take a closer look at the hermeneutics of the genius loci. I will investigate what the nymph embodies at a deeper level, and how the motif of the sleeping nymph has ancient intuitive patterns locked within it. Besides cultural anthropology, I will use the latest sensorium research on the one hand and new insights about silence on the other.46 In his work Atmospheres: Aesthetics of Emotional Spaces, Tonino Griffero defines the genius loci as a mysterium tremendum, as a “faint shiver”, a power that surprises, space that becomes place.47 Rudolf Otto writes about this ambivalent sensation, that at once gives a sense of something sacred, but also untouchable and unreachable: “The feeling of it may pervade the mind with a tranquil mood of deepest worship. It may pass over into a more set and lasting attitude of the soul, continuing, as it were, thrillingly vibrant and resonant, until at last it dies away.”48 The genius loci is like a “mystery forming an atmospheric tissue.”49 It is a Gefühlsraum (supra) and thus

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Ill. 1.8. Vicino Orsini, Sacro Bosco with the Sleeping Nymph, c. 1552-80, Bomarzo.

often the sensing of aura and Stimmung of a certain place as apparently ‘charged’ with a power that makes hierophany impossible. The genius loci is a riddle that opens or closes: it requires reverence; it tempts, it is a mysterium, but also a mysterium tremendum. Just like the nymph on the banks of the Danube. According to Hermann Schmitz, an important catalyst of a Gefühlsraum is silence.50 Precisely like noise, it signals a change in the external world and acts in an even more immediate, invasive and threatening way – being its source and vanishing point impossible to localize – than the visual impression, and therefore it is far from being a mere privation. In fact, it is normal to say ‘there is such silence in here!’ or ‘a heavy silence fell’ or even a ‘deafening silence’ that one could ‘cut with a knife’, and so on.51 In archaic Mediterranean culture, the moment at which the sun passes the meridian at its zenith is a

sacred taboo. It is the noontime demon.52 I will return to the zenith-lore in more depth below. Midday is the anxious moment of transition, of the motionless hour, when everything is enveloped in a net of light and astonishing quiet.53 There is scarcely a shadow to be seen. Pan is asleep now and all must rest. The landscape is still, as nature has been struck dumb. The silence acquires the thickness of a holy place; it becomes a frightening Gefühlsraum. And it is precisely in this density that mysterium tremendum arises. “In the experience of being possessed by the nymphs, the tremendum and the fascinans reappear together: the marvel, the confoundment, and the feeling of being lost, are accompanied by the enchanted and enraptured need to follow the nymphs, to come close and belong to them. The tremendum remains hidden in the apparent tameness of their sacred embrace.”54 Or as Sören Kierkegaard (1813-1855) puts it: Und dann gewann wiederum Stille die Oberhand, so daß es fast beängstigend war, als

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der Schall plötzlich abbrach und das Ohr vergeblich eine Stütze suchte im Unendlichen.55 In almost all cultures there is an expression relating to the quietness that precedes the storm or the raging wind. It is a stillness that measures itself against the power of the wind: it prefigures the immense outburst that is to come. If the wind is a supernatural voice, the silence is its supernatural counterpart. I will take a passage from Geert Mak’s In America:56 My friend Joseph Amato [°1938] once wrote a local history of America based entirely on sounds. He started with the sounds of nature, the murmur of rivers, the wind rustling the trees and the dry grass of the plains – “Even if there is no wind you can hear the wind,” the Native Americans said – the buzz of insects above pools of water, the howling of wolves, the thundering of bison, the croaking of frogs, the cackling of geese and ducks, the call of hundreds of birds, a waterfall, and now and then a falling branch, or a voice. Alexis de Tocqueville [1805-1859], who walked through one of America’s virgin forests in the summer of 1831, wrote of a sound “something like a long sigh” that you could hear in the heat of the day, “a plaintive cry lingering in the distance”. It was the last breath of wind. “Then everything around you falls back into a silence so deep, a stillness so complete, that the soul is invaded by a kind of religious terror.”

Joseph Amato, Alexis de Tocqueville and Sören Kierkegaard describe a fearfulness bordering on the mystical. A number of cultures ascribe this sacral silence to the divine, the epitheton of God, the locus where God can be encountered, hence to the zone or to a medium that allows the traffic between man and God, between humankind and the world beyond. So there are different forms of silence.57 There is the silence that is terrifying: this is tremendum, inviting both gods and demons and connected with the planetary shifts such as the zenith or a necessary interval,58 such as the Solstice.59 The nymph avails herself of this mystery and thus left subtle traces of it in the epigram that installs her genius loci as such. There is also the salutary silence of

man.60 A religiously positive silence: the individual peaceful silence needed for reflection, meditation and contemplation.61 The silence that opens the mind for studying, for the mental eye and the mental ear that are both quite pertinently present in both the ancient as well as the Christian tradition.62 The sleeping nymph also enjoys that silence and therefore asks this same type of perceptiveness of the viewer, who must concentrate on the secret that can be revealed to him ‘in silence’,63 as long as he respects the protective layer of the epigram she has put up around herself and thus turns his urges into a higher contemplation. In the words of Augustine (354-430):64 et ista mecum atque adeo tecum, quando in silentio sumus, diligenter cauteque tractabo (‘I will investigate these matters attentively and carefully with myself and then with you, when we are in silence’). The ‘listening with the mind’ to the nymph who ‘speaks’ shows an interesting shift in the registers of the sensorium. While the ‘inner eye’ is a deep subject in the West,65 the theme of the ‘inner ear’ is not featured as prominently.66 One finds it in the context of ‘silent music’ as contemplation and the motif is closely linked to the idea of ‘the ear of the heart’, such as Audi, filia, et vide, et inclina aurem tuam in Psalm 44.11. Or as Bernard Vouilloux puts it: Le discours intérieur c’est endophasie. Il oppose au stade du miroir. la dissymétrie entre les deux types de réflexion, visuelle et sonore, renvoie à la désynchronisation de l’oeil et de l’oreille.67 The epigram makes the sleeping nymph a creature of silence that hears (internally, ‘endophasia’) and thus remains mentally ‘receptive’. She is alive yet ‘silent-immobile’, from the etymology of sileo: not-moving. The ear (and hearing) can meaningfully be considered a primary sense of the sleeping nymph. Because there is no mention that the nymph smells, or that she sees, or that she can feel. The nymph is disconnected from all these senses, because her sleep has dismantled part of her sensorium to benefit her hearing: drifted off into distance, a sensory unreachability; the secret that she evokes in the viewer.

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This brings me to a final reflection on silence and the essence of the image tel quel by Max Picard in his essay The World of Silence. Before de creation of the world, silence had occupied everything. The earth belonged to silence. It was as though the earth were built on and over silence; it was merely the edge of silence. Then came the word.68 Images are silent, but they speak in silence. They are a silent language. They are a station on the way from silence to language. They stand on the frontier where silence and language face each other closer than anywhere else, but the tension between them is resolved by beauty. Images and pictures remind man of life before the coming of language; they move him with a yearning for that life.69

Picard connects this mood to the perception of the landscape, as we have already mentioned above aided by the concept of the Gefühlsraum and the existential impact of the cosmic silence present in nature. The silent power of the landscape needs the silence in the human face if it is to exert its influence. The landscape has its own monument in the human face, and the human face seems to hover over its own landscape, raising itself above and beyond itself, saved from itself.70 (...) Time is expanded by silence. If silence is so preponderant in time that time is completely absorbed by it, then time stand still. There is then nothing but silence: the silence of eternity. When there is no more silence left in time, then the noise of its as it were mechanically flowing movement becomes audible. Then there is no more time, only the impetus of its onward flow. (...)Without the silence that is in time, there would be no forgetting or forgiving.71

3. Grotto The Hebrew word for silence is at the same time the ‘voice of God’: dmamah. Dmamah links the stem ma, water with dam = blood. But dmamah also contains the word damah, which means ‘to be similar to’.72 The semantic core that connects water with silence and the Divine has been kept in this

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instance. In the Indo-European languages there is also a verifiable etymological connection between silence and fluidity, between silence and something that overflows, fluxus, water sources, rivers. And the Latin murmur, talking quietly, whispering, is also used for the soft rushing and babbling of water. It is indeed peculiar to establish a linguistic (and so perhaps symbolically sensed) relationship between silence and the spring, a relation that is also implicated in the nymph’s epigram.73 Looking even deeper into the etymology, we can recognise the Sanskrit root mar, for movement (of waves) and mar-ma for a more wild movement of the sea, which we can still hear when we use the word to describe the murmuring sea.74 The word ‘marble’ has an interesting etymology acquainted with the Sanskrit root as ‘frozen liquid’. According to a eulogy written between 435 and 446 by the fifth-century poet Flavius Merobaudes on a marble font in a now-vanished baptistery, ‘the jewel, once liquid itself, still carries the liquid’.75 Where does the idea that marble is a (solidified) liquid come from? Theorizing on mineralogy, the Arab scholar and physician Avicenna (980-1037) conjectured that conglutination (as seen in alluvial formations) and congelation (as in the growth of stalactites) have a lapidifying effect on water; in short, water ‘stiffens’, ‘freezes’ and ‘petrifies’ through the action of a ‘mineral force’.76 The derivation of the word itself – mar/marmor/marmora – may also have contributed to the idea that marble is water metamorphosed into stone. ‘Marble’ derives from the Latin noun marmor. Marmor stems from the Greek marmairein (μαρμαίρειν), which means to shimmer, to shine like the surface of the water. In the Iliad, Homer (c. 840 BC) speaks of the shimmering sea: ἅλα μαρμαρέην (hala marmareên, 14.273). Virgil (70-19 BC), when he writes of the marble smoothness of the sea, turns marmor and mar into synonyms. In short, this brings the setting of the sleeping nymph in the grotto into an almost tautological layered space of meanings: (...) murmur = marble = water = silence= petrification (...).77

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To this day, the subterranean caves and grottoes with their stalactites and stalagmites fascinate us scientifically (speleologists), archaeologically (such as the famous cave paintings in the Chauvet Cave in the Dordogne, Magdalénien, 18.000-10.000 BC), and recreationally (school excursions with children to grottoes). The caves, with their complex underground chambers, tunnels and unexpected turns (rooms as big as houses that suddenly rise up out of nowhere), with springs that well up from the deepest parts of the earth and the strange echoes that reverberate through their spaces, stimulate all sorts of mysterious religions and gave rise to shrines and votive rooms, such as the ancient nympheia.78Additionally, the natural gloss, the cave walls with their ornamentation and the colours of the minerals, inspired the artistic interventions in the subterranean cultures. The cave, as Gesammtkunstwerk, could be interpreted as the source of plastic dialogues with her pronounced textures and tectonics. The cave can be considered the pure and natural beginning of art (history).79 Gaston Bachelard reflects on this archetypical chthonic function of the cave: 80 La grotte ne quittera jamais son rang d’image fondamentale. C’est le coin du monde dit Loti, auquel je reste le plus fidèlement attaché, après en avoir aimé tant d’autres; comme nulle part ailleurs, je m’y sens en paix, je m’y sens rafraîchi, retrempé de prime jeunesse et de vie neuve.81

The cave is an escape destination where one dreams without end.82 The cave, with its mysterious hidden access, materializes the threshold, it monitors the transition. The person at the entrance of the cave witnesses the passageway of the ear, the darkness of the pupil. The ear and the eye of the cave fascinate and attract, yet make one hesitate.83 The cave remains a mystery: cult of a forbidden love, a room harbouring secrets, a birthplace, the realm of ghosts.84 Toutes les grottes parlent. La voix rocailleuse, la voix caverneuse, la voix grondante sont des voix de la terre. C’est la parole difficile, dit Michelet, qui fait les prophètes.

(...) C’est parce que les voix sortant de l’abîme sont confuses qu’elles sont prophétiques. Devant l’antre profond, au seuil de la caverne; le rêveur hésite. D’abord il regarde le trou noir. La caverne, à son tour, regard pour regard, fixe le rêveur avec son œil noir. L’antre est l’oeil du cyclope. Cette transposition, on doit la vivre sur les plus fragiles images, sur les plus fugitives images, sur les images les moins descriptives qui soient. telle est l’image du regard de la grotte. Comment ce simple trou noir peutil donner une image valable pour un regard profond? Toute la volonté de voir s’affirme dans le regard fixe des cavernes. Dans la grotte, il semble que le noir brille.85

Coda The sleeping nymph is not innocent. She belongs to the grotto underworld, just like the silence and the midday hour as mysterium tremendum are chtonic motifs. She sleeps the sleep of demons, those that overcome the nympholeptic in the shadows of the sycamores, on the banks of the river, near the city fountains. She sleeps the sleep that drives people mad, or the sleep that leads to prophecies. The nymph sleeps the gate to the underworld. She sleeps the silence of the humanists in their Roman gardens, but also the silence of Angerona.86 Angerona is the ancient patron goddess of Rome who as Dea tacita lauds silence as salvation at the solstice. She liberates the Romans from their fear of throat diseases like the croup, and is represented with a finger on the mouth and on the anus – the two corporal openings that bring forth sound (and air) (ill. 1.9 a-b).87 Angerona is supposedly a ramification of the Roman goddess of silence, Laurentia, who was also a goddess of the underworld. She was venerated in the form of a mundus grave: a grave that could be opened and closed on sacrificial feast days for the gods of the underworld. It was believed that this narrow passage was a passage to the underworld itself: the chthonic grotto.88 And thus, the nymph sleeps her contagious sleep, when the sun was immobile for just a moment and the shadows disappeared and thus the souls of the world disappeared for an instant and she, the

THE NYMPH OF THE GROTTO . SILENCE AND GENIUS LOCI

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Ill. 1.9. A-B Angerona, Roman bronze cult statue, c. 64BC - 197, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Cabinet des médailles.

one who sleeps, pushed a random passer-by into a narcotic tumble, vortex that she is, whirlpool of silence and rips in time. Look, there is no breeze today, and the folds in the marble drapery on her body are dramatically deep. University of Coimbra, May 28th 2017 NOTES

1 MacDougall 1975: 357-365; The drawing of the Cleoparra fountain by Francisco de Holanda is located in the Escorial MS. Fol. 8; MacDougall 1975: 360, ill. 1. See also: MacDougall 1994, 37ff. 2 Brummer 1970: 154; Amelung 1903: 636, nr. 414. 3 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale; ms. lat. 6128, fol. 114; Reggio, Biblioteca Communale Cod. C. 398, fol. 28. The manuscript from Paris is dated post quem 1477; Reggio’s manuscript is dated 1486. 4 The epigram appears in the CIL, nr. CIL VI/5, 3*e. 5 The motif even inspired actual searches – quests – for the place on the banks of the Danube; Saxl 1937: 183; Wuttke 1968: 306-307; Matsche 2007: 159-204 and 176, believes that the epigram is located at a nymph spring in Buda for King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary (14431490). See also: Pataki 2005. 6 Brummer 1970: 221. The connection between the two epigrams was made in Kurz 1953: 171-177 and 174-175. 7 Praschniker & Kenner 1947: 79-81. 8 MacDougall 1975: 357; Boissard 1597-1602. Part VI, ill. 25 shows a wood print of the relief with the inscription in the garden of Angelo Colocco, ante quem 1515.

9 MacDougall 1975: 358; Kurz 1953: 172. 10 Florence, Riccardiana, cod. 907, fol. 172: Romae recens inventum. Campani est; MacDougall 1975: 358, note 15. 11 The epigram was a very popular genre at this time, due, amongst other things, to the influence of the Greek Anthology, which had just been rediscovered. Today, when we speak of that particular Anthology we refer to a combination of two collections of Greek poems: the Anthology of Planudes and the Palatine Anthology. The Anthology of Planudes (named after the editor, Maximos Planudes) had already been printed in an editio princeps of 1494 by Ianus Lascaris. The collection’s autograph is located in Venice (codex Marcianus gr. 481). Until 1606, this was known as the “Greek Anthology”. In 1606, the Palatine Anthology was found in Heidelberg in the Bibliotheca Palatina (hence the name) by Claude Saumaise (Salmasius). The manuscript eventually returned to Heidelberg in the early 19th century via Rome and Paris (Codex Palatinus 23), although part of it was left behind in Paris (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Parisinus Suppl. gr. 384). For more on the reception history and the literary influence of the Anthology in general see Hutton 1935 and Hutton 1946. For more on the important role the Greek scholar Ianus Lascaris played in disseminating the Anthology of Planudes, see also Lauxtermann 2009: 41-65. 12 The entire poem is cited in MacDougall 1975, note 20. 13 The story was printed in Venice in 1488. 14 Carrara 1909: 170-180. 15 Colonna 1499, fol. D. 8; Annotations in Pozzi & Ciapponi 1964 (reprinted in 1980); Colonna 1998 (reprinted in 2004 and 2010); MacDougall 1975: 361. 16 Cleopatrae, cuius quasi de mammis destillat fons vetustorum instar aqueductuum; MacDougall 1975: 361, note 50. 17 Kapossy 1969: 18. 18 Pozzi & Ciapponi 1962: 151-169 and 160; Ovid 2013: II, 240 for Amymone, and IX, 452 for Byblis.

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19 Sextus Propertius (47 BC -15 BC) describes his mistress lying on the banks like Ariadne; Propertius 1924: 9. 20 Dilthey 1879: 151-158; Birt 1895: 31-65 and 161-190; MacDougall 1975: 360. 21 Virgil (70 BC - 19 BC) in his Aeneis often references it, such as in I, 166-168: intus aquae dulces vivoque sedilia saxo,/ Nympharum domus. 22 Walker 1997: 60-71; Elderkin 1941: 125-137. 23 Pray Bober 1977: 223-239. 24 Ubaldini 1969: 38-60. For the use of the gardens, see also: Gnoli 1930: 28-29; Gioia 1893. 25 Mayländer 1930: 320-327; Pade 2011. 26 Marrou 1955: 261-263. 27 Boyancé 1937: 260-267. 28 Otto 1956: 20. 29 Della Torre 1902. 30 MacDougall 1975: 363; Meiss 1966: 348-382 and 358. 31 Meiss 1966: 358. 32 See also the unpublished dissertation: Nakov 1969. 33 Her tranquility is enhanced by the utter silence of the lush, peaceful landscape, which echoes the rhythms of her outlines; Meiss 1966: 350. 34 See: Brinkerhoff 1979: 83-96. 35 Kurz 1953: 171-177. The drawing is in the Kunstbuch Albrethen Dürers von Nürnberg at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Kunstkammer, Inv. Nr. 5127, fol. 35, nr. L. 415. The date of the drawing in Strauss 1974, vol. 3: 1462. 36 Meiss 1966: 351. 37 Ibidem. 38 Meiss 1966: 359. 39 Roccasecca 1990, with bibliography: 213-215, terminology: 219, index: 223-228; Roccasecca 1989: 256-262. 40 http://www.demorgen.be/buitenland/elfjes-overspoelen-britssprookjesbos-autoriteiten-grijpen-in-a2243301/. See also the Wayford Woods, a thirty-acre natural heritage site, where doors and figurines started popping up between the trees as if summoned by fairies. 41 Bredekamp 1985: 177. 42 http://www.demorgen.be/wetenschap/de-aarde-bromt-en-weweten-eindelijk-waarom-a2293806/: Researchers of the French Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique claim to have found the source of the humming. “The pressure of the waves on the bottom of the ocean cause seismic waves that make the earth oscillate.” “According to a 2003 study, barely 2 per cent of people can hear the sound, they are mostly between 55 and 70 years of age. The researchers were able to determine that the waves could last between 13 and 300 seconds, and those who can hear them describe it as torturous.” 43 Eliade 1958: 369. 44 Patterson 2005. 45 Onians 1973: 34-35, 67, 219-220 and 35; see: Plinius, Historia Naturalis XXIV, 17, 164: hac pota lymphari homines. In fact, ingested liquids, water, wine, blood were believed to go to the lungs (the substance of life-generating pneuma). “Lymphati are people who are in a frantic state of mind: commota mente. And νυμφόληπτος to which some refer (if νύμφη meant a spirit of water or plant sap) would describe the inspiring effects of drinking, of the perfundere” (p.  35, note  5; p.  66, note  6). “The muses, Camienae and Carmentis were indeed water nymphs” (p. 35). Lymphari could thus mean ‘to be frenzied’, to be possessed by such power” (p. 66). “A poem was water, honey or nectar of the muses, which are spring-spirits from which poets drank at Parnassus” (p. 67). “A ‘nymph’ appears to have been the ψυχή, the reproductive life, in a tree etc. In the earliest evidence, the Iliad, νύμφαι are usually clearly identified with water, springs etc. Lympha seems akin. The water-goddesses, are givers of fertility among the Celts. νύμφη also described a bride or marriageable girl (cf. νυμφεύω, to marry) (…) For the Persians, the tutelary spirit of the female sex was the spirit of water, Anahira” (p. 219).- You also have the H. Dymphna van Geel

(degenegration of Nympha, Lympha), a recluse with a Vita from the 7th century, who wandered near water and in woods and was declared the patron saint of the ‘mad’; Mulder-Bakker 1994: 1-23. 46 Beth Williamson has a great oversight of these recent hermeneutic turns in art history: Williamson 2013: 1-43; See also Palazzo 2012b: 339-366; Palazzo 2014; Palazzo 2012a: 11-38; Cole 2012: 461-466. 47 Griffero 2014: 73. See also: Kuhlmann 1998. 48 Otto 1926: 12. 49 Schmitz 1969: 133. 50 Schmitz 1969: 264-276. 51 Griffero 2014: 111. 52 De Labriolle 1934: 46-54. 53 Chevalier & Gheerbaert 1996: 358. 54 Maggini 2008: 42-51 and 44. 55 Kierkegaard 1958: 198. 56 Mak 2015: 71. 57 Olsen 1978: 6; speaks of harmful silences that “are not natural silences – what John Keats (1795-1821) called ‘tedious agony’ – that necessary time for renewal, lying fallow, gestation, in the natural cycle of creation.”- See also: Picard 1948: 141. 58 This is not the place for a more detailed discussion of Pythagorian musical theory and the idea of the break as a cosmic interruption. Lissa 1964: 443-454; Macho 1993: 104-116 and 133; Die ontologisch relevanten Pausen (die rätselhaften Zeropunkten) liegen vor dem Lebensbeginn und nach dem Lebensende … . Das Wunder der Oktave besteht eben nicht darin, dass sie den Bauplan des Universums verrät, sondern vielmehr in der Epiphanie der Pause: dass im monotonen und sinnlosen, Weltgeräusch ein Wesen auftaucht das sich selbst irgendwann als die Unterbrechung der Schöpfung hörbar zu werden vermag – als jene existentiale Pause, die – mit Martin Heidegger gesprochen – die Zeit als Horizont des Seins erschließt. 59 This is the “gorgonian” silence, intangibly terrifying but absolutely necessary in order to allow the greatest and most dangerous mysteries: to tilt, to clear the way for the sun, the portal, the transit. The solstice goes through the cosmic “throat” which needs the mediation of silence: the angoisse. Gaignebet 1986: 363. 60 See also on the heroic silence of the Ancients: Waddington 1970: 248-263. 61 Carruthers 1990: 331; Belanoff 2001: 399-428. 62 Kamper & Wulf 1992: 325. On silence as a place of encounter in the monastic context and as motif (for example with the holding of the finger to the lips) of meditation and of the presence of God, see: Pillinger 2012: 685-689; Paravicini Bagliani 2010: VII-XII. See also work about ‘courtly silence’ as a sign of wisdom and etiquette; Bock 1976: 285-294. 63 Hahn 2002: 1151-1164 and 1158; Mais, bien souvent, le silence témoigne simplement du fait que l’on est dans l’incapacité de dire quoi que ce soit, et surtout pas un secret. 64 Soliloquiorum libri duo 1,30; Capánaga 1966: 359-392. 65 Miles 1983: 125-142; See also: James 2004: 522-537; Rothstein 2005 (In particular chapter 2: The Imagination of Imagelessness). 66 Williamson 2013: 5. 67 Vouilloux 2010: 90-91. 68 Picard 1948: 51. 69 Picard 1948: 91. 70 Picard 1948: 106-107. 71 Picard 1948: 117. 72 De Souzenelle 1991: 362. 73 Vandenbroeck 2010: 51-78; Vandenbroeck 2012: 112-180. 74 Schwarzenberg 2000: 15-34 and 22. 75 Barry 2007: 627-656 and 631; Clover 1971: 11 and 60: gemma vehit laticem, quae fuit ante latex. Perhaps Merobaudes visited the Santa Croce Baptistery in Ravenna. 76 Avicenna 1927: 46.

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77 On these layers: Baert 2017: 14-35. 78 Also see: Bredekamp 1988: 145-188. 79 Homer describes in the Odyssey how the nymphs in the cave, utilizing long stone looms, weave purple cloths. The cave is mixed with stone mixing bowls and stone jars/where the bees store their honey, and large stone looms on which/ the nymphs weave marvelous purple fabrics, and springs/ that flow on forever (Book 13, vs. 107-110). The old looms made the textile grow from top to bottom, emulating the walls of glittering dung caves. Caves, with their glow and architectural ornamentation are the principal spots of artistic inspiration and enchantment. It is apt that the cave constitutes the place where man recognizes this ekphrasis and further articulates this sense visually by leaving imagery of bizons and handprints as seen in caves like the one in Chauvet, Dordogne. In the 2014 documentary (Christian Tran) for Arte, Les Génies de la Grotte Chauvet, which examines the ambitious project which aims to copy these spaces and their murals, the Catalan painter Miquel Barceló talks about both the artistic qualities and techniques of the murals. The owl of Chauvet is here a remarkable paradigm: she was drawn in a few seconds by moving ten fingers from top to

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bottom. The genius loci of this hand as well as its tender iconography may constitute the deepest and most moving ekphrasis of both wisdom and plastic beauty that man has ever realized. Or as Barceló says: tout est déjà là. 80 Bachélard 1948: 205-234. 81 Bachélard 1948: 213. 82 Bachélard 1948: 208. 83 Masson Oursel 1933: 207-212. 84 Bachélard 1948: 209. 85 Passages from Bachélard 1948: 216-223. 86 Wagenvoort 1980: 21-24 and 23, particularly the solstice of December. “Therefore I ask, what is to prevent us believing that Angerona presided over those Angera, or Angustiae, or ‘narrows’, ‘through which death is reached’? In my opinion it all agrees very well together” (p. 24). However, the author rejects an earlier identification of Angerona with the goddess of the new year, possibly of Etruscan origin (p. 21). 87 Gaignebet 1986: 347. 88 Wagenvoort 1980: 23.

Ill. 2.1. Anonymous, broadsheet with text reproduced in Vespucci, Dise Figur anzaigt uns Folck und Insel (Augsburg, 1505), hand coloured woodcut, BSB Munich, Einbl. V,2.

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Visualizing Caliban’s New World Kin Larry Silver, University of Pennsylvania

[M]en call that barbarism which is not common to them. Montaigne, “Of the Cannibals”

1

a Devil, a born devil, on whose nature/ Nurture can never stick Shakespeare, The Tempest (IV.i. 189-90)

others whom they called ‘Canibals’… because those people ate them and because they are very warlike. Columbus, Journal, 23 November 14922

. the wild Indian … knows no enclosure … John Locke, Second Treatise of Government3

The people … all go naked, men and women, just as their mothers bring them forth… They have no iron or steel, nor any weapons; … a well-formed people and of fair stature … they are artless and generous with what they have … Columbus, Spanish Letter, 12-13 (15 February-14 March 1493), 22eds., 16 incuns

The image of America as a continent was culturally shaped, just as surely as was Thomas More’s Utopia of 1516, whose anniversary is celebrated in Leuven with this volume and the outstanding accompanying exhibition. It also would shape later great works of literature, notably The Tempest, written by Shakespeare almost a full century later (1610-11); that play’s misshapen half-beast slave on its own

imagined distant island is called Caliban, a name closely related to the notion of cannibals in that newly discovered ocean. The very word “cannibal” emerged from a corruption in translation by Columbus himself, who heard from the Arawak tribe at his initial Hispaniola stop about other Indians, never seen, who allegedly ate men.4 The word might be a corruption of cariba, or bold, giving the name “Caniba” or “Carib” to the unknown group (and Caribbean to the surrounding ocean). While Columbus’s 1492 journal was only revealed a halfcentury later in a biography by Bartolomé de Las Casas (1552), it was already paraphrased as early as 1511 by Peter Martyr in his De Orbe Novo, which was already partly pirated by 1504 and soon widely distributed across Europe.5 Thus the concept “cannibal” diffused, together with a description, based on Columbus, of a larder of boiled human flesh (with parrots) at an abandoned Carib village on Guadeloupe. Representation of naked cannibals in the New World emerged from even earlier publications, often accompanied with woodcut illustrations. One principal source was voyage letters, ascribed to Florentine merchant Amerigo Vespucci; his name in turn fashioned the entire hemisphere as “America” on the earliest maps – ironically, since Vespucci was neither a seaman nor a cartographer.6 But Vespucci’s claims derived credibility through the nascent printing press, which distributed his descriptions.7 The first publications of those Vespucci letters appeared in early 1503 in Venice,

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Paris, and Antwerp as Mundus novus.8 The text spread like wildfire, especially from the printing capitals of Germany. Part of the attribution problem derives from a discrepancy between preserved “familiar” letters by Vespucci (1500-1502) and the expanded, published version. Moreover, only two voyages (one for Spain, one for Portugal) appear in the familiar letters, in contrast to four in the printed report, filled with prurient, sensational details about New World inhabitants: Everyone of both sexes goes about naked, covering no part of the body, and just as they issued from their mothers’ wombs so they go about until their dying day … Their women, being very lustful, make their husbands’ members swell to such thickness that they look ugly and misshapen … Human flesh is common fare among them … I myself met and spoke with a man who was said to have eaten more than 300 human bodies; and I also … saw human flesh hanging from house-beams, much as we hang up bacon and pork … They have no … private property, but own everything in common: they live together without a king and without authorities, each man his own master. They take as many wives as they wish, and son may couple with mother, brother with sister, and in general men with women as they chance to meet.9

While this described society includes elements of prelapsarian innocence in an earthly paradise of abundance and climate, it also obviously simultaneously appalled and appealed to its readers with its total inversion of European norms of politics, property, and social propriety, here even including incest, in contrast to More’s Utopia satire of Europe. Ultimately, while Vespucci’s text does not use the word “cannibal,” his explicit description of flesheating, combined with open nudity and sexuality, found immediate representation in accompanying woodcuts. Also important for European consciousness about the New World discoveries – as well as for the placement of “America” as a term on Brazil on early maps was Vespucci’s recasting of the voyages as finding a “New World” rather than some outpost of East Asia, as Columbus believed. Thus,

his text shaped both the name and the location of the new Continent. Already in 1505 a woodcut broadsheet appeared in Augsburg (ill. 2.1), with the caption “This figure shows the people and island…”10 Under a humble wood hut dismembered limbs and a human head hang from beams; below, one native chews on an arm, as another leg sits on a stone slab, above which a couple openly embraces. Especially striking too is the widespread presence of feathers as costume – both skirts and headdresses (even anklets) – of these figures of both sexes, whose bodies are adorned with attached stones or gems. In the background, European galleons appear on an open sea to show how the visiting eyewitness Vespucci arrived, also suggesting how Europe dominated the indigenous peoples. Also from 1505 a more finely fashioned broadsheet representation of Vespucci’s New World appeared, presumably in Nuremberg (ill. 2.2).11 It recounts an episode from the explorer’s third voyage, but the text does not recount what is shown, namely, the contrast between foreground cannibals (the “Iti”) from a distant island, who are described by friendlier natives as warlike cannibals who eat their captives. Those figures are shown with the already-standard conventions: feather crowns on their heads, gemstones inset in their bare torsos, and threatening weapons, both arrows and clubs. Across from them stands a group of nearly nude males with loin coverings and similar arms; in between, miniature galleons ply the ocean waves with fantastic surface creatures, a mermaid and sea monster. The 1509 Strasbourg publication of Vespucci’s text was accompanied by three woodcuts (ill. 2.3).12 One image shows a moment from Vespucci’s 1501 expedition: two men, sent ashore to meet the natives but never returned; their rescue party was attacked from behind while responding to the naked charms of local women. According to the text one man was dragged away, to be cut up and roasted in plain sight, while local men shot arrows at the ship. Another woodcut shows a cluster of

VISUALIZING CALIBAN ’ S NEW WO RLD KIN

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Ill. 2.2. Anonymous, hand colored woodcut reproduced in Vespucci, Das sind die new gefunden menschen oder Volcker, in form und gestalt. Alt sie hie stend durch den Cristenlichen Künig von Portugall/gar wunnderbarlich erfunden (Leipzig, 1505), Wölffenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek.

Ill. 2.3. Anonymous, woodcut reproduced in Vespucci, DiB Büchlin saget… (Strasbourg, 1509), University Library, Freiburg.

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Ill. 2.4. Hans Burgkmair the Elder, Maximilian I Triumphal Procession, 1516-18, woodcut, London, British Museum.

nude natives of both sexes seated before wooden plank huts, where another couple cleaves an arm and a leg; at the right edge a man freely urinates in the open air. Thus the encounter between (South) America and Europe already had attained an established iconography by the second decade of the sixteenth century. Around 1516, Hans Burgkmair of Augsburg depicted a group of South Asian warriors as loyal subjects of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I within his long woodcut Triumphal Procession (ill. 2.4). For that image, based on the natives of Brazil, he showed them in feather garments with spear and bows as weapons, followed by nearly naked men, women, and children, bearing basket offerings and accompanied by domestic animals as well as regional monkeys and parrots.13 So instead

of Asian India, Burgkmair shows their New World surrogates, Amerindians. To the Austrian Habsburg ruler, the original Asiatic conception, going back to Columbus, still confused Central European geography, which mixed the New World with Asia, still imbedded in the very term “Indians.” In 1515 one of Albrecht Dürer’s marginal drawings for Emperor Maximilian’s Prayerbook also shows a feathered Brazilian Indian with club and shield as page ornamentation beside Psalm 24, to exemplify earthly diversity for verse 1, “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein.”14 Like Burgkmair, Dürer minimizes the warlike aspect of his natives, emphasizing instead physical beauty and dignity, gracefully in a gracefully posed contrapposto stance.

VISUALIZING CALIBAN ’ S NEW WO RLD KIN

Attributed to Burgkmair, an ink drawing in the British Museum (ill. 2.5) shows a standing black man, in emphatic Renaissance contrapposto pose, wearing feathers on his crown, shoulder ornament, and skirt.15 Clearly the artist wanted to depict a darker skinned figure, so he employed African features for his exotic model. This image features diverse armaments, seemingly based on objects that entered European princely collections from the New World discoveries. Though out of context, Burgkmair’s turquoise mosaic shield and his accompanying club are Mexican in origin, matching extant pieces in the Habsburg collections (Hofburg, Vienna). The feather work seemingly stems from Brazil (though natives there seldom wore feathers as clothing). An “anchor” axe held by another single figure on the verso also seems Amazonian (British Museum, London). This image exemplifies how artists gathered composite materials from varied sources, both artifacts in collections and written descriptions, in order to provide up-todate accuracy and detail in their depictions. By the time of Burgkmair’s “Indians” woodcut, where Brazilian forms personify India itself, this imagery ultimately had become the stereotype for American natives. Often their behavior was joined with imagery of cannibalism, which would inform the female personifications of the continent within allegorical series of the Four Continents at the end of the sixteenth century.16 Until the authentic and meticulous eyewitness watercolours by Englishman John White in Virginia (modern North Carolina), such representation would continue to prevail.17 A telling instance of the pervasive influence of this imagery appears in the lower left corner of a major oval world map representation by Sebastian Münster (1532; ill. 2.6), where the figuration was designed by Hans Holbein the Younger.18 Near the map region labeled “America” as well as “Terra nova” and “Brasilia” a cluster of handsome, muscular Renaissance nudes, labeled “Canibali,” stand outside a makeshift tent constructed out of boughs. The topmost bough holds a head and a hand impaled on it; and in the open space both men and

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women are chopping up corpses to roast on spits at the nearby fire, as another corpse draws up, slung across the back of a horse (another European distortion: the New World had no horses).19 The first painted image of New World natives, a West Indian Landscape (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum; ill. 2.7) was conceived by Dutch artist Jan Mostaert (c. 1474-1552/53), native of Haarlem but sometime artist for Margaret of Austria (d. 1530) in her Mechelen court.20 The picture presents a New World setting of forests and mountains, where more naked hordes reside in primitive huts within rocky mesas. Their idyllic lives in this beautiful setting blend bucolic pastoral with georgic husbandry, largely based on familiar European domestic breeds. One distinctly American animal is inserted, however: a monkey sits atop the prominent tree trunk at bottom center. Most natives are scrambling to defend their land with primitive weapons – arrows and spears, plus rocks hurled from above – attempting to counter an invasion by sea at the right horizon by attacking Spanish troops, who are fully armed with contemporary European cannon, pikes, and armor.21 Here the artist’s sympathy sides entirely with the outmanned natives, who struggle vainly to protect their lands from invasion. Clearly this image has nothing to do with any specific event of Spanish conquest; some scholars, however, have insisted on seeing the topography of expeditions by Coronado of the early 1540s in the US Southwest.22 Well before the mid-century publications by Bartolomé de Las Casas, condemning Spanish cruelty to New World natives, Jan Mostaert gave visual support to that same cause on behalf of indigenous peoples.23 As the Triumphal Procession of Maximilian shows, Indians could also be presented as compliant subjects of a powerful monarch. Whereas the first actual colony by France in Brazil was only established briefly in 1555, French trade for Brazilian wood and dyes operated freely in the gaps of Portuguese colonial control from early in the sixteenth century. Thus, when newly crowned King Henri II and his bride Catherine de Medici made a

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Ill. 2.5. Hans Burgkmair the Elder, Standing Black Youth, 1520-30, pen and ink on paper, London, British Museum.

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23

Ill. 2.6. World Map reproduced in Sebastian Münster, Typus Cosmographicus Universallis (Basel, 1532), Munich, University.

triumphal entry into the dye center of Rouen in 1550, the ceremony elaborately restaged a performance of native life in Brazil (ill. 2.8).24 There a meadow beside the Seine on the city outskirts was converted into the New World, complete with trees and villages as well as fauna – parrots and apes. Some fifty imported Tupinamba Indians as well as some sailors impersonating Indians then staged a mock-battle for the king’s amusement, where the outcome was full destruction of the village in flames.25 The outcome proclaims to the king that: “They power to the cannibals extends:/ Faithless to others, they remain our friends,/ And in those islands we may safely dwell.”26 The published program of the French royal entry contains a woodcut illustration that richly depicts all aspects of Indian life with small naked

figures across a forest. In its left center the print features a crowned yet nude couple in a hammock. In front of them some natives dance in a circle around a tree, while others carry a beam to the water’s edge, where canoes paddle. A foreground hut in the lower left contrasts with a burning village at left and right horizons. Across the middle zone a number of naked couples frolic, climb trees, or hunt, lending that section of the forest an Edenic tone; however, across the center foreground and in the right background a battle rages with clubs, shields, bows, and spears as weapons. This is not European conquest, but internecine warfare, a tribute to the valor and fierceness of the Brazilian Indians, whose presence at a royal ceremony underscores the French vision of open trade with the region and potential future colonization.

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Ill. 2.7. Jan Mostaert, Landscape with an Episode from the Conquest of America, c. 1535, painting on panel, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

Actual French attempts to colonise Brazil as “Antarctic France” began in late 1555 with the voyage of Nicolas Durande de Villegagnon (d. 1572), sponsored by the leading Hugenot nobleman, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny.27 They encountered natives, the Tupinamba and Potiguara Indians, who were often hostile to visitors but did establish trading relations with the French. As before distinctions were drawn between the approachable local allies and their intractable enemies. Two celebrated French authors visited Brazil and returned home to write about their experiences in early ethnographies. The first of them, André Thevet, spent a mere three months but later secured appointment as royal cosmographer.28 Thevet’s 1558 publication describes the coastal Tupinamba from the mouth of the bay of Rio de Janeiro, a site named Coligny Island by the French. He calls them “Amériques,” in contrast to the real Cannibals, “most cruel and inhuman people” who “eat human flesh as we would mutton” farther north.29 Thevet even claims that the eponymous

Amazons of Greek myth live near the great South American river, but his knowledge of more local Indians stems from interpreters, “dragomen.” He further claims (and Montaigne would use this “fact” in his celebrated French essay “Of Cannibals”) that the local Tupi Indians also practiced anthropophagy, but only as an act of conquest vengeance over their captured enemies rather than out of some subhuman taste for the flesh of fellow-creatures. Most of Thevet’s observations apparently derive from Vespucci, though he relocates the geography southwards to situate it at Brazil. He describes them as a marvelous strange wild and brutish people, without Faith, without Law, without religion [sans roi, sans loi, sans foi], and without any civility: but living like brute beasts, as nature has brought them out, eating herbs and roots, being always naked as well women as men, until such time as being more visited and frequented of Christians, they may peradventure leave this brutish living …30

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Ill. 2.8. Anonymous, Tupinamba Family Eating, woodcut reproduced in André Thevet, Singularités de la France antarctique (Paris, 1558), Annenberg Library, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia.

Thevet’s woodcut prints (ill. 2.9), particularly in his later 1575 Cosmographie universelle, however, show the natives as muscular, handsome, classicizing figures; their long bodies have small heads, and he describes them as tall, tawny coloured figures. Their movements are graceful, even while cutting up limbs of captives for a human feast, which at first glance differs little from a peaceful scene of a Tupinamba Family Easting around large vessels and under palm trees. Other images depict naked warrior women, Amazons, who conflict with male enemies, besieging their island in canoes with both clubs and arrows; afterwards, the women cruelly fire arrows into naked men who hang from branches above a fire. Another scene shows a tribal march

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Ill. 2.9. Anonymous, woodcut reproduced in Jean de Léry, Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Bresil (La Rochelle, 1578).

together with tobacco use and fire-making. All the woodcut designs show outlines systematically and professionally modeled with delicate hatchings, even for corpses. Since Thevet was official cosmographer of the king, his print designs may even have been made by royal artists Jean Cousin the Elder and Younger, at least for Cosmographie universelle (1575) and probably already for the Singularités (1558).31 Closely tied to French court art, Thevet’s images portray handsome figures in motion, which mitigates the potential horror of their activities.32 Credence for Thevet’s claims was reinforced by a contemporary publication (Marburg, 1557) of Hans Staden’s sensational, supposedly documentary True History of his Captivity, illustrated with

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crude but striking woodcuts (fully 56 of them).33 Staden, a German mercenary in the employ of the Portuguese, arrived in Brazil in 1549 but was captured by the Tupinamba; he had to survive his own nine-month role as a captive and potential human sacrifice. He calls the natives Wilden, savages, and emphasizes their warlike nature and ritual cannibalism despite their handsome appearance. Staden himself is both naked and bearded as prisoner, and he appears in most of the images in order to confirm their eyewitness veracity. His title page (ill. 2.10) – the best image for costume and body types – shows a naked, feathered pair of Indian warriors with arms – club and bow and arrows – whose bodies show markings of some kind, probably painted; their faces appear inset with gems, as mentioned already in Vespucci and other early accounts.

Staden’s account would later form the first part of volume III in Theodor de Bry’s celebrated turn-ofthe-century illustrated books on India occidentalis (1592), luridly and vividly illustrated with engravings.34 More authentic as ethnography, the Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Bresil (1578) by Huguenot pastor Jean de Léry was based on his own stay of almost two years in the short-lived French colony, but his book appeared only after a twenty-year interval.35 Léry’s work enjoyed wide circulation through translations and formed a main source for Montaigne’s essay, especially on the subject of eating captives for ritual vengeance. Léry, however, overtly accuses his Catholic predecessor Thevet of writing fiction, asserting his own greater claims to personal experience with the Tupinamba, and he

Ill. 2.10. Jean-Théodore de Bry, after Giovanni Stradanus, Allegory of America (Amerigo Vespucci awakens a sleeping America), c. 1575, engraving.

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also contrasts the logic of Brazilian natives’ conquest cannibalism against European tortures of usurers and religious massacres, not to mention advancing his basic Calvinist critique of Catholic ritual practice in the Eucharist.36 Léry’s “savages,” the Tupinamba are described as similar in stature to Europeans but healthier and more long-lived and “not particularly dark, but merely of a tawny shade,” as both sexes parade nude without shame.37 Men paint, scar, and pierce themselves, shave or pluck their body hair, and wear facial stones as adults. Léry’s woodcut illustrations depict small, often familial groups. They emphasize such figural elements as body ornament, hair style, weapons, and near-nudity of their stout bodies, as they stand in splendid isolation from any detailed setting, posed in the elegant contrapposto poses of classical nudes. Other images, by contrast, provide a more detailed landscape environment for multi-figure groups, such as a battle scene before background settlements with hammocks and cannibalistic roasts. The sheer variety, extravagant colour, and plenitude of bird plumage richly displayed nature’s own artifice and creativity like the range of flowers, especially tulips, so coveted by early students of botany.38 Certainly the produce of the New World had economic implications for the French explorers. Léry in particular not only attends to the animals, birds, and fish of Brazil but also to “trees, herbs, roots, and exquisite fruits.”39 He begins by discussing brazilwood, already quite familiar to the French as a valued dye source (to the surprise of the natives), but also itemizes various palms, nuts, and especially fruits, bananas and pineapples (still called ananas in most European countries). Tobacco (petun) and smoking come in for particular attention, for “if they go off to war, and necessity presses them, they will go three or four days without nourishing themselves on anything else.” Moreover, “it disills the superfluous humors from the brain.”40 In the final analysis, Europeans went to America to exploit the natural resources and to utilize the natives in that process. The process is epito-

27

mized in a famous engraving, designed by transplanted Flemish designer Giovanni Stradanus (Jan van der Straet of Bruges) from his position as court artist of the Medici in Florence.41 It shows a European, labeled as Vespucci himself, another Florentine, appearing on the shore of the New World in armor, sword, and a traveling cloak. He stands erect in profile as he plants the staff of Spain and Christianity with a cross at its top; behind him galleons offshore reveal how he has arrived.42 He carries a compass, the navigational aid that underscores what Europe regarded as its technological superiority along with the ship.43 The Latin text declares, “Amerigo rediscovers America; he called her but once, and thenceforth she was always awake.”44 Before him a lone, nude female in a hammock receives him, gesturing with an outstretched arm – an ambiguous sign of receptivity as well as apprehension, of wonder but also accompanying fear. She rests in a hammock, horizontal and lower than his upright pose. Her only attribute, on her unbound hair, is a crown of feathers, by then (c. 1590) the acknowledged marker of America’s body ornament; however, her native club leans against the tree in the right corner, and behind it a strange local animal, probably a sloth, forages.45 Certainly these natives are capable of conquest, not to mention cannibalism, of their enemies, since behind the hammock three other seated natives enjoy a feast of human limbs on a skewer. Louis Montrose credits this scene as repeating the woodcut image of enticement and ambush by the women described in Vespucci’s letter, already pictured in the 1505 Augsburg woodcut. Yet it remains more generic and non-narrative, juxtaposing the two regions and showing their respective power relations. Here female America is gendered, fulfilling the dual functions: as allegorical personification of a Continent; and as an object of dynamic interaction by a visiting foreign male, representing Europe. Thus this artistic epitome of European discovery mixes the same reported attributes – including nudity, feathers, and cannibalism – with some actual artifacts, whether animals or weapons, to convey visual

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accuracy of scientific observation, now freely combined with Europe’s ideology of cultural superiority and inevitable military conquest in reporting the colonization of the New World. It is worthwhile to situate More’s own Utopia text in the context of these early images of natives of the Americas, chiefly Brazilians. What is striking about More’s verbal vision is its marked contrast to the usual fascination, indeed wonder, associated with the newly discovered foreign exotic.46 More’s traveler Hythlodaeus truly is an anti-Vespucci, despite his adopting the pattern of travel narratives and even his claim to have sailed with the Florentine navigator. Yet his encountered natives are “wisely trained citizens” instead of monsters or marvels. Their society’s lack of money offers a clear alternative, a soft, Golden Age primitivism, fully at odds with European society, particularly the emerging urban capitalism of Antwerp, where the Utopia dialogue takes place.47 Instead, communal property prevails in Utopia, whose Greek root not only means “No Place,” but also “Good Place.” An island country, it is safely isolated and protected, deliberately so after eliminating an original isthmus. Houses remain unlocked, and there is no private space, let alone estates. Farming and crafts dominate as social occupations, but intellectual, physical, and artistic activity also emerges from leisure time. Education is valued, especially philosophical considerations of happiness and virtue in relation to the afterlife of the soul. Thus, Utopian civilization contrasts with cannibalism and violence, as reported and even visualized in imagery of feathered Amerindians. Moreover, Utopia’s rational aversion to war resembles Erasmus’s contemporary adage, “dulce bellum inexpertis” (1515; War is sweet for those who have not tried it). In Montaigne’s later essay, “Of the Cannibals” (1578-80), he contrasts American cannibalism favorably with the violent internecine religious conflict in Europe.48 Toleration of religion also prevails in Utopia, unlike Europe in the postReformation era, and continental greed, pride, and

private interest are absent in Utopia. Montaigne, in fact, laments, prophetically, the loss of innocence for inhabitants of the so-called New World, in terms that echo the outlook of More from two generations earlier: … these men [are] ignorant of the price they will pay some day, in loss of repose and happiness, for gaining knowledge of the corruptions of this side of the ocean; ignorant also of the fact that of this inter course will come their ruin (which I suppose is already well advanced, poor wretches, to let themselves be tricked by the desire for new things, and to have left the serenity of their own sky to come and see ours!)

Leuven’s wonder-filled exhibition again explored both the imagined world of Thomas More’s Utopia and sixteenth-century visual representations of the New World, both imagined and experienced. N OTES 1 De Montaigne 1971: 150-159 and 152. 2 Columbus 1968: 68-69. 3 Locke 1952: chapter V, 26. 4 Lestringant 1997: 15-17. 5 Lestringant 1997: 23-27. In 1504 an anonymous pamphlet in Venice appeared as Libretto de tutte le navigazaione del Re di Spagna, reproducing Peter Martyr’s first two letters describing Columbus’s voyages of 1492-93. 6 Here, I gratefully acknowledge my long-term debt to the work of Prof. Rebecca Parker Brienen, esp. Parker Brienen 2006: 73-93 (Chapter 3, “Cannibalizing America”). 7 See Vespucci 1992: 45-55. On Vespucci letters, König 1992: 103-108; Lestringant 1997: 27-31; Hirsch 1976: 537-560. 8 The first surviving map with both the name “America” on the South American continent, plus a portrait of Amerigo Vespucci (opposite Cladius Ptolemy) in its ornamental frame is a 1507 world map by Martin Waldseemüller, now at the Library of Congress, Washington. Wolff 1992: 111-125. Also Lester 2009; Brotton 2012: 146-185. 9 Vespucci 1992: 45-55. 10 Wolff 1992: 29, no. 15; published by Johann Froschauer. Two extant copies (Munich, Bavarian State Library; New York Public Library, Spencer Coll.) 11 Herzog-Anton Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel. Published by Seorg Stuchs, c. 1505-06. Discussed by Colin 1988: 18-19 and 187-88. This dissertation has proved generally useful. 12 In addition to above references, Honour 1976: 26-27, no. 3; published by Johann Grüniger. The German title reads: “This Little Book Tells . . . of Many Islands and a New World of Savage and Naked People Previously Unknown.” 13 Silver 2012: 97 and 268-271, no. 68; Honour 1976: 28-30, no. 5; Massing 1991: 514-520 and 516-517, ill. 4, citing the notes of the Emperor to his private secretary for the program, “ … all are naked like Indians or dressed in Moorish fashion.” 14 In 1513 the text page was printed in Augsburg by Johannes Schönsperger (Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, fo. 41r). Massing 1991: 514-516, ill. 1. Ill. 2 shows a Tupinamba war club (Paris, Musée

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de l’Homme) very close to the one depicted by Dürer, though only collected by the French colony in Brazil after 1555. 15 Massing 1991: 516-517, no. 405; Rowlands 1988: 187-188, no. 158, plate xxiii. On collections, Feest 1985: 237-244; Markey 2016. On feathers, Buono 2009: 291-295. 16 Schmidt 2001: 123-138. 17 Sloan 2007. 18 Wolff 1992: 70-71, no. 86; Honour 1976: 49-50, no. 18. From Huttich 1532. 19 It should be noted that above the Cannibals in the upper left appear African figures with distended lips, who hunt elephants; Massing 2005: 48-69. In the upper right figures wearing feathers probably depict East Indies natives from the Spice Islands, whose fragrant trees appear behind them with labels, as pepper, nutmeg, and cloves. 20 Honour 1976: 30-32, no. 6; Schmidt 2001: 1-5 and 57-66. Snyder 1976: 495-502. Dürer famously saw recently acquired Aztec objects sent back by Cortés to the Spanish Habsburgs at the court of Margaret of Austria in 1520; Massing 1991: 515, no. 1. The dating of this work remains uncertain and varies, due to assumptions that the scene depicts a particular, datable Spanish incursion; to date no scholarly monograph exists on Mostaert. The Rijksmuseum, which acquired the painting in 2013, dates it tentatively c. 1535. 21 Hale 1990. 22 Snyder 1976, following R. van Luttervelt. Other interpreters have opted for a Columbus landing of 1493 (H. van de Waal and E. Reznicek), while Erik Larsen has suggested the Portuguese in Brazil around 1550 – thus leading to wildly divergent dates for the picture. References in Honour 1976: no. 6. Most recently, Cuttler 1989: 191-197, has argued for a more generic reading of “an arcadian world in danger,” but he denies the New World location altogether. See also Schmidt 2001: 62, “The demand of modern scholars for compositional precision in Mostaert’s work misconceives the Renaissance’s subtle and evolving notion of the (indeed) New World.” Matthias Ubl is preparing a dossier publication on the Mostaert picture. 23 Moving contemporary analyses of the contrast between native and Spanish identities have been provided by Todorov 1984: 127-45 and 185-93; Boyarin 2009: 69-84. A sensitive revisionist collection about the charges against Spanish atrocities is Geer, Mignolod & Maureen Quilligan 2007. 24 Lestringant 1997: 41-43; Mullaney 1983: 40-67 and 45-48; Massa 1975: 105-116; Wintroub 1998: 465-494. In addition to the Indian life, a mock sea battle between Portuguese and French vessels on the Seine anticipated upcoming French efforts to colonise Brazil after midcentury. Regarding Brazil and France, Rouen was the location of “Brazil House,” where carved panels from the mid-sixteenth century (Rouen, Musée Départmental des Antiquités) showed natives gathering Brazil wood; Honour 1976: 33-34, no. 8. 25 Compare the imported villages for the amusement of World’s Fair goers to Chicago’s 1893 Columbian Exposition; Rydell, “All the World’s a Stage”: X 26 Lestringant 1997: 42, no. 4. 27 Portrait by François Clouet (St. Louis Art Museum). 28 Lestringant 1997: 44-49; Lestringant 1991. Principal works: Thevet 1557 and his culminating, Thevet 1575. 29 Thevet 1557: Chapter 61, fo. 119v, quoted by Lestringant 1997: 44. More on the Tupis appears in Thevet 1575: Chapter XXI.

29

See Lussagnet 1953; Lestringant 1994: 53-70 (“Mythologies: The Invention of Brazil”). 30 Quoted by Parker Brienen 2006: 103, from the English translation (London, 1568). 31 Colin 1988. On the vexed question of distinguishing father from son in the Cousin oeuvre, Zerner 2003: 246-265. 32 For French court art, Zerner 2003: 227-265. 33 The full title in German reads: True History and Desription of a Landscape of Wild, Naked, Fierce Cannibals [Menschenfresser] in the New World America. See Whitehead & Harbsmeier 2008. Also Parker Brienen 2006: 99-104. Further, Whitehead 2000: 721-751. 34 Van Groesen 2008: 182-188; see Parker Brienen 2006: 86, ill. 28. 35 Lestringant 1997: 68-80; Parker Brienen 2006: 104-108. De Léry 1990. 36 De Léry 1990: 133, “So let us henceforth no longer abhor so very greatly the cruelty of the anthropophagous – that is, man-eating – savages. For since there are some here in our midst even worse and more detestable than those who, as we have seen, attack only enemy nations, while the ones over here have plunged us into the blood of their kinsmen, neighbors, and compatriots, one need not go beyond one’s own country, nor as far as America, to see such monstrous and prodigious things.” On the “nonsense” and “fantasy” of Thevet, De Léry 1990: 53-54. 37 De Léry 1990: 56-62. 38 Goldgar 2002: 324-346; O’Malley & Meyers 2008. General: Daston & Park 1998: 255-301. 39 De Léry 1990: 100-111. 40 De Léry 1990: 108-109; see also 242 no. 9 on whether Thevet or Nicot (after whom nicotine is named) deserves credit for introducing tobacco seed to France, the latter from Florida. 41 Markey 2012: 383-442 and 422-429, ills. 5, 7; she notes that the figure more closely resembles conventional imagery of Columbus. Baroni & Sellink 2012: 300-306, no. 100. For a theorized analysis of the image, Montrose 1993: 177-217 and 179-183; Christadler 2002: 17-33. 42 Montrose 1993: 180, notes that the banner itself bears the sign of the Southern Cross, a constellation only visible in the lower hemisphere, hence an index of European exploration, but also a sign of Christian heaven. 43 Markey 2012: 421-422, ill. 6 shows an astrolabe from the remaining print series on Nova Reperta, the new knowledge discoveries by Europeans of the early modern period that enabled them to attain their new world dominance. 44 Translation by Markey 2012: 423, “Americen Americus retexit, et Semel vocavit inde semper excitam.” 45 As Markey 2012: 422, no. 99 notes, Tupinamba clubs formed part of Ferdinando Medici’s collection of New World artifacts. Again, the artist’s use of familiar European animals – a horse and wolf – in conflict in the wild at the right distance indicates that he was projecting wildness, unaware that such animals do not inhabit South America. 46 Greenblatt 1992; for the contrast, Lochrie 2016: 181; this book was very helpful in the formulation of these remarks on Thomas More. 47 On soft primitivism, see Lovejoy Jr. & Boas 1935; also Panofsky 1972: 33-67; on the Golden Age, Levin 1969: 89-93. 48 Barker 2001: 317-356, no. iv, i. 1. De Montaigne 1971: 158-159.

Ill. 3.1. Qiu Zhijie, Map of Utopia, 2012, ink and graphite on paper, Berlin, Arndt Fine Art.

3

The Golden Age as an Imaginary and Imaginable Utopia Maria Aresin

“Every nation that has a history has a paradise – a state of innocence, a Golden Age.” Friedrich Schiller, On naïve and sentimental Poetry

Mapping the Golden Age In a fantastical map by the Chinese artist Qiu Zhijie (2012) the land of the Golden Age occupies a huge territory in the upper part of the continent, surrounded by likeminded neighbours such as Arcadia, the Garden of Eden, The Republic of Plato and the Island of Utopia in the East (ill. 3.1).1 These countries were carefully chosen by the contemporary artist on the basis of their shared literary tradition, that in most of the cases can be traced back to antique Greek and Roman writings. It is not coincidental, that here Thomas More’s Island of Utopia forms an archipelago together with other legendary non-places such as Plato’s Atlantis, Thomas Spence’s Spensonia and Iambulus’ Island of the Sun. All of the landscapes situated on the fictional map are tied to the concept of an ideal state, stage, place or time masterminded by a poet, philosopher or politician, that is at odds with the contemporary experience of their authors. Friedrich Schiller claimed that ideal realities and dreams of a prosperous place and life were part of every society’s thinking as a form of anthropological constant, an ‘invariant structurel’ (Claude Lévi-

Strauss).2 Both the Golden Age and Utopia oppose a ‘counter picture’ – to use a term coined by Philip Sidney (Arcadia 1580) – to the real world of their authors and readers, appearing as possible realities either situated in the past or the future, or in an isolated and inaccessible parallel world. This article examines the similarities between the concepts of the myth of the Golden Age and utopian thinking through a consideration of their visual depictions and notions of the Golden Age during the Age of the Discoveries (fifteenth to eighteenth century). This paper will show how the term of the Golden Age has been carried on from antiquity until present day in the shape of motifs or quotations, and how this Age came to obtain different meanings, and was used in various social and political contexts over time. Qiu Zhijie’s Map of Utopia (2012) is no mere compilation of similar bodies of thought, but oscillates between taxonomy of utopian concepts, and topography of the impossible. It stands at the end of a long tradition of imaginative maps of which one of the earliest surviving examples from the late eight-century is the Vatican or Pseudo-Isidorean world map (ill. 3.2). This unique example of early cartography shows known and unknown parts of the world – the Terra cognita and the Terra incognita – inscribed together in an oval shape embossed by the Christian world view. Just as in Qiu Zhijie’s geographical fiction,

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Ill. 3.2. So-called Pseudo-Isidorean World Map, late 8th century, Rome, Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, MS Vat. Lat. 6018, fol. 63v./64r.

the Vatican mappa mundi is oriented towards the Terra Eden, with the capital city called Paradise at its centre, on the upper half between India Magna and Taprobana (Sri Lanka) while displaying the Fortunate Islands and the Garden of the Hesperides to the other side of the world below Spain.3 The Vatican ecumenical world map further indicates the four rivers branching from the spring, with its source in the Garden of Eden. One of these rivers is Pishon, leading from Eden to the nearby Havilah, “the land where there is gold” (Gen. 2: 10-11).4 The mythological Golden Age remained a concept in time until the end of the fifteenth century. It describes a period of prosperity and everlasting spring, in which mankind lives in nature without shelter and any need for hard labour, as the earth

itself provides all that we could desire. This external nature mirrors the essential harmony and purity of human nature. The myth of the Ages of Man is first documented in writing by Hesiod (Works and Days 109126) around 700 BC, but is likely one of the oldest stories to have survived.5 This text also lays a foundation for later versions, such as that of Ovid, that tells the story of mankind’s history in four Ages – Golden, Silver, Bronze and Iron – that lie at the heart of his first book of the Metamorphoses (Met. I: 89-150). Herein Ovid dedicates a long passage to the Golden Age explaining the constitution and the setting of this perfect ‘first-time’ much more explicitly than Hesiod had done before him, while also shifting from the term ghenos (race) to the

THE GOLDEN AGE AS AN IMAGINARY AND IMAGINABLE UTOPIA

temporal form of aetas (age), that would later become standard. “Golden was that first age, which, with no one to compel, without a law, of its own will, kept faith and did the right. There was no fear of punishment, no threatening words were to be read on brazen tablets; no suppliant throng gazed fearfully upon its judge’s face; but without defenders lived secure. Not yet had the pine-tree, felled on its native mountains, descended thence into the watery plain to visit other lands; men knew no shores except their own. Not yet were cities begirt with steep moats; there were no trumpets of straight, no horns of curving brass, no swords or helmets. There was no need at all of armed men, for nations, secure from war’s alarms, passed the years in gentle ease. The earth herself, without compulsion, untouched by hoe or plowshare, for herself gave all things needful. And men, content with food which came with no one’s seeking, gathered the arbute fruit, strawberries from the mountain-sides, cornel-cherries, berries hanging thick upon the prickly bramble, and acorns fallen from the spreading tree of Jove. Then spring was everlasting, and gentle zephyrs with warm breath played with the flowers that sprang unplanted. Anon the earth, untilled, brought forth her stores of grain, and the fields, though unfallowed, grew white with the heavy, bearded wheat. Streams of milk and streams of sweet nectar flowed, and yellow honey was distilled from the verdant oak.”6 (Met. 89-112) The Golden Age became a popular subject for artists in the sixteenth century and was depicted as a combination of classical motifs borrowed from other iconographies, such as paradise scenes or the deluge. Images of the Golden Age in this period present youthful nude men and women sitting, eating and drinking shaded by the trees, that dance around trees, swim in rivers, or eat, drink, and relax in an idealised natural setting. Children play with supposedly aggressive and wild animals, all under the guidance of Saturn, who watches from a cloud in the sky (ill. 3.3).

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One characteristic of the Golden Age is that it can only be described ex negativo, like Utopia, it is imagined from the perspective of an outsider, who compares his own misfortune to a desirable ideal. Thus, the Golden Age has been nostalgically described as the innocent past, a Paradise lost (Milton), that cannot be regained (Hesiod, Ovid), or as a future prophecy (Vergil, Aratus), with a new Golden Age under the reign of a just sovereign, as Vergil famously proclaimed: “redeunt Saturnia regna” (Ecl. IV: 6). Inhabitants of this prosperous Golden Age would have no concept of time, being unaware of the existence or possibility of the struggle of life. Discovering a Contemporary Golden Age Beginning with the Age of Exploration, the notion of the Golden Age underwent a shift from a concept in time to a spatial paradigm due to the observations made by the explorers in the Americas, the so-called New World. Travel reports, either real or fictive, from these voyages often speak about the aspiration to not only find a faster travel route to India, or resources of gold, but to discover an Earthly Paradise, the Edenic place marked on the mappae mundi. To these ends, Columbus for instance brought one Rodrigo de Jerez with him on the Santa Maria for his first voyage in 1492, since he was a baptised Jew who spoke Hebrew and Aramaic, the languages that Columbus assumed were spoken in Paradise.7 With an Earthly Paradise out of the discoverer’s reach, most travel accounts describe newfound places and their inhabitants by using the topos of the Golden Age.8 One of the first to use this myth was Peter Martyr d’Anghiera, when talking about the Taíno natives of Hispaniola in his Decades (first published in 1504): “I feel that our islanders of Hispaniola are in a more blessed state than they were, provided that they receive some instruction in religion, because naked as they are, without weights and measures, without in sum deadly money, living in a golden age [aurea aetate viventes], without laws, without false dealing judges, without books, they

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Ill. 3.3. Abraham Bloemaert, The Golden Age, 1603, pen and brown ink, grey wash, white gouache and lead white (partially oxidized) over black chalk, Frankfurt am Main, Städel Museum.

pass their lives in content with nature, barely troubled about the future. Yet they too are tortured by ambition and desire for empire, and in their wars they inflict mutual destruction on one another.”9 In his account Martyr uses the same method of description ex negativo as the authors of the various versions of the Golden Age myth, comparing the social ills of his own reality to the yet uncorrupted state of Taíno life. The idea of a monogenesis of mankind had been proven false by encounters with the indigenous populations of the newly discovered continents. From a Western Renaissance perspective, the populations of the New World were seen as being in a primitive state: A population of the ‘Golden Age’, Epicureans or Stoics.10 I will now briefly summarise the similarities of the characteristics of the indigenous population described in the travel reports from the late fifteenth to the end of the sixteenth century: They were found to be living according to a hedonistic

ideal. Without laws, money or property they lived peacefully and happy. Most of the travel accounts and logbooks report that the indigenous Americans of various nations and tribes were walking around naked, as they barely needed to wear loincloths thanks to the clement climate. The natives were described as welcoming and peaceful towards their conquerors, in contrast to their fighting amongst each other. Generally, they would fight for the sake of honour, but not to increase their property or territory. They had no religion that was known to the European invaders, practicing instead various forms of idolatry. It has been noted before by several scholars that these reports were written drawing on terminology used by the long-established literary sources, in order to provide a point of departure for a description by referring to myths or evolutionary models.11 This projection of paradisiacal and mythological ideas onto the experiences of the New World was

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Ill. 3.4. Pierre de Vaulx, Map of the Atlantic Ocean, 1613, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des Cartes et plans, inv. no. CPL GE SH ARCH 6.

to create continuity in the perception of the European explorers and their readers. Besides the topos of the Golden Age or the Earthly Paradise, these travel accounts are simultaneously speaking of a new Arcadia, the Fortunate Islands or a new Cythera, without any exact terminological precision or differentiation.12 The concept of the Golden Age, as an abstract ideal in a distant time (either future or past), underwent a momentous transformation after contact with these indigenous populations. It provided proof for various contemporary theories about the origins of mankind, and at the same time added a spatial component to the Golden Age, that was now not only a dream fantasy, a primeval state of civilization, but a place on a map, that existed contemporaneous to the reality of the European nations.

A New Golden Age in Brazil Testimony to this ‘spatial turn’ of the Golden Age from a distant time to a contemporary place is a map by the French artist Pierre de Vaulx today in the collection of the National Library in Paris (ill. 3.4). It shows parts of Europe and Africa on the right hand side, whereas the regions of North and South America from Florida to Brazil occupy the left.13 Brazil had been divided by Papal bull between Castile and Portugal a year prior to the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494, but this had been violated by the French raising a claim to the territory.14 De Vaulx’s map depicts a completely anachronistic political division of the world, that might have been inspired by the publication of Marc Lescarbots history of the French colonies Histoire de la Nouvelle-France from 1609.15 The first French

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colony in Le Brasil, founded by Durand de Villegagnon in 1555 and prominently labelled on the map as La France Antarctique (present day Rio de Janeiro), was wiped out by the Portuguese armada in 1567, a fact that was consciously omitted by the artist.16 The map might have been commissioned on the occasion of the establishment of a new French colony in Maranhão (Brazil) called Equinoctial France, due to its location close to the Equator, in 1612. Strangely, this settling (Saint Louis, present days São Luís) was founded around the time this map was created, but was destroyed by the Portuguese shortly afterwards, in 1615. Indeed, it is not marked by the artist. Due to their rivalry with France, the Portuguese and their territories were not included on the map, it depicts only the Spanish coat of arms, possibly due to the union of Spain and Portugal in 1580. The indigenous people inhabiting the centre of the continent can be identified with the Tupinambá, who welcomed the French at their arrival and became friends with the settlers. They are shown naked in couples, lingering around in the paradisiacal nature or dancing in a circle around a tree in a figural language that explicitly recalls motifs of the Golden Age iconography. As Azard and Lestringant noted before, the figures of the Tupinambá inhabiting the terre du Brésil on the map are direct copies based on the prints accompanying the 1551 publication of the Entry of Henry II that took place in Rouen on the 1st of October 1550:17 Cest la déduction du sumptueux ordre plaisantz spectacles et magnifiques theatres dressés, et exhibes par les citoiens de Rouen (…).18 Henry II’s triumphal march into the city was staged as a series of theatrical settings. The battle scene, an indispensable part of the Entrée festivities, was performed on a meadow that was 200 feet long and 35 wide, populated with 300 Brazilians – around 50 of which were people brought from Brazil, and 250 Rouenais men and women, augmenting the numbers.19 The French supernumeraries painted their skin with clay to achieve the skin tone of the indigenous people.20 At the beginning

of the play the tribe of the Tupinambá is shown living a peaceful life, even during the landing of the French ships – which were in this context real ships on the river Seine.21 This peace is ended with the attack of the so-called Tabagerres, enemies of the Tupinambá, on the meadow and the respective assault of the Portuguese fleet on the river.22 In the woodcut documenting this event (ill. 3.5), the successive actions are shown simultaneously, with the peaceful initial state displayed in the middle ground by ways of the Golden Age features, that were later copied onto the world map. The unknown inventor of this woodcut, might have been inspired not only by the performance itself, but crucially by the descriptions of the state of civilizations of indigenous peoples in the contemporary travel accounts that described a Golden Age.23 This narrative, initiated already in the first letters and published reports by Columbus, Peter Martyr and others, became particularly popular in the fictional literature of Germany (Grimmelshausen, Hans Staden) and France (Ronsard), as a consequence of the changed worldview.24 The Golden Age topos was echoed shortly after the Entrée by the two most influential French travel writings from the Brazilian colonies, André Thévet (Les singularitez de la France antarctique, 1557) and Jean de Léry (Histoire d’un voyage fait en la terre du Brésil, 1578). Thévet, in his Les singularitez (…) but also later in his Cosmographie Universelle (1575) and his Les deux voyages (…) (c. 1588) characterizes the aboriginal inhabitants as noble savages (Bon Sauvages): 25 as friendly, hospitable and of pleasant physical proportion but also as cruel.26 Like Thévet, Léry mirrored this observation, providing a corrective to the all too idealised reflections concerning the egalitarianism of the Indians. Both mention the ownership of land and personal items such as weapons as part of their way of life.27 Léry furthermore speaks of a hierarchical order in the Tupi society, that values age and sex but is not lead by a king.28 The autopsies of Thévet and Léry were, together with Benzoni, Gómara and others, a foundation for

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Ill. 3.5. Entrée of Henry II into the city of Rouen (figures of Brazilians), 1551, woodcut in Déduction, 1551: s.n.

the most popular French Essay on the habits and ceremonies of the Indians: Michel de Montaignes’ Des cannibales (1580).29 Montaigne defines the Indians less critically, in order to establish their ideal natural state as a positive counter-image to the supposed civilized state of the Europeans. His main objective was not to provide a more accurate account of a country he himself had never visited, but to point out the dreadful situation of French society in this period.30 The Tupis are described by Montaigne applying the same ex negativo narrative style, that Hesiod and Ovid used before him in their passages on the Golden Age. This functions as diametrically opposed to the practices of the modern peccable Europeans and the virtuous Native populations: “no knowledge of letters, no science of numbers, no title of magistrate or political superior, no habit of service, riches or poverty,

no contracts, no inheritance, no divisions of property, only leisurely occupations, no respect for any kinship but common ties, no clothes, no agriculture, no metals, no use of corn or wine.”31 The natives function as a backdrop in order to critique contemporary French society, his approach linked to a long tradition of lament that stretches from Hesiod, who like Montaigne, lamented the state of affairs in the Iron Age.32 The Dance of Time One of the most interesting features of the images of the Entrèe is the circular dance around the tree. The dance, and especially the roundel dance, is one of the oldest traditions of appraisal of nature and its invention has been identified as dating to the very beginnings of civilization, as Mircea Eliade correctly outlines: “Take the dance, for example.

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Ill. 3.6. Lucas Cranach the Elder, The Golden Age (Primitive Humanity), 1530, mixed technique on panel, Munich, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek.

All dances were originally sacred; in other words, they had an extra-human model. […] a dance always imitates an archetypal gesture or commemorates a mythical moment. In a word, it is a repetition, and consequently a reactualization, of illud tempus, “those days”.”33 In Western European art and writing, the round dance had become a wellestablished symbol of love and the celebration of the renewal of time and seasons prior to the sixteenth century.34 The circle dance is also the passetemps that is described mostly by the French travel accounts of the New World, as it played an important role in the everyday life of the Tupinambá.35 As Léry outlines, the Tupi danced around their houses each day, including feast days. In contrast to the woodcut of the Entrée, Léry testifies that men were supposed to dance in separate groups from woman: “But it must be noted that in

all savages’ dances, whether they line up one after another, or (as I shall describe when I speak of their religion) arrange themselves in a circle, neither the women nor the girls ever join the men, and if they want to dance, they do it separately.”36 He goes on to describe the figures of the dancers, and their accessories and instruments, such as the Maraca (rattles) in very long passages that were accompanied by illustrations.37 The round dance is also one of the most characteristic motifs of the depictions of the Golden Age. It points not only to the charitable aspect of mankind in this prosperous time, but also references the celebration of the eternal spring (ill. 3.6). The motifs depicting the activities of the Brazilians of the Entrée were intended to be seen and interpreted by the readers as linked to the iconography of the Golden Age.38 This is made clear by

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Ill. 3.7. Entrée of Henry II into the city of Rouen (figure of the Golden Age), 1551, woodcut in Déduction, 1551: s.n.

one of the following stages of the Entrée (ill. 3.7): A triumphal arch of the Golden Age crowned by the God Saturn/ Chronos standing on a half-moon, a symbol of Henri II.39 While marching through this ephemeral architecture the King was declared new emperor or consul, heralding a new Golden Age under his guidance in a tradition coming from Virgil’s 4th Eclogue. The Roman Emperor Augustus had already staged himself as the expected child of

Virgil’s prophetic Eclogue, and kings and rulers of the Renaissance from the Medici to Rudolph  II followed in his footsteps.40 The use of the term Golden Age in connection to the first colonization of the Americas is particularly interesting as it was subsequently also referred to as such by the English settlers in North America. Sir Walter Raleigh was perhaps one of the first to use the Golden Age topos in his series of exploration voyages, where his protagonist Arthur Barlowe,

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Ill. 3.8. The Federal Pillars – The rising of the Column of Virginia (June 11th 1788), Washington, The Massachusetts Centinel, The Library of Congress, rep. no. LC-USZ62-45590.

on a journey to Virginia says: “We were entertained with all love, and kindnes, and with as much bountie, after their manner, as they could possibly devise. Wee found the people most gentle, loving, and faithfull, void of all guile, and treason, and such as lived after the manner of the golden age. The earth bringeth foorth all things in aboundance, as in the first creation, without toile or labour.”41 The founding fathers of the constitution of the United States of America continued to use this punch-line, perfectly adaptable for the formation of a new state in a land that was believed to be unharmed and pure.42 A series of illustrations published in The Massachusetts Centinel commented on the events of the year 1788 by showing one state-pillar after the other joining the Federal States Union.43 The caricature of June 11th (ill. 3.8), showing the annexation of the column of Virginia to the starry arcade (New Hampshire still on the side) is entitled “Redeunt Saturnia Regna” again referring to the Virgilian tradition of a future Golden Age.44 This was bequeathed to the present day in the form of the United States Great seal, shown also on the OneDollar bill, where on the reverse it reads “annuit coeptis” (Aeneid IX: 625) and “novus ordo seclorum” (Ecl. IV: 6).

Founding Utopia in a Golden Age It is not by chance that one of the first attempts to establish a republic based on the prototype of Thomas More’s Utopia (1516) was made in the New World by the learned clergyman and judge Vasco de Quiroga, who was a member of the second Audienca of the Spaniards in Mexico. On July 4th 1535, just two days before the beheading of Thomas More, De Quiroga sent a long brief to King Charles V on the foundation of Nueva España, entitled Información en Derecho.45 While his main objective was to plead against slavery, he outlined that a Utopian system would be best implemented in this New World (Nuevo Mundo), called this way because of its population, who were as innocent as the first mankind of the Golden Age:46 “because not in vain, but with much cause and reason this [land] here is called New World (and it is a New World not because it is newly found, but because in it’s people and almost in all, it was as in the primary age and the one of gold (…)”47 He argued against the mere transplantation of the systems of governments of the Spanish Kingdom or other European states, onto the society of the indigenous people, that were still free from fraud and corruption. By contrast, he described his form of government for this ideal republic, as being formed, following the model of Thomas More’s Utopia.48 When he became bishop of Michoacán in 1536, De Quiroga even managed to establish a republican system that came very close to this Utopian example, at least at the heart of his territory in Pátzcuaro. Vasco de Quiroga concluded his political treatise by underlining the unique chance the colonizers had, to start history anew in the New World: “By himself Thomas More, author of this very good republican state, in his preamble, treaty and reasoning that he made about this [republic] in the manner of a dialogue, where his intention seems to have been to propose, to plead, to lay the foundations and to prove for reasons and causes why such a republic felt very facile, useful, likely and necessary between such people that were of the natural quality as were those of the New World (…).”49

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Many of Vasco de Quiroga’s contemporaries, linked aspects of the mankind of the first Golden Age with the native Indians, with a Utopian ideal providing the most suitable state model to be implemented in the New World. Although this attempt to establish a Utopian state, like others of its kind, failed, the Golden Age and Utopia both remain common metaphors of ideal times and places until today. N OTES 1 I’d like to thank the Gerda Henkel Foundation for the generous support of my PhD-project about the Iconography of the Ages of Man. I am especially indebted to Marie-Louise Lillywhite for her corrections and remarks as well as for her amicable support. All translations are by the author if not otherwise indicated. For the literary Utopias described see: Ruyer 1950. 2 Schiller 2004: 747: “Alle Völker, die eine Geschichte haben, haben ein Paradies, einen Stand der Unschuld, ein goldnes Alter.” Ernst Bloch speaks with the same intention about the “invariance” of the utopian: Bloch 1985: 557. This invariance is also the reason for the timelessness of imaginary places such as Utopia. Manuel and Manuel call this anthropological constant a “substratum”: Manuel & Manuel 1979: 64. 3 This ecumenical map was to replace the TO-type, based on the division of Africa, Asia and Europe after Saint Augustine. See also: Külzer 1996: 225-238. 4 The map titles Ganges Pishon, most likely following the interpretation by Flavius Josephus, identifying Pishon with the river Ganges. Despite being topographical the four rivers have also been interpreted by Saint Ambrose in his De paradiso liber unus as being in correspondence with the four Ages as timespans, that are furthermore linked to particular virtues. According to Ambrose, Pishon stands for the virtue of prudential, as well as for the first Age (from the creation of the world to the deluge). 5 On the origins of the myth of the Golden Age see: Gatz 1967; Levin 1969. The myth is not to be confused with the tradition of the three ages of man: child, adolescent, old age. 6 “Aurea prima sata est aetas, quae vindice nullo, sponte sua, sine lege fidem rectumque colebat. poena metusque aberant, nec verba minantia fixo aere legebantur, nec supplex turba timebat iudicis ora sui, sed erant sine vindice tuti. nondum caesa suis, peregrinum ut viseret orbem, montibus in liquidas pinus descenderat undas, nullaque mortales praeter sua litora norant; nondum praecipites cingebant oppida fossae; non tuba derecti, non aeris cornua flexi, non galeae, non ensis erat: sine militis usu mollia securae peragebant otia gentes. ipsa quoque inmunis rastroque intacta nec ullis saucia vomeribus per se dabat omnia tellus, contentique cibis nullo cogente creatis arbuteos fetus montanaque fraga legebant cornaque et in duris haerentia mora rubetis et quae deciderant patula Iovis arbore glandes. ver erat aeternum, placidique tepentibus auris mulcebant zephyri natos sine semine flores; mox etiam fruges tellus inarata ferebat,

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nec renovatus ager gravidis canebat aristis; flumina iam lactis, iam flumina nectaris ibant, flavaque de viridi stillabant ilice mella.” (Publius Ovidius Naso 1977: 8-11). 7 For Columbus’ first voyage in 1492 see: Repertorium Columbianum 1999. Columbus never speaks of, or explicitly uses the topos of the Golden Age, but relates it to the characteristics of the Golden Age in a description of the Lucayan people (the population of the Bahamas): “(...) the Lucayos, were the best of all – [...] they are completely peaceful and gentle with one another. They avoid the company of other, restless peoples, and because of this fear they do not want other peoples’ trade, but rather place their things on the banks of a river without haggling over the price [...] Among them there is no loose or adulterous woman, nor is a thief ever brought to judgment, nor has it ever been found that one person has killed another; they live extremely chastely. They suffer from no bad weather, no pestilence. [...] According to their rules of justice, each person is the judge of himself. They live a long time and without sickness they pass from this life; and for these reasons historians call them most holy and most happy.” (pp. 197-198) 8 Even though he claimed to have travelled around the entire world, the protagonist Mandeville lamented that he, as most of the seafarers, had been unable to arrive at an Earthly Paradise: “Of Paradise ne can I not speak properly. For I was not there. It is far beyond. And that forthinketh me. And also I was not worthy.” (Mandeville 1900: 200). Amerigo Vespucci similarly found an earthly paradise elusive, as he reports in a letter to Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici from 1502 about his experiences in Brazil: “I must be near the Earthly Paradise.” (Vespucci 1992: 31). Speaking about the indigenous people of the Americas, as well as fictive sites, a range of authors described them as inhabitants of a Golden Age, including Louis Armand (Baron de Lahontan), Louis Antoine de Bougainville, Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, Marc Lescarbot, Peter Matryr d’Anghiera, Michel de Montaigne, Vasco de Quiroga, Sir Walter Raleigh. 9 Repertorium Columbianum 1998: 55. A first French translation of the Decades of the New World was printed in 1532 and entitled Extraict ou recueil des Isles nouvellement trouvées en la grand mer Oceane (Paris: Simon de Colines). Using numerous references to classical authors from Homer to Ovid, it is interesting to note that the first edition of the Decades was published in 1504, the very year when Sannazaro’s Arcadia was first printed. 10 Amerigo Vespucci called the American natives ‘Epicureans’: “They live according to nature, and might be called Epicureans rather than Stoics. [...] The people live up to be 150 years old, seldom fall ill, and if they do happen to contract some sickness, they cure themselves with certain roots of herbs. [...] There are no kinds of metal there exept gold, in which those regions abound, [...] which they do not at all value or consider precious. [...] and certainly, if anywhere in the world there exists an Earthly Paradise, I think its not far from those regions, which lie, as I said, to the south, and in such a temperate climate that they never have either icy winters or scorching summers.” (Vespucci 1992: 50-52). Vespucci obviously follows Lucretius description of the primitive first man in De rerum natura (5: 1390-1411), that is what Panofsky called a theory of a «hard primitivism». For the popularity of Lucretius in the Renaissance, see: Greenblatt 2011. 11 See e.g.: Börner 1984. 12 Louis-Antoine de Bougainville in his report on the population of Tahiti for instance synonymously refers to the inhabitants and the island with Metaphors such as: The Golden Age, Paradise, Fortunate Century (siècle fortuné), New Cythera. See: De Bougainville 1982. 13 For this map see: Chirol 1984: 33. 14 The river Amazonas, dividing the territories of France and Spain on the 1613 map, is shown with many precious gem stones in

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blue and red, as well as gold brackets, symbolic of the richness of this continent. It can also be interpreted as an allusion to the river Pishon originating from Paradise, that was known to carry gem stones in addition to gold. That this narrative also yielded a painterly tradition has been elaborately outlined by Marjolijn Bol: Bol 2017: 34-48. 15 Lescarbots book also contained long reports on the habits of the native tribes he met in Acadia. It soon became very popular in France and was reissued twice, in 1611-12 and 1617-18. 16 The same is applicable to the French colonies in Florida (1562 Jean Ribault / 1564 René Goulaine de Laudonnière) that were destroyed by the Spaniards in 1565. 17 See Marie-Magdalaine Azard’s and Frank Lestringant’s entry: Chirol 1984: 33. 18 Déduction 1551. See on the Entrée: McGowan 1973; McGowan 1968: 199-251. 19 In addition to the 50 indigenous people from Brazil, various exotic birds and monkeys were brought to Rouen for this occasion. The trees on the river bench were painted in reddish colour, imitating that of Brazilwood (Paubrasilia = portugese, Pau-Brasil or Braxil, a tree wood, from which the name of the country derived). Brazilwood was the most important export (followed by cane sugar) and it was mainly used to produce a very effective red dye. The woodcut and the map (ill. 3.5 and 3.4) both show the felling and transportation of tree chunks as typical activities of the Brazilians. 20 In the sixteenth century and until the eighteenth century the natural skin tone of the Brazilians was still thought to be provoked by the use of special ointments directly after the birth of the child, as hypothesized by Marco Polo, Sagard, Lescarbot, Claude d’Abbeville, Davity and Coréal. (See: Alewyn 1989: 148-149). The Capuchin missionary Claude d’Abbeville tells the fictive story of a child that was left ‘white’ by the Tupi on request of the French: D’Abbeville 1963: 315. 21 A very similar play was staged in Fontainebleau with the performance of the attack of an island with Brazilians on it, that was to provide a motif for one of the famous Valois tapestries designed after drawings by Antoine Caron. Although unnoticed by art historians until today, Caron might have been inspired by the woodcut of the Entrée for the drawing of the tapestry design. For the Valois tapestries: Yates 1959: 53-54. 22 The attack seems to have inspired also Guillaume Le Testu’s figures for the plan of Brazil as part of his World Atlas, the Cosmographie universelles, that was commissioned by Henry II in 1550 and completed in 1555 after a voyage of discovery to Brazil that the cartographer undertook. Besides the two fighting Indian tribes, Le Testu also took on the idea of the couple in a hammock of the La déduction, while introducing new motifs, such as the female personification of France, dressed in a rich multi-coloured dress, marching into the land with a sceptre, where a surprised naked man is kneeling down in front of her pointing to the French flag on his other side. 23 The artist has possibly been identified as Jean Cousin by Firmin Didot. See: Firmin Didot 1870: 406-413. The Cousin-school was most likely responsible also for the illustrations of Thévets Les singularitez. 24 The authors of the Pleiade, first and foremost Ronsard, were inspired by the ideas of an ancient society in the New World, as well as by the fashion for idyllic literature on Arcadia and the Locus amoenus and Middel Ages romances such as the Roman de la Rose. See: Armstrong 1968. 25 For Thévet the cosmographer see: Lestringant 2003. For a comparison of Thévet’s and Léry’s reports see: Enders 1993. On the term Bon Sauvage: Lestringant 1978: 583-595. The term of the Noble Savage was used for a very long time from the Middle Ages up until the nineteenth century. Carl Linnaeus still talks about the following categories of the Homo Sapiens in his second edition of the Systema naturae of 1767: Wild Man, Indian, European, Mongol, Negro. For Utopian thought in the French travel literature: Funke 2005.

26 Thévet describes the Guytacos for instance with the words: “d’une nation fort sauvage, tant brutale que merveilles.” (Thévet 2006: 250-251). 27 See: Enders 1993: 94-95. 28 De Léry 1975: 196. 29 For Montaigne and the Tupi Indians see: Greenblatt 1992. 30 In order to strengthen the reliability of his reports, Montaigne recounts the anecdote of a meeting with some Indians brought to France on the occasion of a festival in Rouen in 1562 (in honour of King Charles IX). Although Montaigne was most likely travelling with the King, it has been doubted whether or not this meeting actually happened. See: Enders 1993: 202. Indigenous people brought from Brazil to France were later acculturated: they were dressed in fashionable French robes and baptized. Some of the events are documented contemporarily (see e.g. De Léry 1975: 69-70 and 210-211). One example that subsequently became particularly famous was a baptism held by the archbishop of Paris in the presence of King Louis XIII and Maria de’ Medici on July 24th 1614, later it was commemorated in an etching. On this occasion three of six Indios imported from the French colonies were baptised (Itapoucou, Ouäroyïo and Iapouäy, subsequently called Louis Marie, Louis Henry and Louis Jean), the others had already died. 31 De Montaigne 1958: 110. “nul cognoissance de lettres; nulles science de nombres; nul nom de magistrat, ny de superiorité politique; nul usage de service, de richesse ou de pauvreté; nuls contrats; nulles successions; nuls partages; nulles occupations qu’oysives; nul respect de parenté que commun; nuls vestemens; nulle agriculture; nul metal; nul usage de vin ou de bled.” (De Montaigne 1962: 204). 32 See on Montaigne and the Myth of the Golden Age: Samaras 1977: 49-56. 33 Eliade 2005: 28-29. 34 The roundel dance had been the subject of the celebration of nature in writings beginning with Homer and Hesiod (Theogony 1-8) and later in Boccaccio, Dante and Poliziano and Italian pastoral literature. It is very often mentioned in humanist literature in France, e.g. in Jean Seconds Basia and the Minneliterature (e.g. Guillaume de Machaut’s Remède de Fortune) as well as in poetry (e.g. Amadis Jamyn Ode sur le retour du printemps), to mention just a few. 35 Montaigne only gives a generic recount of the detailed descriptions of the dances in Thévet and Léry as Nakam outlines: “Le bonheur se traduit par de la joie physique, une merveilleuse vitalité: les Tupinamba dansent tout le jour. Ce motif de la danse s’associe chez Montaigne au bonheur.” (Nakam 1983: 181). 36 De Léry 1990: 76. “Mais il faut noter en cest endroit, qu’en toutes les danses de nos sauvages, soit qu’ils se suyvent l’un l’autre, ou, comme ie diray, parlant de leur religion, qu’ils soyent disposez en rond, que les femmes ny les filles, n’estant iamais meslees parmi les hommes, si elles veulent danser cela ca fera à part elles.” (De Léry 1975: 130). 37 See De Léry 1975: 129-130 and 244-245. Those illustrations were later copied by Theodore de Bry. Lèry always speaks of the dances more descriptively as ‘rondeaux’. François de Malherbe would later use the term ‘branle’ pointing out the relation to a particular type of popular French country dance (See: Obermeier 1995: 96). See also: Greve 2008. 38 The Golden Age iconography was still in its infancy by 1551. Thus, images as Cranach’s so-called Golden Age paintings (ill. 3.6) rather depict a mixture of different notions of primitive states of humanity, oscillating between motifs of the noble savage, the Golden Age and Lucretius first mankind. See: Myara Kelif 2017. 39 The only person to correctly make this connection between the Brazilian passetemps and features of the Golden Age was Frank Lestringant: Lestringant 1984: 234-238. 40 See: Myara Kelif 2017.

THE GOLDEN AGE AS AN IMAGINARY AND IMAGINABLE UTOPIA

41 Quinn 1955: 108. See also: Cumming, Skelton & Quinn 1971. It is not by chance that Raleigh uses the Golden Age myth here, as he was a supporter of Queen Elizabeth I, who famously presented herself on many occasions as the Virgin Astraea, that brought in a new Golden Age. See: Yates 1975. 42 See on this longue durée of Golden Ages: Mapp Jr. 1998. 43 The series on the federal pillars was issued several times, the first (Jan. 16th 1788) showing Massachusetts being added (Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Georgia, and Connecticut already in place) under the motto “United they stand – divided fall”, while the last depicts the annexation of New Hampshire, New York and South Carolina with the Rhode Island column falling to the right (Aug. 2nd 1788). For the series of prints see: Cresswell 1975: 401. 44 That the plan to build a new Golden Age in the U.S. didn’t succeed is satirically outlined by Mark Twain in his novel The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873), who criticised the state of affairs in the U.S. post-civil war era. The pejorative term ‘Gilded Age’, meaning the aim to create a Golden Age gone wrong, was later adapted by historians to designate the late nineteenth century. 45 De Quiroga 1868: 333-525. The coincidence of the dating of this legal brief and the death of Thomas More had been recognized also by Silvio Zavala: Zavala 1950. 46 He did not only read Thomas More’s Utopia, but also translated it from the Latin into Spanish to send along with his Información en Derecho. Unfortunately, this translation is no longer extant.

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47 De Quiroga 1868: 363: “porque no en vano, sino con mucha causa y razon este de acá se llama Nuevo-Mundo (y éslo Nuevo-Mundo no porque se halló de nuevo, sino porque es en gentes y cuasi en todo como fué aquel de la edad primera y de oro (…).” In his use of the Golden Age or Saturnian Age topos he was highly influenced by the translations of Lucian’s Saturnalia by Thomas More or Erasmus of Rotterdam. For the popularity and content of these translations see: Thompson 1939: 855-881. Like Thomas More, Erasmus of Rotterdam also mentioned the Golden Age topos in other works, such as his Praise of Folly. 48 De Quirogas utopian state would have been supervised by a Spanish corregidor, while all the other councils and magistrates were given to indigenous inhabitants. The highest rank was named tacatecle – in conformity with More’s Prince of Utopia – that was then followed by two magistrates, the regidors, jurados and the padre de familia, the lowest rank. 49 De Quirogas 1868: 511: “Por el mismo Tomás Morus, autor de aqueste muy buen estado de república, en este preámbulo, trato y razonamiento que sobre ella hizo como en manera de diálogo, donde su intencion parece que haya sido proponer, alegar, fundar y probar por razones las causas por que sentia por muy fácil, útil, probable y necesaria la tal república entre una gente tal que fuese de la cualidad de aquesta natural de este Nuevo Mundo (…).”

Ill. 4.1. Claes Jansz Visscher, Poties herberg (from the Plaisante plaetsen), c. 1612, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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Reviving the locus amoenus: Jan van de Velde II and Batavian Antiquarianism during the Twelve Years’ Truce (1609-1621) Robert Fucci

One of the notable features in the rise of a distinctively Dutch landscape art in the opening decades of the seventeenth century is its great proliferation in single-sheet prints before it reached its full flourishing in the medium of painting. Another is the creators’ frequent linkage of these early series with the classical topos of a locus amoenus, or pleasant place, thereby invoking an idealized or Arcadian past. The most famous of these landscape designs, and possibly the earliest, is the series of twelve etchings called Plaisante plaetsen that were created and issued around 1612 by the Amsterdambased publisher Claes Jansz Visscher (1587-1652).1 Visscher’s etchings focus on the rural byways in the vicinity of Haarlem, a city already famous at the time for the beauty of its natural surroundings (ill.  4.1). As has long been recognised, Visscher drew much inspiration from earlier landscape series published in Antwerp in the sixteenth century, especially those by the Master of the Small Landscapes issued by Hieronymus Cock in 1559 and 1561.2 These are series that Visscher himself copied directly as well as drew upon stylistically for his own designs. Despite their Flemish inspiration, Visscher’s Plaisante plaetsen rank among the earliest published non-narrative or ‘pure’ landscape prints topographically located in the newly independent United

Provinces. Less clear is to what degree we should view Visscher’s series and other early Dutch landscape prints as localized acts of patriotism, coinciding as they do with the Twelve Years’ Truce (16091621). During this period, concepts of identity and proto-national character were undoubtedly forming and reforming.3 It is true that one of Visscher’s plates depicts the ruins of the Huis ter Kleef, a fortified chateau destroyed during the Revolt that had been used as a headquarters by Don Frederick during the infamous siege of Haarlem by Spanish Habsburg forces in the winter of 1572-73 (ill. 4.2). Such a subject is the exception, however, and the more prosaic scenes that overwhelmingly dominate the series can also be interpreted (and have been) through the lenses of urbanization pressure, religious contemplation, and changing art-theoretical concerns.4 The Plaisante plaetsen, however, was not the only series of prints to draw upon local surroundings in the Northern Netherlands during the Truce years, nor was it the only one to specifically invoke the locus amoenus. In 1615, Visscher also published a series of eighteen etchings by the Haarlem-based printmaker, Jan van de Velde II (1593-1641) with the title Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae, et antiquorum monumentorum ruinae (‘Some most pleasant places, and ruins of ancient monuments’), a series

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Ill. 4.2. Claes Jansz Visscher, Huis ter Kleef (from the Plaisante plaetsen), c. 1612, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

that also happens to be Van de Velde’s earliest dated effort (ill. 4.3).5 Just one year later in 1616, Visscher also published a more extensive series of additional landscape designs by Jan van de Velde

(originally comprising fifty-two plates but later expanded to sixty) with the nearly identical but shortened title of Am[o]enissimae aliqot regiunculae, likewise comprised of similar types of images.6

Ill. 4.3. Jan van de Velde II, Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae (title-page), 1615, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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Ill. 4.4. Jan van de Velde II, Landscape with a man and a draw-well (from Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae), 1615, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

What some of the images in these series have in common with Visscher’s own Plaisante plaetsen is an emphasis on a demonstrably Dutch, consistently flat or impoldered landscape such as one sees in Van de Velde’s especially quotidian plate, Landscape with a man at a draw-well from the 1615 series (ill. 4.4). Van de Velde also shared Visscher’s interest, however, in the ruins of the Huis ter Kleef set within its rural surroundings, which, it should be emphasized, was a fundamentally new type of image in terms of depicting a recognizably local ruin (whether destroyed by time or man) as opposed to

a Roman or Roman-like one (ill. 4.5).7 On the other hand, Van de Velde’s two series make some highly important distinctions with Visscher’s Plaisante plaetsen. He also included images of obviously foreign locales and some with clearly identifiable Roman ruins, such as the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli with its famous waterfall.8 Even more strikingly, he also included some landscapes with major ruins that appear to be entirely invented, such as the Bare tree among ruins and the Large tree and ruins with a tower (ill. 4.6 and 4.7). In such imaginary works, their invented character appears reinforced

Ill. 4.5. Jan van de Velde II, The Huis ter Kleef (from Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae), 1615, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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Ill. 4.6. Jan van de Velde II, Bare tree among ruins (from Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae), 1615, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

Ill. 4.7. Jan van de Velde II, Large tree and ruins with a tower (from Amoenissimae aliquot regiunculae), etching, 1615, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

by the ominous and highly stylized trees and foliage that surround them. Van de Velde’s two series from 1615 and 1616 comprise the largest and most significant project of original Dutch landscape designs from the early seventeenth century to play on the concept of the locus amoenus, far outnumbering those by Visscher.9 That they do so with Latin titles is perhaps significant. Visscher’s Plaisante plaetsen focus on topographically identifiable locations near Haarlem, each labeled in Dutch on a table of contents, whereas Van de Velde’s two series not only lack

labeling, but appear to lack any discernable sequence in terms of ordering the local versus the foreign, or the real from the seemingly imaginary. Historians specializing in the formal development of the naturalistic Dutch landscape tradition have tended to marginalize the foreign or imaginary works in Van de Velde’s two series, focusing instead on his topographically-based local scenes in order to reinforce a larger project of demonstrating the rise of regional landscape realism in the art of the new Dutch nation. Visually editing these prolific series in scholarly discussions has helped to better

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manage and shape arguments about their novelty. Rather than dismiss the imaginary elements in these series, however, as retarditaire or some evolutionary holdover from earlier Flemish traditions, it is worth considering that the balance between the different types of images found in these series is essential to their primary artistic concerns. What most of Van de Velde’s images actually profess more than an absorption in the landscapes themselves is a specific interest in ruined structures, both real and imaginary. The title-page of the 1615 series even posits the literal link between ruins of ancient monuments and the classical topos of the locus amoenus. What will be argued here is that this link is significant in light of the fact that the period of the Twelve Years’ Truce saw an overwhelming interest in studying, understanding, and celebrating the local antiquity of Holland and the United Provinces. This intense fascination relates indisputably to issues of identity formation at the moment of the de facto independence that came to be understood after the signing of the Truce in 1609, and to serious political concerns during the formation of a republic as the preferred form of government, a form that was by no means assured at the time. This cultural passion manifested primarily in an exploration and exegesis on what is now termed the Batavian Myth, through which humanists scrutinised texts for political legitimacy and to celebrate aspects of their perceived national character.10 Poets, playwrights, and artists expanded on the renewed interest in ancient Batavians to create cultural touchstones that often-interweaved facts, fictions, and imaginative forays into the past.11 There has never been a linkage proposed between the superabundance of imaginary and real ruins in Van de Velde’s works and the contemporaneous interest in local antiquity and Batavian culture. Nor has the importance of Batavian antiquarianism and myth-making ever been raised in relation to the famous development of the naturalistic Dutch landscape tradition generally. To be clear, however, there is no direct link in terms of textual references to the ancient Batavians on any

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of the title-pages or images of the landscape prints by Van de Velde and others. What this study suggests is that we can only fully understand the sudden proliferation of ruins in these early and specifically Dutch landscape designs by examining the rich associations that the ardent interest in local antiquity – both real and imagined – provided concurrently. The fact that the Low Countries even had an antiquity, one indeed rooted in ancient Roman culture, had more or less completely escaped the notice of humanists until the early sixteenth century. One of the great causes of this ‘invisibility’, as archaeologists can attest to now, is that nearly every stone or non-ephemeral structure once existing in the region (a place notable for its lack of stone quarries) was quickly spoliated or re-used in the early Middle Ages for churches, monasteries, fortresses, and so forth. Even the well-built Roman roads along the limes had flooded over with mud and silt by late antiquity, and remained nearly entirely covered until being excavated in the 1980s.12 In the Renaissance, all knowledge about the ancient Dutch tribe of Batavians came instead from Tacitus’s Histories and Germania, works that themselves narrowly escaped the dustbin of history when Boccaccio located the sole-surviving copies in the fourteenth century in Monte Cassino’s library. Manuscript copies then circulated among a small group of mostly Italian humanists until the first printed editions brought these texts more widely to light and, finally, to the attention of such notable Netherlandish humanists such as Gerard Geldenhauer, Cornelius Aurelius, and Erasmus, all of whom naturally devoted a great deal of attention to understanding their ethnic forebears.13 Tacitus’s texts provided the first direct link between the Low Countries and ancient Rome. Tacitus also provided humanists with the earliest putative study of the inherent character of the Netherlandish peoples – a quasi-anthropological account of their behavioral makeup – which was held as deeply informative for understanding their

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modern disposition, at least according to renaissance logic. Among the most flattering characteristics ascribed to the ancient Batavians was the fact that they were considered the bravest of all the tribes in Germany and Gaul. New editions of Tacitus translated into Dutch appeared in 1612, 1614, and 1616.14 Petrus Scriverius published his seminal history of the region, Batavia illustrata, in 1609, which appeared shortly thereafter in Dutch as Beschrijvinghe van out Batavien, a text that was reprinted several times over the course of the 1610s.15 Scriverius’s deep and committed interest in Batavian history is significant in light of his personal relationship with Jan van de Velde, who not only engraved his portrait (ill. 4.8) but also supplied a full-page red chalk tronie drawing for Scriverius’s album amicorum.16 Hugo Grotius published his own study, De antiquitate reipublicae Batavicae in 1610, likewise immediately translated and issued in Dutch.17 Batavians became the subject of a number of new dramaturgic explorations and elaborations of their tale. Jan Sywertsen Kolm’s Battaefsche vrienden-spieghel appeared in 1615, Theodore Rodenburg’s Batavierse vrijagie-spel in 1616, and P.C. Hooft’s Baeto, from 1617. Hooft based his play on the ancient legendary figure of Baeto whose historical existence had already then been called into question. Historical accuracy, however, was never the main point of these theater productions. The Batavians found their first significant representation in the visual arts in a substantial series of prints comprising 35 plates (plus a title-page) published in 1611-1612, the Batavorum cum Romanis bellum designed by Otto van Veen and etched by Antonio Tempesta.18 This series illustrated scenes from the rebellion in 69 CE led by the Batavian leader Julius Civilis (for obscure reasons, his name is usually given in art-historical literature as Claudius rather than Julius) embellished with captions that quote Tacitus’s Histories, the text of his that treats the revolt at length, and our only source of knowledge about Civilis and the Dutch Revolt against Rome.19 Interest in the history and

character of the Batavians intensified dramatically during the Truce years not just as an expression of nationalistic pride in ancient roots specific to the newly free United Provinces, but also as an important prefiguration of the revolt against the Habsburgs that they themselves had just won. The typological association was too strikingly and fatefully clear: a traditionally free people attempting to throw off the yoke of an empire led by an unjust and oppressive ruler. A second Batavian craze, arguably better-known today, took place for similar reasons after the Treaty of Münster in 1648, in which the Dutch received their definitive independence (de jure) which resulted, among other things, in the commission for the series of paintings treating the Batavians in Amsterdam’s Stadhuis (now Paleis op de Dam). The idea of invoking local antiquity obtained special urgency for Grotius, writing in 1610, whose influential thought was at the heart of current political debates in the United Provinces. While the North had gained sovereignty from the Habsburg crown, the choice of government was by no means guaranteed to be a republic rather than a monarchy. In his study of the ‘Batavian Republic’ (as he called it) Grotius averred that the sovereignty of the United Provinces was not gained but rather preserved based upon a continuous relationship of relative independence from monarchy that had lasted for the past 1600 years. While Grotius’s arguments might today seem to stretch the historical record beyond credulity (offering an unbroken chain going back to antiquity) there is no doubt that he wrote in earnest.20 One of his notable conclusions, and relevant for the study of Jan van de Velde and his enthusiasm for ruins, is that the Batavians must have lived in towns and cities. Indeed, they were the only Germanic tribe to do so. Grotius deduced this through a study of magistrate systems in ancient texts, from which it became clear to him (and again, somewhat wishfully) that the legal systems of the Batavians pointed toward the presence of substantial urban infrastructures. As he wrote:

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Ill. 4.8. Jan van de Velde II (after Frans Hals), Portrait of Petrus Scriverius, 1626, engraving, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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The Batavians seem to have been different from the other German peoples in this one respect, that the Germans lived in villages only, and had no towns whatsoever. That the Batavians, on the other hand, founded towns right from the moment they occupied the island, is likely, since they did not choose a temporary residence, like the other Germans, but a permanent one; and the place they chose, according to Tacitus, was “favourable to the importation of an abundance” of all sorts of goods “because of its easy access from the sea.”21

The supposedly urban and civilized nature of Batavian architecture (i.e. Roman) was not lost on Otto van Veen. He repeatedly depicted ancient Dutch fortresses and bridges as massive and very Roman-

like structures in his series of print designs, such as The Romans burning the Dutch countryside (ill. 4.9).22 Van Veen, who went by the Latin cognomen Vaenius, was a pictor doctus, a humanist artist deeply invested in a concern for historical accuracy. He also offered sense of urban infrastructure a year or so later in his painted version of the series.23 These latter paintings based on the prints were commissioned by the States General in The Hague to hang in their main meeting chamber.24 There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Batavians had occupied the lands that fell within the newly independent Northern Netherlands. Tacitus was clear that their realm specifically rested north of the Rhine. The only geographical debate,

Ill. 4.9. Antonio Tempesta (after Otto van Veen), The Romans burning the Dutch countryside (from Batavorum cum Romanis bellum), 1612, etching, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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one going back to the early sixteenth century, was whether they were from Holland or Gelderland, with the far more economically and intellectually powerful province of Holland ultimately overpowering the issue (although today archaeologists tend to situate the Batavians more in the Gelders/ Utrecht area).25 Among the most important aspects of the resurgent Batavian Myth during the Truce years was not just that it prophesied the revolt and victory of the North, and that it offered an idealized ancient model of mores and government – though it did both these things – but rather that the myth itself rightfully belonged to the United Provinces alone. In cartographic terms, the Antwerp-based Abraham Ortelius had already acknowledged as much by his map Belgii veteris typus from 1594 depicting the locations of the ‘Old-’ and ‘New Batavia’ (Batavia vetus and Batavia recenti) precisely in the regions that comprised the United Provinces.26 Scriverius placed the Batavians in Holland by seconding the degree of their urbanization in Roman times.27 He appears to have been the first Dutch humanist to make use of the Peutinger map (the Tabula Peutingeriana) to more or less correctly identify certain towns and cities in the Northern Netherlands as having provable Roman origins. This map was (and remains) famous as the only surviving copy of any ancient Roman road map of Europe and which had just been published in print for the first time by Ortelius and Moretus.28 Worth remarking is that in the same note about the urbanization of the Batavians, Scriverius remarked offhand about his colleague, Johannes Smetius, ‘I am eagerly looking forward to his book on the antiquity of the town of Nijmegen and the ancient remains excavated there.’29 Scriverius could thus finally expect a study of physical traces of ancient structures in the United Provinces themselves, though unfortunately not ones in the Province of Holland itself. The lack of visible ancient remains was obviously a concern. At the time, the only ruin in Holland thought to be Roman was the Burcht van

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Leiden, actually not Roman at all but rather a medieval motte from the eleventh century.30 More significant to their historical imagination was the large and famous ancient ruin that remained frustratingly underwater and therefore completely out of view, the so-called Arx Brittanica, or Brittenburg.31 The Arx Brittanica remained submerged off the coast of Katwijk near Leiden except for rare and periodic re-emergences after certain storm tides left the base of the structure visible and allowed for the collection of artifacts. It gained the misnomer Brittenburg in the fifteenth century when it was thought to have been built by early medieval Britons fleeing their homeland.32 Three emergences in the sixteenth century, however (in 1520, 1552, and 1562), made it clear to humanists who studied the collected coins and inscriptions on artifacts gathered at these opportune moments that it was actually an ancient Roman structure, and perhaps even the famous Tower of Caligula mentioned by Suetonius.33 After the 1562 emergence, Ortelius published the most extensive and best-known plan of the ruin (ill. 4.10). Variations of this plan were frequently reprinted in nearly every historical study of the region, including in the many editions of Scriverius’s book throughout the 1610s. To judge from early sources, it appears that the Arx Brittanica never again re-emerged after 1562, or at least not in the seventeenth century; and, in fact, modern archaeologists have continually failed to relocate it after much effort.34 For Batavian enthusiasts during the Truce years, its seemingly endless annual absences must have led to a rather unusual perceptual challenge for those wishing to study it, or simply bask in its historical presence. It was, in the end, a truly significant ancient Roman ruin in Holland that was certainly tactile, if only it could be found, yet ultimately invisible and enticingly out of reach. This did not keep it from being discussed repeatedly and studied with great interest. What might be deemed the culture of local antiquity and its ancient remains was not lost on the educated classes generally, and certainly not

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Ill. 4.10. Abraham Ortelius, Plan of the Arx Brittanica (Brittenburg), 1566-68, hand-coloured engraving, Bilthoven, Collection of Marcel van den Broecke.

on Jan van de Velde, who continually conjured the idea of an ancient past – a necessarily imaginary one – from the local surroundings. As Wilfried Hessing has shown, the educated populace of the United Provinces was widely aware of the renewed interest in ancient Batavia, and especially the ideas of Grotius, which had such great political importance during this time of crucial identity formation in the young Republic.35 What emerges from a study of Van de Velde’s numerous ruins is the profile of an artist who was deeply concerned with antiquarian culture at a moment of intense and fluid understandings of the origins, remains, and histories in the United Provinces. Van de Velde, more than any other artist during the Truce years,

committed much of his artistic practice to the notion of a visualized antiquity. His imaginary ruins did not need to make any claim for specificity any more than his depictions of actual ruins required identification or labeling, for usually they were not. Unlike Scriverius and other humanists his project was not archaeological. Van de Velde’s great innovation was linking the concept of a locus amoenus not just to the rustic and irenic pastoral realities that were locally observable, but also to the idea of a satisfying historical presence conferred by the repetitive and evocative use of ruins as signifiers of a deep and mysterious past whose potency lied precisely in his random imbrication of the known and knowable with the unseen and unseeable.

REVIVING THE LO CUS AMOENUS

NOTES 1 Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vols. 38-39: nos. 149-160. The literature on Visscher’s Plaisante plaetsen is quite extensive, but see especially Gibson 2000. For Visscher generally, see most recently Leeflang 2014: 241-268. 2 For their impact on Visscher, see especially Onuf 2011. 3 One of the most significant scholarly attempts in this regard is the study by Levesque 1994. Levesque’s approach met with considered criticism in some of its particulars by Leeflang 1995: 273-280, though in a certain fashion the present study is an extension of Levesque’s method. Leeflang’s own work does much to properly recontextualize early Dutch landscape prints within Haarlem’s history of adulating and promoting its landscape surroundings as a fundamental aspect of its civic identity. See, in particular, Leeflang 1998: 52-115, an essential study in this regard. 4 See, for example, Leeflang 1998: 52-115; Bakker 1993a: 97-116 and Bakker 1993b: 6-17. 5 Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vols. 33-34: nos. 178-195. His landscape prints are also the subject of the author’s Ph.D. dissertation, Fucci 2018. 6 Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vols. 33-34: nos. 232-291. For a discussion of the expansion of the series and its implications, see Fucci 2015: 17-22. 7 Visscher’s and Van de Velde’s images of Huis ter Kleef might well be the earliest showing the structure in ruins. The ruins of Brederode Castle, also near Haarlem and destroyed during the Revolt, became a popular subject for artists around this time as well, beginning as early as 1600 with Goltzius’s drawing (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, inv. no. RP-T-1879-A-67). For ruins generally in Dutch art of this period, see Löffler 2005: 7-48. 8 Whether or not Jan van de Velde ever made a trip to Italy remains unclear. If he did, the trip would have almost certainly taken place after he executed this image of the Temple of the Sibyl in 1615. As has long been recognised, he borrowed this particular image of the temple from a drawing (or drawings) by Jan Brueghel the Elder; see Brown 1982: 370-371 and 418-419. 9 Visscher also etched a series of fourteen plates after designs by Cornelis Claes van Wieringen titled Amoeniores aliquot regiunculae published in 1613; Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vols. 38-39: nos. 327340. Like Van de Velde’s two series, it betrays a sense of mixing imagery and topographically-based scenes, although none of these latter appear to be identifiable since none bear major or otherwise recognizable structures such as one finds in Visscher’s and Van de Velde’s works. 10 The term Batavian Myth was coined by Schöffer 1975: 78-101, which remains a fundamental reference for the study of Batavian identity in this period. See also, Hessing 2001: 126-143. 11 Netherlandish antiquity and the Batavians have informed a number of significant art-historical studies in recent years, including Bass 2016; Weststeijn 2015 and Porras 2011. 12 Hessing 2001: 128-129. 13 For the renaissance historiography of Batavian Myth, see Schöffer 1975: 80-86; Hessing 2001: 131-132; and for the humanist response generally, Tilmans 1992. 14 Schöffer 1975: p. 89, note 24. New editions furthermore appeared in 1630 and 1635. 15 For an overview of Scriverius’s historical writings, see Tuynman 1977: 4-45 and 20-22 for bibliographic details. 16 Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vols. 33-34: no. 407. For Van de Velde’s drawing in Scriverius’s album amicorum, see Van Gelder 1955: 21-40, 31-33 and ill. 15. 17 The fundamental study of this work, with a translation and further references, is Grotius 2000.

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18 Buffa 1984: 288-324, nos. 560-595; Leuschner 2007: 103-152, nos. 3501.497-532. The series appears to have been published first in Rome in 1611 and then in Antwerp in 1612. See also, Morford 2001: 57-74; Schöffer 1975: 94-95; and Van de Waal 1952, vol. 1: 210-215. 19 Tacitus, Histories, Book IV, chapters 12-37, 54-79, and Book V, chapters 14-26. Since Book V breaks off after chapter 26 and the rest of the text is missing, we do not know the ultimate fate of Civilis, nor the exact outcome of the revolt. 20 Schöffer 1975: 92-93. 21 Illud tamen addendum est, una in re dissimiles videri Batavos aliis Germanis fuisse. Quod Germani sine ullis urbibus vicos tantum habitabant. Batavis vero urbes conditas statim ex quo insulam occuparunt, credibile est, quia non ut caeteri temporariam, sed mansuram dedem elegerant, idque loco, ut Tacitus ait, ‘ob faciles apulsus accipiendis copiis’ rereum omnum ‘oportuno’. Grotius, De antiquitate reipublicae Batavicae, chapter II, paragraph 15. The English translation is by Jan Waszink in Grotius 2000: p. 67. 22 Buffa 1984: 322, no. 593 and 324, no. 595. 23 See, for example, Civilis and Cerialis meet on a broken bridge to reach an accord, c. 1613, oil on panel, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum (inv. no. SK-A-432). 24 For the series of paintings, see Leuschner 2007: 103-104; and Van de Waal 1952, vol. 1: 210, citing payment for the series to Pieter van Veen, the artist’s brother, who worked for the States General. Pieter van Veen, incidentally, was the dedicatee of a series of Twelve months by Jan van de Velde from 1616 (Hollstein 46-57). 25 For a summary of this debate, see Hessing 2001: 132. 26 The Belgii Veterus Typus was part of a later addendum (the Parergon) to the Teatrum Orbis Terrarum that comprised maps of the ancient world and was, according to Koeman, part of a more personal project by Ortelius that was close to his heart. See Koeman 1964: 44; Van der Heijden 2004: 37-41. 27 Idem: 130-131. 28 For the Peutinger map and its early modern historiography, see Talbert 2010: 19-23 for the Ortelius and Moretus publication. 29 Cuius Commentarium de Noviomagi oppidi antiquitate et monumentis priscis inibi effossis, avidissime exspectamus. The English translation is by Jan Waszink in Grotius 2000: 130-131. Scriverius here is commenting on the Grotius’s passage about the urban nature of the Batavians found in ch. 2, paragraph 15. 30 Van Reyen 1976. 31 The basic studies of the site are Dijkstra & Ketelaar 1965; and Boomgaard et al. 1984. Its importance in relation to seventeenthcentury Dutch artistic culture is discussed briefly in Weststeijn 2015: 55-56, who connects interest in it to the circle of Franciscus Junius. Two paintings from the early seventeenth century, both in private collections, attempt literal recreations of the site (Weststeijn 2015: 67, ill. 50) and have been variously connected to artists in the orbit of Jan van de Velde in Haarlem, such as Esaias van de Velde, Jan van Goyen, and Pieter Saenredam, though none convincingly. 32 Hessing 2001: 128-129; citing Johannis a Leydis (John of Leiden), Chronicon Hollandiae comitum et episcoporum Ultraiectensium, c. 1490. 33 For the historiography of this theory with some additional modern evidence that seems to support it, see Wynia 1999: 145-147. 34 Harold Hendricks, Director of the Koninklijk Nederlands Instituut Rome, was kind enough to share with me his strong conviction that the Arx Brittanica cannot be located by modern archaeologists for the simple reason that it never existed in the first place (personal communication, July 5, 2015). If true, this would certainly put an interesting twist on the notion of ‘imagined’ ruins. 35 Hessing 2001.

Ill. 5.1. Quinten Massys, Democritus, c. 1525-30, oil on panel, private collection.

5

Democritus: the Laughing Philosopher Maximiliaan P.J. Martens, UGent - KVAB

Quinten Massys and Erasmus met somewhere between 1516, and 30 May 1517, the date of Erasmus’ letter to Thomas More. This letter first mentions the famous Friendship Diptych (Hampton Court, Longford Castle) and the portraits of him and Pieter Gillis on which Massys was working at the time.1 In his monograph on the artist, Larry Silver devoted a chapter to Erasmus’ influence on Massys. Besides the Friendship Diptych, no other work in the oeuvre is so closely related to Erasmian thought as the Portrait of Democritus, the laughing philosopher (Ill. 5.1).2 Until now, this work was known only through a murky black and white photograph, displayed in an exhibition in Vienna in 1930, and its whereabouts were considered unknown ever since. Therefore, the laughing philosopher has been treated only cursorily in art historical literature.3 At the time of the exhibition in the Wiener Secession, it belonged to the Amsterdam art dealer P. de Boer, who acquired it at Agnews in London two years earlier. In 2013, a middleman working for the present private owner contacted Silver with the request to study the painting. After 83 years, Quinten Massys’ Democritus had finally resurfaced. As Silver demonstrated, the identification of the laughing man as the Greek philosopher is based on a slightly later engraving by Cornelis Cort (Ill. 5.2). Although in Cort’s version, the man has long curly hair, a small beard, and an imaginary timeless hat, the likeness between the painted model and the engraving is obvious.

Ill. 5.2. Cornelis Cort, Democritus.

In popular culture, and especially at the beginning of the early modern age, Democritus was considered as the philosopher who laughed with the stupidity of mankind, convinced that it was one’s duty to strive for jolliness and inner peace. According to popular belief, he roamed the streets laughing in despise of man’s foolishness. As can be seen in Cornelis Cort’s print, he is often shown with his pendant, the philosopher Heraclitus, who wept for the state of humanity.4

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Ill. 5.3. Quinten Massys, Democritus (reverse), c. 1525-30, oil on panel, private collection.

Ill. 5.4. Quinten Massys, Democritus (x-radiography), c. 1525-30, oil on panel, private collection.

The attribution of the work to Quinten Massys can be confirmed by the IRR-documentation and the painting technique. The paint surface is slightly abraded. The work must have been restored at least once during the period it was not publicly known. Dendrochronological analysis, performed by Pascale Fraiture at KIK-IRPA,5 identified the support as Baltic oak. It consists of one board of 46,3 cm height × 35 cm width at the top and 34,6 cm at the bottom. The board is 6 mm thick, thinned at the edges to 3 mm. 175-year rings have been measured dating between 1333 and 1507. The last year ring is the first sapwood ring. This sets the earliest possible felling date to 1512. Theoretically, considering the removal of an unknown number of sapwood rings, the felling date can be as late as 1542. The reverse of the panel was planed down and covered with a dark paint layer. Currently, strips of paper partly cover the edges (Ill. 5.3). On the X-radiograph (Ill. 5.4), traces of other covering

strips, applied with a mixture containing lead white can be clearly seen, however, they do not correspond with the actual strips, and must thus date from an intervention that predates the application of the dark covering paint layer. The support was prepared and painted up to the edges. Neither barb nor unpainted edges can be seen, as one usually expects in the early decades of the 16th century. However, the X-ray image does not show any alteration of the original format. The reverse also contains also a paper label deriving from the 1930 Vienna exhibition, confirming that this is the version previously discussed in art historical literature. The preparation layer has not been analysed but is most probably calcium carbonate (CaCO3) mixed with animal glue, as usual in Flemish paintings of the time. There is not much underdrawing visible except for the proper left contour of the face, drawn in a

DEMO CRITUS : THE LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER

Ill. 5.5. Quinten Massys, Democritus, c. 1525-30, oil on panel, private collection.

liquid medium (see IRR, Ill. 5.5). This is typical for Massys, as can be noticed e.g. in the underdrawing of the mourning St. John in the Altarpiece of the Two St. Johns (Antwerp, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, KMSK).6 Some dark accentuating lines, like those underneath the chin or the fold in the cheek, or underneath the hat, derive from an early painting stage in which black paint was mixed. Such features can also be seen in the hairdo of Massys’ Antwerp Magdalene (Antwerp, KMSK). Adjustment to the volume of the man’s hair at the left side, and of the contour of the collar at the left side are visible, as well as some lines of single hairs to the left of the hat. They equally belong to the painting stage and are typical of Massys’ manner. The heavy age cracks seen on the entire surface of the painting, suggest that they are formed in the preparation layer as a result of the hygroscopic action of the support. This cracking caused small paint losses, which have been painted in. Some

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minor retouches are visible in UV-fluorescence; however, in the IRR much more retouching can be noticed. This means that the painting was restored at least twice. Judging from the fluorescence, the latest phase can be dated to about 70 years ago, but is probably much more recent. Along some of the cracks, like e.g. underneath the mouth, paint flaked off. In the upper row of teeth a few fake cracks were painted. These fake or accentuated cracks appear elsewhere and consist of extremely fine lines (c. 67 μm) in brown paint.7 The man’s left hand, visible in the XR (Ill. 5.4), has been over-painted, most probably at an early stage (perhaps by the artist himself), as the crack pattern of this over-painted zone is identical to that on the rest of the robe. Like the coat itself the paint contained black. Therefore, the hand is not visible in IRR either. The original hand was huge with pronounced bones, and perhaps thought to be unfit for the figure. The area of the over-paint can be seen in raking light. Its contours had slightly flaked and were retouched during the last restoration. The robe of the man has darkened a lot, to a point that it has become practically non-descriptive. The original form of the coat can be better distinguished in the X-Ray. The brushwork in e.g. the nose and in and around the eyes is extremely fine and modulated in different tones. Slight use of sgrafitto, typical of Massys, can be noticed in the left eyebrow. During the last restoration campaign a very thick varnish was sprayed onto the painted surface. In the darkest areas and e.g. in the casting shadow on the back wall, it can be noticed that the varnish has become dull and less transparent. Due to the thickness of the varnish the legibility of the surface condition of the painting is seriously hampered. The general condition of the paint surface, with its heavy age cracks, some over-cleaning, and the thickly applied varnish that has turned dull locally, hamper a good judgment of the picture. Some details, like the fine brushwork in the face, the elegantly painted white shirt, the expressive eyes, and the feathering underneath the chin and in the

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fur coat, are all typical features of Quinten Massys’ late style. The application of dark accentuating lines in the underpainting phase has been observed in other paintings by the master. A date of c. 152530 for Democritus seems likely indeed and is not contradicted by the dendrochronological analysis. Silver suggested a similar date.8 Last, but not least, the theme inspired by Erasmus, Democritus, the laughing philosopher, indicates an original invention by Quinten Massys, probably commissioned, as suggested by Silver, by someone in the immediate humanist circle of Massys.9 The Portrait of Democritus by Massys is one of the earliest examples in Netherlandish painting.10 Laughing figures at this time are usually representations of jesters.11 In the context of early Netherlandish humanism, Democritus is literally the alter ego of Erasmus’ Folly. The historical Democritus (Demokritos) was born in Abdera, Trace, and lived from c. 460 until c.  380/370 BC.12 He was a Greek scholar, preSocratic philosopher, astronomer and traveller. As an astronomer, he was the first to divide the heavens into a northern and a southern hemisphere. His mathematical work deals with tangential lines and planes to circles and spheres, and he came up with a formula for calculating the volume of a cone. He also introduced the notion of causality. Aristotle attributed the atomic theory (known as ‘atomism’) to him. He was a materialist and an atheist. To him, God or the gods were pure imagination, invented by people to explain all they failed to explain. Later Greek philosophers considered him as one of the founders of aesthetics. Unfortunately, all of his writings are lost and only known through secondary sources. As stated before, in early modern times, his reputation was mainly restricted to his legendary moral stance of ridiculing the stupidity of mankind. In Praise of Folly, Erasmus mentions the laughing philosopher no less than four times. In the introduction, he addresses Thomas More, to whom, as is well known, he not only dedicates his work, but even calls him ‘a Democritus’.

‘I conceived this exercise of wit would not be least approved by you; inasmuch as you are wont to be delighted with such kind of mirth, that is to say, neither unlearned, if I am not mistaken, not altogether insipid, and in the whole course of your life have played the part of a Democritus…’13

In a next passage, Erasmus deals with political leaders whom he mocks for the flattering courting of their public and for their egotistic pride: ‘For what is more foolish, say they, than for a suppliant suitor to flatter the people, to buy their favour with gifts, to court the applauses of so many fools, to please himself with their acclamations, to be carried on the people’s shoulders as in triumph, and have a brazen statue in the marketplace? … most foolish things, and such as one Democritus is too little to laugh at.’

In another part Folly talks about ordinary people: ‘For to what purpose is it to say anything of the common people, who without dispute are wholly mine? For they abound everywhere with so many several sorts of folly, and are every day so busy in inventing new, that a thousand Democriti are too few for so general a laughter, though there were another Democritus to laugh at them too.’

And finally, Erasmus relates Democritus’ laughter to himself and to teachers (and as a consequence, most of us…): ‘… But let me be most foolish myself, and one whom Democritus may not only laugh at but flout, if I go one foot further in the discovery of the follies and madness of the common people. I’ll betake me to them that carry the reputation of wise men and hunt after that golden bough, as says the proverb. Among whom the teachers hold the first place, a generation of men than whom nothing would be more miserable, nothing more perplexed, nothing more hated of the gods, did not I allay the troubles of that pitiful profession with a certain kind of pleasant madness (…) as being ever hunger starved and slovens in their schools— schools, did I say? Nay, rather cloisters, bridewells, or slaughterhouses—grown old among a company of boys, deaf with their noise, and pined away with stench and

DEMO CRITUS : THE LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER

nastiness. And yet by my courtesy it is that they think themselves the most excellent of all men, so greatly do they please themselves in freighting a company of fearful boys with a thundering voice and big looks, tormenting them with ferules, rods, and whips; and, laying about them without fear or wit, imitate the ass in the lion’s skin...’

Although Folly sneers at all social groups, it is perhaps telling that Erasmus lets Democritus laugh most explicitly with leaders, teachers, and commoners. A last issue I would like to raise, is whether Massys’ Laughing Democritus could be a cryptoportrait of Thomas More himself? Actually, this very attractive hypothesis was proposed to me by my colleague Jan van der Stock. But the question is not easy, as even Erasmus knew, when he acclaimed: ‘For indeed I do not think it more easy to make a likeness of More than of Alexander the Great, or of Achilles; neither were those heroes more worthy of immortality...’ The slightly hooked pronounced nose, the squared chin and the slender lips may suggest a likeness, but even if it is, it remains methodologically problematic to compare faces made in entirely different functional contexts, without any information at all on whether Massys even had a reliable iconographic source at his direct disposal. But it still haunts me that Erasmus in his description of his dear friend More talks about his big hands, a bit peasanty, at least in comparison to the rest of his body.14 Most likely, Democritus is laughing with me now …

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NOTES 1 Allen, Allen & Garrod 1906-1958: no. 584. 2 Silver 1984: 105-133, cat. no. 43, pl. 115. 3 Von Baldass 1933: 137-182; Friedländer 1971: cat. no. 55, pl. 54; Silver 1978: 20-23; Silver 1984: cat. no. 43; Wien 1930: no. 67 (see label on reverse, ill. XXX). 4 A rare earlier example of this juxtaposition is a fresco of 1477 by Donato Bramante, transferred to canvas and preserved in the Brera in Milan. 5 N° de dossier KIK-IRPA 2013.12037. 6 This IRR-document and others mentioned in the present article will be discussed amply in my forthcoming monograph on Quinten Massys. 7 Microphotographs and measurements of cracks were made with our Hirox 3D digital microscope. 8 Silver 1984: 227. 9 Ibidem. 10 The subject of Democritus would become more popular in the 17th century, with notable examples such as by Hendrik Ter Brugghen (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 1628), Rembrandt (Self-portrait as laughing Democritus, Santa Monica, J. Paul Getty Museum, c.  1628), Johannes Moreelse (versions in Utrecht, Centraal Museum, 1630 and Mauritshuis in The Hague). All these examples are at least 100 years later. 11 E.g. the one recently acquired by the Phoebus foundation, which is known in several copies. 12 For Democritus’ biography and on his philosophical work, see Berryman 2016. 13 CCEL 1958. 14 Van der Stock 2016; Erasmus 2006: no. 999.

Ill. 6.1. Quinten Massys, Portrait of Petrus Aegidius, c. 1514, oil on oak, Oldenburg, Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kulturgeschichte.

Ill. 6.2. Quinten Massys, Portrait of Cornelia Sandrin (wife of Petrus Aegidius), c. 1514, Oldenburg, Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kulturgeschichte.

6

Social Networks, Wooden Connections – Two Portraits by Quentin Massys Malve Anna Falk, MA

This paper presents results from collection and dendrochronological research conducted during a two-year project at the Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kulturgeschichte Oldenburg in Germany. The main goal of the project was to reconstruct the former grand-ducal art gallery, which was founded in 1804 and partially dismantled in 1918. Due to a limited time frame only a couple of paintings from the collection were subjected to technical research based on specific questions about the objects, which occurred during project. The case studies discussed in this article concern two portraits by Quinten Massys (1466-1530) and one attributed to Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (1470-1533). The examination of these portraits delivered both highly anticipated results as well as surprises shedding light on the social networks of the sitters. The portraits of Petrus Aegidius and his wife Quentin Massys painted Pieter Gillis, also known as Petrus Aegidius (1486-1533), and his wife (ill. 6.1 and 6.2). Aegidius, as stadsgriffier of Antwerp, was a highly respected civil servant and a friend of Erasmus of Rotterdam (1466-1536). Their friendship is well-documented through letters and portraits, seen, for example in 1517, when Massys painted the pair in the so-called Friendship-Diptych (ill. 6.3 and 6.4), which they gifted to Thomas More. This commonly known likeness of Aegidius

was one of the most important sources for the examination of the portrait in Oldenburg. The story of the two portraits in the Oldenburg gallery is not thoroughly documented but nonetheless very interesting. Both portrait panels came to Oldenburg with the collection of the painter Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein (1751-1829). Tischbein himself and the first collection catalogues listed the portraits as works by Hans Holbein.1 In 1867, the attribution was changed to Christoph Amberger, a contemporary of Albrecht Dürer.2 Wilhelm Bode, in his 1888 illustrated book on the Oldenburg collection, suggested Bartel Bruyn.3 All of these attributions to German rather than Netherlandish painters worked in favour of the portraits, when Gustav Pauli, director of the Hamburger Kunsthalle, was asked to estimate the value of the collection in 1919. Max Friedländer had attributed the portraits to Massys in 1916.4 Gustav Pauli was well aware of this attribution because he listed it in brackets behind the name Amberger in the original document.5 However, Pauli must not have been impressed with the quality of the portraits and the attribution by Friedländer, as he estimated a value of only 15.000 Mark. In comparison, the most valuable painting on the list was the Portrait of an elderly woman or Prophetess Hannah by Rembrandt van Rijn for 700.000 Mark, today in the Rijksmuseum.6 The relatively low estimae and the continuing attribution to a German painter

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Ill. 6.3. Quinten Massys, Portrait of Erasmus of Rotterdam, 1517, oil on oak, Royal Collection Trust, HM Queen Elizabeth II.

saved the portraits from a train ride to the vibrant Dutch art market, when in the summer of 1919 the most valuable third of the ducal collection was clandestinely taken to the Netherlands. In Amsterdam, the paintings from Oldenburg were successively sold or auctioned off. What was left in Oldenburg, was either too big to carry away or was considered less valuable. Especially the Dutch and Italian art seemed to promise a high revenue. The remaining artworks now form the old master collection of the Landesmuseum Oldenburg. After the closure (?) of the Großherzogliche Gemäldegalerie in Oldenburg, many works of the collection were often overlooked in publications and exhibitions. However, this was not the case with the portrait of Petrus Aegidius. It frequently featured in publications, while the portrait of his wife remained a side note in many catalogues.7 Only in 1954 Van Wachem, identified the male sitter as Petrus Aegidius based on the resemblance with Aegidius in the Friendship-Diptych.8 The comparison shows a number of important common

Ill. 6.4. Quinten Massys, Portrait of Petrus Aegidius, 1517, oil on oak, Longford Castle, Collection Earl of Radnor.

features: The hair and the costume are very similar. The warm, dark eyes provide a more solid ground beyond questions of fashion. Most of all, it is the little dimple on the point of his nose which characterizes Aegidius, and leaves no doubt concerning the identity of the sitter in the Oldenburg portrait. While the identification of Aegidius by comparison of physical features was undisputed, the identity of his wife, although discussed at length by different scholars, remained inconclusive.9 Aegidius married three times: in 1514 he took Cornelia Sandrin to be his wife, after her death in 1526 he got married to Maria Denis, a widower again in 1530 he married Catheline Draecx. The discussion about the identity of the lady by his side focusses mainly on the first two spouses, because Quinten Massys died in 1530. Therefore, it was generally

SO CIAL NETWO RKS , WOODEN CONNECTIONS

assumed that the portraits were painted before the year of the death of the painter. Walter MüllerWulckow, the founding director of the Landesmuseum, Oldenburg argued, that the portraits might have been painted by Hans Holbein during his stay in Antwerp in 1526, the year of Petrus Aegidius’ second marriage.10 Thus, he identified the lady as Maria Denis. His attempt to re-attribute the portraits to Holbein was widely ignored, but the identification of the wife continued to be controversially discussed. The main argument was the assumed age of Aegidius in the portrait in comparison to the diptych of 1517: Arguably, Aegidius does look older and more mature in the Oldenburg portrait. This could mean that the portrait was painted later, at the occasion of his second marriage in 1526. However, Erasmus wrote in a letter to Thomas More about the sessions for the Diptych, that Aegidius was rather ill at the time: ‘Pieter Gillis and I are being painted on the same panel, which we shall soon send to you as a present. But it so happened, very inconveniently, that on my return I found Pieter seriously ill, even dangerously, from some sickness I know not what, from which even now he has not properly recovered.’11 This first-hand account about the making of the diptych is a unique source. The illness probably altered Aegidius’ appearance, but it is unclear if it made him appear younger or older. Because of his hollow-looking cheeks on the Diptych, several scholars considered it likely that the Diptych preceded the double-portrait with his wife and cautiously leaned towards an identification of the wife as Maria Denis.12 Larry Silver made a very important observation in his monograph on Massys from 1984. He argued that the treatment of light in the Oldenburg portraits was very similar to the one in the painting De wisselaer (or The Moneylender) in the Louvre.13 The light falls from the left into the painting, streaking along the face of the moneychanger while fully illuminating his wife on the right. Although the Oldenburg portraits are two detached panels, they feature the same effect: a strong shadow on

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the right half of Aegidius’ face and frontal spotlight on his wife. The strong contrast of light and dark, enhanced by the white headdress of both women, is a very particular treatment, Silver concluded.14 The Moneylender is dated 1514, the year of Aegidius’ first marriage. Silver’s observation reopened the discussion about the dating and the identity of the wife. In order to determine the age of the panels and therefore, hopefully, come closer to the identity of the female sitter, a dendrochronological analysis of both Oldenburg portraits was undertaken. Prof. Peter Klein executed the exam of the panels. He came to the conclusion that both panels, consisting each of only one plank, were made of wood from the same oak tree. The youngest heartwood ring is dated to 1496. Based on the average sapwood rings plus a minimum storage period of two years, Klein calculated the most likely cutting date to 15091511, leading to an estimated earliest date of use of the panels in 1513.15 Therefore, it is possible that both portraits were painted a year later, in 1514, at the occasion of the marriage between Petrus Aegidius and Cornelia Sandrin. Accordingly, Aegidius is probably three years younger in the Oldenburg portrait than in the Friendship-Diptych with Erasmus. Without the letter from Erasmus detailing the sessions for their double-portrait, which casted some doubt on the assumed age of the sitter, the identity of the lady by Aegidius’ side would have remained a secret. In this case, the abundant information about the social network of Aegidius was the initial clue needed to question previous assumptions about the identity of the female sitter. Thanks to dendrochronology it was possible to draw more accurate conclusions. So, the social network of Aegidius lead to the analysis of the wooden connection of this marital double-portrait. The portrait Count Edzard I of Eastern Frisia Like the portraits of Aegidius and his spouse, the likeness of Edzard I was saved from being sold because of its disputed attribution and a low estimated value in 1919. Almost a century later,

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Ill. 6.5. Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (attributed), Portrait of Count Edzard I of Eastern Frisia, c. 1517, oil on oak, Oldenburg, Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kunstgeschichte.

SO CIAL NETWO RKS , WOODEN CONNECTIONS

technical examination revealed, that this panel, too, bears important information about the network behind the sitter and his painter. Edzard I (1462-1528) became Count of Eastern Frisia in 1498. Through warfare and intrigue he expanded his territory in the East and West very successfully. However, a feud with George of Saxony (1471-1539) over the dominance of the city of Groningen, led to Edzard being put under imperial ban by the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian  I (1459-1519). George of Saxony formed an alliance against the Frisian count, which engulfed Eastern Frisia in five years of war and pillaging, reducing the territory almost to its previous borders. In 1517, Edzard went for his last resort: He travelled to Mechelen to ask for the imperial ban to be lifted by Margaret of Austria (1480-1530), Governor of the Habsburg Netherlands. It is generally assumed that Edzard might have had his portrait painted during this journey (ill. 6.5). His face certainly shows determination but also the fatigue of the war. However, there is no documentation proving the commission for the portrait. Today, seventeen painted copies and versions of the portrait, which all follow the composition and costume in the Oldenburg portrait in some way, are known.16 This suggests that this image of Edzard I formed the perception of the Count for centuries after it was painted. The likeness of Edzard probably stayed at the ducal court of Eastern Frisia in Aurich until 1747, when the family line of the reigning Cirksena ended. The auction catalogue of the ducal possessions from the following year lists the portrait of Edzard I as a work by Albrecht Dürer, lot 213.17 This attribution is mentioned again 120 years later when the painting was about to be transferred to the ducal court of Oldenburg, where it was then assigned to Lucas van Leyden.18 At some point, an attribution to Lucas Cranach must have been discussed, as someone wrote ‘L. Kranach oder Münster von Münster’ on the verso (ill. 6.6). This kind of writing, usually in black paint with a fine brush, is typical for the Oldenburg collection. The writing was probably applied around 1845, when the first

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Ill. 6.6. Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen (attributed), Portrait of Count Edzard I of Eastern Frisia (verso), c. 1517, oil on oak, Oldenburg, Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kunstgeschichte.

printed catalogue of the collection was published, and the attribution is usually accompanied by the corresponding catalogue number. However, the portrait of Edzard I only arrived in Oldenburg in 1867 and the red 37 on the verso does not correspond with the catalogue edition nor does the attribution. The writing might date back to a period before Oldenburg. Equally, there is no written record of an attribution to Cranach in the Oldenburg catalogues or archives. In 1888, Wilhelm Bode suggested that the portrait was painted by Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen rather than by Lucas van Leyden. Stating that the dry brushwork, an impasto application of paint and a greyish-blond tone, were untypical of Van Leyden, Bode observed: “Gerade mit der Farbgebung und Behandlung des Jacob Cornelisz hat das Bild grösste Ähnlichkeit; auch die Ornamente finden sich ganz ähnlich auf manchen seiner Gemälden, namentlich in dem Altar der Galerie zu

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Neapel.”19 However, Bodes attribution was mostly ignored by other scholars: Kurt Steinbart did not include the portrait in the first monograph on Oostsanen from 1922.20 Likewise, Max Friedländer did not list the portrait among the works by Oostsanen or even his school in Volume 10 of Die altniederländische Malerei published a decade later.21 It is possible that Steinbart and Friedländer simply were not aware of the portrait’s existence. Given the history of the Oldenburg gallery that seems unlikely, though. Before the gallery was dismantled in 1918, the grand-ducal collection was well renowned in Germany and beyond. After Bodes important publication, Abraham Bredius and Frederik Schmidt-Degener published an illustrated catalogue of a selection of paintings in the Oldenburg gallery in 1906. The portrait of Edzard  I is treated under the name of “Jacob Cornelisz von Amsterdam” also in this publication.22 Another, likewise illustrated, guidebook of the collection from 1912 also features the portrait of the Frisian count.23 Even after the grand-ducal gallery was dissolved, the portrait of Edzard I got considerable attention when it was on show under the name of Jacob Cornelisz van Amsterdam at the Exhibition of Dutch Art 1450-1900 by the Royal Academy of Arts at Burlington House in London in 1929 and at the Museum Boijmans in Rotterdam in 1936 during the Hieronymus Bosch exhibition.24 It is therefore more likely, that Kurt Steinbart and certainly Max Friedländer rejected Bode’s attribution of the portrait to Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen. Also, Jane Carroll did not include the portrait in her monograph doctoral thesis from 1987.25 Unfortunately, none of the publications on Oostsanen openly disputed the attribution or provided any arguments for the rejection. The only attempt to elaborate on Wilhelm Bode’s theory and attribution came from Frederik Schmidt-Degener in 1942. In an article in German, Frederik Schmidt-Degener, at this time director of the Rijksmuseum, compared the portrait of the Frisian count to the painting of Salome with the Head of St. John the Baptist by Oostsanen in the

Mauritshuis collection (now on permanent loan to the Rijksmuseum), which is of similar size (ill. 6.7).26 He saw ‘eigentümlich trockene Pinselführung, einen impastierenden Auftrag der Farbe und [sic] einen kühlen graulich-blauen Ton’ in both paintings. 27 Even though, Schmidt-Degener limited this comparison of texture to the face, hands, and the hat in the portrait, stating the rest was the handy work of a mediocre apprentice, his line of thought is difficult to follow. At first glance, the delicate painting of Salome and the somewhat blunt portrait of the Frisian count have very little in common, apart from the respective panel sizes. Therefore, just like Bode’s attribution, Schmidt-Degener’s arguments barely found support. After decades of silence on the topic, Daantje Meuwissen brought the portrait up again in a short article listing a number of doubts concerning the attribution to Van Oostsanen.28 First, she doubts the grounds on which Bode compared the portrait of Edzard I to the altarpiece The Adoration of the Kings at the Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte in Naples.29 Meuwissen states that Bode had hardly any art-historical ground to stand on in the 1880s, because research into the oeuvre of Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen had only just begun during that time. Furthermore, Meuwissen points out that there is no other portrait by Van Oostsanen of such a monumental size, with a single-coloured background or a similar hat. She credits the hat and especially the knitted, golden cap underneath the hat to the German tradition. The monochrome background recalls portraits by Lucas Cranach the Older and his school, according to Meuwissen another reason to place the portrait in a German workshop rather than a Dutch atelier. These arguments, while factual, are not convincing when taking a closer look. Wilhelm Bode certainly had a broader knowledge of the oeuvre of Van Oostsanen, than Meuwissen suggests. He did not need to work merely from black-and-white reproductions, as he verifiably had studied the original portrait. His travel diaries proof that he visited

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Ill. 6.7. Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen, Salome with the Head of St. John the Baptist, 1524, oil on oak, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

Oldenburg several times, most timely in 1884 prior to the publication of his book on the collection.30 In addition, he had a number of Oostsanen-paintings under his wing in the royal collection in Berlin and he knew the works in The Hague, Amsterdam and Naples from his travels. It is thus fair to assume, that he was familiar with a number of important paintings by the artist. However, Meuwissen cor-

rectly states that the comparison of the ornament in the portrait of Edzard I and the Naples triptych, which is incorporated in the architecture of the stable, is a stretch. The green ornament on the green background is admittedly one of the most peculiar features of the portrait and certainly does not resemble any known work by Van Oostsanen. Nevertheless, the green colour of the background is

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certainly not unusual for a portrait in the first half of the 16th century. As seen in the previous examples by Quentin Massys, green backgrounds rather than landscapes were a common backdrop for portraits. Numerous examples from Germany and the Netherlands attest to this. Interestingly, there is a sixteenth-century copy of the Edzard-portrait  at the Musée des Beaux Arts de Dijon, which features a landscape background.31 The fact that there is no other known portrait by Van Oostsanen of such large proportions, together with the overall texture, especially in the background, still leaves enough doubt to further investigate the attribution to the master painter from Amsterdam. In order to find out if the Oldenburg portrait was indeed the original version among the numerous copies and versions, Peter Klein re-executed a dendrochronological exam of the panel and presented a very unexpected result: the youngest heart wood ring of the Baltic oak panel is dated 1498, leading to an estimated cutting year between 1505-1515. At the earliest, the panel might have been ready for use from 1507, ten years earlier than the estimated date of painting in 1517. However, Klein states, that considering the average number of sapwood rings and storage time, a use from 1513 is more likely. Surprisingly, there is one other painting by Oostsanen with a similar gap between the dating of the panel and the painting: the Salome with the Head of St. John from 1524. In fact, both panels are made from wood coming from the same tree. The portrait of Edzard I and the delicate Salome, which is monogrammed by Oostsanen, are closely related through their support. Rather than a superficial comparison of texture, like Schmidt-Degener attempted, there is a solid wooden connection between both paintings. This match of panels brings these two very different paintings closer together, but major differences in style and technique on the painted surface still need to be addressed. For instance, the Edzardpanel might have been bought and painted by a different workshop in the Amsterdam area. If that

was the case, this unknown artist would still have tried to imitate the style of Oostsanen. Even though the portrait is different in many ways, it still bears important style features from the Oostsanenworkshop. Despite all its deficiencies, the face and the hands are executed with beautiful accuracy in thin layers of paint. The coat with its shimmering pattern and, in parts the soft fur of his collar, prove that someone with a good eye for detail was at work here. In order to gather more information, different exams were carried out. Unfortunately, a try-out with an infrared camera showed little to no significant under-drawing for the face, hands, coat, the pattern on the sleeves or the background ornament. This is not unusual for portraits by Van Oostsanen, as Jane Carroll already stated in 1987.32 Because of the lack of significant under-drawing in the try-outs, no further infrared-test was undertaken. Furthermore, an analysis of the pattern on the coat was carried out. There is no doubt, that the pattern was applied using a model or even a stencil. Tracing the pattern on a transparent sheet and transferring it to a neutral background showed, that the flowers and branches in the pattern continue unerringly over the folds and shadows of the fabric. This time-efficient practice of applying patterns in depictions of fabric was also seen at the workshop of Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen.33 However, the pattern in the Portrait of Edzard  I could not be linked to any other pattern used in the Oostsanenworkshop.34 With this rather inconclusive result there were, for the time being no further options for technical examinations. Of course, a number of possibilities worth exploring remain. Instead, I resorted to a more familiar field: My initial research on Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen was focussed on the network of patrons, priests and humanists around him to determine if this network affected the presentation of religious concepts.35 One man, who might have played a significant part as a patron and unofficial agent to the painter, emerged from that study: a banker named Pompeius Occo. He was acting as an agent for the

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German Fugger bank, main creditor of the Habsburg court and actually lived in close proximity to the painter. They were also both involved at the local pilgrim church Heilige Stede. On several occasions, Occo hosted political guests coming to Amsterdam. He did not shy away from political figures in discredit like Christian II of Denmark, to whom he was creditor and book keeper despite the king’s confrontational behaviour regarding the Reformation and increasing tensions with the Habsburg family. Occasionally Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen benefited from the guests of his patron Occo. He seems to have portrayed Christian II and his wife, princess Isabella of Austria. Only a copy of the portrait of Isabella is known, but sketches of the royal couple are kept in the Berlin sketchbook from the Oostsanen-workshop.36 This was, however, a good three to five years after the journey of Edzard I to Mechelen. Besides Occo’s role as an occasional agent to Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen, there is also a possible link between Pompeius Occo in Amsterdam and the Count of Eastern Frisia. Pompeius is a highly unusual first name, which hints to a certain level of education and family status. The last name Occo is Frisian. The Occo-family originates from Eastern Frisia. Both Pompeius Occo and Edzard I studied at the University of Cologne, but not simultaneously. Nevertheless, it is likely they would have known about one another and had the means of getting in touch. It seems plausible, that a travelling count from Frisia might have stayed at Occo’s estate in Amsterdam. So far, there is no evidence of that, but it is a possibility worth considering. The two men might also have been financially involved, because Edzard needed money to defend his territory for a period of five years. So far, this remains merely a hypothesis. Conclusion Unlike the case of the Aegidius and his wife, further archival research is needed to establish if there was indeed a line of contact between, Count Edzard  I

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of Eastern Frisia and the Amsterdam painter Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen and subsequently Pompeius Occo as an agent between count and artist. Nevertheless, until then, the attribution of the Edzard-portrait to Van Oostdanen remains critical: However clear the year rings of the panel may be, the style of the painting will not all of a sudden become more Oostsanen-like than before. This portrait deserves a lot more attention and research than it has been granted until now. The result of the dendrochronology has shown that clearly, there are still questions waiting to be answered. The social and business connections of Edzard I, maybe Pomepius Occo and Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen could shed more light on the making of this portrait. There is a wooden connection, but the social network has not been explored thoroughly enough to actually proof the commission for the portrait.

N OTES 1 An inventory of the collection of J.H.W. Tischbein from about 1804 is cited in Von Alten 1871: 9-15 and 12, no. 36-37 (portraits by Massys); for full attribution history and bibliography of the portraits see Dohe, Falk & Stamm 2017: 413. 2 Waagen & Von Alten 1867: 51. 3 Bode 1888: 81. 4 Friedländer 1916: 95. 5 Gustav Pauli, “Schätzung der Grossherzoglichen Sammlung im Augusteum zu Oldenburg, 17. bis 20. Februar 1919”, Hamburg 26.2.1919, Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Standort Oldenburg (NLA OL), Dep 70, Best. 270-47 Nr. 21. 6 Dohe, Falk & Stamm 2017: 307; Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, inv. no. SK-A-3066. 7 For an extensive bibliography on both portraits, see Dohe, Falk & Stamm 2017: 413. 8 Van Wachem 1954: 71. 9 E.g. Müller-Wulckow 1961; Keiser 1967: 42; Silver 1984: 234f. 10 Müller-Wulckow 1961: 8-9. 11 Erasmus 1977: 368. 12 E.g. Friedländer 1967-1976: 34; De Bosque 1975: 240. 13 Quinten Massys, The Moneylender and His Wife, 1514, oil on wood, 70 × 67 cm, Musée du Louvre, Paris, inv. no. 1444. 14 Silver 1984: 235. 15 Dendrochronological report by Prof. Peter Klein, 12. August 2015, for the Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kulturgeschichte Oldenburg [inventory file LMO 15.565-15.566]. 16 For the most complete list of all known portraits of Edzard I so far, see: Schreiber 2010: 7-109. 17 Schreiber 2010: 14; on the auction: Schreiber 2015: 233-300; the original list of the auction with all objects is preserved at the Niedersächsiches Landesarchiv – Staatsarchiv Aurich (NLA AU), Dep 34, B Nr. 232, Bl. 15. 18 Waagen & Von Alten 1867: 28, no. 97.

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19 Bode 1888: 67. Translation: “The painting is very similar in particular to the colours and treatment of Jacob Cornelisz; the ornaments also resemble those in other works, especially the triptych in the Napels gallery.” 20 Steinbart 1922. 21 Friedländer 1932. 22 Bredius & Schmidt-Degener 1906: 9. 23 Schäfer 1912: 6-8. 24 Witt 1929: 16-17; Van Gelder, Hannema & Pennink 1936, vol. 1: 48, vol. 2: ill. 88. 25 Carroll 1987. 26 The Salome measures 71,8 × 53,6 cm, the Portrait of Edzard I is 71 × 57,7 cm. 27 Schmidt-Degener 1942: 2. Translation: “peculiar dry brushwork, an impasto application of paint and [sic] a cool grey-blueish tone”. 28 Meuwissen 2007. 29 Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen, The Adoration of the Kings, 1512 (dated), wood, 128 × 177 cm, Museo Nazionale die Capodimonte, Naples, inv. no. 3.

30 Zentralarchiv der Staatlichen Museen Berlin, Nachlass Bode, Nr. 63; the diaries and agendas at the archive also list several trips to Naples. 31 After Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen, Portrait of Count Edzard I of Eastern Frisia, c. 1550-1630, wood transferred to canvas, 86,4 × 65,3 cm, Musée des Beaux Arts de Dijon, inv. no. CA 114. Illustration in Falk 2017: 121, ill. 6. 32 Carroll 1987: 17. 33 Van Duijn 2013. 34 I thank Esther van Duijn for her support and the comparative analysis of the pattern. 35 Falk 2013. 36 Workshop of Jacob Cornelisz van Oostsanen, Portrait of Isabella of Denmark, c. 1523, oil on wood, 33 × 23 cm, Museo ThyssenBornemisza, Madrid, inv. no. 101 (1930.16); the sketches of Christian II and his wife are on folio 8r and 26r respectively in the Oostsanensketchbook, Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Museen Berlin, inv. no. 79 C 2a.

Ill. 7.1. Jean Bellegambe, Le Cellier Altarpiece, c. 1511-12, oil on panel, New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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Visualizing the Divine. New Insights into Jean Bellegambe’s Working Methods Anna Koopstra

Many of the works by Jean Bellegambe (c. 1470 1535/36), the painter who lived and worked in the French-speaking Flemish city of Douai during the first three decades of the sixteenth century, can still be found close to where they were made. The Musée de la Chartreuse in Douai holds the largest ensemble of Bellegambe’s paintings, including his main work, the Anchin polyptych, which, as we know from an early seventeenth century source, was commissioned by abbot Charles Coguin of the Benedictine abbey of Anchin, sometime between 1511 and 1520.1 Consisting of seven panels, it depicts at its centre the figures of the Trinity; when the outer wings are folded inwards, the abbot himself is shown along with members of his community, the Virgin Mary and Christ. Since the Anchin polyptych led to the rediscovery of the artist’s name in the nineteenth century it acts as a touchstone for the rest of Bellegambe’s oeuvre, which consists of some twenty works of which none is signed and only one contains a date.2 In addition to its recognisable style and specific, customised iconography, the polyptych is characteristic for the way in which its unusual format simultaneously serves and guides the composition. The skill of translating abstract concepts within the material dimensions of his works can be seen throughout Bellegambe’s oeuvre. Another feature typical for the artist is the elevated

status of the patron who commissioned the work; Bellegambe’s identified clientele included several renowned religious houses in the Douai area, some of the most high-ranking clerics in the HabsburgBurgundian Netherlands and at least one member of the ruling class of Douai. With exception of the study of the original frames and material layout of the Anchin polyptych by Van Schoute and Verougstraete,3 little has been published about how Bellegambe’s paintings were made. However, the material characteristics of his works play an integral part in the artist’s intentions of closely marrying form, function and meaning in each of them. In this paper, I will share some observations on Bellegambe’s use of materials and his working methods, and demonstrate their implications in regards to his possible collaboration with another artist, and the relationship with his patrons. Two paintings in particular will be discussed: The Le Cellier altarpiece (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York) and the triptych of the Last Judgment (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin). The Le Cellier altarpiece: technical evidence for making and meaning The Le Cellier altarpiece (ill. 7.1) derives its name from the fact that in 1861 it was re-discovered in one of the most important granges of the Cistercian

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abbey of Clairvaux, which, because of its involvement with the abbey’s production of wine, was referred to as Le Cellier.4 Like the Anchin polyptych, the Le Cellier altarpiece was commissioned by a religious foundation located in close vicinity of Bellegambe’s hometown: the female Cistercian convent of Flines. Founded in 1234 by Margaret of Constantinople, future countess of Flanders and Hainault, Flines was one of the most illustrious Cistercian houses in Flanders.5 At the top of the right wing panel the coat of arms of Jeanne de Boubais can be found, who served as abbess at Flines between 1507 and 1533. The crest of the abbey of Clairvaux is depicted on the other wing. Further evidence for the patron can be seen in the landscape background of the left wing, which shows the abbey church of Flines (as well as the four towers of the nearby abbey of Anchin). Stylistically comparable to the Anchin polyptych, the attribution of the unsigned triptych to Bellegambe is also supported by the existence of two pieces of archival evidence (one of which can be dated to the year 1511/12; see hereafter) that confirm that Bellegambe, along with several other craftsmen, worked for the nuns at Flines.6 Unfortunately none of the panel paintings for which Bellegambe was paid in the documents can be identified as the Le Cellier triptych. The highly original iconographic program of the triptych’s exterior and interior appears to have been devised with the aim of asserting the convent’s position within the community of the Cistercian order at large, and should be seen against the background of the monastic reform at Flines which was initiated one year before abbess Jeanne de Boubais took office.7 The specificity of the deeply Cistercian subject of the family of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux on the interior, which is cleverly combined in the central panel with an enthroned Virgin and Child, as well as the unusual depiction of Bernard kneeling before the Virgin and Child (reminiscent of the Miracle of Lactation witnessed by him, although no milk is present) on the exterior of the altarpiece, strongly suggest that the patron must have had a hand in the icono-

graphy of the triptych. It was however Bellegambe’s task to translate these ideas into visual form. The opportunity to undertake a technical study of the triptych has provided new insight into how the artist approached this challenge. Investigation with infrared reflectography (IRR) principally revealed underdrawing in the central panel; very little drawing was visible in the wings and almost nothing could be made visible on the exterior of the triptych.8 The underdrawing is limited in character; Bellegambe only drew the contours of the figures and main architectural elements in simple outlines, without indicating shadows or volume, which seems consistent with underdrawings found in his other works.9 It is surprising then, to encounter in the central panel several underdrawn construction lines (ill.  7.2). Although they at first sight appear to be perspective lines they are not; instead they serve as a grid, to construct and position the throne. As far as I am aware, this has not been found elsewhere in Bellegambe’s oeuvre. To place the Virgin and Child exactly in the centre of the composition, Bellegambe drew several more straight, diagonal lines (ill. 7.3), which converge in the child’s feet, just above his mother’s hand wrapped around it, indicating where Christ’s wounds were to be.10 This meaningful gesture – which is also the most significant of several references to the work’s function as an altarpiece – is thus at the very heart of the painting, compositionally as well as in meaning. Bellegambe’s preoccupation with the element of the throne, whose enveloping shape and raised platform serve to accentuate the Virgin and Child, continued as he was painting.11 Such reworking in paint is typical for Bellegambe, who appears to have made most of his changes and adjustments during the painting process. A particularly striking feature of the triptych’s central panel is the elaborate use of gold leaf in a mordant gilding technique, so as to stress the heavenly realm in which the Virgin and Child find themselves. Not just the amount of gold used is extraordinary but also the scale in which it is applied;

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Ill. 7.2. Jean Bellegambe, Le Cellier Altarpiece (infrared reflectogram), New York, Department of Paintings Conservation, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

some of it so fine, that it is only noticeable at very close distance. Moreover, gold is not solely used to represent elements such as pieces of jewellery and other objects that are actually made of this material, but also in areas where it is less customary, such as in the blue of the sky, in the landscape and in the architecture. It also occurs for example in the clothing (ill. 7.4) and wings of the angels, where gold accents are consistently placed next to highlights in white paint. While details in fine gilding occur in Bellegambe’s other works, foremost in clothing, this amount of gold leaf is not seen elsewhere. It is this observation that leads to a possible connection with an important snippet of archival information. We know that in the year 1511/12 Bellegambe was not the only painter active at the convent. In the book of expenses from Flines of that year, the

only such volume that has survived from the first quarter of the century, two more painters are listed, of whom the first, someone called Jacquet of Antwerp, is referred to as ‘varlet a maistre Jehan Bellegambe.’12 While Jacquet has consistently been interpreted in the literature as Bellegambe’s pupil, the term varlet more likely indicates that Jacquet was a journeyman, an independent master, who worked under Bellegambe’s direction, as his assistant. Furthermore, the entry that concerns Jacquet’s work makes clear that he was an illuminator, as he is paid for painting historiated initials in various ways. Since there is no evidence that suggests Bellegambe himself was involved with illuminating books,13 the reference to Jacquet as Bellegambe’s assistant has always remained an intriguing yet isolated piece of information.

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Ill. 7.3. Jean Bellegambe, Le Cellier Altarpiece (infrared reflectogram, detail of the central panel), New York, Department of Paintings Conservation, The Metropolitian Museum of Art.

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Ill. 7.4. Jean Bellegambe, Le Cellier Altarpiece (photomicrograph from the central panel).

I would like to suggest that in the painting technique of the Le Cellier altarpiece, in particular in the practice of applying fine mordant gilding to the outlines of buildings, the green of foliage and as highlights to textiles, which, in scale and method is very similar to that found in miniatures in contemporary illuminated manuscripts, we find evidence of the influence of Jacquet of Antwerp, who we know was versed in painting manuscript illuminations. Although there is no clear indication for the involvement of more than one hand in the genesis and execution of the triptych, it seems possible that the Antwerp journeyman Jacquet was assisting Bellegambe on this particular work. As a consequence, it is most plausible that the Le Cellier altarpiece could have been made in the year directly preceding or following 1511/12, the year in which both painters are recorded at Flines. This would suggest that the Le Cellier triptych was made around the same time that Bellegambe could have started working on the Anchin altarpiece.14

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The triptych of the Last Judgment: contemporary prints and new insights into form and function Unlike in the case of the Le Cellier altarpiece, we do not know who commissioned the triptych of the Last Judgment (ill. 7.5). Although it has rarely been discussed, the triptych is in fact one of Bellegambe’s most ambitious and carefully executed works.15 As one of the largest of Bellegambe’s surviving paintings, it is only comparable with the Anchin polyptych and the wings of the Immaculate Conception that were commissioned by the notable douaisien Jean Pottier (also at the Musée de la Chartreuse in Douai) – the only two documented works in the oeuvre (though in both cases through seventeenth century- rather than contemporary sources). The seventeen separate boards that make up the panels of the triptych of the Last Judgment are joined by a large number of pieces of wood of different size and shape that are visible on the surface of the painting; several of them contain dowels. The inserted blocks of wood avoid important elements such as the faces of the most important figures, which suggests deliberate planning and collaboration between the panel maker and the painter. The supports of Bellegambe’s two other largest works are constructed in a very similar – though not identical – way. Since the execution of the polyptych could have started as early as 1511, and we know that the Pottier wings were supposedly finished by 1526, it seems possible that Bellegambe worked with the same panelmaker for many years. While materially the triptych thus nicely fits in the oeuvre, stylistically it looks less familiar than some of Bellegambe’s other works. In addition to being large in its physical dimensions, the composition of the Berlin triptych is conceived in a truly grand manner. The wide format of the work provides in particular space for the depictions of heaven and hell in the wing panels; although Bellegambe’s rendition of the Last Judgment in the central panel also differs from most of the contemporary Netherlandish examples of the same subject, it is in his visualisation of the destinations of the

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Ill. 7.5. Jean Bellegambe, Triptych of the Last Judgment, c. 1520-25, oil on panel, Berlin, Gemäldegalerie Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.

Blessed and the Damned in the wing panels – in which inscriptions link the catechistic themes of the works of Mercy and the deadly sins to the Last Judgment – where most of the triptych’s originality lies. An explanation for this could be the nature of the subject matter (novel to the artist), which, for one, did not allow much architecture to be included, as we have seen, a favored device that Bellegambe exploited to structure the composition; instead the composition of the Berlin triptych is dominated by a large number of figures, several of them life-size. In addition, the sources that Bellegambe used in designing the composition of the triptych of the Last Judgment seem to account for the reason that the painting looks different. It has not been noted before that in his search for visual examples of heaven and hell, Bellegambe turned to a common inspiration for the subject, namely vision literature, or, visionary accounts of journeys

to the other world. This explains why the artist’s depiction of paradise as an earthly landscape is similar to other South-Netherlandish paintings that were inspired by the same type of literature.16 It is more difficult to find comparable examples in panel painting for Bellegambe’s depiction of hell, which is reminiscent of a machine room. Nevertheless, its appearance too can be explained by the use of the same visionary literature, in this case specifically by a short text that describes Lazarus’ visit to hell, and the punishments he witnessed there. By the beginning of the sixteenth century the Lazarus text was included both in illuminated manuscripts and printed books; Thom Kren has been able to localise several copies of it in the North of France.17 It is one such illustrated publication in particular which seems to have been available to Bellegambe, namely the Compost et calendrier des Bergers (or: Shepherds’ Calendar), the first printed

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Ill. 7.6. Jean Bellegambe, Triptych of the Last Judgment (detail right wing).

edition of which was published in Paris in 1491 by the editor Guy Marchant. The Calendrier comprises of a calendar followed by a collection of popular knowledge about the human body, the soul, death and the universe, the latter of which touched on astronomy and astrology. As one of the first printed almanacs, it continued a visual tradition in illuminated manuscripts. Its use as a model for panel paintings seems less common.

One of the elements in the Berlin painting that can be traced back to the woodcuts in the Lazarus text in the Calendrier des Bergers are the wheels in hell (ill. 7.6). In the print that accompanies the sentence for pride similar wheels, or roues d’enfer, are depicted (ill. 7.7).18 Another element from Bellegambe’s triptych that can be found in the same text are the damned who are lying on their back whilst being stabbed with a stick in the middle of

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Ill. 7.7. Pride, from Le Grant Kalendrier et compost des Bergiers avecq leur Astrologie, 1529, Paris, Bibliothèques nationale de France, Département réserve des livres rares.

Ill. 7.8. Invidia, from Le Grant Kalendrier et compost des Bergiers avecq leur Astrologie, 1529, Paris, Bibliothèques nationale de France, Département réserve des livres rares.

their bodies by devil-like creatures; they occur in the woodcut showing the punishment for wrath or anger. Not all elements were literally taken over by Bellegambe. For example, the snakes peeping through the façade of the large, burning building perhaps refer to the snakes and snake pits in which those guilty of sloth (acedia) are thrown; while the woodcut that shows the punishment for invidia (the rivers of hell freezing over; ill. 7.8) could have been the source for Bellegambe’s depiction of some of the characteristic figures of the dead rising from the earth. The exaggerated facial expressions of the figures, with eyes and mouths wide-open in despair (ill. 7.9), not usually a trademark of Bellegambe, can also be found in the same prints and explain why especially the right wing panel has more in common with earlier depictions of hell in Italy and

France (both in fresco and in panel painting) than with contemporary Netherlandish examples.19 It is likely that Bellegambe (or his patron) consulted other textual and visual sources as well. That the influence of contemporary texts could have affected the central panel is attested by the large figures closest to the foreground of the painting. These key characters (three angels, two males (one blessed, one damned), a cadaver, and two females (one blessed, one damned)) compositionally form a triangle, at the same time connecting all three panels and projecting outward, to draw in the beholder. They accentuate once more the triptych’s theme as a whole by reminding the viewer of the Four Last Things: Death, Judgment, Heaven (or Paradise) and Hell, a subject that frequently occurred in other texts (such as the Livre des quatres

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Ill. 7.9. Jean Bellegambe, Triptych of the Last Judgment (detail central panel).

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Ill. 7.10. Jean Bellegambe, Triptych of the Last Judgment (detail central panel).

dernier choses) that were popular sources for infernal imagery. Furthermore, a long tradition existed in popular moral treatises for linking the works of Mercy and Deadly Sins, which gives more depth to the meaning of the triptych’s iconographic program as this makes very explicit the route to either salvation or damnation. Lastly, another very influential contemporary source for the imagery of hell should be mentioned: the paintings by Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450-1516). While Bosch’s equally brutal scenes full of fire in many aspects deviate from Bellegambe’s underworld, the occurrence of a creature such as this (ill. 7.10) in the background of the central panel of the Berlin triptych does make one wonder if Bellegambe could have had knowledge of Bosch’s work. Either way, considering the dates for the sources suggested here, the Berlin triptych, which is generally placed in the 1520s, certainly shows Bellegambe’s efforts in producing a highly modern, up-to-date work.20 Although we do not know who commissioned the Berlin triptych, the subject and its monumental scale of course all indicate that it was made for a town hall.21 As the town hall’s primary function was to serve justice, it was the definitive location in

the city where the sacred and the profane met. Since there is no evidence that the reverses of the wings of the Berlin triptych were ever painted and liturgical references are also absent, it seems plausible that the triptych did not function as an altarpiece, and was thus not intended to be placed in the town hall chapel (which was commonly dedicated to Saint Michael), but that it was instead intended for the largest space, where judgment was passed, the salle du plaidoir. This is reinforced by the prominence of the archangel’s large sword, a symbol of power and justice, whose position in the central panel is emphasized by being placed parallel to the sword to the right of Christ (ill. 7.5). Since it was Bellegambe’s task to show the extremes in the wing panels as beautiful and as horrific as possible, in order to instil righteous behaviour on those to appear in front of the jurors (independent of their decision – ultimately it is only Christ’s judgment that counts), in this regard too, the artist’s use of the Calendrier des bergers, which is a kind of encyclopédie morale, is very appropriate, as it was aimed at the same broad, lay audience. It seems possible that the town for which the triptych was destined was under French rather than Flemish influence. In conclusion, although much work remains to be done on the artist, it is evident that the core of Jean Bellegambe’s relatively small surviving oeuvre – which consists of nine complete triptychs, plus the Anchin polyptych (which is visually conceived as two triptychs) – shows a remarkable consistency in style, materials and approach. In line with the substantial archival evidence that is available about his life, this suggests that Bellegambe is an excellent example of a skilled artist who for his entire career was probably working within the same close-knit community of colleagues and friends; and who, although active outside the main artistic centres, was nevertheless able to procure prestigious, high-end commissions, which he fulfilled efficiently and in a distinctive way. Most of Bellegambe’s works are custom-made to a very high degree, and draw on very specific and often unusual sources;

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this seems to suggest that the input of the patron (whether monastic, civic, or lay) was very significant, possibly even helping to provide the artist with original, up-to-date material to use in his work. Bellegambe’s personalized approach must have added to his appeal, attracting a certain type of patron who wanted to be involved and consult with a painter. The Le Cellier altarpiece and the triptych of the Last Judgment are both examples of Bellegambe’s talent to visualize the concerns of his patrons by closely linking the original imagery and function of his works with their physical characteristics. It is therefore only through including a material and technical investigation of his works that we can arrive at a more complete understanding of Bellegambe’s artistic achievements. NOTES This paper is based on research carried out for my Ph.D. dissertation on Jean Bellegambe (Courtauld Institute of Art, 2016). The two works mentioned here will be discussed in more detail in the (forthcoming) publication Jean Bellegambe (c. 1470-1535/36). Making, Meaning and Patronage of his Works (Brepols). 1 See Heck 2005 for the Anchin polyptych, as well as for Bellegambe’s other works that are in public collections in Nord-Pas-deCalais (Musée de la Chartreuse in Douai; Palais des Beaux-Arts in Lille; Musée des Beaux-Arts in Arras). 2 For an overview of Bellegambe’s oeuvre see Genaille 1976: 7-28. Although Bellegambe was the subject of Hervé Boëdec’s unpublished Ph.D. dissertation (Boëdec 2007), to this day, the 1890 book by Dehaisnes (Dehaisnes 1890) is the first and only published monograph on the artist. 3 Van Schoute, Verougstraete 1999: 155-168. 4 De Mély 1908 : 97-108. See most recently Ainsworth & Christiansen 1998: 332-334 (entry by Mary Sprinson). 5 The convent of Flines’ patronage of works of art was the subject of Andrea Pearson’s Ph.D. dissertation (Pearson 1995). 6 Bellegambe’s name is recorded in the book of expenses of the convent for the year 1511/12 which is preserved at the Archives départmentales du Nord in Lille (ADN 31 H566) and was first published by Hautcoeur 1873: 930-931. The other document which records Bellegambe being paid for several more works is preserved in the Archives municipales in Douai (Archives de la Famille de Lalaing, Layette LIX, no. 322/1); a full transcription was first published by Pearson 1995: 349-375.

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7 First discussed by Genaille 1952: 99-108; see more extensively Pearson 1995 and Pearson 2001. 8 Infrared reflectography, X-radiography and microscopic analysis were carried out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in September 2013. I would like to thank Maryan Ainsworth and the Department of Paintings Conservation for enabling me to investigate the triptych. 9 In 1985 Faries and Van Asperen de Boer undertook infrared reflectography on a core group of Bellegambe’s works in Douai and Arras (documentation available for consultation at the RKD, The Hague); additional and more recent technical material of Bellegambe’s paintings in French public collections is available for consultation at C2RMF, Paris. The only published discussion of an underdrawing in a work by Bellegambe concerns the panels of Saint Barbara and Saint Catherine in the Art Institute of Chicago (see Wolff et al. 2008: 2-7; entry by Susan Jones). 10 For this motif see Cannon 2010: 1-50. 11 As the X-radiographs and infrared reflectograms show (and as is confirmed by microscopic analysis), once the columns in the sides of the throne were executed in an initial paint layer, Bellegambe altered their position, thereby enlarging the structure of the throne and adding further depth to this element. 12 ADN 31 H566, fol. 89. See Hautcoeur 1873. 13 A single sheet from a gradual (with the coat of arms of Jeanne de Boubais and a large illuminated initial with the Nativity) now in the Frick Art Museum in Pittsburgh (acc. no. 2008.1.1) has, without convincing argumentation, been attributed to Bellegambe. 14 This is contrary to the generally held assumption (made exclusively on the basis of its style) that the Le Cellier altarpiece could date as early as 1509 and would be the earliest known work by Bellegambe. 15 I thank Stephan Kemperdick for enabling me to view the triptych up close in December 2016. 16 For example, Dirk Bouts’ panel of the Way to Heaven, which, together with a panel that depicts the Fall of the Damned (both in the Palais des Beaux-Arts, Lille), was probably the left and right wing of a triptych with a (now lost) Last Judgment in the centre. 17 Kren 1992: 141-156. 18 The resonance of this motif in the North of France is attested by the slightly later miniature by Hubert Cailleau of a Passion play in Valenciennes (Paris, BNF Ms Fr. Rothschild 3010 (1073d), B recto) where it appears in the right part of the stage that constitutes hell. 19 Eisler hinted at the influence of Italian prints when he described the triptych as ‘a Boschian Last Judgment updated to suit a Raphaelesque look.’ Eisler 1996: 98-99. 20 Contrary to Harbison’s rather negative assessment of the painting’s character as retardaire, which he attributed to ‘provincialism.’ Harbison 1976: 27. 21 Jacques Guillouet suggested that the Berlin triptych was made for the town hall of Douai, on the basis of an archival document from the year 1525 concerning an altarpiece made for the town hall. Bellegambe’s involvement with this finished altarpiece, which was carved and consisted of multiple scenes, seems however to have been limited to assessing its quality. Guillouet 1989-90: 21-24.

Ill. 8.1. The Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège, in Joan Blaeu (ed.), Novum et magnum theatrum urbium Belgicae regiae (Amsterdam, 1649), Liège, Cabinet des Estampes et des dessins.

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Indians and Fools versus Glorious Prince-Bischops The Palace of Liège as a Utopian Construction with Dystopian References* Stefaan Grieten and Krista De Jonge

The presence of exotic motifs in the sculptural decoration of the palace of the Prince-Bishops of Liège has fascinated quite some scholars,1 and although some elements were explored and defined, a sound explanation was never put forward. The present article proposes a new approach to this iconography, through the implementation of two fundamental layers of context: the palace as a functional and symbolic construction, and its commissioner Erard de la Marck (1472-1538), PrinceBishop from 1505 to 1538, as a political and cultural protagonist in Liège. Through his long reign, Erard built up an impressive material culture that reflected both the internal situation in his princebishopric and his international network and connections. The background created by this material culture provides a unique interpretation model for individual commissions and their mutual relations, including the palace. The palace (ill. 8.1 and 8.2) was built from 1526 on, as a substitute for the old palace of PrinceBishop Notger (930-1008), although large parts of this ancient construction were integrated in order to connect the new building with the glorious era of Notger, the bishop who had founded the princebishopric and built the earliest infrastructure of the city, providing Liège with the decorum of a genuine capital city and thus stimulating a Golden Age for the city.2 The new complex consisted of

three courtyards, two of them surrounded by wings, the third one being a walled garden. The composition of these wings refers to contemporary palatial architecture, as seen at Amboise and Blois (ill. 8.3).3 Erard was acquainted with these French palaces. In the first period of his government, until 1518, he was a confidant of the French crown and a regular guest at the court in Blois.4 It was here, that he developed good relations with king Louis XII and befriended cardinal Georges d’Amboise,5 the commissioner of the embellishment of the castle of Gaillon, an early highlight of all’antica architecture in France.6 Contrary to remarkable similarities with these and other examples, the palace of Liège shows major differences. The facing is entirely executed in blue hardstone, an expensive material that contributed to the severe and noble effect. The exceptional size of the construction literally created an impression of grandeur. This palace, indeed, made a profound impression on contemporaries, and specifically the judgment of well informed individuals is relevant. Bernardo Clesio (1485-1539), Prince-Bishop of Trento, said that Erard could house no less than three kings at the same time.7 Clearly, Clesio, who commissioned the extension and embellishment of his own palace in Trento, considered the palace of Liège in a higher league than his. Frederick the Wise, the later Elector Palatine, wrote that the

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Ill. 8.2. The first court of the Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège.

palace, once completed, would be the most beautiful in the Christian world.8 The nobleman Fulvio Ruffieri visited Liège as a member of the household of nuncio Giovanni Francesco Commendone in the early 1560s. He appreciated the palace as a complex of unbelievable size, with three inner courts, two of which surrounded with wings, the third conceived as a garden. Its size likely surpassed all the palaces in Italy, with the exception of that of the pope in Rome.9 The superlatives in these and other quotes indicate that the Liège palace was considered as an achievement of the highest rank, due to its size, its infrastructure, and rich decoration. A remarkable feature of this rich decoration was, and still is, the composition of the columns of the four galleries that surround the first court. Unlike the alernating columns and piers in Blois, they are all shaped as balusters. In the Low Countries, columns shaped as balusters and candelabra

Ill. 8.3. Gustave Le Gray, The Louis XII wing of the Castle de Blois, 1851.

were introduced in a broad field of artistic applications. This included ephemeral city decorations, seen for example in Bruges in 1515, on the occasion of the Joyous Entry of prince Charles, the later emperor,10 in the shape of sculpture and small

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Ill. 8.4. Columns of the south aisle of the first court of the Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège.

architecture.11 This type of column was in fact also used in constructions of a more monumental character.12 The use of columns in the palace of Liège perfectly fits contemporary aesthetics, characterized by inventions with complex and alternative forms and motifs, abundant decoration, horror vacui, and fantastic combinations. It was combined both with the late gothic, and the new all’antica vocabulary.13 The 60 columns on the first court (ill. 8.4) comply with this new fashion. They are all alike, but they show a large variety in components

Ill. 8.5. Bearded man with a fancy hat, decoration on a column of the first court of the Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège.

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and decoration. This decoration, and specially the large quantity of exotic motifs, is the central topic of the present article.14 A general characteristic of the decoration is the omnipresence of vegetation of vines and flowers, closely connected with other motifs. The amount of genuine all’antica motifs is surprisingly small, and they appear dispersed. Far more frequent are the motifs of mugs, mostly in profile. They have simple, but expressive and sometimes deformed features and are often characterized by remarkable headwear. Although these motifs have no referential quality at all, they do seem to go back to distinct images that have a pedigree from portrait to icon. During that transformation, the stylizing as well as the blurring of indivudual features invited polyvalent adaptations. One of many examples is the relief of a bearded man with a strange hat (ill. 8.5). It originates from a long iconographic tradition that starts with the portrait medallion that Pisanello made in 1438 of

Ill. 8.6. Der Turgisch Kayser, c. 1480-90, woodcut, London, The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings.

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the Byzantine emperor John VIII Palaiologos. This image received a broad reception, and especially the hat got associated with rulers from Contantinople in general, even with Ottoman sultans after the sack of the city in 1453. Afterwards, the image evolved into a mere decorative icon, simply presenting an exotic type (ill. 8.6).15 This kind of imagery was commonly used in the region, for example in the so-called cupboard of Erard de la Marck.16 An element that always emerges in every study on the palace, is the theme of folly. It is indeed omnipresent around the first court, and the iconography here is based upon the long artistic tradition in western art, with motifs such as fools with a fool’s cap, the interaction between a fool and his bauble, or the scene of cutting the stone out of a fool’s head (ill. 8.7).

Ill. 8.8. Decoration on a column of the first court of the Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège: pre-Columbian masks.

Ill. 8.7. Decoration on a column of the first court of the Prince-Bishop’s Palace in Liège: fool attacked by his bauble, shaped as an exotic creature; cherubs; pre-Columbian masks.

Equally abundant are the motifs that refer to the then recently discovered New World: masks with feathers, snakes, and fantastic animals with scales, flora such as sunflowers and pineapples (ill. 8.8). This phenomenon calls for a sound explanation. Since the late 15th century, the explorations had introduced a variety of impressions and objects from the New World. Not only courts, but also large parts of society were confronted with these novelties. The early import of exotic goods in the harbour city Rouen drew a lot of attention. Jan Van Brusthem in his Liège chronicle described in detail the group of natives from the New World, that in 1509 were led through the city of Rouen.17 This import led to a local iconographic tradition.18 A notorious example is the funeral monument for the cardinal d’Amboise and his nephew in Rouen cathedral, realised in 1516-1525.19 The introduction of exotic objects in the Netherlands is well

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documented.20 Hernan Cortés, the conqueror of Mexico, sent gifts from the Aztec king Moctezuma to Charles V, and in 1520, these treasures arrived at the Coudenberg palace in Brussels, where – according to his diary, Albrecht Dürer had the chance to admire them.21 In 1523 they were sent to Margareth of Austria, governess of the Low Countries. She kept them at the Court of Savoye, her residence in Malines. The objects were not only considered as a prestigious collection, but also as diplomatic gifts. Margareth gave several items to Antoine, duke of Lorraine, and to her niece, Mary of Hungary.22 Although it is not known whether the governess also gave Aztec objects to Erard de la Marck, several elements do suggest that he was interested in the image of exotic cultures. In his castle in Huy, he possessed a small collection of exotic items, originating from different regions, but no objects of the New World were present in this collection.23 Also, the subject of some of his tapestry series are a witness to Erard’s interest: there were representations of a caravan, of ostriches, and of savages.24 Nevertheless, Erard’s personal interest cannot possibly explain the proliferation of references in an official building of iconic importance for the whole society in Liège. It is useful here to draw a comparison with the palace of the dukes of Lorraine in Nancy. The lavishly decorated main doorway was commissioned by duke Antoine, who had received exotic objects from Margareth of Austria. Still, the sculptural decoration of this heavily restored doorway hardly refers to the New World.25 The context of this doorway is the traditional typology of a palace of high nobility, demanding a distinct iconographic decorum. Here, exotic features could hardly be more than scarce drolleries. As for Liège, the same principle applies: decorum and the specific functions of the palace demand an appropriate program, in which the personal interest of the commissioner can never interfere to a degree that fundamentally conflicts with these conditions. On the contrary: any explanation should always take this context of decorum and function into account, since it is instrumental for

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the semantic framework of an important decoration program such as the one found in Liège. The abundant iconography of exotic elements should be explained in combination with the other dominant iconographic categories of folly, savageness, and stupidity that are present around the first court of the palace in Liège. In western imagery, there is indeed a long tradition that deals with these categories, by using images of jesters, beggars, peasants, gipsies, and other marginal types, later on completed with exotic people that were situated outside the patterns of normallity. This tradition was based upon the phenomenon of negative selfdefinition in western culture, identifying negative qualities such as immorality, wildness, folly, and lack of civilisation with categories of people, real or fantastic, that were considered as socially or culturally marginal. This projection implied at the same time the inverse, in function of a suitable selfimage.26 A striking example of the exotic input in this iconography is an anonymous painting of Hell, with a representation of Satan himself, who is wearing an indian outfit with feathers, just like one of the devils, while another monster is partly covered with feathers (ill. 8.9). The same kind of iconographic import of exotic features into the established tradition of folly and sin is found in the palace of Liège. Sometimes, the fool’s bauble has changed into a scaled monster, typical of the Aztec iconography. In other situations, the whole fool’s scene is transformed in that way. In Liège, this system of negative selfdefinition is active on a massive scale. The abundant iconography of fools, mugs, and exotic creatures defines the palace literally as a palazzo della ragione, the seat of wisdom, morality, good governance, and civilisation. This message is communicated all around the first court, which was public for citizens and for foreign guests. The wings that enclosed it housed several governmental and judicial institutions, the Mint, and the PrinceBishop himself. The iconography was applicable to each and everyone of them. Still, this reading does not explain why this iconography appears in the setting of the palace, as it

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Ill. 8.9. Anonymous, Hell, c. 1505-30, oil painting, Lisbon, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga Direção-Geral do Património Cultural/ Arquivo de Documentação Fotográfica.

is so scarce in other contemporary palaces or governmental buildings. At least, not as a permanent part of the architecture. Representations of savages, of fools and exotic creatures did occur in the courtly culture. A famous example is the festivity organised by governess Mary of Hungary for emperor Charles V and his son Philip in the castle of Binche in 1549.27 One of the highlights was a masquerade with knights fighting savages, who had abducted a group of ladies (ill. 8.10). The rivalling fighters wore helmets with colourful feathers.28 These performances with wild men and other representatives of the other world were also organised within the context of government. During the carnival of 1506 in Nürnberg, a large chariot showed the Fool’s Ship, that represented Hell. In line with the influential Narrenschiff by Sebastian Brant, folly was connected with sinfulness, and equally with heresy. The highpoint of the parade with this ship of sinners and fools occurred in front of the city hall. Here, the ship was conquered by soldiers, and put to fire in order to exterminate all vices and sins.29 This performance not only

presented a visual contrast between governmental power and the union of vice and folly, it thus also implied the victory of good governance. However, the use of wild men and exotic figures, of fools and jesters at ephemeral festivities, be it in public or before a private audience, is one thing. Presenting a related iconography in an abundant and permanent way in a highly public zone of a governmental building with an important symbolic meaning is of a quite different order. Such is the case of the palace of Liège, and it is indeed an exceptional case. The unusual emphasis that emerges from this sculpted discourse, asks for a specific explanation, which is to be found in the historical context that had preceded the building of the palace. This context had begun with the Liège wars of Charles the Bold, duke of Burgundy, and in 1468 had led to the devastation of the city and the ruthless massacre of the population. The disaster was followed by decades of total desperation and civil wars.30 The construction of the palace implied a splendid promise. Through this dystopian iconography of folly, barbarism, and sins, the palace sublimed

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Ill. 8.10. Abduction of ladies by savages in the castle of Binche during festivities in 1549, coloured pen drawing, Brussels, Royal Library of Belgium, Print Room.

the horror of the past and presented a glorious utopia. It would become a stable throne of good and wise government. Thus, a glorious era would dawn, just like during the rule of the historical hero of Liège, Prince-Bishop Notger. The urgency of this message explains the rhetorical emphasis that was

used to spread it all over the public zone of the palace. The renascence of the community of Liège needed to be symbolised in the building of the new palace. In this concept, the common factor in this regard was the figure of Erard de la Marck himself. Thus, he presented himself in a quite literal way as

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the architect of the renascence of the nation, as a wise and powerful ruler and as a dignified successor of Notger. One could wonder why the inventors of the sculpted decoration had not used an iconography that referred specifically to the historical events that had been overcome: the bloody wars, the devastation, the despair. In that way, the contrast between crisis and renascence would have been showed in a quite comprehensive language. Yet, the visual communication on these events was a very delicate exercise. By the time Erard was elected in 1505, the crisis had not yet been digested. Therefore, Erard did everything he could to manifest himself as the leader of the whole nation, regardless of the different political factions. This may sound logical, but for Erard it was not. He was a notorious member of the clan of de la Marck, which had fought a long and bloody war against the faction of the family de Hornes. One of the key actors in this feud had been Guillaume de la Marck, Erard’s uncle. Guillaume had dared to assassin the residing Prince-Bishop Louis de Bourbon. He was executed three years later, but it wasn’t until 1492 that the civil war came to an end.31 Still, the hostility kept smouldering. Therefore, it was essential for Erard to avoid any association with the hostilities in general, but also with his family, or any other faction. At the same time, he was aware of the engaging power of images and symbols in the public area, and of their provoking dangers. For example, when in 1509 peace was reached between the Habsburg Netherlands and the duchy of Guelders, Erard forbade any expression of sympathy for either parties, be it in words, deeds or symbols.32 Thus, he wanted to prevent agitation in Liège. This caution was omnipresent in all public areas in town. It was not until a very late stage in his reign that Erard dared to manifest himself in monumental and permanently visible works of art. And even then, he avoided every historical reference that could provoke new hostilities. Clearly, it was better to use fools and indians as an encrypted warning against dangerous situations.

Concerning the message of this iconography, promising good governance, it should be emphasized that Erard de la Marck proved to be a wise and shrewd leader, and that his reign brought forward a long period of peace. But in order to maintain this peace, he used ruthless violence against any enemy. The cruel suppression in 1531 of the hunger riots of the Rivageois, impoverished inhabitants of the villages at the river Meuse banks, is a famous example.33 Indeed, raison d’état is often written in blood, whereas utopia simply doesn’t exist. N OTES * This article covers an element of the Ph.D study by Grieten 2020a, under the guidance of prof. dr. Krista De Jonge (KU Leuven). 1 This fascination and the efforts to explain the iconography are a recurrent theme in most of the studies on the palace, such as Gobert 1896; Collon-Gevaert 1975; Lejeune 1979; Sabatini 1995; Demoulin 2008; Godinas 2008. 2 Grieten 2012: 71-74; Grieten & De Jonge 2018; Grieten 2020b. For Notger, see Kurth 1905; Kupper 2015. For Notger’s building campaign in Liège, see Den Hartog 1992: 32-55. 3 Collon-Gevaert 1955: 53-83; Collon-Gevaert 1975; Sabatini 1995: 9-10; Oger 2008: 54-65. For Amboise, Blois, and other examples, see Prinz & Kecks 1994. 4 Buchin 1931: 141-170; Harsin 1955: 61-112. 5 The politically and culturally highly important figure of Georges d’Amboise has interested many scholars. Among the most recent publications are Bottineau-Fuchs 2005; Chaline et al. 2012; Dumont & Fagnart 2013. 6 Bardati 2009. 7 This statement by Cles (‘ricco bestialmente e bestialmente misero, ancora che fabrichi palazzi con profession di poter alloggiare tre re a un tratto’) is mentioned in a letter that nuncio Pietro Paolo Vergerio wrote in june 1533 to Pietro Aretino. Gabrielli 2004: 7. 8 In a letter to his brother, quoted by his secretary, the Liège humanist Hubert Thomas: ‘De Palatio episcopali episcopali ad Cardinalem rescripsit opere perfecto, in orbe Christiano nullum pulchrius futurum’. Thomas 1541: 37. 9 ‘Il vescovo hà in questa città un palazzo à l’incontro della porta di S. Lamberto d’incredibile grandezza che ha dentro 3 cortili, anzi 3 piazze grandissime con le loggie intorno à 2 d’essi, que sopra e sotto hanno stanze et appartamenti infiniti, benche imperfetti, nel terzo cortile è un bel giardino, le colonne et tutte le facciate sono di certe pietre berettine, che sono della durezza dei Trevertini di Roma, et è tutto voto sino à i cortili et è tanto grande, che in Italia non se ne trovaria forsi un altro simile, eccetto quello del papa in Roma. Questo palazzo fù fabricato da Erardo de la Marca, cardinale et già vescovo di Liege, che morì del 38, che lo fece in 7 mesi, dovendo Carlo V. imperatore passare di là, fece anco in questo stato inifinite fabriche, come suasi tutta la fortezza di Hoy, et altri luoghi.’ Wandruszka 1953: 105-106. 10 Du Puys 1973; Devliegher 1987: 82-83. 11 Kavaler 1994: 371-374; De Jonge 2008: 39-46. 12 Grieten & De Jonge 2014: 73-100. 13 De Jonge 2007: 21-40. 14 It should be noted that the columns of the western wing are not original, since they were created by the provincial architect JeanCharles Delsaux for the residence of the provincial government (1849

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et seq.). This building replaced the original western wing, that was also provided with an arcade with baluster columns. Gobert 1896: 271 et seq. In 1962-1978, most of the original columns of the other wings were replaced by copies and arranged on the court of the former abbey of Saint-Laurent, now a military hospital. Godinas 2008: 118. 15 Weiss 1966; Jardine & Brotton 2000: 25 et seq.; Schauerte 2015: 57-59. 16 172 × 193 × 53 cm, Le Grand Curtius. Four of the upper panels present the coat of arms of Liège, the Holy Roman Empire, Erard de la Marck, and the family de Donceel. Liège 1905, no. 5064; Toussaint 2010: 374-377 (with an exhaustive bibliography). 17 Reusens 1866: 30. 18 Bottineau-Fuchs 1978: 63-83; Montaigne 2000. Two basreliefs, originally part of the Hôtel du Brésil in Rouen (c. 1530), witnessing this exotic interest were present at the Utopia exhbition in Leuven, see Van der Stock 2016: 308-311, no. 54. 19 This monument has received much attention in scholary literature. A recent article is by Reuss 2013: 241-258 (with an exhaustive bibliography). 20 For the introduction of exotic objects in Habsburg and other collections in the Netherlands, see Vandenbroeck 1992: 99-120; Eichberger 2002: 179-185; Capenberghs 2005: 297-309. 21 Anzelewsky 1988: 16. 22 Vandenbroeck 1992: 106.

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23 The inventory of 1532 reports ‘ung arcq de calihu avec ses flesches, une tente de calichu, une targe de barbarin avec une hache darmes’. Grieten 2020a: appendix. 24 Steppe & Delmarcel 1974: 35-54. 25 For this doorway, see Prinz & Kecks: 250-252. 26 This phenomenon has been coined in the key studies of Paul Vandenbroeck: Vandenbroeck 1987; Vandenbroeck 2006: 137193; Vandenbroeck 2008: 95-161; Vandenbroeck 2007: 120-153; Vandenbroeck 2014: 153-194. 27 Devoto 1960: 311-328; Heartz 1960: 329-342; Glotz 1985: 191-204; Peters 1999: 11-37. 28 Devoto 1960: 317; Heartz 1960: 331-332; Glotz 1985: 201. 29 A similar battle is documented in 1539. Pinson 2008: 63-66. 30 Kurth 1909-1910, vol. 3: 137-352; Lallemand 1920; Marchandisse, Vrancken-Pirson & Kupper 1999: 69-96; Demoulin & Kupper 2002: 47-53. 31 De Chestret De Haneffe 1898: 193-204; Harsin 1957: 71-166. 32 ‘prudentissimus Praesul […] edixit, ne quis, vivat aut Caesar, aut Gallus, aut Burgundus, aut Gelder, vel publice, vel privatim proclamaret, ne quis ullam sive verbo sive facto iniuriam ulli extero inferret, neve Cruce[m] in vestibus sive rectam, sive obliqua[m] gestaret, sub abscissionis linuae & gravissimae suae indignationis poena.’ Chapeaville 1612-1616: vol. 3, 243. 33 Buchin 1931: 99-112; Harsin 1955: 178-188.

Ill. 9.1. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, c. 1540, woodcut with letterpress, Brussels, Royal Library of Belgium, Print Room.

Ill. 9.2. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1.

9

Civitas Lovaniensis: An Integrated Analysis of the Oldest City Portrait of Leuven and the Woodcuts of Monogrammist AP1 Jeroen Luyckx

Just as I shall take great pains to have nothing incorrect in the book, so, if there is doubt about anything, I shall rather tell an objective falsehood than an intentional lie – for I would rather be honest than wise.2 Thomas More, Utopia, 1516

A few decades after the publication of Thomas More’s (1478-1535) illustrious book in Leuven, an anonymous artist produced a monumental woodcut of a view of the university town (ill. 9.1 and 9.2).3 The print consists of eighteen separate sheets in two rows, forming one large frieze of more than half a meter in height and three and a half meters in length. This makes the frieze the widest printed city view of Early Modern Europe.4 This city portrait is the oldest view of the city of Leuven, and is preserved as a unique impression at the Print Room of the Royal Library of Belgium in Brussels. Throughout the twentieth century, the frieze has been included in several publications on urban development in Leuven, and on humanism and science in the sixteenth-century Low Countries.5 Yet, the only detailed description of this woodcut was published by Petit in 1877, and previous

exhibitions mostly included a nineteenth-century scaled down reproduction.6 The original frieze was included in the exhibition In Search of Utopia at M – Museum Leuven, for which it has undergone thorough conservation treatment (ill. 9.3). In the catalogue for this exhibition, a new attribution of the Leuven frieze was briefly suggested.7 This paper aims to present an integrated analysis of this unique object in Northern Renaissance printmaking. After a brief description of the frieze, the recent conservation treatment will be discussed. Subsequently, the little studied oeuvre of the Monogrammist AP will be explored, including new findings on his woodcuts. Finally, art-historical and art-technical arguments will be evaluated in order to discuss the relationship between the Leuven frieze and the Monogrammist AP. Envisioning a university town in print The coupling of an aerial viewpoint and the city’s contour produces an extraordinarily detailed portrait of the city, recognizable by its situation, streets and squares, and characteristic buildings. More than fifty architectural and geographical landmarks are identified by discreet letterpress inscriptions. At top centre is the coat of arms of the Holy Roman

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Empire, set against a banderol inscribed with ‘CIVITAS LOVANIENSIS’. Additional coats of arms can be seen in the top left and right corners, respectively that of the Duchy of Brabant, and the City of Leuven. Ensconced in clouds above the city are eight allegorical figures in antique or contemporary dress, all but one attended by a putto. These are personifications of the seven liberal arts and philosophy, the fundamental principles of Leuven’s university. Throughout the image are dozens of human figures, including a student and a professor at the lower right. The frieze is clearly intended to represent the identity of Leuven by emphasizing its strengths and landmarks. Rather than providing a faithful visual record of a given moment, it represents the Brabant university town as a major intellectual centre. Presumably, this monumental woodcut was a private and commercially motivated creation that was sold to students and professors as a souvenir of their stay in Leuven.8 Interested merchants, travellers and proud citizens of the city were probably also among its buyers. On the basis of the buildings depicted in it, the frieze is generally dated around 1540, making it the earliest printed view of Leuven. It was widely imitated in the illustrated chorographic works of the sixteenth century. For example, the simplified depiction of Leuven in the first edition of Lodovico Guicciardini’s (1521-1589) Descrittione di tutti i Paesi Bassi was obviously based on it, which indicates a certain distribution and appreciation of this monumental woodcut at the time.9 Conservation treatment Up until 2016, the condition of the frieze was problematic (ill. 9.4). The eighteen sheets of which it consists were pasted on nineteenth-century paper and attached to a light-coloured silk cloth. The silk lining was not fully attached or had come loose in some areas. Throughout the years, the silk and paper has reacted differently to climatological conditions, causing tensions and damages. An additional lining in green silk was attached to the

top and bottom borders, causing several discolorations. The silk linings were probably applied when the city view entered the collection of the Royal Library, as similarly mounted friezes are present in the same Print Room. On the left and right sides, two flaps of European paper and cardboard were attached rather recently to facilitate the handling of the frieze. Throughout the surface of the monumental woodcut, numerous damages such as creases, tears, stains, discolorations, and glue residues could be observed. In addition, the frieze was stored wound up on an acidic reel in an acidic box, causing further damaging and complicating its handling. In order to guarantee the preservation of the frieze and to enable it to be exhibited, a thorough conservation treatment was highly necessary. Due to the initiatives supervised by Joris Van Grieken (Curator of Prints and Drawings, Royal Library of Belgium), the required treatment was made possible with the financial support of the Pastoor Manoël de la Serna Fund of the King Baudouin Foundation. The conservation treatment that will be discussed here was done part-time from January to June 2016 by the independent paper conservator Julie Swennen.10 First, the recto of the frieze was dry cleaned with gum powder in order to remove most of the dirt from the surface. In this way, these impurities could not penetrate the paper during the following treatments. Then, the silk lining on the verso and the silk borders were removed. Given the weak adhesiveness between the silk and the intermediary paper, the lining could be removed drily (ill. 9.5). As a result, several inscriptions in pencil were discovered on the intermediary paper. While some of these are unclear, one reads ‘Lüttich’ or Liège in German. This inscription was probably added by Rudolph Weigel (c. 1830-1871) from Leipzig, the print dealer who sold the frieze to the Royal Library for 225 fr. between 1858 and 1861.11 It goes to show that the depicted city initially was misidentified. Subsequently, the intermediary paper was detached from the vertical seams between the original

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Ill. 9.3. View of the exhibition In Search of Utopia. Detail of the room containing Thomas More’s Utopia and the View of the City of Leuven, 2016, M Leuven.

Ill. 9.4. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1, before conservation treatment.

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Ill. 9.5. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1, removal of the silk lining.

sheets. In this process, a methyl cellulose glue was applied to the seams on the verso. After circa ten minutes, the intermediary paper could be removed with a scalpel and the vertical seams between the original sheets could be carefully detached. The frieze was now divided in nine parts, each consisting of two sheets. Then, the nine strips were washed in a water bath for the first time. After a couple of hours, the intermediary paper could be carefully removed from the verso. Subsequently, the sheets were bathed an additional two times. After each bath, the verso was cleaned with cotton wool in order to remove the remaining glue (ill. 9.6).

Ill. 9.6. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1, removal of the remaining glue.

Then, the nine strips were lined individually with a very thin Japanese paper. Subsequently, the strips received an additional lining of 17 grams Kizuki Kozo paper. This allows the sheets to be mounted as a single frieze and exhibit the city view as it was originally intended. Then, the frieze was slightly dampened and the borders of the new paper lining were taped to a plate. The whole was kept tightened for several weeks. The gradual drying of the frieze caused the paper fibres to shrink, which resulted in a tightening of the whole. Finally, the lacunas in the original sheets were filled with a paper paste and retouched with watercolour. The described conservation treatment has proven to be rewarding for the preservation and appreciation of this unique object. The frieze can now be properly stored and exhibited without risking further damaging, which guarantees its preservation for the next generations. In addition, the conservation treatment has provided the city view with a much cleaner, fresher look, which facilitates the study and admiration of the frieze by scholars and enthusiasts in the study room of the Royal Library or at future exhibitions. Monogrammist AP The Leuven frieze was first mentioned by Passavant, who ascribed it to Anton Woensam von Worms (c. 1500-1541).12 Merlo quickly cast doubt on that attribution, however, and later authors also called it into question.13 Even so, subsequent publications continued to refer to Woensam as the author of the frieze. Yet a comparison with his View of the City of Cologne shows differences in both design and style.14 The Cologne cityscape is in every respect more detailed and meticulous. The figures in the clouds are executed with greater finesse and the putti are stouter and chubbier than those in the Leuven panorama. The buildings are also more elaborated and more correctly rendered in perspective, and the framed inscriptions look to have been done with great care, which is not the case in the View of the City of Leuven. Moreover, the Cologne blocks were cut by a different hand,

CIVITAS LOVANIENSIS : AN INTEGRATED ANALYSIS OF THE OLDEST CITY PORTRAIT OF LEUVEN

identifiable from, among other things, the way the buildings, the clouds, and the foliage on the trees are worked out. However, the Leuven city view does display marked similarities when compared to the woodcuts after Monogrammist AP.15 This anonymous artist was active in the Netherlands around 1536, and derives his name from the nearly identical monograms that appear on two series of woodcuts, each comprising four prints, and a stand-alone woodcut.16 Although the prints differ widely in subject matter they show clear similarities in design and execution. As the Monogrammist AP is often overlooked in the art-historical literature because of the meagreness of the remaining oeuvre, and the scarcity of surviving prints, his output will be discussed in detail before turning to the common characteristics with the Leuven frieze. Virtues and Vices In total, nine rare prints can be attributed to this anonymous master.17 In 1536, the Antwerp block cutter and publisher Willem Liefrinck (active before 1512; died before 1547) produced a series of prints depicting virtues battling vices (ill. 9.7).18 Each of the four prints consists of a two-sheet woodcut with two sheets of letterpress text beneath.19 Three of the prints bear the AP monogram with small variations; two are dated in the text (‘M.D.XXXVI.’); and two bear the address of Willem Liefrinck (‘Impressum Antverpiae per Guilielmum Liefrinck’). Each of the woodcuts is an allegorical representation of the battle between a personified virtue and its corresponding vice: Fides vies with Incredulitas, Patientia opposes Ira, Pudicitia confronts Immunditia, and Humilitas repels Superbia. The protagonists are supported by a large cast of extras and the scene is set in a hilly rural landscape. Also included in the images are various identifying Latin captions and apposite biblical quotations, mostly in letterpress. All the virtues and vices are portrayed several times, at different stages in the battle, so each image in the series can be read from left to

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right as a narrative sequence that ends with the triumph of its particular virtue. The occasional piece of Renaissance ornament has been integrated into the figures’ garments and the cartouches bearing biblical quotations.20 There seem to be no obvious precedents for these prints or comparable works of a later date. Nijhoff and Hollstein have both associated the series with a drawing by Bernard van Orley (c. 1491-1542), though neither the composition nor the motifs in that work bear much resemblance to those in the woodcuts of virtues and vices.21 Below every image is a Latin text in four columns describing the battle between the virtues and vices. Authored by the otherwise unknown Lucas Volder,22 this is the only text in the Early Modern Low Countries to follow the Psychomachia by Prudentius (348-after 405) so closely in content.23 The only known impressions of this woodcut series, which are now in the Kupferstichkabinett in Berlin, are hand-coloured with brush and paint. Although these prints have been published, that particular aspect of them has gone largely unnoticed.24 The use of so many colours makes a significant contribution to the character and attractiveness of the prints and is thus an essential component of the series. The woodcuts belong to the rare group of preserved coloured impressions from the earlysixteenth-century Low Countries, and are also an exceptional example of coloured prints that can be confidently identified as published by Willem Liefrinck. It is not certain whether the prints were actually coloured in Liefrinck’s workshop, but given that from 1528-1529 onward he was a member of the Antwerp St Luke’s Guild there would have been no barrier to his using brush and paint.25 Four Seasons In 1537, a second series after Monogrammist AP was published. The Four Seasons appeared in the form of four double-sheet woodcuts.26 The print illustrating Winter is monogrammed at bottom right and in Autumn the date, an inverted 1537, appears on Pomona’s throne. The prints appear to

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Ill. 9.7. Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, Humilitas and Superbia (from the Virtues and Vices series), 1536, hand-coloured woodcut with letterpress, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett.

have been cut by the same hand, i.e. Willem Liefrinck, but this remains uncertain as neither the publisher nor the place of publication are mentioned. The fact that both Nijhoff and Hollstein mention only the complete set in the British Museum in London has often led to the assumption that these were the only surviving prints. Yet as long ago as 1928 Wescher referred to an image of the months bearing the AP monogram in the Berlin Kupferstichkabinett.27 This, it turns out, is a hand-coloured impression of Winter which apart from the colour and the wear to the block is identical to the one in the British Museum (ill. 9.8).28

Every woodcut shows an allegorical scene with a personified season. Each season is carried on a triumphal chariot embellished with Renaissance ornamentation, accompanied by an equivalent Roman deity and surrounded by a jubilant procession of other classical gods, personified concepts and literary characters. These latter figures are clad in antique or contemporary garments, and in addition to the usual attributes they bear aloft three banners depicting the appropriate constellations coupled with the Latin names of the corresponding months. In the background – a pastoral landscape of hills and dales – are the labours of the month. In

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Ill. 9.8. Willem Liefrinck (?), after Monogrammist AP, Winter (from the Four Seasons series), hand-coloured woodcut with letterpress, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett.

all the images the various figures are identified by Latin inscriptions in the woodblock, and at the top of each print is a citation in letterpress from Ovid’s (43 BCE-17 CE) Metamorphoses. In this series the classical and medieval representations of the seasons and the labours of the months have been amalgamated into an all-inclusive allegorical scene that is thought to be the earliest printed quartet of personified seasons in the Low Countries.29 There are explicit references to Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the prints but Veldman has also observed strong similarities between this Four Seasons series and the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, presumed to have been written by Francesco Colonna (c. 1433-1527) in 1499.30 It is likely that the Four Seasons was also influenced by the celebrated Triumph of Emperor Maximilian  I, a monumental frieze made after designs by Hans Burgkmair

(1473-1531), Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528), and others.31 Between 1516 and 1518 several of the blocks for this ambitious project were cut by Cornelis Liefrinck I (active before 1512; died in 1528) and his brother Willem, publisher of the previous series by AP. 32 It is on the basis of the Four Seasons series, that the Monogrammist AP has previously been described both as a Dutch master from the circle of Cornelis Anthonisz. (c. 1505-1553), and an Antwerp master whose oeuvre showed similarities with those of Dirck Vellert (c. 1480-1547) and Pieter Coecke van Aelst (1502-1550).33 He has even been placed in the circle of Albrecht Dürer.34 Given the Dutch or Flemish style of the prints and the Antwerp address on the series of Virtues and Vices, this last attribution seems hardly credible.

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That the Four Seasons series was influential is evidenced by two tapestries that were based on it.35 The Triumph of Spring and Triumph of Summer are almost identical copies of the woodcuts and each has a double date in the border. Respectively 1537/38 and 1538/39, these dates probably indicate the years in which production started and finished and are thus in line with the date in the Autumn woodcut. The continuing imitation of the Four Seasons print series has already been studied in detail by Meetz.36 In the decades following their publication the woodcuts were copied several times: Gaspare Ruina (active c. 1500-1540), for instance, made a copy of the Winter print.37 Nijhoff mentioned that Johannes Osthaus (active c. 1550-1567) published a calendar containing small-scale copies without the AP monogram in 1550, though the present whereabouts of those prints are unknown.38 The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam holds a similar four-part series published by Osthaus in Venice in 1567.39 In addition to direct copies, many artists – among them Lambert Lombard (c. 1505-1566), Lambert van Noort (c. 15201571) and Lodewijk Toeput (c. 1550-1605) – obviously based their depictions of the seasons on those of Monogrammist AP.40 The use of mythological figures when illustrating the four seasons was also emulated freely by print designers such as Maarten van Heemskerck (1498-1574) and Hendrick Goltzius (1548-1617).41 Thus, Monogrammist AP’s Four Seasons was the progenitor of a pictorial tradition that became increasingly popular both in print form and other media as the sixteenth century went on.42 Brothel Scene The last print with an AP monogram is the Brothel Scene (ill. 9.9).43 The monogram on this four-sheet woodcut appears beside a capital on the lower right sheet, but there is neither a date nor an address. The print was first described in detail by Bergström and since Renger, it has been dated around 1540.44 Although the print in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam has always been considered unique, another impression is preserved at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.45

The woodcut’s imaginary setting is the interior of a brothel outside the city walls. There are several separate rooms on different levels in which the carryings on can be seen, like a stage set. The crumbling architecture is embellished with sundry Renaissance elements such as the grotesque on the chimney breast, the Corinthian pilaster and frieze at the lower right, and the ornamental mantelpiece at the upper right. Occupying the various rooms are some forty male and female characters, disporting themselves in eating, drinking, and gambling. Should those amusements pall, entertainment is also laid on in the form of musicians and a jester. Two fights have broken out and several couples have retired to enjoy more intimate activities. In the room at top right the discarded garments, combined with the white line that describes a rectangle around the bedclothes, suggest that the image originally showed a canoodling couple between the sheets, who were cut out of the block and replaced by a virgin bed.46 On the left, an arched entry gives a view of a garden where people are drinking and playing ball games. In the background, in the clouds above the city, Christ with his cross turns away from the whole unedifying scene. The Brothel Scene is generally regarded as an example of an exemplum contrarium or world gone bad.47 This is exemplified by the central grotesque, which contains clear diabolic allusions.48 The similarities between this woodcut and the oeuvre of the Brunswick Monogrammist (active c. 1525-1555) have already been pointed out.49 And many of the motifs, such as the ball-and-hoop game known as beugelen with its erotic connotations, the couple mounting the stairs to conduct their amours in private, and the catfighting women with a bunch of keys who are being doused with water, can indeed be found in the paintings of that anonymous Antwerp master.50 Although this print was the basis for Armstrong’s description of Monogrammist AP as a Dutch monogrammist, the context in which the Brothel Scene was produced must rather be sought in Antwerp.51 The subject of the woodcut is closely related to that of the Prodigal Son at the brothel

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Ill. 9.9. Willem Liefrinck (?), after Monogrammist AP, Brothel Scene, c. 1540, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

but is one of the earliest examples to appear without that biblical scene. Thus, like the Four Seasons, this woodcut by Monogrammist AP is also a begetter of an iconographic tradition. A new attribution of the Leuven frieze Having analysed the individual series and prints, we can frame a number of common characteristics. All Monogrammist AP’s preserved woodcuts are large in size. Each print is made up of several sheets, pulled from separate blocks. As such, they belong to the so-called Riesenholzschnitte or monumental

multi-block woodcuts. The fact that half of the surviving woodcuts have been hand-coloured suggests that colour played an important part in Monogrammist AP’s output. The prints discussed here appear to have been produced by the same skilled block cutter, probably Willem Liefrinck as his address can be found on one of the series. In addition to the AP monogram, the number of similarities confirms that they also had a common designer. The woodcuts are characterised by a Renaissance style expressed in elements such as the antiquated dress, Italianate ornaments, and classical figures. Who-

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ever Monogrammist AP was, he also seems to have been familiar with a wide range of visual and literary sources. In the Four Seasons, for instance, textual descriptions from Ovid’s Metamorphoses are combined with illustrations based on Colonna’s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili. Moreover, the woodcuts often display innovatory iconography: the prints are among the earliest examples of subjects that would become more common later in the sixteenth century. Although the print designer and the later artists were probably prone to the same influences, of which we are no longer aware, the AP prints also had a specific impact, as appears from their frequent citation in copies and imitations in the Low Countries and abroad. Several pictorial elements in the Four Seasons after Monogrammist AP lend themselves to stylistic comparison with their equivalents in the Leuven cityscape. In both woodcuts the foreground consists of a plain scattered with loose rocks and stones and made uneven by grassy knolls, the grass rendered by repeated curved lines of horizontal hatching. The various kinds of vegetation are also depicted in a similar fashion. The bare trees are cut in the same way, while trees in leaf are invariably composed of a trunk with just a few branches and plume-like foliage. In both prints the clouds are elongated and the same sort of horizontal hatching is used to create depth. The human figures and animals in the Four Seasons are larger and rendered in greater detail than in the View of the City of Leuven, where they play only a secondary role, but both woodcuts are very alike in the way in which background figures are suggested with just a few lines. Likewise, the buildings: the castles, the farms, and the churches are all similarly carried out. Although this can be partly ascribed to the designs, the way the hatching is used to create depth and the buildings are placed in space evinces a similar method of block cutting. In comparing the designs of the Four Seasons and the View of the City of Leuven the figures provide particularly good points of comparison. First, the Leuven frieze, with its personifications of the

seven liberal arts, some of whom wear antique garb, corresponds quite closely to the Renaissance style of the Four Seasons prints. In both cases, moreover, the designer has obviously struggled with the proportions of the figures and has not managed to get them quite as they should be. In both woodcuts, the pleats and folds in the garments evince an analogous nerviness, exhibited in creased dynamic drapery. The garments also display the same characteristics. Various classical and sixteenth-century clothes and items of headgear appear in both prints, though to some extent this simply reflects contemporary fashion. Finally, a number of figures are also extremely alike – both the blindfolded Cupid in Spring and the putti in the View of the City of Leuven are portrayed as boyish figures with comparatively slender elongated bodies. It is clear from these comparisons that the majority of pictorial elements share a remarkably close kinship both in design and in the way in which the blocks have been cut. Given the similar geographic and chronological placing of Monogrammist AP’s oeuvre and the Leuven frieze, the attribution of the design of the View of the City of Leuven to Monogrammist AP is perfectly acceptable. That this could place the production of the monumental frieze in Willem Liefrinck’s Antwerp publishing house is no obstacle since we have other woodcut friezes from his press.52 Watermarks Apart from the similarities in design and style, more evidence points to the Monogrammist AP and Willem Liefrinck’s workshop as the place of origin of the Leuven frieze. The recent conservation treatment made it possible to study the frieze with backlight in order to locate and identify watermarks on the 18 sheets. Given the large size of the frieze, it comes as no surprise that it contains several watermarks, but these are sometimes difficult to discern or identify as a result of the numerous damages in the paper. Two different types can be distinguished. A Jug that is hard to read is present on the first, fifth, sixth, and ninth sheets of

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Ill. 9.10. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1, watermark of a jug in the first sheet of the first row.

Ill. 9.11. Attributed to Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, View of the City of Leuven, detail of ill. 9.1, watermark of a shield in the eighth sheet of the first row.

the first row and the first, fifth, sixth, and eighth sheets of the second row (ill. 9.10). A Shield with two diagonal bars and three lilies on top with a crown above can be seen on the eighth sheet of the first row and on the seventh sheet of the second row (ill. 9.11). The latter is a relatively rare watermark that is close to Briquet 1054 and Piccard 24525, predominantly used in the Low Countries and France, and dated around 1535 and 1540 respectively.53 This corresponds to the dating of the frieze around 1540 based on the depicted buildings, and coincides with the active period of Monogrammist AP. Furthermore, small variations of the same watermark can be found in the Virtues and Vices series by Willem Liefrinck after that master (ill. 9.12 and 9.13).54 This remains circumstantial evidence, but it is in line with the attribution of the design of the Leuven frieze to Monogrammist AP and suggests that it might have come off Liefrinck’s press.

Several new findings on the individual woodcuts were described and a number of common characteristics were formulated. The woodcuts are large in size and often coloured by hand, and their iconography and composition influenced later artists in the Netherlands and abroad. The prints were designed by a master with good knowledge of literature and the latest trends in the arts. The blocks were cut by a skilled block cutter, probably Willem Liefrinck. Given that at least one series was published by Liefrinck in Antwerp and one print was patently influenced by the anonymous Antwerp master known as the Brunswick Monogrammist, it seems likely that the place of origin of the designs should be sought in Antwerp. But while several artists with the initials AP are mentioned in the early-sixteenth-century Liggeren of the Antwerp St Luke’s Guild, the lack of any other firm facts still leaves us wondering about the identity of Monogrammist AP.55 Concerning his chronological place, artistic activity, and pictorial idiom the Monogrammist can be compared to Bernard van Orley and Pieter Coecke van Aelst, with whom various woodcuts have previously been associated.

Conclusion After a discussion of the Leuven frieze and its recent conservation treatment, this article explored the output of the little studied Monogrammist AP.

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Ill. 9.12. Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, Watermark of Fides and Incredulitas (from the Virtues and Vices series), 1536, hand-coloured woodcut with letterpress, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett.

Ill. 9.13. Willem Liefrinck after Monogrammist AP, Watermark of Pudicitia and Immunditia (from the Virtues and Vices series), 1536, hand-coloured woodcut with letterpress, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett.

But there are insufficient grounds to ascribe the AP woodcuts to either of those masters and so, for the time being at least, they remain a separate group. The comparison with the Leuven city view makes clear that the majority of the pictorial elements share a remarkably close kinship, both in design and in the style of the blocks. Moreover, the analysis of the watermarks has confirmed the dating of the frieze around 1540, which matches the active period of the Monogrammist AP. Finally, small variations of a watermark in the Leuven frieze were found in AP’s Virtues and Vices series. All this supports an attribution of the Leuven frieze to

Monogrammist AP, and suggests that it might have been cut and published by Willem Liefrinck in Antwerp. This is not inconceivable, as Antwerp was becoming a leading centre of graphic industry, and this block cutter and publisher was responsible for several large-scale woodcuts. Further research into other preserved woodcuts after prominent artists and anonymous designers is necessary to evaluate the involvement of Antwerp block cutters and publishers in their production, and to gain a better insight into the scope of Liefrinck’s publishing house.

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NOTES Part of this paper was translated from Dutch by Lee Preedy. I would like to thank Jan Van der Stock (Illuminare – Centre for the Study of Medieval Art, KU Leuven), Joris Van Grieken (Royal Library of Belgium, Brussels), Julie Swennen (independent paper conservator, Brussels) and Huigen Leeflang (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam) for their kind help and useful suggestions and comments. Part of my travel and research for this article was made possible by a Fellowship from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam (2014-2016). Some aspects of this paper have been taken, in a revised form, from my unpublished Master’s thesis, see: Luyckx 2013. 1 The paper I presented at the Utopia conference also dealt with the Leuven frieze, but was different in content. It was entitled Envisioning a University City in Print. An Analysis of the Oldest City Portrait of Leuven. 2 More 1516: fol. 7v. Translation Surtz & Hexter 1965: 41. 3 Inv. no. S.I. 23172, 516 × 3660 mm. 4 Prominent publications on monumental prints do not include any examples that disprove this thesis, see: Appuhn & Von Heusinger 1976; Silver & Wyckoff 2008. The Prospect of Constantinople by Melchior Lorck (c. 1526-1583) at Leiden University (inv. no. PK-P-BPL 1758) is wider, but this is a drawing. Accessible online via digitalcollections.universiteitleiden.nl (last accessed 7 February 2019). 5 For a full, recent bibliography and additional illustrations of details, see: Luyckx 2016: 78-85. 6 Petit 1877: 47-65. For an updated description, see: Luyckx 2013, vol. 1: 33-65. A full-scale reproduction was also published by Simoneau & Toovey in Brussels (probably in 1869), of which an impression is kept at the Print Room of the Royal Library of Belgium (storage room of friezes, no inv.). 7 Luyckx 2016: 78-85. 8 Van Even already suggested that students were the target audience of this woodcut, see: Van Even 1895: 181. 9 Guicciardini 1567: 51. 10 The following description is based on personal correspondence and the conservation report compiled by Julie Swennen for the Royal Library of Belgium. 11 Alvin 1862: 15; Passavant 1860-1864, vol. 3: 152-153. 12 Passavant 1860-1864, vol. 3: 152-153. 13 Merlo 1864: 139; Petit 1877: 47-48; Van Even 1895: 181. 14 On the View of the City of Cologne, see: Braunfels 1960: 115136 (ill.). 15 This printmaker should not be confused with the Italian etcher of the same name, who was active around 1555, see: Thieme & Becker 1907-1950, vol. 37: 375. 16 Nijhoff 1931-1939, vol. 1: 28, 74, vol. 2: 159-164, ills. 153-60, 293-94, 396-401 and addenda; Hollstein et al. 1949-2010, vol. 13: 12-16, nos. 1-9 (ills.); Prein 1989, vol. 1: 24, no. 104. 17 Delen has also commented on the relationship between the Four Seasons by the Monogrammist AP and the Triumph of Jacobus Castricus attributed to the so-called Master of Johannes Grapheus at the Kupferstichkabinett of the Staatliche Museen zu Berlin (inv. no. 5411882), see: Delen 1924-1935: vol. 3: 48-49, ill. 14. Although there are some similarities, the frontal character of the Triumph of Jacobus Castricus creates a visual complexity that is not to be found in the oeuvre of the Monogrammist AP. Moreover, the print looks as if it has been cut by a different hand, while all prints with the AP monogram seem to have been cut by the same block cutter. For a survey of this woodcut’s attributions, see: Marlier 1966: 182-183. Wescher also ascribes the Genealogy of the House of Habsburg, published by Robert Péril (active c. 1522-1540) in 1536, to Monogrammist AP but offers no support for his attribution, see: Wescher 1928: 37, no. 1.

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18 Inv. no. 873-21, 487 × 547  mm (sheets). For the complete series, see inv. nos. 874-21, 875-21 and 876-21. 19 In the past, these prints have been erroneously described as engravings with Patientia as the central figure in each composition, see: Rollová 1995-1996: 46. 20 To my knowledge, the sources for the ornamentation in Monogrammist AP’s prints have never been thoroughly researched. 21 For this drawing by Bernard van Orley at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam (inv. no. RP-T-1905-21), see: Beets 1932: 129-137, ill. 1. Accessible online via www.rijksmuseum.nl/nl/collectie/RP-T-1905-21 (last accessed 7 February 2019). Boon also places the designer of this series in the circle of Van Orley but gives very little reason for doing so, see: Boon 1982: 10-12. 22 Boon suspects that this is an alias of Willem de Volder (Guilelmus Gnapheus), see: Boon 1982: 10-11. 23 Boon 1992, vol. 1: xxxvi-xxxviii, vol. 2: 251, ills. 12-13; Nijhoff & Kronenberg 1923-1971, vol. 2: 880-881, no. 4073. 24 This is probably due to the fact that Nijhoff erased all colour from woodcuts during the reproduction process. This is explicitly mentioned in his introduction: “[…] terwijl ook met de meeste zorg van gekleurde exemplaren, waarvan geen andere beschikbaar waren, de kleuren door het photographisch procédé zijn uitgewischt.”, see: Nijhoff 1931-1939, vol. 1: 5-6. Hollstein based his descriptions and illustrations of several woodcuts on Nijhoff, including those by the Monogrammist AP. Boon, however, is well aware of this colouring but pays little attention to it, see: Boon 1982: 11, ills. 5-6. Over the last decades, colour has been regarded with increasing interest in the study of early modern printmaking and awareness of the important part it played has grown as a result. Crucial for this growing interest has been: Dackerman 2002. 25 Van der Stock 1998: 27-31 and 263. 26 For the complete series, see: London, British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, inv. nos. E,9.196, E,9.197, E,9.198 and E,9.199. Accessible online via www.britishmuseum.org/research/ collection_online/search.aspx?searchText=Monogrammist+ATP (last accessed 7 February 2019). 27 Wescher 1928: 37, no. 1. 28 Inv. no. 154-1891, 346 × 489 mm. 29 Veldman 1980: 156; Veldman 2006: 193-194. 30 Veldman 1980: 157. 31 Meetz 2003: 136. On the woodcut projects of Emperor Maximilian I, see for example: Landau & Parshall 1994: 206-211; Silver 2008. 32 Schestag 1883: 176-181; Van der Stock 1998: 95. 33 Wescher 1928: 37, no. 1; Delen 1924-1935, vol. 3: 49. 34 Van Straaten 1977: 32-34. 35 Delmarcel 1987: 213-217, ills. 9, 9/1. 36 Meetz 2003: 221-246. 37 De Witt 1937: 445 (ill.). 38 According to Nijhoff, Campbell Dodgson informed him of impressions of this edition at the British Museum, see: Nijhoff 19311939, vol. 1: 28. 39 Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, inv. nos. RP-P-1933-608A, RP-P1933-608B, RP-P-1933-608C and RP-P-1933-608D. Accessible online via www.rijksmuseum.nl/nl/collectie/RP-P-1933-608A etc. (last accessed 7 February 2019). The Kupferstichkabinett in Berlin also has several similar woodcuts, but those have no calendar pages, nor do they comprise a complete series, see: Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett, inv. nos. 299-2001, 921-301, 922-301 and 923-301. According to Dodgson, the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford holds another set of Italian copies, different to those mentioned by Nijhoff, see: Dodgson 1938: 13. 40 Denhaene 1990: 159-163, ill. 205; Van Ruyven-Zeman 1995: 44-45, ills. T.32.1-T.32.12; Larcher Crosato 1985: 119-128, ills. 1-4, 7.

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41 For various examples, see: Veldman 1980: 149-176. 42 There is a similar series of engravings by Virgil Solis (151462), influenced by the drawings of Georg Pencz (c. 1500-50), but their date is uncertain. O’Dell-Franke is acquainted with the series by Monogrammist AP but refers to him as Monogrammist AM and is unaware of the inverted 1537, see: O’Dell-Franke 1977: 99-100, ills. 35-36. 43 Inv. no. RP-P-OB-47.317, 580 × 707 mm. Accessible online via www.rijksmuseum.nl/nl/collectie/RP-P-OB-47.317 (last accessed 7 February 2019). Most recently, see: Van der Coelen 2015: 129-131, ill. 122. 44 Bergström 1966: 151-153; Renger 1970: 90-95. 45 Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. no. WA2003.Douce.735. This impression is not mentioned in Dodgson’s description of rare Netherlandish woodcuts in this collection, see: Dodgson 1938: 4-7. 46 Ubl 2014: 175. 47 De Jongh 1997: cat. 30; Hazelzet 2007: 192-195; Kommerell 2008: 132.

48 Fusenig 1994: cat. A 13. 49 Ubl 2014: 138, 140-141, 169 and 175. 50 Ubl 2014: ills. VIII-IX. 51 Armstrong 1990: 21. 52 Van der Stock 1998: 97, 132, ills. 53, 66. 53 Briquet 1968: no. 1054; Piccard Online, no. 24525, accessible online via www.wasserzeichen-online.de/wzis/struktur.php?po=24525 (last accessed 7 February 2019). 54 Inv. no. 874-21, 482 × 546 mm (sheets), and inv. no. 876-21, 491 × 549 mm (sheets) respectively. The London impressions of the Four Seasons series are mounted, and could not be inspected for watermarks. The watermarks in the Berlin impression of Winter and in both impressions of the Brothel Scene are different, but need further research. 55 Boon’s identification as Anthonis van Parys is not tenable, given that he is mentioned as a ‘tafereelmaker’ and only became a master of the St Luke’s Guild in 1554, see: Boon 1982: 10, no. 39.

Ill. 10.1. Anonymous, Scenes from the Passion of Christ, c. 1470-90, oil on panel, M Leuven.

10

The City between Piety and Vanity City Portraits in Religious Iconography in Early Modern Netherlandish Painting Jochen Suy

While the presence of urban space in art is as old as cities are themselves, the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries mark a shift in the way the city itself is represented. Before this period, religious, historical and mythological scenes were set against a backdrop of seemingly generic landscapes and cities. Urban and architectural elements served as set pieces to the scenes in the foreground, but rarely seemed to add an extra layer of meaning to it. The image of the city was an architecturally generic assembly of walls and towers and could be constructed as to represent any earthly or heavenly city on earth (ill. 10.1). Around the beginning of the fifteenth century however, recognizable views of identifiable cities emerged in the background of paintings. Iconic buildings and unique landmarks were represented in combination with imaginary, fantastic and often grotesque elements, resulting in an interesting visual tension between real and imaginary worlds. These images of the city, schematic at first, rapidly evolved into, at first unrealistic, but yet clearly recognizable city renderings. This shift in the way cities were now represented can obviously be linked to the rising economic and political power of these centres, and with it an emerging self-awareness and identity.1 Clearly an important change could be observed as Western cities started to appear as

backgrounds to biblical events. Painters started to visualise their own cities in the shape of iconic places such as Jerusalem. This begs the following question: where does this shift come from? Even more importantly, and this will be the focus of our inquiry: what is the iconographic function of such city portraits? Is the city mere ornamentation and scenery, or does it play an active part in the message of the painting? Does it add an extra layer of meaning to the iconographical reading of the work? And what are the implications of the represented scenes for the image of the city itself? Since we will focus on the interaction between scene and scenery in this paper, we will exclude city portraits as more or less independent representations. Such a division might be rather artificial, but a general discussion on the role of the image of the city would lead us beyond the scope of this article. This paper will show some examples of cityscapes and highlight a possible line of investigation. A more methodological and comprehensive study of the presence and function of the city portrait in art would however prove very useful in future. The presence of the city in sixteenth century painting is a very broad phenomenon, with famous examples such as Bruges, Paris, Cologne, Vienna, and many other important centers. To further focus

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Ill. 10.2. Anonymous, The feeding of the five thousand, c. 1490, oil on panel, Münster, LWL-Museum für Kunst und Kultur, Westfälisches Landesmuseum.

the scope of this paper, we will have to limit our inquiry geographically. Instead of proposing a general classification of different types of city portraits, it seems more rewarding to consider different paintings that feature the same city. We will therefore select specific cases which feature the city of Antwerp. This choice is evident, as early sixteenth century Antwerp was the unmistakable economic capital of Europe at the time and possessed both a rich artistic tradition and a rising class of rich merchants. It is the combination of these two factors that will prove to produce some very interesting artworks.

Cities of saints and sinners The first example I would like to discuss here is the Feeding of the 50002 (ill. 10.2). The painting dates to around 1490, and was executed by an unknown, probably Northern Netherlandish master, likely operating in Antwerp at the time.3 The iconography is very recognisable, with five loafs of bread and two fish being brought to a blessing Christ, who appears among his apostles. What is interesting here is that the city in the background is quite clearly a portrait of Antwerp. It is certainly not a naturalistic rendering, but the city can be clearly identified as Antwerp because of some key

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Ill. 10.3. Anonymous, Saint John on Patmos, c. 1500-99, oil on panel, Antwerp, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten.

elements. The cathedral, then the Church of Our Lady, with an as yet unfinished north tower, the location of towers and inlets of its medieval walls, the (now lost) church of Saint Walpurga to its left and the protruding wharf with crane. There is however very little dialogue between the city and the scene in the front, so subsequently there is little to go on as to identify why this specific city was used here. Unequivocally, it seems that by setting this biblical scene in contemporary Antwerp, the artist or the patron wanted to update its message and make it more relevant to the specific period. The same motivation seems to apply to both the Adoration of the Magi by the Master of the Morrison triptych,4 and an Annunciation triptych by Joos van Cleve from around 1515-1520.5 Both panels feature very clear views of the city of

Antwerp, although its role in the entirety of the work has so far received very little attention. The previous works feature devotional scenes and seem to reflect the period viewer’s piety in the context of the urban world he inhabits. In a painting, possibly by Herri met de Bles, in the collection of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Antwerp, another key iconographic element surfaces6 (ill. 10.3). Again, we can see a recognisable yet freely rendered view of the city of Antwerp; it is evidently set in a rather unrealistic river and mountain landscape. In the foreground, Saint John, accompanied by the Eagle, is writing down his Revelations. While the city seems to be thriving, the Apocalyptic vision of the Beast with the seven heads looms over the landscape, a clear image of impending doom. Other examples in which cities

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both virtue and vice. Idle citizens next to ones arduous at work; the greedy opposed to the generous, the lustful compared to the chaste. Seven devils dance around the city walls, representing the seven vices. Above, the seven virtues guide man from the perils of the earthly city into the Heavenly city. The message here is clear: whether we follow a virtuous or a sinful life on earth, after we die our actions will have its consequences on our salvation or our doom. This perception highlights the way the city was seen in fifteenth century society; the world is an infernal and  perilous place, where people are tempted to stray from the virtuous path. This reflection on urban life in light of our own mortality is an idea that will continue well into the sixteenth century.

Ill. 10.4. Maître François, The Heavenly and the Earthly city, in St. Augustin, La Cité de Dieu, c. 1475-80, fol. 6, parchment, The Hague, Museum Meermanno / Huis van het Boek.

meet such catastrophical visions can be found. One such painting, again possibly by Herri met de Bles, from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, features the city of Antwerp serving as a model for the city of Sodom, burning for its many, many sins.7 In these works, the city comes out of the background and begins to play an active role in the painting’s message of eschatological proportion. The city is certainly portrayed in a very gloomy way, as it is cast as a place of sin, which meets divine retribution. The idea that cities are potentially vicious places is of course not new to a fifteenth century audience. Well before that, imagery of Saint Augustine’s City of God was well-known and widely circulated8 (ill. 10.4). The Heavenly City, suspended in the skies, is set opposite the Earthly City below it. Each segment of this earthly city is populated by

The morals of merchants Sixteenth century Antwerp is characterised by a paradigm shift in the approach to material wealth and leisure. As biblical scholars harshly and repeatedly condemned the pursuit of ‘treasure on earth’, views on dealing with money and wealth increasingly come into conflict with a new economic reality.9 Increasing trade and the consolidation of city power give rise to an urban merchant class that clearly struggles with existing notions of damnation and scorn pointed specifically at those who achieve wealth and status. The works of art favoured by this merchant class clearly reflect these conflicting attitudes. Scenes with tax collectors, misers and money lenders become common themes in sixteenth century painting10 However, the representation of money and moneymaking is, in most cases, cast in a negative light. Such scenes do feature both unpopular greedy tax collectors and disreputable lawyers in their office. This is for example the case in a diptych by Jan Provoost in the collection of the Groeningemuseum in Bruges, featuring a double portrait of an unidentified donor and his wife11 (ill. 10.5). Clearly, the panel with the male donor, accompanied by Saint Nicholas, features a view of the city of Antwerp. More specifically, it focuses on its

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Ill. 10.5. Jan Provoost, The miser and Death, 1500-99, oil on panel, Bruges, Groeningemuseum.

famed and thriving port. At first glance the view is straightforward and most likely was meant to reflect the identity of the sitter as a rich merchant from Antwerp, but when we look at the closed panels, another message sheds a different light on the city. The miser and Death was a very popular theme during this period, and it refers to the vanity of dealing with money and earthly treasure, neglecting spiritual richness, in the face of inevitable death. It derives from the medieval Dance of Death, where a miser and a merchant are among the ones visited by death. In vain, they try to protect their goods and commerce, sending us a message about the futility of mercantile pursuits in the light of our inevitable demise. At first, it seems contradictory that an iconography that so clearly condemns the pursuit of earthly riches appears to be so prevalent amongst

wealthy urban merchants, bent on profit and the accumulation of assets. It is certainly not a coincidence that themes like the death of the miser, the calling of Matthew or the sinful life of the prodigal son were immensely popular among the urban elites. They clearly identified with these examples and through them, they expressed the hope that they too could receive salvation in death. A theme like the calling of Matthew – who before he met Christ was working as a tax collector – appears to have enjoyed a remarkable popularity in Antwerp in the 1530s and 40s. Countless painted versions of it exist, mostly deriving from designs by Quinten Massys, Marinus van Reymerswaele and Jan van Hemessen, who seem to have focused specifically on commercial themes and their moral implications. Bankers, moneylenders and traders became the subject of paintings with a moral message

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Ill. 10.6. Follower of Marinus van Reymerswaele, The Tax Collectors, c. 1540-55, oil on panel, M Leuven.

(ill. 10.6). No doubt, the commercial success of Antwerp led its wealthy citizens to reaffirm their belief that not the pursuit of money, but the example of Christ was most important to them. The workshops of artists like Massys, Van Hemessen and Van Reymerswaele flooded the market with such works, catering to an urban elite that attempted to reconcile their economic activities with biblical disapproval.12 The popularity of this type of work indicates that the urban elite, involved in trade and profits, strongly identified with the figure of Matthew. Even more powerful than works with typical representations of misers and money lenders, were those paintings that visualised the presence of Christ, as these provided the viewer with the possibility of salvation. These works indicate the hope for salvation harboured by this rich merchant class. The belief that, like Saint Matthew, they too could be saved because, despite their focus on money, they did supposedly recognise and follow Christ.

Piety and vanity In the reserves of the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, a very interesting case can be found, in which many of the previously discussed themes are visually combined13 (ill. 10.7). The work is by an unknown master, most likely circle of Lucas Gassel, and can be dated to around 1530-1540. The artist is commonly referred to as Monogrammist LC, although it is not clear if he is the only master who worked on the painting.14 Due to an ongoing debate regarding the authenticity of the monogram – situated on the dead tree of this painting – we will refrain from applying the label monogrammist and will simply refer to him as the Master LC.15 The painting combines a city portrait with the calling of Matthew, along with some remarkable and intriguing scenes, including Christ stepping over a ruined fence. Any attempts at a definitive reading of the work have been unsuccessful, and its remarkable and quite unique iconography still eludes us. The background can quite easily be identified as the city of Antwerp – again despite the rather schematic nature of the city’s key structures, and the presence of fantastic elements such as the grotesque mountain peaks. The city is represented as the commercial centre it was in the early sixteenth century. Trade ships crowd the stream and harbour. One such ship is docked and connects the city and its economic hustle with the scene to the foreground on the left. The ship is being off-loaded, with traders discussing the works and goods piling up on the landing. In a nearby building this mercantile theme is further expanded, as gold coins are being counted in a sumptuously decorated house. A figure in an elaborate and richly decorated dress looks up and lifts his hand in surprise. This scene represents the calling of Matthew: Christ beckons Matthew in his tax office, inviting him to step out and to follow Him. His gesture is echoed by the hands of the apostles, which not only underline this gesture, but also guide the eye of the viewer toward the centre of the painting. The two cranes to the left of this scene seem to mimic this movement, as one moves in the direc-

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Ill. 10.7. Master LC, Imaginary view on Antwerp with the calling of Matthew, c. 1536-40, oil on panel, Brussels, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium.

tion of a couple of richly dressed children, while the other stretches out towards Christ to catch a lizard. Cranes serve as a symbol of watchfulness against evil, in this case the evils of money and luxury (ill. 10.8). In Matthew 6:26-34, we also find a reference to birds as an example of the futility of replenishing earthly needs. Although this is the only known version that combines the calling of Matthew with a landscape – and a cityscape – there is a very interesting painting in the Royal Collection, possibly by Jan Mertens the Younger, that also links Matthew to commerce and naval trade, much like the painting being discussed here.16 Much like the Antwerp painting, Matthew, dressed in fine clothes and shoes and with a fur hat, is depicted in an opulent, palatial setting, adorned with gold and gems. A chained

monkey can be seen neglecting his food in favour of rummaging through treasure, a clear negative symbol of the foolishness of who deals with money. The scales are not in balance: he who deals with money is weighed, and ‘found wanting’.17 The Antwerp painting is characterised by a clear compositional dichotomy, which recalls the dual iconography of many reformist works from the same period. In fact, more specific themes in the painting seem to be influenced by reformist thinking.18 We also find this dichotomy in The moneylender and his wife by Quinten Massys, another extremely popular theme we find in many renditions and copies.19 The man to the left is absorbed with weighing gold and counting coins. His wife to the right, although she has a prayer book in hand, looks up from it to observe her husband’s arduous

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Ill. 10.8. Master LC, Imaginary view on Antwerp with the calling of Matthew detail, c. 1536-40, oil on panel, Brussels, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium.

pursuit, illustrating the power that money has to distract us from leading a virtuous life. Such allegorical works have a strong moral overtone, as they are intended to remind the viewer of the frailty of our earthly life, and the vanity of pursuing earthly treasure while neglecting spiritual duties. In the centre of the painting, Christ can be seen stepping over a ruined fence, while pointing towards a smaller devotional image, probably the crucifixion, attached to a barren tree (ill. 10.9). This unconventional image indicates a turning point in the work. Christ moves away from the world of earthly wealth and leisure on the left of the painting and points the viewer towards a distinctly pastoral world on the right. A shepherd or possibly a pilgrim appears leaning against a tree, his eyes fixed on Christ. He moves to take off his shoes, recalling the image of Moses with the burning bush, suggesting that this is sacred, spiritual ground. This is strength-

ened by the presence of both a well from which clear water is flowing and a flock of sheep. Seen together with the fence that Christ has climbed over, the right half of this painting seems to function as an ‘enclosed garden’, a spiritual world, as opposed to the world Matthew inhabits on the left, which represents a world of earthly pursuits and treasure. Christ is imploring Matthew, and by extension all viewers as he is looking straight at us, to reject a world of earthly treasure. He points the way toward the spiritual path to ultimate salvation. Given the decaying nature of the tree and fence over which Christ steps, this obstacle can be seen as a representation of death. Antwerp emblemata books suggest the fence was, certainly around 1600, regarded as a symbol of the end of life.20 Crossing a fence is crossing from one world to another and can function as a symbol of death. Equally, Christ climbing over this fence strongly recalls the ico-

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Ill. 10.9. Master LC, Imaginary view on Antwerp with the calling of Matthew detail, c. 1536-40, oil on panel, Brussels, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium.

nography of the resurrection; the now immaculate robes of Christ seem to confirm this. It also further strengthens the hypothesis that the fence, in addition to a compositional balance point, doubles as a memento mori. But what about the city? The presence of Antwerp is unlikely to merely be an indicator of the provenance of the painter or his patron. Instead, the city becomes more than just a setting for biblical scenes. Its representation as a commercial metropolis, a reputation it had already gained by the first half of the sixteenth century, connects to the iconography of the futility of the pursuit of earthly wealth in the foreground, and strengthens this notion by giving it a clear contemporary dimension. The image of Antwerp serves as a mirror to reflect on our earthly activities and forces the viewers to compare their lives to the example of Christ. The city, like the viewer, finds itself at a crossroads between piety and vanity. Which road will it take?

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Conclusion Over the course of this paper, I have discussed several paintings with a religious iconography which involve views of Antwerp. It is clear that the image of the city is not merely a token of ownership or provenance, but that it figures largely in the iconographic program of these works as a whole. A more comprehensive study of the presence and function of the city portrait in painting is therefore necessary. A more methodical and quantitative approach as seen in Jelle De Rock’s survey of urban space in early modern painting could provide a valuable starting point from which to further develop the subject.21 Furthermore, a thorough thematical investigation into the role of the city in the background could reveal more about how the sixteenth century inhabitants of these cities perceived themselves. We have also briefly touched on how some of these works may have been influenced by the reformation. This relationship deserves further investigation. With the representation of real cities as the scenery of religious scenes, the secular world is introduced within the sacred space, but also the other way around. The sacred permeates into the secular world and delivers its commentary directly to the contemporary viewer and his city, and subsequently his world. This relates quite literally to the idea that biblical time is set in a permanent ‘now’. The life of Christ and the Saints is set in a continuous, ever-present time and space frame. In many cases, the city tends to become cast in a rather negative light, as such imagery becomes involved in a paradigm shift in the attitude towards the monetary activity for which it has become a symbol. It has certainly not been my intention to imply that this is the function of all city portraits in painting, far from it. Rather I have pointed out one specific function. Others can no doubt be identified, and I urge the reader to have a look at them anew. In the cases I have selected for this paper, the city portrait certainly tends to function as a vanitas, a reminder of the vanity of earthly life. The city with all its wealth and power is seen as an

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obstacle one has to overcome if one wants to reach salvation. Essentially, these paintings evoke the possibility of a transformation, and are a testimony to the power of artistic creation to transform and enhance our life, and contribute to our salvation, even in death. NOTES 1 De Rock 2012: 248-261. 2 Münster: LWL-Museum für Kunst und Kultur (Westfälisches Landesmuseum) (inv. no. 1102 LM). 3 Pieper 1990: 479-482. 4 Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art (inv. no. 369). 5 Santo Domingo de la Calzada: Catedral (inv. unknown).

6 Antwerp: Royal Museum of Fine Art (inv. no. 5042). 7 Boston, Museum of Fine Arts (inv. no. 46.1143). 8 Newman 2014: 42-56. 9 Brook 2007. 10 Silver 2006. 11 Bruges, Musea Brugge - Groeningemuseum (inv. no. 0000. GRO0216.I-0218.I). 12 Vlam 1977: 561-570. 13 Brussels: Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium (inv. no. 6087). 14 Ainsworth 1998: 117-129. 15 Gibson 1989: 96-97. 16 London, The Royal Collection (inv. no. RCIN 405788). 17 Campbell 1985: 45. 18 Suy 2012. 19 Paris, Louvre (inv. no. 1444). 20 Brummel 1949: 198. 21 De Rock 2011.

Ill. 11.1. Altarpiece of Boussu, c. 1550, alabaster reliefs in a wooden hutch, Boussu, Chapel of the Lords of Boussu.

11

Alabaster and Gold Material-Technical Study of the Exceptional Altarpiece of Boussu Judy De Roy

During the Renaissance period, alabaster was a popular material of choice in the art of the Southern Netherlands. Next to the standardized serial production of small reliefs, statuettes, and domestic altarpieces, unique individual artworks were designed as well. A fine example is the rather unknown altarpiece conserved in the Chapel of the Lords of Boussu. The partially polychromed altarpiece, made out of oak and alabaster, consists of a gradin and a central relief flanked by two niches behind a double row of columns. Above the frieze and spandrels is a fronton with two acroteria and crowning (ill. 11.1). The composition of the altarpiece is clearly inspired by the Italian Renaissance, with elements such as a triumphal arch, triangular fronton, sculptures in niches, and a double row of columns. These new forms were introduced in the Low Countries through international relations and artists’ journeys to Italy. Furthermore, by alluding to the power of the Roman Empire, this style was promoted as a visual mark for political intentions by residential courts, and patrons devoted to the Habsburg family.1 Despite the large lacunae in the upper part of the chapel altarpiece, the scene in the central relief clearly concerns the crucifixion of Christ. A large number of spectators is gathered around the cross.

On the fore plan at the right side of the cross, the swooning Virgin Mary is depicted in a long-sleeved dress with a wide mantle covering her hair. Behind her, one of the other Marys’ attention is fully focused on the Virgin, as she is comforting and supporting her. The beautiful young woman is wearing a refined garment consisting of a long dress with a square décolleté, and a pleated shirt made out of fine fabrics, with a standing collar underneath. Her hair is braided on top of her head and partially covered with a veil. Behind Mary, the kneeling Mary Magdalene embraces the bottom part of Christ’s cross, while looking up at the Crucified Christ. She is wearing a long-sleeved dress and a wrap in the middle. Her hair is braided and partially covered with a veil. John the Evangelist, behind the Virgin, is dressed in a long robe with a waist belt and sandals. In his long hair, he wears a band and, like Mary Magdalene, he is looking up at Christ. At the same side of the Cross, the more honourable right side, Longinus is represented on a horse with a priest behind him. On the opposite side of the Cross, a group of three soldiers is gathered, one of them Stephaton. Behind them are two more horsemen (ill. 11.2). Two small statues of evangelists, placed in niches and crowned with semi-circular arches with

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Ill. 11.2. Altarpiece of Boussu (central relief with the Crucifixion of Christ), c. 1550, alabaster with partial polychromy, Boussu, Chapel of the Lords of Boussu.

shell motive, are flanking the central relief. To the left Saint John can be seen carrying the chalice, accompanied by his traditional symbol, the eagle. Saint Mark with the characteristic lion can be seen on the other side (ill. 11.3). The upper triangular relief in the tympanum depicts God the Father in heaven surrounded by angels.

The reliefs of the gradin, frieze, spandrels, and those in the niches are decorated with detailed grotesques. The gradin consists of nine reliefs with grotesques in vegetative forms, floral motives, fruits, mythical creatures, satyrs, and herms. The design of the reliefs in the frieze and spandrels consists of the same elements, and four of them have a mask or a white stork in the centre surrounded by floral motives (ill. 11.5).

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The three visible sides of the column bases are decorated with reliefs with either a mask, a lion head or a cherub. Furthermore, two acroteria in the shape of masks in profile are added next to the tympanum. Circles and lines divide the intrados of the tympanum. In each of the fields a little alabaster relief was attached. Unfortunately, most of them have disappeared, but originally there were 14 of them, six angels’ heads with wings and eight floral motifs. Unfortunately, only one of the cheeks, with a lion paw and vegetal motives, remains.

Ill. 11.3. Statuette of Saint John, c. 1550, alabaster with partial polychromy, Boussu, Chapel of the Lords of Boussu.

Place of conservation and provenance The construction of the funeral chapel in the small town of Boussu, listed as exceptional heritage of the Walloon Region, was started in the twelfth century. In the sixteenth and seventeenth century, the chapel was embellished with three mausolea founded for the Hénnin-Liétard dynasty. According to the oldest source, and without any doubt since 1873,2 the altarpiece was displayed on top of the mausoleum of Maximilien II de Hénin-Liétard and his spouse Alexandrine-Françoise de Gavre. Dendrochronological research3 proved that the altarpiece was assembled out of oak felled between 1542 and 1566, indicating that the production of the hutch is posterior to 1542. It also indicates that this could not possibly be the original location of the Renaissance-style altarpiece since the mausoleum, also serving as the chapel’s altar, was only founded between 1625 and 1650. Furthermore, the type of object itself indicates another placement, as altarpieces of this size were commonly placed on top of an altar table (ill. 11.6). So, what was the original location of the altarpiece and who was its patron? Unfortunately, no contemporary archives referring to the altarpiece could be consulted, as they were destroyed during the bombing of Mons in 1940. Possibly the altarpiece was ordered by Jean de Hénnin-Liétard (1499-1562), who was Earl of Boussu at the time the altarpiece was made. Jean de Hénnin-Liétard, knight of the Golden Fleece

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Ill. 11.4. Overview of the reliefs in the gradin with detailed grotesques, c. 1550, alabaster with partial polychromy, Boussu, Chapel of the Lords of Boussu.

and Master of the Horse of Charles  V, surely belonged to the elite clientele interested in these kinds of artworks. Next to the funeral chapel, the private chapel of the Earl in his nearby Renaissance castle, designed by Jacques Du Broeucq, could also qualify as the place of origin of the altarpiece. The presence of these kinds of altarpieces in private chapels belonging to elite families was common. An extract from the inventory of the governor of Binche describing the reception of several pieces from the chapel at the castle at Mariemont,

belonging to Mary of Hungary, mentions “Premier, ung tableau d’alebastre, ou est le crucifiement de Nostre Seigneurs et Dieu le père par dessus, enchassé au bois doré, estant dedans une custode paincte de noir servant sur l’autel”.4 It might be tempting to presume that the altarpiece described in the inventory, made after the final departure of Mary of Hungary to Spain in 1556, is the one from the chapel of Boussu as, apart from the described scenes and used materials, also the date of manufacturing matches. Nevertheless, the so-called black box surrounding

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Ill. 11.5. Altarpiece of Boussu (relief 5, frieze), alabaster with partial polychromy.

the altarpiece could indicate that it concerns a smaller object, belonging to the genre of the domestic altarpiece. Production center No signature, monogram or hallmark indicating a particular artist, workshop or production centre were found on the altarpiece. To define the production centre numerous precise measurements were compared to the different systems of measurements used in the Southern Netherlands during the sixteenth century. The feet and thumbs of Mons, Mechelen, and Antwerp were here considered. Mons, because of the proximity to Boussu and the presence of the renowned alabaster sculptor, Jacques Du Broeucq. Mechelen for its importance in the production of alabaster reliefs and small sculptures, and Antwerp for its importance as a cultural metropolis. Relevant dimensions were deduced from the numerous measurements taken on the altarpiece. First, multiple occurrences of a dimension were considered. But also, various sizes deemed important for the proportion of the altarpiece. Furthermore, measurements with a relevance to the assembly of the entity and sizes necessary for the cooperation between different artisans were taken into account.

Ill. 11.6. Mausoleum of Maximilien II de Hénin-Liétard and his spouse Alexandrine- Françoise de Gavre (before restoration) with Altarpiece on top, marble, painted limestone, alabaster, wood, c. 1625, Boussu, Chapel of the Lords of Boussu.

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Ill. 11.7. Schema of the frontside of the Altarpiece with measurements in Antwerp feet and thumbs. 1 footh (v) = 28.68 cm and 1 thumb (d) = 2.16 cm.

The comparison of different dimensions of the altarpiece with the sixteenth century measurements, revealed that the altarpiece was made in Antwerp (ill. 11.7). Indeed, Mechelen is far better known, and better documented, as a production centre for alabaster artworks, mainly due to the production of a large amount of serial alabaster reliefs and domestic altarpieces from the middle of the sixteenth century until the first quarter of the seventeenth century in this city. The use of alabaster in Antwerp however is underexposed and definitely needs further investigation. Nevertheless, some very important Antwerp artists, such as Willem Van den Broecke, alias Paladanus, and of course Cornelis Floris De Vriendt have worked in the soft white stone. Printing was a very important factor in the distribution of the new Renaissance idiom in the Low Countries. Antwerp played an important role in the spreading of this new style due to the numerous publishers that were based there.

Furthermore, Antwerp based artists, in contrast to court artists, took advantage of the opportunity to spread their ideas and realizations via the printing press in the shape of sourcebooks and print series. A key figure in this movement is of course the versatile artist Cornelis Floris. Active as sculptor, architect and engraver, he developed the so-called Floris style, a distinctive expression of the Northern Renaissance and the Antwerp School. The use of sourcebooks did not always simply result in the copying of prints. The artist combined motives to create an individual and independent work of art. This creativity or invention, is a crucial element of Northern Mannerism; the altarpiece of Boussu is a beautiful example of this process. Different motives inspired by or copied from sourcebooks were combined to create this unique altarpiece. There is a clear link between the reliefs on the columns decorated with masques and a series of 18 burin engravings depicting models for masques

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by Frans Huys based on inventions from Cornelis Floris. The first edition of these prints by Hans Liefrinck, an important Antwerp based publisher and print seller, dates to 1555, which corresponds with the period in which the altarpiece was made. Another source of inspiration could have been the engravings with scrollwork and grotesques that Cornelis Bos was renowned for around the middle of the sixteenth century. Alabaster No less than 70 alabaster pieces were incorporated in the altarpiece of Boussu. From a mineralogical point of view, alabaster is the same as gypsum: their crystal structure is identical but alabaster is fine-grained and more compact. In the fourteenth century a tradition of working in alabaster already existed in several workshops in France, Burgundy, England, and the Southern Netherlands. In the latter region, the material enjoyed a great popularity in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. As alabaster is mined in France, Spain, Germany and England, the source of the material is rarely known. Recent studies under the direction of Lise Leroux and Wolfram Kloppman with the aim of mapping the provenance of alabaster sculptures in French collections based on isotopic analyses, however showed that alabaster used in the Northern region was mainly imported from England.5 This can partially be explained by the ease of transport by waterways at a relatively low cost.6 Furthermore, an economic necessity of exporting raw material arose, as the Reformation had put the production of English alabaster to an end around the late 1530s.7 This change in religious and economic conditions went along with an increase in the popularity of Renaissance style sculptures in the Low Countries where alabaster was considered to be a good substitute for the white marble used in Italy.8 Besides aesthetic reasons and the ease of import, the relative tenderness of alabaster, a score of 2 on the Mohs scale of mineral hardness, must also have played a role in its popularity.

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Local veining, with a colour ranging between brown, orange, and red, can give an indication of English provenance, as this is a typical characteristic of this alabaster. From a mineralogical point of view these veins, consist of clays (smectite, kaolinite and vermiculite), carbonates and traces of iron oxides.9 Some beautiful examples of English alabaster used for sixteenth century sculptures are those from the roodscreen in Mons by Jacques Du Broeucq.10 The size of the blocks, and the local red veins, indicate an English provenance, as large sized blocks, with measurements going up to maximum three metres, were mined there. This trade was limited though and on demand.11 In addition, the alabaster used by Cornelis Floris for the shrine of Jan de Merode and Anna van Gistel in Geel was, according to a letter dated 19 September 1553, imported from England.12 For the altarpiece of Boussu two different kinds of English alabaster were used: a white one and a red veined one, which was only used for the columns and pilasters. Together with the polychrome this contributes to the chromatic appearance of the altarpiece. Jan Mone used an identical concept for the monumental alabaster altarpiece in the Brussels cathedral dated 1541. The reliefs depicting scenes from the Passion of Christ on the three registers were executed in pure white alabaster, whereas for the alabaster pilasters and lintels a red veined type was used. Alabaster can be easily carved and finished smoothly. Detailed sculpting can be made by using tools for other stone types, and due to its softness, tools for woodcarving were used as well. On the unfinished back of the statue of Saint John and the relief with the Crucifixion of the altarpiece of Boussu, we found marks of a saw and a flat chisel. The visible surface of the alabasters of the altarpiece is very carefully finished with a polishing, leaving hardly any remains of tool traces. Only on one single location, namely on the chest of the herm in the spandrel, marks of a fine rasp are still visible. The shaft and base of the columns were turned using a lathe.

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We could not find any evidence of an original application of a transparent finishing layer on the alabaster surface, but this could have disappeared over time or have been removed during previous cleaning. Wax or oil was applied during the polishing of alabaster to enhance the colours and increase the translucidity of the alabaster. Several reliefs and the statue of Saint John found on the altarpiece of Boussu were carved out of assembled slabs or blocks of alabaster to obtain a larger surface. Next to obtaining a greater height, the technique was also used to obtain a greater depth to work in. This is the case for two reliefs of the gradin where a small block for each of the three protrusive monster heads was glued on top of the larger slab of alabaster. The central relief of the Crucifixion was made out of five pieces of alabaster. One big slab with a thickness of 5 cm and four other pieces glued on top. The assembly underlines the costliness of the luxury-product alabaster. Furthermore, it also illustrates the time-saving and economical way in which it was used in the workshops. All of the assemblies on the altarpiece are as good as invisible due to the very thin joint applied, and were done prior to the carving. The pieces were glued together using animal glue. Most of the altarpieces with alabaster are of a smaller size. The Catharijnen convent in Utrecht has a tabernacle with a height of 120 cm, 40 cm less than the altarpiece of Boussu, but the design is somehow related. Unfortunately, another altarpiece of comparable size with a high number of alabaster pieces in a wooden hutch could not be found. Mostly they have only three to five alabaster elements in contrast to the altarpiece of Boussu with 70 pieces of alabaster. There is a formal resemblance with the upper side of the tomb of Georg von Kommerstädt in the village church in Reinersdorf in Austria: It is entirely made out of alabaster and ordered in Antwerp between 1555 and 1559.13 Which is the same location and period as the altarpiece of Boussu.

Wooden hutch The hutch of the altarpiece of Boussu is made out of oak felled in the Baltic region between 1542 and 1566 except for the panel behind the central relief made out of a softer kind of wood, genre linden or poplar. The assembly of the hutch is comparable to methods applied for the construction of sixteenthcentury Antwerp retables. The pieces were connected using different techniques, such as wooden dowels, finger joints, wrought iron nails, and animal glue for the mouldings. The backside of the wood bears two different marks applied with a scraper. Each of these marks stands for an individual ‘signature’ of the woodcutter who applied his mark in order to get paid per unit,14 in this case for each cleaved plank. The presence of these kinds of markings is not unusual. Especially on Antwerp hutches, they can often be detected as the wood on the backside was not reworked in contrast to these produced in Brussels where the cleaved wood was often sawed or smoothened.15 An identical mark, as the one on the backside of the predella, can also be seen on the wooden back panel used for the altarpiece of Mary in the church of Ulkebol in Denmark, which was made in Antwerp between 1511 and 1520.16 Polychromy During the sixteenth and early seventeenth century alabaster was considered to have an aesthetic value, comparable to ivory or marble. Therefore, alabaster was either not polychromed or only partially. Much of the polychromy, if any, appears to be gold only. This decoration technique was applied to accentuate hems of clothes, motives on textile, hair and also to outline architecture or to fill specific zones with repetitive patterns. In more exceptional cases, a coloured glaze was applied on top of the gold leaf or sometimes red and black paint was applied to emphasize facial features. Equally, for the altarpiece of Boussu the colour scheme consists, next to the use of white and red veined alabaster, mainly of gold with minor accents of blue and red. To apply gilding on the alabaster

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Ill. 11.8. Altarpiece of Boussu, relief 7 from the gradin.

elements, two different techniques were used: mordant gilding and gold paint, also named shell gold. Mordant gilding was commonly used on alabaster in this period. The ochre mordant of the altarpiece of Boussu consists of white lead, yellow ochre, quartz, and calcium carbonate.17 This composition matches with previous analyses of mordant gilding on alabaster by the laboratory of KIK-IRPA. The mordant gildings on the altarpiece were either applied on the alabaster in thin lines to add accents, as we find on most partially gilded alabasters in general, or for the gilding of the entire background of a relief. The latter, used on 24 alabaster reliefs of the altarpiece is a more unique way of application with the aim of making a transition between the gilded background of the alabaster and the gilded

hutch. Therefore, it results in the white relief standing out. This kind of background-mordant gilding could also be observed on the domestic altarpiece of the Virgin and Child attributed to Jan Mone dating from circa 1534, and held in the Royal Museums of Art and History, Brussels. Another exceptional technique for applying golden touches on the altarpiece of Boussu is the use of shell gold. Optically, the effect differs from mordant gilding because of the limited brilliance. Furthermore, it was only used for applying details on figures and ornaments, and never for the entire background of a relief. This gold powder paint, generally used for panel painting and illuminated manuscripts, was seldom noticed on sculptures in general, or on alabaster surfaces. It is also known as

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Ill. 11.9. Mapping of the rhythm of the different gilding techniques on the alabasters of the Altarpiece of Boussu. Red: elements with mordant gilding; Green: elements with shell gold; Purple: elements with both gilding techniques.

shell gold because it used to be preserved in a shell as recipient. Gold powder was made out of gold leaves carefully grinded with honey or salt, which helps to prevent the welding together of the gold particles.18 In practice however, due to economic reasons, residues from goldbeating were probably more often used.19 The binding media, in literature often described as egg white, glue or Arabic gum, has not been analysed for this altarpiece. Nevertheless, a microsample studied in the lab clearly shows diffused particles of gold of different sizes on the

alabaster surface and no visible binding medium, therefore a transparent medium. The gold paint was directly applied on to the alabaster reliefs in thin, elegant lines (ill. 11.8). The rhythm of different gilding techniques on the alabasters is very important for the aesthetic aspect of the altarpiece. There is an alternation of mordant gilding for the background and detailing with gold paint of the reliefs on the predella and frieze (ill. 11.9).

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Ill. 11.10. Detail of the eye of the satyr in one of the spandrels. Built-up with gold leave (2) on an ochre mordants (I) with on top an accent of dark blue (3).

Only for the central relief and the two statuettes, Saint John and Saint Mark, the two gilding techniques are combined. Here the mordant gilding is used as usual, to apply a different kind of decoration. The gold paint was mainly used to accentuate the hair of different individuals and the manes of the horses. On the central relief gold paint has also been applied locally to deepen the relief with shading. This could for example be observed on the skirt of Longinus, where, in the depths of the pleats, thin golden lines were applied. In the case of the central relief it is not only the use of gold paint but also the way it was used, which seems to be exceptional. Most of the wooden parts of the altarpiece are covered with gold leaves. The ochre mordant has a similar composition as the one used on the alabaster sculptures. To flatten out the wooden surface a preparatory layer with chalk is applied on top of a pink layer.

Small touches and accents with blue, black, red, and green were applied on the altarpiece. On three alabaster reliefs, a very dark blue colour was applied for accentuating the eyes of a stork and satyrs. The paint is either applied directly onto the alabaster or with an intermediate gold leaf on mordant (ill. 11.10). On the central relief with the Crucifixion, the gilded borders of the mantle of the Virgin and Saint John, and the Virgin’s belt and sandals are topped with a red lacquer. Analyses have shown that it concerns an expensive lacquer with Kermes, a red dye derived from the dried bodies of female scale insects. These insects (Quercus coccifera) live in the Mediterranean region and feed on the sap of the Kermes oak. A green lacquer, probably copper resinate, on top of mordant gilding accentuates the hair band of Saint John. Apart from black for the niches behind Saint John and Saint Mark, there is also blue on the

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hutch, which was used for the intrados (now covered with a black overpaint) and the background of the cheek. Conclusion Due to in-depth material-technical examination, we managed to get a better knowledge and understanding of the altarpiece of Boussu, a previously underexposed artwork. We now know that it has been commissioned by a highly ranked clientele at an Antwerp workshop in the middle of the 16th century. The exclusive nature of the altarpiece of Boussu stands out by different exceptional elements. Surely the use of the combination of alabaster reliefs with a wooden hutch and the mordant gilding are in tune with mid-sixteenth-century practices. However, the rather monumental format of this kind of altarpiece with alabaster elements is quite exceptional, just as the number of alabaster elements, 70 pieces in total. Furthermore, the combination of white alabaster and the red veined alabaster for the architecture could be designated as rare. Concerning the polychromy, different applied techniques are exceptional as well. First of all there is the use of gold leaf for the gilding of the background of the reliefs and the presence of the shell gold.

This refined polychromy with various high-quality materials is enhanced by the sparingly used and valuable Kermes lacquer. The restoration of the Altarpiece of Boussu, sponsored by the Baillet Latour Fund, will emphasize the splendour of white and gold, resulting in an even more attractive piece of art. N OTES 1 Nuytten 2009: 10-11. 2 Petit 1873: 270. 3 Executed by Dr. Christophe Maggi of the Laboratories department of the KIK-IRPA. 4 Hedicke 1912: 428. “Firstly, an alabaster image with the crucifixion and God the Father above in a gilded wooden frame, in a black painted box presented on the altar”. 5 Kloppmann et al. 2014: 203-219; Congrès 2016. 6 Lipi´nska 2011: 19. 7 Ramsay & Blair 1991: 39-40. 8 Woods 2010: 87-88. 9 Cooper & Worley 2016. 10 De Roy 2015: 15. 11 Woods 2010: 87. 12 Huysmans et al. 1996: 246. 13 Lipi´nska 2014: 221-225. 14 Glatigny 1993: 143. 15 Serck-Dewaide 2017. 16 Glatigny 1993: 142. 17 All analyses were performed by Jana Sanyova and Cecile Glaude in the polychromy laboratory of KIK-IRPA 18 Vandamme 1982: 164. 19 Perego 2005: 517.

Ill. 12.1. Hans Holbein, Visitation (Kaisheim Altarpiece), outer view, c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek.

Ill. 12.2. Hans Holbein, Visitation (Kaisheim Altarpiece), inner view, c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek.

12

Part of the Picture The Underdrawing and its Use in the Painting-Technique of Hans Holbein the Elder Stephanie Dietz

Introduction The topic of this paper is the underdrawing and its application in the painting-technique of Hans Holbein the Elder. During the investigation of the Grey Passion at the State Gallery Stuttgart, Holbein’s special usage of the underdrawing in his paintings was recognised for the first time. These preliminary results instigated the examination of nearly twenty, mostly multipart works from about 1495 until 1520 with the IR-camera

and analytical methods (SEM/EDXRF, μand p-XRF, Ramanspectroscopy, GC-MS, HPLC) OSIRIS

in the context of a PhD-project about Holbein’s painting technique at the State Academy of Fine Arts, Stuttgart in cooperation with the Städel Museum, Frankfurt/Main, as well as the Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen and the Doerner Institut in Munich.1 The artist Hans Holbein the Elder Hans Holbein’s precise date of birth is not known, presumably, he was born in the 1460/70s in Augsburg. He died in 1524, but his place of death is unknown. Holbein the Elder had two sons: Ambrosius, who was born in 1494 or 1495 and two or three years later his son Hans followed. Both sons were apprentice-boys in their father´s workshop.2

Between forty and fifty artworks are attributed to Holbein the Elder (hereafter referred to as Holbein) and his workshop, many of the works are signed or documented by historical sources. The earliest signed work is the Afra Altarpiece from 1490, hence it can be assumed that Holbein the Elder was a master-craftsmen by then. Around the middle of the 1490s Holbein established his workshop in Augsburg and because of the many ecclesiastical institutions, business would have been thriving. Around 1500 Holbein the Elder could probably be considered the most famous painter in Augsburg. Due to proper management and organization, Holbein‘s workshop grew and in 1495 the painter hired an apprentice-boy named Stephan Kriechbaum for three years, who was the only apprenticeboy at the workshop besides Holbein‘s two sons.3 By 1497 Holbein had two assistants, probably his brother Sigmund and Leonhard Beck. These two names are documented in a court file relating to Holbein‘s work in Frankfurt upon Main.4 The Grey Passion (Stuttgart, Staatsgalerie, around 1495) is the earliest of three large winged altarpieces showing the Passion of Christ. Its original location is unknown today. Numerous and large works executed for the churches and cloisters of Augsburg provided Holbein’s good reputation

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beyond the borders of the city. At the end of the fourteenth century the abbot of the Dominicans in Frankfurt commissioned a very large altarpiece with two sets of foldable wings, showing the Passion of Christ, the Life of Mary, the Tree of Jesse and the Tree of the Dominicans (Dominican Altarpiece, 1500/ 1501, Frankfurt, Städelmuseum). It was housed in the same church as the so-called Heller-Altar by Albrecht Dürer and Matthias Grünewald. The third altarpiece showing the Passion of Christ and the Life of Mary is the Kaisheim Altarpiece from 1502 (München, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek). It was commissioned by the abbot of the Cistercians and executed in cooperation by Holbein, Adolf Daucher, and Gregor Erhart. They were called “the three best master-craftsmen of Augsburg” by the cloister-chronicle.5 By the end of the first decade of the fifteenth century Holbein began to incorporate renaissance designs in his compositions, which were an inherent part of his art by 1516. In his late work Holbein also painted several portraits. A large graphical work by Holbein is preserved. More than 250 drawings are assigned to the artist and his workshop. The drawings can be divided into two groups: the first group are pen sketches in ink with glazing typical for graphic art in Augsburg around 1500. Most of these drawings are preliminary studies for paintings and altarpieces. The second group are silver-point drawings. Holbein was very interested in the human physiognomy and used the portraits for figures in his paintings. Materials and composition of Holbein the Elder’s underdrawing An extensive and detailed underdrawing is present in most of Holbein‘s paintings, made easily visible by means of infrared-reflectroscopy. The thorough analysis of the underdrawing revealed comprehensive information about materials and workingtechniques. Complementing experiments were conducted in order to form a deeper understanding of Holbein’s work process. Additionally, the drawings of the artist were taken into consideration.

The underdrawing on Holbein’s panels is applied on an oil-based isolation-layer upon a gluebound chalk ground.6 Dry drawing materials One of the dry drawing materials is red chalk, in German it is called “Rötel”. For underdrawing red chalk was probably used far more often than detected up to today, as light red chalk does not absorb IR-radiation and is therefore not visible in an IR-reflectogram, whereas dark red chalk is visible in a reflectogram.7 Nevertheless, optical proof could be gathered in underdrawings by Lucas Cranach the Elder in the National Gallery, London.8 Mathias Grünewald also under drew with red chalk. In a cross-section of his panel Stuppach Madonna, analytical evidence was generated successfully for the first time.9 Holbein the Elder used red chalk as an aid for the first draft of his composition and underdrawing. On the panels of the Kaisheim Altarpiece the artist marked the picture section with a frame of red chalk (ill. 12.3). On the panel Presentation of Christ in the Temple of the Dominican Altarpiece, an outline of an architectural ornament is defined, as well as an inscription of the scene to be executed. Holbein applied another dry material for underdrawing, which is black in colour. The assumption

Ill. 12.3. Hans Holbein, Visitation (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. With lines of red chalk and carbon-based ink, which mark the picture section on the panel (measuring unit: I cm).

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that charcoal is at hand could be verified by the appearance of the broad lines, the microscopic study and SEM/EDX-analysis. In addition to a high content of carbon the particles feature the typical oblong and splintered form. Visually, the particles vary in their size distinctively, which is another characteristic of charcoal used as a dry drawing material.10 In underdrawings it was detected on large-scale works like Veronese’s The family of Darius (London, National Gallery).11 The rare proof of charcoal for underdrawing presumably relates to the procedure of painting, where most of the lines either were wiped away or reworked with a liquid medium, as otherwise the black particles may be smeared into the paint.12 It is remarkable how well the black lines often are preserved in Holbein’s underdrawing. This can be traced back to the oily isolation layer. A reconstruction of the underdrawing showed, that charcoal lines on an isolation of oil do not get smudged by subsequently applied paint layers, contrary to charcoal on glue-isolations. Interestingly, Holbein, in general, did not use the charcoal for the composition end-to-end, but rather as a complementary material.13 Most often corrections or additions are drawn with charcoal like the bushes on the panel of the Visitation (Kaisheim Altarpiece, ill. 12.4). In addition to the relatively broad lines of charcoal, fine and even black lines are visible on Holbein`s panels. Because of the appearance of the lines and a regular fine particle size it seems likely that this material is black chalk, which can be of natural or artificial origin. Natural black chalk is a rock clay with graphite as the colouring agent.14 The percentage of siliceous ingredients defines the degree of hardness for drawing.15 Material analysis occasionally shows mineral additions like iron oxide.16 The latter can be a hint at the origin of the black chalk in Holbein’s workshop, taking into consideration the tracing spots of the brocade pattern on the paint layer seen in the Tree of Jesse on the Dominican Altarpiece; the microscopic examination of the black material reveals orange particles, which were identified as iron oxide by SEM/EDX.

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Ill. 12.4. Hans Holbein, Visitation (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. With bushes drawn with charcoal, which were added in the underdrawing.

Black chalk especially was used for underdrawing by Dutch painters like Jan van Scorel or Maarten van Heemskerck.17 Albrecht Dürer employed it for the underdrawing of his emperor portraits of Karl the Great and Sigismund (around 1514, private collection).18 It is assumed that the underdrawing of some works of Lucas Cranach the Elder was executed with black chalk, too.19 In Holbein’s underdrawing, black chalk can be found in the reworked underdrawing of the man with the fur cap on the Carrying of the Cross of the Dominican Altarpiece. Also the vertical and horizontal centre lines and the margin of the image area on the panels of the Kaisheim Altarpiece are drawn with black chalk. On the small panel Mary with sleeping Christ child Holbein used black chalk as well. Extraordinarily fine, grey lines in Holbein‘s underdrawing are the result of silver-point. The artist used it extensively for his portrait drawings, and a study of these drawings at the Kupferstichkabinett and the Rathgen Laboratory in Berlin showed, that Holbein employed different silverpoint pens similarly to Albrecht Dürer.20 Like in Dürer’s workshop, Holbein and his staff used during

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the two decades at the beginning of the sixteenth century at least two different silver-point pens. The two pens differ in their copper content: 10±5 weight% and 4±2 weight%.21, 22 A special preparation of the chalk or gypsum ground is not necessary, the hardness and abrasion of the silver is usually sufficient.23 Practical tests have shown, that especially on an oily isolation, drawing with a silver-point pen is quite effective. The examination of a sample of the panel Taking of Christ (Grey Passion) with SEM/EDX established a significant content of silver in the underdrawing, additionally in the IRRs of the Grey Passion fine lines are visible in the same parts of the composition; both observations hint at the use of a silver-point pen.24 Definite is the evidence on the panel Carrying of the Cross of the Kaisheim Altarpiece. In the illustration of the wood-grain, singular fine lines of a metal-point are partly reworked with a liquid media, but also partly visible with the naked eye. In the cross-section the particles of the abrasion are distinctively visible and SEM/EDX confirmed the metal to be silver (ill. 12.5). Liquid drawing materials On Holbein’s paintings different liquid materials were used for the underdrawing. The artist and his staff applied these media either with a brush or with a quill. Firstly, inks with carbon based pigments, probably soot and vegetable black, can be detected. Vegetable black consists of charred plant components, like charcoal used as a dry drawing material. When charcoal is pounded, it can be used as a pigment. For painters’ pigments mainly peach stones, almond shells, and vine pomace were charred.25 Which plant material exactly forms the basis of Holbein’s vegetable black could not be confirmed, but he used this pigment in the underdrawing of the Grey Passion and the Dominican Altarpiece. Analysis conducted at the National Gallery in London showed, that vegetable black frequently was used as a pigment in underdrawing, although

Ill. 12.5. Hans Holbein, Carrying of the Cross (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. With fine lines of a metal-point, partly reworked with a liquid media (measuring unit: I cm).

its larger and irregular particles suggest an unsatisfying fluidity.26 This may be due to the fact that the pigmented ink in the underdrawing has been applied with a brush rather than with a quill, which would have caused scratching. On the other hand, vegetable black can be pounded finely, if required, as well. The particle size of soot black is much finer in the first place. It can be produced from burning oils, resins, or fats.27 The formed soot precipitates on a cool surface and can be used as a pigment. The Liber illuministarum even suggests burning a mixture of vegetable oils and olibanum for the manufacturing of soot black.28 The composition of the very fine-grained black pigment in Holbein’s underdrawing and the EDX-results, which besides high contents of carbon also contain sodium, magnesium, silicon, sulphur, potassium, iron, calcium, and phosphorus, hint at soot from resinous wood. The detected elements are likely to result from the metabolism of the burned parts of the trees. The liquid component of the inks for pigment dispersion usually was water mixed with a diluted binder like Arabic gum, skin glue or egg (egg-yolk or albumen) or a mixture of those. The pigment also could be dispersed in oily binders. Such oilbased inks would have been used commonly in the late fifteenth and in the sixteenth century.29 The use of an oil-bound ink seems more probable than

PART OF THE PICTURE

a water-based ink, because of the oily isolationlayer Holbein applied on the chalk-ground. But oily inks do have the disadvantage of a relatively long drying time, in contrast to water-based inks with diluted gums as binders, which dry within a few hours. An admixture of egg-yolk can support the wettability of a water-based ink on an oil-isolated chalk ground. This approach showed good results in conducted tests. The study of Holbein’s panels, suggests that the artist and his workshop may have combined water-based and oil-based inks in his complex underdrawings. This may be the case on the panels of the Grey Passion. EDX-results of the panel Deposition from the Cross show significant contents of copper in the more thinly applied washes, which could derive from an admixture of blue vitriol (copper sulphate) or Verdigris (copper acetate) as a siccative for an oily binder; whereas the use of a water-based ink in the thicker and darker areas of the very detailed and linear drawing seems likely. Secondly, another liquid media is recognizable in the underdrawing, namely iron-gall ink. The black colourant of the ink is produced from an iron salt and a substance containing tanning agents. All recipes have these ingredients in common, as a well a liquid and a binder.30 In the cross-sections the ink appears as an equal black-brownish layer. EDX-analysis of these areas showed besides iron, aluminium, potassium, silicon, sodium and mangnesium also zinc, which can point at the use of Vitriolum Goslarensis during the manufacturing (ill. 12.6).31 The extensive detection of iron-gall ink on the Dominican and on the Kaisheim Altarpiece is quite unique: Ten of thirteen panels show iron-gall ink as a media for underdrawing. The fact that the ink is visible to such a great extent with IRR may be traced back to the distinctive thickness of the layer. This suggests the use of gum or skin glue as an admixture, although there are some areas of the underdrawing, which are visible in reflected light but not in the IR-reflectograms (ill. 12.7).

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Ill. 12.6. Hans Holbein, Carrying of the Cross (Dominican Altarpiece), c. 1500-01, oil on panel, Frankfurt, Städel Museum. With a cross-section of iron-gall ink from a sample of the panel (measuring unit: I00 μm).

Ill. 12.7. Hans Holbein, Crowning of Christ (Dominican Altarpiece), c. 1500-01, oil on panel, Frankfurt, Städel Museum. With detail in reflected light (left) and of the IRR (right). The fine lines in the face are only visible in reflected light but not in the infrared reflectogram.

Holbein used iron-gall ink in his underdrawing – like in his hand drawings – to a great extent, without any loss of quality or damages of the paintlayers. This might be an indication for a wider use of iron-gall ink as a media, when looking at underdrawings in art technological research. Thirdly, a mixture of iron-gall ink and carbonbased pigments probably is present, because some of the cross-sections of iron-gall ink of the Dominican Altarpiece show black pigments are. This may be traced back to the well-known modification of iron-gall ink to deepen or intensify the blackness by the addition of a black pigment. Holbein and his workshop may have added soot to the ink like the analytical results suggest. This practice may explain

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– besides an irregular layer thickness – the differing visibility of the underdrawing in infrared reflectography. Preparatory steps The production of altarpieces needed thoughtful preparation because of their large size, and their numerous double-sided painted panels. The marks of the preparatory work can be detected on Holbein’s panels in various ways. The results hint to a development starting with the Grey Passion from around 1495 to the Kaisheim Altarpiece (1502). This progress can be seen in the planning and preparation and in the genesis of the painting process. Whilst there are no centre lines or outlines marking the picture section on the panels of the Grey Passion, there are quite a lot of lines detectable on the Kaisheim Altarpiece. The Dominican Altarpiece (1500/01) seems to be an intermediate step: There are no auxiliary lines visible, but this could be traced back to the used material, because on both inner panels first drafts of an architectural ornament and inscriptions with red chalk are visible in reflected light. These are not perceptible with infrared reflectography. On the panels of the Kaisheim Altarpiece different steps of preparation can be reconstructed. At first, an outline with red chalk was drawn along the panel sides, marking the picture section. This outline was reinforced with a black liquid medium and a brush, using a straight edge. At the same time the scene to be shown on the panel was noted on the top (e.g. olperg, vangung, cronung, ill. 12.8).32 Besides the picture section, also those parts of the panels to be covered by the frame were marked. Whilst planning, the painter wanted the panels to be painted up to the edges. The position of the frame rebate was drawn with a dry medium, either metal-point or black chalk, and a straight edge. Different construction lines like vertical and horizontal axis and the height of the capitals of the architectural ornament can be identified in the IRRs. These lines facilitated the transfer of the preliminary drawing to the chalk ground (ill. 12.9).

Ill. 12.8. Hans Holbein, Christ on the Mount of Olives, Taking of Christ and Crowning with thorns (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. The titles of the scenes to be painted were written on the top of the panels of the wings of the weekdays, here: olperg, vangung and cronung (Kaisheim Altarpiece).

Ill. 12.9. Hans Holbein, Taking of Christ (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. Different construction lines like the picture section (a), the parts covered by the frame (b), horizontal axis (c), the height of the capitals of the architectural ornament (d), and vertical axis (e) can be identified in the IRR.

The composition of the underdrawing The underdrawing on Holbein’s panels was worked out in a multistage level, which has barely been documented to this extent. The working process is very well traceable on the panels of the Grey Passion. Upon the isolated ground a first draft of the composition was applied with silver-point. Clearly visible are the fine lines

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of the pen in the IRR of Christ at Rest, besides Christ’s forearm and his shoulder.33 The optical and analytical evidence of the silver-point on the Carrying of the Cross of the Kaisheim Altarpiece suggests a consistent procedure. On the panels of the Dominican Altarpiece the artist seems to have used red chalk for the first draft of the composition instead of silver-point. A similar technique is found on many panels by Lucas Cranach the Elder, where first lines of underdrawing in red and black chalk lines were identified.34 After the approximate sketch, the composition was worked out in detail with a wet medium and brush or quill.35 In this phase of the underdrawing the hatching in shaded parts was also carried out. On some panels, like on the Afra Altarpiece, IRR examination reveals crossed hatching, though predominantly parallel hatches, at times moulded, are observed.36 Additionally, Holbein used a broader brush, like he did in his hand drawings. The process of underdrawing in Holbein’s workshop was not only restricted to finalising the composition upon the ground layer. In the area of Christ’s belly on the Deposition from the Cross (Grey Passion) is an arrow marking the costal arch of Christ, visible in the IR-reflectogram.37 The cross-section from this area reveals that the arrow drawn with charcoal was not executed pre-painting but during the painting process, as it is not located directly on the ground, but between two paint-layers. On the small panel Mary with sleeping Christ child (Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie) Holbein used black chalk in the underdrawing but also on the paint surface to texture the furry seam of Mary’s coat. This evidence shows that drawing and painting were not separated techniques in Holbein’s workshop, but very much intertwined (ill. 12.10). Abbreviations for colours Holbein and his staff used several abbreviations for colours. Such acronyms were used in Northern European painting between 1420 and 1580 for labelling the colours of garments.38

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Ill. 12.10. Hans Holbein, Mary with sleeping Christ child, c. 1520, oil on panel, Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Gemäldegalerie. Holbein used black chalk in the underdrawing but also on the paint surface to texture the furry seam of Mary’s coat (measuring unit: I cm).

Currently used acronyms on Holbein’s panels are w for white, gl for a golden yellow, a leaf for a dark green, p for a brownish red, r or v for a bright red and b for blue (table 1).39 The cross + as such is not an abbreviation, but marking a certain repetitive colour or colour value on a panel. Holbein also combined the abbreviations with each other, like r/v with gl on the panel Birth of Christ of the Kaisheim Altarpiece. There has been some speculation about the exact role of colour abbreviations in the painting process. The question arose, whether the artist noted the colours in the draft as an aid for himself or for the execution by a member of staff.40 On the small panel Christ and Mary on Calvary (Hannover, Niedersächsisches Landenmuseum) Holbein used abbreviations and written out words (bla, weiß, prawn) simultaneously. It seems as if the artist allocated the colours while developing the composition in detail. On the panels of the large altarpieces the colouring was probably decided before underdrawing and specified in the preliminary drawings. The acronyms then were transferred to the equivalent areas on the panel. An argument for a function related to the division of work is the cumulative appearance of the acronyms on panels from the period 1499 to 1504, the most productive phase of Holbein’s workshop.

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Table 1 Currently used abbreviations on Holbein’s panels and the corresponding paint layer.

Besides this, another feature is distinguishable in Holbein’s drawings: The artist used the abbreviations to make a note of the natural colouring without actually using different colour materials. The underdrawing as a visible part of the painting In many of his paintings Holbein incorporates the underdrawing as part of the visible composition and to influence/ alter the colour effect, especially, readily visible in flesh tones and other lightcoloured areas. Holbein used the underdrawing extensively which remains visible in the painted area of the architectural ornament on the outer wings of the

Kaisheim Altarpiece. The dark grey lines defining the ornament lie beneath the thin paint layers and are visible with the bare eye, however, this effect may have become even more prominent due to the increased transparency of the aged paint layers. Similar is the composition on the panels of the late Altarpiece of the Holy Sebastian (München, Alte Pinakothek), where the dark lines of the underdrawing are clearly visible in the white areas of the waistcloth and in flesh-tones.41 Such modelling in the flesh tones, which were worked out in the underdrawing, are only covered with a thin layer of paint and refined with a brownish and airy glaze. This build-up is also identifiable in the face of the grey-haired figure of the panel Circumcision of Christ of the Kaisheim Altarpiece. The technique described was employed even more on the Dominican Altarpiece. Apart from areas in flesh-tones, where the underdrawing is covered merely with thin layers of paint material, like the toe of Peter on the Taking of Christ, there are parts where the underdrawing is deliberately left visible and the paint only surrounds it, as in the face of Malchus on the same panel (ill. 12.11). Interestingly, there are regions where lines of the underdrawing were intentionally over painted and should not be visible in the painting, like in the cross of the Carrying of the Cross of the Kaisheim Altarpiece or in the hat of Pilatus on the panel Christus vor Pilatus of the Dominican Altarpiece (ill. 12.12). Thus, the underdrawing on Holbein’s panels does not only function as a bare draft, but in many ways as a visible part of the painting. The combination of underdrawing and painting is a special characteristic of Holbein’s painting technique, a fact emphasised by its dissemination to his son Hans the Younger. Certainly, the artist focussed on rationalising his working process, which seems very sensible regarding the large altarpieces produced. At the same time it reveals the in-depth understanding Holbein the Elder possessed on how drawing and painting can be connected and benefit from each other.

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Ill. 12.12. Hans Holbein, Carrying of the Cross (Kaisheim Altarpiece), c. 1502, oil on panel, Munich, Alte Pinakothek. In the cross, the lines of the underdrawing were intentionally over painted and should not be visible in the painting (measuring unit: I cm).

The artist displays a distinct handling of this particular process in his artistic practice, both in the execution of the painting and in the use of the underdrawing. Furthermore it becomes apparent, that drawing and painting were connatural important for the artistic techniques of Hans Holbein the Elder. Ill. 12.11. Hans Holbein, Taking of Christ (Dominican Altarpiece), c. 1500-01, oil on panel, Frankfurt, Städel Museum. The head of Malchus, where the underdrawing is deliberately left visible and the paint only surrounds it.

Conclusion Holbein’s underdrawing is a precise tool, which was planned and executed very mindfully. Holbein used different dry and wet materials, such as red and black chalk, charcoal, silver-point, carbon-based inks, and iron-gall inks. The materials of the hand drawings can be translated exactly into the underdrawings. Holbein and his staff left many traces of an intensive preparation of the composition like preparatory lines, inscriptions and abbreviations indicating colouring. After a rough sketch with a dry medium, the underdrawing was worked out in detail with a wet medium. This study shows, that the underdrawing holds an extensive role in the composition and impression of Holbein’s paintings.

NOTES 1 The dissertation was supervised by Prof. Dr. Christoph Krekel and Prof. Volker Schaible and is accessible via Cologne Open Science: https://cos.bibl.th-koeln.de/home. 2 Koegler 2010: 21. 3 Vischer 1886: 538; Müller 1965: 18. 4 Beutler & Thiem 1960: 16. 5 Translated from: Beutler & Thiem 1960: 60. 6 Dietz, Krekel & Autzen 2010: 231. 7 Walcher 2013: 59. 8 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 35. 9 Kollmann et al. 2014: 187. 10 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 33. 11 Ibidem. 12 Siejek 2004: 59. 13 Only on the panel Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore Holbein seems to have used blurred charcoal lines in the shadings of the faces as stylistic device. 14 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 34. 15 Siejek 2004: 61. 16 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 34. 17 Siejek 2004: 62-63. 18 Siejek 2004: 65. 19 Heydenreich 2007: 105. 20 Reiche & Roth 2008: 81-94. 21 Reiche & Roth 2008: 89. 22 Looking at Holbein’s portraits of his two sons at the Kupferstichkabinett Berlin (Inv. Nr. 2507) it is interesting, that the artist did not use the same pen, although the drawings are on one sheet.

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23 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 36. 24 Dietz, Krekel & Autzen 2010: 232. 25 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 30. 26 Ibidem. 27 Ibidem. 28 Bartl et al. 2005: 637. 29 Kirby, Roy & Spring 2002: 29. 30 Krekel 1999: 26. 31 Hickel 1963: 130. 32 On the panels of the wings of the weekdays, the scenes to be painted were noted on the top, on the inner wings a combination of a letter and a number was used (m I 2, n I 3, o I 4). 33 Dietz, Krekel & Autzen 2010: 231-235. 34 Sandner 2007: 119. 35 The long lines in the underdrawings in the robes of figures show a typical detail for drawings of Holbein and his workshop, namely little hooklets as endings in cuttlings. These hooklets are seen in many of the artist’s drawings.

36 The only examined paintings without any hatches are the Epitaph of the Family Vettern and the Basilica Santa Maria Maggiore. 37 Dietz, Krekel & Autzen 2010: 236. 38 Fischer 2013: 81. 39 Gra for grey was only used once as well as three abbreviations, which cannot be cleared completely, but maybe the comparison with colour of the labelled area can procure an approach. These are PrGe under a brownish yellow paint layer, G in a bluish green area, and hG could signify a light greentone. 40 Török 1999: 47; Koller 1981: 135-136. 41 Holbein’s son Hans the Younger adopted his father’s technique and utilised it on some of his own paintings like the diptych Christ in Misery and Mary as a Mother of Sorrows (Basel, Kunstmuseum).

Ill. 13.1. Master of the Virgo inter Virgines, The Virgin and Child with Saints Catherine, Cecilia, Barbara and Ursula, c. 1495-1500, Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum.

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The Function of Colourless Powdered Glass as an Additive to Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century Oil Paints Indra Kneepkens

Introduction The presence of colourless powdered glass in paint-, mordant- and priming layers of numerous fifteenth and sixteenth century oil paintings has been reported on several occasions.1 The earliest examples were found in paintings by Jan van Eyck, Rogier van der Weyden and Lukas Moser, dating to the 1430s. This period is known for a great progression towards realism in oil painting. Although numerous scholars have tried to explain this development as the result of particular innovations in the use of painting materials, no consensus has yet been reached. Knowledge of the rationale behind these innovations – such as the use of powdered glass – and their implications for the practice of painting and the appearance of artworks, provides a critical background against which larger art historical developments can be understood. Several studies have aimed to clarify the function of glass particles in paintings, however, a comprehensive explanation, that is in accordance with the available historical sources, is yet to be found. In some paintings powdered glass was only found in a particular area, in others it was used in combination with a variety of pigments and in different layers. In the upper paint strata, it is often combined with pigments that are notorious slow dryers; particularly with red lakes,2 but also with

carbon black, ochre, brown, and red earth pigments, orpiment, vermilion, and ultramarine. However, it is occasionally found in combination with pigments that are considered good dryers, such as verdigris, azurite, lead-tin yellow, and lead white.3 The fact that it is sometimes exclusively present in certain layers and not in others indicates that it was a conscious addition, either to the paint or the pigment. Sources dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth century – which will be discussed further on – suggest that glass was added to paints or binding media as a dryer. Previous studies have suggested that lead or manganese ions from the glass composition are the cause of such a drying effect.4 However, experiments have so far been inconsistent and inconclusive in demonstrating the siccative properties of powdered glass.5 Alternatively, it has been suggested that glass was added to achieve certain optical or practical effects. An example could have been its use as a transparent filler, to give paints more ‘body’.6 Or perhaps it was used to thin red lakes, to allow a thicker application; for without it, a very saturated paint quickly appears black.7 (See the impasto’s in ill. 13.6.) In priming layers it may have increased transparency, allowing an under-drawing to shine through.8 Finally it was proposed that glass may have been part of the

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production process of certain pigments, or that it was added as an extender to particularly expensive colours.9 The present study expands on this research, aiming to establish the function of colourless powdered glass in fifteenth and sixteenth century oil paints, through practical experiments based on a study of paint samples, historical sources and literature. The effect of powdered glass on the handling properties, appearance, drying rate, and durability of oil paints is examined in relation to its composition, colour, and particle size. Expanding on previous studies, the influence of glass on the characteristics of paints is related to the effect of the binding medium, and the way it was processed. The outcomes of this research contribute to a better understanding of the relation between art technological sources, material innovations, and the development of style and technique in fifteenth and sixteenth century painting. The confrontation of cross-sections of mock-up paints with samples from original paintings has yielded valuable feedback on the quality of the reconstruction as well as the interpretation of analytical results. Finally, as they continue to age naturally, the mock-up paints could increase our knowledge of specific degradation phenomena connected to the use of powdered glass as a siccative. Glass composition So what kind of glass are we talking about? During the fifteenth- and sixteenth century the composition of glass was determined by the available raw materials. To make glass, one needs a source of silica – sand or pebbles –, and an alkali flux material to decrease the melting temperature. Several other components, such as calcium carbonate, lead- and manganese oxides were added as stabilizers or to influence the colour or refractive index of the glass, if they weren’t already present in the silica source or flux material.10 In Mediterranean countries the flux material was typically derived from the ashes of marine plants, resulting in glass with a relatively high sodium content.11 Although

‘soda glass’12 was also made in other Mediterranean sites, it was often referred to as ‘Venetian’. In fifteenth-century sources three subcategories are mentioned; Vetrum commune, which was slightly tinted, vitrum blanchum, which was colourless and clear, and cristallo, which was highly esteemed for being crystal clear – due to the use of a cleaner source of silica and purification of the ashes. The latter was initially only produced in Venice.13 Glass produced in the woods of inland Europe is commonly referred to as forest glass, but is also called woodash-, fernash-, or potash glass, after the potassium rich ashes that were used as a flux material. Due to iron traces in these ashes this glass tends to have a yellowish- or greenish tint. Ash made from twigs and branches, rather than logs, contains a relatively high proportion of calcium.14 It creates calcium-rich glass that can be referred to as wood-ash-lime glass.15 When the ratio of potassium to calcium oxide became too low, sodium was sometimes added in the form of salt (NaCl).16 There are also indications that glass scraps (cullet) – including high sodium glass – were added to the mixture.17 The result is a mixed alkali glass that contains lots of calcium and small amounts of both sodium and potassium. Soda glass was most prevalent in Mediterranean countries, while potash glass prevailed in central and northern Europe. However, both types of glass were also traded internationally.18 Although all these types of glass were perceived as precious, at least up to the sixteenth century,19 colourless glass, and particularly cristallo, was preferred over the slightly tinted forest glasses. Northern manufacturers tried to imitate it, and during the course of the sixteenth century they succeeded in producing nearly colourless glass, though with slightly different materials. This glass was denoted à la façon de Venise.20 Examination of glass particles in paint crosssections with Scanning Electron Microscopy and Energy Dispersive X-ray microanalysis (SEM/EDX) indicates that soda glass, and particularly vitrum blanchum, is predominant in Italian paintings,

THE FUNCTION OF COLOURLESS POWDERED GLASS AS AN ADDITIVE

while potash glass seems to prevail in Northern European ones.21 However, occasionally soda glass was found in German and Early Netherlandish paintings.22 On several other instances different types of glass were found on one painting, in a single paint sample or even in a distinct paint layer.23 This could be an indication for the use of glass powders that were prepared from a mixture of glass fragments, selected on the basis of colourlessness. While it is possible that painters occasionally reused shards from their own household glasses, the availability of glass powders for other purposes makes one wonder whether they were perhaps obtainable ready-made.24 Glass in paintings The presence of glass is usually first recognised in paint cross-sections, during study under a microscope with UV light, or with X-ray Fluorescence Spectrometry (XRF) through the presence of manganese in red lake sections. In cross-sections, glass particles usually have a distinct angular shape with rounded edges and an undefinable colour (Ill. 13.1 and 13.2). A positive identification can be obtained by means of SEM/EDX. Apart from a high peak for silicum (Si) it is characterized by the presence of elements such as calcium (Ca), sodium (Na) potassium (K) and manganese (Mn). The

Ill. 13.2. Paint sample 153/7 from the left shoulder of Saint Barbara in BF and UV. Powdered glass is recognizable in the UV image as light grey angular particles.

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relative amounts of sodium and potassium as well as other elements in the composition, may allow for a tentative assessment of the type of glass. However, these results are not quantifiable and eventual leaching of the alkali into the binding medium may well influence the ratios that are found. A random search for glass in paint cross-sections from early Netherlandish paintings at the Rijksmuseum has yielded three new occurrences.25 Tiny glass particles (10 μm and smaller) were found in three samples of different red lake sections from the Virgin and Child with Saints Catherine, Cecilia, Barbara, and Ursula, (SK-A 501, c. 1495) by the Master of the Virgo inter Virgines. In two of the three samples, glass was found in more than one layer, and all samples contained an irregular crack pattern all through the paint layers. SEM/EDX analysis showed a high calcium oxide (CaO) content and more potassium oxide (K2O) than sodium oxide (Na2O)26 (ill. 13.3). The second find was in a paint sample from the girdle of Mary in the Triptych with the Crucifixion, the Mass of St Gregory, St Christopher and the Annunciation (Anonymous, SK-A-1408, c. 1460). Here, the glass was found in a red lake layer under a brownish top layer. The particles measured up to 30 μm. and contained lots of calcium oxide and slightly more potassium oxide than sodium oxide.27 The third painting was the Tree of Jesse, from the circle of Geertgen tot Sint Jans (SK-A-3901, c.  1500). Glass was found in a sample from a mordant gilding. In this case the particles were smaller than 5 μm. Besides a lot of calcium oxide, many other elements were found, including iron oxide (Fe2O3), a bit of lead (Pb), and more potassium oxide than sodium oxide. However, as the particles were so small and mordant layers often contain several pigments, these elements may not all be part of the glass. 28 The results were in accordance with previous studies; glass was mainly found in paint layers containing red lake, and in a mordant layer. The particle size of the glass was comparatively small; varying between less than one and c. 30 μm, which is in

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Ill. 13.3. SEM backscattered electron image of paint sample 153/7 from the left shoulder of Saint Barbara in The Virgin and Child with Saints Catherine, Cecilia, Barbara and Ursula by the Master of the Virgo inter Virgines. The glass particles are the light grey angular shapes in the upper layer.

concordance with previous reports.29 When we look at the main components of the glass particles that were found on these paintings, their general high percentage of calcium oxide, and the prevalence of potassium over sodium may point towards glasses from the woodash-lime category.30 Sources An extensive survey of historical sources about the use of powdered glass was already published in 1849 by Merrifield, and more recently by Spring.31 Rather than repeating it, I want to point out a few things that are particularly relevant for this paper. First: in sources related to the practice of painting,

glass appears in four ways. The earliest sources refer to it as an aid to grind orpiment, which is otherwise hard to get a grip on.32 It also appears as an ingredient in recipes for the production of certain white pigments.33 Thirdly, it is mentioned as a dyer in mordants,34 and as a powder that was sprinkled on the surface of the painting to prevent leaf gold from sticking anywhere but on the mordant.35 Lastly, and particularly in sources dating from the late sixteenth century onwards, it is quite often mentioned as a dryer for paints. As such, it could be added on the palette36 as a powder or a paste with oil.37 In addition, sources describe it as a drying ingredient in siccative oils during or after sun-thickening or heat-treatment.38 Where it is prescribed as a dryer, often suggestions are given for combination with specific pigments such as orpiment, blues including ultramarine and indigo, sinober,39 (red) lakes including carmine, whites, and lamp black. Most of these pigments are either bad dryers, particularly fine grained or very precious. Therefore, it is not surprising that many sources indicate that the glass should be ground finely.40 Only a few recipes however, specify the glass as ‘chrystallin’, while references to Venetian glass are only made in the Liber Illuministrarum, the Paduan Manuscript, and by De Mayerne.41 It is remarkable that three of these recipes are of the type where the glass is boiled in oil, some of which may in fact yield varnishes, rather than binding media.42 The fourth is a pigment recipe. So, in fact there is nothing in the sources that specifically indicates the use of Venetian glass, rather than just any type of colourless glass for use as an addition to paints. The only exception perhaps being the two recipes that refer to cristal broyé and verre chrystallin, terms that could, in theory, refer to the Italian subcategory of cristallo glass. However, dating from the late sixteenth and seventeenth century, these sources coincide with the heyday of façon de Venise glassmaking. It is thus more likely that these terms, are meant to indicate high quality, clear, colourless glass in general – including both real Venetian glass

THE FUNCTION OF COLOURLESS POWDERED GLASS AS AN ADDITIVE

and façon de Venise – as opposed to cheaper tinted glasses.43 After all, how would the medieval glass sorter have been able to check the geographical origin or chemical composition of a colourless fragment of glass? Reconstruction experiments To obtain insight into the rationale behind the addition of colourless powdered glass to paints, several researchers have performed reconstruction experiments.44 Interestingly, only Dietz, Riitano and Seccaroni observed an increase in the drying rate. Dietz used a glass type of unspecified origin with a high content of sodium- and calcium oxide. She observed that paints prepared with ‘alizarin krapplack’, linseed oil, and a relatively high proportion of powdered glass dried a third faster than paints without additives. No significant effect was noticed in paints with azurite and cinnabar, as they dried within 24 hours either way.45 Riitano and Seccaroni noticed a drying effect in their reconstructions of imprimatura layers. They used a small concentration of colourless glass powder from a fragment of sixteenth century Tuscan glass, that contained manganese.46 None of these experiments compared the effect of sodium- versus potash glass. Nor were the influence of particle size and processing of the binding medium studied in relation to the handling properties, appearance, drying time, and aging of paints. To address these issues, three sets of reconstructions were made. A first set of tests was prepared with madder lake in December 2016. A second set, with verdigris and lead white, was made in the summer of 2017.47 And a last set of tests with madder lake in raw and processed oils was made in September 2017 to investigate the role of particle size. All paints were bound in linseed oil that was pressed at windmill Het Pink in Koog aan de Zaan.48 This was used raw, but also in sun-thickened and heat-treated form.49 Technical tests were performed with brushes on oak wood panels with a chalk and glue ground that was isolated with an extra layer of size. To assess differences in drying time, colour,

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gloss, and transparency, test films with a uniform layer thickness of 50μm were applied with a paint applicator on inert sheets of polyethylene terephthalate (Melinex, 250μm). A sample was considered ‘dry’ when no paint came off if it was lightly touched with a finger. Shards of late sixteenth and early seventeenth century colourless glass were obtained from the Department of Monuments and Archeology of the Municipality of Amsterdam50 (ill. 13.4). The fragments were analyzed with SEM/EDX and four shards were selected for their high potassium oxide content (K2O, 10.71%), while another was chosen for a similar percentage of sodium oxide (Na2O, 14.44%). Otherwise these glasses were quite similar in their composition, except that the potash glass contained slightly more calcium oxide (13,99 versus 9,06%). A sample of borosilicate glass contained mainly silicon oxide and small amounts of sodium- and potassium oxide. It did not contain magnesium oxide, which was present in both historical glasses (c. 2-3%).51 In the first set of experiments a test was also included with ground borosilicate lab glass.52 This glass was chosen as a reference because it was expected not to interact strongly with the oil. As such, it could function as a chemically ‘neutral’ but otherwise similar addition for reference. If a drying effect of powdered glass was due to lowering of the relative oil content

Ill. 13.4. Fragments of Soda-, potash, borosilicate and green glass used in the reconstruction experiments.

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Ill. 13.5. Above: Pure madder lake and madder with different extenders. Below: Calcium carbonate, and powdered glasses (