Right and Left in Early Christian and Medieval Art (Art and Material Culture in Medieval and Renaissance Europe, 16) 9789004448254, 9789004448711, 900444825X

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Right and Left in Early Christian and Medieval Art

Art and Material Culture in Medieval and Renaissance Europe Edited by Sarah Blick Laura D. Gelfand

Volume 16

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/amce

Right and Left in Early Christian and Medieval Art By

Robert Couzin

LEIDEN | BOSTON

A limited number of images are reproduced within the text, referenced in the usual way as Figures. Many additional images, labelled as Arkyves, are accessible through qr.brill.com/AMCE16

Cover illustration: Coronation of Henry the Lion and Mathilda of England (detail). Gospels of Henry the Lion. Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library, Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v (c. 1188). The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2020056540

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 2212-4187 ISBN 978-90-04-44825-4 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-44871-1 (e-book) Copyright 2021 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents List of Illustrations ix Abbreviations xxvii Introduction: The Pre-Eminence of the Right 1 1 On Human Handedness 2 2 The Sublimation of Right and Left 3 3 Historiography 7 4 Plan of the Work 10

Part 1 The Right Hand 1 Picturing Handedness 15 2 The Hand of God 22 1 The Great Right Hand 22 2 The Other Hand of God 31 3 God in the Image of Man 46 3 Fighting and Writing 50 1 Handedness and Violence 50 2 Handedness and the Scribe 60 3 The Pen and the Sword 83 4 A Digression on Feet 84 1 Stepping Up to the Altar 85 2 Figures in Motion 87 3 Footwashing 89 4 The Three-Nail Crucifixion 93

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Contents

Part 2 The Right Side 5 Picturing Position 101 6 Peter and Paul in Early Christian Art 111 1 Double Portraits of the Chief Apostles 112 2 Peter, Paul, and Jesus 123 3 The Politics of Apostolic Precedence 131 7 Spouses: The Place of Gender 138 1 Early Christian Men on the Left 138 2 Medieval Men on the Right 147 3 Transgression: Medieval Women on the Right 153 4 The Coronation of the Virgin: Sponsa on the Right 160

Part 3 The Right Way 8 The Pythagorean Y 179 1 The Two Ways: Pythagoras and Matthew 179 2 Erlangen Universitätsbibliothek, Ms. 8, fol. 130v 183 3 The Pilgrim’s Choice 185 4 A Matter of Mentality 190 9 Sacred Movement 192 1 Depicted Motion in Latin- and Greek-Language Cultures 194 2 The Syriac and Hebrew Evidence 206 3 Conclusions 209 10 Narrative Sequence 211 1 Script Direction and Pictorial Programming 211 2 Linear Programs and the Puzzle of Bernward’s Column 215 2.1 Inversion in Production 224 2.2 A Left-Handed Designer 225 2.3 The Multi-Column Conjecture 225 2.4 Christian Composition 226 2.5 Perspective from the Top 227 2.6 The Christianization of Trajan’s Spiral 229 2.7 Liturgical Movement 231

Contents

Epilogue 234 1 Misapprehension 234 2 Inattention 236 3 Disinterest 240 4 Future Directions 242 Bibliography 243 Index of Works and Monuments 282 Index of Names and Subjects 291

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Illustrations

A Users’ Guide to the Illustrations

A limited number of images are reproduced within the text, referenced in the usual way as Figures. Many additional images, labelled as Arkyves, are accessible through qr.brill.com/AMCE16. These are mainly to libraries and museums where the relevant objects are conserved or other public image collections. Readers are encouraged to treat this site as a complement to the print and e-book.

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Illustrations in the Text (Designated “fig.”) St Basil and Julian the Apostate. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 5, fol. 25v (1190–1200) 16 Paul disputing with Greeks and Jews. Enamelled copper plaque. London, V&A Inv. 223-1874 (dated 1170–80). © Victoria and Albert Museum, London 20 Moses receiving the Law. Paris Psalter. Paris, BnF grec 139, fol. 422v (940–60). © BnF 25 Reidersche Tafel. Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Inv.-Nr. MA157 (c. 400). Author’s photograph. With kind permission of the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum 28 Baptism of Christ. Coptic Gospels. Paris, BnF copte 13, fol. 8v (1178–80). © BnF 29 Offerings of Cain and Abel. Heinrich von München, Weltchronik. New York, Morgan M.769, fol. 15v (c. 1360). Purchased in 1931 32 Coronation. Gospels of Henry the Lion. Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library, Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v (c. 1188) 35 Baptism of Christ. Ivory plaque. Private collection. With kind permission 37 Baptism of Christ. Mosaic. Athens, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century). Author’s photograph 39 Baptism of Christ. Mosaic. Boeotia, Hosios Loukas Monastery (early eleventh century). Photograph: Hans A. Rosbach, CCA-SA license 39 Beatitudes (right hand of God). Prayer Book of Hildegard of Bingen. Munich, BSB Clm. 935, fol. 32v (last quarter, twelfth century) 42 Beatitudes (left hand of God). Prayer Book of Hildegard of Bingen. Munich, BSB Clm. 935, fol. 35v (last quarter, twelfth century) 43 Moses receiving the Law. Sarcophagus of Gorgonius, left side. Ancona, Museo Diocesano = Rep. II.149 (late fourth century). Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 60.1414 (Boehringer) 44

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Illustrations Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and fleeing Britons. Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund, New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 7v (c. 1130). Purchased by J.P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1927 54 Saul fighting the Amalekites. John Damascene, Parallela sacra. Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 329r (ninth century). © BnF 57 Murder of Enoch and Elijah. Ci nous dit. Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Château, 27, fol. 222r (c. 1320). Photograph by René-Gabriel Ojéda, Musée Condé, Chantilly, France © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY 59 “Wolfschule.” Portal frieze. Freiburg im Breisgau, Münster Unserer Lieben Frau, Nikolaus-Kapelle (1200–24). © Florian Monheim / Bildarchiv Monheim GmbH 64 Self-portrait of Hugo Pictor (detail of colophon). Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, Bodleian, Bodl. 717, fol. 287v (late eleventh century). © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford 66 St Jerome writing (detail). Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, Bodleian, Bodl. 717, fol. vi verso (late eleventh century). © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford 66 Gregory the Great writing with three scribes. Ivory plaque. Vienna, KHM Kunstkammer 8399 (late tenth century). © KHM-Museumsverband 69 St Peter writing. Codex Ebnerianus. Oxford, Bodleian, Auct. T. inf. 1. 10, fol. 292v (early twelfth century). © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford 72 St Paul writing. Codex Ebnerianus. Oxford, Bodleian MS. Auct. T. inf. 1. 10, fol. 312v (early twelfth century). © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford 73 St Peter dictating the Gospel to Mark. London, Victoria & Albert Museum no. 270:1-1867 (dated by the Museum c. 630–40). © Victoria and Albert Museum, London 74 Evangelist writing, attributed to Manuel Panselinos. Protaton, Karyes, Mount Athos (c. 1290). © The Holy Community of Mount Athos. Photograph by the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice 75 St Luke writing. Gospel Book. Princeton University Art Museum, y1957-19, fol. 81v (1380). Museum purchase, Caroline G. Mather Fund 78 The winged man writing. Evangelia IV Glosata. Cambridge, Trinity College Library, B.5.3 149, fol. 4v (thirteenth century). © Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge 80 Paolo di Giovanni Fei, Presentation of the Virgin. Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, 1961.9.4 (1398–99). Samuel H. Kress Collection 86 Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, FAN.92.00.2487 = Rep. III.53 (last third, fourth century). Author’s photograph 90 Footwashing of Peter. Floreffe Bible, vol. II. London, BL Add 17738, fol. 4r (c. 1170). © British Library Board 92

Illustrations 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

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Crucifixion. South German ivory Pax. New York, Met, 1970.324.9 (1360–70). The Cloisters Collection, 1970 95 Psalter. London, BL Royal MS 1 D X, fol. 6v (first quarter, thirteenth century, before 1220). © British Library Board 97 Last Judgement. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 5, fol. 44r (1190–1200) 102 Crucifixion. Maître de Fauvel, Légendier. Paris, BnF français 183, fol. 9v (1320–30). © BnF 107 Grave plaque of Asellus. Vatican, inv. 28596 (late fourth century). © Vatican Museums, all rights reserved 112 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. New York, Met, inv. 16.174.3. Rogers Fund, 1916 114 Ecclesia ex circumcisione and Ecclesia ex gentibus. Mosaic. Santa Sabina, Rome (432–40). Author’s photograph 119 Peter and Paul, hetoimasia. Mosaic. Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore (c. 435). Author’s photograph 124 Traditio legis. Front of sarcophagus. Milan, Basilica di Sant’Ambrogio = Rep. II.150 (c. 380–400). Photograph: Wilpert 1932, pl. 188.1 127 “Teaching” scene. Back of sarcophagus. Milan, Basilica di Sant’Ambrogio = Rep. II.150 (c. 380–400) Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 77.1088 (C. Rossa) 127 Apse mosaic. Santa Pudenziana, Rome (c. 410–17). Photograph: Welleschik, CCA-SA license 130 Sarcophagus. Ravenna, Sant’Apollinare in Classe = Rep. II.390 = ASR 8.2, B15 (c. 425–50). Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 38.153 (J. Felbermeyer) 133 Projecta Casket, top of lid. London, BM, BEP 1866,1229.1 (c. 330–80). © Trustees of the British Museum 139 Gold-glass. New York, Met, inv. 15.168. Rogers Fund, 1915 140 Sarcophagus, left side. Mantua, Cattedrale di San Pietro = Rep. II.151 (late fourth century). Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 59.950 (J. Böhringer) 142 Coronation of Fulk and Melisende. William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer. London, BL Yates Thompson MS 12, fol. 82v (1243–61). © British Library Board 148 Adam marries Eve. Speculum humanae salvationis. Munich, BSB Clm 146, fol. 4r (second quarter, fourteenth century) 150 Master of the Pesaro Crucifix, Saint Cecilia of Rome and Her Husband, Valerian, Being Crowned by an Angel. Panel from an altarpiece. Philadelphia, Philadelphia Museum of Art, inv. 1943-40-51 (c. 1375–80). The John D. McIlhenny Collection, 1943 155 Antonius Berthold, sandstone relief of Kaiser Ludwig and his wife Margarete. Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum inv. MA957 (c. 1324). Photograph: Walter Haberland © Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, München 157

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Illustrations Glorification of the Virgin. Apse mosaic, Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome (c. 1140–43). Author’s photograph 161 Rosenheim Altarpiece, Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Inv.-Nr. MA 2363 (c. 1270) 167 Coronation of the Virgin. Paris, Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Portal of the Virgin (c. 1210–20). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/Allan T. Kohl 168 Psalterium ad usum ecclesiae Trecensis. Paris, BnF, latin 238, fol. 62v (c. 1200?). © BnF 170 Mariotti di Nardo, Coronation of the Virgin. Minneapolis Museum of Art inv. 65.37 (signed and dated 1408). The Putnam Dana McMillan Fund 173 Frontispiece to Lamentations. Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 8, fol. 130v (last quarter, twelfth century). With kind permission of the University Library 182 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Paris, BnF français 1645, fol. 48v (c. 1350). © BnF 188 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, W.141, fol. 46v (1350–75) 189 Nicolas Bataille after a design by Jean Bondol, La grande Prostituée sur les eaux. Apocalypse Tapestry, panel 64. Angers, Château d’Angers (c. 1375–80). © Caroline Rose / Centre des monuments nationaux 191 Ascent of Elijah. John of Damascus, Parallela sacra. Paris, BnF, grec 923, fol. 286v (ninth century). © BnF 195 Annunciation. Relief panel. New York, Met, inv. 60.140 (1180–1200). The Cloisters Collection, 1960 196 Entry into Jerusalem. Ivory diptych. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, inv. 71.177 (1350–74) 198 Entry into Jerusalem. Mosaic. Athens, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century). Author’s photograph 199 Ascent of Elijah. Nicholas of Verdun, Enamel plaque of the Klosterneuburg retable (1181). Photograph: Drexler and Strommer 1903, pl. 42 (The Warburg Institute Iconographic Database ID 33493) 201 Six enamel plaques. Dom-Museum Hildesheim, Inv. Nr. DS-30 (last third of the twelfth century). Based on reconstruction in Brandt 2001, 155, 185 203 Ivory book cover. Paris, BnF latin 9393 (845–55). © BnF 205 Sacrifice of Ismāʿīl. In Ḥāfiẓ-i Abrū, Majmaʿ al-tavārīkh Baltimore. Walters Art Gallery, W.676, fol. Aa (c. 1430) 209 Bronze column of Bishop Bernward. Hildesheim (c. 1022). Photograph: Arnoldius / CC BY-SA 218

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Trajan’s Column, Rome. ad 113. Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 79.1055B (H. Schwanke) 218 Bronze column of Bishop Bernward (detail of Entry into Jerusalem). Hildesheim (c. 1022). © Bildarchiv Foto Marburg / Photograph: Frank Tomio 222 Entry into Jerusalem. Bernward’s Gospels. Hildesheim, Dom- und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz 18, fol. 175r (c. 1015). © Dommuseum Hildesheim 223



Illustrations Not Reproduced in the Text (Designated “Arkyves”)

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Andrews Diptych. London, V&A Inv. A.47&A-1926 (early ninth century) Peter and Paul dispute with Simon Magus and Nero. Enamelled copper plaque. Dijon, Musée des beaux-arts de Dijon, inv. CA T 1250 (c. 1170–80) Gonnelun and Charlemagne. Chanson de Fierabras. London, BL Egerton 3028, fol. 110r (second quarter, fourteenth century) Harold swears an oath. Victorian copy of Bayeux Tapestry, panel 23 (c. 1075–97). Reading Museum Massacre of the Innocents. Chasse. Paris, Louvre OA 10406 (c. 1190–1210) Moses and the burning bush. Dura Europos Synagogue (c. 245–56). Photograph: YUAG, negative: dam-423~01 Elijah restores the widow’s child. Dura Europos Synagogue (c. 245–56). Photograph: YUAG, negative: dam-390~01 Sacrifice of Isaac. Dura Europos Synagogue (c. 245–56). Photograph. YUAG, negative dura-fIV73~01 (right side) Ezekiel cycle. Dura Europos Synagogue (c. 245–56). Photograph. YUAG, negatives y735e (left) and dam-406~01 (right) Exodus, Crossing Red Sea. Dura Europos Synagogue, West wall (c. 245–56). Gute watercolour, de Cusati photograph. YUAG, negative: yale2194 Sacrifice of Isaac. Sarcophagus of Adelphia. Siracusa, Museo Archeologica Regionale P. Orsi = Rep. II.20 (second quarter, fourth century) Sacrifice of Isaac. Textile band. New York, Cooper Hewitt inv. 1902-1-142 (sixth to eighth century) Sacrifice of Isaac. Enamel pyx, right compartment. Cleveland Museum of Art, inv. 1949.431 (c. 1170–80) Sacrifice of Isaac. Topographia Christiana of Cosmas Indicopleustes. BAV Vat. gr.699, fol. 59r (ninth century) Sacrifice of Isaac. Beatus manuscript. New York, Morgan M.644, fol. 6r (c. 940–45)

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Illustrations Sacrifice of Isaac. Octateuch. BAV, Vat. Gr. 746, fol. 83r (twelfth century) Sacrifice of Isaac. Histoire ancienne. Dijon, Bibliothèque municipale MS 562, fol. 26r (c. 1260–70) Moses receiving the Law. Ivory plaque. Berlin, SMB, inv. 8505 (tenth–eleventh century) Moses receiving the Law. Vivien Bible. Paris, BnF latin 1, fol. 27v (dated 845) Moses receiving the Law. Theodore Psalter. London, BL Add.19352, fol. 193v (dated 1066) Birds’ Head Haggadah. Jerusalem, Israel Museum MS 180/057, fol. 23r (c. 1300) Moses removing his sandals. Octateuch. BAV, Vat. Cod. Gr. 747, fol. 74r (eleventh century) Abraham at Shechem. Histoire Universelle. Vienna, ÖNB cod. 2576, fol. 15r (p. 35) (late fourteenth century) Creation of Eve. Ivory box. Cleveland Museum of Art inv. 1924.747 (eleventh– twelfth century) Saint Louis Psalter. Paris, BnF latin 10525, fol. 1v (1260–69) Ivory plaque with three scenes of Cain and Abel. Paris, Louvre inv. OA4052 (c. 1084) Ezekiel in the valley of the dry bones. Gregory of Nanzianzus, Homilies. Paris, BnF grec 510, fol. 438v (dated 879–883) Base of the Column of Antoninus Pius. Vatican Museums, cat. 5115 (c. 110 AD) Apotheosis of Constantine. Reverse of gold coin. London, BM 1986,0610.1 (ad 337) Ascension of Christ. Sacramentary of Drogo. Paris, BnF latin 9428, fol. 71v (845–55) Ascension of Christ. Ivory plaque. Vienna, KHM inv. 7284 (late tenth century) Ascension of Christ. Ivory plaque. Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. 378-1871 (1150–1160) Baptism of Christ. Ivory plaque. London, BM 1896,0618.1 (sixth century) Baptism of Christ. Ivory book cover. Munich, BSB Clm 4451 (ninth–tenth century) Rabbula Gospels. Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana Plut. I.56, fol. 4v (Syria, 586) Baptism of Christ. Claricia Psalter. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, W.26, fol. 10r late (twelfth or early thirteenth century) Baptism of Constantine. Stavelot Triptych. New York, Morgan AZ001 (1156–58) Crucifixion. Ivory book cover. Evangeliary of Henry II. Munich, BSB Clm. 4452 (c. 1007–12) Assumption of the Virgin. Sacramentary of Mont-Saint-Michel. New York, Morgan M.641, fol. 142v (c. 1060)

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Trier Apocalypse. Trier, Stadtbibliothek und Stadtarchiv Hs. 31, fol. 7v = p. 18 (first quarter, ninth century) 41 Menalogion of Basil II. BAV, Vat. Gr. 1613, p. 51 (tenth century) 42 Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund. New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 18r (c. 1130) 43 Missal. Paris, BnF latin 819, fol. 75v (eleventh century) 44 Allegory. Floreffe Bible, vol. II. London, BL, Add Ms 17738, fol. 3v (c. 1170) 45 Sacramentary of Henry II. Munich, BSB Clm 4456, fol. 21r (c. 1002–14) 46 Two Brothers Sarcophagus. Vatican, inv. 31543 = Rep. I.45 (middle, fourth century) 47 Moses receiving the Law/Sacrifice of Isaac. Sarcophagus. Vatican, inv. 31532 = Rep. I.42 (second quarter, fourth century) 48 Moses and Aaron Receiving the Law. Sinai icon (fourteenth century). The Sinai Icon Collection 49 Christ praying on the mountain. Psalter leaf (and detail). New York, Morgan M.521, second row, upper part of centre panel (1155–60) 50 Baptism of Paul. Queen Mary Psalter. London, BL Royal MS 2.B.VII, fol. 304v (1310–1320) 51 Baptism and Transfiguration. “Salerno” ivory. Museo Diocesano, Salerno (c. 1084?) 52 Baptism of Christ. Mosaic, Daphni Monastery, Athens. Photograph by Robert Weir Schultz and Sidney Howard Beasley, 1888–90, British School of Athens archives ref. BRF/02/01/075 53 Left-handed gladiator. Floor mosaic. Augst, Augusta Rarica (c. 200) 54 Prudentius, Psychomachia. London, BL Cotton Titus D. XVI, fol. 2v (twelfth–thirteenth century) 55 Twelve tribes of Israel (Numbers 2). Topographia Christiana of Cosmas Indicopleustes, BAV, Vat. gr. 699, fol. 52r (ninth century) 56 Twelve tribes of Israel (Numbers 2). Octateuch, BAV, Vat. gr. 747, fol. 160v (eleventh century) 57 Israelite soldiers (Psalm 59). Stuttgart Psalter, Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Cod. Bibl.fol.23, fol. 71v (ninth century) 58 Ivory casket. Paris, Musée de Cluny, inv. Cl. 13075 (fourth quarter, tenth century) 59 Battle with the Ammonites. Picture bible, New York, Morgan M.638, fol. 41r (c. 1244–54) 60 Battle of the Benjaminites. Heinrich von München, Weltchronik, New York, Morgan M.769, fol. 152v (c. 1360) 61 Battle scene. Victorian copy of Bayeux Tapestry, panel 52. Reading Museum 62 Battle scene. Victorian copy of Bayeux Tapestry, panel 56. Reading Museum

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Illustrations

Double capital with human figures and basilisks. Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, inv. 50174 (twelfth century) 64 Christ lancing serpent. Stuttgart Psalter. Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl.fol.23, fol. 107v (ninth century) 65 Man attacking dragon. Bas-de-page. Queen Mary Psalter, London, BL, Royal MS 2.B.VII, fol. 163r (1310–20) 66 Archangel Michael transfixing dragon. New York, Morgan M.75, fol. 501v (c. 1350) 67 Archangel Michael transfixing dragon. Tiberius Psalter, London, BL, Cotton MS Tiberius C.VI, fol. 16r (third quarter, eleventh century) 68 St Michael transfixing dragon. Paris, BnF NAF 16251, fol. 55v (1285) 69 Solomon with a lance. Athens, Benaki Museum no. 13539 (fifth or sixth century) 70 God smites sinner (Psalm 55.19–23). Stuttgart Psalter. Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl.fol.23, fol. 67r (ninth century) 71 Assassination of St Thomas Becket. Reliquary. London, V&A M.66-1997 (c. 1180–90) 72 Massacre of the Innocents. The Berthold Sacramentary, New York, Morgan M.710, fol. 18r (c. 1215–17) 73 Massacre of the Innocents. London, BL, Cotton MS Caligula A/VII.I, fol. 74 (third quarter, twelfth century) 74 Martyrdom of Tiburtius. Queen Mary Psalter. London, BL Royal MS 2.B.VII, fol. 262r (1310–20) 75 Stoning of St Stephen. BAV, Vat.sir. 559, fol. 20v (1219–20) 76 Antichrist. Sarum Apocalypse. Paris, BnF français 403, fol. 17v (1240–50) 77 Antichrist. Beatus manuscript. London, BL Add MS 11695, fol. 143r (1091–1209) 78 Antichrist. Beatus manuscript. New York, Morgan M.644, fol. 215v (c. 940–45) 79 Antichrist. Abington Apocalypse. London, BL Add MS 42555, fol. 72r (third quarter, thirteenth century) 80 Temptation of Christ. Psalter. Freiburg im Breisgau, Universitätsbibliothek, Hs 24, fol. 13r (c. 1200) 81 Battle of David and Goliath. Tiberius Psalter. London, BL, Cotton MS Tiberius C.VI, fol. 8v and 9r (third quarter, eleventh century) 82 Domitius Ahenobarbus relief. Paris, Louvre, inv. MNC 1786 (first quarter, second century BC) 83 “Sappho” fresco, Pompei. Naples, Museo Archeologico, inv. 9084 (55–79 AD) 84 Grave relief. Thessaloniki, Archaeological Museum, inv. 10105 85 Rufius Probianus diptych (c. 400). Used as book cover of the Vita Sancti Liudgeri. Berlin, SBBerlin Ms. theol. lat. fol. 323 (1378) 86 Dante, Divina commedia. New York, Morgan M.289, fol. 1r (1330–37) 87 Book cover. New York, Met inv. 10.203.3 (1343)

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Monk writing. Bible de Saint-Jean d’Acre. Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal Ms. 5211, fol. 2r (1250–54) 89 Monk writing while riding a dragon. Leaded brass, cast and chiseled. New York, Met inv. 1982.60.396 (mid-twelfth century) 90 Christine de Pizan, Epistre d’Othea. Paris, BnF français 606, fol. 15r (1400–10) 91 Eadwine Psalter. Trinity College, Cambridge MS R.17.1, fol. 283v (c. 1150) 92 Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, final page with colophon. Bodleian, Bodl. 717, fol. 287v (late eleventh century) 93 Bocaccio, Des cleres et nobles femmes. Paris, BnF français 12420, fol. 101v (c. 1402) 94 Bocaccio, Des cleres et nobles femmes. Paris, BnF français 598, fol. 100v (c. 1403) 95 Ambrosius of Milan, Opera varia. SBBamberg Msc. Patr. 5, fol. 1v (mid-twelfth century) 96 Pliny, Naturalis historiae. Le Mans, Bibliothèque municipale Ms. 263, fol. 10v (middle twelfth century) 97 Werden Psalter. Berlin, SBBerlin, MsTheol.Lat.Fol.358, fol. 2r (1030–50) 98 St Augustine writing. Paris, BnF latin 1987, fol. 43r (1100–20) 99 St Augustine writing. BAV, Vat. lat. 8541, fol. 75r, lower left (c. 1330) 100 St Jerome writing. New York, Morgan M.193, fol. 1r (1250–1300) 101 St Jerome writing. Hillinus-Codex. Cologne, Erzbischöfliche Diözesan- und Dombibliothek, Cod. 12, fol. 4v (c. 1110–20) 102 John of Damascus writing. Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 238r (ninth century) 103 David writing the psalms. Corbie Psalter. Amiens, Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole 18, fol. 1v (ninth century) 104 David writing (or reading) the psalms. Utrecht Psalter, Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht Hs 32, fol. 1v (c. 820–25) 105 David inspiring the writing of the psalms. Munich, BSB Clm. 343, fol. 12v (last quarter, ninth century) 106 David inspiring the writing of the psalms. Munich, BSB Clm. 7355, fol. 5v (first quarter, eleventh century) 107 David inspiring the writing of the psalms. Munich, BSB Clm. 835, fol. 148v (first quarter, thirteenth century), 108 Moses writing the Law. London, BL Cotton MS Claudius B IV, fol. 100r (eleventh–twelfth century) 109 Moses writing the Law. BAV, Vat. gr. 747, fol. 210r (eleventh century) 110 Isaiah writing his prophecies. Lothian Bible. New York, Morgan M.791, fol. 205v (c. 1220) 111 Isaiah writing his prophecies. Bible Historiale. New York, Morgan M.323 II, fol. 79v (c. 1325)

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115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126

127 128 129 130 131 132

Illustrations Deodato Orlandi, Zachariah recording the name of John the Baptist. Wing of a triptych (bottom left panel). Berlin, Gemäldegalerie inv. 1041 (c. 1300) Zachariah recording the name of John the Baptist. Holkham Bible Picture Book. London, BL Add MS 47682, fol. 18v (1327–35) St Jerome writing. Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, Bodleian MS. Bodl. 717, fol. vi recto (late eleventh century). Photograph: © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford St Luke writing. Lindisfarne Gospels. London, BL Cott. Nero.D. IV, fol. 137v (c. 700) St Luke writing. Ethiopian Gospel Book. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, W.836, fol. 123v (early fourteenth century) Four Evangelists writing. Gospel Book. Paris, BnF latin 8851, fol. 1v (967–83) Four Evangelists writing. Gospel Book. New York, Morgan M.781, fol. 36v, 91v, 128v, 188v (second quarter, eleventh century) Four Evangelists writing. Ivory plaque. Paris, Louvre, inv. OA 6331 (second half, twelfth century) Writing Evangelist portraits. Stavelot Portable Altar. Brussels, Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, inv. 1590 (c. 1160–70) John’s eagle writing. New York, Morgan, M.969, fol. 398r (last quarter, thirteenth century) Evangelist symbols writing. Psalterium Cantuariense. BnF latin 770, fol. 11v (thirteenth century) St John dictating to Prochoros. Basel, Universitätsbibliothek Codex A.N.IV.2, fol. 265v (twelfth century) St John dictating to Prochoros. Armenian Gospel book. New York, Morgan M.620, fol. 296v (thirteenth century) Oxford, Bodleian Selden Sup.6, fol. 109v (c. 1330) Evangelist writing. Birmingham, Department of Special Collections, University of Birmingham, Mingana Collection, Peckover Greek 7 (=Gregory Aland 713, Algerina Peckover 561), fol. 282v (first half, twelfth century) St Luke writing. St Margaret’s Gospels. Oxford, Bodleian Lat. liturgy. f.5, fol. 21v (1030–70) Ashburnham Pentateuch. Paris, BnF NAL 2334, fol. 76r (late sixth century) Meditatione de la uita del nostro Signore Ihesu Christo. Paris, BnF italien 115, fol. 6r (7 steps) (fourteenth century) Embroidered alb. London, V&A inv. 8128-1863 (1335–45) Vincent de Beauvais, Miroir historial. Paris, BnF français 316, fol. 291v (1333) The Neville of Hornby Hours. London, BL Egerton 2781, fol. 10r (second quarter, fourteenth century)

Illustrations

xix

133 Moses receiving the Law. Nea Herakleia casket. Thessaloniki, Museum of Byzantine Culture, inv. BA 71 (fourth century) 134 Moses receiving the Law. Grandval Bible. London, BL Add. 10546, fol. 25v (c. 830–40) 135 David, Psalm 5. Stuttgart Psalter. Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Cod. Bibl.fol.23, fol. 5v (ninth century) 136 Baptism of Christ. Neonian Baptistery, Ravenna (third quarter, fifth century). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/ Allan T. Kohl 137 Baptism of Christ. Arian Baptistery, Ravenna (first quarter, sixth century). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/ Allan T. Kohl 138 Huelgos Apocalypse. New York, Morgan M.429, fol. 1v (thirteenth century) 139 Sacramentary. New York, Morgan M.641, fol. 142v (c. 1060) 140 Moses receiving the Law. Pyxis, Washington, D.C., Dumbarton Oaks, BZ. 1936.22 (late fifth–sixth century) 141 Footwashing of Peter. Evangeliary of Henry II. Munich, BSB Clm 4452, fol. 105v (c. 1007–12) 142 Footwashing of Peter. Psalter. New York, Morgan M.645, fol. 4v (c. 1175–99) 143 Footwashing of Peter. Barberini Psalter. BAV, Vat. Barb.gr.372, fol. 87r (twelfth century) 144 Footwashing of Peter. Coptic Gospels. Paris, BnF, copte 13, fol. 259v (1178–80) 145 Footwashing of Peter. Ivory plaque. Berlin, SMB inv. 2108 (tenth–eleventh century) 146 Footwashing of Peter. Chartres Cathedral, façade, Passion window, no. 51, medallion 4 (second half, twelfth century) 147 Footwashing of Peter. Peterborough Psalter. Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique MS 9961-62, fol. 33v (early fourteenth century) 148 Footwashing of a poor man and angel at Mamre. Peterborough Psalter. Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique MS 9961–62, fol. 40r (early fourteenth century) 149 Footwashing of Peter. Psalter. London, BL Royal 1 D X, fol. 5r (first quarter, thirteenth century, before 1220) 150 Footwashing of Peter. Syriac Gospels. Berlin, SBBerlin Sachau 304-2, fol. 89r (thirteenth century) 151 Footwashing of Peter. Tiberius Psalter, London, BL Cotton Tiberius C VI, fol. 11v (third quarter, eleventh century) 152 Footwashing of Peter. Collectarium. Fulda, Hochschul- und Landesbibliothek MS 100 Aa 35 (first third, twelfth century)

xx

Illustrations

153 Fonts baptismaux de Tirlemont. Brussels, Musées royaux d’art et d’histoire no. 354 (1149) 154 Crucifixion. Grandisson Psalter. London, BL Add MS 21926, fol. 20v (c. 1270–80) 155 Crucifixion. Holkham Bible Picture Bool. London, BL Add 47682, fol. 32r (c. 1327–35) 156 Giotto, Crucifixion. Florence, Santa Maria Novella. Author’s photograph 157 Ivory diptych. Toronto, The Thomson Collection at the Art Gallery of Ontario, AGOID.29104 (c. 1350–75) 158 Ivory diptych leaf. London, V&A Inv. 161-1896 (c. 1330–50) 159 Pietro Lorenzetti, Crucifixion. Siena, Pinacoteca Nazionale, inv. 147 (1325–26). Author’s photograph 160 Peterborough Psalter. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum MS 12, fol. 12r (early 1220s) 161 Calling of the disciples. Mosaic. Ravenna, Sant’Apollinare Nuovo (493–526) 162 Crucifixion with Ecclesia and Synagoga. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 23, fol. 162v (1250–1300) 163 Benedetto Antelami, Deposition (with Ecclesia and Synagoga). Parma, Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta (1178). Author’s photograph 164 Ecclesia and Synagoga. Amiens, Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole 108, fol. 193r (1197) 165 Ecclesia and Synagoga. New York Public Library, Spencer Collection Ms. 22, fol. 127r (1390) 166 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. London, BM 1863,0727.8 = Morey 1959, M57 167 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. Vatican inv. 60768 = Morey 1959, M67 168 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. Berlin, SMB, inv. 6631 169 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. The Corning Museum of Glass, inv. 62.1.20 170 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. New York, Met 11.91.4, Rogers Fund 1911 = Morey 1959, M450 171 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. London, BM 1863,0727.4 = Morey 1959, M54 172 Sarcophagus. Vatican, inv. 28591 = Rep. I.61 173 Peter and Paul. Gilded bronze medal. Berlin, SMB inv. 3331 174 Peter and Paul. So-called Boldetti-medallion. Vatican. Considered a modern imitation. Photograph from Marucchi 1903, 162 175 Peter and Paul. Limestone relief carving. Aquileia, Museo Paleocristiana 176 Peter and Paul (?). Sarcophagus, short side. Istanbul, Archaeological Museums, inv. 4508 = Rep. V.88 (c. 380–90) 177 Sarcophagus. Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, inv. 1929/71/1 = Rep. IV.73 (first third, fourth century) 178 Peter and Paul. Ivory plaque (belt buckle?). Museo Diocesano Sorrentino Stabiese, inv. 64977 (early fifth century)

Illustrations

xxi

179 Hetoimasia with Peter and Paul. Mosaic. Rome, Zeno Chapel, Santa Prassede (817–24). Author’s photograph 180 Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus. Vatican City, St Peter’s= Rep. I.680 181 Christ and apostles. Wall painting (drawing from Wilpert 1903, fig. 155.2). Rome, Catacomb of Domitilla (second half, fourth century) 182 Christ and apostles. Sarcophagus. Paris, Louvre inv. NIII 2295 = Rep. III.429 (last third, fourth century) 183 Christ and apostles. Apse mosaic. Chapel of Sant’Aquilino, San Lorenzo, Milan (early fifth century). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/Allan T. Kohl 184 Sarcophagus. Vatican inv. 31534 = Rep. I.30. Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/Allan T. Kohl 185 “Parousia” wooden door panel. Rome, Santa Sabina (c. 422–32). Author’s photograph 186 Traditio legis, sarcophagus front. Verona, San Giovanni in Valle = Rep. II.152 187 Traditio legis. Apse mosaic. Rome, Santa Costanza. Author’s photograph 188 Traditio legis. Gold-glass. Toledo Museum of Art, inv. 1967.12 189 Christ with Peter and Paul. Ceiling painting. Rome, SS Marcellinus and Peter. Tabanelli watercolour, Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, Biblioteca, inv. 428 (from Wilpert 1903, fig. 252) (early fifth century) 190 Christ with Peter and Paul. Sarcophagus fragment. Vatican Inv. 31456 (c. 330–50) 191 Christ with Peter and Paul. Silver reliquary. Vienna, KHM Antikensammlung, VII 760 (early fifth century) 192 Sarcophagus of Probus. Vatican, St Peter’s = Rep. I.678 (end fourth century) 193 Sarcophagus. Museo nazionale di Ravenna = Rep. II.379 = ASR 8.2, B4 (56–57) (early fifth century) 194 Sarcophagus of the Bensai-Dal Corno family. Ravenna, San Francesco = Rep. II.381 = ASR 8.2, B6 (57–58) (early fifth century) 195 Sarcophagus of Pietro degli Onesti, called Peccatore. Ravenna, Santa Maria in Porto fuori = Rep. II.382 = ASR 8.2, B8 (60–61) (early fifth century) 196 Sarcophagus of Archbishop Rinaldo Concoreggio. Ravenna Cathedral = Rep. II.389 = ASR 8.2, B14 (65–66) (second quarter, fifth century) 197 Peter and Paul, hetoimasia. Cupola mosaic (detail). Arian Baptistery, Ravenna (c. 493–526) 198 Vault mosaic. Ravenna, Cappella Arcivescovile (c. 494–519) 199 Brescia lipsanoteca, front. Brescia, Museo di Santa Giulia (late fourth century) 200 Gold medallion. New York, Met inv. 58.12 (first half, fifth century) 201 Gold-glass. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum AN2007.13 = Morey M366 202 Dogmatic Sarcophagus. Vatican, inv. 315427 = Rep. I.43 (second quarter, fourth century)

xxii

Illustrations

203 Sarcophagus. Campo Santo Teutonico = Rep. I.896 (first quarter, fourth century) 204 Sarcophagus. Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique FAN.92.00.2482 = Rep. Iii.51 (last third, fourth century) 205 Sarcophagus of Gorgonius, front. Ancona, Museo Diocesano = Rep. Ii.149 (late fourth century) 206 Cuerden Psalter. New York, Morgan M.756, fol. 10v (c. 1270) 207 Portal tympanum, Parish Church of Szentkirály. Budapest, Museum of Fine Arts inv. 55.976 (c. 1230) 208 Portable altar. London, BM inv. 1903,0514.6 (c. 1075) 209 Coronation of Fulk and Melisende. William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer. Paris, BnF MS français 779, fol. 123v (1270–75) 210 Gratian, Decretum. Vatican, BAV Vat. lat. 2491, fol. 478r (fourteenth century) 211 David and Michal. Psalter. Munich, BSB Cod. Gall. 16, fol. 35v (c. 1310) 212 Esau marrying the daughter of Ishmael. Vatican, BAV Vat. gr. 749, fol. 96v (twelfth century) 213 Marriage of sons of God and daughters of man. Vatican, BAV Vat. gr. 749, fol. 49r (twelfth century) 214 Marriage of David and Michal. Silver plate. Nicosia, Cyprus Museum inv. J452 (613–629/630) 215 Liber vitae. London, BL Stowe MS 944, fol. 6r (1031) 216 Ivory plaque. Liverpool, National Museums, Walker Art Gallery inv. M8011 (1280–99) 217 Gospels of Otto III. Munich, BSB Clm 4453, fol. 28r (c. 1000) 218 Blanche of Castille and Louis IX. Toledo-Morgan Moralized Bible. New York, Morgan M.240, fol. 8r (1227–34) 219 Melisende and Baldwin III. William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer. Paris, BnF français 779, fol. 145v (1270–75) 220 DuBois Hours. New York, Morgan M.700, fol. 3v (1325–30) 221 Pabenham-Clifford Hours. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam MS 242, fol. 28v (c. 1315–20) 222 Pabenham-Clifford Hours. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam MS 242, fol. 2v (c. 1315–20) 223 Codex Manesse. Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. Pal. germ. 848, fol. 311r (c. 1300–40) 224 Guillemus de Conchis, De Philosophia mundi. Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève MS 2200, fol. 198v (1276–77) 225 Roman d’Alexandre en prose. London, BL Harley 4979, fol. 17v (late thirteenth or early fourteenth century) 226 Gratian, Decretum. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam MS 262, fol. 86v (c. 1300) 227 Assumption. Ratmann Sacramentary, Hildesheim, Dom-Museum Hildesheim, Domschatz, Inventar-Nr. DS 37, fol. 186v (1159)

Illustrations

xxiii

228 Cesi Master, Assumption. Paris, Musée Marmottan-Monet inv. D.9-1993, on deposit from the Fondation Ephrussi de Rothschild (c. 1298–1305) 229 Jacopo Torriti, Coronation of the Virgin. Mosaic, Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome (c. 1294) 230 Coronation of the Virgin. Capital, Reading Abbey. Reading Museum and Art Gallery, REDMG: 1992.95.1 (c. 1130) 231 Honorius Augustodunensis, Opera exegetica. Munich, BSB Clm 4550, fol. 1v (1147–64) 232 Coronation of the Virgin. The York Psalter. London, BL Add MS 54179, fol. 110r (c. 1260) 233 Coronation of the Virgin. The Hours of Yolande of Flanders. London, BL Yates Thompson MS 27, fol. 96v (1353–63) 234 Coronation of the Virgin. Ivory triptych panel. London, V&A Inv. A.5-1941 (fourteenth century) 235 Coronation of the Virgin. Ivory figures. Paris, Louvre OA 58 (c. 1250–60) 236 Baroncelli Altarpiece (detail). Florence, Santa Croce (c. 1328). Author’s photograph 237 Bernardo Daddi, Coronation of the Virgin. London, National Gallery NG6599 (c. 1340–45) 238 Master of 1355, Coronation of the Virgin. Madrid, Thyssen-Bornemisza Museo Nacional inv. 247 (1355) 239 Coronation of the Virgin. Cathédrale de Notre-Dame, Chartres, vitrail 42, upper medallion 240 Coronation of the Virgin. Stained glass, Minneapolis, Minneapolis Institute of Art inv. 32.11 241 Duccio, rose window, Duomo of Siena. Museo dell’Opera del Duomo (c. 1287). Author’s photograph 242 Gaddo Gaddi (attr.), Coronation of the Virgin. Florence, Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (c. 1280–1300); Author’s photograph 243 Glorification of the Virgin. Senlis. Cathedral, west façade, central portal (c. 1160) 244 Coronation of the Virgin. Reims, Cathedral, central portal of west façade (c. 1211) 245 Tympanum, east portal, south transept, Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Strasbourg (c. 1220–25) 246 Tympanum, north inner portal, western frontispiece, Cathédrale Saint-Étienne, Bourges 247 Coronation of the Virgin. Breviary. St Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek Cod. Sang. 402, fol. 12.v (after 1235) 248 Coronation of the Virgin. Bonmont Psalter. Besançon, Bibliothèque municipale MS 54, f. 9r (c. 1260)

xxiv

Illustrations

249 Coronation of the Virgin. Vic, Museu Episcopal MEV 4, 10, 11 (1210–20) 250 Mariotto di Nardo, Coronation of the Virgin. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum inv. M.28 (c. 1394–1424) 251 Master of the Dominican Effigies, Christ and Virgin Enthroned. Florence, Santa Maria Novella (c. 1336) 252 Master of the Dominican Effigies, Christ and Virgin Enthroned. Laudario di Sant’Agnese. Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art 1959.16.2 (c. 1340) 253 Master of the Dominican Effigies, Coronation of the Virgin. Initial “L”, Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Milan, Archivio Storico Civico e Biblioteca Trivulziana Ms. Triv. 1080, fol. 70r (1337) 254 Master of the Dominican Effigies, Coronation of the Virgin with Saints. Florence, Accademia di Belle Arti inv. 4634 (1325–49) 255 Giovanni del Biondo, Glorification of the Virgin. New Haven, Yale University Art Gallery 1871.19 (c. 1365) 256 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Paris, BnF français 1818, fol. 57v (after 1355). 8 257 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. New York, Morgan M.772, fol. 48v (1348) 258 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. New York, Morgan M.1038, fol. 55r (c. 1350) 259 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Douce 300, fol. 59r (c. 1400) 260 Guillaume de Deguileville, Les trois pèlerinages London, BL Add 38120, fol. 53v (c. 1400) 261 Geoffroy Tory, Champ fleury. Blois, Bibliothèque municipale Ms no. I 65, fol. 63r (1529) 262 Geoffroy Tory, Champ fleury. Blois, Bibliothèque municipale Ms no. I 65, fol. 63v (1529) 263 Ascent of Elijah. Sarcophagus. Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, FAN 92.00.2527 = Rep. III.85 (c. 390) 264 Ascent of Elijah. Sarcophagus, left side. Paris, Musée du Louvre Ma 2980 = Rep. III.428 (end of the fourth century) 265 Ascent of Elijah. Slate plaque. Berlin, SMB Ident. Nr. 3297 (sixth century) 266 Ascent of Elijah. Bible, Cambridge, Sidney Sussex College, MS 96, fol. 106v (c. 1260–70) 267 Ascent of Elijah. Stained glass roundel. Canterbury Cathedral, Corona Chapel, (early thirteenth century) 268 Ascent of Elijah. Bible. Vatican, BAV Reg.gr.1B, fol. 302v (tenth century) 269 Adoration of the Magi. Lectionary. New York, Morgan M.780, fol. 12r (1070–90)

Illustrations

xxv

270 Adoration of the Magi. Ivory panel from the Werden Casket. London, V&A Inv. 149A-1866 (c. 800) 271 Adoration of the Magi. Panel of the bronze doors of Bishop Bernward. Hildesheim Cathedral (1015). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/Allan T. Kohl 272 Adoration of the Magi. Berthold Sacramentary. New York, Morgan M.710, fol. 19v (1215–17) 273 Annunciation. Psalter. Munich, BSB Clm 835, fol. 21v (first quarter, thirteenth century) 274 Annunciation. Panel of the bronze doors of Bishop Bernward. Hildesheim Cathedral (c. 1015). Photograph: Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN 275 Annunciation. Ivory plaque. London, V&A Inv. 267–1867 (c. 1000–50) 276 Sarcophagus. Museo Nazionale Romano inv. 79983 = Rep. I.770 (first third, fourth century) 277 Lorsch Gospels, ivory rear cover. Vatican, BAV Pal.lat.50 (c. 800) 278 Bronze doors of Bishop Bernward. Hildesheim Cathedral (c. 1007–15). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/ Allan T. Kohl 279 Procession of the Magi. Homiliary. Berlin, SBBerlin Sachau 220, fol. 8v (eighth or ninth century) 280 Annunciation. Vatican, BAV Vat.sir. 559, fol. 8v (1219–20) 281 Entry into Jerusalem. Vatican, BAV Vat.sir. 118, fol. 212r (1092) 282 Entry into Jerusalem. Vat.sir. 559, fol. 105r (1219–20) 283 Sacrifice of Isaac. Haggadah (Spain). London, BL Oriental 2737, fol. 93v (last quarter, thirteenth or first quarter, fourteenth century) 284 Sacrifice of Isaac. The Northern French Miscellany, London, BL Add 11639, fol. 521v (1277–86) 285 Sacrifice of Isaac. Mahzor. Oxford, Bodleian Library, Laud Or. 321, fol. 184r (1270–80) 286 Ivory diptych. London, V&A Inv. 5623–1859 (c. 1330–50) 287 Soissons diptych. London, V&A Inv. 211–1865 (c. 1270) 288 Bifolia with scenes from the life of Christ. Cleveland Museum of Art, inv. 1933.448.1, 2 (c. 1230–40) 289 Creation. Sarajevo Haggadah. Sarajevo, National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina, fol. 1r and 2v (c. 1350) 290 Genesis scenes. Golden Haggadah, London, BL Add 27210, fol. 2v (second quarter, fourteenth century)

xxvi

Illustrations

291 Paris, Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Portal of Sainte-Anne, West Façade (1150s). Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/ Allan T. Kohl 292 Scenes from the life of the Virgin (attr. Pietro Cavallini, c. 1300). Apse mosaic. Santa Maria in Trastevere Author’s photograph 293 Passion Beam. Barcelona, Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya inv. 015 833-000 (c. 1192–1200) 294 Nicholas of Verdun and workshop. Klosterneuburg retable, church of Stift Klosterneuburg (c. 1181) 295 Joshua Roll. Vatican, BAV Pal.gr. 431.pt. B (third quarter, tenth century) 296 Bayeux Tapestry (c. 1075–97). Bayeux, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux. Panoramic viewer by Hochschule Augsburg: 297 Lambert de Vos (?), Column of Arcadius, 1574. Freshfield Album, fol. 13, Trinity College, Cambridge 298 Karlskirche, Vienna. Author’s photograph 299 Crucifixion, Deposition, Entombment. Gospels of Otto III. Munich, BSB, Clm 4453, fol. 288v (c. 1000) 300 Wooden reliquary box from the Santa Sanctorum. Vatican Museums, cat. 61883.2.1–2 (sixth century) 301 Pacino di Bonaguida, Tabernacle with scenes from the life of Christ. Tucson, The University of Arizona Museum of Art, ID#1961.013.013 (c. 1325) 302 Eutropos grave plaque. Urbino, Museo lapidario (Palazzo Ducale), inv. N. 40674 303 St Mark. Sainte-Chapelle Gospels. Paris, BnF latin 8851, fol. 52v (980–1000) 304 Coronation of the Virgin. Ivory diptych. London, V&A Inv. 11-1872 (c. 1330–40) 305 Coronation of the Virgin. Ivory diptych. London, V&A Inv. 11-1872 (c. 1330–40). As reproduced by the Gothic Ivories Project at The Courtauld Institute of Art, London

Abbreviations

Libraries, Museum Collections, Image Databases

Arachne BAV BL BM BnF Bodleian BSB KHM Louvre Met MNR Morgan ÖNB SBBamberg SBBerlin SMB V&A Vatican YUAG

ASR 1.3 ASR 5.4 ASR 8.2 CSEL LCI MGH PL PRG

https://arachne.dainst.org/ (Deutsches Archäologisches Institut/ University of Cologne) Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica British Library, London British Museum, London Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris Bodleian Library, Oxford Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna Musée du Louvre, Paris The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York Museo Nazionale Romano The Morgan Library and Museum, New York Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna Staatsbibliothek Bamberg Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin – Preußischer Kulturbesitz Victoria & Albert Museum, London Vatican Museums Yale University Art Gallery

Reference Works and Catalogues Reinsberg 2006 Kranz 1984 Kollwitz and Herdejürgen 1979 Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, ed. var., 1866– Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, ed. Kirschbaum and Bandmann. Rome: Herder, 1968–76 Monumenta Germaniae Historica Patrologia cursus completa … Series Latina, ed. J.P.-Migne, 1844– Le pontifical romano-germanique du dixième siècle, ed. Cyrille Vogel and Reinhard Elze. Vatican City: Biblioteca apostolica vaticana, 1963–72

xxviii RAC

Abbreviations

Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, ed. Dölger et al, Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1950– Rep. I Bovini and Brandenburg 1967 Rep. II Dresken-Weiland 1998 Rep. III Christern-Briesenick 2003 Rep. IV Büchsenschütz 2018 Rep. V Deckers and Koch 2018 RIC Sutherland et al 1984

Introduction: The Pre-Eminence of the Right Handedness is hard-wired. Nine out of ten human beings are born with a preference for the right. Beyond its practical impact on everyday life, this physiological fact also underlies a moral, cultural, and spiritual distinction present in almost all societies throughout history. With a few exceptions, notable precisely because of their rarity, human communities have elevated the right over the left. The effect is often muted and sometimes consciously corrected today – auditoriums with writing platforms for left-handers, alternative mouse settings on laptops – but it is never fully erased, even in the most laterally enlightened societies. Agreements are still sealed (or were, before the 2020 pandemic) with the antique gesture of a right-handed handshake; at formal events, the guest of honour is seated to the host’s right; soldiers around the world salute by raising their right hands. In the Middle Ages, right and left were freighted with special, sometimes profound significance in a range of contexts. The hand with which certain acts were performed, or the respective positions of particular things and persons, could be of decisive importance. In some circumstances, the distinction between right and left was a matter of habit or custom, but in others it expressed deeply held moral commitments and spiritual beliefs. Medieval imagery reflected, underscored, and often purposefully evoked the laterality of real life. This study explores the impact and implications of right and left on the construction, experience, and interpretation of the art of Europe and Byzantium from the fourth century through the fourteenth, in all media. The corpus of imagery is vast, and its treatment of laterality is richly variable (whence the supplement to figures reproduced in the text with several hundred additional illustrations made available through the Arkyves database).1 Some forms of representation are rigorously prescribed: Christ blesses and heals only with his right hand; in a depiction of the Last Judgement, the damned are on his left, the saved on his right. Absolute uniformity, however, is unusual. Different lateral choices can indicate inter-object relationships, particular local or patronal influences, or intentional shifts in meaning. Departures from an established pattern may also be significant where a representation exploits a thwarted expectation. The probability of left-handedness is higher for the executioners of martyrs than it is for saints attacking dragons (chapter 3); placing a wife at her husband’s right in the high and late Middle Ages, when she was 1 Instructions for access are found at the beginning of the list of illustrations, above.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_002

2

Introduction

usually seen as his left, may signal female patronage (chapter 7). The motivations behind some laterally contrarian images are no longer accessible to the modern interpreter. Others are artisanal blunders attributable to inexperience, inattention, or perhaps a perceptual deficit. Even in these cases, the reversal is of interest if it provides clues regarding the process of production or suggestions as to genealogy. The laterality of medieval art rests on a substratum of nature and nurture. The interaction of these factors is, of course, complex, and often uncertain. What matters for this study is not the reason for dextral preference but its visual effects. It is nonetheless useful to outline briefly some of the important biological and cultural determinants. 1

On Human Handedness

Human hand function is asymmetric and polymorphic; that is, the right and left hands are unequal in strength and agility, and handedness varies among individuals. The observed proportion of right-handedness is not uniform as between different populations, but a generally accepted approximation of the “natural” or biological figure is 90 per cent. The right foot, eye, and ear are also dominant, although less so than the hand, and the several organic biases display a significant positive correlation.2 Handedness is by far the most intensely studied among these lateral asymmetries because it is more obvious than the preference affecting other organs, more amenable to experimental investigation, and more important in its practical effects. Scientific papers on handedness began to appear regularly in the medical literature in the second half of the nineteenth century; the last several few decades have witnessed an explosion of theoretical, experimental, and general interest publications.3 Hand preference runs in families. Yet while right-handedness is a dominant inherited trait, left-handedness persists in the human population. The genetic mechanism that accomplishes this result remains a matter of debate. It probably demands a complex, multi-locus model; there is no “right-handed” gene.4 Handedness is distinctly human. The priority of the right hand seems

2 Warren et al. 2006, 509–10 (with references), table 5 (516). 3 Exemplifying the early scientific literature: Ogle 1871; Hollis 1875. For discussions of the historical and recent literature, scholarly and popular, see McManus 2002 (including his bibliographic references in the on-line “hypernotes”); Perelle and Ehrman 2005 for a general and accessible summary. 4 Competing models: Kushner 2017, 106–12. Single versus multiple locus: McManus, Davidson, and Armour 2013.

Introduction

3

not to be a population-level characteristic of other species.5 This suggests an evolutionary rationale, or perhaps separate rationales to explain the righthanded majority and the left-handed minority. An adaptive advantage must have been associated with left-handedness; at the same time, either an evolutionary cost (perhaps a health or performance disadvantage) or some other factor would explain its failure to reach parity with right-handedness.6 The advantage could be related to primitive interpersonal combat, an element of surprise that benefited left-handers against their more numerous righthanded opponents. This “fighting hypothesis” might explain both inherited asymmetry and persistent polymorphism through what is called negative frequency-dependent selection: if the advantage of left-handedness depends on its relative rarity in the population, the evolutionary benefit diminishes as the proportion of left-handers increases. The underlying factual basis of the fighting hypothesis is not universally accepted and difficult to demonstrate empirically.7 Whether or not it is ultimately sustained among evolutionary biologists, the theory could nonetheless have had an impact on medieval image-makers depicting scenes of combat (see chapter 3). The evolution of right- and left-handedness, whatever its explanation, reached its current equilibrium long ago. Unable to survey extinct populations, researchers have studied clues such as cave art (outlines of a left hand presumably made by a right), ancient artefacts, vestigial traces of tool use (indicating which hand held the implement), and skeletal asymmetry. Each of these techniques admits of a significant margin of error and not all support precisely the same inferences, but the evidence regarding natural handedness during the Middle Ages is robust: the polymorphism already discernible in the ancestors and early competitors of Homo sapiens had settled into the modern pattern long before the period under study here.8 2

The Sublimation of Right and Left

In 1909 a young French sociologist, Robert Hertz, published an influential study titled “La prééminence de la main droite: étude sur la polarité religieuse.”9 He 5 6 7 8

Uomini 2009. Llaurens, Raymond and Faurie 2009; Kushner 2017, 112–28. On the current state of the question: Groothuis et al. 2013; Faurie and Raymond 2013. Coren and Porac 1977. See also Reiss 1998; Faurie and Raymond 2004; Steele and Uomini 2005; Stock et al. 2013 (with specific reference to British medieval skeletal data). 9 Hertz 1909. An English translation by Claudia and Rodney Needham, “The pre-eminence of the right hand: a study in religious polarity,” is in Hertz 1960, 89–113, 155–60; revised English translation in Needham 1973, 3–31.

4

Introduction

collected wide-ranging evidence of the negative values associated with the left compared to the right in “primitive” religious thought (as it was then qualified), expressed and reinforced by linkages with other binary pairs such as sacred/ profane, light/dark, good/bad. Hertz’s work has been explored, expanded, modernized, and sometimes challenged by many anthropologists and historians of religion.10 Scholars now approach with prudence claims of cross-cultural and trans-historical dualism. Several exceptions to the pre-eminence of the right having been remarked, from Chinese etiquette and cosmology to the practice – in antiquity, the Middle Ages, and continuing today – of wearing a wedding band on the left hand.11 Yet if Hertz’s analysis has been refined and qualified, it has not been rejected. Research over the succeeding century confirms that while the differential value of right and left posited by Hertz is not universal, inflexible, and homogeneous, it dominates across a surprisingly broad range of cultures. A survey of 50 languages – Indo-European and non-Indo-European, modern and historical – found that in a significant majority words connoting “right” and “left” manifested the expected bias, either for both terms (in 36 of the languages) or for one only (in seven).12 Analogues to familiar examples like “dexterity,” “gauche,” and “sinister” appear in a host of tongues spanning geography and language groups: from Latvian to Gaelic, Basque to Swahili. Only seven of the languages examined (four Nordic, ancient and modern Greek, and an extinct language of Zoroastrian scripture known as Avestan) adopted euphemistically positive terms for “left,” and even in these instances, no unfavourable connotations attached to “right.” The phenomenon identified by anthropologists is readily observed in classical antiquity and Judaism, the great ancestral traditions of medieval Christianity. Greek and Roman poetry, literature, philosophy, and religion did not conceal a preference for right over left. The same bias was manifested in many social practices, including divination and magic, military victory, oratory, sexuality, and eating.13 Romans preferred dextral animal body parts as amulets, magical remedies, and aphrodisiacs; Pliny enumerates a host of examples, from the right teeth of a hyena or a crocodile to the right eye of a chameleon and the right side of an elephant’s trunk.14 He also indirectly confirmed the 10 Needham 1973; Parkin 1996, 59–86, provides a discussion of the literature. See also McManus 2002, 16–40. 11 China: Granet 1973 (English translation of a 1933 communication in French). Wedding ring: Rapisarda 2006. 12 Schiefenhövel 2013. See also McManus 2002, 61–66. 13 H. Wirth 2010, with extensive bibliography. 14 Liou-Gille 1991, Pliny citations at 200. On Roman augural practice generally: H. Wirth 2010, 80–86.

Introduction

5

superior agility of the right hand in his remark that the unusual left-handedness of the Roman painter Turpilius only heightened his achievement.15 The socalled Pythagorean Table of Opposites comprised, in Aristotle’s formulation: “two columns of cognates – limit and unlimited, odd and even, one and plurality, right and left, male and female, resting and moving, straight and curved, light and darkness, good and bad, square and oblong.”16 In everyday language, the ancients associated the right with good luck and the left with bad.17 As for Judaism, the Hebrew Bible is replete with references to the honour, power and majesty of the right: Solomon seats his mother on the right (I Kings 2:19); God holds the fiery law before Moses with his right hand (Deuteronomy 33:2); “the heart of the wise inclines to the right, but the heart of the fool to the left” (Ecclesiastes 10:2); sacrificial blood is dabbed on the right ear, thumb, and great toe (Exodus 29:20, Leviticus 8:23). Omnipotence is concentrated in God’s right hand: it shatters the enemy (Exodus 15:6) and claims mighty victories (Psalm 20:6, 44:3, 48:10).18 And with delicate irony, Satan stands at the right side of the wicked man rather than at his left (Psalm 108:6). The Old Testament is not necessarily “anti-left”: favour is often distributed equally to both sides. But when a distinction is drawn, it almost always reveals a dextral preference. In addition to the textual sources, some Rabbinical practices also favoured the right over the left, and liturgical prescriptions occasionally required rightward movement or rotation. The right side imported higher rank; spitting to the right was forbidden during prayer.19 In matters of laterality, Christian thought and practice unambiguously followed the same line, beginning with the New Testament. Bias in favour of the right is expressed most insistently in the spatial metaphor of Jesus after his ascension being seated at the right hand, or the right-hand side, of God. This figure appears more than a dozen times in the synoptic Gospels, Acts, and epistles of Peter and Paul.20 The same lateral preference grounds the familiar image of Christ at the end of time setting the sheep on his right and the goats on his left (Matthew 25:31–33). Jesus counsels his disciples to cast their net on the right side (John 21:6); the Lord’s messenger appears to Zachary at the right side the altar (Luke 1:11); an angel sits at the right of Christ’s empty tomb 15 Pliny, Hist.Nat. 35.20. 16 Aristotle, Metaphysics A.5.986a, 22–28 (translation by W.D. Ross). On the Greek philosophy of right and left: Lloyd 1962. This “Pythagorean Table” was footnoted by Hertz 1909, 568n4. 17 H. Wirth 2010, 13–48. 18 Further such citations in Nussbaum 1962, 161n43. 19 Jacobs and Eisenstein 1905; Ehrlich 2004, 128–34; Nussbaum 1962, 166. 20 Matt. 26:64, Mark 14:62, Mark 16:19, Luke 22:69, Acts 2:33, 7:55, Rom. 8:34, Eph. 1:20, Col 3:1, Hebrews 1:3, 10:12, 12:2, 1 Peter 3:22. Compare Psalm 109 (110):1.

6

Introduction

(Mark 16:5). Augustine more than once exegetically underscored the superiority of the right. He explained the mantra that when giving alms, one should “let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth” (Matthew 6:3) by reference to the importance of maintaining a distinction between the temporal (left) and the eternal (right);21 the right eye or hand must be plucked out or cut off should it offend (Matthew 5:29, 30) because it shows the way in things divine, the left only in the worldly.22 Spiritual love of God is on the right, carnal desire on the left.23 Theologians throughout the Middle Ages repeated, affirmed, and developed these tropes of laterality. A collection of sources compiled by Ursula Deitmaring is emblematic: Christ’s right hand signifies divinity and salvation; the right hand of man represents his faith and love of God; the right is the side of eternity, the left of the worldly; in recognition of her special holiness, the Virgin takes her place at the right side of Christ; to the left is the way of Hell and damnation, to the right the heavenly Jerusalem and everlasting life.24 These conceptions will be further explored in various visual contexts in later chapters. It suffices to emphasize here the unflinching preference for the right among medieval churchmen. To the cultural associations of right and left cited by the anthropologists, like good/bad and male/female, the classical identifications with good and bad luck or the privileged organs of magic, and the Old Testament figures of power and glory, Christianity added its own dualistic contributions: the right was eternal, spiritual, charitable, and salvific; the left was worldly, carnal, greedy, and hellish. Dextral preferment is equally apparent in Christian ceremony and church design.25 The priest uses his right hand for blessing, sprinkling holy water, anointing, and offering the host; the pontiff offers his right hand to be kissed; the deacon carries the Gospels with his right arm; the faithful use the right hand to make the sign of the cross, accept communion, and confirm their commitment in baptism. Celebrants ascending to the altar should start on the right foot (following, in this case, an explicit classical prescription – see chapter 4). In early Christian churches, presbyters of higher rank were seated to the right of the bishop’s cathedra, the others on his left. Throughout the Middle Ages, and still today, the Gospel side is to the right of the altar and the Epistle 21 Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos 120.8.6, PL 37, 1611. Compare Jonah 4:11, where God describes the Ninevites as not knowing their right hand from their left. 22 Augustine, De sermone domini in monte 13.37–38, PL 34, 1247–48. 23 Augustine, Sermo 149.14, PL 38.806: “Sinistra est animi cupiditas carnalis, dextera est animi charitas spiritualis.” 24 These and other citations in Deitmaring 1969. Still more in Nussbaum 1962. 25 Nussbaum 1962; Möbius 1993.

Introduction

7

side at the left, in recognition of the relative authorities of these portions of holy scripture. From the pre-eminence of the right as an inherited trait of our species there thus emerged a multi-faceted cultural and religious preference that was not experienced or understood as a mere consequence of physiology. Medieval Christendom was a quintessential example of what some psychologists have called “right-handed hegemony,” or adapting a colourful neologism coined by Pierre-Michel Bertrand, a “dextrocracy.”26 The pre-eminence of the right was both an observable fact of life and a cultural, moral, and spiritual imperative firmly ensconced in the mentality of medieval image-makers. 3

Historiography

A leitmotif of this study is the general disinterest in its subject evidenced by medieval art historians. Anthropologists, linguists, psychologists, and neuroscientists have become increasingly engaged in issues arising from human laterality, but the difference between right and left in imagery has attracted almost no attention in studies of medieval art, and only very slightly more for other periods. One qualification of that judgement concerns aesthetics. In a 1941 article, Heinrich Wölfflin claimed that pictures and their mirror images are experienced differently because of the path taken by the eye of the viewer.27 His “glance curve” has been applied and elaborated by other historians, mainly in connection with Renaissance and Baroque paintings and prints.28 Psychologists have extended the scope of the inquiry to the role of right and left in the visual experience of space and orientation.29 Empirical evidence is supportive of certain specific claims arising out of these theorizations. For example, placement of the implicit light source in a painting on one side or the other does appear to affect how the image is seen.30 And the optical illusion that an object depicted as farther away looks larger varies in its intensity depending on whether the

26 27 28 29 30

Habib, Touze and Galaburda 1990, 122 (cited by Kushner 2017, 104); Bertrand 2008, 43: “la société européenne traditionnelle était, dans la plupart de ses sphères, authentiquement dextrocrate.” Wölfflin 1941. See Oppé 1944; Van der Velden 2006. Gaffron 1950; Ennenbach 1996. Specifically in connection with the Annunciation to the Virgin, see Altmann 2013. Mamassian 2008, 2146–48.

8

Introduction

perspectival corridor recedes to the right or the left.31 But Wöfflin’s theory regarding the effects of reversing pictures, and several other related propositions promoted by aestheticians, have not been fully substantiated.32 In any event, this body of literature is only tangentially germane to the issues under consideration in the current study. The concern here is the composition and meaning of images. These issues have been broached directly, but only sporadically, by classical archaeologists. Early in the twentieth century, A.L. Frothingham argued that the left, rather than the right, was the place of honour in ancient Rome, a surprising claim convincingly challenged a few years later by F.P. Johnson.33 The direction of the screw on the Column of Marcus Aurelius received a few pages of comment from Max Wegner in 1931.34 A more sustained analysis of laterality appeared in Heinz Luschey’s 1956 Habilitationsarbeit (published posthumously only in 2002), which focused on the direction of movement and relative placement of figures in antique relief sculpture.35 Apart from brief references to the depiction of left-handed gladiators, very little has been published since.36 A detailed study of the left hand in Greek and Roman antiquity by Henning Wirth includes only passing references to imagery.37 Even less can be said regarding the study of Jewish figural imagery. The only significant consideration of its laterality is a contribution by Marc Philonenko concerning right and left hands of God in the wall paintings of the Dura Europos Synagogue, circa 245–56 AD (discussed in chapter 2, below).38 A millennium of early and medieval Christian imagery provides an enormous quantity of visual material in which to observe and analyze the treatment of right and left. Yet the sole monograph specifically devoted to any aspect of the subject is Ioannis Spatharakis’s The Left-Handed Evangelist, a rarely cited 1988 study of several late Byzantine Evangelist portraits (most of which are not, strictly speaking, left-handed: see the discussion in chapter 3, below).39 Philippe Verdier, alone among those who have carefully studied the form of representation usually labelled as the Coronation of the Virgin, devoted a few pages in his book on the iconography to a “reversed format” (see chapter 7, 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Rima et al. 2019. Blount et al. 1975; Gross and Bornstein 1978, 33–34; Gordon 1981, 221–39. Frothingham 1917; Johnson 1924. Wegner 1931, 83–86. Luschey 2002. Gladiators: Coleman 1996; Caron 2003. H. Wirth 2010. Philonenko 1997. Spatharakis 1988.

Introduction

9

below).40 Corine Schleif’s “Men on the Right – Women on the Left” looks at the placement of spouses, mainly in the Renaissance but also with medieval examples (considered in chapter 7 as well).41 Analyses of specific images or monuments, like the thematic literature, rarely remark the role of right and left. Exceptions, discussed in the appropriate chapters below, include a late eleventh-century miniature with the self-portrait of a left-handed monastic scribe (chapter 3) and a Bavarian relief carving, produced circa 1324, on which the usual spousal positions (man on the right) are reversed (chapter 7). For the most part, however, conformity to or departure from any normative laterality escapes observation or comment. The subject does receive broad and high-level treatment in standard iconographical lexicons, notably the entries “Hand” in the Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum and “Rechts und links” in the Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie.42 Medieval imagery gets only modest attention in a 1980 article by Manfred Lurker regarding dextral pre-eminence and its symbolic role in western visual culture.43 And it hardly figures at all in James Hall’s The Sinister Side: How Left-Right Symbolism Shaped Western Art; only one of the 43 illustrated works pre-dates the fifteenth century.44 Notwithstanding that he trained as a medieval art historian, Pierre-Michel Bertrand focuses on neither visual culture nor the Middle Ages in his Histoire des gauchers: Des gens à l’envers.45 A few relevant contributions have come from scholars in other fields. The scientific study of laterality has burgeoned, with hundreds of articles, several significant books, and a journal exclusively devoted to the subject.46 The presentation of right and left in visual representations is not a major preoccupation of this research, but it has certainly been addressed. As early as 1973, Richard S. Uhrbrock, a psychologist, argued that throughout history artists have distinguished between right and left and assigned them different roles.47 A flurry of more recent research has addressed several specific representational issues, from scrotal asymmetry in Greek sculpture to the choice of 40 41

Verdier 1980, 143–50. Schleif 2005. See also Van der Velden 2006, a study of double portraits in Netherlandish diptych altarpieces. 42 Kötzsche 1986, (RAC s.v. “Hand”), 13.411–20; Dinkler-Von Schubert 1971, LCI 3.511–15. 43 Lurker 1980. 44 J. Hall 2008. 45 Bertrand 2008. 46 The most comprehensive consideration of right and left, including its role in artistic expression, is McManus 2002. The journal Laterality: Asymmetries of Body, Brain and Cognition commenced publication in 1996. 47 Uhrbrock 1973.

10

Introduction

favouring the left or right cheek in painted and photographic portraits.48 Even when medieval imagery is not included in the data under review, some of the observations and inferences in these papers may be relevant. The directional aspects of portraiture, for example, has been applied by Chris McManus, a doyen of laterality research, to late medieval and early Renaissance depictions of various scenes, in particular the Madonna and Child.49 One group of laterality studies that does not refer to medieval imagery but is directly relevant to its analysis focuses on directional preference in viewing images of motion.50 This line of research informs the discussion of depictions of sacred movement and continuous narrative in chapters 9 and 10. The brevity of this literature review is more revealing than its content. Medieval art history, whether the examination of particular forms of representation or specific objects and monuments, almost never considers the potential significance of right and left. The current study cannot, therefore, claim to continue, correct, or challenge any established historiographic tradition. 4

Plan of the Work

In the 1969 article by Ursula Deitmaring referred to above, medieval literary sources concerned with right and left were organized under a tripartite division drawn from Rabanus Maurus’s (d. 856) encyclopedic De universo: the right hand represents power, faith, grace, and eternal life; the right side is the place of honour and divinity; the right way is the path of spirit, the left of flesh.51 That scheme has been borrowed to group the chapters of this book. Part 1 opens with a consideration of some general issues regarding the pictorial representation of handedness in the Middle Ages (chapter 1), followed by two case studies. The first of these is the disembodied hand of God (chapter 2). Throughout its manifold applications in medieval art, this visual metaphor or synecdoche was almost always characterized by explicit and intentional dextrality. God’s left hand does, however, appear in representations of a two-handed deity and also in a few anomalous images. The reversals invite reflection about both the medieval production process and the disinterest of modern observers, while the detailed rendering of God’s right-handedness 48

Scrotal asymmetry: McManus 2004. Portraits: Nicholls et al. 1999; Lindell 2013 (with summary of literature); Lindell 2017. 49 McManus 2005, 163–73. See also Suitner and McManus 2011. 50 Summarized by Chatterjee 2011; Suitner and Maass 2016. See the additional references and examination of this literature in chapter 9. 51 Deitmaring 1969; Rabanus Maurus, De universo 6, PL 111.158C–159B.

Introduction

11

raises questions regarding medieval conceptions of divine corporeality and anthropomorphism. The second case study examines the most commonly depicted (human) manual activities in the Middle Ages: perpetration of violence and production of texts (chapter 3). The hegemony of the right in these activities is consistent with naturalistic observation but it also betrays an element of moralizing, for example in differentiations between “good” and “bad” violence. A comparison between fighting and writing suggests subtle differences in both the factual level of right-handedness in the conduct of these activities and the scope for using depictions of laterality to convey meaning. Finally, Part 1 ends with a short digression to the lower extremities (chapter 4). A bias in favour of the right foot, although present in nature and culture, is not generally apparent in medieval representations. In determining which foot to advance, compositions seem mainly to rely on artistic conventions and naturalistic observation rather than semantic intention. Exceptionally, images of the three-nail Crucifixion do privilege the right, probably for symbolic effect. The structure of Part 2 is similar. The opening chapter presents the subject of lateral situation, what might be called the etiquette of position (chapter 5). It explores complications in both terminology and the interpretation of medieval images occasioned by a shift from the object-centred to the viewercentred mode of observation. Medieval image-makers and their audiences understood that “the right” meant to the right of an important pictured protagonist or object, like Christ or the altar, not the right side of their own visual fields. Again, two case studies follow. The first focuses on early Christian representations of Peter and Paul (chapter 6). Their depiction together demanded a decision regarding precedence (who should be at who’s right). The images reflect socio-religious developments in the period, as the relative status of the chief apostles became a matter of ecclesiastical and popular concern. The second case study is devoted to spousal double portraits (chapter 7). As would be anticipated, with some interesting and sometimes explicable exceptions, the medieval preference was to prioritize husbands by placing them at their wives’ right. Less obvious is why, and when, this preference developed, since it reverses that found in early Christian and Roman art. Different considerations govern depictions of the spiritual marriage of Christ and his mother, represented starting in the twelfth century as the Coronation or Glorification of the Virgin. In the usual format, Mary is at her son’s right, but in a not insignificant minority of cases, their positions are reversed. Part 3 is somewhat different. All three of its chapters are presented as case studies, and only the first (chapter 8) considers the right way as an element of the image itself. It explores how an ancient figure for moral or spiritual choice, the Pythagorean Y, and more generally the proverbial fork in the road of life,

12

Introduction

was incorporated into Christian doctrine but almost never depicted until late in the Middle Ages. The other two chapters of this Part examine aspects of medieval imagery that can be understood by reference to reception. First, figures, especially sacred figures, are preferentially depicted moving from left to right as seen by the viewer (chapter 9). This bias can be correlated with the script direction of the dominant language (Latin or Greek), a conclusion corroborated by a small number of examples found in right-to-left language settings (Syriac and Hebrew). Script direction also affects the construction of continuous narrative in medieval imagery (chapter 10). Attention focuses in this chapter on a problematic exception: the contrarian spiral of an historiated column in Hildesheim. The case study method is not unusual in art historical research, but its methodological implications have not received attention.52 The technique is premised on the assumption that from a close examination of one or more circumscribed classes of images, inferences may be drawn regarding a broader range of visual phenomena. The alternative is to examine the subject holistically, sometimes called “cross-case research” in the social sciences. This latter approach is more extensive but less intensive. Both methods run the risk of bias. The comprehensive or synthetic approach is more susceptible to cherrypicking of examples, whether by accident or design, to bolster an argument. That danger is of particular concern in a study like this one, that encompasses such a vast range of medieval imagery and lacks a foundation of previous scholarly work upon which to build. Whence the decision to follow the case study method. The appropriate classes of imagery must not be too unusual, as that would defeat the possibility of generalization; nor can they be insufficiently distinctive, representing just a subset of the total rather than a “case.” The forms of representation addressed in the following chapters have been chosen with the aim of meeting these standards. A concluding summary of the varied impacts, roles, and expressions of laterality in medieval art would be impractical and not especially useful. The Epilogue to this study is, instead, a historiographic reflection and a disciplinary manifesto, a speculation regarding the causes for professional oversight or incuriosity concerning issues of right and left and a call for further research. 52

On the method in the social sciences, see Gerring 2017. Humanities researchers may find the first, 2007, edition of this text more useful and user-friendly.

Part 1 The Right Hand

∵

Chapter 1

Picturing Handedness According to legend, Julian the Apostate, the only non-Christian Roman emperor after Constantine, died in 363 not of battle wounds, as recorded by ancient historians, but from a miraculous intervention. On his way to Persia, so the story went, the emperor passed through Caesarea where its bishop, St Basil the Great, welcomed him with a gift of three loaves of bread. Julian found this offering so unworthy that, seething with anger, he threatened to destroy the whole city. But Basil saw in a dream that the Virgin Mary would send St Mercurius, the local patron, to protect them, and his vision came to pass when a soldier in full armour appeared and killed the emperor. This tale is condensed into two panels of a full-page miniature from northern France, made circa 1190–1200 and conserved at the Koninklijke Bibliotheek in The Hague (fig. 1).1 The offering and the rejection of Basil’s gift appears at the upper right, the emperor’s tirade represented by the common speech gesture of a raised hand. Immediately below, the Virgin points towards a soldier who thrusts his lance into Julian’s side. Here, again, the emperor is seen to be speaking, presumably multiplying his threats and blasphemies to the last. The avenging Virgin and St Mercurius use their right hands – she to express her command and he to carry it out – but Julian in both frames raises his left, brazenly contradicting the conventional manner of indicating speech with the right hand. Neither the sources potentially available to the designer of this image nor the brief explanatory labels above and below the images mention Julian’s handedness (or, for that matter, his hands).2 The motif was a purely visual contrivance, meant to pique the interest of an audience attuned to the symbolic difference between right and left. As in most representations, the handedness of these protagonists was easy to depict and to recognize. Complications arose if the pictured hand was not attached to a body, like the hand of God discussed 1 The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek MS 76 F 5, fol. 25v (1190–1200). The folio is part of a fragmentary manuscript of complex codicology and origins: see Brandhorst 2003. 2 Latin and vernacular sources are summarized by Boman 1935, LVIII–LXXXI. The inscriptions read: “Basilius panes tres transmittit iuliano / Acceptat munus rex pectore non bene sano” (upper right); “Hic domini mater celi regina prophani / Mercurium mittit auferre capud iuliani” (lower right). Paraphrasing: Basil gives three loaves to Julian who receives the gift badly (with an unwilling heart); the Mother of the Lord and Queen of heaven and earth sends Mercurius to kill Julian (to snatch away his life).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_003

16

Figure 1

Chapter 1

St Basil and Julian the Apostate. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 5, fol. 25v (1190–1200)

Picturing Handedness

17

in chapter 2, but in the normal course, a figure’s hands can be distinguished without difficulty by a normal adult viewer. Indeed, developmental psychologists have long known that children first learn to recognize the body parts of another person before graduating to more sophisticated, relational distinctions between right and left.3 Thus, pictured handedness was a reliable tool available to the medieval image-maker. The significance of the left depended on the pre-eminence of the right. As described in the Introduction, “natural” handedness in Europe and the Mediterranean region during the Middle Ages must have been close to the modern and historical approximation of 90 per cent in favour of the right. Grafted onto the physiological predisposition was a cultural preference for the right widely affirmed in antiquity, early Judaism, and medieval Christianity. Human beings were created with two hands similar in form and function, but one was better than the other, not merely in its physical capabilities but also by virtue of superior moral and spiritual value. The actual behaviour of individuals observed by medieval image-makers was a composite result of inheritance and socio-cultural incentives or constraints. As in modern societies, the right hand was prioritized in various functions. This choice was (and is) channeled by family and education, supported by the design of everyday implements and equipment (tools, musical instruments), and favoured by social convention, cultural mores, and religious precepts. Cross-cultural studies indicate that certain manual behaviours, especially writing and sometimes eating, are more skewed to the right hand in “formal” (strict, conservative, conformist) than in “informal” (permissive, liberal, tolerant) societies.4 Modern North Americans generally conform to the 90 per cent rule of thumb but even quite recently, studies have found that less than one per cent of Chinese write with the right hand; this percentage rises quickly among the progeny of Chinese immigrants to the United States, demonstrating that the anomaly is not, or not significantly, genetic.5 Young Israeli Jewish men of European family origin are more likely than those of Middle Eastern extraction to be left-handed.6 As a feedback effect, forced hand-switching is encouraged because right-handers accumulate more life-long human capital regardless of whether their handedness is inherited or imposed.7 The Middle 3 Piaget 1928, 107. Harris 1972 recasts the rationalization but not the developmental fact. The more complex distinction between left and right position is discussed in chapter 5. 4 Harris 1990; Kang and Harris 2000; Medland et al. 2004. 5 Kushner 2013, 71. 6 Kobliansky et al. 1978. Men of North African origin suggestively fell between the two other groups but these differences were not statistically significant. 7 Goodman 2014; Guber 2019.

18

Chapter 1

Ages were not markedly permissive and, with due caution for the hazards of trans-historical comparisons, a similar tendency towards the amplification of biological right-handedness may be assumed. Medieval image-makers would not have conceived observed handedness as a distortion of some underlying and invisible biological predisposition. They saw the dominance of the right hand manifested in everyday activities and also understood its moral and spiritual pre-eminence – most of the sources cited in the Introduction regarding Christian belief and practice specifically focus on the hand.8 Acts and gestures performed with the right hand according to sociocultural norms and especially religious precepts were, and still are, regarded as “natural” even if they run contrary to the individual’s inherited and dominant handedness. In the Middle Ages, preferential usage of the right hand in such cases was not merely a reflexive habit but conformed to the rigorous order of society, divinely dictated. Texts may specify the distinction between right and left or they may elide it. Artists have less flexibility; they draw the hand as one or the other. Medieval image-makers and viewers were thus regularly confronted with semantic implications and opportunities that written sources ignored. Some representations may accurately reflect observed reality, like the left-handed self-portrait of a monastic scribe discussed in chapter 3 (fig. 18 in that chapter) that seems to signal an intentional, if subversive, verisimilitude.9 A mix of left- and righthanded combatants could be meant to represent the actual participation of both groups. Left-handed fighters account for about four per cent of the approximately 150 such figures pictured in the Bayeux Tapestry, produced at the close of the eleventh century (also discussed in chapter 3).10 The embroiderers of this 70-metre long narrative with 75 discrete scenes evidently did not intend a statistical confirmation of relative handedness, but the inclusion of this many left-handers does suggest that the right was not strictly enforced in the manipulation of weaponry. Naturalistic observation does not, of course, exclude the impact of social, moral, or religious norms because people followed them in their behaviour. Picturing the priestly blessing as a gesture of the right hand was at once theologically correct and empirically accurate. The similar dextral depiction of sacred figures is more subtle. It does assert their presumptive handedness, 8 Additional sources are referred to by Nussbaum 1962; Deitmaring 1969; Gross 1985, passim. 9 Self-portrait of Hugo Pictor, Oxford, Bodleian MS. Bodl. 717, fol. 287v (late eleventh century). 10 Bayeux Tapestry, Bayeux, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux (c. 1075–97). Reproductions in Bouet and Neveux 2013.

Picturing Handedness

19

at least in the particular activities, but also affirms something about the significance of what they are seen to be doing. In the Andrews Diptych, a ninthcentury Italian ivory carving in the Victoria & Albert Museum, Jesus is depicted manually performing six miracles: raising Lazarus, healing three men (one a leper, another blind, and the third with palsy), multiplying loaves, and turning water to wine at Cana. In every scene he uses his right hand, either unaided or holding a wand (Arkyves 1).11 The ability to render figures as right- or left-handed gave image-makers a neat and efficient means of expressing moral distinctions, exemplified by the miniature with which this chapter began. Displacing Julian’s gestures to his left hand was an elegant device to single him out as an enemy of Christianity, particularly when this unconventional sinistrality was visually challenged by the right-handed Virgin and St Mercurius. The same sort of contrast in pictured handedness could be used to express right and wrong, one of the dualities associated with right and left in many languages and societies.12 In medieval art, the polarity was usually Christian truth versus heathen error. On an English twelfth-century copper plaque, also conserved in the Victoria & Albert Museum, a scene executed in champlevé enamel shows St Paul debating against five opponents, labelled in banners as Greeks and Jews. The Apostle presses his point with a gesture of his right hand; two Jews, identified by their distinctive hats, enunciate their counter-arguments with their lefts (fig. 2).13 Another enamel in Dijon employs the same trope: here Peter and Paul together speak the truth with their right hands while their opponents, Simon Magus and Nero, use their lefts to express pagan falsehoods (even Nero’s guard holds his sword in the left hand) (Arkyves 2).14 Truth and falsity could be secular as well as sacred. A fourteenth-century Anglo-Norman manuscript in the British Library includes an abbreviated version of the Chanson de Fierabras, a story of the contest between Charlemagne and Saracen invaders. In one miniature the traitorous Gonnelun, who betrayed his emperor and his country, uses his left hand to address a pack of lies to Charlemagne, parrying with his right (Arkyves 3).15 The two hands of a single person may be deployed to similar ends. The Bayeux Tapestry includes a representation of Harold, king of the Anglo-Saxons 11

Andrews Diptych. London, V&A, inv. A.47&A-1926 (early ninth century; sometimes considered late antique, it may have been recarved from an earlier piece). 12 Schiefenhövel 2013. See the discussion of these polarities in the Introduction, above. 13 London, V&A, inv. 223–1874 (c. 1170–80). 14 Dijon, Musée des beaux-arts de Dijon, inv. CA T 1250 (c. 1170–80). 15 London, BL Egerton 3028, fol. 110r (second quarter, fourteenth century). The miniature is cited by Bertrand 2008, 38. The text of this folio is transcribed by Brandin 1938, 89.

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Chapter 1

Paul disputing with Greeks and Jews. Enamelled copper plaque. London, V&A Inv. 223-1874 (dated 1170–80) © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

who contested the crown with William the Conqueror and famously died in the process at the Battle of Hastings, swearing allegiance to William. The historical ambiguity of this moment is communicated by Harold’s unorthodox pose and gestures: he places his left hand on one reliquary and his right on (or more precisely touching) another (Arkyves 4).16 The designer cleverly represented two simultaneous acts with contradictory meanings.17 From where William sits on the left side of the frame, Harold appears to be swearing fealty in the conventional manner with his right hand. The external viewer, however, sees what William does not, that Harold is also swearing with his left hand, rather like the audience of a play glimpsing the villain crossing his fingers behind his back. More broadly, the left hand alone can be used to signify evil. Herod uses it to order the Massacre of the Innocents on a Romanesque enamel reliquary in 16 Bayeux Tapestry, Bayeux, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux, panel 23 (c. 1075–97). Reproduced in Bouet and Neveux 2013. The original work is not officially posted on-line; the web illustration is from a Victorian copy housed in the Reading Museum. 17 Modern commentators generally regard the double oath-taking in a more straightforward manner as a signal of Harold’s duplicity. See Schmitt 1990, 16; Bertrand 2008, 37. Pace Hicks 2006, 10, it cannot merely have been meant to reinforce “the solemn nature of the oath” by showing Harold “touching two ornate shrines.”

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the Musée du Louvre (Arkyves 5);18 the Antichrist and his minions sometimes attack and murder with their left hands (see the examples in chapter 3). The dominance of the right hand in medieval art is neither unexpected nor trivial; the appearance of the left may be significant or erroneous. Often it is ambiguous, although perhaps more so to modern interpreters than to the original viewers. The case studies in the following chapters of this Part 1 – the hand of God (chapter 2) and depictions of the two most commonly represented manual activities, fighting and writing (chapter 3) – elucidate a variety of issues in the medieval visual treatment of handedness. A brief concluding pedal digression (chapter 4) illustrates a divergence in approach between feet and hands. 18 Louvre OA 10406 (c. 1190–1210).

Chapter 2

The Hand of God With the Incarnation, God became visible. The appearance of Jesus on earth provided tangible authority for picturing the second person of the Trinity. The third person, the Holy Spirit, was finessed through symbolism or metaphor, usually imagined as a ray of light or a bird. Undecided about how to deal with God the Father, early Christian image-makers – or the makers of images for early Christian customers – tested alternative solutions. Sometimes they projected Jesus back into Old Testament stories, for example resurrecting the dry bones before the prophet Ezekiel.1 This technique simultaneously facilitated the narrative, supported biblical typology, and impliedly confirmed the pre-existence of Christ-Logos. Another conceit was to picture God as a venerable old man. On a few fourth-century sarcophagi such a figure receives the offerings of Abel and Cain or presides at the creation of Eve, either alone or with two colleagues who collectively suggested the Trinity.2 These approaches – conflating the Son and the Father or depicting an avuncular God – were deployed only sporadically until many centuries later. Instead, most early Christian and medieval imagery adopted an ancient visual synecdoche: the disembodied hand of God. 1

The Great Right Hand

This isolated divine hand had a long and ecumenical history. It was used in the Near East in the Late Bronze Age, on an eighth-century BC tomb as the sign of JHWH, and on early Roman religious objects.3 Jewish tradition is generally accepted as the proximate source for the Christian hand of God, an inference drawn mainly from wall paintings in a synagogue at Dura Europos, a frontier town in modern Syria.4 This elaborate fresco program, mostly comprising biblical narratives, was executed before AD 256 and discovered in 1920, exploding 1 Examples in Koch 2000, 148. 2 Koch 2000, 137–38 (offerings of Cain and Abel); 134–35 (creation of Eve). The “Trinity” examples are Rep. I.43 and Rep. III.38. 3 Mittmann 1997; Kötzsche 1986 (RAC s.v. “Hand”), 13.411–20; Hachlili 1999, 59–61. For a broad survey of Egyptian, Near Eastern, early Jewish, Greek, and Roman precedents, see Gross 1985, 315–417. 4 Grabar 1968, 40; Holl 1970 (LCI s.v. “Hand Gottes,” 2.212); Hachlili 1999, 69. On Dura Europos: Weitzmann and Kessler 1990; Levine 2012, 97–118; Rajak 2013.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_004

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the trope of Jewish iconoclasm in the Rabbinic period.5 Although a few less ostentatious synagogue floor mosaics corroborate the representation of the human figure in late antique Jewish cultic spaces, some scholars have conjectured that Dura was as much an artistic as a geographic outlier. Yet even if its full decorative program may have been unusual and site specific, the motif of the disembodied hand of God, which appears no less than ten times at Dura, cannot have been unique to this synagogue. Inverted hands descend here into five different scenes. One appears above Moses before the burning bush (Exodus 3:1–5) (Arkyves 6); another empowers Elijah to resurrect the son of the widow of Zarephath (1 Kings 17:19–23) (Arkyves 7); a third stays Abraham from the sacrifice of Isaac (Genesis 22:9–12) (Arkyves 8). Five such hands are spread across a confusing and eccentric depiction of the resurrection of the dry bones (Ezekiel 37:1–11) (Arkyves 9).6 Two more oversee a continuous narrative rendition of the crossing of the Red Sea (Exodus 14) (Arkyves 10). All these scriptural passages signal heavenly intervention, but none mentions God’s hand. Christian image-makers enthusiastically incorporated the hand of God into a wide variety of narrative and symbolic contexts.7 Its most common and consistent application was in the Sacrifice of Isaac, an example already encountered at Dura. A more scripturally accurate angel or even a daringly anthropomorphic divine bust can be found later in the Middle Ages, but the iconography of a disembodied hand dominates overall, appearing on hundreds of early Christian and medieval monuments. The following examples of God’s right hand staying Abraham’s are illustrative of the motif’s popularity and wide deployment in all media, regions, and periods: for late antiquity, a Catacomb wall painting8 many Roman sarcophagi (Arkyves 11),9 and a few fifth-century ivory pyxides;10 in the early Middle Ages, the sixth-century mosaics of San Vitale, Ravenna,11 and Egyptian textiles of the sixth to eighth century (Arkyves 12);12 from the 5 6 7 8 9

Prigent 1990. Compare Kraeling 1940, Riesenfeld 1948, Weitzmann and Kessler 1990, 132–39. Overviews of the Christian hand of God: Kirigin 1976; Gross 1985, 418–58. Reproduced by Wilpert 1903, fig. 201.3. Sarcophagus of Adelphia. Siracusa, Museo Archeologica Regionale P. Orsi = Rep. II.20. Other examples: Rep. I.39, 40, 45, 112, 144, 675, 677, 772, 820, 840; Rep. II.102, 149; Rep. III.22, 38, 84, 352. See Speyart van Woerden 1961, 243–45 (coded as no. 12). 10 Berlin: Grosse Berliner Pyxis, SMB, inv. 563. Trier, Rheinisches Landesmuseum Inv-Nr. 09,866; Ristow 2007, 422, cat. 474, plate 59. 11 Dresken-Weiland 2016, 228. 12 New York, Cooper Hewitt, inv. 1902-1-142 (sixth–eighth century); Lyon, Musée des Tissus MT 24400.55, (seventh–eighth century).

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Chapter 2

succeeding centuries a Mosan enamel pyx (Arkyves 13),13 a tympanum of San Isidoro in León, and metalwork objects.14 This form of representation also enjoyed a long run in manuscript illumination, from a ninth-century Greek edition of the Topographia Christiana of Cosmas Indicopleustes (Arkyves 14),15 to Spanish Beatus miniatures (Arkyves 15),16 to eastern Octateuchs of the twelfth century (Arkyves 16),17 to a thirteenth-century book from the Crusader states (Arkyves 17).18 The format is largely stereotypical but there are moments of originality, as in a mosaic at Sant’Apollinare in Classe where Abraham, Abel, and Melchizedek collectively offer their sacrifices to the hand of God.19 In every one of these examples and in virtually all others (exceptions are discussed below), God’s hand is a right. The other Old Testament scene that provided a stable and copious corpus of divine right hands in Christian religious art is Moses receiving the Law. This representation probably also continued an older tradition; a similar image is suggested by a damaged panel of the Dura Synagogue.20 The Christian examples are as ubiquitous as those for the Sacrifice of Isaac. The image of Moses reaching up to the hand of God, appears, inter alia, on many fourth-century Roman sarcophagi and a couple from fifth-century Constantinople,21 again in the mosaics of San Vitale, Ravenna as well as those at Saint Catherine, Sinai,22 on an Ottonian ivory diptych leaf likely from Trier (Arkyves 18),23 and in many eastern and western illuminated manuscripts (e.g. Arkyves 19, 20).24 In a tenthcentury Greek psalter in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, known as the 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Cleveland Museum of Art, inv. 1949.431 (c. 1170–80). Altar, Sahl Church, Denmark (1200–20). BAV Vat.gr.699, fol. 59r. New York, Morgan M.644, fol. 6r (c. 940–45). See also: Turin Beatus, Torino, Biblioteca Nazionale I.II.1, fol. 11r; Facundas Beatus, Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España Vit. 14-2, fol. 13r. Vatican, BAV Vat. Gr. 746, fol. 83r (twelfth century). See also: BAV Vat. Gr. 747 fol. 43v (eleventh century); Smyrna Octateuch, formerly Evangelical School of Smyrna, fol. 35r (twelfth century). Histoire ancienne, Dijon, Bibliothèque municipale MS 562, fol. 26r (c. 1260–70). See also: Psalter, Herzog August Library, Wolfenbüttel Guelf.521 Helmst, fol. 8v; Book of Hours, New York, Morgan M.739, fol. 11v. Illustrated by Dresken-Weiland 2016, 273. Weizmann and Kessler 1990, 52–55, fig. 74. Roman examples include: Rep. I. 40, 42, 52, 188, 674, 675, 772; Rep. II. 20, 33, 150, 152; Rep. III. 428, 499; Rep. IV. 42. Constantinople: Rep. V. 35, 158 (= Rep. II. 415). Ravenna: Dresken-Weiland 2016, 231; Sinai: Forsyth and Weitzmann 1973, plate CXXVII. Berlin, SMB, inv. 8505 (tenth–eleventh century). Vivien Bible, Paris, BnF latin 1, fol. 27v (dated 845); Theodore Psalter, London, BL Add. 19352, fol. 193v (dated 1066).

The Hand of God

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Paris Psalter, two discrete scenes are presented: Moses receives God’s instructions to build a sanctuary from one disembodied right hand, and then ascends Mount Sinai to receive the Law from another (fig. 3).25 Interestingly, the hand of God also resurfaced in later Jewish representations of this subject, first on a sixth-century chancel screen from a synagogue

Figure 3

25

Moses receiving the Law. Paris Psalter. Paris, BnF grec 139, fol. 422v (940–60) © BnF

Paris Psalter, BnF grec 139, fol. 422v (c. 940–960). This miniature presents some peculiarities, in the presentation of the feet (see chapter 4) and the right-to-left temporal sequence (see chapter 10).

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Chapter 2

in Palestine and then, circa 1300, in a South German Passover manuscript now in Jerusalem; it is known as the Birds’ Head Haggadah because of the avian heads of the figures, including Moses (Arkyves 21).26 As with the sacrifice of Isaac, the hand of God in the Mosaic scene vies in later medieval Christian images with the other methods for depicting or alluding to the first Person of the Trinity, namely, Christ-Logos and the bust of a bearded, aged God. Abraham’s sacrifice and Moses receiving the Law were the most common but by no means the only Old Testament stories whose depiction incorporated a hand of God. Moses particularly attracted divine manual attention. In Byzantine Octateuchs the hand appears when his staff becomes a serpent (Exodus 4:3), as he prays while Aaron collects the manna (Exodus 16:21–36), when he strikes water from the rock (Exodus 17:1–7), and as he removes his sandals before the burning bush (Exodus 3:5) (Arkyves 22);27 in the fifth-century mosaic program in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, the young Moses is favoured with the hand of God as he is found by Pharaoh’s daughter (Exodus 2:9), and again when he faces stoning by the Israelites at the threshold of the promised land (Numbers 14:10).28 Abraham is another figure who was often pictured in the presence of the hand of God. In addition to bringing a last-minute reprieve for the patriarch’s son, the divine hand appears to him at Shechem (Genesis 12:7) (Arkyves 23), as he leaves Haran (Genesis 12:1–4), and in his sleep (Genesis 15:12).29 The right hand of God is not restricted to these Mosaic and Abrahamic episodes. It is also seen at the creation of Eve (Arkyves 24),30 Abel’s offering (Arkyves 25 and 26),31 Noah commanded to build the ark,32 with the

26 Chancel screen at Horvat Susiya: Foerster 1989, 1818–20. Haggadah, Jerusalem, Israel Museum MS 180/057, fol. 23r (c. 1300). 27 The first three scenes are in the Smyrna Octateuch, formerly Evangelical School of Smyrna, fol. 68r, 85r, 85v (twelfth century). The web illustration reference is Octateuch, BAV, Vat. Cod. Gr. 747, fol. 74r (eleventh century). The hand at the burning bush is also in a Sinai icon, St Catherine’s, in Weitzmann and Kessler 1986, fig. 42; and in mosaic at San Vitale, Ravenna, reproduced in Dresken-Weiland 2016, 230. 28 Karpp 1966, fig. 85 and 118 (second quarter, fifth century). 29 The web illustration reference is Histoire Universelle, Vienna, Österreichische National­ bibliothek cod. 2576, fol. 15r (late fourteenth century). See also the thirteenth-century mosaics of San Marco, Venice: Bertoli 1986, 103, fig. 35c. The other two scenes are in the Cotton Genesis, London, BL Cod. Cotton Otho B.VI, fol. 48r and 61r. See Weitzmann and Kessler 1986, 72, 76–77, fig. 165–166, 194–195 (and plate VI.16). 30 Ivory box, Cleveland Museum of Art, inv. 1924.747 (eleventh–twelfth century). 31 Saint Louis Psalter, BnF latin 10525, fol. 1v (1260–69); ivory plaque, one of the so-called Salerno Ivories, Paris, Louvre, inv. OA4052 (c. 1084). There are many other examples, e.g. a mosaic in the baptistery of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence (c. 1280–1300). 32 Mosaic in San Marco, Venice (thirteenth century), reproduced by Bertoli 1986, 84, fig. 23a.

The Hand of God

27

Three Hebrews in the Furnace,33 and above Ezekiel in the valley of the dry bones (Arkyves 27).34 The motif of the hand of God was quickly extended from borrowed Old Testament themes to explicitly Christian scenes. The earliest examples appear in an inventive representation of Christ’s ascension, described without much detail in the New Testament (mainly in Acts 1:9–11). A few attempts were made on fourth-century sarcophagi to arrive at an acceptable way to depict this cardinal event but the early image most influential in later centuries appears on an ivory plaque dated around 400 AD and now in Munich, where Christ mounts a hill extending his right arm to clasp the right hand of God offered from above (fig. 4).35 This form of representation effectively combined two Roman prototypes: imperial apotheosis, as depicted on the base of the Column of Antoninus Pius (c. 110 AD; Arkyves 28),36 and the handclasp motif, a staple of antique spousal imagery but also central to representations of political and military alliance and borrowed as well in the Christian context.37 The same conflation had previously been Christianized on the reverse of a coin struck in 337 to commemorate the death of Constantine (Arkyves 29). It shows him ascending in a quadriga, his right arm extended towards, although not quite touching, the right hand of God emerging from the heavens.38 The laterality of this celestial hand was expressly remarked by Eusebius.39 Different approaches to the Ascension dominate later medieval art but the joining of Christ’s and the Father’s right hands as conceived on the Munich ivory persisted (e.g. Arkyves 30, 31).40 One variation physically separates their hands, still both rights, while preserving the sense of a welcome homecoming (Arkyves 32).41 33 Catacomb Maius, Wilpert 1903, fig. 172.2. 34 Gregory of Nanzianzus, Homilies, Paris, BnF grec 510, fol. 438v (dated 879–83). 35 Reidersche Tafel, Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum MA157 (c. 400). Compare Rep. III.42, Arles and III. 219 (lost). 36 Now conserved in the Vatican Museums, cat. 5115; Kleiner 1992, 285–86, fig. 253. 37 Reekmans 1958; Davies 1985; H. Wirth 2010, 35. Christian use: Bovini 1946–48; Couzin 2017a, 30. 38 London, BM 1986,0610.1; Bruun 1954, 27–29; Kötzsche 1986 (RAC s.v. “Hand”), 13.422–24, positing a connection between the Constantine apotheosis coin and the Munich ivory. 39 Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 4.73. “At the same time coins were struck portraying the Blessed One on the obverse in the form of one with head veiled, on the reverse like a charioteer on a quadriga, being taken up by a right hand stretched out to him from above” (trans. Cameron and Hall 182). 40 Sacramentary of Drogo, Paris, BnF latin 9428, fol. 71v (845–55); Vienna, KHM inv. 7284 (late tenth century). Other examples include: Sacramentary of St Gereon, Paris, BnF latin 817, fol. 72r (996–1002); ivory plaque, Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery M.8021 (ninth century). 41 Ivory plaque, V&A, inv. 378–1871 (1150–60). Other examples include Sacramentary of Mont-Saint-Michel, New York, Morgan M.641, fol. 75v (c. 1060); Evangelistary of Henry III, Bremen, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Ms b.21, fol. 70v (1039–40).

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Figure 4

Reidersche Tafel. Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Inv.-Nr. MA157 (c. 400) Author’s photograph. With kind permission of the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum

The hand of God was deployed in a great many other Christian visual contexts. It was a popular, although by no means universal, element in depictions of Jesus’s baptism in the Jordan, intervening either directly or through the intermediary of the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove.42 Such representations can be 42

On baptism iconography generally, see Schiller 1971, 1.127–43.

The Hand of God

29

found in all media throughout the Middle Ages, including ivories (Arkyves 33, 34),43 rock crystals,44 and manuscript illuminations from a marginal drawing in the Rabbula Gospels of 586 AD, conserved in Florence (Arkyves 35), to a manually impossible gesture of blessing in a twelfth-century Coptic Gospel book in Paris (fig. 5), to a hand unfurling an explanatory speech banner in the Claricia Psalter, a Latin manuscript in Baltimore made in Augsburg around the turn of the thirteenth century (Arkyves 36).45 Occasionally, the hand of God may accompany another baptism: in the upper left roundel of the Stavelot Triptych in New York, it radiates the divine blessing upon the baptism of Constantine by Pope Silvester (Arkyves 37).46

Figure 5

43

Baptism of Christ. Coptic Gospels. Paris, BnF copte 13, fol. 8v (1178–80) © BnF

Illustrated examples are: London, BM 1896,0618.1 (sixth century); Munich, BSB Clm 4451 (ninth–tenth century). 44 Freiburg Baptism, Münster, Freiburg-im-Breisgau; Kornbluth 1995, 56–58, cat. 5, fig. 5.1. 45 Rabbula Gospels, Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana Plut. I.56, fol. 4v (Syria, 586); Coptic Gospel book, Paris, BnF copte 13, fol. 8v (Egypt, twelfth century); Claricia Psalter, Baltimore, Walters Art Museum MS W.26, fol. 10r (late twelfth or early thirteenth century). Other famous earlier examples include the Etchmiadzin Gospels, Matenadaran 2374, fol. 228v (Armenia, sixth or seventh century), and the Khludov Psalter, Moscow Hist. Mus., cod. add. gr. 129D, fol. 117r (Byzantine, mid-ninth century). 46 Stavelot Triptych. New York, Morgan AZ001 (1156–58).

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Chapter 2

Image-makers found a place for divine hands in a host of other biblical narratives. It hovers above the Crucifixion (Arkyves 38)47 and the Assumption of the Virgin (Arkyves 39);48 five more communicate apocalyptic visions to John in the ninth-century Trier Apocalypse (Arkyves 40).49 The hand of God was also liberally deployed in hagiography: holding out salvation to 156 Palestinian martyrs in the tenth-century Menalogion of Basil II (Arkyves 41),50 presenting the titular saints in mosaics at Sant’Apollinare in Classe and Sant’Agnese fuori le mura, Rome,51 and blessing the entombment of St Edmund in his Life of circa 1130 (Arkyves 42).52 When early ninth-century popes presented themselves with assorted saints flanking Christ or the Virgin in the apse mosaics of Roman churches, they sometimes stood below the hand of God, a format already adopted in the sixth century in Parenzo (Porec).53 The divine hand offers Peter the keys to heaven in an eleventh-century missal (Arkyves 43);54 it presides in a one-off enigmatic allegory of “Virtues and Corporal Works of Mercy” in the London Floreffe Bible, circa 1170 (Arkyves 44).55 The Stuttgart Psalter provides an embarrassment of such manual riches. In this lavishly illuminated Carolingian manuscript, produced in the Paris scriptorium of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the first half of the ninth century, the right hand of God appears more than 60 times accompanying, among others, David, “everyman” Christians, anonymous kings, Christ, personifications of the soul and the Church, saints, sinners, wicked persecutors, Moses, a funeral, a grape harvest, holy Jerusalem, and doctors of the Church. It blesses, protects, welcomes, smites, and releases manna.56 The meaning of the hand of God across this broad gamut of Christian images is neither invariable nor univocal. It may refer to God’s engagement in the 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Ivory book cover, Evangeliary of Henry II, Munich, BSB Clm. 4452 (c. 1007–12) (illustrated here). See also: apse mosaic in San Clemente, Rome (c. 1140), Oakeshott 1967, 247–50, pl. XXIV; Crucifix, Paris, Musée Cluny Cl. 23932 (early thirteenth century). Sacramentary of Mont-Saint-Michel, New York, Morgan M.641, fol. 142v (c. 1060). Trier, Stadtbibliothek und Stadtarchiv Hs. 31, fol. 7v (p. 18, illustrated here), as well as fol. 29r (p. 61), 31r (p. 65), 32r (p. 67) and 57r (p. 117) (first quarter, ninth century). Menalogion of Basil II, BAV, Vat. Gr. 1613, p. 51. The hand appears above several other martyrs elsewhere in this manuscript. Classe: Dresken-Weiland 2016, 258–59. Rome: Oakeshott 1967, fig. 87. Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund, New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 18r (c. 1130). Pope Pascal I in Santa Prassede, Santa Cecilia in Trastevere; Pope Gregory IV in San Marco: see Oakeshott 1967, fig. 124, 129, plate XXIII. Compare Bishop Euphrasius in Porec, related to the later Roman mosaics by Thunø 2015, 10, fig. 9. Paris, BnF latin 819, fol. 75v (eleventh century). Floreffe Bible, vol. II, London, BL, Add Ms 17738, fol. 3v. The description is from the BL notice. Stuttgart Psalter, Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl.fol.23 (ninth century).

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depicted narrative, perhaps representing a tangible manifestation of his voice, which is explicitly mentioned in many of the scriptural sources. It may simply signal his presence or blessing. In some images the intended owner of the hand must be the Father, as when it welcomes Christ in the Ascension or releases the Holy Spirit in the Baptism. In Old Testament narratives, the hand might seem to evoke the God of the Hebrews, although since these scenes were taken to prefigure the birth, life, and passion of Jesus, it could still be conceived as the Father’s. At a higher level of abstraction, the hand suggests a compendious, Trinitarian Godhead. Appearing in splendid isolation, it may seem not agentic but purely symbolic. Under any of these permutations, in all iconographical contexts, and with whatever apparent meaning, the Christian imagery is consistent in its handedness. As in the ancient, Roman, and Jewish precedents, the hand of God in every one of the images and monuments referred to above and countless others is the right. No explanation for this dextral preference was required, but as if to underline the fact and its significance a circumferential inscription in the Sacramentary of Henry II in Munich identifies an inverted, disembodied hand as the “holy right hand of God” (sancta dei patris dextera) (Arkyves 45).57 2

The Other Hand of God

Yet God’s left hand is not entirely absent from the visual repertoire. It is encountered most often in representations of a two-handed God, where the depiction of both left and right intimate an invisible divine torso facing the viewer. This conception appears already at the Dura Synagogue, in its narration of the Hebrews crossing the Red Sea (Arkyves 10). As God’s right hand protects the Israelite troops on the viewer’s left (i.e. to God’s right), his left hand empowers Moses to drown the Egyptians depicted on the other side. The biblical text (Exodus 14:21–29) provides no basis for such a two-handed image, although Marc Philonenko connected the fresco to an interpolation in an Exodus Targum that speaks explicitly of God saving the Israelites with his right hand and striking the Egyptians with his left.58 Even without this source, the representation clearly evokes the biblical and cultural dichotomy of right/ good, left/bad. The same technique was used in medieval Christian images to express the difference between God’s reception of Abel’s and Cain’s offerings: he “respected” (respexit) the one but not the other (Genesis 4:3–5). Typically, 57 58

Sacramentary of Henry II. Munich, BSB Clm 4456, fol. 21r (c. 1002–14). Philonenko 1997.

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Figure 6

Offerings of Cain and Abel. Heinrich von München, Weltchronik. New York, Morgan M.769, fol. 15v (c. 1360). Purchased in 1931

representations of this scene that include a hand of God display only one, a right pointing with favour towards Abel; but occasionally a second, left hand is added in order to visualize the symbolic contrast. An especially effective example appears in a universal chronicle, an illuminated German vernacular text relating the history of the world from its creation to the death of Charlemagne, produced in Regensburg circa 1360 and conserved in the Morgan Library.59 The attitudes of the first children complement the two-handed God. At the left side of the image, God’s right hand blesses Abel’s upturned face. On the other side, his clenched left fist expresses disdain for the offering of Cain, who turns away in anger from the Lord’s displeasure, mimicking the biblical description: “his countenance fell” (fig. 6). 59

Heinrich, von München, Weltchronik, New York, Morgan M.769, fol. 15v.

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As at Dura, God seems to hover above the frame, intervening with both hands in the human affairs unfolding below. The iconography is similar but the effect attenuated by physical separation in wall paintings in the church of San Jacopo in Grissiano (South Tyrol), dated 1180–1220.60 Abel and Cain appear on either side of a triumphal arch surrounding a theophany of Christ and Evangelist symbols, the one favoured with God’s right hand, the other shamed with his left. The distinction between the value of left and right was used to effect in the Morgan and San Jacopo representations of the offerings of Cain and Abel, but this conception was exceptional. Image-makers might prefer to imagine only God’s right hand, as on a roughly contemporary portable altar in Osnabrück that depicts the brothers’ offerings in lateral panels on either side of Christ. In this case, both the divine disembodied hands are rights.61 God acts with his powerful right hand both to receive and to reject; there is no conceit of an invisible figure to which these hands could be attached. When the two-handed God was incorporated into the image, both hands were normally treated as equal. Such lateral neutrality is most obvious where he accomplishes with two hands what might have been done with one, like releasing manna from heaven in the previously mentioned Birds’ Head Haggadah (Arkyves 21),62 or transmitting the Law to Moses in an early sixthcentury fresco of the Red Monastery Church in Egypt.63 The performance of holy acts by two divine hands might have been regarded as more solemn; it also provided the kind of manual security a human actor could have chosen. In the more common format left and right hands are separated, and both are beneficent. On several Roman sarcophagi, Moses receives the Law to the left of a central portrait clipeus while the Sacrifice of Isaac is pictured on the other side, each accompanied by a hand of God. Usually both are rights (e.g. Arkyves 46). In a couple of instances God uses his two hands to accomplish these equally positive divine purposes, the left restraining Abraham and the right giving the Law to Moses (Arkyves 47).64 In the same way, right and left disembodied hands at the top of the vertical post on the sixth-century Moses Cross at Sinai are directed towards representations of Moses on the cross bar, once as he receives the Law and again when he removes his sandals.65 In all these depictions of the two-handed God, whether the hands are of disparate or equivalent value, the right is at the left side of the image, as seen 60 61 62 63 64 65

Schiller 1971, 3.513–14. Circa 1080. Goldschmidt 1970, cat. 102 at 39, illustration plate XXXI(a). Israel Museum Ms 180/057, fol. 22v (c. 1300). Bolman 2016, fig. 10.9 at 135, who dates this phase of the decoration 500–25 (p. xxx). Two right hands: Rep. I.39, 45, 675, Rep. II.20 (probably); at the corners of Rep. IV.114 (attributed to a Carthaginian workshop). Left and right: Rep. I.40, 42. Weitzmann and Ševčenko 1963, fig. 2, 3 and 4.

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by viewers, and the left is at their right, consistent with a divine figure facing outward from the picture plane, hidden but for his hands. A peculiar departure from this logical requirement appears in a miniature of the Gospels of Henry the Lion, a manuscript produced in the scriptorium of the Benedictine Helmarshausen Abbey circa 1188, now held in the Herzog August Library of Wolfenbüttel (fig. 7).66 The kneeling duke and his standing, slightly bowing bride are each crowned by a hand of God. Following convention, he appears in the privileged position at her right (i.e. on the left side of the image from the viewer’s perspective: see chapter 7). That should place the divine right hand over the duke and the left over the bride, reinforcing his superiority by gender, rank, and as patron of the book. Instead, God’s hands have been reversed: his left appears on the viewer’s left, his right on the viewer’s right. The hands have been duly noted in the literature, but not their anomalous placement.67 There is more to this image than merely a mistaken rendition of the two-handed God. The forearms are not separated, as they would be if attached to the shoulders of an imagined bust. One cannot, therefore, impute these hands to a figure of God facing away from the viewer, a most unlikely conceit in any event. It looks, rather, as if God has crossed his arms precisely in order to put his right hand over Mathilda. It seems an eccentric but effective means of favouring or honouring the woman who, as highlighted in the dedication poem (fol. 4v), is of English royal stock, now received as his consort, and crowned to represent their spiritual union. This anomaly aside, representations of the two-handed God are noteworthy for their confirmation of a divine left hand but otherwise reasonable artistic inventions. Sometimes they evoke a diverging religious significance, as in the Morgan miniature of Abel and Cain; more often, they simply put two hands where the viewer would expect them if God were imagined in human form (a non-trivial assumption discussed in the next section, below). More problematic are monuments that seem to present a single disembodied left hand of God. They are not many, and some can be dismissed as insecure in their sinistrality. This may be due to their degraded condition, or to significant anatomical infelicities that prevent a secure lateral identification. The latter category is exemplified by the divine hand in the Sacrifice of Isaac as depicted in the Gerona Beatus,68 on a lead plate from the Via Latina Catacomb in Rome,69 66 Gospels of Henry the Lion, Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v. 67 See, for example: Oexle 1994, 160; Luckhardt and Niehoff 1995, 208, cat. D31 (notice by Joachim M. Plotzek). 68 Girona, Catedral de Girona, Cat. Gir. Ms. 7, fol. 11r (late tenth century). 69 Kötzsche-Breitenbruch 1976, pl. 10c. Considered a left hand by Hachlili 1999, 68.

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Figure 7

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Coronation. Gospels of Henry the Lion. Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library, Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v (c. 1188)

and in a Cappadocian fresco of the twelfth century.70 What seems at first blush to be a left hand of God in such representations as these may in fact be a poorly drawn right. Other apparent divine lefts are clear enough but of questionable authenticity. For example, a sarcophagus front displayed in the Vatican 70

Church of El Nazar, Göreme (Turkey), reproduced in Jerphanion 1925, vol. 1, plate 42.3.

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Museums (it is actually a modern combination of two separate fragments) depicts the Sacrifice of Isaac with a left hand of God, but it was substantially recut (perhaps produced) in the eighteenth century.71 The category of uncertain divine left hands also includes a couple of instances where the incomplete state of the monument leaves open the possibility, or permits the conjecture, that the preserved fragment is a vestigial element of what was originally a conventional two-handed representation. If the restored Sacrifice of Isaac with a left divine hand on the Vatican composite sarcophagus front mentioned just above is a faithful reproduction of an original scene (rather than a modern invention), perhaps the missing half of the chest once depicted Moses receiving the Law from the Lord’s other hand, a combination in which, as previously remarked, divine left and right hands were sometimes used in this way. Even extracting all such potentially questionable cases, there nonetheless remains a small but stubborn core of isolated, disembodied, divine left hands. A definitive catalogue is impossible, but the examples canvassed in the following paragraphs probably comprise a significant proportion of what would be found. The only early Christian examples I have discovered are two fourthcentury cut glass bowls, one in Trier and the other known from an old drawing in Boulogne-sur-Mer, on which a divine left, attached to a distinct left forearm, reaches out to prevent the sacrifice of Isaac.72 A fourteenth-century icon panel at Sinai depicts Moses – unusually accompanied by Aaron – receiving the Law from the left hand of God (Arkyves 48).73 The Morgan Library holds a single leaf cutting from a mid-twelfth-century psalter made in Canterbury on each side of which is a full-page miniature comprising 24 compartments, in one of which Christ’s prayer on the mountain is received by a divine left hand (Arkyves 49).74 A bas-de-page drawing in the early fourteenth-century Queen Mary Psalter in London depicts St Paul being baptised in a large font under a descending, disembodied left hand (Arkyves 50).75 A few further instances of the left hand of God are of special interest because, unlike these other scattered and unconnected examples, they have been related in the literature to similar, but right-handed, monuments. One such pair comprises two ivory plaques depicting the baptism of Christ, the first a panel from among the so-called Salerno ivories conserved in the Museo 71 72

Vatican, inv. 222 and 227 = Rep. I.22. Koch 2000, 615, classifies it as a forgery. Trier: Rheinisches Landesmuseum, inv.-Nr. G. 696; Ristow 2007, 426–27, cat. 494, plate 58d. Boulogne: Le Blant 1892, 58–61, illustrated at 59. 73 Sotiriou and Sotiriou 1956–58, 2.142–143 (no. 162 in vol. 1). 74 New York, Morgan M. 521r, second row, upper part of centre panel (1155–60). 75 London, BL Royal MS 2.B.VII, fol. 304v (1310–20). The hand could, arguably, belong to Jesus, given the account of Saul’s epiphany in Acts 22, but that would be no less unsettling.

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Figure 8

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Baptism of Christ. Ivory plaque Private collection. With kind permission

Diocesano of Salerno (Arkyves 51), and the other in a private collection, formerly owned by Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza (the “Thyssen plaque”) (fig. 8).76

76

Salerno: Bergman 1980, 66, 125 (no. 25), fig. 26; Bologna 2008, 352–54 (cat. 46, notice by Maria Teresa Tancredi). Private collection: Bergman 1980, 139–40, cat. 14, fig. 169; Bologna 2008, 258–59 (cat. 10, notice by Maria Cali and Ferdinando Bologna). The Bologna entries include updated bibliographies and excellent reproductions.

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The Salerno group has been conventionally dated circa 1084, although there is no hard evidence for the time, place, or purpose of their production. The other Baptism plaque must have been carved in the same period, perhaps slightly later than the one in Salerno.77 These two renditions of the scene present important formal differences, including a bearded versus beardless Christ, the treatment of the baptismal water, and the addition on the Thyssen plaque of the figures of Peter and Andrew. There are also important similarities, the most telling being the unusual motif of a circular object held in the dove’s beak, variously interpreted as a crown, wreath, or ring. The character of the relationship between the two plaques has been repeatedly and closely examined, but without remarking the divergence in their lateral presentation. For although the essential construction of the scene on both plaques is the same – John the Baptist is on the left side of the image opposite the angels on the right – two elements are reversed. One is a small detail: the bird’s head points towards John on one and towards the angels on the other. More striking (and more easily noticed) is the hand of God. It is a conventional right on the Salerno ivory and an anomalous left on the Thyssen plaque. This reversal of the divine hand was a startling innovation, all the more so if the carver actually knew the Salerno version, directly or more likely through a model-book. Sight of the “correct” hand of God should have forestalled errors attributable to perceptual confusion or production difficulties of the kinds considered below. The left-handed Baptism is also present in monumental mosaics, projects of considerable expense carried out under clerical authority and master supervision. God’s left hand is unmistakable, and disconcerting to an observer sensitive to such matters, in the scene as depicted at the Daphni Monastery near Athens, datable to late in the eleventh century (fig. 9).78 This mosaic is often compared with another not far away at Hosios Loukas, created early in the same century (fig. 10). Rather like the two ivories, the mosaics have been carefully studied for similarities and differences in iconography and style without reference to what in this case is a dramatic contradiction in their lateral organization.79 The compositions are almost mirror-images: the Baptist and the two angels exchange sides, Jesus consequently faces in opposite directions (in order to turn towards John), and the hand of God, a normal right at Hosios 77 78 79

Bergman 1980, 140, posits priority for Salerno. On the Daphni Baptism mosaic, see Diez and Demus 1931, especially at 57–60, illustrated plate XI. Most thoroughly by Diez and Demus (1931). They do not mention the reversal and I am not aware any other commentary that does.

The Hand of God

Figure 9

Baptism of Christ. Mosaic. Athens, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century) Author’s photograph

Figure 10 Baptism of Christ. Mosaic. Boeotia, Hosios Loukas Monastery (early eleventh century) Photograph: Hans A. Rosbach, CCA-SA license

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Loukas, becomes a left at Daphni. The consistent direction of the dove of the Holy Spirit seems to be the only constant. One complicating feature in this comparison is that the mosaics at Daphni have suffered many repairs, including a substantial resetting at the turn of the twentieth century that extended to the Baptism. When Gabriel Millet saw it before this intervention, he described the top portion as displaying only “the wrist of the hand, the head, and the red beak and wing of the dove.”80 An old black and white photograph in the archives of the British School at Athens confirms that the portion below the wrist was missing (Arkyves 52; difficult to read in the on-line photograph, slightly clearer in a high-resolution image).81 The restorers might have thought the preserved wrist was sufficient to determine that the hand was a left, or they may have made that decision themselves. Intriguingly, on the old photograph the bird’s head is turned to the viewer’s right, while on the restored mosaic it faces left. This detail could suggest that some lateral restructuring was indeed undertaken. If so, it was more likely by accident than design. If the left-handed God at Daphni is a restoration error, the conflict with Hosios Loukas disappears (although the perception and mentality of the restorers might warrant consideration). The originality of the Daphni left hand of God may, however, be suggested by a third Baptism mosaic, produced about a century later at the Cathedral of Monreale in Sicily.82 Characteristically Byzantine in style and iconography, it bears considerable resemblance to the version at Daphni, including with respect to its lateral organization. Here, too, the Baptist is on the left side, Andrew and John are behind him, with two angels on the right. And in Monreale, as at Daphni, God’s left hand presides over the event, although now the viewer sees the back of the hand instead of the palm. Substantial restorations have been recorded at Monreale as well, but this hand of God seems to be authentic.83 It could suggest that the divine sinistrality in the earlier mosaic at Daphni was, indeed, original. An intriguing additional clue is the appearance in this same program of a representation of the Entry into Jerusalem that, contrary to the norm, proceeds from right to left (see the Entry discussion in chapter 9). 80 Millet 1899, 154n4: “on voyait le poignet de la main, la tête, le bec rouge et l’aile de la colombe.” 81 Photo by Robert Weir Schultz and Sidney Howard Beasley, 1888–1890, British School of Athens archives ref. BRF/02/01/075. 82 Demus 1949, 275–76; Abulafia and Naro 2009, 161–62. 83 Demus 1949, 161n273; Andaloro and Naselli Flores 1986, 71–80.

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A generous and perplexing allotment of divine left hands appears in a set of eight miniatures accompanying the Beatitudes of Jesus (Mat. 5.3–10) in a late twelfth-century Rhenish prayer book in Munich, traditionally but tenuously linked to Hildegard of Bingen.84 The verso of each folio in this series depicts one of the scriptural benedictions in an upper register, always with a hand of God, and a parallel malediction, without any such hand, below. Latin captions at top and bottom identify the scenes (German-language versions were added on the facing pages somewhat later). The arrangement and presentation of these miniatures is similar to that in the roughly comparable Lilienfelder Prayer Book in Vienna. Here, too, the hand of God is incorporated into the imagery, appearing in six out of eight of the miniatures.85 But while all the divine hands in Vienna are rights, five out of eight in Munich are lefts (fig. 11, 12).86 If the images from Hildegard of Bingen’s prayer book are placed side-by-side in pairs, the combinations of lefts and rights might suggest the two-handed God motif spread across facing folios.87 The numbers do not quite work, of course, as there should then be four of each. More importantly, the pictures were all on versos. Users of the manuscript could only see one at a time. What might explain these various depictions of God’s left hand? Perhaps in a few cases, the rationale lies in a legend or doctrine no longer remembered, or an obscure local tradition. Yet it seems unlikely that a medieval image-maker would intentionally produce, and be instructed to produce, a left-handed God, particularly when it takes part in a sacred act like blessing Christ’s baptism. The more probable source of these left hands is artisanal error. This conjecture displaces but it does not eliminate the problem. Mistakes also have their reasons. Occasionally, other aspects of the representation suggest that the divine left hand was attributable to simple incompetence. On the left side of an elaborate sarcophagus in Ancona, Moses receives the Law with his right hand, as is usual, but it comes from God’s left (fig. 13).88

84 Munich, BSB Clm. 935, fol. 32v to 39v (last quarter, twelfth century); Klemm 1987. 85 Vienna, ÖNB, cod. 2739, fol. 19v–26v; hand of God on all but fol. 20v and 21v. Fol. 26v is not in double register. 86 Illustrations are fol. 32v (right) and 35v (left). Other right hands on fol. 34v and 38v; left hands on fol. 33v, 36v, 37v and 39v. All can be viewed in the digitized manuscript. 87 As they are reproduced in Schmitt 1990, 156–59. 88 Sarcophagus of Gorgonius, left side, Ancona, Museo Diocesano = Rep. II.149 (late forth century).

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Figure 11 Beatitudes (right hand of God). Prayer Book of Hildegard of Bingen. Munich, BSB Clm. 935, fol. 32v (last quarter, twelfth century)

The Hand of God

Figure 12 Beatitudes (left hand of God). Prayer Book of Hildegard of Bingen. Munich, BSB Clm. 935, fol. 35v (last quarter, twelfth century)

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Figure 13 Moses receiving the Law. Sarcophagus of Gorgonius, left side. Ancona, Museo Diocesano = Rep. II.149 (late fourth century) Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 60.1414 (Boehringer)

The same scene appears in a similar location on two other sarcophagi that share several characteristics with the chest in Ancona – all are lavishly carved on four sides and present the traditio legis iconography on the front.89 But only in Ancona does God use his left hand, and the scene as depicted here displays other peculiarities. Since Moses faces to his left, reaching up towards God, his right arm should cross his chest; instead, the raised arm looks to be his left, even though the hand attached to it is clearly his right. One might conclude that the execution of this figure was assigned to a less than fully accomplished carver. Stone-carving is a subtractive process, so mistakes are very costly to fix. The master (and the patron) may have decided that this problem on a short side did not warrant major lapidary surgery. Most images with a left hand of God are not so flawed; they reflect a quality of craftsmanship commensurate with comparable right-handed representations in the same medium. In some instances, the accidental reversal could be attributable to an age-old working practice by which right-handed artists use their own left hands as models or templates, a technique documented in 89

The others are Rep. II. 150 (Sant’Ambrogio, Milan) and Rep. III. 428 (Louvre).

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Aegean image-making and, indeed, since prehistoric times.90 On smaller and less expensive objects, like the Trier and Boulogne glass bowls, journeymen artisans operating under the pressure of time and inadequate supervision might have followed this approach without correction, thereby failing to produce a proper right hand. One would expect greater attention and oversight on more costly or significant projects, including the Thyssen Baptism plaque and especially the Daphni and Monreale mosaics. Furthermore, these monuments, when compared with similar representations (the Salerno ivory and the Hosios Loukas mosaic), reverse other elements as well, a subtle difference in the ivories, the beak of the dove, but fundamental in the mosaics. This also suggests that the left hand of God was not, in these cases, merely a template effect. A second potential source of human error is perceptual confusion. The capacity to distinguish the right hand from the left hand on a person confronting the observer develops during childhood. Young adults perform the task almost to perfection, although the error rate does rise somewhat later in life.91 Lateral identification of a disembodied hand is more challenging due to what psychologists call “mirror-image invariance,” a tendency not to distinguish images that are identical save for rotation through the vertical axis.92 This was once an adaptive trait, facilitating rapid identification of an object regardless of how it was presented, but it has proved inconvenient in an era of widespread literacy because letters are sometimes differentiated solely by their orientation. The best known and most thoroughly studied examples are the pairs “b/d” and “p/q” in the Latin alphabet. Most research on mirror-image invariance has focussed on the acquisition of reading skills, but researchers have also tested the recognition of other shapes, including hands. In these experiments, subjects are shown drawings of hands in various positions and asked to classify them as lefts or rights. Reaction time and error rate are found to be positively correlated with the angle of rotation.93 That is to say, individuals are best able to distinguish a right from a left hand when the stimulus image is displayed with the fingers facing up; they perform progressively less well as it is turned. One likely explanation is that observers respond to the task by imagining the movement of their own hands (mental rotation), which requires more time and effort for distant and awkward 90 91 92 93

Aegean representations: Immerwahr 2005. Early practice: Steele and Uomini 2005; Faurie and Raymond 2004. Ofte and Hugdahl, 2002; McManus 2002, 70–81. Gross and Bornstein 1978, 30–33; Gregory and McCloskey 2010. Parsons 1987, with references to earlier research.

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positions. Recent studies suggest that the relationship between reaction times and the angle of rotation is not linear; a sharp increase occurs somewhere near 180 degrees.94 This research is germane to images of the hand of God because a significant majority of the anomalous lefts (although not all) are upside down, precisely the position most likely to cause confusion. The error rate among medieval image-makers would, moreover, have been higher than for the undergraduate students who generally serve as research subjects because learning to read a language that uses mirror-image letters weakens the innate perceptual mechanism.95 Most medieval artisans were not fluently literate, and the modern research is almost entirely conducted in countries where its subjects read languages using the Latin alphabet. One further factor that could have exacerbated the error rate is distraction, which is known to impede right-left judgements.96 A monastic scriptorium may approach the experimental laboratory in quiet and decorum, but other workshops and sites were rather less conducive to concentration. Image-makers copying their own left hands or succumbing to mirrorimage invariance could account for a significant proportion of the modest number of isolated left hands of God. Reception is more problematic. Each representation was made once but viewed repeatedly. If any of the intended observers were perturbed by the divine left hand, they left no record of it. This evidentiary lacuna cannot justify a negative inference; it is not as if we have extant ekphrases of the relevant monuments in which to search for comments on the rendering of God’s hand. There is no way to know whether original viewers noticed the manual anomalies, and if they did, how they processed that information. As for modern observers, none of the isolated left hands discussed in this chapter are identified in standard catalogue entries or academic literature. 3

God in the Image of Man

The motif of the hand of God is so common that its significance may be overlooked: an invisible, ineffable, eternal, transcendental being was evoked through a baldly anthropomorphic device. God was represented in these 94 95 96

Brady, Maguinness and Ní Choisdealbha 2011. Literacy effect: Pegado et al. 2014. Latin alphabet versus other languages: Pederson 2003. On distraction and modern surgical error: McKinley, Dempster and Gormley 2015.

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images by a five-finger appendage that looked and functioned like a real human hand. The fact that it is almost always a right seems a straightforward consequence of religious doctrine and socio-cultural prejudice, with the few isolated lefts probably attributable to poor restoration, ambiguous rendition, incompetence, sloppy production practice, or perceptual error. Because of God’s presumptive right-handedness, a generic, schematic appendage would have sufficed to represent the motif: four oblong, parallel shapes with a fifth positioned obliquely, all attached to a roughly pentagonal base. Without any indication whether it represented the front or back, such a hand would be laterally indeterminate. But this is not what medieval imagemakers produced. They took care to specify the dextrality of the divine hand. Details like the delineation of nails, curl of the fingers, angle of the thumb, bend of the wrist, or position of a cuff or sleeve establish whether the back of the hand or the palm is facing out. Sometimes, God’s handedness cannot be determined as a result of poor conservation, diminutive size, or rapid and careless execution, but in most instances the isolated, disembodied hand is unambiguously his right. Picturing the hand of God at all seems a dangerous step on the slippery slope to divine corporeality and anthropomorphism; the decision to render it a faithful copy of the human right amounted to a significant further stride along that same path. Genesis 1:26–27 explicitly declares a morphological concordance between God and Adam, and references to divine body parts – mouth, feet, fingers, face, back, eyes, arms, and especially hands – pepper the Old Testament.97 The characterization of late antique Jews as uncompromising immaterialists is an anachronistic projection; texts of the Rabbinic period suggest instead nuanced and conflicting opinions regarding the form and physicality of God.98 Justin Martyr’s accusation that second-century Jews believed “that the Father of the universe, and God unbegotten, has hands and feet and fingers and soul like a compound living creature” was malevolent but not entirely outside the bounds of prevailing beliefs.99 The New Testament also refers to the divine hand, and the common description of Christ sitting at God’s right may imply a reference to the Father’s hand.100 John’s vision of a shimmering God as “one like the Son 97

Hand of God examples include Exod. 33:22, Dan. 5:5, Ezek. 8:3, 20:33, Isa. 41:10, 2 Macc. 7:31. Other parts: mouth (Num. 12:8), feet (Isa. 37:25), finger (Exod. 31:18), face (Exod. 33:20), back (Exod. 33:23), arm (Ezek. 20:33), eye (Ezek. 5:11). 98 Boyarin 1990; Costa 2010. 99 Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho, 114, trans. Arthur Lukyn Williams, at 236. 100 Hand of God: Acts 5:31, 7:25; 1 Pet. 5:6. Sitting at the right (hand) of God: see Introduction, note 20.

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of Man” includes the most ostentatious and extensive exhibition of scriptural anthropomorphism, with feet, breasts, head, hair, eyes, mouth, and a right hand (Revelation 1:13–16). Most early Christian theologians interpreted these references to God’s body as spiritual allegory or metaphor.101 Their repeated admonitions, however, confirm a lingering literalism among the faithful. Justin’s scorn in the passage quoted just above was aimed at a Christian, not a Jewish, audience. Origen was explicit: “We read in many passages of the divine Scripture that God speaks to men. For this reason the Jews indeed, but also some of our people, supposed that God should be understood as a man, that is, adorned with human members and human appearance.”102 Augustine bemoaned “the carnal and weak of our faith, who, when they hear the members of the body used figuratively, as, when God’s eyes or ears are spoken of, are accustomed, in the license of fancy, to picture God to themselves in human form.”103 In defending imagery against the iconoclasts, John Damascene (d. circa 750) argued that the biblical description of Christ sitting at the right of God was a metaphor, since “right hands and left hands belong to what is circumscribed.”104 These and many other sources imply that corporeal literalism was widespread.105 Debates regarding the character and extent of Christian anthropomorphism have centred on the writings of Church Fathers and medieval theologians. Sermons and apologies are parsed for interpretive strategies meant to guide believers away from what their authors regarded as error, even heresy. Extending the inquiry from words to images adds a new dimension. Pictures were more insistently anthropomorphic, and more broadly consumed. In a study mainly of Jewish idolatry, Moshe Halbertal and Avishai Margalit rhetorically asked, concerning the Pentateuch, “… why a linguistic description of God’s hand is permitted while a drawing of his hand is not.”106 But, of course, the drawing of his hand was permitted, or at least practiced, among Jews on occasion (notably at Dura), and unrestrainedly among Christians. Arguably, the detailed human form of the medieval pictured hand of God could be excused on the basis that it evoked the eternal and ever-present 101 102 103 104 105

For a modern representation of the argument, compare Sheridan 2015. “On the circumcision of Abraham,” Homilies on Genesis, trans. Ronald E. Heine, 89. Fund. 23 (CSEL 25, 219–20), trans. Richard Stothert (Writings against the Manichaeans, 119). John Damascene, Exposition of the Orthodox faith, 4.2, trans. S.D.F. Salmond. Paulsen 1995, 48–79; Griffin and Paulsen 2002. The argument for early Christian belief in “divine embodiment” is strongly (and plausibly) defended by theologians in the Mormon tradition. See also Stead 1994, 101–02. 106 Halbertal and Margalit 1992, 19. Maimonides was more strict, considering “that linguistic representations are as problematic as pictorial ones” (239).

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Christ-Logos, whose human nature during the period of his incarnation did have right and left hands, along with feet and other mortal apparatus. But while a theologian might contemplate such an explanation, it would have strained the capacities and opposed the inclinations of most viewers. And that rationalization cannot, in any event, apply to such representations as the Ascension and the Baptism. Here, a distinction between the first and second persons of the Trinity is inherent to the meaning of the image; the hand cannot belong to the incarnate Jesus. Specification of handedness through naturalistic (i.e. human) attributes like the curvature of fingers and the outlines of nails reinforced the anthropomorphic or embodied conception of God. Distinguishing between God’s right hand and his left rendered the scriptural proposition symmetrical: God created man in his own image, therefore God may be imagined in the image of man. The pictures belie the lessons of the theologians.

Chapter 3

Fighting and Writing Many manual activities are pictured in medieval art, from the everyday to the sacred. Shipwrights and carpenters, sculptors and painters, swordsmen and archers, scriveners and preachers, people eating or swearing oaths, men, women and children, saints and sinners, Jesus and even, as discussed in the preceding chapter, God himself – all are depicted using their hands. Right-handedness clearly dominates but while some acts, like blessing, are inevitably dextral, others admit the appearance of left-handers. Lateral conformity was probably exaggerated in pictorial representations for a variety of reasons, including reliance on pre-existing models, artisanal simplification, compositional convenience or convention, and cultural or religious factors that favoured the right hand over the left. Fighting and writing are the most oft-depicted actions in which a decision regarding handedness was unavoidable. The issues at stake were not the same, and a comparison of the solutions adopted by medieval image-makers highlights the shifting interaction between naturalism and cultural bias in picturing the right and left hands. 1

Handedness and Violence

Combat, and its peaceable emulation in athletics, often demands specialized use of the hands. Right-handers throw javelins with their right arms; they hold their swords in the right hand and sheath them on the left; they pull the strings of their bows with the stronger right arm, keeping a quiver of arrows available on that side. The pre-eminence of the martial right hand is a natural consequence of the dominant handedness, bolstered by practical considerations. Lateral uniformity presents efficiency advantages in military tactics and training. Battle techniques varied over the broad geography and long chronology of the Middle Ages, but the infantry phalanx and massed cavalry remained central elements. Both were facilitated by homogeneity in the manipulation of weaponry. Instruction regimens were simpler if left-handers were either excluded from the ranks or trained to favour the other hand.1 And 1 On handedness in medieval tactics and training: Bachrach and Bachrach 2017, 276–88, 314–22.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_005

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although most equipment was laterally neutral some items were designed for right-handers, like the lance rest on the right side of a horseman’s armoured breastplate.2 Accommodating a small minority of natural left-handers would increase the cost of war-making. Modern commentators on medieval warfare, to the extent they refer to handedness at all, routinely repeat the assumed exclusivity of the right.3 At the same time, left-handedness in battle conferred a potential advantage. The evolutionary conjecture known as the “fighting hypothesis” (see chapter 1) posits that early humans who fought with the left hand benefited precisely from their rarity. Whether or not that theory successfully explains the asymmetry and polymorphism in human handedness, something similar is observable in modern interactive sports. Studies of the over-representation of left-handed competitors suggest both an advantage from greater experience fighting righthanders (a difference that declines at the higher echelons, with more sophisticated training) and a negative frequency-dependent effect that maintains their proportion of the particular athletic population as a small minority.4 The lefthander advantage is not a recent discovery; it was exploited by early modern fencing masters.5 There is no reason to doubt that trainers in the Middle Ages did the same. Literary sources confirm the pre-eminence of the right in combat. Aeneas carries his shield with the left hand and thus wields his sword with the right (Virgil, Aeneid, x.261); the warriors of Magog hold their bows in the left and arrows in the right (Ezekiel 39:3). Procopius took right-handedness for granted in his encomium to archers: But the bowmen of the present time go into battle wearing corselets and fitted out with greaves which extend up to the knee. From the right side hang their arrows, from the other the sword. And there are some who have a spear also attached to them and, at the shoulders, a sort of small shield without a grip, such as to cover the region of the face and neck. They are expert horsemen, and are able without difficulty to direct their bows to either side while riding at full speed, and to shoot an opponent whether in pursuit or in flight. They draw the bowstring along by the forehead about opposite the right ear, thereby charging the arrow with such

2 3 4 5

On the lance-rest: Stone 199, 34, 410. For example, Rogers 2010, s.v. “Horsemanship,” “Shields,” and “Weapons.” Loffing and Hagemann 2016. Harris 2010; Harris 2016.

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an impetus as to kill whoever stands in the way, shield and corselet alike having no power to check its force.6 In less colourful but equally categorical passages Vegetius, author of an influential late fourth-century military manual, had prescribed the proper (right-) handedness of soldiers, highlighting the importance of this factor in the training of recruits.7 His advice was repeated by medieval commentators from Rabanus Maurus in the middle of the ninth century to Christine de Pizan early in the fifteenth.8 Yet, the use of the left hand was also recognized. Ambidexterity was the stuff of legend: the biblical Benjaminites “could shoot arrows and sling stones with either the right hand or the left” (1 Chronicles 12.2); in the Aeneid, Entellus strikes “now with his right hand, now with his left” (v. 457). Ehud cunningly exploited his sinistrality to achieve the element of surprise (Judges 3:15–21); 700 left-handed stone-slingers of uncanny accuracy were embedded among 26,000 Benjaminites (Judges 20:15–16).9 According to Dio Cassius, the Emperor Commodus boasted that he was the “only left-handed fighter to conquer twelve times (as I recall the number) one thousand men.”10 The report may be fanciful but it is consistent with epitaphs and graffiti which confirm that a few Roman gladiators fought with their left hands.11 There is almost no such documentary evidence for the continued use of the left hand in medieval combat. A fifteenth-century text on the use of the axe in battle devotes about one-third of its advice to the technical challenges a right-hander faces when battling with left-handed opponents, but earlier fighting manuals are silent on the matter.12 In the earliest illustrated guide to swordsmanship, dated to the first part of the fourteenth century, all the pictured figures – over 60 pairs demonstrating some technique or position – hold a sword in the right hand and a buckler in the left.13 This consistency may not, however, be meaningful since the combatants were probably meant to be two particular, if idealized, individuals.14 6 Procopius, Wars, 1.1.6–17, translation H.B. Dewing. 7 Vegetius, Epitoma rei militaris I.15.2, I.20.23. 8 Rabanus Maurus, De procinctv romanae miliciae VI and IX; Pizan 1999, 30, 31. On the reception of Vegetius in the Middle Ages, see Allmand 2011. 9 A theorization of the left-handedness of Ehud and the Benjaminites is proposed by Park 2015. 10 Cass. Dio 73.19.2, 73.22.3, translation by Earnest Cary. 11 Coleman 1996; Caron 2003; H. Wirth 2010, 223–25. 12 La Doctrine et l’industrie du noble jeu de la hache et la maniere de battaillier, fol. 7v–10r. 13 Leeds, Royal Armouries MS I.33; Forgeng 2018. 14 They are identified in each illustration as a priest and his student except on the last folio, where the student is replaced by a woman named Walpurgis.

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The antique visual record corroborates the existence of left-handed fighters, although the examples are not many. A Roman gem stone in Berlin seems to depict a pair of combatants both with weapons in their left hands but it was probably meant for making reverse impressions on which they would be converted to right-handers.15 In other cases, compositional constraints may have forced a shield into the right hand without the image-maker intending to depict a left-handed combatant. But a few secure examples can be found in graffiti and eroded reliefs, and most dramatically in elaborate floor mosaics at Augst, Switzerland (Arkyves 53) and Bad Kreuznach, Germany.16 Medieval imagery is more generous to left-handers. Pictures recording (or imagining) handedness in combat are abundant. Men (they were almost always men) are depicted wielding swords, daggers, shields, lances, bows, arrows, and other such warlike equipment. For massed armies or multiple soldiers acting in concert, simplicity favoured a homogenized laterality: Pharaoh’s troops all hold their weapons in the right hand in a wall painting at the Dura Europos Synagogue (Arkyves 10),17 as do the soldiers of Abraham’s army in rescue of Lot (Genesis 14:14–15) in a twelfth-thirteenth-century edition of Prudentius’s Psychomachia in the British Library (Arkyves 54).18 Two dozen Saxons, Jutes, Angles and fleeing Britons in an early twelfth-century English miniature in New York are uniformly right-handed (fig. 14).19 This convention was convenient but not universally followed. In representations of the twelve tribes of Israel surrounding the Tabernacle (Numbers 2), one or more of the groups or personifications may be presented as left-handed, like the Issachar specifically named in a ninth-century Christian Topography in the Vatican Library (Arkyves 55; right-handed in Arkyves 56).20 15 SMB, inv.-Nr. FG 7737, reproduced in Flecker 2015, 74 (fig. 11). Compare the impression conserved in Stendal, Winckelmann-Museum, inv. Nr. WG-G-1-7-Cl V,66 = Arachne ID 1229656. 16 Augst: Berger and Joos 1971, 25–28 (plate 3), 30–32 (plate 5). Bad Kreuznach: Parlasca 1959, plate 89.1 and 4; H. Wirth 2010, 227, fig. 19. Flecker 2015 also catalogues several lamps with left-handed gladiators: L3.a, L9, L12.a, L17, L19.a, L23, L33, some or all of which could be explained by use of a right-handed mould. 17 Dura: Weitzmann and Kessler 1990, 101. 18 Prudentius, Psychomachia, London, BL Cotton MS Titus D. XVI, fol. 2v (twelfth–thirteenth century). 19 Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund, New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 7v (c. 1130). 20 With left-handers: Topographia Christiana of Cosmas Indicopleustes, BAV, Vat. gr. 699, fol. 52r (ninth century). All right-handers: Octateuch, BAV, Vat. gr. 747, fol. 160v (eleventh century). Other examples: a left-handed personification of a tribe, unlabelled, in the Smyrna Octateuch, formerly Evangelical School of Smyrna, fol. 158r (twelfth century); three left-handed tribes in Sin.gr.1186, fol. 86v. See Kominko 2013, 127–30, 274 (fig. 38, 39, CT23a, 23b).

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Figure 14 Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and fleeing Britons. Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund, New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 7v (c. 1130). Purchased by J.P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1927

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In representations of smaller or less cohesive groups, and in individual combat, right-handedness remains dominant. The Israelite soldiers of Psalm 59, as well as their enemies, are all right-handed in the ninth-century Stuttgart Psalter (Arkyves 57);21 so are the dozen figures with swords and spears on a Byzantine ivory box in Paris, dated to the late tenth century (Arkyves 58).22 Even through the fog of war one can discern that David’s soldiers and the enemy Ammonites in a thirteenth-century pictured bible all share this same lateral persuasion (Arkyves 59).23 But the pre-eminence of the right in such images does not entirely exclude the occasional left-hander. Of a dozen swordsmen pictured in the battle against the Benjaminites in a Weltchronik, circa 1360, conserved in the Morgan Library, one (the one stabbing the hindquarters of a horse) holds his weapon in the left hand (Arkyves 60);24 a depiction of the Battle of Montecassino in a late twelfth-century copy of the Liber ad honorem Augusti by Peter of Eboli in the Burgerbibliothek, Bern, shows one of the five swordsmen as left-handed.25 The eleventh-century Bayeux Tapestry, with more than 150 armed figures, provides a kind of statistical test of represented handedness. About half a dozen, or four per cent, hold their sword, ax, or lance in the left hand (e.g. Arkyves 61, 62).26 Occasionally, aesthetic design entails a balance between left and right, as on a Romanesque double capital in Madrid where two warriors are depicted symmetrically holding their swords in opposite hands (Arkyves 63).27 A complete survey of the handedness of fighters in medieval representations would be a Herculean and unrewarding task. There is no reason to suppose such an inventory would reliably evidence the factual proportions of right- and left-handed combatants or reveal any consistent practice in the depiction of handedness. It suffices to observe that left-handed fighters are neither common nor specially avoided, probably reflecting the situation in fact. In some battle images, left-handers are relegated to the losing side.28 This could be a 21 Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Cod.Bibl.fol.23, fol. 71v (first half, ninth century). 22 Paris, Musée de Cluny, inv. Cl. 13075 (fourth quarter, tenth century). 23 Battle with the Ammonites, Picture bible, New York, Morgan M.638, fol. 41r (c. 1244–54). 24 Heinrich von München, Weltchronik, New York, Morgan M.769, fol. 152v. 25 Burgerbibliothek Bern, Cod. 120.II, fol. 130r. 26 Bayeux, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux. Weapons are wielded with the left hand on panels 6, 19, 50, 52 and 56; images in Bouet and Neveux 2013. A panoramic view is available at www.hs-augsburg.de/~harsch/Chronologia/Lspost11/Bayeux/bay_tama.html. The web illustration here is from a Victorian copy housed in the Reading Museum. 27 Double capital with human figures and basilisks. Museo Arqueológico Nacional, inv. 50174 (twelfth century). 28 E.g. the Liber ad honorem Augusti in note 25 above; Bayeux Tapestry, panel 36.

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random coincidence, but it might also intimate a purposeful distinction made by these particular designers. There is more evidence of a pattern in distinguishing left- from righthandedness in depictions of biblical or legendary violence. Such images usually expressed a spiritual, didactic, or theological message, and greater attention was paid to handedness. Good deeds, for example, are always executed with the right hand. Jesus does not perform miracles with his left (Arkyves 1).29 When dragons are skewered by him, saints, archangels, or ordinary mortals, the weapon is always held with the right (Arkyves 64, 65, 66, 67, 68).30 Biblical heroes are inevitably recollected as right-handed: Solomon with a lance on a late antique seal amulet in the Benaki Museum of Athens (Arkyves 69);31 Saul fighting the Amalekites (1 Samuel 15.1–9) in a ninth-century Greek manuscript of John Damascene’s Parallela sacra in the Bibliothèque nationale de France (fig. 15).32 Even – or perhaps especially – God reveals a dextral preference in combat, when his disembodied right hand smites the sinner with a lance (Psalm 55.19– 23) in the Stuttgart Psalter (Arkyves 70).33 Only very rarely is a martial hero of the faith represented as left-handed. Among fifteen warrior saints decorating the walls of the monastery church of Dečani (Kosovo), St Georgius is depicted twice with a sword in his left hand, an unusual choice that might reflect some local tradition regarding his handedness, or a quirk of the artist.34 In acts of benevolent bloodshed, the right hand is clearly and substantially privileged. Left-handers are better represented in evil deeds of violence, but because of the real-life dominance of the right hand the effect is subtle. The negative value of an act does not automatically or even normally demand a left-handed agent. Christian martyrs in great numbers are pictured being murdered by right-handed assassins. St Thomas Becket always seems to succumb to such killers on Limoges reliquaries, like one made circa 1180–90 and conserved in

29

Andrews Diptych. London, V&A, inv. A.47&A-1926 (early ninth century; sometimes considered late antique, it may have been recurved from an earlier piece). 30 The examples are: Stuttgart Psalter, Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl. fol.23, fol. 107v (ninth century); Queen Mary Psalter, London, BL Royal 2.B.VII, fol. 163r; Breviary, New York, Morgan M.75, fol. 501v (c. 1350); Tiberius Psalter, London, BL Cotton MS Tiberius C.VI, fol. 16r; Paris, BnF NAF 16251, fol. 55v (1285). 31 Athens, Benaki Museum no. 13539 (dated to the fifth or sixth century). 32 Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 329r (ninth century). 33 Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl.fol.23, fol. 67r; see also fol. 87r, 93v, 147r. 34 Đjurić and Babić 1995, fig. 2 and 13, after page 624. If two archers (in fig. 4 and 5) are also left-handers, inferring from the position of a quiver and the holding of a bow, this would militate in favour of an artistic peculiarity.

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Figure 15 Saul fighting the Amalekites. John Damascene, Parallela sacra. Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 329r (ninth century) © BnF

the Victoria & Albert Museum (Arkyves 71);35 Pope John I is felled by a righthander on a thirteenth-century embroidered cope;36 and several relief carvings at the fourteenth-century Holy Cross Minster at Schwäbisch Gmünd depict saintly figures suffering a similar fate sealed by the right hands of their tormentors.37 Innocent babes are routinely massacred by Herod’s right-handed soldiers (Arkyves 72, 73).38 The Menalogian of Basil II, a Greek manuscript dated 35 36 37 38

E.g. V&A M.66-1997, with three right-handed assassins (c. 1180–90). Morris 1905. Pinkus 2013, fig. 4, 5, 6, 8 and 9. E.g. Codex Egberti, Trier, Stadtbibliothek Hs 24, fol. 15v (dated c. 983); The Berthold Sacramentary, New York, Morgan M.710, fol. 18r (c. 1215–17); London, BL Cotton MS Caligula A/VII.I, fol. 74 (third quarter, twelfth century).

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976–1025 in the Vatican Library, includes hundreds of miniatures portraying the execution of martyrs by one, two, or three attackers; where the killer holds his weapon in one hand, it is generally the right, although there are a couple of exceptions.39 Nonetheless, left-handers are over-represented among “bad” perpetrators of violence as compared to their near complete absence among the “good” ones. The Queen Mary Psalter, an early fourteenth-century English manuscript in the British Library, depicts some thirty scenes of martyrdom with executioners using a single hand in bas-de-page miniatures; about one-quarter of the killers use their lefts (e.g. Arkyves 74).40 In one thirteenth-century Syriac miniature, one out of three of the pagans stoning St Stephen is left-handed; in another, it is one out of six (Arkyves 75).41 A Limoges enamel reliquary depicts one leftand one right-handed swordsman executing the Massacre of the Innocents, albeit perhaps influenced by a desire for symmetry (Arkyves 5).42 And the left hand is more in evidence than the right in the torment of St Julitta as pictured on a twelfth-century painted wooden panel in Barcelona.43 Each of these examples is particular to its time and place; no precise statistical inference is warranted or suggested. But such images do indicate that left-handers were more commonly imagined as executioners of Christian martyrs or innocent children than as heroic dragon-slayers. The sinister character of an act may be emphasized by the sinistrality of the hand that accomplishes it. The high-water mark of depicted evil is the Antichrist. While he and his fellows may use the right hand to execute their missions and their victims (Arkyves 76, 77),44 in many representations this laterality is reversed: left-handed troops of the Antichrist assault the virtuous of Jerusalem in a tenth-century Beatus manuscript in New York (Arkyves 78);45 he and his knights grasp their swords in the left hand as they supervise the attack on a church in a thirteenth-century bilingual Latin-French Apocalypse in London

39 Menalogian of Basil II, BAV, Vat. Gr. 1613 (dated 976–1025). Left-handed executioners at pp. 70, 130. 40 Queen Mary Psalter London, BL Royal MS 2.B.VII (1310–20). These miniatures appear starting at fol. 254r. The web illustration is the killing of Tiburtius, on fol. 262r. 41 Syriac Gospel Lectionary, London, BL Add MS 7170, fol. 26r (c. 1220); BAV, Vat.sir. 559, fol. 20v (1219–20). Both are reproduced in Leroy 1964, fig. 78.1 and 78.2. 42 Chasse des Saints Innocents, Louvre OA 10406 (dated c. 1190–1210). 43 Antependium with martyrdom of St Julitta and St Quiricus, Museu Nacional d’Arte de Catalunya, inv. 15809 (early twelfth century); Metropolitan Museum of Art 1993, 325, cat. 170 (notice by Karl F. Schuler). 44 E.g. Sarum Apocalypse, Paris, BnF français 403, fol. 17v (1240–50); Beatus, London, BL Add MS 11695, fol. 143r. 45 New York, Morgan M.644, fol. 215v (c. 940–45).

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Figure 16 Murder of Enoch and Elijah. Ci nous dit. Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Château, 27, fol. 222r (c. 1320) Photograph by René-Gabriel Ojéda, Musée Condé, Chantilly, France © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY

(Arkyves 79);46 and the Antichrist gestures with his left hand to instruct his lefthanded minion to murder Enoch and Elijah in the early fourteenth-century text known as Ci nous dit in Chantilly (fig. 16).47 Satan, too, may be depicted as left-handed as against the righteousness of the right. In unarmed combat, Christ and his tempter raise, respectively, their right and left hands against one another in the lower frame of a miniature in Freiburg im Breisgau (Arkyves 80).48 Evoking the medieval typology in which David’s defeat of Goliath represented Christ’s battle with the devil, the hero is sometimes contrasted with the giant by right- and left-handedness, as in the eleventh-century Tiberius Psalter in London (Arkyves 81).49 46 Abington Apocalypse, London, BL Add MS 42555, fol. 72r (third quarter, thirteenth century). Compare another Beatus miniature in which handedness distinguishes the Antichrist from his henchman: he murders with the left hand, they with the right: Cathedral Archive, Burgo di Osma, Spain, Cod. 1, fol. 114r. 47 Ci nous dit, Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Château MS 27, fol. 222r (c. 1320); chapter 781.6, ed. Blangez 1979–86, 2.250: “Et de sa [the Antichrist’s] puissance les fera meitre a mort” (and by [the Antichrist’s] power he will put them to death). 48 Psalter, Freiburg im Breisgau, Universitätsbibliothek, Hs 24, fol. 13r (c. 1200). 49 Tiberius Psalter, London, BL, Cotton MS Tiberius C.VI, fol. 8v and 9r (third quarter, eleventh century). On the typology and these miniatures, see Openshaw 1989, 15–17, pl. 6(b) and (c).

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This is not to say that Satanic figures are always or even mainly left-handed, and the significance of the devil’s handedness, if any, may be uncertain. Two adjacent Romanesque capitals in the church of Saint-Pierre-les-Églises at Chauvigny (Vienne) challenge the modern (and perhaps the medieval) observer.50 On one, a demonic right hand terminates the tail of a winged lion with clawed feet, rising above its body. One meter away – to its right as seen by the celebrant – the right hand of God points to the Christ child on his mother’s knee in the Adoration of the Magi. The two hands seem to communicate some obscure message. Wolfram von den Steinen wondered whether the sculptor who conceived this unusual double image might have been a closet Albigensian, coyly seeking to promote that sect’s heretical dualism. He did not remark that both hands are rights, a fact which could support his interpretation of the two representations as a struggle between two great and nearequal powers. In sum, images of fighting and violence may be divided into two broad categories. For ordinary scenes of combat image-makers, like the armies and disputants themselves, treated right-handedness as the default with an occasional left-hander added, whether for compositional convenience or in a nod to naturalism. Representations with an overriding moral or spiritual significance were more likely to engage the cultural and theological differentiation between right and left. Violence in the name of the good is almost always accomplished with the right hand, while left-handed bad actors, albeit still in the minority, are more common than would be expected. It is not always clear in any specific instance that the depiction of reprehensible violence accomplished with the left hand was intentionally symbolic; the inference is robust in representations of the Antichrist, less so in the torture and execution of martyrs. But the greater frequency of left-handers among evil-doers than among saints and heroes suggests that the choice of handedness often had a purpose. 2

Handedness and the Scribe

Like fighters, the writers pictured in medieval art may be contemporary, historical, legendary, or scriptural (the last three categories not being mutually exclusive). Some representations are “portraits”; that is, they evoke specific individuals. Others refer generically to a function or position. A common element is the choice of laterality: with very few exceptions, the depicted writers 50

Von den Steinen 1965, 1.200–01, illustrated as 2.274b.

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are unmistakeably right-handed. The dextral consistency for writers is noticeably greater than it is for fighters. The image-makers were surrounded by right-handed scriveners and scribes. Writing was an important activity, as demonstrated by the enormous quantity of private, official, and religious documentation preserved from the Middle Ages, including charters, deeds, donations, accounts, laws, decrees, legal pleadings, correspondence, monastic rules, papal bulls, and an abundance of books, mostly in support of Christian belief and practice (bibles and extracts therefrom, volumes for private devotion or the conduct of liturgy, theological treatises). A few books were made for the use of Jews and Muslims; many more were copies of ancient classics, “modern” literature, or scientific tracts.51 Almost all this writing must have been accomplished with the right hand. As remarked in chapter 1, when cultural constraints are imposed on handedness, they are especially likely to apply to this particular manual activity.52 Two additional factors would have fostered dextral scribal dominance in the Middle Ages: the small number of writers and the tight control of scribal instruction. The nature and extent of medieval literacy, the evolution in this skill over time, and its regional variations have generated a substantial scholarly bibliography. It is generally accepted that while various social groups possessed a basic reading ability, fluency was restricted. Subject to significant regional and chronological variations, most religious could be classed as at least moderately literate, but no more than a quarter of the laity, and in most times and places, far less than that.53 Fewer could write than read, and high-status individuals often preferred to delegate such a mundane task. Those with scribal skills who actually produced books, the kinds of individuals depicted in images, were a smallish subset of the cohort classed as literate. Training of these scribes was less systematic and rigorous in the early centuries but during and after the Carolingian period, it was mostly provided within well-organized monastic scriptoria. Aristocrats were privately tutored, and clerks, parish priests, imperial and other administrators, private or official secretaries, scholars in universities, and professional scriveners – an occupation that emerged especially in the late Middle Ages but is recorded much earlier – all learned the trade from qualified masters.54 Modern school systems and parental preferences in societies where left-handed writing is 51 Medieval books and documents: Putnam 1962; Parkes 2008, 1–53. Examples of scribal practice in Postles 2000; Rouse and Rouse 2000. 52 See chapter 1, notes 4 and 5. 53 See, for example: Bäuml 1980; Graff 1987, 34–106; Petrucci and Romeo 1992. 54 On training of scribe and its evolution during the Middle Ages: Petrucci 1986; Gullick 1995.

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severely constrained cannot be more powerful in channeling laterality than the institutions of medieval training. Evidence of left-handed writers is rare. As for fighters, there are more documentary references in antiquity than in the Middle Ages. On a tablet from Vindolanda, a settlement at the frontier of Roman Britain (modern Northumberland), the text of a commercial letter written circa 100 AD is laid out in columns running from right to left, strongly suggesting the contrarian handedness of its author.55 Suetonius claimed that Tiberius’s left hand was more nimble and stronger than his right (sinistra manu agiliore ac validiore), from which one might infer that this was his writing hand.56 There are no equivalent documentary records from the Middle Ages. Pierre-Michel Bertrand called this period a “Golden Age” for left-handers, including writers, but his evidence is limited to one late fifteenth-century colophon and a negative inference drawn from the absence of any comment on handedness in otherwise prescriptive earlier manuals of scribal instruction.57 In a few other colophons the scribe outs himself with a direct reference to the manu sinistra, but none is earlier than the middle of the fifteenth century.58 The visual record is no less uniformly dextral than the textual. Medieval image-makers would not have found many models for writers among antiquities, but those they saw depicted right-handers, like the census taker at the far left on the late second-century BC Domitius Ahenobarbus relief from Rome, now in the Musée du Louvre (Arkyves 82);59 two women – the wife of one Terentius Neo and the so-called Sappho – delicately touching their pens to their mouths in wall paintings from Pompeii in the Naples Archaeological Museum (Arkyves 83);60 and a seated figure recording the words of the deceased on a fourthcentury AD funerary monument in Thessaloniki (Arkyves 84).61 Representation of medieval scribal activity are far more plentiful. Secular writing was not a common subject, but the examples conform to the right-handed model: a diptych 55

Vindolanda tablet 343; Bowman 1998, 86. Text and commentary reproduced in Vindolanda Tablets Online, http://vindolanda.csad.ox.ac.uk/TVII-343. 56 Suetonius, Tiberius, 68.1. 57 Bertrand 2008, 123–37; on scribes, 132, 182–83. 58 E.g. Ovid, Arte Amandi, London, BL, Add MS 17300, fol. 1 (dated 1461); Historia romana, Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève, MS 0775, fol. 287 (dated 1471). These and other examples are cited by Parkes 2008, 62–63. 59 Paris, Louvre, MNC 1786. 60 Naples, Museo archeologico nazionale di Napoli, inv. 9084 and 9058 (55–79 AD). 61 Thessaloniki, Archaeological Museum, inv. 10105 (= Arachne ID1135458); Despinis, Stefanidou-Tiveriou and Voutiras 1997, 163–64, cat. 132, fig. 330. Examples among Roman sarcophagi in Ewald 1999, plates 22, 44.1.

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produced circa 400, reused as book covers for a hagiography 1,000 years later, showing two secretaries of the Roman vicarius Rufius Probianus applying styluses to multi-leaved wax tablets (Arkyves 85);62 Dante at work within an historiated initial opening his Divina commedia in a manuscript produced in Florence shortly after his death, conserved in the Morgan Library (Arkyves 86);63 the clerk of Siena preparing the communal accounts on a fourteenthcentury book cover in the Metropolitan Museum (Arkyves 87).64 Right-handed monastic scribes copying Christian texts dominate the repertoire of pictured writers across media. They often appear in manuscripts, like the Evangelistary of Henry III in Bremen, a product of the Echternach Abbey scriptorium from around 1043, and the thirteenth-century vernacular Bible de Saint-Jean d’Acre, conserved in the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris (Arkyves 88);65 in frescos, as in San Francesco, Assisi;66 even cast in brass riding a dragon on a mid-twelfth-century sculpture from Magdeburg in New York (Arkyves 89).67 Almost all these figures are men. It is impossible to determine whether the paucity of women roughly indicates their actual participation in scribal activity, underestimates their presence, or perhaps exaggerates it, reflecting female authorship and ownership rather than occupation.68 Did a woman really direct a scriptorium of monks, as depicted in an early fifteenthcentury copy of Christine de Pizan’s L’Epistre Othea (Arkyves 90), or was she rather the patron?69 But whether male or female, all these writers (with one notable exception discussed below) are right-handed. Even animals conform. A fabulous wolf uses his right paw as he is taught to write (the letters “ABC” are carved above) by a disciplinary monk – holding a switch in his right hand – on an early thirteenth-century portal frieze at Freiburg im Breisgau (fig. 17).70 The pictured scribe is usually a generic type, but a few representations suggest a specific individual. At the Abbey of Weissenau late in the twelfth century, 62 Diptych of Rufius Probaianus (c. 400), Book cover of Vita Sancti Liudgeri, SBBerlin Ms. theol. lat. fol. 323 (1378). 63 New York, Morgan M.289, fol. 1r (1330–37). 64 New York, Met, inv. 10.203.3 (1343). 65 Evangelistary of Henry III, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Bremen, MS b.21, fol. 124v (c. 1043); Bible de Saint-Jean d’Acre, Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal Ms. 5211, fol. 2r (1250–54). 66 San Francesco, upper church, so-called Volta dei Dottori (1280–99); full and detail illustrations in Ruf 2004, 313–15. 67 New York, Met, inv. 1982.60.396 (mid-twelfth century). 68 On women as scribes: L. Smith 1997, Graf 2000. 69 Paris, BnF français 606, fol. 15r (1400–10). 70 Portal frieze, Freiburg im Breisgau, Münster Unserer Lieben Frau, Nikolaus-Kapelle (1200–24); Zanichelli 2014, 45–46, her fig. 2.

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Figure 17 “Wolfschule.” Portal frieze. Freiburg im Breisgau, Münster Unserer Lieben Frau, Nikolaus-Kapelle (1200–24) © Florian Monheim / Bildarchiv Monheim GmbH

a monk called Rufillus painted himself within a decorated initial in a copy of St Ambrose’s Hexameron, now in Amiens, pen in his right hand and erasing knife in his left.71 The eponymous scribe of the Eadwine Psalter in Cambridge drew himself in a similar pose and equipped with the same implements in a luxurious, full-page miniature within a framing inscription trumpeting his fame as the prince of scribes, scriptorum princeps (Arkyves 91).72 A more modest self-portrait appears at the bottom right-hand corner of the last page of another English manuscript, a copy of St Jerome’s Commentary on Isaiah produced perhaps 50 years earlier than Eadwine’s psalter (fig. 18; Arkyves 92).73 A tonsured monk sits beneath an arch, grasping a penknife with one hand and dipping a pen into an ink-horn with the other. With unassuming directness Hugo the painter, Hugo Pictor, records his contribution to the manuscript as “the painter and illuminator of this work.”74 The description seems to be accurate, for Hugo was not only one of the illuminators, responsible for this

71 Amiens, Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole, Ambrose, Hexameron, Lescalopier 30, fol. 29v (late twelfth century). He also drew himself painting a decorated initial, again with his right hand, in another manuscript: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana (Fondation Martin Bodmer), Cologny, Geneva, Cod. Bodmer 127. On these self-portraits: Kwakkel 2018. 72 Eadwine Psalter, Trinity College, Cambridge MS R.17.1, fol. 283v (c. 1150). 73 Oxford, Bodleian MS. Bodl. 717, fol. 287v (late eleventh century). See, generally, Pächt 1950. 74 The superposed inscription reads: imago pictoris & illuminatoris huius operis.

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colophon portrait along with some of its other miniatures, but also one of the scribes.75 Unlike Rufillus and Eadwine, however, Hugo holds the knife in his right hand and the pen in his left. It would be anachronistic to ascribe modern conceptions of portraiture, and even more so self-portraiture, to Hugo’s drawing.76 Nonetheless, it is hard not to see in it the miniaturist’s bold confession of his unusual and unorthodox handedness. This is how Richard Gameson understood the image but Christopher de Hamel has resisted, positing instead two alternative interpretations meant to preserve an orthodox right-handedness.77 The first is that Hugo, rather like Renaissance and later painters, produced his likeness by looking in a mirror without correcting the reversal in his handedness. De Hamel did not press the point with much enthusiasm, and it is an unlikely hypothesis. If medieval artisans used mirrors in this way at all, these would have been small metal hand mirrors, not large glasses reflecting the entire upper body and the critical hand. The earliest pictorial evidence of this technique is found three hundred years later, in two French translations of Bocaccio’s De Claris mulieribus from the first years of the fifteenth century, both conserved in the Bibliothèque nationale de France. In each case, a woman regards a small mirror as she paints her own portrait (Arkyves 93, 94).78 The right hand with which she is seen to be painting is not included in the panels represented in the image. As for the mirrors, in one of the miniatures it is a blank sheen; in the other it captures the artist’s face, but not her hand. De Hamel’s other argument for a right-handed Hugo supposes that the penknife is being used to rule lines on the parchment, and that once he has completed this task, Hugo will put it down and transfer the pen he is inking with his left hand back to his right. It is true that the knife had several uses.79 Its original function was to sharpen the point of the pen, although this is only occasionally depicted (Arkyves 95, 96).80 When the knife appears in a representation of the scribe at work, it is almost always held in the left hand with a pen in the right. Commonly, both knife and pen are pressed against the parchment, suggesting that the knife was being held ready to erase mistakes or used to avoid smudging by stabilizing and flattening the page. This is how Rufillus and 75 76 77 78 79 80

Pächt 1950; Gameson 2001; De Hamel 2017, 232–79. On medieval “portraits,” see Perkinson 2007; Wright 2000. Gameson 2001, 123; De Hamel 2017, 276. Bocaccio, Des cleres et nobles femmes, Paris, BnF français 12420, fol. 101v, and français 598, fol. 100v. On scribal use of the pen-knife, see Clemens and Graham 2007, 18; De Hamel 2017, 278. Ambrosius of Milan, Opera varia, SBBamberg Msc. Patr. 5, fol. 1v, upper left roundel (middle twelfth century); Legner 1985, 218–20 (illustrated at 219). Pliny, Naturalis historiae, Le Mans, Bibliothèque municipale Ms. 263, fol. 10v (middle twelfth century).

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Figure 18 Self-portrait of Hugo Pictor (detail of colophon). Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, Bodleian, Bodl. 717, fol. 287v (late eleventh century) © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

Figure 19 St Jerome writing (detail). Jerome, Commentary on Isaiah. Oxford, Bodleian, Bodl. 717, fol. vi verso (late eleventh century) © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

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Eadwine depicted themselves. Hugo’s self-portrait seems to fix on the moment just before. He fills his pen with ink, about to write on the folio held down by the knife. The pen-knife could, as De Hamel suggested, be used to rule the page. One might imagine that a right-handed monk could prefer to use his dominant hand for both ruling and writing, but there are several reasons to doubt that this is what Hugo meant to depict. First, there is the fact that he pictures himself inking his pen with the left hand. A right-handed scribe would presumably finish ruling, put down the knife, then take up the pen and ink it with the right hand. Ruling with the dominant hand and inking at the same time with the other would require considerable manual control. It is at least awkward, potentially hazardous. Second, if Hugo is meant to be right-handed, then by parity of reasoning the many scribes depicted holding a knife in the left hand and a pen in the right should be left-handed. The particular form of representation adopted by Hugo – inking the pen with one hand while pressing the knife onto the open book with the other – is found in many other images, but always with the pen in the right and the knife in the left. The monk in the lower portion of the initial B at the opening of the first psalm in the Werden Psalter in Berlin, probably another self-representation, is almost the exact mirror image of Hugo (Arkyves 97).81 So, as will be discussed below, is St Jerome in Hugo’s own portrait of him in this very same manuscript (fig. 19). Hugo was, therefore, explicit regarding his left-handedness. Yet he was discreet and original in its revelation. The self-portrait is a diminutive drawing inserted unobtrusively at the bottom of the last page of the manuscript (full page at Arkyves 92). Its presentation exhibits a certain semiotic panache: words declare him to be a painter and a picture shows him writing. Reference was made above to a few other scribes who also proclaimed their left-handedness in colophons, but these declarations are much later, and unillustrated. Hugo’s precocious, audacious, and idiosyncratic self-representation is, and conceivably actually was, a unicum, although he cannot have been completely alone in his left-handedness. It may not have been encouraged but it must have been tolerated, at least in this scriptorium at this time, in order that he should have learned and exercised his craft without forced hand-switching. Perhaps other left-handers might be discovered through a painstaking study of medieval calligraphy, searching for instances of characteristic letter formation.82 No doubt writing with the left hand was unusual, but probably less so than its depiction. 81 82

Berlin, SBBerlin Ms Theol. Lat. fol. 358, fol. 2r (1030–50); Prochno 1929, cat. 80. On peculiarities of left-handed letter formation in late fifteenth-century manuscripts, see Garand 1982.

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The near complete uniformity in picturing contemporary scribes as righthanded resulted from a confluence of factors: the overwhelming dominance of the right hand in the actual practice of writing, a certain rote simplification in constructing the images, and a concession to the generally understood moral inferiority of the left hand. Like many other minority traits throughout history, left-handed writing was marginally acceptable in practice but kept in the shadows of visual culture. This dextral dominance in portraying contemporary writers was rigorously projected onto historical figures, especially venerable theologians like Augustine (Arkyves 98, 99),83 Jerome (fig. 19; Arkyves 100, 101),84 John Chrysostom,85 and John of Damascus (Arkyves 102).86 Gregory the Great and Pope Gelasius are both right-handedness in the Fulda Sacramentary in Göttingen, made circa 975;87 Gregory is accompanied by three other scribes, all writing with their right hands, on a tenth-century ivory plaque in Vienna (fig. 20).88 The same rule applied to Old Testament prophets. David’s right hand often writes or reads the Psalms (Arkyves 103, 104);89 in three psalters in Munich, produced over the course of four centuries, he plays his harp as inspiration to four right-handed copyists (Arkyves 105, 106, 107).90 With a right hand Moses records the Law (Arkyves 108, 109),91 Isaiah his prophecies (Arkyves 110, 111),92 and Zachariah the name of John the Baptist (Arkyves 112, 113).93 Dextral orthodoxy for saintly figures was the rule adopted by Hugo Pictor himself. He did not project his own left-handedness on to the author of the text he had copied: in two miniatures, one a virtual mirror image of the self-portrait, Jerome holds his pen in the expected right hand (fig. 19,

83 Paris, BnF latin 1987, fol. 43r (1100–20); Vat lat. 8541, fol. 75r, p. 76 (c. 1330). 84 New York, Morgan M.193, fol. 1r (1250–1300); Hillinus-Codex, Cologne, Erzbischöfliche Diözesan- und Dombibliothek, Cod. 12, fol. 4v (c. 1110–20). 85 Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana A. 172 sup., fol. 263v (twelfth century). 86 Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 238r (ninth century). 87 Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Göttingen 2o Cod. theol. 231, fol. 1v (c. 975); Prochno 1929, cat. 82. 88 Vienna, KHM Kunstkammer 8399 (late tenth century). 89 Corbie Psalter, Bibliothèque d’Amiens métropole, Ms. 18, fol. 1v (ninth century); Utrecht Psalter, Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht Hs 32, fol. 1v (c. 820–25). 90 Munich, BSB Clm. 343, fol. 12v (last quarter, ninth century); Clm. 7355, fol. 5v (first quarter, eleventh century); Clm. 835, fol. 148v (first quarter, thirteenth century). 91 BL Cotton MS Claudius B IV, fol. 100r (eleventh–twelfth century); BAV, Vat. gr. 747, fol. 210r (eleventh century). 92 Lothian Bible, New York, Morgan M.791, fol. 205v (c. 1220); Bible Historiale, New York, Morgan M.323 II, fol. 79v (c. 1325). 93 Deodato Orlandi, wing of a triptych, Berlin, Gemäldegalerie, inv. 1041 (c. 1300); Holkham Bible Picture Book, BL Add MS 47682, fol. 18v (1327–35).

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Figure 20 Gregory the Great writing with three scribes. Ivory plaque. Vienna, KHM Kunstkammer 8399 (late tenth century) © KHM-Museumsverband

Arkyves 114).94 Hugo had no reason to imagine that the church Father shared his own unusual handedness; furthermore, the character of the saint and his 94 Oxford, Bodleian MS. Bodl. 717, fol. vi recto, vi verso. De Hamel (2017, 278) remarks the striking similarity of Hugo’s self-portrait and the first of these representations of Jerome, but does not comment on the change of handedness.

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text demanded a right hand: Jerome was divinely inspired; Isaiah was the mouthpiece of God. The self-portrait of a left-handed monastic scribe was extraordinary but comprehensible as a matter of self-representation; however, Hugo was not so unconventional as to impose this trait on Jerome. Whether daring or careless, a few other medieval illuminators and painters did represent holy writers as left-handed. A challenging example is the depiction of the Princes of the Apostles in the Codex Ebnerianus, a Greek New Testament from twelfth-century Constantinople, now in Oxford. Perhaps unique in its genre, this manuscript supplements the usual Evangelist portraits with representations of Peter and Paul writing their canonical letters. Peter inks his pen as he begins his first epistle (fig. 21); thirty folios later, Paul does the same to write his letter to the Romans (fig. 22).95 But while Paul holds his quill in the customary right hand (as do two of the pictured Evangelists – the others are not writing), Peter’s is in his left. Hugo depicted himself holding the pen with the left hand because that is how he actually wrote. Was the Ebnerianus illuminator alleging that Peter was lefthanded? Such a subversive claim would find no support in literary or popular tradition. The only reference to laterality in the epistle he is seen to be writing is dextral, an allusion to Christ at the right hand of God (1 Peter 3.22). Handedness could not have been a device to distinguish the two figures; physiognomies, beards, and hair colour are complemented by tituli. If the illuminator had no purpose in contrasting left- and right-handed apostles, the representation of Peter seems a shocking lapse. One can only guess what early readers made of this eccentricity. It has attracted no comment from modern observers.96 The Codex Ebnerianus is an outlier because its left-handed subject is Peter, but it is not the only instance of a saintly scribe depicted in this way. The best place to look for such anomalies is among the thousands of Evangelist portraits, by far the largest medieval corpus of pictured writers. Although based on artisanal imagination and received tradition rather than observation, these images did not depend upon but instead provided the models for the contemporary and historical figures referred to above. Evangelist portraits established the complete typology: writing, with or without a pen-knife in the opposite hand, dipping the pen in an ink-pot, sharpening the point, erasing, pointing, and collating. Single or group portraits appear in manuscripts from as early as the sixth-century Rossano Gospels throughout the Middle Ages, in all local 95 96

Oxford, Bodleian MS. Auct. T. inf. 1. 10, fol. 292v, 312v (early twelfth century). Illustrated in Meredith 1966, fig. 70(b) and (d). The perverse handedness is not mentioned by Meredith 1966, 423–24, or Weitzmann 1974, 26, 30–31.

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traditions (e.g. Arkyves 115, 116, 117, 118).97 They were carved on ivory plaques (Arkyves 119),98 cast in the round (Arkyves 120),99 and painted on the walls of eastern and western churches.100 Sometimes the Evangelist’s symbols – angel, lion, bull, and eagle – appear themselves as writers, either singly (Arkyves 121)101 or in a foursome (Arkyves 122).102 A common element in these representations of writing Evangelists is handedness. In depictions of other scribes, placement of the pen in the right hand was consistent with the factual dominance of the right, generally appropriate to the solemnity of the text, and sometimes dictated by the holiness of the writer. The Evangelists had a further important reason to write with the right hand. To the makers and viewer of medieval images, the Gospels were, in Herbert L. Kessler’s felicitous formulation, the Word literally made flesh, the revealed Incarnation reified in ink on parchment.103 The hands of the Evangelists were the instruments God used to effect this transmogrification.104 In a number of portraits divine transmission is not merely implied but explicitly depicted, and where the agent is a hand, it is always a right. An emphatic expression of this rule of dextrality was adopted on a seventh-century ivory plaque from Alexandria or Constantinople, now in London: with an open right palm an angel inspires Peter, who imparts the Gospel with a gesture of his right hand to Mark, who duly takes the dictation with his right hand (fig. 23).105 A variant to similar effect found in some middle Byzantine manuscripts shows the disembodied right hand of God gesturing in speech from heaven 97 Rossano Gospels, Rossano, Museo Diocesano, fol. 121r (sixth century). Examples of single Evangelists: Lindisfarne Gospels, London, BL MS Cott. Nero.D. IV, fol. 137v (c. 700); Ethiopian Gospel Book, Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, MS W.836, fol. 123v (1340–60). Four Evangelists as a group: Gospel Book, Paris, BnF latin 8851, fol. 1v (967–83). Four separate portraits: Gospel Book, New York, Morgan M.781, fol. 36v, 91v, 128v, 188v (second quarter, eleventh century). 98 Paris, Louvre, OA 6331 (twelfth century). 99 At the corners of the Stavelot Portable Altar in Brussels, Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, inv. 1590 (twelfth century). 100 East: Nicholas Orphanos in Thessaloniki, (1310–19); Dečani Monastery Church (1338–47); see Spatharakis 1988, fig. 66, 80. West: Giotto in the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua (1303–08); Santa Chiara, Ravenna (1310–20). 101 John’s eagle writing: New York, Morgan M.969, fol. 398r (last quarter, thirteenth century). 102 Psalterium Cantuariense, Paris, BnF latin 770, fol. 11v (thirteenth century). 103 Kessler 2007. 104 On Evangelical inspiration in early Christian and medieval iconography: Nordenfalk 1983; Krause 2011, 64–74. 105 London, V&A no. 270:1–1867 (c. 630–40, although a somewhat wider range of dates in that century might be prudent: Krause 2011, 64, her fig. 15).

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Figure 21 St Peter writing. Codex Ebnerianus. Oxford, Bodleian, Auct. T. inf. 1. 10, fol. 292v (early twelfth century) © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

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Figure 22 St Paul writing. Codex Ebnerianus. Oxford, Bodleian MS. Auct. T. inf. 1. 10, fol. 312v (early twelfth century) © Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford

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Figure 23 St Peter dictating the Gospel to Mark. London, Victoria & Albert Museum no. 270:1-1867 (dated by the Museum c. 630–40) © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

to a standing John the Evangelist, who repeats the gesture with the same hand to his disciple Prochoros, who in his turn records John’s sacred words with his right hand (Arkyves 123, 124).106 106 The story of John and Prochoros is from the apocryphal Acts of John. See Boxall 2013, 118. Examples: Basel, Universitätsbibliothek Codex A.N.IV.2, fol. 265v (twelfth century); Armenian Gospel book, New York, Morgan M.620, fol. 296v (thirteenth century); Mount

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Figure 24 Evangelist writing, attributed to Manuel Panselinos. Protaton, Karyes, Mount Athos (c. 1290) © The Holy Community of Mount Athos. Photograph by the Ephorate of Antiquities of Chalcidice

The right-handedness of the Evangelists is almost, but not quite, absolute. In his 1988 monograph, The Left-Handed Evangelist: A Contribution to Palaeologan Iconography, Ioannis Spatharakis identified a group of eleven fourteenthcentury Byzantine manuscript miniatures and two related wall paintings in each of which an Evangelist, usually Mark, sits with one codex on his lap and another posed on a lectern to which he applies an implement held in his left hand (fig. 24; Arkyves 125).107 Spatharakis’s interest in these “left-handed Evangelists” lay not in their laterality as such but rather in how the atypical formal construction could support Athos, Monastery of Dionysiou MS 587, fol. 1v (second half eleventh century), reproduced in Musée du Petit Palais 2009, 66. Many others are cited by Hunger 1971, 466–67. 107 Spatharakis 1988, fig. 5–10, 15–21, 23. The miniatures are: Mount Athos, Vatopedi 937, fol. 14r and 203v, 938, fol. 76v, and 954, fol. 101v; Stavronikita 45, fol. 46v; Chilandari 9, fol. 234v; Oxford, Bodleian Selden Sup.6, fol. 109v, and Auct. T. inf. 2.6, fol. 46r; Athens, National Library, no. 151, fol. 88v; Patmos, Library of the Monastery of St John, no. 82, fol. 96v; Bucharest, Academy of Sciences, MS 32, fol. 94v. The mural paintings are at the Protaton and Chilandari, Mount Athos (the former, attributed to Manuel Panselinos, c. 1290, reproduced in Musée du Petit Palais 2009, 38).

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inferences of a common genealogy, sweeping into his discussion a similar sketch of St Mark in the Wolfenbüttel Musterbuch, executed in the previous century either in Venice or Saxony.108 Yet the Evangelists in Spatharakis’s core group are not, in fact, left-handed, or at least they are not pictured writing with their left hands. Indeed, they are not writing at all. In eleven of his thirteen examples the pictured scribe grasps a knife, not a pen; the same applies to the Wolfenbüttel drawing. Poor condition prevents identification of the implement in the other two instances, but accepting the proposed formal grouping, it is reasonable to assume that here, too, the Evangelist is holding a pen-knife in his left hand. These images suggest a right-handed, not a left-handed, writer. The Evangelist has probably been captured making corrections.109 Alternatively, he might be engaged in some other scribal act accomplished with the knife, like ruling or collating. In any case, the natural inference is that after finishing this step, he will again take up the pen with his free right hand (writing equipment is usually visible on the table). Scribes, including Evangelists, are commonly pictured with a knife in the left hand and a pen in the right. Many such representations have already been remarked (e.g. Arkyves 86, 89, 91, 99, 100, 101, 107, 108, 110, 118, 121). They cannot have been meant to indicate either left-handedness or ambidexterity. The Spatharakis group also includes two instances in which the Evangelist has his pen tucked behind the right ear (fig. 24, Arkyves 125). The natural assumption – as the reader can confirm by self-experiment – is that it was placed there with the right hand and will be retrieved by the same hand to recommence writing.110 The expression “left-handed Evangelist” as used by Spatharakis may, therefore, be an acceptable shortcut to describe a figure doing something with his left hand, but it is a misnomer if taken to mean that these Evangelists were depicted as left-handed writers.111 The Evangelist with a knife in his left hand and nothing in his right is merely unusual; an Evangelist recording the word 108 Wolfenbüttel Musterbuch, Herzog August Bibliothek Cod. Guelf. 61.2 Aug. 8°; f. 89v (first half, thirteenth century). See Buchthal 1979; Geymonat 2013, 221–24, with extensive updated bibliography in 519–20n3. 109 This interpretation was proposed by Hunger 1971, 462, with respect to Athens, National Library, no. 151, Oxford, Bodleian Selden Sup.6, and Stavronikita 45. 110 Although a monk with a knife in his right hand and a pen behind his left ear appears in the previously noted composite representation of manuscript production (Arkyves 95, upper right roundel): Ambrosius of Milan, Opera, SBBamberg MS Patr. 5, fol. 1v (mid-twelfth century). This monk could have been left-handed (although in the other roundels the figure is clearly right-handed), or he may simply have found the left ear a convenient, if unusual, place to park his pen. Note that this folio is not a picture of writing but the presentation of a completed book. 111 In his review, Walter (1990, 329) did not dispute Spatharakis’s description but regarded it as just another indication of the “capriciousness of artists in the Palaeologan period.”

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of God with his left hand would engage thorny issues of artistic intention and viewer reception. Precisely those problems are raised by a few other portraits. Spatharakis briefly noted four additional “left-handed Evangelists” that he excluded from his core group because they lacked various formal characteristics. Like the first thirteen, two of these do not seem to depict the act of writing. In a manuscript at Patmos, St Mark holds what Spatharakis identified as a pointer for collating or comparing two texts; Herbert Hunger considered it a knife being used to erase. Neither thought Mark was writing.112 Spatharakis described a second miniature, this one in the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, as “badly preserved and … not of high quality.” He thought it, too, represented collating although a 1957 catalogue suggests John is writing with his left hand. I have not had an opportunity to inspect this manuscript; absent a published and legible reproduction, it is impossible to form an independent judgement.113 But Spatharakis’s other two additional examples are, indeed, secure instances of a left-handed Evangelist. One is a manuscript miniature in Princeton, part of an incomplete Greek Gospels book written, according to its colophon, in 1380 by the Metropolitan of Selymbria, (present-day Silivri, near Istanbul) (fig. 25).114 Here, St Luke sits before a table with an ink-pot and pen-knife. He regards a scroll draped across a lectern on which the first few lines of his Gospel are inscribed. In his right hand he holds a partly open codex, and in his left a pen which he dips into the ink-pot, preparing to transcribe the text of the scroll into the codex. Nothing suggests that he will switch hands before putting pen to parchment. The lateral peculiarity of this representation has not entirely escaped notice. It is mentioned in a 1973 exposition catalogue, and the “Handbook Entry” on the museum web site remarks “the odd conceit of the evangelist about to write with his left hand.”115 Kurt Weitzmann observed that although the Evangelist is inking his pen, the codex is barely open and therefore not positioned to receive the script, an “incongruity of the action” that suggested to him that the artist’s concern was rather “with the evangelist’s professional behavior as a scribe than with effective poses and compositional problems.”116 He did not comment on the pen being in Luke’s his left hand.

112 Patmos Cod. 81, fol. 98v (1334/1335); Spatharakis 1988, 17–18; illustrated by Krüger 2008, 339. 113 Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana F.17 sup., fol. 279v (fourteenth century?); Spatharakis 1988, 18; Gengaro, Leoni, and Villa 1957, 130–31. 114 Gospel Book, Princeton University Art Museum, y1957-19, fol. 81v (1380); Vikan 1973, cat. 57, fig. 104. 115 Vikan 1973, 196–97, cat. 57 (notice by Jeffrey C. Anderson); https://artmuseum.princeton .edu/collections/objects/28079?qt-object_data=1 (accessed 13 July 2020). 116 Weitzmann 1963a, 106.

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Figure 25 St Luke writing. Gospel Book. Princeton University Art Museum, y1957-19, fol. 81v (1380) Museum purchase, Caroline G. Mather Fund

Three further manuscript illuminations, not mentioned by Spatharakis, also unabashedly depict left-handed Evangelists. The first is another yet Greek Gospels book, although of much earlier date. The bulk of this manuscript, as conserved in the Mingana Collection at the University of Birmingham, has been ascribed to a Constantinopolitan workshop in the first half of the twelfth century, with some tenth-century material and a couple of later additions.117 It now 117 Birmingham, Department of Special Collections, University of Birmingham, Mingana Collection, Peckover Greek 7 (=Gregory Aland 713, Algerina Peckover 561), fol. 7v (Matthew), 113v (Mark), 182r (Luke, without portrait), 282v (John). See Hunt 1997, 42–44 and 49–51 (cat. 8).

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contains portraits of Matthew, Mark, and John associated with the principal twelfth-century text; a presumptive portrait of Luke was cut out of the manuscript at some stage. Each of the pictured Evangelists is seated before a codex on which appears the incipit of his Gospel, one hand resting on the lectern; a blank sheet of parchment (or, for Mark, a stack of blank folios) lies across his lap; his other arm rests on his knee. Each holds a pen at the ready to begin writing. The main difference is handedness: unlike Matthew and Mark, John is left-handed (Arkyves 126). A second portrait of John, probably added in the fourteenth century, shows him inspired by a female personification of the Word of God (so identified by an inscription); his symbol, the eagle, emerges from an arc above. In this addendum, the Evangelist has reverted to conventional righthandedness. The later patron, miniaturist, or designer chose not to follow, or may not have noticed, the eccentricity of the original Johannine illumination. The geographical scope of the motif is extended into the Latin West with two more manuscripts. The first, and the earliest of all these representations, appears in St Margaret’s Gospels, a Latin lectionary produced in England in the second quarter of the eleventh century, conserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. A full-page miniature depicts Luke (identified by inscription) looking across the gutter towards the elegant incipit of his Gospel, holding a quill in his left hand and a long, unfurled, and seemingly blank scroll with his right (Arkyves 127).118 Of the three other Evangelist portraits in this manuscript, John appears without a pen (fol. 30v) while both Matthew and Mark are right-handed (fol. 3v and 13v). The other Latin book with a left-handed Evangelical writer is a Glossed Gospel book in Trinity College, Cambridge, also of English provenance but later in date than the Oxford manuscript, ascribed to the thirteenth century. Within the initial letter L of the incipit to the Gospel of Matthew (Liber generationis …) appears not the Evangelist himself but his symbol, the winged man, with the winged heads of his colleagues, the lion, eagle, and ox, sprouting from behind his halo (fig. 26).119 The figure’s right arm extends across its chest, grasping an unfurled blank scroll, while the left somewhat awkwardly crosses back the other way, its elbow resting on a lap-desk. In the left hand is what must be a pen, albeit of a different shape from the reed pens on the desk. It does not look like a knife, and there is no collating or comparing of texts that would suggest a pointer. In an old catalogue of the Trinity College Collection, Montague Rhodes James described the winged man as holding a pen in the right hand and a scroll in the left, unconsciously “correcting” the contrarian handedness.120 Elaborate initials introducing the other Gospels in this manuscript present variations 118 Oxford, Bodleian MS Lat. liturgy. f.5, fol. 21v (c. 1030–70). 119 Evangelia IV Glosata, Cambridge, Trinity College Library MS B.5.3 149, fol. 4v. 120 James 1900–04, 1.187.

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Figure 26 The winged man writing. Evangelia IV Glosata. Cambridge, Trinity College Library, B.5.3 149, fol. 4v (thirteenth century) © Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge

on the appearance of the Evangelical symbols, but none are writing (fol. 69v, 111v, 187v). The final example in this survey of authentic left-handed Evangelists is another cited by Spatharakis as falling outside his Byzantine group. It is a mosaic rather than a manuscript illumination. Within the arch soffit at the entry to the main chamber of the baptistery of San Marco, Venice, are four superposed, unframed Evangelist portraits, executed near the middle of the fourteenth century. Two are demonstrably right-handed: Luke writing in a codex on the left, and Matthew dipping his pen into an ink-pot on the right. Mark, also on the left, sharpens his pen holding the knife in his right hand, which is also more consistent with right-handedness. Above Matthew, John

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also inks his pen, but now with his left hand.121 No commentator other than Spatharakis appears to have noted, or noticed, this instance of contrasting handedness. An important distinction between the San Marco mosaic and the other images of left-handed writing Evangelists lies in the opportunity to view. In Venice, John’s handedness is not closeted within a Gospel book, available only to privileged clerics, monastics, and aristocrats, but displayed above the heads of all who entered the baptistery. Today, the manuscript illuminations can be consulted on-line while reproductions of the mosaics are harder to find; historically, it was the reverse. The baptistery had a larger and less specialized audience than the books. The fact that there are more pictures of left-handed Evangelical than contemporary or historical writers is a predictable consequence of the numbers. Five left-handers out of all the surviving Evangelist portraits is a much smaller percentage than one (Hugo Pictor) among the monks. Yet considering the theological implications, the existence of any left-handed Evangelist portraits at all is remarkable. They do not point to some lost source intimating the sinistrality of one of the four, since Luke appears twice, John twice, and Matthew’s winged man once. Nor do they form a geographically or chronologically coherent group. Two of the manuscripts are Greek, dated respectively to the first half of the twelfth century and 1380; the other two are Latin, from the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. The Venice mosaic exhibits the complex exchange between Byzantine and Latin forms and subjects that typifies the fourteenthcentury decoration of San Marco. The five left-handed representations also vary in composition and iconography. Two depict the Evangelist inking his pen; in the others the pen is held loosely in a relaxed hand, either raised in the air or resting on the page. Their stylistic disparity reflects the times and places of their creation. Altogether, no characteristic other than their eccentric handedness binds these Evangelist portraits together and differentiates them from the multitude of right-handers. To further complicate matters, several of the left-handed Evangelists were accompanied by right-handed colleagues. The Princeton manuscript is fragmentary, the left-handed Luke being its sole surviving miniature; and of the four decorated initials with Evangelist symbols in the Cambridge manuscript, only Matthew’s winged figure is writing. But in the other three examples – the manuscripts in Birmingham and Oxford and the Venice mosaic – the contrast in laterality is explicit. Two right-handed Evangelists appear in each of the 121 Spatharakis 1988, 18; Andaloro et al. 1991, 185, with good individual illustrations. The complete composition, although in a poor-quality reproduction, is in Tozzi 1933, fig. 2.

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manuscripts, at the openings of their own Gospels, while at San Marco all four can be seen at once. What might account for these few indisputable left-handed Evangelists? In some of the fighting examples, like representations of the Antichrist (Arkyves 76–79), left-handedness was employed to evoke sinister motive. This is obviously not relevant to the authors of the Gospels. And unlike the hand of God, the hand of an Evangelist, being neither upside down nor disembodied, presented no special perceptual or cognitive challenges to image-makers and viewers. In an essay on the St Margaret’s Gospels, Richard Gameson offered the following conjecture: “The artist contrived to engineer the maximum amount of variation with the smallest number of elements: and it is in this context that the depiction of Luke as left-handed – an extremely rare phenomenon – is to be understood.”122 Gameson deserves credit for remarking the anomaly and positing an explanation (he also, as noted above, pointed out the left-handedness of Hugo Pictor), but the rationale is implausible. Altered handedness certainly does “engineer variation” but many other options were available and conventionally employed, including dress, hairdo, beard, posture, furnishings, scribal activity (inking, writing, reflecting, collating), orientation, and the addition of associated symbols. A reversal in handedness, if noticed by viewers, would be far more daring and pregnant with potential, probably unintended, meaning than these typical alternatives. And if it went unobserved, the device would fail to achieve the putative objective. The very small number of left-handed Evangelists, their scattered appearance in the historical record not limited to any specific region or period, the lack of a concentration on one of the four that might point to some unknown popular tradition – all these factors could suggest that these portraits were artisanal blunders unnoticed, tolerated, or accepted with annoyed resignation by their patrons and audiences. The evidence is also consistent with a subversive motivation on the part of a few, probably left-handed, image-makers. More aggressive than Hugo Pictor, who did not presume, or feel the need, to project his own left-handedness onto St Jerome (fig. 18, 19), they might have enjoyed greater security and status or more cynically estimated the visual perspicacity of their employers. Perhaps the contortions of Matthew’s winged man in the Cambridge miniature (fig. 26) were a diversion, a means to obfuscate his contrarian handedness. With such a small sample and no documentary context, any hypothesis to explain the left-handed Evangelists must remain in the realm of conjecture. 122 Gameson 1997, 156.

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83

The Pen and the Sword

In medieval imagery, the preferred hand for combat or violence is the right although left-handers also appear in modest, but not insignificant, numbers. Writers are different. The left-handed Hugo Pictor is alone among representations of contemporary scribes (fig. 18); the only historical or saintly figures writing with the left hand are Peter in the Ebnerianus Gospels (fig. 20) and a handful among the thousands of surviving Evangelist portraits. Two distinctions between writing and fighting primarily account for the discrepancy. First, there almost certainly were, in real life, proportionately fewer lefthanded scribes than combatants. While considerations of training, coordination, and equipment all favoured uniform dextrality among fighters, left-handers are attested in documentary sources. There is no equivalent evidence of left-handed writers. Nor did they, like gladiators or swordsmen, have some possible competitive advantage over right-handers. Forced handswitching must have been more common for writing, as suggested by modern research. The disparity in the proportion of right- and left-handers among pictured fighters and writers is, therefore, directionally correct if probably quantitatively inflated. The exaggeration of right-handedness in depictions of scribes may also be attributed to a second distinction between fighting and writing, namely, their differential symbolic or spiritual weight. Artistic convention was shaped by religious and cultural norms. Some forms of violence were value-laden, like assault by the Antichrist or execution of martyrs, and handedness might be more closely attended to in their depiction. In these cases, the perpetrators were still usually right-handed, but left-handedness was more prevalent than the norm. Writing, and particularly the forms of writing that were depicted, was almost always deeply meaningful. Left-handedness had no place in recording the word of God or its interpretation by the doctors of the Church. If some monks or saints – or even Evangelists, prophets, or apostles – actually wrote with their left hands, artistic correction was the prudent course.

Chapter 4

A Digression on Feet The preceding chapters of this Part were devoted to medieval depictions of hands and handedness. What about feet? Footedness also naturally favours the right, although the preference is significantly less pronounced. Nor is the effect as conspicuous as handedness since the leg and foot serve mainly for mobility and stabilization, often playing a supporting role (literally) in activities performed by the arm and hand. When a right-handed person throws a rock or a javelin the left leg is advanced for stability even though, if measured independently, the right foot would probably be dominant.1 This interaction of hand and foot is relevant to renditions of actors in motion produced by medieval image-makers. Like physiology, socio-cultural factors also favour the right foot, but once again less strongly than the right hand. There may be some preference for the right (as in athletics), but nothing equivalent to the constraints imposed in many societies on manual activities like writing and eating.2 This is not to say that custom and language fail to distinguish between the right foot and the left. “Putting the best foot forward” is a modern ellipsis derived from the ancient “lucky” right foot;3 “se lever du pied gauche” (getting up on the left foot) means that the day is off to a poor start;4 a clumsy dancer has two left feet. A distinction between the feet is occasionally drawn in Hebrew scripture, as when Moses anoints Aaron and his sons with the blood of sacrifice on their right ears, thumbs, and great toes (Exodus 29:20; Leviticus 8:23). Early Jewish ritual sometimes privileges the right foot. For example, this foot moves first when entering a temple; in backing away, one leads with the less important left.5 Christian practice includes a few analogous prescriptions: in the Gregorian rite, bishops preparing for Mass don the right liturgical shoe first; a priest climbs to the altar beginning with his right foot; and in the ritual

1 On footedness: Peters 1988 (the throwing example at 179); Peters and Durding 1979; Porac & Coren 1981, 32–49. Handedness and footedness are positively correlated, especially for right-handers. 2 Handedness and footedness data by country: Kang and Harris 2000; Ittyerah 2019. See references in Sacco et al. 2018, 644. On foot preference and athletic training: Whiteside et al. 2016. 3 Wagener 1935. See also H. Wirth 2010, 64n89. 4 In German: “mit dem linken Fuß zuerst aus dem Bett steigen.” 5 Ehrlich 2004, 133–34.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_006

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footwashing on Maundy Thursday before Easter, the right foot is presented to the celebrant (who washes it with his right hand).6 This chapter explores the medieval depiction of feet in four forms of representation. In three of them – ascent to an altar, a holy figure walking or climbing a hill, and ritual footwashing – the compositional choices are generally unrelated to any pre-eminence of the right. But pictures of the three-nail Crucifixion do reveal a dextral bias. 1

Stepping Up to the Altar

Vitruvius prescribed that there should be an odd number of steps before a temple in order that the ascent both begin and end on the right foot.7 Early Christian liturgy also instructed its celebrants to start on the right foot.8 While similarly dextral consummation was not specified, this result would be secured by following the Vitruvian rule of an odd number of steps, and later sources confirm the incorporation of such a practice in church architecture. Writing in the sixteenth century, St Charles Borromeo insisted on an odd number for each flight of steps to a church.9 He did not refer to the right foot, either assuming or forgetting the origin of the requirement. An inventory of medieval churches might determine whether architects indeed followed the odd-number rule, but no such study has been conducted. One German historian concluded contrariwise that an even number of steps was most common (two or four), although his perspective was primarily regional.10 Whether real church altars were approached with an odd number of steps, the ones conceived by medieval image-makers generally are. The Tabernacle of the Hebrews, for example, is preceded by three stairs in a fifth-century mosaic at Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, and in a sixth-century miniature in the Ashburnham Pentateuch in Paris (Arkyves 128), five in the

6

Fortescue, O’Connell, and Reid 2009, 35 and 205 (shoes), 66 (ascending altar steps), 338– 39 (footwashing). 7 Vitruvius, De arch. III.4.4. On preserved Greek and Roman temples with odd numbers of steps, see H. Wirth 2010, 65–66. 8 “[Sacerdos] ascendit ad medium altaris, ascensum cum dextro pede incipiens” (the priest ascends at the middle of the altar, beginning with his right foot), in Herdt 1888, 274 (no. 202). See Dölger 1929; Nussbaum 1962, 163–64. 9 Charles Borromeo, Instructiones fabricae et supellectilis ecclesiasticae, I.2.9, translation by Evelyn Carol Voelker. Modern confirmation by O’Connell 1955, 152, 156. 10 Braun 1924, 2.176–83.

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Figure 27 Paolo di Giovanni Fei, Presentation of the Virgin. Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, 1961.9.4 (1398–99) Samuel H. Kress Collection

Vatopedi Octateuch of the thirteenth century.11 In a scene popular in the fourteenth century, the young Virgin Mary climbs the steps to the Temple for her Presentation. They sometimes number three, five, often seven (fig. 27, Arkyves 129, 130), occasionally nine (Arkyves 131), even fifteen in allusion to an old tradition recorded in the Golden Legend (Arkyves 132).12 11

Santa Maria Maggiore: Karpp 1966, fig. 118; Ashburnham Pentateuch, Paris, BnF NAL 2334, fol. 76r; Vatopedi Octateuch, Mount Athos Vatopedi MS 602, fol. 258v. 12 Five steps: Altichiero, panel painting, Princeton University Art Museum, y1935-15 (1380–1420); Vavalà 1929, fig. 31 (as Martino da Verona). Seven step: altarpiece by Paolo di Giovanni Fei, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., Inv. 1961.9.4 (1398–99); Meditatione de la uita del nostro Signore Ihesu Christo, BnF italien 115, fol. 6r (fourteenth

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As always, there are exceptions. Giotto exercised his artistic licence to provide ten steps for his Presentation of the Virgin in the Scrovegni Chapel frescos in Padua.13 But the practice of depicting an odd number of steps in this form of representation seems to have been well-established. It is easier to count stairs than to corroborate compliance with the right foot first rule. The images do not always show the Virgin actively ascending, and when they do, they rarely capture her first step; more often, she is already part way up. In theory, one could observe how her feet are placed and count back to the beginning, but this is not possible when, as is often the case, she stands with both feet on the same step or eagerly takes more than one in a single stride (Arkyves 129, 132). There are a few instances in which the Virgin’s right foot is clearly set on an odd-numbered step with her left planted on the next immediately above; assuming no earlier leaps, this configuration does suggest that she began by putting her best (right) foot forward (Arkyves 130, 131).14 On balance, then, while the architectural odd-number rule is usually followed in medieval imagery, its underlying rationale, the priority of the right foot, is only occasionally apparent. 2

Figures in Motion

When walking or climbing, an individual alternately advances the right and the left foot. Images freeze the action so that one or the other must appear to lead. One might have expected medieval image-makers to preferentially advance the right foot, given its natural dominance and cultural preference. Such is the prescription for designing insignia offered by the fourteenth-century jurist Bartolo da Sassoferrato: “the right foot is always first because … the right side is the source of motion.”15 But medieval imagery on the whole did not follow this prescription. Instead, the choice of the leading foot was based primarily

13 14 15

century); embroidered alb, V&A, inv. 8128–1863 (1335–45). Nine steps: French translation of a Miroir historial by Vincent de Beauvais, Paris, BnF français 316, fol. 291v (1333). Fifteen steps: The Neville of Hornby Hours, London, BL Egerton MS 2781, fol. 10r (second quarter, fourteenth century). Another example is a fresco in the Rinuccini Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence (1363–66). On the tradition of fifteen steps in such imagery, see K.A. Smith 2003, 256–67. Bellinati 2005, 47. Niccolò di Bonaccorso depicted six steps on a panel in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence, inv. 3157 (c. 1380). References in note 12, above. Cavallar, Degenring and Kirshner 1994, 116: “circa pedes advertendum est, quod semper is qui antecedit sit pes dexter quia … parts dextra est principium motus,” their translation at 151.

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on one or both of two factors: aesthetic preference, and the realistic rendition of hand-foot coordination. Meyer Schapiro remarked that in depicting a figure in motion, the usual artistic choice is to advance the leg that appears farther from the observer, deeper into the pictorial space.16 A figure moving towards the viewer’s right should, on this theory, put the left foot forward, and vice versa. The other determinant relates to the relation between arms and legs. As remarked above, an individual engaged in some activity with the right arm tends to advance the left leg. When a soldier moves from left to right across an image (the favoured direction: see chapter 8) holding a weapon in his right hand (the favoured hand: see chapter 3), both principles converge in support of an advanced left foot, and this is, indeed, the more common form of medieval representation. When this soldier moves from right to left, but still with a drawn sword in the right hand, stability usually trumps artistic convention so that the left foot leads. Often the action is directed towards a numinous goal, but this does not seem to alter the result. When Christ ascends to heaven in the format of the Munich ivory (fig. 4 in chapter 2), he always climbs towards the right of the image while extending his right hand upwards to the right hand of God, and he always steps forward with his left foot (as in the examples in chapter 2). The same applies to similarly structured representations of Moses or David climbing and holding out their right hands (Arkyves 133, 134, 135).17 Like the left-to-right moving soldiers, these images follow both the mechanical and aesthetic principles: stability is maximized by shifting weight onto the foot opposite the raised right hand, and the advanced left foot is the one farthest from the picture plane. The artistic convention should favour the right foot when the figure moves the other way, and this is generally the case. Two closely related versions of the baptism of Christ in Ravenna are illustrative. In the Orthodox Baptistery dome mosaic, dated to the late fifth century, John faces to the right while advancing his left leg; in the slightly later Arian Baptistery nearby, he faces left and leads with his right (Arkyves 136, 137).18 The same opposition is neatly demonstrated in a single image when a symmetric pair of figures approach one another in

16 Schapiro 1969, 232. 17 Moses: one may add to the examples in chapter 2 the Nea Herakleia silver casket, Thessaloniki, Museum of Byzantine Culture, inv. BA 71 (fourth century), and the Grandval Bible, London, BL Add. 10546, fol. 25v (c. 830–40). David: the Stuttgart Psalter, Württembergische Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Bibl.fol.23, fol. 5v, 23r, 142v (ninth century). 18 Dresken-Weiland 2016, 76–77, 109.

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contrary motion. A favoured example of this format depicts facing angels, each advancing the anticipated back foot (Arkyves 138, 139).19 The choice of leading foot according to these rules was a strong tendency, not an absolute rule. One modest group of exceptions evidence the impact of a third factor that might dictate a different result. These are representations of Moses receiving the Law while extending both his hands and approaching from the right side of the image. Sometimes he advances the right leg (Arkyves 140), sometimes the left (fig. 3, in chapter 2).20 In the latter case, the leading leg is the one closest to the viewer, in breach of the aesthetic convention identified by Schapiro and illustrated in the previous examples. But in this instance, the choice might have been motivated by observation of nature. Psychologists find that right-handers prefer to instigate motion with the left leg even when it is not favoured by an outstretched right hand.21 A fortiori, a presumptively right-handed Moses could be expected to advance his left leg when extending both hands. 3

Footwashing

In antiquity, footwashing was associated with hygiene, hospitality, humility, and some cultic rites. Christ’s gesture before his apostles at the Last Supper (John 13.5–14) alludes to these traditions but infuses them with a new, and specifically Christian significance. This canonical event served as the model for ceremonial and ritual footwashing by bishops, priests, monks, even emperors. Sometimes the beneficiaries were twelve men, in order better to emulate the archetype.22 The scene described in John’s Gospel, especially focussing on Peter’s feet, is widely represented in medieval imagery; the derivative liturgical rituals are also depicted, although far less often.23 Sometimes the person whose feet are to be washed places both together in the basin, but more often one foot rests passively in the water while the other is actively advanced or 19

Huelgos Apocalypse, New York, Morgan M.429, fol. 1v (thirteenth century); Sacramentary, New York Morgan M.641, fol. 142v (c. 1060). 20 Right leg: Pyxis, Washington, Dumbarton Oaks, BZ. 1936.22 (late fifth–sixth century); see also State Hermitage Museum, Inv. GE (Omega) 9.j. Left leg: Paris Psalter, Paris, BnF grec 139, fol. 422v (940–60). 21 Peters 1988, 183. This is not the same as the common misconception that right-handed people are usually left-footed, expressed by Wagener 1935, 78. See Peters 1988, 179–80. 22 On Christian theology and footwashing: Schäfer 1956; Kötting 1972 (RAC s.v. “Fusswaschung”); Beatrice 1983; Mathew 2018, 74–127. Specifically concerning Christian ceremonial and ritual footwashing: Tronzo 1994, 61–63; Von Daum Tholl 1994. 23 On the medieval footwashing corpus: Kantorowicz 1956; Giess 1962; Kötting 1972.

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Figure 28 Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, FAN.92.00.2487 = Rep. III.53 (last third, fourth century) Author’s photograph

held aloft towards the washer. Since Christ is usually on the left side of the image, the highlighted foot is usually the right by reason of the same compositional principle that guides the depiction of moving figures, that is, the apostle advances the foot deepest in the picture plane. This left-to-right progression of the action reflects, in turn, a directional preference for motion in the visual field, the subject of chapter 9 below. In most of the earliest examples of footwashing representations, however, the format was reversed, with Peter extending his left foot towards Christ, who appeared on the right side of the image (from the viewer’s perspective). This arrangement appears on a few fourth-century Roman sarcophagi and in these instances, an explanation can be found in the desire for symmetry (fig. 28).24 The footwashing scene at the left corner of the chest is balanced by Pilate washing his hands at the right. Peter and Pilate both face towards the centre making similar hand gestures, and each extends his foot farthest from the viewer. The mirroring is breached only by the subtle but significant difference that while Peter and his companion apostle face towards Christ, the governor and his assistants turn away. This version of the scene – with Peter at the left rather than the right – persisted in later centuries even as the association with handwashing disappeared. It can still be found in Ottonian manuscripts (Arkyves 141);25 an ivory casket in the Farfa Abbey treasury, dated circa 1080–1120;26 and on carved capitals, 24

Illustration: Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, FAN.92.00.2487 = Rep. III.53 (last third, fourth century). See also Rep. I.58, 679, Rep. III, 412. 25 Evangeliary of Henry II, Munich, BSB Clm 4452, fol. 105v (c. 1007–12); Gospels, Vienna, ÖNB Theol. gr. 524, fol. 268r (p. 547) (eleventh century). 26 Farfa Casket, Farfa Abbey (1080–1120); Kantorowicz 1956, fig. 57; Giess 1962, cat. 51.

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including one at the Cathedral Saint-Lazare in Autun from the twelfth century and another in the west portal of Chartres Cathedral, from the 1330s.27 But the other arrangement, with the footwasher on the left, became more popular and was widely diffused in late antique, western, Greek, and Coptic manuscript illuminations (Arkyves 142, 143, 144),28 Middle Byzantine ivory carving (Arkyves 145),29 stained glass in the twelfth-century Passion window at Chartres cathedral (Arkyves 146),30 mosaics,31 and Duccio’s Maestà in Siena.32 An early fourteenth-century psalter produced at Peterborough Abbey and now in Brussels shows both sides of the equation. On one miniature, Christ washes Peter’s foot; seven folios later St Benedict washes the foot of a poor man (Arkyves 147, 148).33 In both images the choice of foot follows the directional principle: Christ on the left washes the apostle’s right foot; St Benedict on the right washes the beggar’s left foot. The latter folio also depicts a third footwashing, of the angel at Mamre by Abraham (Genesis 18:4), on which the figure being washed unusually appears frontally. Since Abraham is at that figure’s left (the viewer’s right), the only convenient solution is to wash the left foot. One class of exceptions to the basic rule comprises instances where the apostle crosses his legs, presenting the left foot even though Christ is on the left of the image (Arkyves 149, 150),34 or the right when Christ is on the right (Arkyves 151, 152).35 It is debatable whether such leg-crossing results from or causes the foot-switching. A particularly idiosyncratic and complex rendition of the scene appears in the second volume of the Floreffe Bible, a massive manuscript made in a monastery of the eponymous town (near Namur) circa 1170 and conserved in the British Library. In the lower register of a fullpage miniature, Christ is pictured twice at his Last Supper. The representation 27 28

Another is at Estany, Catalonia. See Giess 1962, fig. 59, 67, 1 (cat. 133, 131, 147). Examples: New York, Morgan M.645, fol. 4v (c. 1175–99); Barberini Psalter, BAV, Vat. Barb. gr.372, fol. 87r (twelfth century); Paris, BnF copte 13, fol. 259v (1178–80). The earliest is the sixth-century Rossano Gospels, Rossano, Museo Diocesano d’Arte Sacra, fol. 3r. 29 Berlin, SMB, inv. 2108 (tenth–eleventh century). 30 Chartres Cathedral, façade, Passion window, no. 51, medallion 4 (second half, twelfth century). 31 See Tronzo 1994. 32 Siena, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo; Kantorowicz 1956, fig. 40; Giess 1962, cat. 68, fig. 15. 33 Peterborough Psalter, Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique MS 9961–62, fol. 33v and 40r. 34 Psalter, London, BL Royal MS 1 D X, fol. 5r (first quarter, thirteenth century, before 1220); Syriac Gospels, Berlin, SBBerlin Sachau 304-2, fol. 89r (thirteenth century). 35 Tiberius Psalter, London, BL Cotton MS Tiberius C VI, fol. 11v (third quarter, eleventh to first half twelfth century); Collectarium, Fulda, Hochschul- und Landesbibliothek MS 100 Aa 35 (first third, twelfth century).

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Figure 29 Footwashing of Peter. Floreffe Bible, vol. II. London, BL Add 17738, fol. 4r (c. 1170) © British Library Board

is a temporal conflation of two activities described in John’s account: washing Peter’s feet and feeding bread to Judas (John 13:26). These are executed in opposite directions across the table that horizontally segments the image. Seated in his customary position at the centre, Christ reaches past John, resting on his chest, to pass the nourishment to Judas, who stands directly in front of him on the viewer’s side of the table. A second figure of Christ kneels behind Judas to wash Peter’s feet (fig. 29).36 The construction presented a laterality conundrum. Peter sits on Christ’s left and turns towards him, extending his crossed feet beneath the table. Since Judas is standing in the centre, the kneeling Christ must come from the right side of the image to wash these feet, precluding the more conventional solution. The image-maker chose to have Peter offer his right foot, which is both correct (according to the way he faces) and incorrect (according to the placement of Christ). These oddities constitute only a small minority of medieval footwashing representations. In the great majority of cases, the choice of foot followed the orientation of the primary actor. This conclusion is corroborated in the 36

Floreffe Bible, BL Add MS. 17738, fol. 4r (c. 1170).

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catalogue compiled by Hildegard Giess. Of the 66 medieval monuments she illustrated (out of 148 listed), a few are illegible or frontal and of the rest, leftto-right compositions (i.e. Christ on the left) outnumber right-to-left 44 to 15. A single foot is advanced in 37 out of the 44 left-to-right examples, and in every instance it is the right; among the 15 right-to-left representations, 12 conform to expectation, putting the left foot forward.37 The predominant lateral scheme in the visual representations of footwashing corresponds to the positions factually taken during the Maundy Thursday ritual. As a rule, members of the congregation approach the priest from the epistle side, that is, from the right as seen by an observer facing the altar.38 The similarity between image and practice may well be coincidental, but when the footwashing scene is depicted in an ecclesiastical setting, as in a church mosaic or fresco, a visually astute worshipper could have connected the direction within the representation to the enacted event. In a few other situations, like the symmetrically decorated sarcophagi noted above, compositional considerations probably account for the placement of the protagonists. But in most cases, it followed the tendency to represent action as proceeding from left to right, and once this direction was fixed, choosing the foot to be washed was dictated by aesthetic considerations similar to those observed in connection with figures in motion. Extending the leg closest to the picture plane and bending the rear leg also facilitated the usual posture of the figure, turned towards the viewer. The few exceptions, where the “wrong” foot is tendered, do not suggest any underlying rationale. They might point to divergent local practices. An eccentric representation like the Floreffe Bible reveals a touch of creativity. 4

The Three-Nail Crucifixion

In the three cases treated above – climbing steps to the altar, forward or upward motion generally, and footwashing – the right foot did not share the pre-eminence of the right hand. The favoured foot was chosen rather through aesthetic convention and kinetic practicality. Exceptions are as likely to depict a right foot instead of the expected left (e.g. an apostle facing right but tendering his right foot to be washed) as the reverse (Moses ascending Mount Sinai from the right but advancing his left foot). This negative finding is not without

37 38

Giess 1962, 95–136. Fortescue, O’Connell, and Reid 2009, 338.

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significance.39 It underscores a qualitative difference between hands and feet in human activity and culture. The linguistic, cultural, and cultic preferences for the right foot were insufficient to overcome naturalism, convenience, and convention. One class of representations that does privilege the right foot is the Crucifixion. In early medieval imagery, Christ’s execution was accomplished with four nails, one through each hand and one through each of his side-byside feet. A new approach in the twelfth century reduced the number to three by crossing Christ’s legs so that his overlapping feet could be pierced by a single nail. The oldest extant example, dated to 1149, is on a bronze baptismal font from Tirlemont (Tienen, Flemish Brabant), now in the Musées royaux d’art et d’histoire in Brussels (Arkyves 153).40 This transformation in Crucifixion iconography has been a matter of scholarly discussion since the middle of the nineteenth century, with various hypotheses advanced as to its source and meaning: conceptual (a numerical allusion to the Trinity), artistic (a “baroque” device to emphasize Christ’s suffering on the cross), documentary (some poems in German and Latin and an anonymous meditation from Flanders), and even theatrical.41 Pinning both feet to the cross with a single nail necessarily puts one foot in front of the other, and the foot of choice was the right. This dextral preference is evidenced across Europe: in France (Arkyves 154), Germany (fig. 30), England (Arkyves 155) and Italy (Arkyves 156).42 It was remarked in 1932 by the classicist Joseph William Hewitt: “The vast majority of artists represent the right foot on top. The exceptions are rather rare.”43 They certainly exist. Indeed, among Gothic ivory diptychs and triptychs right-footed Crucifixion scenes do not seem to outnumber by much, if at all, those with the left foot on top (e.g. Arkyves 157 and 158).44 These latter 39

On the importance of negative results in the scientific study of laterality, see Basso 2007, 193. The issue will be revisited in the Epilogue, below. 40 Fonts baptismaux de Tirlemont, Musées royaux d’art et d’histoire no. 354. 41 Theories reviewed by Cames 1966 (who posits the reference to Byzantine theatre); Lipton 2005, 1182–84 (adding the anonymous meditation, with the Latin text at 1206–07). 42 Grandisson Psalter, London, BL Add MS 21926, fol. 20v (France, c. 1270–80); South German ivory Pax, New York, Met 1970.324.9 (1360–70); Holkham Bible Picture Book, London BL Add MS 47682, fol. 32r (England, c. 1327–35); Giotto, Crucifixion in Santa Maria Novella, Florence. 43 Hewitt 1932, 33–35, cited passage at 34. 44 Web illustrations are: Toronto, The Thomson Collection at the Art Gallery of Ontario, AGOID.29104 (c. 1350–75); London, V&A 161–1896 (c. 1330–50). The numbers are equal in publications of the Thomson Collection in Toronto (Lowden and Cherry 2008, cat. 23, 29, 32 versus cat. 26, 27, 31) and the Calouste Gulbenkian Collection in Lisbon (Guérin 2015,

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Figure 30 Crucifixion. South German ivory Pax. New York, Met, 1970.324.9 (1360–70) The Cloisters Collection, 1970

are mostly rather similar, so the numbers may reflect a model that was especially popular, not likely by reason of its laterality. Panel paintings are more faithfully right-footed. Of the many three-nail Crucifixions exhibited in the

cat. 2, 4, 5, 9 versus cat. 1, 3, 6, 10). The larger sample displayed on the web-site of the V&A leans towards the right foot on top, but with a large number of lefts.

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Pinacoteca Nazionale of Siena – Trecento artists from that city were very fond of this subject – only four place the left foot on top, although they include an example by one of the leading exponents of the school, Pietro Lorenzetti (Arkyves 159).45 Manuscript illuminations clearly manifest a preference for the right-foot-on-top but here too exceptions are occasionally encountered. An early example appears in a psalter from Peterborough Abbey now in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, dated to the first half of the 1220s (Arkyves 160).46 But the right foot dominates overall, and the importance of preserving this priority can be gleaned by the efforts sometimes expended to achieve it. The painter of a miniature in another early thirteenth-century English psalter, in the British Library, forced his crucified Christ into contortions in order to bring the correct foot to the top: the left leg crosses over the right but the right foot nonetheless twists itself up over the left (fig. 31).47 Hewitt was, therefore, correct, and admirably observant, to remark that the presentation of Christ’s feet in the “new” conception of Christ’s Crucifixion with three nails favoured putting his right foot on top. Why should this be? A simple explanation is naturalistic observation. Most people are right-footed, and although the principal indicia used to make this determination are activities like kicking a ball, climbing stairs, or grasping pebbles, some research does suggest that right-footed individuals also tend to cross the right leg or foot over the left.48 It is possible that image-makers adopted the right-foot-on-top motif in the three-nail Crucifixion simply because that is how most of them and their workshop assistants crossed their own legs. Hewitt preferred a principled explanation. He hypothesized that the depiction of Christ’s right foot crossed over his left symbolized “the triumph of the good, the side of justice,” drawing an analogy to the placement of the saved and the damned in representations at the right and the left of the Lord in the stereotypical Last Judgement.49 A quite different, but equally spiritual 45

I conducted this informal survey in January 2020. The four are by Francesco di Segna (?), inv. I.B.S. 20 (c. 1317–27); Ugolino di Nero (Torriti 1977, inv. 34 at 66–67, c. 1325–27); a follower of Duccio (ibid. inv. 36 at 75, c. 1315–20); and Pietro Lorenzetti (ibid. inv. 147 at 96, 1325–26). 46 Peterborough Psalter, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum MS 12, fol. 12r (early 1220s). A similar miniature is in the Lindsey Psalter, London, Society of Antiquaries SAL/MS/59, fol. 35v; Cames 1966, fig. 5. 47 Psalter, London, BL, MS Royal MS 1 D X, fol. 6v (first quarter, thirteenth century, before 1220). Note the contradiction in the Deposition depicted in the lower register, where the feet are side-by-side but a nail is stuck in the left. 48 Reiss 1995; Dittmar 2002. 49 Hewitt 1932, 33–34. His observation was repeated and endorsed by a biblical historian: Metzger 1976, 11n7. Cames 1966, 186, mentioned right foot dominance in these images but

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Figure 31 Psalter. London, BL Royal MS 1 D X, fol. 6v (first quarter, thirteenth century, before 1220) © British Library Board

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interpretation was proposed by a contemporary observer. Around 1320, the compiler of a vernacular text known as Ci nous dit provided this rationale for the dextral preference: Et fu crucefiez le pié destre seur le senestre, en senefiant que a cel jour Misericorde avoit seurmontee Justice. Justice est rendre chascun ce qui sien est. Misericorde est avoir pitié de celui qui n’en est pas tres dignes. Nous eistions dignes de mort et il nous voulloit donner vie. And he was crucified his right foot atop his left, signifying that on this day, Mercy had overcome Justice. Justice is rendering to each that which he deserves; Mercy is having pity for one who is unworthy of it. We were worthy of death, and he would give us life.50 This moralization of the three-nail Crucifixion’s pedal laterality takes an entirely different tack from Hewitt. The author identifies divine justice with the left, rather than the right. Mercy is conceived as a powerful, mystical force that tempers, and thereby “overcomes,” stern and inflexible Justice, just as the right foot comes over the left. This reading was not entirely idiosyncratic to the author of the Ci nous dit, as the same approach can be found in a few other French sources of the period.51 It would be speculative to extrapolate across geography and backwards in time and suppose that the identification of mercy with the right foot and justice with the left accounts for the design and broad dissemination of the right-foot-on-top three-nail Crucifixion. But the language of the Ci nous dit does suggest that for many medieval viewers, this feature of Crucifixion iconography was more than haphazard coincidence or naturalistic accuracy. The placement of Christ’s right foot on top of his left at the culmination of his passion had spiritual significance.

50 51

did not discuss it in his study of the origins of the three-nail Crucifixion. Last Judgement arrangement is briefly discussed in chapter 5. Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Château MS 26, fol. 38v; chapter 62.3–5, ed. Blangez 1979–86, 1.79 (my translation). Blangez 1979.

Part 2 The Right Side

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Picturing Position Like the right hand, the right side is graced with favour and honour, for the hand transmits its pre-eminence to a proximate thing or person. The different values assigned by medieval image-makers to location at the right or the left are epitomized in representations of the Last Judgement. Jesus evoked the lateral distinction in his famous image of dividing the nations on his return “as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.” The sheep, set on his right, represent the righteous who will inherit the eternal kingdom; the goats on his left are those who shunned him and will be cursed into everlasting fire (Matthew 25:31–46). The scene was sometimes rendered literally but more often it was visually explicated by displaying the saved and the damned in their proper places (fig. 32).1 Such scriptural authority for lateral placement is exceptional. Only a few other representations can track their choice of left or right to a textual source. One other example is Peter called by the resurrected Christ and casting his net on the right side of the boat (John 21:6; Arkyves 161).2 Instead, as discussed in the Introduction, the distinction between left and right usually depended on the entrenched priority of the right, now manifested not in the choice of a hand but by relative position. The Christian expression of this locational bias is most blatant in the trope of Christ enthroned at the right of God, an image repeated a dozen times in the New Testament and cited throughout the Middle Ages as signifying eternal blessedness, divinity, power, and judgement.3 Positions, like hands, present demands on image-makers that can, and usually are, circumvented or ignored in texts. When visualized, a hand is either a left or a right; if two figures or objects are depicted side by side, one is to the right or left of the other. But the superiority of the right side differs from the pre-eminence of the right hand in several ways that are material to the production of images. First, the distinction between the hands is binary; lateral position adds analogue characteristics. One figure may be to the immediate or the 1 The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 5, fol. 44r (1190–1200). Reversed representations are exceedingly rare. I have encountered only one example, a thirteenth-century fresco in the church of Saint-Pierre at Montgauch (Ariège): Piano 2010, 207–14. I am not entirely convinced by her argument that this eccentricity can be explained as anti-heretical polemic. 2 Mosaic panel, Ravenna, Sant’Apollinare Nuovo (493–526). 3 Citations in Deitmaring 1969, 278. On priority of position in medieval texts, see her discussion at 278–86. New Testament citations are in note 20 of the Introduction, above.

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Figure 32 Last Judgement. The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 5, fol. 44r (1190–1200)

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far right of another, directly horizontal or at an oblique angle, up, down, forward, or back. One left hand cannot be “more left” than another, but one figure can be farther to another’s left, or to its left in a different way. Representations therefore possess a power of emphasis or qualification on left and right in the expression of location that is not relevant to depicted handedness. A second distinction between hands and positions is that handedness is absolute while location is relative. A hand is a left or a right in itself, not with respect to some other hand. For location, the labels “right” and “left” are not intrinsic attributes of depicted subjects but descriptions of a relation between them. When A and B are presented horizontally (or obliquely, but not vertically), one is to the right of the other. In a horizontal array of A, B, and C, the attributes “right” and “left” can be applied only with respect to a chosen fulcrum: A and C may be situated to either side of B or, if the most important element is A, then B and C are both to one side, either the left or right. The permutations of lateral relationship increase exponentially with the number of subjects. Sometimes the defining figure in a group is obvious, like an emperor at court or Christ among his apostles. In other cases, position may be nuanced, uncertain, unstable, or unresolvable. A third aspect of position, critically important in the analysis of medieval imagery, is that it requires a frame of reference. Right and left are not the same for differently situated observers. Only if two individuals are facing in the same direction will their perspectives coincide. The relevance to visual representation is obvious. “To the right” will have the same meaning for the viewer and a pictured protagonist if this figure is depicted from behind, but not otherwise. When seen in full profile, its right and left point towards or away from the viewer. The most significant case is the common circumstance where figures are frontal, or nearly so. Here, the perspectives of the observer and the observed are diametrically opposite. What is to the right for the one is to the left for the other. This phenomenon is characteristic of life as well as images, and its incorporation into our mental apparatus is not a trivial skill. The development of a conception of right and left in children begins with the identification of their own hands and feet and then progresses to recognizing those of another person. Only later do they come to recognize that right and left are not qualities of the world projected from their own bodies but rather directions defined by and in relation to each separate individual.4 This problem of spatial cognition is generally mastered by around the age of 12. Most adults, most of the time, 4 Piaget 1928, 107; Harris 1972; McManus 2002, 67–69.

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can determine without appreciable effort how right and left appear to someone else. Confusion, however, is not unusual, much more common than misapprehensions of the right or left hand. Errors occur even in such controlled and important situations as the performance of medical procedures.5 Any scene, real or pictured, can therefore be “seen” from the vantage point of either the protagonists or their observers. The modern default position is to privilege the viewer in both ordinary language and observational habit. “The viewer’s left and right,” Meyer Schapiro explained, “determine by direct translation, rather than by reflection, the left and right of the field, just as in actual life.”6 This formulation of visual experience is, of course, over-simplified. For even as we impose our own laterality onto what we see, we also understand the relativity of left and right. Just as the right hand of a facing person is recognized as a right even though it appears on the viewer’s left side, so, with slightly more effort and less accuracy, we understand that the right and left sides of facing figures are, for them, opposite to our own. Schapiro conceded, immediately following his comment cited above, that in some instances a reversal of the field is required due to an intrinsic discrepancy between the value that is attached to left and right, like the two sides of a god or ruler. In such cases, to make proper sense of the image the viewer must adopt a different frame of reference. To consider the saved as being on the left and the damned on the right in the Last Judgement would contradict the meaning of the representation. For its medieval audience, and modern viewers having even a moderate familiarity with Christian imagery or doctrine, the saved are “on the right” because they are pictured at Christ’s right side. The fact that this is in the direction of the observer’s left hand is irrelevant. To circumvent the bias of modern linguistic usage academic literature and exposition catalogues usually avoid describing the position of the saved and the damned with unqualified statements of position: they are said to be to, at, or on Christ’s, rather than simply the, right and left. Presumably only because it is aimed at the general public does the Vatican Museums web page for Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco of this subject put the risen souls “on the left.”7 Yet even Don Denny, no stranger to issues of laterality in medieval imagery (his 1965 dissertation was devoted to the orientation of the Annunciation), encountered a linguistic tangle in describing the Last Judgement tympanum of Autun 5 Harris and Gitterman 1978; Rigal 1996; McManus 2002, 70–81; Yamashita 2013. Statistics on medical errors in the United States in Seiden and Barach 2006. 6 Schapiro 1969, 233. 7 http://www.museivaticani.va/content/museivaticani/en/collezioni/musei/cappella-sistina/ giudizio-universale.html, accessed 24 March 2020. The usage is consistent in all five languages provided on the site.

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Cathedral. Referring to three figures all situated at the right side of the image, he referred (in the same sentence) to a “figure standing at Christ’s left hand” and “two figures seated together at the upper right,” adopting Christ’s perspective for the first and the viewer’s for the others.8 The description of medieval imagery by reference to the observer’s right and left is a manifestation not only of modern ways of speaking but also of seeing. For while physiologically stable over time, “vision has a history,” as Michael Camille put it. We must attempt to recapture the experience of seeing in the Middle Ages, however imperfect the result, to avoid a “God’s eye view of the past.”9 Robert S. Nelson warned of an inadvertent and misleading conflation of past and present: The projection of unexamined assumptions of normality or universality can flatten, obscure, or even destroy delicate vestiges of prior practice. The past thereby becomes a mirror of the present. Both the history of science and the history of art are prone to teleology and presentism.10 One essential and distinguishing characteristic of medieval visuality was the conception that images are active agents. Pictures and sculptures, especially although not exclusively of religious subjects, had real presence and impact in the world of their observers. Theologians who defended images sought to distinguish between prohibited worship and permitted veneration, regarding not the representations but the saints and sacred events represented as responsible for performances and miracles. But all viewers, whatever their level of sophistication, experienced the potency and animation of imagery. The agentic power of pictures elevated the observed over the observer, and while the quality of visual experience was not static across and throughout medieval Christendom, this order of precedence persisted, perhaps even increased, until it finally reversed in favour of the viewer starting in the Renaissance and culminating in the Enlightenment.11 “In most pre-modern artworks,” James Hall noted, “it was taken for granted that the mise-en-scène of the picture is set up in relation to its protagonists, and especially to its leading protagonist, rather than to the viewer.”12 8 9 10 11 12

Denny 1982, the specific passage at 538–39; dissertation, Denny 1965. Camille 1996, 15. Nelson 2000, 2. See, generally, Camille 1996, 16–25; Nelson 2000 and other chapters in that edited volume; Hahn 2019. The rupture in visuality underlies Belting 1994. J. Hall 2008, 25; see his discussion at 25–38.

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The modern, viewer-centred bias is easily demonstrated in the use of language and by introspection. Medieval mentalities are more difficult to prove, but a few literary references confirm the object-centred approach. When Peter Damian (c. 1069) looked at old representations of Peter and Paul (that is, already old in his day), he asked himself why Peter is placed “at the left” and Paul “at the right,” meaning not the viewers’ but the proper, or heraldic left and right.13 The same perspective was adopted by Thomas Aquinas when examining the relative placement of the chief apostles not in ancient pictures, but on papal seals.14 In the fourteenth century, Bartolo da Sassoferrato observed that the nobler elements of a coat of arms should be “on the right,” that is to say, on the heraldic right.15 And as late as the eighteenth century, when Tomasso Maria Mamachi puzzled over the same question that had exercised Peter Damian he adopted the same terminology: ad laevam meaning on the proper left, ad dexteram the proper right.16 Not only did medieval spectators and image-makers conceive of right and left as determined from within the image rather than by their own bodies, their “period eye” was also far more sensitive to lateral positioning. The differential value of the right and left side could find its reflection in the construction of any representation that included more than one figure or object. Like the Last Judgement, other scenes centred on the figure of Christ adopted strict and readily identifiable rules of lateral etiquette. For example, in the ternary form of representation known as the deesis, John the Baptist is almost always at Christ’s left and the Theotokos at his right, recognizing the superior status of the Mother of God.17 Similarly, where the Virgin appears at the Crucifixion with another John, the Beloved Apostle, she inevitably again commands the proper right side. Both figures are sacred, but one is even holier than the other. Another left-right scheme in Crucifixion imagery distinguished good from bad. According to Luke’s Gospel, one of the two thieves said to have been crucified with Christ was penitent while the other taunted him.18 In the Acts of Pilate (aka the Gospel of Nicodemus) they are named and located: Dysmas 13 Peter Damian, Ep. 159, MGH Briefe d. dt. Kaiserzeit 4.4, 91–92 (= PL 145, 589C). Damian’s letter will be considered further in the next chapter. 14 Aquinas, exp. Gal. I.1.7 (translation by F.R. Larcher and M.I. Lamb). 15 Cavallar, Degenring and Kirshner 1994, 118: “pars nobilior arme debet respicere latus dextrum.” Other passages from this treatise are cited by J. Hall 2008, 25, 34–35. 16 Mamachi 1755, 475–530. 17 Andaloro 1970, 93–117; a few exceptions are noted at 102–05. Other variants, and the coherence of the definition, are considered by Cutler 1987, but he does not discuss the lateral positions. 18 The two thieves also appear the other canonical Gospels (Matthew 27:38, Mark 15:27, John 19:18), but only Luke (23:39–43) describes them in this way.

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Figure 33 Crucifixion. Maître de Fauvel, Légendier. Paris, BnF français 183, fol. 9v (1320–30) © BnF

the good on Christ’s right, Gestas the bad on his left.19 This tradition was followed in many medieval representations, a young thief at Christ’s right looking up towards him with hope and an older man at his left turning guiltily away (fig. 33).20 19

20

Acts of Pilate 9.5, 10.2. Because of inconsistency among the sources, position is not specified in all modern translations. Nor does it appear in some recensions: compare Hennecke et al., 1.459n1, with Elliott’s version, 176–77, although Elliott also reports another text (at 220) that does indicate the position of the thieves. A more complex version of the legend, which includes the same right-left arrangement of the good and the bad, appears in the Arabic Infancy Gospel 23 (Hennecke, 1.408). Illustration: Maître de Fauvel, Légendier. Paris, BnF français 183, fol. 9v (1320–30).

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In these representations Christ is the pivotal element and the role of position with respect to him is clear. It is more subtle in depictions that convey the relationship between a pair of figures. Since medieval image-makers were conditioned to regard left and right from the perspective of pictured protagonists, and to ascribe higher value to position at the right, their representations of two figures of unequal status normally placed the greater to the proper right of the lesser. Consider the personifications of church and synagogue. When they flank a Crucifixion, Ecclesia appears, as one would expect, at the cross’s right and Synagoga to its left (Arkyves 162).21 The same approach is generally taken in their depictions as a pair, the triumphant and proud figure of the church being placed at the proper right, the defeated, downcast synagogue proper left (Arkyves 163).22 This normative arrangement provides the context within which the occasional reversals can be remarked and interrogated. For example, perhaps Synagoga is sometimes at Ecclesia’s right on church façades, Denny conjectured, because the designers conceived the image from the perspective of the sacred interior rather than that of a visitor standing outside.23 Ecclesia also claims the right side in a Pamplona Bible in Amiens dated circa 1197 (Arkyves 164), but as Pamela A. Patton pointed out, in a slightly later version in Augsburg “Ecclesia has returned to the ‘good’ side of the image, as if its artist had corrected an earlier misinterpretation.”24 The illuminator of a derivative, late fourteenth-century manuscript conserved in the New York Public Library followed the precedent of Amiens rather than Augsburg (Arkyves 165), either perpetuating the original mistake or hinting at some special, but irretrievable, meaning.25 Not only figural representations but also elements of church design were governed by the object-centred visuality of medieval image-makers and their audiences. This perspective resolves one scholar’s puzzlement regarding the placement of Virgin cults in Parisian churches:

21 Illustration: The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, 76 F 23, fol. 162v (1250–1300). 22 Illustration: Benedetto Antelami, Deposition (with Ecclesia and Synagoga). Parma, Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta (1178). 23 See Denny 1965, 26. 24 Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole 108, fol. 193r (1197); Bucher 1970, I.259, illustration at II.435; Patton 2012, 50–53, fig. 26, citation at 51–52. The other manuscript is Augsburg, Universitätsbibliothek, MS Cod. I.2. 4o, 15, fol. 210r. 25 New York Public Library, Spencer Collection Ms. 22, fol. 127r (1390). The connection between the earlier manuscripts and this one was made by Bucher 1970, the three versions (although not their laterality) noted at 1.259.

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… if they are not centrally situated in chapelles de la Vierge behind the main altar, [they] are found preponderantly on the left, thus complementing the cult of the saints … which are mainly on the right…. Why this should be on the left is a question we are not in a position to answer, though it deserves an answer.26 The framing of the question presupposes the modern perspective of a viewer standing in the nave. But medieval designers would have organized the space by reference to the altar, placing the Virgin chapels to its right and those of other saints to its left, and this is what visitors would have understood and expected. The use of modern terminology, labelling right and left “by direct translation, rather than by reflection,” to borrow Schapiro’s expression, may be a hint that the observer has not properly understood how location functioned in a given instance of medieval imagery and design. It is, in any event, a source of potential misunderstanding and confusion. In his description of the Basilica of Saint-Denis, Eugène Viollet-le-Duc called the north aisle of this oriented structure (i.e. built with its apse to the East) the “left side,” referring to its position as seen from the nave; two pages later, when he described figures carved on the altar “starting at the right,” he reversed perspective.27 In context, both references are clear to the careful reader, but the risk is apparent. This challenge is not peculiar to art history. In other fields, conventional terminology has been developed to prevent inconsistency and ambiguity. Chris McManus refers to letters “R” and “L” in radiology, “stage right” and “stage left” in theatre, and “bend dexter” and “bend sinister” in heraldry (or in a more colourful, gendered, version: the “sword” and “spindle” sides).28 The flag code of the United States prescribes that the national banner when carried with another should be on the “marching right”; that is, the flag’s own right.29 No similar practice or convention governs the discipline of art history. James Hall regarded “proper” right and left to be “standard art historical terminology”; but while these expressions are regularly employed by curators, they rarely appear in the academic literature, at least not in considerations of medieval 26

Wilson 1980, 568. This study surveyed churches ranging from the medieval to the modern; later plans probably emulate the earlier practice. 27 Viollet-le-Duc 1858, s.v. Autel, 41, 43–44. The inconsistency was remarked by Travers 1874, 124–25. 28 McManus 2002, 50–51. On the alternative nomenclature in heraldry: Schleif 2005, 244n8. 29 4 United States Code §7.

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art.30 The certainty provided by such language is desirable and especially suitable in a study devoted to laterality. “Proper” right and left will, therefore, be employed in succeeding chapters to signify direction from the vantage point of the relevant figure or object. 30

J. Hall 2008, 25. McManus also attributes the use of “proper right” and “proper left” to art historians.

Chapter 6

Peter and Paul in Early Christian Art Peter entered the repertoire of Christian imagery almost from the beginning, and Paul shortly thereafter.1 By the fourth century they were regularly depicted together. Such appearances corroborated and reinforced the notion that these two men shared the highest status of chiefs or princes among the apostles. Their double portrait was especially significant in Rome, where according to legend they had met and suffered joint martyrdom. This apocryphal history established them as co-founders of its church. In an influential 1961 essay, Charles Pietri referred to the joint rebranding of Peter and Paul in holy alliance under the heading of concordia apostolorum, evoking in support not only a literary tradition but also imagery for such a union between the apostles.2 Twenty years later, John Huskinson developed a new and expanded version of Pietri’s argument, now with greater attention to and reliance upon the visual evidence.3 Since these pioneering publications, many articles and exhibition catalogues have revisited the concordia apostolorum of Peter and Paul.4 Scholars have debated its character, chronology, and regional variations, without substantially altering the fundamental claim that texts and images operated in concert to conjoin Peter, a disciple of Jesus and founder of the apostolic succession, with Paul, the zealous convert and apostle to the gentiles who never met the incarnate Lord but became the intellectual fount of early and medieval Christian theology. When pictured side-by-side, either Peter or Paul must be at the right of the other; appearing on either side of Christ, one must be at his left and the other at his right. As the first chosen apostle and first bishop of Rome, Peter could justly claim precedence over Paul. As a purely statistical matter, this is the preferred format found on the preserved monuments and artefacts of fourthcentury Rome. But the many instances in which Paul instead appears at the proper right are not all anomalies or production mistakes. They represent a visual manifestation of deep and strong currents in both religious-political doctrine and popular sentiment regarding the chief apostles. The significance 1 I presented a preliminary consideration of the subject of this chapter in an unpublished presentation to the 32nd Canadian Conference of Medieval Art Historians in Winnipeg, Manitoba, 9 March 2012, and discussed it briefly in Couzin 2015, 56–58. 2 Pietri 1961. 3 Huskinson 1982. 4 See, in particular, essays and notices in Donati 2000 and Utro 2009.

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of their respective positions was already remarked in the eleventh century and an eighteenth-century antiquarian devoted 55 pages to the question, but little interest has been paid it since.5 The only attentive modern analysis was offered by Ruth Wilkins Sullivan in 1994.6 All agree that Paul’s shift to the proper right was a signal of his rising status, but this ascension, judging from the representations, was not smooth or uniform. Apostolic equality was far easier to express in words than in pictures. For both practical and heuristic reasons, it is useful to subdivide the relevant imagery into two categories, although some monuments inevitably fall at the boundary. The first group comprises double portraits, representations that are primarily depictions of Peter and Paul. In the remaining instances, the apostles are not alone. They appear, either as a pair or within an apostolic collectivity, flanking Christ.7 1

Double Portraits of the Chief Apostles

A late fourth-century marble grave plaque found in a Roman cemetery, now conserved in the Vatican Museums, epitomizes this form of representation (fig. 34).8 The left half (from the viewer’s perspective) presents frontal busts of the apostles separated by a chi-rho sign. To the right is an epitaph for a sixyear-old boy named Asellus. Peter and Paul are explicitly named by inscriptions. Were this not the case, their identification would still be secure based on stereotypical portrait types developed during the fourth century. As will be remarked below, the apostles are not always so easy to recognize; their distinctive features developed over time and were not consistently applied. On this funerary marker, epigraphic specification both confirms and obviates the need

Figure 34 Grave plaque of Asellus. Vatican, inv. 28596 (late fourth century) © Vatican Museums, all rights reserved 5 Peter Damian’s letter of c. 1069 is discussed below; Mamachi 1755, 475–530. 6 Sullivan 1994, 68–76. 7 The same distinction is drawn by Pietri 1961, 278, although his investigation was largely restricted to the first category. 8 Vatican, Pio Cristiana Museum, inv. 28596; Utro 2009, 195, cat. 66 (notice by Laura Acampora).

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to rely upon established physiognomies. The tituli ensured that viewers who did not recognize them by sight knew who they were, intensified the impact of the saintly apparition, and eliminated any possible uncertainty regarding their respective positions, firmly fixing Peter at the proper right and Paul at the proper left.9 This grave plaque provides a useful introduction to the form of apostolic double portrait, but its medium is atypical. Most such representations preserved in the archaeological record are on gold-glasses. These modest objects were produced in great number in the fourth century, mainly in Rome. They were inexpensive compared to marble relief sculpture, although still out of reach for the poor urban masses. A double portrait of the chief apostles was among the most popular choices on Christian gold-glasses, particularly in the later part of the century.10 Like the Asellus plaque, almost all the gold-glasses with paired figures that could even remotely be considered to represent Peter and Paul bear tituli inscriptions, most complete, others sufficient to confirm the identity of one or both figures. A substantial and robust data set can thus be constructed for which identity and placement are secure. These inscriptions also protect against mistakes in assigning position based on reverse reproductions, since the inversion of the letters is easily detected. Mamachi had already noted the risk posed by the medium’s transparency, which permits gold-glasses to be viewed, engraved, and photographed from either side.11 In the research for this study, reversals indicated by backward tituli were found on more than one museum web site (for example, Arkyves 166, in the British Museum).12 The catalogue compiled by Charles Rufus Morey, published posthumously in 1959, includes 47 gold-glasses on which the faces and names of Peter and Paul are wholly or mostly preserved (referred to hereafter by their “M” numbers), 25 from the Vatican Museums and the balance from collections around the world, such as this one in the Metropolitan Museum, New York (fig. 35; another, Arkyves 167).13 9 10

On the multi-layered implications of tituli in late antiquity: Kiillerich 2003. On the history and production of gold-glass: Walker 2018; statistics on subject matter: Grig 2004, in particular her tables 1 and 2; increase in popularity of this iconography late in the century, albeit based on technical analysis of one small subset of the images: Walker, Shortland and Henderson 2018, 380. 11 Mamachi 1755, 479–82. 12 BM 1863,0727.8 = Morey 1959, M57. Compare the images taken from both sides in Howells 2014, 75. 13 Morey 1959, M 37, 49, 50, 51, 53, 56, 58, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67 (Arkyves 167), 68, 69, 70, 75, 83, 88, 95, 100, 106, 112, 241, 242, 243, 250, 254, 267, 269, 277, 286, 287, 306, 314, 338, 341, 360, 364, 388, 396, 438, 449, 450, 455 (fig. 35). Several fragments include portraits but without sufficient information to confirm either identification or placement.

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Figure 35 Peter and Paul. Gold-glass. New York, Met, inv. 16.174.3 Rogers Fund, 1916

On these gold-glasses the apostles are sometimes standing or sitting but mainly they are presented as busts, either frontal or in profile, often separated by a symbol (chi-rho, wreath, rotulus) or a diminutive Christ holding wreaths over their heads. On a few, the chief apostles’ double portrait appears in an upper or lower register accompanying (or accompanied by) another image (M106, 250, 254, 287). In one case, they are portrayed in a central medallion surrounded by scenes from the Old Testament and the Apocrypha (M388).14 Three later published Peter-Paul double portraits with tituli may be added to Morey’s 14 I have excluded M240 in Florence from this list as too remote from the double portrait format. Here a married couple in the centre is ringed by six standing saints, including Peter and Paul. Peter is to Paul’s right.

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catalogue: one in Berlin (Arkyves 168), a second in The Corning Museum of Glass (Arkyves 169), and another at Castello Ronchi (Emilia-Romagna) that came to light only in 2007.15 One more such gold-glass, illustrated by Garrucci in 1858, seems now to be lost.16 No further examples appear in post-Morey catalogues.17 Others no doubt remain to be found or published, but these additions would not likely affect the conclusions below regarding position. Mamachi discerned among the gold-glasses an inflexible rule of Petrine positional primacy: Peter was always placed at the proper right, Paul to his left.18 Two hundred years later, a few exceptions can be identified. On M37, M53, and M388, tituli designate the individual occupying the proper right as Paul and the other as Peter. On M112 tituli appear above, rather than beside, the figures with Paul’s name inscribed first, a less definitive but persuasive indication that he was meant to be the apostle on the proper right. All the goldglasses with tituli not in Morey follow the rule of saintly etiquette that places Peter at Paul’s right. A fragment in Berlin with no preserved portraits has the first four letters of both names over where the figures presumably were once depicted; Paul was apparently above (although not to the right of) Peter.19 The very few gold-glasses with Paul on the proper right do not form a coherent group. They have not been attributed to a single producer.20 Nor do they betray any formal, iconographical, or stylistic unity. On M37, the facing figures are depicted as waist-length busts with a small Christ between them; on M53 they are again facing one another, but as shorter busts and now separated by a stylized wreath; on M112, Peter and Paul are depicted as full, seated, frontal figures around a chi-rho monogram; and M388, as previously noted, unusually places the apostles in a central medallion, again as frontal busts. While these gold-glasses differ from one another, they are, except for M388, quite similar to other, laterally “normal,” pieces. For example, comparing M37 with M241 and M314, one finds the same seated apostles, the identical beardless Christ, and inscriptions around the circumference extolling friendship and long life expressed in much the same words and composed with similar letter forms. 15 Berlin, SMB, inv. 6631. Corning Museum of Glass, acc. no. 62.1.20. Castello Ronchi: Desantis, Marchesini and Marvelli 2014, illustration at p. 29. 16 Garrucci 1858, plate 39, 3. 17 None other than Morey’s were listed by Zanchi Roppo 1969. The Berlin piece was in S.L. Smith 2000, no. 111, and Faedo 1978, 1057, the latter of whom also included the one in The Corning Museum (1036). 18 Mamachi 1755, 476. 19 Berlin, SMB, inv. 6186 (= S.L. Smith 2000, no. 217). 20 M388 and M37 were given to different workshops by Faedo 1978 and Nüsse 2008. The other reversed examples noted here were not cited in these studies.

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These three gold-glasses, only one of which reverses the normative positions of Peter and Paul, were probably produced in the same workshop.21 Indeed, the only substantive difference among them is the exchange of tituli. It is as if the artisan applying the gold leaf to M37 followed the same pictorial model used for the other two, but in a moment of inattention, under the pressure of producing multiple tiny objects, he (or, albeit unlikely, she) switched the names. Indeed, on both M53 and M388, the physiognomies might well suggest that Paul is the figure on the proper left, even though he is labelled as Peter.22 Gold-glasses thus provide a substantial number of early Christian double apostolic portraits in which the choice of positions can be reliably determined. Among the 47 examples, Peter is on the proper right and Paul on the left on all but three or four. In other media, situational priority is less easily settled. One challenge is the exiguity of the samples. Another is ambiguity, since very few of these other monuments include tituli. Identification of the portraits depends, instead, on an appreciation of facial types. In the fully developed forms to which modern observers are accustomed Peter exudes solidity, with a broad, oval face, full, clinging hair, and a short, curly beard; Paul is a thinker, his head more elongated, with a receding hairline or quite bald, and a long, pointed beard.23 These are ideal types; Mariano Armellini may be alone in having suggested (in 1888) that they are historically accurate.24 And they were not consistently followed in the fourth or even in the fifth century. Beards, for example, are unreliable markers: Peter’s rather than Paul’s may be pointier; they may be much the same; the figures may be clean shaven. The signs of hair-loss are often quite similar; typical head shapes may be exchanged or muddled. Indeed, it is not uncommon that the two apostles are depicted as virtual twins. The confusion of facial types is apparent on many of the gold-glasses: two beardless apostles appear on M450 in New York (Arkyves 170); Peter and Paul are essentially mirror images on M54 in London (Arkyves 171). The uncertainty is resolved by tituli on most gold-glasses, but not in other media. On a midfourth-century Passion sarcophagus in the Vatican Museums, the main difference between two apostles depicted in separate narrative scenes is that the 21 On the epigraphy: Lega 2012, 282–83. Workshops: Faedo 1978, 1052–54; Nüsse 2008, 236–37. 22 M388 is illustrated by Walker 2017, 160–61, cat. 23; the image is clearer in Garrucci 1876-81, vol. 3, tav. 171. 23 On the depictions of Peter and Paul: Bisconti 2000; Bisconti 2009; Utro 2011. 24 Armellini 1888, 132–33, citing a comment on paintings of the saints made by Eusebius, HE 7.18.4.

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one to the right of centre (the proper left) is balding while the other has a full head of cropped hair. Context confirms that the figure with the high forehead is Paul, seen about to suffer martyrdom, and the other is Peter, pictured in the episode of his arrest (Arkyves 172).25 Yet on the roughly contemporaneous Two Brothers Sarcophagus, also in the Vatican Museums, a figure that looks much like Paul on the Passion sarcophagus must in fact be Peter, because the scene is his denial of Christ (Arkyves 46; upper register, left side).26 The figural types of the chief apostles did eventually resolve into their now familiar separate identities, but the process was neither orderly nor linear. Unlike modern scholars, the patrons, producers, and original viewers did not have access to a repertoire of comparable images available in reproduction; nor did they know the subsequent fixation of these facial types. The combination of physiognomic uncertainty and a small number of surviving monuments complicates the analysis of apostolic laterality in media other than gold-glasses. The problem can be illustrated with small bronze objects. Two medallions conserved in the Vatican Museums and Berlin present facing figures in profile commonly identified as Peter and Paul. Curatorial consensus puts Peter on the proper right of the Vatican medal; the opposite positions have been suggested for the artefact in Berlin (Arkyves 173), although the figures are not easily distinguished.27 A third bronze piece, a square plaque now lost, may also elevate Paul in lateral priority, if an old drawing published by Raffaele Garrucci is accurate and did not “improve” the arrangement to conform to nineteenth-century expectations.28 One further medal, also in the Vatican collection, presents the sole instance in this medium of truly distinctive portraits with the fully developed facial types, and here Paul is clearly at the proper right (Arkyves 174); however, this so-called Boldetti medallion is now accepted as a fake, or to be less judgmental, a modern emulation of the antique. The classicism of the heads led Armellini to date it to the third century, but later scholars saw instead a reflection of Renaissance or Baroque

25 Vatican, Inv. 28591 = Rep. I.61. 26 Vatican, Inv. 31543 = Rep. I.45. 27 Vatican, inv. 60978; Testini 1969, cat. 65 (fig. 12); Donati 2000, 140, cat. 61 (notice at 214 by Daniela Goffredo); Pasini 2003, 293, cat. 168 (notice at 390 by Umberto Utro); Utro 2009, 199, cat. 70 (notice by Claudia Lega). Berlin, SMB, inv. 3331; Donati 2000, 186, cat. 114 (notice at 234 by Gabriele Mietke). 28 Garrucci 1876-81, vol. 6, tav. 479.8; Testini 1969, cat. 51 (with no comment on position). It is not impossible this plaque was used as a mould, the final product reverting to Peter at the proper right. See the discussion of such an object below (note 39).

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conventions.29 Chemical analysis in 1945 confirmed the connoisseurship, with an indicative date in the seventeenth century.30 With regard to the placement of the apostles, the authentic medals thus present a mixed, insecure, and numerically insignificant result. Other media with small samples are no more statistically meaningful, but they intimate a general tendency towards Petrine positional precedence. Facing figures on an engraved bronze lamp handle in the Vatican Museums have been identified as Peter, semi-bald on the proper right, and Paul, beardless, on the left. The types are unusual but not unprecedented.31 Less eccentric double portraits with Peter on the proper right include two reliquaries, one in silver from Çirga (Isauria, southeastern Asia Minor, now in the Adana Archaeology Museum, Turkey), and another of bronze from Intercisa (modern western Hungary), now in Mainz; on the latter, vestiges of an inscription confirm the identity and placement of Peter and Paul.32 In addition to the Asellus plaque, another work in stone that presents the double portrait of Peter and Paul is a rough, perhaps unfinished, relief carving in Aquileia (Arkyves 175). Upon its original publication in 1916, Michele Abramich recognized the princes of the apostles in the bold, facing profiles. He did not indicate which was which, and the comparisons he cited – one of the gold-glasses (M67) and the now rejected Boldetti medallion – present opposite orientations.33 But the figure on the proper right, with his tight bangs and cropped beard, is recognizable as Peter, opposite a balding and long-bearded Paul.34 Less secure in their identification, but suggesting the same positioning, are the apostles pictured on the short side of a sarcophagus in Istanbul of late fourth-century Constantinopolitan manufacture (Arkyves 176).35 The figure 29 Armellini 1888, 134. Dinkler 1938, 11 (fig. 4), favoured the Renaissance (11–12n4); Testini 1969, 261 and 302 (no. 73), preferred the seventeenth century. The object was first published by Marcantonio Boldetti in 1720, whence the name. 30 Romagnoli 1945. A fragmentary medal preserving only part of one figure could be from the same source: Vatican, inv. 60847; Testini 1969, 261 and 301 (no. 64); Donati 2000, 141, cat. 63 (notice at 214 by Daniela Goffredo). 31 Vatican, inv. 60809; Donati 2000, 139, cat. 59 (notice at 213–14 by Daniela Goffredo); Pasini 2003, 293, cat. 165 (notice at 389 by Umberto Utro). 32 Adana: Testini 1969, 297 (no. 39), fig. 9; Buschhausen 1971, 190–207, who reported this placement of the figures while conceding that they look much alike (193). Image available at http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/record.php?recid=E01085. Mainz: Landesmuseum, inv. 04651; Buschhausen 1971, 122–24, fig. A70–71. 33 Archeological Museum of Aquileia; Abramich 1916, 47. 34 Cf. Donati 1996, 181, cat. 22 (notice by Cristina Ravara), who implausibly identifies the figure on the proper right as Paul. 35 Archeological Museums of Istanbul, inv. 4508 = Rep. V.88. The Repertorium notice considers the figure on the proper left as Paul and postulates that the other is Peter, conceding

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Figure 36 Ecclesia ex circumcisione and Ecclesia ex gentibus. Mosaic. Santa Sabina, Rome (432–40) Author’s photograph

resembling Peter is at the proper right. One relief carving of the chief apostles (if that identification is taken as secure) that puts Paul at Peter’s right appears on a sarcophagus in Madrid dated to the first third of the fourth century (Arkyves 177).36 It is a narrative scene rather than a double portrait, depicting the apostles advancing together towards an enthroned Nero. The arrangement in fact prefers Peter since he is in front. The apostolic double portrait may be expressed symbolically. A vast mosaic set in the second quarter of the fifth century extends 13 metres across the counter-façade of the Roman church of Santa Sabina. On either side of a lengthy inscription reciting the ecclesiastical foundation stand over-life-sized, veiled, female figures pointing with their right hands to open books held in their lefts (fig. 36).37 Tituli identify the one on the proper right (on the left side of the entrance as seen by an observer turning around in the nave) as ECLESIA EX CIR/CUMCISIONE and her companion as ECLESIA EX/GENTIBUS. Ciampini in the seventeenth century (seconded by Mamachi in the eighteenth and Armellini in the nineteenth) identified these personifications as belonging to Peter and Paul, apostles respectively to the Jews (described here with the common epithet “the circumcised”) and the Gentiles; indeed, his drawing of the demolished upper portion of the mosaic confirms the interpretation by including the apostles themselves standing above their representatives.38 In producing double portraits, image-makers placed the figure meant to be favoured at the proper right, that is, towards the left side of the support.

36 37 38

that it does not conform to the usual type. Another possible example is Rep. IV.109, a Carthaginian sarcophagus in Tarragona. Madrid, Museo Arqueológico Nacional, inv. 1929/71/1 = Rep. IV.73. Andaloro 2006, 293–97, cat. 40a (notice by Geraldine Leardi). Mamachi 1755, 490; Armellini 1891, 582. The Ciampini drawing is reproduced in the catalogue notice referred to in the previous footnote.

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A complication arose in the production of artefacts by impression from a mould. In 1888, Armellini reported the discovery of a metal plaque bearing likenesses of Peter and Paul that was apparently meant to be used for making plaster casts, one of which is conserved in the Vatican Museums.39 On the impression: Peter appears at the proper right, Paul on his left, with a chi-rho between them. To achieve that result the mould-maker reversed the central monogram and switched the positions of the two figures. On the same reasoning, the maker of an engraved gem in Paris, probably of eastern origin, must have intended to favour Paul, since this stone was also designed to make impressions, as demonstrated by the backwards tau-rho sign, but the resulting double portrait would have Peter on the proper left.40 It is possible that the lateral arrangement of the apostles in this case was unintentional, since mould-makers, and later engravers, were notorious for failing or not bothering to anticipate the mirror effect. This survey of early Christian apostolic double portraits suggests several conclusions and conjectures. First, Peter claimed the proper right in a comfortable majority of the representations, notably within the largest and most reliable collection, the gold-glasses. Portraying him together with Paul was consistent with the message of concordia apostolorum, but the dominant lateral organization does not suggest strict equality. Roman precedents for depicting concordia – political, military, or marital – often alluded to common cause between figures of unequal rank. The legend concordia augustorum sometimes appears on coins with double portraits of co-emperors.41 Under the Constantinian dynasty in the fourth century, such coinage depicting father and son was meant to evoke both peaceful accommodation and orderly succession, with the precedence of the senior figure recognized by his appearance at the proper right.42 Although double portraits were used to express both imperial and apostolic concordia, the conceptions were not, of course, the same. The images of Peter and Paul were created long after their deaths as part of a complex 39

Mould: Armellini 1888; Testini 1969, 303 (no. 76), fig. 26. Cast: Vatican, inv. 64451; Testini 1969, 303 (no. 77); Donati 2000, 141, cat. 62 (notice at 214 by Daniela Goffredo). 40 Paris, BnF, inv. 2166bis; Spier 2007, 247, cat. 69 (notice by Herbert L. Kessler). 41 On the concordia coinage, see Zanzarri 1997, specifically on versions of this legend for Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus at 61–64, 74–75 (no. 46–51), for Septimius Severus and his sons Caracalla and Geta at 80–82, 95–96 (no. 22–24, 26–28). On concordia augustorum, see Inglebert 2015. 42 E.g. Constantine with Crispus, RIC VII Siscia 26; Crispus with Constantine II, RIC VII Sirmium 14 (Crispus then being the senior); Constantine II with Constantius II, RIC VII Antioch 70.

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religious-political program of the Roman bishops. They supported a revisionist history that was also reflected in the common day chosen to celebrate their putative joint martyrdom. Paul’s journey towards equal status with Peter began in his own epistolary self-promotion.43 It culminated in the writings and opinions of church fathers and ecclesiastical authorities. Pope Damasus (r. 366–84) is primarily credited with establishing Peter and Paul as twin pillars of the Roman Church, famously expressed in a hagiographic fusion he composed and caused to be inscribed at the Basilica Apostolorum on the Appian Way. His verses recollect Castor and Pollux and Romulus and Remus, founding twins still dear to Roman hearts.44 Preaching a few years later, Bishop Gaudentius of Brescia remarked of Peter and Paul that “the Lord showed them in a single confession of faith and equal in their passion; he joined them in a true fraternity, and united them by a bond of concord”; he assimilated the chief apostles to Moses and Aaron, the brethren of Psalm 132 (133).45 For Pope Leo the Great (r. 440–61), Peter and Paul were “like the twin light of the eyes in the body whose head is Christ … we must not make distinctions because they were equal in their election, alike in their toils, undivided in their death”.46 Augustine at least recognized the historical challenge of this egalitarian doctrine by noting that Peter was first in time (primus) and Paul the last (novissimus); nevertheless, God had conjoined them in martyrdoms of equal value.47 Modern discussions of concordia apostolorum follow this line of equality. Pietri considered that the double portrait representations, especially the goldglasses, not only associated Peter with Paul (or to be more precise, Paul with Peter) but equated their status;48 for Lucy Grig, the images worked to “show the two saints as equal partners.”49 Such descriptions ignore the consistent presentation of Peter at the proper right. Huskinson did remark this habit of apostolic position but dismissed it as something on which “in light of the inaccuracies and vagaries of the glasshouses … it would be rash to place any great significance.”50 Peter’s preferred place at the right could have been a meaningless coincidence, a collateral effect of following models, or it might be a 43 See Sullivan 1994, 61–62. 44 Elogium (ed. Trout, 2015), 121. See Trout 2003, 523–24; Inglebert 2015, 18n25. 45 Gaudentius of Brescia, Tractatus 20.9–11, PL 20.994 (= CSEL 68, 183), dated 384–97: “dominus eos sub una confessione aequales in passione monstraverit, in vera fraternitate coniunxerit, unanimitatis vinculo copularit.” 46 Leo the Great, Sermo 82.7, PL 54, 427–28, translation by C.L. Feltoe. 47 Augustine, Sermo 299.2, PL 38.1368. Many citations to similar effect in Josi 1969, 151–63. 48 Pietri 1961, 278, 294. 49 Grig 2004, 216. 50 Huskinson 1982, 55.

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statistical aberration; but the more natural inference is that at least in some realms of Roman visual culture, the official policy of apostolic equality was not immediately and thoroughly incorporated. Linguistic custom was no less recalcitrant than artisanal manufacture. Although he was meant to be Paul’s brother and partner in mission and in death, Peter is almost always mentioned first in verbal formulae: Peter and Paul, not Paul and Peter. This is the ordering adopted in announcing 29 June as their joint feast day in the Chronography of 354.51 Leo’s proclamation of apostolic equality notwithstanding, the rite for that day that bears his name mentions Peter and Paul together over a dozen times – in martyrdom, confession, celebration, and intercession – with Peter, as Victor Saxer observed, always coming first.52 The same rule applies in any number of other early literary sources and, although with less consistency, in epitaphs. Among these latter some 40 instances of Pauline precedence have been uncovered in Roman catacombs, plus one more in Africa.53 As in written or spoken invocations of the chief apostles, pictures cannot avoid putting one first, meaning, in the double portraits, at the proper right. Within the conception of a Roman concordia apostolorum, as expressed in both the documentary and visual sources, Peter was normally recognized as primus inter pares, not in the lopsided and cynical sense of an emperor condescending among his senators, but as an admission of the first apostle’s seniority, historical knowledge of Jesus, and special connection to Rome. This was not, however, always and everywhere the case. Local affinity with Paul might trump traditional Petrine priority. This effect can be inferred in depictions of the apocryphal meeting of Peter and Paul in Rome, rendered as two figures advancing towards each other and embracing. Examples include a fourth-century fresco in the catacomb “ex Vigna Chiaraviglio,” another in San Paolo fuori le mura, Rome (destroyed in 1823 but known from a seventeenthcentury watercolour), and an early fifth-century ivory plaque (Arkyves 178).54 Herbert L. Kessler examined this iconography and its historical development

51 52 53 54

Chronography of 354, 12, MGH Auct.Ant. 9, 71. Saxer 1969, 202. Josi 1969, 174. Catacomb: Bisconti 2011, 262–67, fig. 35, 37, 38. San Paolo: the watercolour is BAV Cod. Barb. Lat. 4406, fol. 126r; Donati 2000, 135, cat. 56 (notice at 211–12 by Umberto Utro). Ivory: Museo degli Scavi Archeologici di Castellammare di Stabia, inv. 4977; Spier 2007, 247, cat. 70 (notice by H.L. Kessler, considered to be a belt buckle); Donati 2000, 134, cat. 55 (notice at 211 by Giovanni Liccardo, as part of a casket, fibula, or liturgical comb).

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in later medieval iterations, citing some twenty further manifestations.55 One variable upon which neither he nor other modern observers have focused is the respective positions of the apostles.56 Conforming to expectation, Peter is on the proper right in the catacomb painting, but Paul claims pride of place on the fresco in his eponymous Roman church and also on the ivory, which was found at Castellammare di Stabia near Naples, just across the bay from where he is said to have disembarked in Italy. Looking forward into the Middle Ages, Peter appears on the right in churches bearing his name in Campania and Lazio although, while slightly in front of his colleague, he is on the left in a mosaic of a chapel dedicated to him at Monreale.57 The pattern is not perfectly consistent but highly suggestive of the influence of local cults. As with the lateral exceptions discussed in previous chapters, no ready explanation accounts for all the double portraits in which Paul appears on the proper right. The exchange of position between the chief apostles could point to an error, a subversive intention, or a response to special requirements of individual customers and particular contexts. Because of the volume and routine of gold-glass production, reversals in this medium are more likely to reflect artisanal mistakes. In other cases, a purposeful elevation of Paul could have been at play, as in the “meeting” examples. Regionalism was almost certainly a factor. Both the engraved gem in Paris that produces contrarian impressions and the Berlin medallion discussed above have been ascribed non-Roman provenance. We will return to the possible Pauline leanings of extra-metropolitan patrons after reviewing the second category of images, representations in which Peter and Paul appear on either side of Christ. 2

Peter, Paul, and Jesus

These ternary (or multi-figure) images differ in their visual focus and didactic or dogmatic intent from the double portraits. Since right and left are transitive, the two classes of images are geometrically congruent with respect to apostolic positions; that is to say, if Peter is at Christ’s right and Christ is at Paul’s right, then Peter must be at Paul’s right. But in one case the result is 55 56 57

Kessler 1987. See his lists in notes 6 and 7. The catacomb fresco had not yet been discovered. Kessler brings it into the discussion in his later catalogue entry on the ivory plaque (see previous footnote). The relationship of the images to their apocryphal source is considered by Cartlidge and Elliott 2001, 136–38. They, too, make no mention of changes in apostolic position. Relief sculpture in Sessa Aurunca and fresco in Tuscania: Kessler 1987, 266n7, the Tuscania fresco illustrated in his fig. 9. Monreale: Demus 1949, fig. 43A; Kessler 1987, fig. 1.

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Figure 37 Peter and Paul, hetoimasia. Mosaic. Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore (c. 435) Author’s photograph

based on a relationship between the apostles; in the other it depends on their relationships with Christ. This adds a layer of complexity. For while only one of the apostles can claim Christ’s right side, both are in his numinous presence and blessed by his proximity. In another register entirely, the two categories of images also differ in their distribution among the available media. Representations of Christ flanked by the apostles flourish in monumental and luxurious wall paintings, sarcophagi, and mosaics, where the simpler double portraits are uncommon. The distinction between the two categories is not sharp. Double portraits often include a symbolic allusion to Christ, or even his miniature figure crowning the apostles. Conversely, even where Christ is visually dominant, some viewers may still have focused more on the ecclesiastical message of Peter and Paul as joint pillars of the Church. Such over-determination is illustrated in the triumphal arch mosaic in Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, executed circa 435. The chief apostles, clearly identifiable by their fully-developed facial types, stand on either side of a bejeweled throne, empty but for a gemmed cross (fig. 37).58 This throne, the hetoimasia, symbolizes Christ’s anticipated return. Its significance is emphasized in the mosaic by the clipeus that isolates it from the “reality” of the walking figures, and underscored by its location at the apex of 58

Steigerwald 2016, 16 (fig. 2), 135–60 (c. 432).

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the arch, directly above a combination of Christ’s monogram and the apocalyptic letters, A and ω. At the same time, the gesturing apostles might be regarded as a double portrait, meant to evoke the joinder of their missions in preparation (the literal sense of hetoimasia) for the predicted event.59 The mosaic could thus be assigned to either category, and was probably experienced in both. In any event, following Roman tradition Peter was placed at the proper right, an arrangement repeated almost 400 years later in the same form of representation in another Roman church, the St Zeno Chapel of Santa Prassede, now with the addition of confirmatory tituli (Arkyves 179). Insecurity of identification based solely on physiognomic types is a more serious concern in the ternary or group representations, since naming inscriptions are not common. A case in point is one of the most famous fourthcentury Roman monuments, the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus (Arkyves 180).60 In the central scene of the upper register a youthful Christ enthroned over a personification of the heavens is attended by two robed figures. Their faces, hairstyles, and beards differentiate them from one another, but not according to the stereotypes of Peter and Paul. Indeed, they do not correspond with other depictions of those apostles on this very chest that, by reason of narrative context, can be unambiguously identified as Peter (in his arrest; niche left of upper centre) and Paul (in his martyrdom; bottom right).61 Nonetheless, accepting uncertainties of categorization and identification, there is no doubt that Peter was forced to relinquish the proper right to Paul in a substantial number of ternary representations with Christ. As a purely statistical matter, the Petrine preference in the double portraits was reversed when the chief apostles were depicted flanking the figure of Christ. No overall count, however, does justice to the complexity and variety of the corpus. A more granular analysis is required. Although any simple dichotomy conceals nuances, a distinction drawn by John Huskinson is broadly accurate. Peter, he suggested, is more often at the proper right when Christ is magister and at the left when Christ is dominus.62 In the first category, the so-called “teaching” scenes, a youthful Christ declaims to his apostles, either the full college or just its chiefs. He usually holds an open codex or folded scroll with his left hand and gestures in speech with his right. 59

Pietri 1961, 295–96. The ecclesiastical significance is reinforced by the insertion of a selfreferential, papal inscription: “Sixtus, bishop of the people of God.” 60 St Peter’s in the Vatican = Rep. I.680. 61 This has not prevented some observers from recognizing the chief apostles, with Peter at the proper left. See Huskinson 1982, 24; Spieser 2015, 241–42, with some hesitation. The notice in the Repertorium advances no identifications, an agnosticism with which this author agrees. 62 Huskinson 1982, 38.

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In most of these images, Peter retained his position at the proper right. The other group comprises a range of forms characterized by a hieratic or eschatological dimension: Christ is usually mature; his appearance often suggests a post-resurrection theophany. In these representations, Paul is found more often at the proper right than Peter. Both lateral arrangements were deployed on a luxurious, late fourth-century sarcophagus now in the Milanese church of Sant’Ambrogio. Unusually for a Roman sarcophagus, it was carved on all four sides. On the front, Peter is at the left of a standing, majestic figure of Christ, with Paul at the Lord’s right. This iconography, the so-called traditio legis, is discussed below. In the “teaching” scene on the back, the chief apostles are reversed. (fig. 38, 39).63 The distinction in apostolic positions was obviously deliberate and viewers could not have failed to notice it. When the historical Jesus communicated his precepts to the apostles, Peter led the college, sitting at the Lord’s immediate right; but when the resurrected Christ appeared in the form of representation known as traditio legis, Peter was at his left, for reasons to be discussed below.64 The placement of Peter and Paul in the teaching scene on the Sant’Ambrogio sarcophagus was typical. The same scheme is found in wall paintings in the catacombs of Domitilla (Arkyves 181) and Saints Mark and Marcellinus, on several other sarcophagi (e.g. Arkyves 182), and in a mosaic executed at the turn of the fifth century in the Chapel of Sant’Aquilino in the Basilica of San Lorenzo, Milan (Arkyves 183).65 The chief apostles are similarly placed with respect to Christ in a symbolically charged rendition of the apostolic mission depicted on a sarcophagus from the last quarter of the fourth century. Here Jesus is not an instructor but a shepherd. His apostles are equally distributed on either side, each doubly represented as a man and a sheep (Arkyves 184).66 Holding a crook with his left hand, Christ pats the head of the animal to his immediate right, the one attended to by Peter. Paul and his sheep are symmetrically positioned 63 Rep. II.150. The lid was reversed at some point and remains so (at least as of the author’s visit in 2017); as a result, photographs make the back appear to be the front. 64 Another lateral peculiarity of this monument is that the diminutive male and female figures at Christ’s feet, presumably the deceased and spouse, are the same on both faces, with the husband at the proper right (see chapter 7); but the lamb between them changes direction, perhaps to parallel Christ’s gesture. 65 Domitilla: Wilpert 1903, 401–02, fig. 155.2. Mark and Marcellinus: Wilpert 1903, 246, fig. 177.1 (Tabanelli watercolour). Others noted by Huskinson 1982, 5–10. Sarcophagi: Paris, Louvre, NIII 2295 = Rep. III.429 (web illustration; other examples include Rep. I.26, Rep. III.65, 292). Milan mosaic: Foletti 2015, 19–20, fig. 4 (early fifth century). 66 Vatican, inv. 31534 = Rep. I.30; Utro 2009, 192–94, cat. 64 (notice by Utro). Note that the photograph in this entry is reversed, although Utro’s description of the scene indicates he was looking at it in the correct orientation (discussed in the Epilogue, below).

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Figure 38 Traditio legis. Front of sarcophagus. Milan, Basilica di Sant’Ambrogio = Rep. II.150 (c. 380–400) Photograph: Wilpert 1932, pl. 188.1

Figure 39 “Teaching” scene. Back of sarcophagus. Milan, Basilica di Sant’Ambrogio = Rep. II.150 (c. 380–400) Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 77.1088 (C. Rossa)

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on Christ’s left. The same privilege of position at the proper right is accorded to Peter when the apostolic college is represented synecdochally, reduced to just the two chief apostles, as on a sarcophagus in San Celso, Milan.67 Two panels of the wooden doors of Santa Sabina, Rome (c. 422–32) also place Peter on the proper right and Paul on the left, in one case on either side of Christ and in the other separated by a personification of Ecclesia under a hovering theophany (Arkyves 185).68 The traditio legis that occupies the front of the Sant’Ambrogio sarcophagus is properly regarded as an instance of Christ dominus rather than Christ magister, in Huskinson’s terms, but this form of representation is a special case, not just another instance of the type. Its particularity is both quantitative and qualitative: the traditio legis accounts for the majority of all early representations in which Peter is removed to the proper left, and its choice of apostolic positions is driven by specific requirements arising from its novel iconography.69 The essential features of this motif are: a standing, bearded Christ, his right hand raised, palm out, holding an unfurled scroll in his left; Paul at the Lord’s right, extending his own right hand in recognition or acclamation; and Peter on the other side, supporting or reaching towards the falling scroll with both hands covered in the folds of his mantle. Probably as a result of chronology (the form begins to appear relatively late in the fourth century) and artisanal attention (it seems to be derived from and mostly present on expensive, luxury monuments), the chief apostles are usually recognizable by physiognomic types. Peter sometimes carries a cross, further cementing his identification. Some 50 examples of the traditio legis are preserved. Most are sarcophagi (e.g. fig. 28, in chapter 4), plus two catacomb paintings, two monumental mosaics, and a variety of smaller objects, including gold-glasses (two), incised glass plates (four), caskets (three), a bronze medal, a slate mould and a loculus closure (Arkyves 186, 187, 188).70 In every case but one, Paul stands at Christ’s right.71 The interpretation of the traditio legis has been contested in various respects, including the sense of Peter’s action before the unfurled scroll. Most 67 Rep. II.250. 68 Jeremias 1980, 77–88 (nr. 4, 5), taf. 67, 68; Spieser 1991, 63–70, fig. 6, 7, referring (at 67) to the reversal of the apostles compared to their “ordre habituel.” 69 See, generally, Couzin 2015, with illustrations of the principal monuments and bibliography. 70 The illustrations are two sarcophagi, Rep. III.53 (Arles) and Rep. II.152 (Verona); a mosaic at Santa Costanza, Rome; and a gold-glass, Toledo Museum of Art, inv. 1967.12. 71 The sole exception seems to be a fragmentary glass bowl in Munich, Prähistorische Staatssammlung E-47/1996; Wamser and Zahlhaas 1998, 139–43, cat. 161 (illustrated at 140).

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commentators have concluded, or assumed, that the image intends to picture a physical transmission, Peter receiving this scroll handed over to him by Christ. A minority argue that the scene is rather one of announcement or promulgation, Christ making the new law known by displaying it before the world (and the viewer) as Peter reaches out with covered hands to protect the precious document. Whatever exactly Peter is doing, he evidently has a special connection with the unfurled scroll and its putative contents. It was to Peter that Jesus announced the building of a church premised on this new dispensation, and Peter was the founder of its apostolic succession. By reason of such factors, the designers of the traditio legis determined that Peter must be next to and occupied with the scroll. At the same time, Christ’s manual gesture (again regardless of its precise meaning) necessarily required the use of his great right hand, for in ancient as well as Christian tradition, when generals, emperors, or gods assert their power and authority by raising a hand, or any figure uses a manual gesture to indicate speech, judgement, or acclamation, the hand is always the right. A consequence of this rigid convention is that a figure so engaged must grasp any object, however important, in the left hand, a principle observable in the many depictions of Christ, apostles, and evangelists holding Gospel books while speaking or blessing with the right hand. The respective positions of Peter and Paul in the traditio legis thus follow inexorably from the logic of the composition: Christ gestures and holds a scroll; the gesture engages his right hand, so the scroll must be in his left; Peter requires a close connection to the scroll; ergo, he occupies the proper left leaving the right for Paul.72 Other representations of the resurrected or theophanic Christ flanked by his chief apostles that do not suffer the compositional constraint of the traditio legis still mostly favour Paul on the proper right. An early fifth-century ceiling fresco in the catacomb of Saints Marcellinus and Peter (not the same Peter) depicts Christ seated between Peter and Paul with his open book, but rather than the youthful teacher, here he is nimbed and bearded, his halo framed by the apocalyptic letters, enthroned above the lamb of God on a mound (Arkyves 189).73 Paul is at Christ’s right with Peter at his left. While this painting is sometimes loosely labelled as traditio legis, there is no dangling scroll. The format is rather a glorified (literally) teaching scene, a transition from magister to dominus. An even more elaborate such transfiguration fills the 72 73

The same rule applies with the same result in other representations of Christ, Peter and Paul that convey similar meaning but do not strictly fit the traditio legis form, notably Rep. I.677 and Rep. III.120. Web illustration is the Tabanelli watercolour (Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, Biblioteca, inv. 428) published in Wilpert 1903, fig. 252. See Andaloro 2006, 188–90, cat. 25 (notice by Barbara Mazzei); Utro 2009, 184–85, cat. 56 (notice by Barbara Mazzei).

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Figure 40 Apse mosaic. Santa Pudenziana, Rome (c. 410–17) Photograph: Welleschik, CCA-SA license

apse of Santa Pudenziana, Rome.74 In this famous mosaic (c. 410–17) a lavishly robed, mature, bearded Christ sits on a sumptuous throne below a gemmed cross and Evangelist symbols, surrounded by his apostles. Peter and Paul are seated, respectively, at his immediate left and right, crowned by female personifications of their respective churches (fig. 40). Christ’s book bears a large and legible inscription of local and temporal rather than universal and eternal significance, referring to the protection of this particular church building or its community.75 The ecclesiastical, historical, and temporal notes of this image, while undeniable, are submerged, if not quite drowned, by its strong eschatological impression. This same choice of apostolic position may govern even where simplification has eliminated the hieratic devices that lift the representation out of 74 Santa Pudenziana: Andaloro 2006, 114–24, cat. 8 (notice by Maria Andaloro). On the various and contentious interpretations of this monument, see also Dulaey 2008. Notwithstanding successive mutilations and extensive resetting, the lateral positions of the chief apostles appear secure. 75 Dominus conservator ecclesiae Pudentianae, “The Lord is preserver of the church of Pudenziana.” Translations vary but without changing the general intent. See Couzin 2015, 41–42n269.

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the “teaching” category. A mid-fourth-century relief fragment in the Vatican Museums presents a stripped-down version of the Marcellinus and Peter catacomb fresco – only the halo remains – but it nonetheless repeats the placements of Peter and Paul found in the painting (Arkyves 190).76 So does a slightly later silver reliquary from Pola, now in Vienna, on which no indicia of divinity remain at all (Arkyves 191).77 On both these monuments, Christ is youthful rather than mature, further distancing their representations from the dominus category. The reversal of the apostles seems in itself the principal signal of the image-makers’ intentions, although it could also have resulted from their having followed a model without fully understanding the consequences. If the displacement of Peter from the proper right was a feature of theophanic or eschatological imagery other than the traditio legis, it was not a universal rule. On the so-called Probus Sarcophagus in St Peter’s (Arkyves 192), a youthful Christ grasps a gemmed cross with his right hand while standing atop a mound from which flow the four rivers of Paradise. His chief apostles flank him in the central niche.78 Still something of an amalgam, because of the young Christ, the image clearly breaches the bounds of the magister category. Yet Peter appears at the proper right and Paul at the left. Several sarcophagi present apostles on either side of a symbolic image of the resurrected Christ, the crux invicta, as it is sometimes called: sleeping soldiers at the tomb on either side of a cross surmounted by a chi-rho monogram within a wreath and with doves on the cross-bars. Although his identification is uncertain, the figure immediately to the right of the cross seems often to be Peter.79 3

The Politics of Apostolic Precedence

This welter of examples presents some dizzying inconsistencies, but also clear patterns. Since it mattered which of Peter and Paul was on the right or left, the contradictions in the archaeological record are intriguing. There is no preserved record of anyone worrying about the problem until 1069, when Peter Damian (c. 1007–72), prior of the Benedictine abbey of Fonte Avellana (and a cardinal from 1057), responded to a question posed by Abbott Desiderius of Monte Cassino (Pope Victor III from 1086, d. 1087). The query does not survive but Damian’s letter indicates that the Abbott was bothered by why the 76

Vatican, inv. 31456 (c. 330–50); Donati 132, cat. 53 (notice at 210 by Giandomenico Spinola); Utro 2009, 186–87, cat. 59 (notice by Utro). 77 Vienna, KHM, Antikensammlung, inv. VII 760 (early fifth century). 78 St Peter’s = Rep. I.678. See also Vatican, inv. 31429 = Rep. I.57 on which the identifications are not as clear, given some reworking. 79 For example, Rep. I.59; Rep. III.49.

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expected (i.e. Petrine) priority was reversed in some “old” pictures.80 Desiderius must have had early Christian examples in mind, since Peter Damian refers to the days when Constantine was emperor and Sylvester was Pope.81 Agreeing that Peter’s apostolic priority would normally place him at Christ’s right, Damian offers several reasons for the switch: Paul is descended from the tribe of Benjamin (Acts 13:21, Rom. 11:1, Phil. 3:5), the name of which means “son of the right hand” (Genesis 35:18);82 his mission among the Gentiles was an extension of God’s right hand; and Paul represents the vita contemplativa (associated with eternal spirit, hence the right) as against Peter’s vita activa (associated with temporal flesh, hence the left). Such factors, he concluded, could account for the lateral diversity in the ancient imagery: … when the blessed Peter is placed on the right side, the primacy of the one who was chosen from among the other apostles is honored. But when Paul occupies a place on this same right side, he hints at the mystery of a mystical symbol in Benjamin, whose son he is, although let this also not be wanting in mystery that the blessed Peter holds the left side of the Lord.83 Whether these arcane factors were operating motivations among early Christian image-makers is questionable, but Peter Damian was no doubt correct to regard Paul’s appearance at Christ’s right as the consequence and signal of an upgrade in his status relative to Peter. Such an important recalibration required time and effort. It was unevenly accomplished in different regions and among various segments of the society. Unpacking the vagaries of apostolic positions in early Christian imagery may assist in uncovering the course, causes, and context of this revaluation. In some instances, Paul’s elevation can be securely ascribed to local proclivities. As already remarked, in representations of their meeting in Rome Paul claimed the proper right in settings especially associated with him. The most 80

Peter Damian, Ep. 159, MGH Briefe d. dt. Kaiserzeit 4.4, 90–99 (= PL 145, 589–96). Damian’s argument was repeated and modestly elaborated by medieval successors, notably Peter Comestor (d. 1178); see Smalley 1985: 72–73. 81 Spieser 2015, 330, thought the question might have been stimulated by papal seals with Peter on the proper left. Compare the observation in this regard by Aquinas, exp. Gal. I.1.7. Be that as it may, the letter is explicitly directed to late antique representations. 82 Filius dextrae. This phrase appears in the late fourth-century Vulgate translation and in some, but not all, of the Vetus Latina versions previously in use in Rome. 83 Peter Damian, Ep. 159, translation by Blum and Resnick, at 100. The summary caption of this letter in the MGH edition describes it as a response to the question of why “some” (einige) representations place Peter at the left.

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notable regional disparity is marked by the monuments of Ravenna, beginning with the treatment of the Roman motif of traditio legis. When the iconography was appropriated in the first decades of the fifth century for the decoration of several Ravennate sarcophagi, is was modified not only in stylistic idiom but also in the essence of its iconography. Only one example, in the Ravenna Museo Nazionale, remains faithful in the essence of the Roman model: Peter advances at Christ’s left with covered hands supporting an unfurled scroll while Paul stands at the other side gesturing in recognition or acclamation (Arkyves 193).84 On four other sarcophagi, distributed among as many local churches, the scene was fundamentally transformed (Arkyves 194, 195, 196, fig. 41).85 The most dramatic change concerns the roles of Peter and Paul.86 One or perhaps two of these sarcophagi omits Peter altogether.87 On all four Paul is on the proper right, as in the Roman examples, but instead of raising his hand to acknowledge the Lord he borrows (or steals) Peter’s posture, bending forward and advancing with covered hands. In three instances, including the

Figure 41 Sarcophagus. Ravenna, Sant’Apollinare in Classe = Rep. II.390 = ASR 8.2, B15 (c. 425–50) Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 38.153 ( J. Felbermeyer) 84 Museo nazionale di Ravenna = Rep. II.379 = ASR 8.2, B4 (56–57). 85 Sarcophagus of the Bensai-Dal Corno family, San Francesco = Rep. II.381 = ASR 8.2, B6 (57–58); Sarcophagus of Pietro degli Onesti, called Peccatore, Santa Maria in Porto fuori = Rep. II.382 = ASR 8.2, B8 (60–61); Sarcophagus of Archbishop Rinaldo Concoreggio, Ravenna Cathedral = Rep. II.389 = ASR 8.2, B14 (65–66); Sant’Apollinare in Classe = Rep. II.390 = ASR 8.2, B15 (66–67). 86 The substitution of a youthful figure of Christ is also noteworthy. 87 Certainly Rep. II.382; also Rep. II.381 if the ambiguous figure opposite Paul is not Peter.

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one illustrated here, Christ tenders a rolled-up scroll with his right hand to Paul, thereby designating him, rather than Peter, as recipient of the new law. The fourth of these traditio legis style sarcophagi is more egalitarian: Christ holds an open codex in his left hand and gestures with his right as both apostles approach him in mirror poses, each with a wreath. (A fifth monument in Ravenna, the so-called sarcophagus of Liberius in San Francesco, might seem to present a unique representation of apostolic equality – Peter at Christ’s right with his keys on one face and Paul on his right receiving a scroll on the other – but it has been recognized as an early modern fabrication.88) These sarcophagi in Ravenna thus expand and enhance Paul’s authority. The departure from Roman apostolic preference is still more obvious in local mosaics. Unlike the hetoimasia in Rome’s Santa Maria Maggiore (fig. 37), the cupola of the Arian Baptistery of Ravenna (c. 493–526) places Paul to the right of the empty throne (Arkyves 197). The same left-right arrangement was adopted at the nearby Neonian Baptistery erected half a century earlier (c. 449–75), although in this case the apostles – here securely identified with tituli – are standing not around the preparatory throne but directly beneath and gesturing towards the Baptism medallion in the centre.89 Earlier still, Paul again occupied the proper right in the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia (c. 430– 50), where both apostles gesture towards a cross in the vault above.90 And in the mosaics of Ravenna’s Cappella Arcivescovile (probably c. 494–519), busts of Christ and his apostles appear in medallions on two vault arches. The apostolic portraits are rotated ninety degrees with Peter, once again, at the Lord’s left (Arkyves 198).91 The exceptionalism of Ravenna is confirmed by comparison of this last mosaic with a similar triple portrait motif on the late fourthcentury Brescia lipsanoteca (Arkyves 199), which maintains Peter on the proper right (accepting the suggestive but not entirely certain identifications).92 The preferment of Paul in Ravennate imagery can be traced to religiouspolitical circumstances in the first part of the fifth century. From 402, when the western seat of the imperial court transferred to Ravenna, the local 88 ASR 8.2, B7 (58–60), where reworking or new construction is discussed; rejected as modern in Rep. II, 144, following a convincing demonstration by Bühl 1994. The hypothesis of Koch 2000, 130n69, and Huskinson 1982, 30–31, that it nonetheless reflects original, early Christian iconography is not persuasive. 89 Dresken-Weiland 2016, 82, illustrated 78–79, 84–85 (Orthodox Baptistery); 112, illustrated 104–07 (Arian Baptistery). 90 Dresken-Weiland 2016, 46, illustrated 48, 58–59. 91 Dresken-Weiland 2016, 291, illustrated 288–89. This arrangement appears again later in the sixth century in San Vitale (illustrated at pp. 220–21), substituting a mature, bearded Christ for the young figure in the Cappella Arcivescovile. 92 Tkacz 2002, 46, illustrated at 234.

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church – by secular fiat, in self-interest, or both – looked increasingly towards Constantinople where, in Ernst Kitzinger’s words, “there may well have developed … a trend to ‘play down’ Peter in favor of Paul.”93 This could have manifested itself in several ways: as a competition for precedence between the two chief apostles, a claim to full equality with the edge to Paul, or a repression of apostolic succession altogether in favour of direct investment of Christ as head of the Church.94 Whichever form it took, Pauline promotion in Ravenna offered a counterweight to the Roman claim of either Peter alone or both chief apostles in concordia as founders of its church. The Constantinopolitan connection is material as well as political and intellectual. In the fifth volume of the Repertorium der christlichen-antiken Sarkophage, Guntram Koch proposes that many of the fifth-century sarcophagi in Ravenna, including all those discussed above, were not made there but brought from the eastern metropolis.95 And even if the chests themselves were not imported, the preference in depicting apostolic positions probably was. A sarcophagus produced in Constantinople and still conserved in the Archaeological Museums of Istanbul depicts the typical teaching scene, with a young, seated Christ announcing his precepts surrounded by his apostolic college. Unlike the western examples referred to above, Paul is situated to his immediate right and Peter on his left.96 Two other sarcophagi in that collection may repeat this lateral arrangement and one more preserves Peter at Christ’s left, Paul likely having originally been depicted on its missing right.97 Another fragment, comprising only the left third of the front might be interpreted as a counter-example, if the lone figure is correctly identified as Peter.98 That would put him on the proper right of something, but without the rest of the composition one cannot determine whether it represented an inter-apostolic competition. The promotion of Paul over Peter on the Ravenna sarcophagi thus finds a parallel in Constantinople. Whether imported from the East, inspired by its models, or merely the result of a parallel development, they reflect the same religious-political motivations. A similar, if more tenuous, connection may 93 Kitzinger 1960, 34–35. Indeed, the Roman rhetoric elevating Paul to equality with Peter may have been derived from eastern precedent: Gahbauer 2001, 167. 94 Wessel 1950–51, 310–16; Huskinson 1982, 29; Dassmann 1982, 31–32, 48 (report of discussion). 95 Rep. V, 12–17. 96 Archaeological Museums, inv. 02.6 = Rep. V. 22 (after 415). 97 Archaeological Museums, inv. 5422 = Rep. V. 68; inv. 5423 = Rep. V. 69; inv. 2396 = Rep. V. 23. The identifications of Peter and Paul on the first two are not entirely secure. 98 Archaeological Museums, inv. 90.53 = Rep. V. 27. This identification is considered plausible by the Repertorium authors.

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be relevant to the mosaics. The participation of artisans brought to Italy from the eastern capital by the imperial court is a reasonable, if unprovable, conjecture.99 The monuments in both the eastern capital and the imperial seat on the Adriatic conveyed a visual declaration of independence from Rome through their suppression of Petrine primacy. Paul was given lateral priority when the chiefs appeared together on either side of Christ, and sometimes managed even to usurp Peter’s role of receiving the new law. Back in Rome, the issues were more complex. The visual evidence reflects a three-way competition between popular tradition (Petrine precedence), ecclesiastical revisionism (concordia apostolorum), and according to some historians, a victory for Paul, at least among intellectuals and aristocrats. Ruth Wilkins Sullivan developed this last claim to its natural visual conclusion: on “official” monuments (her term), those whose design was controlled by these putative proponents of Pauline supremacy, he was awarded the privileged location at the right side of Christ.100 This placement, she observed, “has been insufficiently remarked upon in modern scholarship,” a euphemism that underestimates the neglect in the literature and undervalues her own contribution. Sullivan’s linkage between the lateral positions of the chief apostles and a programmed revision of their respective authorities is convincing, but it needs some refinement and qualification to properly reflect the diverse corpus of imagery. First, a significant proportion of the representations that place Paul at Christ’s right are of the traditio legis type, and in that composition Paul’s occupation of this position is, for the reasons explained above, an unavoidable consequence of the iconography. The adoption of the traditio legis on a substantial number of Roman monuments and artefacts is nonetheless significant. It was welcomed by customers from the imperial family (Santa Costanza), to the seriously wealthy (luxury sarcophagi), to the merely financially capable (gold-glasses, medals, incised glass). One possibly attractive aspect of this iconographical invention is its elegant resolution of apostolic priority. Peter’s privileged connection to Christ is balanced by Paul’s place of honour at the Lord’s right. Neither scholars who interpret the image as an assertion of Petrine primacy nor Sullivan, in asserting the apostolic repositioning as a sign of a new Pauline pre-eminence, have recognized this delicate balance.101 The classical 99

Carile 2016, 54–55. Rizzardi 2011, 80, expresses the same view regarding the Galla Placidia mosaics but posits that by the time San Vitale was decorated, local artisans had acquired the necessary skills (146). 100 Sullivan 1994, especially 69–76. 101 The Petrusprimat interpretation of the traditio legis has a long pedigree. See, e.g. Wessel 1950–51, 308–09; Franke 1972.

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Roman traditio legis does not elevate Paul over Peter, as does its Ravennate transformation. The traditional version rather provides a creative solution to the problem of visualizing apostolic equality. Other representations on which Paul claims the right side of Christ do not allow Peter any such compensation. Some could reflect an over-extension of the traditio legis form – the still unusual mature, majestic, bearded Christ in the catacomb of Saints Marcellinus and Peter and Santa Pudenziana may not be coincidental – but the phenomenon cannot be entirely attributed to unreflective replication. It seems undeniable that image- and monument-makers did sometimes move Paul to the proper right by design, not imitation. At the same time, it is not as if Peter always relinquished his privileged position. He remained on the proper right not only on gold-glasses and other products of the “minor arts,” but also on some monuments that would have to be qualified as “official,” like the hetoimasia mosaic on the triumphal arch of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome (fig. 37), the Sant’Aquilino chapel apse in Milan (Arkyves 183), and the Santa Sabina wooden door panels (Arkyves 185). Sullivan’s categorization based on medium and patronage is helpful and insightful but incomplete. It imposes more order on the problem of apostolic positions than warranted by the evidence. For the same reasons, Huskinson’s typological distinction between magister and dominus images is a plausible and useful generalization but it, too, oversimplifies the messy visual and archaeological record. The diversity of lateral presentations of the chief apostles is best understood as the reflection of an unresolved conflict between, or co-existence of, primacy and equality. During the fourth and fifth centuries Paul’s status rose towards, to, or sometimes (as in Ravenna) beyond Peter’s. The resolution of this competition depended upon local, social, and personal conditions as well as general trends. Gradations of rank and authority are difficult to express in images. The blunt choice between right and left, in particular, is ill suited to capture subtleties; it was easier to express a preference for one apostle over the other than to project a fully balanced concordia. The traditio legis adroitly asserted “priority” for both apostles. Its alteration in Ravenna and Constantinople placed a thumb on the scale in favour of Paul, but in the conventional Roman form, Peter’s physical and spiritual proximity to the law of Christ offset his demotion from proper right to proper left. Only in later centuries did variability in their positions eventually weaken the superiority of the right side and permit Peter and Paul to be judged in true equality, or not, according to the prejudices of individual viewers.

Chapter 7

Spouses: The Place of Gender Medieval double portraits of a husband and wife did not engage the same religious-political, ecclesiastical, historical, and theological issues as joint depictions of Peter and Paul. Placement of the spouses was governed instead by the simple and venerable polarities of good/bad, right/left, and male/ female: the right side is superior to left, male is superior to female, therefore the man belongs at the woman’s right. Not without reason does an old church ordinance “men on the right, women on the left” provide the title for Corine Schleif’s study of gendered position in the Middle Ages and early Renaissance.1 To paraphrase the dictum of a Victorian judge, it is one thing to put a rule in a nutshell and another thing to keep it there. Exceptions to the dominant man-on-the-right spousal arrangement may provide clues about the origin of specific monuments or representations and, more generally, inform our understanding of medieval image-making. Wives appearing on the right may signal female patronage, deference based on a particular woman’s rank, or her spiritual primacy; sometimes these representations can be traced to peculiarities of the pictured narrative. After exploring some of these exceptions, this chapter will single out one class of man-on-the-left imagery that presents its own internal logic: depictions of Christ and the Virgin in her Glorification or Coronation. These are “spousal” by reason of the identification of mother and son as bride and groom in typological exegesis of the Song of Songs. But before embarking on the examination of both the normative and exceptional spousal portraits of the Middle Ages, a previously unremarked chronological discontinuity must be considered. In early Christian art, wives usually appeared to the right of their husbands. 1

Early Christian Men on the Left

The most famous fourth-century spousal portrait appears on the lid of a silver box in the British Museum. The Projecta Casket is named after an inscription along the rim (possibly not original although nothing turns on that here) that 1 Schleif 2005. The same title was used independently in an essay on gendered spaces in churches by Signori 2003, who cites its source (at 183n10) as a dictum in Ordo VII of the Ordines Romanum.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_009

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Figure 42 Projecta Casket, top of lid. London, BM, BEP 1866,1229.1 (c. 330–80) © Trustees of the British Museum

exhorts a man and woman, Secundus and Projecta (named in that order), to “live in Christ.” The casket, made for domestic use some time in the second half of the fourth century, is one of over 60 pieces that form the Esquiline Treasure. All four sides of the base and hinged lid each as well as the top are decorated by repoussé technique. Three figures in various poses within intercolumnar arches appear in each of the representations on the base; more elaborate scenes and mythological allusions appear on the faces of the lid. On the flat, rectangular surface at the top a man and woman are depicted half-length within a wreath (fig. 42).2 She is on his right. Such spousal double portraits were popular in the fourth and fifth centuries.3 Some put the wife on the proper left, like a gold medallion in New York dated to the first part of the fifth century, an outlier for other reasons as well (it unusually presents the spouses in full profile; Arkyves 200).4 But the 2 BEP 1866,1229.1; Shelton 1981, 72–75 (c. 330–80). On the originality of the inscription, see Elsner 2003b, 22. 3 On early Christian portraiture: Ellison 2018 (general); Studer-Karlen 2012 (sarcophagi); Grig 2004, 206–09 (gold-glasses). 4 New York, Met, inv. 58.12; Howells 2014, 126, plate 105.

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Figure 43 Gold-glass. New York, Met, inv. 15.168 Rogers Fund, 1915

dominant scheme in this period is the one adopted on the Projecta Casket, with the wife on the husband’s right. This is most clearly demonstrated by the two media that comprise by far the greatest number of such representations: gold-glasses and sarcophagi. Around 30 Roman gold-glasses, loosely dated to the fourth or early fifth century, depict a man and a woman who are neither identified as nor likely to be saints (e.g. fig. 43; Arkyves 201).5 In most cases, they can be reliably interpreted as spouses based on the context, sometimes fortified by an inscription. On 80 5 Morey 1959, M1, 9, 29, 39, 43, 59, 91, 92, 93, 98, 99, 109, 113, 225, 259, 300, 308–311, 315, 316, 337, 366, 379, 397, 399, 418 and 441, plus at least two hors catalogue, one in New York (Met, inv. 15.168) and another in Croatia (both reported by S.L. Smith 2000, cat. B4.289, 300).

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per cent of these gold-glasses, the woman is situated at the proper right.6 Not all of them are Christian; iconography, inscriptions, or find-spots do not always permit secure religious attribution.7 The gold-glass evidence nonetheless demonstrates that on this class of monuments, wives, Christian or otherwise, normally appeared at their husbands’ right. Roman sarcophagi corroborate this inference. Lapidary funerary portraits took various forms.8 Sometimes, features of a figure appearing in a narrative or engaging in learned, professional, or leisure activity were individualized to represent a specific human being, but the more usual approach, almost always adopted on the identifiably Christian monuments, was to add a separate portrait figure. These depictions were probably not, nor meant to be, true to life; the faces might even be blank. But viewers understood that they indexed specific individuals, either occupants of the coffins or surviving family members. In the case of double portraits, the subjects were occasionally adults of the same sex (perhaps brothers or sisters), sometimes a grown-up and a child, but usually a man and a woman. By reason of their ages and presentation, known burial practices, and perhaps a confirmatory inscription, in the great majority of cases these figures may be reliably interpreted as husband and wife. The Repertorium includes some 50 such presumptive spousal representations. Most are busts in a clipeus or shell, less often before a parapatesma; sometimes the figures are displaced and separated to either side of a lid; in a few cases, they stand at the corners of the chest. The wife occupies the proper right 94 per cent of the time (e.g. Arkyves 11, 202, 203).9 Some of these sarcophagi, especially among those catalogued in the first volume of the Repertorium, may not have been designed for use by individuals self-identifying as Christian, but applying more rigorous criteria of religious attribution would not meaningfully affect this statistic. Further evidence that wife-on-the-right was the default arrangement is provided by the so-called Two Brothers Sarcophagus in the Vatican Museums (Arkyves 46).10 Within a shell at the centre are two men of similar age and appearance, but the one at the proper right is actually 6 The exceptions are: M98, 113, 225, 259, 399, 441. 7 On the unreliability of find-spots: Elsner 2003a, 115–17. 8 On non-Christian and Christian sarcophagus portraiture, respectively: Birk 2013; StuderKarlen 2012. 9 Clipeus or shell with wife at proper right: Rep. I.34, 39, 40, 42, 43 (Arkyves 202), 44, 87, 112, 187, 188, 239, 244, 385, 625, 689, 778, 962, Rep. II.6, 20 (Arkyves 11), 23, 24, 25, 102, 103, 108, 150, Rep. III.38, 40, 41, 87, 211, 268; parapatesma: Rep. I.241, 896 (Arkyves 203), separated portraits or other formats with wife at proper right: Rep. I.220, 772, 952, 957, 1022, Rep. II.255, Rep. III.164, 245, 369, 555. Husband at proper right: Rep. I.120, Rep. II.12, Rep. V.71. 10 Rep. I.45.

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Figure 44 Sarcophagus, left side. Mantua, Cattedrale di San Pietro = Rep. II.151 (late fourth century) Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 59.950 ( J. Böhringer)

a composite: a man’s face has been carved atop the torso of a woman. As with most of the spousal double portraits in this form, the figure at the proper left is taller and posed in front of the other. Commercial expedience or the pressure of time seems to have caused the workshop to modify a spousal model by substituting on the proper right a brother’s head for a wife’s.11 Similar, although less robust, statistical evidence of wife-on-the-right emerges from sarcophagi on which spouses are depicted standing next to one another joining their right hands, the so-called dextrarum iunctio (e.g. fig. 44). There are between eight and 14 Christian sarcophagi of this type (depending on the strictness of religious classification), and the wife commands the proper right on all but two of the 14 (or one out of eight), a somewhat lower percentage than the larger group of portraits but still comfortably high (one of the exceptions: Arkyves 204).12 This handclasp motif is also found in mosaics. For 11 The sex-change is noted by Studer-Karlen 2012, 23. 12 Using the long list: wife on proper right: Rep. I.86, 678, 853, 918, 922, 952, Rep. II.148, 149, 151 (illustrated here), 245, Rep. III.58, 59; wife on the proper left: Rep. I.688, Rep. III.51

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example, Moses, at the proper left, holds Zipporah’s right hand in his at their marriage in the nave of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome (circa 435).13 The wife’s dominant position on the proper right in early Christian art invites three inquiries: where did it come from, what explains it, and when and why did it disappear later in the Middle Ages? The first question is not difficult to answer: the Christian imagery continued a format established by Roman pictorial conventions in the second century.14 In her study of portrait representations on Roman sarcophagi, Stine Birk catalogues over 100 instances of dual commemoration picturing a man and a woman.15 As in the Christian corpus, most are busts in a clipeus or shell. Deferring for the moment the handclasp motif (and a few other side-by-side standing spouses), on the remaining 66 sarcophagi in Birk’s catalogue, the wife is at the husband’s right in all but perhaps two or three cases.16 At first blush, the situation seems to be different on Roman dextrarum iunctio sarcophagi. Here, men and woman are almost equal in claiming the proper right. But this global statistic masks an important diachronic development: the husband’s lateral priority declined dramatically over time. In her ASR volume on Vita Romana sarcophagi, Carola Reinsberg bifurcated the spousal dextrarum iunctio group – generally excluding the securely Christian examples – based on several iconographical features. The most obvious and consistent was, precisely, the respective positions of husband and wife.17 Both her Type I (with the wife on the proper right) and Type II (husband on proper right) appear in the second half of the second century, but while Type I continues into the fourth, Type II essentially disappears over the course of the third. As a result, the husband-on-the-right handclasp governs around 70 per cent of these sarcophagi dated to the second century, somewhat fewer in the first half of the third, about 15 per cent in the period 250–300 and only 11 per cent in the (web illustration). On the Christian appropriation of the handclasp motif, see Bovini 1946–48. 13 Karpp 1966, fig. 90. 14 The Christian sarcophagi are examined by Studer-Karlen 2012, 63–74, 106–17, under the heading “in the tradition of pagan sarcophagi.” 15 Birk 2013, 197–98 (Appendix A listing dual commemorations) and related catalogue entries. Birk does not comment on lateral placement. Apart from the nine examples she illustrated, the statistics presented here are based on a review of other sources and photographs. 16 On one monument in Pisa (ASR 5.4, cat. 43) both figures were transformed: a woman’s torso with a man’s head is on the proper right and a man’s torso with a woman’s head on the left. The anomaly is noted and discussed by Birk 2013, 154, fig. 85, 284, cat. 470. 17 ASR 1.3, 77–78. The ASR catalogue is consistent with but more complete in this regard than Birk 2013, including about twice as many marital handclasp sarcophagi.

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fourth century.18 The number of pagan (or not explicitly Christian) sarcophagi also decreases, with relatively few reliably dated after 300, so that fine quantitative inferences are not warranted. But the sharp decline in the husband-onthe-right model over the entire period is clear enough. The statistics remain roughly the same if one includes other related designs, like husband and wife sacrificing or holding out but not quite joining their hands. This evolution in spousal positioning is consistent with the unquestionable preference for wife-on-the-right on the few Christian monuments incorporating the handclasp motif, all of which were produced in the fourth century, or at the earliest late in the third.19 They present both similarities and differences with Reinsberg’s Type I, the most notable disparity being a reduction in pagan trappings like Concordia and Hymenaeus, but their lateral organization fits the pattern of the late non-Christian monuments: 83 per cent place the wife on the proper right.20 The man-on-the-left spousal portraits of early Christian monuments were, therefore, consistent with Roman tradition and trends. This arrangement, however, contradicts the logic with which this chapter opened. Its two premises were the pre-eminence of the right side, a well-established principle at this time (see chapter 5), and the superiority of the husband over the wife. The latter was a basic characteristic of Roman law and tradition. Its details may be debated and special cases remarked; regional variations and chronological developments must be conceded; nuances are suggested by the intricacies of dowry, laws of property and inheritance, the changing relationship between powers exercised by the father and the husband, developments in the laws of divorce, and the treatment of widowhood. But at its core, Roman marriage was built on wifely obedience and submission.21 The spousal concordia often extolled in epigraphic and literary sources referred not to equality but to mutual yet very different contributions: the man tolerates and corrects the woman’s faults; she obeys him and attends to his needs. One should not take too literally the apparent reciprocity of effusive language in epitaphs like

18

Overall, the handclasp examples number about 80, of which 44% put the husband on the proper right. By date ranges the figures are: 160–200, 31 examples (71% husband); 205–50, 14 (64%), 255–300, 13 (15%), 305–400, 9 (11%). 19 Neither of the two handclasp sarcophagi dated before the fourth century are securely Christian: Rep. I.918, 1039. 20 Secure Christian handclasp examples with the wife on the proper right: Rep. I.86, 952, Rep. II.148, 149, 151, Rep. III.59; only Rep. III.51 reverses them. Adding the less secure examples doubles the total number without changing the proportions. 21 Beaucamp 1990, 1.261–79; Treggiari 1991; Nathan 2000; Rawson 2013.

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carissimus(a), dulcissimus(a), and the ubiquitous bene merens.22 An idealized and nostalgic reference to a marriage now terminated by death cannot change the reality of how it was lived. In Geoffrey Nathan’s blunt assessment: “Briefly, then, the evidence illustrates the role of wives was clearly subordinate.”23 The rise of Christianity and Christian values did not much alter this relationship between spouses.24 Nothing suggests an elevation of the wife’s status. On the contrary, her position was further challenged by the fraught theological status of sex and an ambivalence among Church Fathers regarding marriage, with opinions ranging from outright opposition to grudging acceptance of its necessity for procreation. There was little dispute within the Christian commentariat that compared to chastity marriage was an inferior, if tolerated, mode of living. Theologians evoked the unambiguous, unbending, and unimpeachable authority of scripture: women were ontologically derivative (Genesis 2:21–23), subject from the beginning to male dominion (Genesis 3:16); they were created of and for men, not the reverse (1 Corinthians 11:8–9); both Peter and Paul admonished the wife to submit to and obey her husband (1 Peter 3:1; Ephesians 5:22; Colossians 3:18). The author known as Ambrosiaster argued (probably writing in the 380s) that woman was not even created in the image of God, a draconian and admittedly not widely shared rationale for her submission in marriage.25 Jerome wrote paeans to gender equality, undoubtedly inspired by and in deference to his circle or wealthy female patrons, but reserved moral and theological parity for the chaste; he praised wedlock and marriage (one hopes with a note of irony) “only because they give me more virgins.”26 Augustine, whose long-term influence on the Christian theory of marriage is often cited as fundamental, approved of the institution only with an uncompromising proviso of gender distinction, to the point of conceiving betrothal in transactional terms:

22

On these terms of merit and endearment: Shaw 2002, 213, tables 4a and 4b; Edmondson 2015, 568–71. Cf. Janssens 1981, 104, who suggests that such terms did imply some kind of equality between the marital parties, at least when used between Christians. 23 Nathan 2000, 20. To similar effect: Beaucamp 1990, 1.127–39; Williams 1958, 24–25; Treggiari 1991, 229. 24 On continuity in late Roman marriage: Harper 2012, 671; Beaucamp 1.341–347, 2.324; Nathan 2000, 53, 106. Suggesting a modest deepening in wifely subordination: Treggiari 1991, 239; Rawson 2013, 107. Noting influences apart from Christianity: Cooper 2007, 144–52. 25 Hunter 1992. This doctrine became more popular in later centuries, as discussed below. 26 Ep. 22.20, CSEL 54, 170: “Laudo nuptias, laudo coniugium, sed quia mihi virgines generant,” translation Fremantle et al. On the discourse of virginity in this period, including Jerome’s comments: Cameron 1991, 171–80.

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Every good wife calls her husband “master.” Indeed, not only does she call him this, but she really thinks so and means it, she bears it in her heart and professes it with her lips. She regards the marriage contracts as the documents of her purchase [instrumenta emptionis suae].27 Having regard, then, to the wife’s legal and factual position in late Roman society, and the strong opinions expressed by Christian clerics and theologians, why is she consistently placed at her husband’s right? These representations cannot have been meant to raise the wife to the social, moral, or spiritual level of her husband, like the subtle equilibration of the chief apostles discussed in the preceding chapter. The inequality of the sexes was too solidly entrenched, persistent, and unchallenged. The woman’s appearance at the right side of the man must have signalled not a revaluation of her status but a different mode of expressing marital inequality. In any double portrait, assignment of the proper right may be used to denote higher status. This is the usual significance of lateral position when two high-value figures are depicted, like Peter and Paul. But when one of the two is self-evidently superior to the other, this person may relinquish the right side as a sign of respect. This is the meaning of Christ situating the Virgin at his right in the Coronation representations to be discussed later in this chapter. The man-on-the-left early Christian spousal portraits may be understood in this way. The husband’s position was so securely pre-eminent that he could, and as a moral and social principle should, deign to situate his wife at his right side. Her appearance in this position was a compliment to her virtue to be sure, but even more so to his, a condescending but not for that less affectionate expression of marital respect and sentimental attachment. This reading of the early Christian spousal portraits and their Roman precedents is supported by certain features of the most common format, busts within a clipeus or shell. In these representations, the figures typically overlap so that the man appears to be in front of the woman. She is modestly situated behind him, deferentially reaching forward with her right hand to touch his shoulder, arm, or chest. As when he recorded the customary laudatory epithets in epitaphs to his wife, the husband ceded her the proper right in fulfillment of his manly role without thereby yielding any ground on her subordination in marriage. One form of early Christian representation consistently breaks this pattern of spousal location. On about ten fourth-century Roman sarcophagi, most of the traditio legis type, diminutive male and female figures kneel (or in one instance stand) on either side of Christ. In every case, the man is at the proper 27 Augustine, Sermo 37.7, PL 38.225; translation by Hunter 2007, 109.

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right (e.g. Arkyves 205).28 The supplicants represented spouses, one or both of whom occupied the chest. The wife’s demotion to the proper left on this group of monuments is explained by the ternary form of the composition; their positions were determined not by the martial relationship but by the husband’s claim to the privilege of Christ’s right side. Understood in this way, they do not challenge the underlying rationale for the man-on-the-left preference in early Christian spousal portraiture. 2

Medieval Men on the Right

This last group of sarcophagi anticipates the lateral organization of similar imagery in later medieval art. A popular form of representation depicted spouses as supplicants to or recipients of beneficence from the Virgin and Child (Arkyves 206),29 Christ (Arkyves 207, 208),30 or occasionally other holy figures.31 These “donor” portraits (scare quotes because financial patronage may or may not be implicated) normally situate the husband on the proper right. By the high Middle Ages, however, man-on-the-right had become the norm not only in these instances where spouses flanked a third figure of spiritually superior status but across the entire gamut of marital double portraits. Depictions of royal weddings and coronations are emblematic. Sometimes Christ performs the marital or regal honours, and in this case, the same rule applies as in the “donor” portraits, the man taking his place at the Lord’s right. A twelfth-century miniature depicting the joint coronation of Henry the Lion and Matilda of England was remarked in chapter 2 because of its eccentric cross-handed God (fig. 7).32 The picture also confirms the appropriate 28 Illustration: Sarcophagus of Gorgonius (front), Ancona, Museo Diocesano = Rep. II.149. Others: Rep. I.675, 679; Rep. II.150; Rep. III.25, 80, 81, 291, 428. One might add, with some uncertainty, the fragmentary Rep. I.217 and Rep. II.151. On the diminutive figures type: Studer-Karlen 2012, 207–12. 29 Illustration: Cuerden Psalter, New York, Morgan M.756, fol. 10v (c. 1270). Other examples include: Hamilton Psalter, Berlin, SMB Kupferstichkabinett cod. 78 A 9, fol. 39v (thirteenth century); ivory plaque, Cologne, Museum Schnütgen, inv. B16 (1340–60); Psalter-Hours of Ghuiluys de Boisleux M730, fol. 17v (after 1246). 30 Illustrations: Portal tympanum from the Parish Church of Szentkirály, Budapest, Museum of Fine Arts, inv. 55.976 (c. 1230); panel from a portable altar, London, BM, inv. 1903,0514.6 (c. 1075). 31 E.g. a couple below the bosom of Abraham, probably actual donors in this case, on the choir stalls of Cologne Cathedral (1308–11): Bergmann 1987, 1.93 (fig. T25), 2.80. 32 Gospels of Henry the Lion, Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v (c. 1188). See the discussion of this image in chapter 2.

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Figure 45 Coronation of Fulk and Melisende. William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer. London, BL Yates Thompson MS 12, fol. 82v (1243–61) © British Library Board

placement of Henry to the right of the invisible deity and his spouse to the left. Unlike the early Christian portraits, however, male priority is equally required in these medieval coronations or weddings even when no such presiding central figure is present. For example, two French manuscripts of William of Tyre’s Histoire d’Outremer, one in the British Library and dated towards the middle of the thirteenth century, the other produced slightly later and conserved in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, include representations of Fulk being crowned as King of Jerusalem in 1188 accompanied by his Queen Melisende (fig. 45; Arkyves 209).33 In the London version, a bishop stands to one side of the couple and in the Paris miniature he is between them, but in both cases Fulk occupies the proper right and is crowned with the bishop’s right hand. 33 London, BM Yates Thompson MS 12, fol. 82v (1243–61); Paris, BnF français 779, fol. 123v (1270–75); Folda 1993, cat. 8, 9, fig. 11, 12.

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The binary and ternary types are presented together in two registers on the lid of a Byzantine ivory casket in the Palazzo Venezia, Rome. Above, Christ blesses the marriage of an emperor (likely Leo VI, in 898 or 900) and his empress (two possible brides have been posited); below the royal pair is doubled by “donor” figures.34 Both men are on the proper right. Fulk and Melisende adopt the same spousal positions in depictions of their betrothal and, clasping right hands before the officiant, their marriage.35 The man-on-the-right handclasp motif was a useful motif to signify the ceremony of marriage, not only between identifiable, high-status individuals, but also for anonymous spouses (Arkyves 210).36 It was also projected onto biblical scenes of matrimony, beginning at the beginning with Adam and Eve. Their hands are joined by God, with the first husband on the proper right, in several medieval manuscripts, including an Italian miniature dated to the second quarter of the fourteenth century, conserved in Munich (fig. 46).37 The same format is used in a Psalter, also in Munich and dated circa 1310, when Michal is given away by her father to David (1 Samuel 18:27; Arkyves 211), and again for the marriage of Esau with the daughter of Ishmael (Genesis 36:3) in a middle Byzantine Octateuch in the Vatican Biblioteca Apostolica (Arkyves 212).38 This last manuscript also contains a second instance of the motif in an illustration of a rarely depicted story (Genesis 6:2) of the marriage between the sons of God (depicted on the proper right) and the daughters of man (on the proper left), with a hand-clasping couple standing in the centre (Arkyves 213).39 More examples are hardly necessary; it is not controversial that male priority at the right was a consistent principle rule of medieval imagery, as argued by Schleif. Yet, it had not always been thus. When and why did the arrangement change? The chronology is obscured by several factors: the uncertainty of dating, exiguity of the archaeological record in the intervening centuries, 34 The so-called David casket, Rome, Museo Nazionale del Palazzo di Venezia, inv. 1491; Cutler and Oikonomides 1988, 83–84, fig. 6. 35 Bern, Burgerbibliothek MS 112, fol. 101v (c. 1270); Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique MS 9492–3, fol. 173 (1292–95); Folda 1993, cat. 7, 10, fig. 16, 17. 36 Gratian, Decretum, Vatican, BAV, Vat. lat. 2491, fol. 478r (fourteenth century). 37 Speculum humanae salvationis, Munich, BSB Clm 146, fol. 4r (second quarter, fourteenth century). Other examples are discussed and illustrated by Heimann 1975, without comment on position. A church historian, not an art historian, notes the lateral placement of Adam and Eve: P.L. Reynolds 2016, 92. 38 David and Michal: Psalter, Munich BSB Cod. Gall. 16, fol. 35v (c. 1310). Esau: Vatican BAV Vat. gr. 749, fol. 96v (twelfth century). 39 Vatican BAV Vat. gr. 749, fol. 49r. See Walter 1979, 280–83, fig. 10, with another example in his fig. 11.

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Figure 46 Adam marries Eve. Speculum humanae salvationis. Munich, BSB Clm 146, fol. 4r (second quarter, fourteenth century)

and a difference in functional context, from mainly funerary imagery in the early Christian period to articles of personal adornment, manuscript illuminations, and panel paintings later in the Middle Ages. Some finger rings and decorative medallions generally regarded as wedding tokens or marriage commemorations could suggest that the shift of spousal positions occurred, or at least got under way, quite early. A ring in Athens, considered to be sixthcentury, retains the old lateral scheme, although it is atypical in other respects as well.40 But for the most part, objects ascribed dates after the end of the fifth century seem more often to place the husband at the proper right.41 One barometer of change might be the treatment of the marital handclasp motif on some rings and medallions, notably the central pendants of two luxurious gold marriage belts of the sixth or seventh century, on which the husband is 40 41

Athens, Cannelopoulos Museum; Vikan 1990, fig. 17. Compare illustrations in Vikan 1990: his fig. 4–6 and 10 with his fig. 12–16, 18–19. See also the objects illustrated in Kantorowicz 1960.

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consistently at the right.42 The replacement of Concordia by Christ as the presiding figure between the spouses may have had some impact, the husband being moved to the Lord’s right and only consequentially to his wife’s, but the man-on-the-right preference is not limited to those versions of the scene. On the famous “David plate” from Nicosia, dated to the second or third decades of the seventh century, the eponymous Hebrew king and his bride Michal join right hands while Saul officiates (Arkyves 214); he is on the proper right, the same arrangement as in the previously noted fourteenth-century version of this event (Arkyves 211).43 The evidence thus suggests that husbands began reclaiming the right as early as the sixth or seventh century, and that this migration was substantially complete by the twelfth. Without a much larger early medieval corpus to investigate, the trajectory remains unclear; it is not unlikely that for upwards of half a millennium the depiction of spouses was laterally inconsistent, dependant on medium, location, context, and perhaps the whim of individual imagemakers and their customers. Like the timing, the rationale(s) for the exchange of positions between spouses is uncertain, but a plausible impetus was a further aggravation of wifely subordination. Legal and social developments adverse to the status of women included a restrictive, patrilineal definition of family relationships, the practice of primogeniture, and a decline in the wife’s position before the law. The most significant development was a successful intrusion of church authority into the practices of courtship and betrothal, the conduct of the wedding ceremony, and the state of matrimony. Marriage became firmly Christianized as a sacrament, ecclesiastical control thereby adding practical force to the biblical and patristic conceptions of wifely subjugation. According to Georges Duby, by the twelfth century they were more subjugated to their husbands than ever; the medieval household adopted “a monarchical cast” with authority vested in its “head” (caput mansi).44 The old tropes of dominance and submission were not only repeated but amplified by medieval churchmen in ever more forthright, even strident, assertions of female inferiority. Ambrosiaster’s claim that women were not made in the image of God received greater traction in the twelfth century than it had 42

Paris, Louvre, Bj 2270 (end of the sixth century); Musée du Louvre 1992, 133–34 (cat. 89, notice by Catherine Metzger); Washington, D.C., Dumbarton Oaks Collection, no. 37.33. Vikan 1990, 161–63; Kantorowicz 1960. 43 Nicosia, Cyprus Museum, inv. J452 (dated 613–629/630); Durand, Giovannoni and Mastoraki 2012, 72–73 (cat. 19e). 44 Duby 1978, 6, 10; Duby 1983, 46, 105–06. See also Hierlihy 1983; Shahar 1983, 65–125. On the establishment of marriage as a sacrament, see the magisterial work of P.L. Reynolds 2016.

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in the fourth or fifth.45 Patristic interpretations of original sin that assigned primal responsibility to both the first spouses were replaced by a doctrine of unique feminine guilt. Augustine had balanced Eve’s disobedience and dishonesty against Adam’s weakness and his failure to resist, while Ivo of Chartres, a highly regarded canonist writing at the end of the eleventh century, considered that the biblical message admitted no such equivalence: Adam was led into temptation by Eve, not vice versa.46 Medieval commentators also added new reasons for and characterizations of the woman’s subordinate condition: the husband rules, the wife is ruled; he commands and she obeys; he is her lord as Christ is his.47 Positive judgements of women were inevitably qualified. Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, generously included women in his schematic presentation of the three social orders – those who pray, those who work, those who fight – only to add that they participated not in their own right, but in their capacity as wives, subservient to the real actors.48 The bride was sometimes assimilated to the Church and the husband to Christ, no doubt ennobling for both but reinforcing his primacy and superiority.49 Even the rare woman’s voice conformed: Hildegard of Bingen, although she championed marriage, regarded wives as bound to obey and serve; they were like the moon reflecting the light from the sun (i.e. the man). Hildegard was, as Marie-Thérèse d’Alverny put it, no champion of women’s rights.50 Open misogyny became unremarkable. Hugo de Folieto (or Hugh de Fouilloy) cited the deuterocanonical Sirach (Ecclesiasticus): “from a woman sin had its beginning, and because of her we all die.”51 Woman, he warned, is the cause of evil, the origin of fault, the tinder of sin.52 Such remarks can be interpreted as defensive measures by a monastic leader – Hugo was prior of a Benedictine foundation near Amiens after 1152 – intended to gird his small community against the proverbial women’s wiles and to protect the newly enforced regime of celibacy. Some of the more extreme among such opinions 45 46

Javelet 1967, 1.236–45. Ivo of Chartres, Decretum VIII, 92, PL 161, 603. The views of other theologians on this issue are canvassed by d’Alverny 1977. 47 Ivo of Chartres, Decretum VIII, 93, 97; PL 161, 603–04. 48 Gilbert (Gillebertus) of Limerick, De statu ecclesiae, PL 159, 997C. “Nec dico feminarum esse officium orare, arare, aut certe bellare; sed tamen his conjugatae sunt atque subserviunt, qui orant, et arant et pugnant.” 49 Citations in Javelet 1967, 244. 50 D’Alverny 1977, 122–23. 51 Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 25:24. 52 Hugo de Folieto, De nuptiis I.2, PL 176, 1206.

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might have remained in the cloister.53 But they were at least reflections of, if not incitements to, commonly held views. The cultural, legal, doctrinal, and ecclesiastical developments that further diminished the wife’s status in marriage, amply documented in the twelfth century, may have been underway as early as the ninth.54 That would still leave a gap in chronology, since the visual transformation, the exchange of spousal positions in double portraits, seems to have begun earlier still. This discrepancy could be an illusion, an artefact of inadequate information; or it might be, precisely, the missing evidence for an earlier start to the social process. Alternatively, there could be a real asynchrony between visual culture and other preserved forms of discourse in the early Middle Ages. 3

Transgression: Medieval Women on the Right

Men dominate but do not completely monopolize the proper right. When medieval women appear in this position, with their husbands at the left, there is probably a reason. One cause is gender affinity, an association of the spouses with other figures in the same image whose own lateral positions are dictated by a different convention. For example, when the Virgin Mary and John stand on either side of Christ, the Mother of God is at his right and the Beloved Disciple at his left. When this trio was accompanied by a mortal husband and wife, the man-on-the-right rule could be maintained, putting him on the side of the Virgin and her with St John, or the spouses might be reversed, to keep figures of the same sex together. Both solutions were adopted. King Cnut let his queen Ælfglu take the proper right to stand beneath the Virgin in an eleventh-century manuscript in London (Arkyves 215), but the male figure (presumably a husband) was not so generous on an ivory panel with similar iconography in Liverpool, dated to late in the thirteenth century (Arkyves 216).55 The same conflict arose in connection with representations of the Coronation of the Virgin in which, as discussed later in this chapter, the usual format placed Mary at Christ’s right. If “real” spouses appeared in

53 54

See Fossier 1977. Duby 1978, 18. Harper 2012, 682, broadly suggests the middle Byzantine period in the East and the era of the Gregorian reforms (eleventh century) in the West. 55 Liber vitae, London, BL Stowe MS 944, fol. 6r (1031); ivory plaque, National Museums Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery, inv. M8011 (1280–99). Other examples: Oxford, Keble College MS 49, fol. 7r (1270–76; wife on the right); silk, Paris, Louvre MI 1121 (c. 1375; husband on the right).

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the same pictorial space, they might be arranged in parallel with the gender of the divine protagonists or left in their customary positions.56 A second force pulling the wife to the proper right was status. In some medieval spousal double portraits, the husband’s claim to this privileged position was based solely on marital hierarchy, his role as lord and master of his wife and head of the household. In many other representations, the male figure was also of higher social, political, or spiritual rank. Fulk is both husband and king. In this case, masculinity is the source of his superior role in marriage as well as his royal precedence. But attributes of status are not the exclusive province of men, setting up potential conflicts in lateral priority. Sometimes even the wife’s superiority – usually of a moral or spiritual dimension – did not engender any change in the conventional arrangement. The legend of St Cecilia has it that she squared her vow of chastity with a parental demand for marriage by converting her betrothed, Valerian, to both Christianity and abstinence. He suffered the consequence of martyrdom, along with his brother and a converted jailer, but these men all derived their holiness from Cecilia, who was also martyred. The couple are depicted together in a late fourteenth-century panel painting in Philadelphia attributed to the Master of the Pesaro Crucifix receiving “crowns of roses and lilies” from an angel as described in the Golden Legend. St Cecilia remains modestly positioned at the proper left (fig. 47).57 In this instance, the wife’s claim to higher spiritual status was insufficient to dislodge her husband, also a martyr, from the proper right, but in other cases the inequality is more marked, and determinative of lateral placement. The Virgin Mary ranks so far above her husband, however admirable, saintly, and chaste, that in depictions of their marriage, she rarely appears to his left (e.g. Arkyves 217).58 To digress momentarily from spouses, the phenomenon of women outranking men also arises in double portraits of a royal mother and her son. She usually ends up at the proper right: Blanche of Castille beside St Louis in a thirteenth-century Bible Moralisée in the Morgan Library (Arkyves 218); Queen Melisende with Baldwin III in the Paris manuscript of William of Tyre’s 56 E.g. husband on the proper left on the thirteenth-century tympanum at Lemoncourt (Lorraine); on the proper right in a stained-glass panel in Cologne, Museum Schnütgen, inv. M 3 (1250–60). 57 Master of the Pesaro Crucifix, Saint Cecilia of Rome and Her Husband, Valerian, Being Crowned by an Angel, panel from an altarpiece, Philadelphia Museum of Art, inv. 1943-4051 (c. 1375–80). De Voragine, The Golden Legend (translation by William Granger Ryan) at 705. 58 Gospels of Otto III, Munich, BSB Clm 4453, fol. 28r (c. 1000). This and other examples, of both lateral types, in E. Hall 1994, plates 4, 8, fig. 11, 14.

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Figure 47 Master of the Pesaro Crucifix, Saint Cecilia of Rome and Her Husband, Valerian, Being Crowned by an Angel. Panel from an altarpiece. Philadelphia, Philadelphia Museum of Art, inv. 1943-40-51 (c. 1375–80) The John D. McIlhenny Collection, 1943

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Histoire d’Outremer noted above (Arkyves 219).59 When the mother remains in the female spot at her son’s left, the reason may be traceable to specific dynastic relationships or local conditions. On a wall painting of the church of Taxiarches Metropoleos in Kastoria (Macedonia), the Bulgarian King Michael Asen occupies the position at the right of the Archangel Michael, relegating his mother, Irene Komnene, to the left.60 Unlike Blanche and Melisende, who were probably still ruling when they commissioned double portraits to promote their sons’ royal careers, Irene Komnene had already given up the throne. Some such logic probably lies behind the different assignments of maternal and filial positions. Female entitlement to the proper right may derive not from an inherent characteristic (the Virgin, Queen, mother) but rather from the individual woman’s special connection to the image. Where the essential purpose of a representation is to honour or commemorate a wife, this may justify her depiction at the husband’s right. A relief sculpture in Cosenza (Calabria) portrays Queen Isabella of Aragon and King Philip III of France to the right and left, respectively, of a standing Virgin with Child.61 The monument was erected to commemorate the tragic death of the six-month pregnant queen, who fell from a horse in this Italian town in 1271 as she returned from Tunis with Philip and the remains of his father, Louis IX. The deceased Isabella is depicted kneeling with eyes closed while the grieving husband pleads for her salvation. Such examples recall the similar lateral organization of spousal double portraits on early Christian funerary monuments; honour is conferred on the wife by the husband and redounds to his benefit. But the woman’s special connection may, instead, be her own affair, not merely a reflection of her husband. Female patronage or ownership accounts for several examples of wife-on-the-right double portraits, and were medieval context and documentation not so sparse, it would probably explain many more. Schleif refers to an early fourteenth-century relief carving in the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum in Munich, formerly in a chapel of the Alter Hof of that city, which depicts Ludwig the Bavarian with his second wife Margaret of Holland, later Holy Roman Emperor and Empress, kneeling on either side of the Virgin and Child (fig. 48).62 Ludwig joins his hands in prayer while Margarete holds out a large 59 Blanche and Louis: Toledo-Morgan Moralized Bible, New York, Morgan M.240, fol. 8r (1227–34); Melisende and Baldwin III: Paris, BnF français 779, fol. 145v (1270–75), Folda 1993, cat. 8, fig. 10. 60 Drakopoulou 2013, 122–23, fig. 107 (c. 1255). 61 See Bertaux 1898, illustrated at 267. 62 Antonius Berthold, sandstone relief of King Ludwig and his wife Margarete, Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, inv. MA957 (c. 1324); Schleif 2005, 231–33, fig. 8.22.

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Figure 48 Antonius Berthold, sandstone relief of Kaiser Ludwig and his wife Margarete. Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum inv. MA957 (c. 1324) Photograph: Walter Haberland © Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, München

model of a chapel, recording her donation and justifying her position at the proper right. Female patronage is not often so ostentatiously revealed, but other wives probably owe their positions on the proper right to this role. It is a likely explanation for the appearance of Hawisia DuBois (or De Bois) on the privileged side of the Archangels Gabriel and Michael and the Virgin and Child in three full-page miniatures of a fourteenth-century book of hours in the Morgan Library, in each case opposite a man on the other side (Arkyves 220).63 Her connection with the book is indicated by the family arms on several folios, as well as an unusual insertion of her name in some of the prayers, like “your servant Hawisia” ( famula tua Hawisia) on folio 30r. The museum web site labels all three men as her husband but they do not look the same; perhaps he is the bearded figure on folio 2v, the others without beards on folios 1v and 2r being male relatives. Female patronage is still less secure but nonetheless plausible for the Pabenham-Clifford Hours in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, where 63 DuBois Hours, New York, Morgan M.700, fol. 1v, 2r and 3v (1325–30); the illustration is fol. 3v (all three are on the Morgan web site). The male and female positions are remarked by Sand 2014, 255. On the evidence of Hawisia’s patronage, see K.A. Smith 2003, 20–32.

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John de Pabenham and his second wife, Joan Clifford, are seen kneeling in supplication before a Throne of Mercy (God the Father, Holy Spirit, crucified Christ), she on the proper right (Arkyves 221).64 As evidence of the wife being the book’s primary audience, Alexa Sand cites the greater number of images of her praying alone (see, e.g. fol. 3r), grammatical constructions using feminine word-endings, and the “elegantly coiffed, youthful female heads” inhabiting several initials (e.g. fol. 17v).65 One could add as corroboration the appearance of Joan Clifford alone with Christ (fol. 29r). These indicia of patronage are not as robust as in the previous examples, nor is the putative connection between female ownership and spousal positions. The inference is further weakened by an illumination showing the couple kneeling in their conventional lateral positions below an Annunciation (fol. 2v, Arkyves 222), although this could be an instance of gender alignment, since John appears below Gabriel and Joan below Mary. At the speculative end of the female patronage spectrum lies the Crucifixion window in the choir of Poitiers cathedral. The two kneeling figures at its base cannot be identified with certainty but they are probably Eleanor of Aquitaine, on the proper right, and her husband, Henry II of England, on the left.66 They were married in Poitiers but Eleanor’s ties to the city were far stronger; it was the source of her family title, the place where she was born and died. Apparently at Henry’s suggestion she returned there alone in 1168 motivated, in the words of Ralph V. Turner, by the desire “to wield power over her patrimony, a wish to assume her hereditary right as duchess.”67 She continued to assert authority in Poitiers for the next six years and local tradition credits her with rebuilding the cathedral, although there is no direct evidence of this.68 The Crucifixion window is generally ascribed to the decade from 1165–75, during most of which Eleanor was in charge. Her position on the king’s right might thus be read as an act of self-promotion, and possibly a slight to her absent husband. Depictions of courtship seem to have their own rules for establishing the relative positions of the suitor and his lady, unrelated to status, personal connection, or patronage. The positions of the protagonists often depend on a story, on what is happening at the moment captured in the image. In formally constructed, static scenes, greater conformity to the man-on-the-right principle might be expected. This is probably the case more often than not, although 64 Cambridge, Fitzwilliam MS 242, fol. 28v (c. 1315–20). 65 Sand 2014, 251, fig. 80. 66 Grinnell 1946, with discussion of condition, inscription, and restoration, illustrated as fig. 1. See the detail illustration in Turner 2009, fig. 9. 67 Turner 2009, 184, discussion at 184–187; Hivergnaux 2002, 66–71. 68 Mussat 1963, 244–46.

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consistency is elusive. One interesting sub-class in which the man is usually on the proper left is the “lovers-on-a-bench” scene, typified by miniatures in the massive Codex Manesse, a fourteenth-century book of Middle German songs and poems in Heidelberg (Arkyves 223).69 Most of the exceptions seem random but occasionally an explanation is suggested by other elements of the composition. In one French thirteenth-century miniature, the positions of the figures on the bench match up with two other pairings without benches (and therefore subject to the usual man-on-the-right rule) below (Arkyves 224).70 The significance of the suitor being at his lady’s left in most of the lovers-ona-bench images is not explicitly remarked in the literature, but this form of courtship representation has more generally been related to a religious model, the Glorification or Coronation of the Virgin.71 This could provide the missing explanation since in those images, as will be discussed below, the female Mother of God is normally on the male Son’s right. After exhausting whatever is known or can be surmised about female status, patronage, special circumstances of production, and potential visual models, one is left with a certain number of medieval representations with women on the proper right that defy ready explanation. Some could be related to an eccentric narrative. For example, in a copy of the Roman d’Alexandre en prose in the British Library (c. 1300), Philip of Macedonia sits to the left of his betrothed at a pre-wedding dinner, but there is much more to the illustration than that (Arkyves 225).72 At the bride’s end of the table, Philip’s son Alexander arrives unannounced to defend his mother’s honour in a complicated Oedipal family triangle: having abandoned Alexander’s mother, Olympias, Philip has decided to remarry, and the avenging son is depicted barging in upon the feast and murdering his father’s courtier as a proxy for the imagined parricide. The unorthodox seating arrangement might have something to do with the fact that this dinner does not actually precede a marriage, because Philip ends up returning to Olympias. So the representation is not, in fact, a spousal portrait. In addition, the placement of the would-be bride puts her closer to the violent event that presages her rejection.

69 Codex Manesse, Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek Cod. Pal. germ. 848, fol. 271r and 311r (c. 1300–40). Other examples: Italian herbal, London BL MS Sloane 4016, fol. 44v (c. 1400); Chansonnier, Montpellier, Bibliothèque Universitaire de Médicine MS H196, fol. 270r. 70 Guillemus de Conchis, De Philosophia mundi, Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève MS 2200, fol. 198v (1276–77). 71 Shalev-Eyni 2008, 189–90. 72 London, BL Harley MS 4979, fol. 17v (late thirteenth or early fourteenth century). See Pérez-Simon 2011, 13.

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Another unusual story that prompted a marital woman-on-the-right scene is a hard legal case explicated in Gratian’s Decretum. The jurist’s Causa XXXIII concerns a woman who took a lover to replace a husband rendered impotent by sorcery; the first husband later recovered his sexual prowess and reclaimed his wife. A four-compartment miniature in a copy of the Decretum dated circa 1300 conserved in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge depicts (i) the wife’s complaint to a bishop of the husband’s sexual failure; (ii) copulation with her lover; (iii) the second marriage, performed with the traditional handclasp; and (iv) reunification with the first husband, again signalled by the right hands being brought together (Arkyves 226).73 (Gratian’s text adds an unillustrated complication that made the case more challenging: the first husband took a vow of chastity without the consent of his wife). In the last two panels – the aborted second marriage and the about-to-be reconfirmed first – the bride is on the groom’s right, a position as unconventional as the events. In sum, many of the medieval representations of spouses with the wife on the proper right are the proverbial exceptions that prove the rule. Her placement does not undermine but rather confirms the pre-eminence of the right side because the lateral arrangements reflect the woman’s higher status, a special connection between the wife and the image, including female patronage, or perhaps a narrative peculiarity. When one of these factors created a conflict with the husband’s usual claim to the right, either party might be the winner. 4

The Coronation of the Virgin: Sponsa on the Right

During the papacy of Innocent II (1130–43), the Roman insular church of Santa Maria in Trastevere was rebuilt and an unprecedented mosaic inserted in the semi-dome of its apse (fig. 49).74 Christ is seated with the Virgin Mary on a wide throne placed off-centre so that, although seated at one end, he nonetheless establishes the centre of the composition. She is on his right, dressed in an elaborately brocaded and gilded gown, wearing a golden crown, dripping with jewels, and holding an unfurled rotulus towards the viewer.75 Christ, in simpler but still luxurious attire, affectionately places his right arm across his mother’s

73 Gratian, Decretum, Cambridge, Fitzwilliam MS 262, fol. 86v (c. 1300); L’Engle and Gibbs 2001, 146–52 (cat. 8, notice by Gibbs), Pl. 8d. 74 Oakeshott 1967, 250–55; Verdier 1980, 40–47; Kitzinger 1980. 75 Verdier 1980, 41n91, seems alone in considering the crown a later addition, claiming the original displayed only a pearl diadem. Compare Kitzinger 1980, 10.

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Figure 49 Glorification of the Virgin. Apse mosaic, Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome (c. 1140–43) Author’s photograph

shoulders.76 His other hand balances an open codex on his knee. Seven holy ecclesiastics, including the Pope, stand beside the throne, four on Christ’s left and three more to the Virgin’s right. Depicting Mary on a heavenly throne with her Son was a novelty in Rome. Three inscriptions helped to unlock its meaning, directly for the privileged few who were literate and had access to the best sight lines, indirectly for everyone else.77 The longest of these texts subtends the image. It opens with a dedication of the church to the Mother of God and closes with Innocent’s self-congratulations for the renovation. In between, immediately beneath the image, is the invocation: “Where you sit, Christ, will be a seat beyond time; worthy of your right hand is she enveloped by the golden robe.”78 This sentence 76 The same gesture appears in the lovers-on-a-bench miniature in the Manesse Codex, noted above. 77 On the circumstances of viewing: Kinney 2002, 19. 78 “IN QUA CHRISTE SEDES MANET VLTRA SECVLA SEDES DIGNA TUIS DEXTRIS EST QUA(m) TEGIT AVREA VESTIS CV(m) MOLES RVITVRA VETVS FORET.” Translation by Kinney 2002, 25.

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parallels several elements of the representation: Christ’s throne, the Virgin’s golden dress, and her position at his right. The other two inscriptions intrude within the image. They are part of the picture itself, what Mieczysław Wallis suggestively called “semantic enclaves.”79 The first, on the Virgin’s scroll, repeats the bride’s description of her groom in the Song of Songs (Cant. 2:6 and 8:3): “His left hand is under my head, and his right hand shall embrace me.”80 The latter phrase describes the image, or the image pictures this text. The second “enclave” inscription is on Christ’s codex. It, too, reprises or is reprised by what is seen: “Come, my chosen one, and I will place in you my throne.”81 This gentle imperative is richly inter-textual. It evokes another passage in the Song of Songs, where the bridegroom exhorts his betrothed to come with him and be crowned (Cant. 4:8), alludes to the wedding ode of the Psalm 44 (45), and directly quotes Roman antiphons associated with the Assumption feast day, a liturgical source that also evokes the Song of Songs and the wedding Psalm.82 Long-standing Christian interpretation of the Song of Songs identified Christ with the bridegroom and the bride with the Church.83 In the twelfth century, a number of theologians (Rupert of Deutz, Honorius of Autun, Alain de Lille, among others) promoted a new exegesis in which allegory was replaced or supplemented by typology: the “betrothed” was now taken as a direct reference to the Virgin Mary.84 The pictured embrace in the Santa Maria in Trastevere mosaic was consistent with this modern understanding of the canticles. Some viewers might have found the notion the holy Mother and divine Son as bride 79 Wallis 1975, 59–72. 80 “Leva eius sub capite meo et dex(t)era illius ampleabit(ur) me.” The translation here is Douay-Rheims. Others adopt an optative construction or render leva and dextera as arms rather than hands. Nothing turns on such interpretive distinctions here. 81 “Veni electa mea et ponam in te thronum meum.” As noted by Kitzinger 1980, 11n37, the sense is often translated as if the words in and te were reversed (I will place you in my throne). The manuscript tradition of the Golden Legend in this regard is summarized by Lavin and Lavin 1999, 109–12. 82 On the liturgical connection, see Kitzinger 1980, 11; Kinney 2016a, 376–77; Hodne 2007, 20, with additional references in his n.2. Most translations of Cant. 4:8 do not refer to her crowning but the Vulgate included coronaberis. The main inscription has also been related to the wedding ode of the Psalm: Barcley Lloyd 1990, 67–71; Kinney 2016b, 20–21. 83 Marchesin 2008, 284–85, argues that the female figure reverts to a personification of the Church in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century coronations. The argument is not persuasive given explicit identification of Mary by inscription in a number of instances. In any event, the issue of lateral placement would be the same. 84 Thérel 1984, 95–193; Astell 1990, 42–72; Matter 1990, 151–77; Gold 1985, 55–60; Lavin and Lavin 1999, 57–61. The broader connection between Marian identification with the bride of the Song of Songs and her bodily Assumption emerges from the sources summarized by B. Reynolds 2012, 318–29.

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and bridegroom unsettling; a few others, infused with mystical eroticism, could have reacted sensually. But the medieval audience as a whole would not have been discomfited, offended, or aroused by Christ and the Virgin depicted as sponsus and sponsa. They appreciated the representation’s spiritual significance. It evoked the purest form of marriage, a celestial union of sacred virgins one of whom had been generated from the other. In the near contemporaneous words of Saint Bernard: “he is a virgin blossom produced from a virgin stem” (virgo virga virgine generatus).85 Why, then, was this holy bride on the divine groom’s right? Notwithstanding the ascendency of her cult, the Virgin had certainly not surpassed the status and authority of Christ; nor is there any parallel to be drawn with mother and son images like Blanche of Castille and Saint Louis or Melisende and Baldwin III (Arkyves 218, 219). Those mothers elevated their sons; this son elevated his mother, both figuratively and literally. Like the Roman or early Christian wife, the Virgin’s position on the proper right could be regarded as an honour paid her by the bridegroom, without any diminution of his status. This reasoning is not incorrect but it is incomplete. There are more compelling and direct explanations for the lateral arrangement in the Roman mosaic. The most obvious arise from the inscriptions. The one below the image declared the Virgin to be worthy of Christ’s right hand; she could hardly have been depicted on the other side. The impact of the verse set out on the Madonna’s scroll is more complex. The text places the bridegroom’s left hand under the bride’s head and would have his right arm embracing her. In a depiction of two side-by-side figures facing the viewer this can be accomplished without contortion only if she is on his left. Precisely this literal rendition of the postures illuminates the Ratmann Sacramentary in Hildesheim, roughly contemporary with the Santa Maria in Trastevere mosaic (Arkyves 227).86 The same approach was taken by Chimabue in his famous Assumption fresco in the upper church of San Francesco, Assisi (1272–80), more legible in an emulation attributed to the Cesi Master (c. 1298–1305), now in Paris (Arkyves 228).87 The cycle in Assisi is of special interest with respect to its treatment of laterality. For while the Virgin is at Christ’s left as the pair rise to heaven, embracing as described in the Song of Songs, a subsequent panel depicts her enthroned in 85 Sermones in Cantica Canticorum, XLVII, 5; PL 183, 1010A; translation by “a priest of Mount Melleray.” 86 Hildesheim, Dom-Museum Hildesheim, Domschatz, Inventar-Nr. DS 37, fol. 186v (illumination 1159; text overwritten c. 1400). 87 Cimabue: Bellosi 1998, 165 (suggesting a slightly later date), 202–05, ill. 209. Cesi Master: Paris, Musée Marmottan-Monet, inv. D.9-1993, on deposit from the Fondation Ephrussi de Rothschild (c. 1298–1305). Both are illustrated by Lavin and Lavin 1999, fig. 17–20. See also Stubblebine 1967.

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glory. Here she sits at his right with his right arm flung across her shoulders, the same solution adopted a century and a half earlier in Santa Maria in Trastevere that sacrifices the first part of the verse from the Song of Songs in order to allow the Virgin the privilege of the proper right This lateral positioning also conformed to theological currents swirling around the notion of her Assumption when the Roman mosaic was produced that explicitly likened this event to Christ’s Ascension. A sermon of Nicholas of Clairvaux (active 1145–c. 1176) extolled the excellence of the Son’s levitation and the glory of the Mother’s.88 Peter Abelard (c. 1079–1142) drew the proper lateral consequence from this parallel: as Christ ascending into the heavens is said to sit at the right side of God, so upon his Mother’s Assumption she joins with him at his right.89 The same conception was incorporated into the most widely read of all medieval hagiographic texts, the Golden Legend, a compilation prepared by Jacobus de Voragine early in the 1260s. His description of the Assumption repeats the words inscribed on Christ’s codex in the Trasteverian apse, adds several passages from the Song of Songs, and describes the Virgin’s apotheosis just as it is depicted: “And so, rejoicing, she was taken into heaven and seated upon a throne of glory to the right of her Son.”90 Celestial enthronement was the Virgin’s eternal reward for her service in the Incarnation, earning her the place of honour at Christ’s right. This did not truly consign the sponsus to the left of the sponsa because he occupied his traditional place in the centre, establishing rather than participating in the lateral organization of the image. Other visual elements complement the favoured placement of the Mother of God at the proper right. Compared to the other figures she is larger, closer to Christ, and shares his throne rather than standing beside it. She is not merely an observer but a principal actor, the bride of Christ whom he embraces with his right arm. 88 Nicholas of Clairvaux, Sermo in assumptione beatissimae Mariae Virginis, PL 144, 717: “Intuere mentalibus oculis Filium ascendentem, et Matrem assumptam, et vidibis aliquid excellentius in Ascensione Filii exhiberi, et aliquid gloriosus in Assumptione Virginis demonstrati” (Regard with your mind’s eyes the Son ascending and the Mother being assumed and you will see something excellent shown in the Son’s Ascension and something glorious demonstrated by the Mother’s Assumption). Although attributed to Peter Damian in the PL, this sermon is now accepted as a work of Nicholas of Clairvaux: Ryan 1947, 154–55. 89 Abelard, Sermo 26, PL 178, 542D–543A. “Qui [Christus] quemadmodum coelos ascendens, a destris Dei sedisse describitur, ita hodie matrem assumptam a dextris suis collocasse non dubitant, cui olim per Prophetam dictum fuerat: Astitit regina a dextris tuis, in vestitu deaurato [Psalm 44 (45):10].” 90 Text in the Maggioni edition (2007) at 2.782–783; translation by William Granger Ryan (at 466).

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The apse of Santa Maria in Trastevere lies close to the beginning of an extensive collection of medieval and later images sometimes grouped under the compendious description “Coronation of the Virgin.” When, as in this mosaic, the Mother of God is already crowned, they may be differentially labelled as triumph, enthronement, or glorification (collectively hereafter “Glorification”). The typological distinctions can be important in considering genealogy, dissemination, and a host of interpretive questions.91 Lasse Hodne nonetheless argued that the similarities are more important than the differences, and warned against nomenclature that artificially separates closely related monuments.92 No one could seriously question, for example, the close connection between the mosaic in Santa Maria in Trastevere and another in Santa Maria Maggiore, three kilometers away and executed about 150 years later. In the later work, Jacopo Torriti captured the moment of coronation while paying explicit homage to the precedent in several particulars, including placing the identical text in Christ’s codex (Arkyves 229).93 Whether it is desirable to flatten the formal distinctions under a holistic approach depends on the issue under examination. For the question of laterality, Hodne’s simplification is defensible and convenient. The Virgin’s position vis-à-vis Christ does not depend, either empirically or conceptually, on whether the post-Assumption celestial ceremony is in process or has been consummated. The earliest known Coronation is a damaged but still legible capital from Reading Abbey, probably datable to the decade preceding the Santa Maria in Trastevere mosaic (Arkyves 230); some fragments may point to other, even earlier lapidary monuments of this type in England.94 Émile Mâle claimed that neither Italy nor England but France, and more particularly the fertile mind of the Abbott Suger, was the origin of the iconography.95 His thesis has not withstood the test of time, but it was indeed in France and neighbouring territories that the Glorification and Coronation initially took root. Italy followed later, although with great gusto, while England was never especially receptive to the iconography it may be credited with having invented. The subject is not characteristic of Byzantine art.96

91 92 93 94 95 96

See Kitzinger 1980; Gold 1987, 51–65. Hodne 2007, 19–25. Oakeshott 1967, 313–316, pl. XXVIII; Verdier 1980, 155–60. Reading Museum and Art Gallery, REDMG: 1992.95.1 (c. 1130); Zarnecki 1950; Heslop 2005. See Verdier 1976; additional references in Kitzinger 1980, 8n11. A thirteenth-century Coronation painting at Sinai is evidently a western intrusion. See Weitzmann 1963b, 186 and fig. 10.

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Hundreds of these Coronations and Glorifications were produced.97 They admit of many variations – in hand positions, gestures, postures, dress, attributes, and context – but one common feature is the arrangement of the protagonists: the Virgin appeared at Christ’s right side on the early English capital and the Santa Maria Trastevere mosaic, and she continued to claim this position in the vast majority of cases thereafter, in every medium. Notable among manuscripts is a miniature at the opening of a commentary on the Song of Songs by Honorius Augustodunensis in Munich, similar to but probably a bit later than the apse mosaic of Santa Maria in Trastevere. It adds tituli – sponsa and sponsus – that explicitly evoke the canticles and the marital reading referred to above (Arkyves 231).98 The Virgin’s lateral position is underscored in a thirteenth-century English manuscript in the British Library by the insertion of her Coronation within a decorated initial opening Psalm 109 (110), in which the Lord invites David to sit at his right hand (Arkyves 232).99 A large and elaborate version of the scene, accompanied by Peter and Paul and placed above the Resurrection, appears at the opening of Compline in a fourteenth-century French Book of Hours, also in the British Library (Arkyves 233).100 Virgin-on-the-right Coronations were carved in wood on the early fourteenth-century choir stalls in the cathedral of Cologne,101 and in ivory on the preserved central panel of a French triptych in London, of similar date, where an angel crowns the Virgin (Arkyves 234).102 An elegant, mid-thirteenth-century construction of the event in the Musée du Louvre comprises a series of ivory sculptures of its protagonists (Arkyves 235).103 Italian Trecento painters were especially partial to the subject.104 Looking back to the precedent of Cimabue’s Glorification in Assisi, Giotto executed a version in his Baroncelli altarpiece in Santa Croce, Florence, around 1328 that proved to be an influential model (Arkyves 236).105 Its Annunciation-like crossing of the Virgin’s hands and her bowed head were widely emulated across Italy, from Bernardo Daddi’s panel in London (Arkyves 237),106 to Paolo 97 Verdier 1980 remains fundamental as both catalogue and analysis. See also Hodne 2007. 98 Munich, BSB Clm 4550, fol. 1v (1147–64). It is often discussed in relation to the mosaic: See Kitzinger 1980, 9, fig. 3. 99 The York Psalter, London, BL Add MS 54179, fol. 110r (c. 1260). 100 The Hours of Yolande of Flanders, London, BL Yates Thompson MS 27, fol. 96v (1353–63). 101 Bergmann 1987, 2.134 (fig. 74). 102 London, V&A, inv. A.5-1941. 103 Paris, Louvre OA 58 (c. 1250–60); Caubet and Gaborit-Chopin 2004, 146, 161 (cat. 151). 104 Many can be consulted on photo archive web sites like the Fondazione Federico Zeri: http://catalogo.fondazionezeri.unibo.it/cerca/opera. 105 Baroncelli Altarpiece, Santa Croce, Florence (c. 1328). See Hodne 2007, 137–43. 106 Bernardo Daddi, London, National Gallery, NG6599 (c. 1340–45).

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Figure 50 Rosenheim Altarpiece, Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Inv.-Nr. MA 2363 (c. 1270)

Veneziano’s in Venice,107 and an anonymous mid-century Emilian version in Madrid (Arkyves 238).108 The so-called Rosenheim Altarpiece in the Bayerisches Nationalmuseum represents an early (c. 1270) and unusual northern example of the motif in panel painting (fig. 50).109 The Coronation was rendered in stained glass in Chartes Cathedral (circa 1205–15; Arkyves 239), on a panel from Sweden (or Westphalia, or near Prague) now in Minneapolis (Arkyves 240), and at the top of Duccio’s rose window made for the Duomo of Siena around 1287, now preserved in its Museo dell’Opera (Arkyves 241).110 Complementing the Roman apses previously remarked, 107 108 109 110

Paolo Veneziano, Venice, Galleria dell’Accademia, inv. 21 (1333–62); Hodne 2007, tav. 16. Master of 1355, Madrid, Thyssen-Bornemisza Museo Nacional, inv. 247 (1355). Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Inv.-Nr. MA2363 (c. 1270). Chartres: Cathédrale de Notre-Dame, vitrail 42, upper medallion. Sweden: Minneapolis Institute of Art, inv. 32.11; on the place of production, see Stones and Steyaert 1978, 22–24. Siena: Duccio, rose window now in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo; Verdier 1980, 153– 55, pl. 49; Hodne 2007, 139, tav. 18.

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a third Italian mosaic Coronation, attributed to Gaddo Gaddi, appears on the counter-façade of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence (Arkyves 242).111 In France, the scene became a staple of church portals, beginning with a Glorification at Senlis where it concludes the narrative of her death and assumption that are depicted immediately below (Arkyves 243).112 Coronations soon appeared on churches at Bruges, Mouzon, Moûtiers-SaintJean, and Reims, among others (Arkyves 244).113 An unusual French variant, remarked above on the ivory triptych in London, has an angel rather than Christ place a crown on the Virgin’s head. This form is most famously encountered in the tympanum of the Portal of the Virgin on the west façade of Notre-Dame in Paris (fig. 51).

Figure 51 Coronation of the Virgin. Paris, Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Portal of the Virgin (c. 1210–20) Photograph: U-M Library Digital Collections. Art Images for College Teaching/ Allan T. Kohl 111 Attributed to Gaddo Gaddi, Florence, Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (c. 1280–1300); Hodne 2007, tav. 19. 112 Senlis Cathedral, west façade, central portal (c. 1160). 113 Illustration is Reims Cathedral, central portal of west façade (c. 1211). Additional illustrations in Verdier 1980, pl. 9 (Senlis), 14 (Laon), 17 (Corbie), 18 (Chartres), 21 (Paris), 28 (Bruges), 29 (Mouzon), 30 (Longpré-les-Corps-Saints), 31 (Moûtiers-Saint-Jean), 33 (Pampelune), 34 (Noyon).

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An important difference between the Santa Maria in Trastevere mosaic and the hundreds of Coronations and Glorifications painted, sculpted, laid, or carved thereafter – and also, considering the English example, before – is a shift in the central axis. The Roman mosaic seems to be alone in having kept Christ in this position, forcing Mary off to his right. In the other representations, the holy protagonists are seated on either side of the mid-line.114 This symmetric composition is more balanced and stable, but it has significant semantic implications that can hardly have been lost on image-makers and viewers. Sponsus and sponsi are treated, in so far as their positions are concerned, more like ordinary spouses. All of the monuments referred to above place the Virgin at Christ’s right, in conformity with the scriptural, liturgical, doctrinal, and literary sources. The opposite arrangement is uncommon, well under 10 per cent of the total corpus, but it is apparent in a cursory review of catalogues and photographic databases. This lateral peculiarity is almost never remarked, with the notable exception of an eight-page excursus by Philippe Verdier in his seminal 1980 monograph on the Coronation.115 It would be convenient if these exceptional representations were confined to one region or concentrated in a single medium, but this is not the case. There seem to be no such lateral reversals among mosaics and stained glass, or on the English monuments, but that consistency is not meaningful given the small sample size.116 Reversals are found north and south of the Alps carved on church façades, illuminated in manuscripts, painted on panels and altarpieces. The earliest surviving Virgin-on-the-left Coronation in France is probably a miniature in a Psalter of the rite of Troyes (fig. 52) in the Bibliothèque nationale, dated as early as the turn of the thirteenth century.117 Sponsus and sponsa are seated separately, modestly dressed, as he places a crown on her bowed head. In the lower register, over a Dormition with apostles, a naked female

114 The only exception may be a tympanum at Quenington (Gloucestershire) dated c. 1150. See Zarnecki 1950, 10; Thérel 1984, 254. 115 Verdier 1980, 143–51. In her lengthy study of the iconography of Triumph and Coronation, Thérel (1984) refers in passing to some of the anomalous monuments, but never mentions the lateral placement of the protagonists. Two Virgin-on-the-left images are reproduced in Hodne 2007, fig. 17 and 20, one of which is a mistaken reversal in publication. The author does not comment on the laterality of either. This example is discussed in the Epilogue, below. 116 Verdier 1980, 147, mistakenly identified the previously cited window in Minneapolis (Arkyves 240) as a reversal. Either his notes were incorrect or he saw an erroneous photograph. 117 Psalterium ad usum ecclesiae Trecensis, Paris, BnF latin 238, fol. 62v; Verdier 1980, 146; dating proposed by Leroquais 1940–41, 38, followed by Zarnecki 1950, 9.

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Figure 52 Psalterium ad usum ecclesiae Trecensis. Paris, BnF, latin 238, fol. 62v (c. 1200?) © BnF

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figure representing the soul of the deceased Virgin walks to the viewer’s left along a drapery suspended by two angels. Lapidary examples of this unusual iconography appeared quickly, beginning with the south transept of Strasbourg’s Cathédrale Notre-Dame, probably datable between 1220 and 1225 (Arkyves 245).118 The west portal depicts the Dormition of the Virgin and her Coronation follows on the east portal. Immediately below the latter is a representation of her soul standing on a drapery held by angels; unlike the miniature, here she is fully clothed and moving in the opposite direction, oriented towards her own figure above. In a tympanum of the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne in Bourges (1240s) the soul, similarly supported, stands upright and frontal in pious prayer (Arkyves 246).119 Finally, one could include a miniature produced for a convent in the diocese of Basel, now in the Stifstbibliothek of St Gallen, where the requisite female figure ascends diagonally to the right without support or angels towards the framed Coronation (Arkyves 247).120 While there is no evidence connecting these four laterally reversed Coronations, the formal similarity, notably the motif of the Virgin’s soul, is not likely coincidental. Whether the common source was the Psalter of Troyes itself or some earlier manuscript, the conception was evidently “in the air” when it came to the attention of the cathedral design team at Strasbourg. The clerical advisers might well have been impressed by its combination of two strains of Assumption theology: the old idea of the apotheosis of the Virgin’s soul, and the newer theory of her bodily resurrection to sit beside Christ. Strasbourg must have been the model for later iterations on church façades at Dijon, Metz, and in an odd Romanesque idiom, at Kayserberg (Alsace), but as so often occurs, repetition led to dilution; the soul motif is no longer present.121 The impact was not limited to ecclesiastical reliefs. An elaborate variation of the Virgin-on-the-left Coronation also appears in a Cistercian psalter from Wettingen in the Swiss canton of Aargau, dated circa 1260 (Arkyves 248).122 Pinpointing where this Virgin-on-the-left iconography arose and how it was disseminated to just these locations, even if that were possible, would not explain why it developed at all. The positions of sponsus and sponsa went against the lateral grain established by Italian and English precedents; it 118 Verdier 1980, 143–45 (fig. 24), reporting the conventional date for the Strasbourg lunette of c. 1230 (144n118). J. Wirth 2004, 208, persuasively argues it is must be before 1225. 119 Cathédrale Saint-Étienne, north inner portal, western frontispiece (1240s). 120 St Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek Cod. Sang. 402, fol. 12.v (after 1235). 121 Verdier 1980, 146, qualifies Kayserberg as “de style retardataire … qui copie gauchement celui de Strasbourg.” 122 Bonmont Psalter, Besançon, Bibliothèque municipale MS 54, f. 9r (c. 1260); Verdier 1980, fig. 78c.

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rejected or ignored the theological and popular sources that consistently put the bride at the groom’s right. Verdier considered that French portal tympana with the reversed orientation could be regarded as a distinct line of imagery that “prolongs the iconography of the Song of Songs into the Coronation,” referring by analogy to the Cesi Master and Cimabue Assumptions on which Christ and the Virgin rise entwined with one another, him on her right (Arkyves 228).123 These paintings are much later in date, and there is no evidence that this format had been used or discovered earlier. Moreover, Cimabue himself did not follow this lateral arrangement in the final panel of his cycle: the Virgin reverts to Christ’s right in her Glorification. Verdier also observed that in Strasbourg and its progeny, Christ gestures in blessing with his right hand, making it more convenient to place the Virgin on his left. Convenient, perhaps, but not necessary, as demonstrated by a painting in the Museu Episcopal de Vic, in Catalonia (Arkyves 249).124 Since the placement of the figures was meaningful, not trivial, it seems more likely that causality went in the other direction, orientation facilitating the gesture rather than the gesture demanding the reversed orientation. Error or eccentricity might account for the iconographical novelty in an isolated manuscript; on cathedral façades it could reflect deference to a recent and well-executed model. But the designers of the Strasbourg Coronation, assuming theirs to have been the first in this series, cannot be supposed to have adopted the unusual exchange of the Virgin and Christ in such an ostentatious and important space without a serious, if now undiscoverable, motive. The precedent they established was replicated a few times and then disappeared, like a random gene mutation lacking any adaptive advantage, Italian Virgin-on-the-left Coronations are more numerous. A dozen Trecento panel paintings reflect this approach.125 They have been attributed to as many artists, none of whom figure among the best known of the period today: Cristoforo di Bindoccio, Jacopo di Cione, Mariotto di Nardo, Palmerucci Guiduccio, Giovanni del Biondo, the Masters of Offida, Terenzano, the Bracciolini Chapel, the Ashmolean Predella, the Trapani Polyptych and the Dominican Effigies, plus at least two “anonymous.” The attributions are based on stylistic connoisseurship; they never refer to the lateral arrangement of the image. It is, therefore, noteworthy that almost half these paintings are conventionally assigned to just two artists: Mariotto di Nardo for two of them (fig. 53, 123 Verdier 1980, 146. 124 Vic, Museu Episcopal MEV 4, 10, 11 (1210–20). 125 A few manuscript illuminations record a vision of St Birgitta of Sweden of Christ and the Virgin seated on a rainbow, with her on his left. These have been excluded from consideration because the scene references the Virgin’s eternal presence with Christ, not her reception in heaven after death. See Nordenfalk 1961, fig. 1–6 (pl. 122–23); Oen 2019.

Spouses: The Place of Gender

Figure 53 Mariotti di Nardo, Coronation of the Virgin. Minneapolis Museum of Art inv. 65.37 (signed and dated 1408) The Putnam Dana McMillan Fund

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Arkyves 250),126 and the Master of the Dominican Effigies for three more, including the painting in Santa Maria Novella, Florence, for which he is named (Arkyves 251).127 This last work provides an unusual vision of the Glorification, with seventeen holy Dominicans arrayed beneath and beside the regal and celestial throne. Similar, but simpler in its iconography, is a miniature in a Laudario now in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, also given to this Master (Arkyves 252).128 Here the holy couple, without crowns, occupy a long, throne-like bench, the drove of Dominicans having been replaced by forty male and female saints. The third Virgin-on-the-left production attributed to this same artist is a Coronation inserted within the historiated initial “L” opening Dante’s Paradiso (La gloria di colui che tutto move; “the glory of Him who moves all things”) in a manuscript conserved in Milan (Arkyves 253).129 Provisionally accepting conventional attributions, Mariotto di Nardo and the Master of the Bracciolini Chapel consistently put the Virgin at the proper left, but in one other Coronation ascribed to the Master of the Dominican Effigies, the central element of a polyptych in the Accademia of Florence, the protagonists revert to their conventional positions (Arkyves 254).130 Reattribution of this last panel to another artist is tempting and not without authority. Richard Fremantle considered it to be by the Master of Terenzano, although he expressed the same opinion about the Santa Maria Novella painting.131 There are many disagreements and alternative propositions regarding the assignment of particular works to this Master, and adding the treatment of laterality as a relevant factor would not be unreasonable. The unusual positional choice reflected in the Santa Maria Novella altarpiece and the two manuscript illuminations could be considered at least as much a distinguishing feature as the subtle stylistic elements upon which attention is commonly focussed. The remaining Virgin-on-the-left Coronations and Glorifications of the Italian Trecento are scattered among other artists. In one case, a panel attributed to the Master of the Bracciolini Chapel, the reversed Coronation is the 126 Minneapolis Museum of Art, inv. 65.37 (signed and dated 1408); Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, inv. M.28 (c. 1394–1424). 127 Sciacca 2012, 54–57 (cat. 9); Offner and Boskovits 1987, 292–97. Dated c. 1336. 128 Laudario di Sant’Agnese, Washington, National Gallery of Art, 1959.16.2 (c. 1340); Sciacca 2012, 278–80 (cat. 45.25); Offner 1957, 56. 129 Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Milan, Archivio Storico Civico e Biblioteca Trivulziana Ms. Triv. 1080, fol. 70r (1337); Sciacca 2012, 206–07 (cat. 42, fig. 42.1); Offner and Boskovits 1987, 320–25. 130 Florence, Accademia di Belle Arti, inv. 4634 (c. 1325–49); Offner and Boscovits 1987, 274– 79, pl. CX. 131 Fremantle 1975, fig. 196, 206.

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only representation of this subject associated with the painter.132 The others are given to artists to whom at least one “normal” version of the subject is also attributed. The name of Giovanni del Biondo, for example, is associated with one reversed Glorification (Arkyves 255) and as many as four conventional Coronations.133 The attributions of many of these works are contentious; taking into account the positions of Christ and the Virgin could lead to different decisions. With some judicious reassignments, a few painters would become authors of substantially all the Virgin-on-the-left compositions, and their depictions of this subject would all reflect this lateral format. The motivation for exchanging Christ and the Virgin, whatever it was, must be ascribed to the artists, not their patrons. The Master of the Dominican Effigies, in particular, appears to have produced three works with the unconventional lateral scheme in response to three unconnected commissions. Yet the fact that these painters “got away with” delivering reversed Coronations is still remarkable. Customers like the Florentine Dominicans of Santa Maria Novella surely understood the theological parallel between Ascension and Assumption, and they knew, from the Golden Legend if from no other source, how Mother and Son were seated on the celestial throne. It would be surprising if they failed to notice the dissonance in the painting they purchased (although, as discussed in the Epilogue, it is overlooked by modern observers). Perhaps it was too late to do much about it. The eccentric lateral organization of these works could have been a consequence of left-right confusion, as discussed in relation to other images; or perhaps it reflects a few surreptitious declarations of artistic independence at the dawn of the Renaissance. The reversed Coronations of Italy and Northern Europe have different likely causes, took different courses, and leave behind different puzzlements. Unlike panel paintings, images carved over the portals of Gothic cathedrals are not the fancy of individual artisans but the calculated result of a collective endeavour involving clerics, deacons, local aristocrats, and designers. Perhaps provincialism should never be underestimated, but it seems impossible to imagine that none of these people knew where the Virgin “belonged” or had any familiarity with pre-existing models. Those responsible for major projects like the cathedrals of Bourges and Dijon would not unthinkingly defer to an anomalous precedent at Strasbourg. Yet the buck must stop somewhere. A few designers put the Virgin on Christ’s left and they prevailed against any counter-reaction. Their rationale is unknown; their impact was limited and short-lived. 132 Muncie, Indiana, David Owsley Museum of Art at Ball State University, inv. 1940.033.000 (1380–1400); Huth et al. 1994, 48 (Illustrated). 133 The reversal is in New Haven, Yale University Art Gallery 1871.19 (c. 1365).

Part 3 The Right Way

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The Pythagorean Y A late twelfth-century Swabian bible in the Universitätsbibliothek in Erlangen, perhaps attributable to the scriptorium in Heilsbronn, contains four glossed texts – Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, and Lamentations – accompanied by five full-page (18.5 by 11.3 cm) miniatures. One of these depicts a ladder that bends to the viewer’s left and divides about half way up into two branches (fig. 54).1 The narrower curves upward towards Christ in heaven; the other bends down to hell. The image deploys ten figures, numerous inscriptions, and a variety of visual elements to convey an unusual and complex allegory that will be discussed in some detail below, but its basic conception of moralized direction is rooted in a venerable and popular figure of bivium, the proverbial fork in the road. 1

The Two Ways: Pythagoras and Matthew

The first-century AD Roman satirist Persius economically summarized a metaphor of life’s choice: And where the letter has spread out into Samian branches it has shown you the way that rises by means of the right-hand path.2 The letter divided into branches is the Greek upsilon, Υ. “Samian” refers to the ancient philosopher Pythagoras (who was from Samos), thought to have first ascribed this letter a symbolic meaning under which the upper portion represents two paths of unequal value. Persius describes the one on the right as the “way that rises,” signalling both its moral superiority and the effort required to follow it. The same message was conveyed visually, and less subtly, in a monument dated a few years earlier than the Satire. A grave stone from Lydia names the Greek philosopher in its inscription and presents a large letter Y surrounded by human figures personifying characteristics appropriate to the 1 Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, Ms. 8, fol. 130v. 2 “et tibi quae Samios diduxit littera ramos / surgentem dextro monstravit limite callem.” Persius, Satires 3.56–57. Translation by Barney et al. within the passage from Isidore of Seville’s Etymologies quoted below.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_010

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two branches: tituli identify those on the left and right side as, respectively, debauchery (asotia) and virtue (arete).3 Later in that century another topographical metaphor appeared, this time in a Christian setting. The Gospel according to Matthew also refers to two paths, one easy and the other difficult: Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it. Matthew 7:13–14; NRSV translation

The Evangelist is both more and less forthcoming than the Roman poet regarding the characteristics and destinations of these paths. Instead of the elliptical “way that rises,” he explains that the hard road through a narrow gate leads to life and the easy way through a wide gate ends with destruction. But unlike Persius, Matthew does not specify direction. Christian writers conflated these images for the two ways. At first there was some resistance. Lactantius, writing around ad 300, objected to the classical emphasis on worldly virtues and vices, with their earthly rewards and punishments; for a Christian, the right way leads not to excellence but to beatification, the left not to vice but to damnation.4 Later theologians were more relaxed. Instead of rejecting the ancient allegory, they Christianized it through a spiritual revaluation that circumvented Lactantius’s critique.5 When Jerome said “let him follow the left and easy branch of the famous letter of Pythagoras,” he was referring to Lot choosing the path to Sodom.6 Two centuries later, Isidore of Seville (d. 636), explicitly quoting the verses of Persius, provided a more elaborate Christian reading:7

3 Brinkmann 1911; De Ruyt 1931, 141–42; Harms 1970, 45. 4 Lactantius, Divinarum institutionum 6.3, PL 6, 641–44 = CSEL 19, 485–89. 5 The related legend of the choice of Hercules suffered a different fate. It was not saved by Christian revisionism but instead disappeared from the sources until the fifteenth century, with an earlier notice by Petrarch. See Mommsen 1953, specifically on the distinction between the two allegories at 183–85. On the Hercules motif generally: Panofsky 1930, his rationalization of its medieval disappearance at 155–56. 6 Jerome, Ep. 66.11.12–13, CSEL 54, 661: “iuxta Pythagorae litteram facilia magis et sinistra ac peritura sectetur.” Translation Fremantle et al. 7 On the early Christian literature, see De Ruyt 1931; Harms 1970, 40–49.

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Pythagoras of Samos first formed the letter Y as a symbol of human life. Its lower stem signifies the first stage of life, an uncertain age indeed, which has not yet given itself to vices or to virtues. The branching into two, which is above, begins with adolescence: the right part of it is arduous, but leads toward a blessed life; the left is easier, but leads to death and destruction. Concerning this Persius speaks thus …8 References to the Pythagorean Y among early Christian writers were explicit but limited in number. It was mentioned in only a handful of late antique sources and remained a sporadic motif in the early medieval period. Frédéric Duplessis counted ten further appearances before the eleventh century, some just passing references or citations of the antique, plus a few more detailed considerations concentrated in a local “school of Auxerre.”9 Thereafter, however, the antique figure became more popular. Indeed, “arriving at the fork of the Pythagorean letter” (ad Pythagoricae litterae bivium pervenire) was a common formula for alluding to any early and important life choice. Writing around 1012–13, the aristocratic Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg recounts in his Chronicon how the adolescent future emperor Otto I rushed up the stem of the branching letter of the Samian Pythagoras to embark upon its narrow but superior right path.10 A similar choice is imputed to the young man Bruno, who later became Bishop of Toul and eventually Pope Leo IX.11 The Pythagorean letter is again invoked by a certain Salimbene of Parma with reference to his own adhesion to the Franciscan Order in 1238 at the age of sixteen and the same decision made by others, without bothering to specify the obvious, that these novices followed the way to the right.12 Even when not explicitly mentioned, the Christianized letter Y lurked behind the admonitions of churchmen, as 8

“Y litteram Pythagoras Samius ad exemplum vitae humanae primus formavit; cuius virgula subterior primam aetatem significat, incertam quippe et quae adhuc se nec vitiis nec virtutibus dedit. Bivium autem, quod superest, ab adolescentia incipit: cuius dextra pars ardua est, sed ad beatam vitam tendens: sinistra facilior, sed ad labem interitumque deducens. De qua sic Persius ait….” Isidore of Seville, Etymologies I.iii.7; translation Barney et al. 9 Duplessis 2015, 241–43. 10 “Qui ramosam Samii Pitagore litteram, humane motus vite signantem, laudabili puer simplicitate percurrit ad bivium et, dextrum iter aggressus, virgulam breviorem, tamen pociorem….” Thietmar, Chronicon, 42.8–11 (II.4). 11 Pibo Tulensis Episcopus, Gesta Episcoporum Tullensium, Appendix, no. 39, PL 157, 468A, addition in note 295. The text is dated shortly after 1107, the addition to the thirteenth century. 12 Salimbene de Adam, Chronica fratris, 38.16–18; cited by Mommsen 1953, 185n5. Additional citations are in Manitius 1889, 713–14n3 (also cited by Mommsen).

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Figure 54 Frontispiece to Lamentations. Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 8, fol. 130v (last quarter, twelfth century) With kind permission of the University Library

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when Hildebert of Tours (1056–1134) sermonized: “We avoid the paths of sin, the truly evil paths, which are on the left … The paths we take are on the right, the paths of righteousness known to the Lord.”13 2

Erlangen Universitätsbibliothek, Ms. 8, fol. 130v

Literary popularity did not engender an outpouring of images. The Erlangen miniature of a divided ladder (fig. 54) seems to be the first Christian evocation of this motif, and the only known example before a series of French illuminations 150 years later, discussed below. Three of the five preserved illustrations in the Erlangen manuscript introduce the book of Lamentations.14 Each presents a complex, even convoluted image or conflation of images, dutifully explained to the viewer by multiple inscriptions and tituli. On folio 129v, Jerusalem is assaulted and put to fire by the Babylonians (Jeremiah 39). The prophet sleeps at the top left; in the upper right, Zedekiah’s eyes are gouged out (Jeremiah 52:11). A personification of the church crosses the two registers of folio 130r, her arms extended in a posture of crucifixion. Below, she is tormented by a false brother and a heretic ( fals[us] frater, heretic[us]); above, she is glorified by Christ in a mandorla between Peter (on the proper right) and Paul. Finally, the ladder allegory on folio 130v serves as the frontispiece to the incipit of the text on folio 131r. At first blush, only the first of these miniatures seems connected with the Book of Lamentations, but the group as a whole can be rationalized by applying prevailing conceptions of scriptural reading, lectio divina. An ancient theory of exegesis, expounded by St John Cassian in the fourth century, held that holy writ bore four levels of meaning: historical, allegorical, anagogical, and tropological. With respect specifically to Lamentations, this meant: Jerusalem, according to history, is a city of the Jews; according to allegory it is the Church of Christ; according to anagoge it is that heavenly city of God which is the mother of us all …; according to tropology it is the soul of man “which under this name the Lord often threatens or praises.”15 13 14

15

“Viae a quibus declinamus, peccata sunt, viae scilicet perversae, quae a sinistris sunt … Viae ad quas imus viae justitiae sunt, quae a dexteris sunt, quas novit Dominus.” Hildebert of Tours, Sermo 38, PL 171, 624C. Other examples are cited by Deitmaring 1969, 287–89. Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, Ms. 8, fol. 129v, 130r and 130v. The other miniatures are in Proverbs, at fol. 3v (frontispiece) and 68v (facing Proverbs 30). Descriptions and reproductions (except for fol. 68v) in Lutze 1936, 2–5. Regarding folio 130v, see also Heck 1997, 87–89. Smalley 1983, 28.

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Cassian’s system remained authoritative throughout the Middle Ages. As reaffirmed by several twelfth-century theologians, notably Hugh of St Victor, the scheme was refined (or simplified) by compressing the four-fold division into three, conflating the last two categories.16 The Lamentations miniatures in Erlangen neatly conform to this contemporary version of the old method: folio 129v is historical, depicting the sack of the earthly city and the human prophet dreaming of it; folio 130r allegorizes the sufferings and salvation of Jerusalem as those of the church; and folio 130v captures the moral, spiritual, and eschatological content of Jeremiah’s lament by picturing everlasting life after death, either with Christ in Heavenly Jerusalem or with the devil in hell. Illustrations of the Babylonian attack on Jerusalem introduce the book of Lamentations in other manuscripts.17 The motif of the personified Church is not unique either; it can be found in a different textual context but accompanied by the same labels for the false bother and heretic in a manuscript in Bamberg.18 But the picture on folio 130v has no known peer. On the bottom right, a naked male figure commences his ascent up the ladder. Its five rungs are labelled with the senses: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. The ladder then divides in two. An upward curving branch to the right has four rungs with tituli naming the cardinal virtues: prudence, temperance, strength, and justice. A man wearing a modest tunic climbs up this part of the ladder towards a welcoming angel. Christ is seated above between the Virgin and a saint, probably Peter. In his right hand, the Lord clasps a cluster of seven bands that spread as they reach down to this climber. They are inscribed “seven gifts of the Holy Spirit” (septe[m] dona spirit[us] sancti). The other branch of the ladder curves downward to the left, its four rungs labelled as imprudence, intemperance, levity, and injustice. A richly dressed man descends; a devil astride his back presses him down with a pitchfork inscribed with the legend “depraved behaviour” (p[ra]ua [con]suetudo). Mirroring Christ’s holy gifts above is a fascia of bands labelled “seven demons” held by another devil crouching in an upsidedown city-scape. This picture obviously alludes to the metaphor of the two ways in Matthew 7:13–14. The narrower branch of the ladder leads upward to the celestial city, the broader down to hell. At the same time, the three segments of the ladder unmistakably form a letter Y lying on its side, with the way to eternal life on the right and damnation on the left. Christian Heck remarked this 16 17 18

Smalley 1983, 87–88; Bellamah 2006, 211–13. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum Ms W.30, fol. 3r and 3v, illustrate Jer. 39, the blinding of Zedekiah and the lamenting Jeremiah. Bamberg, SBBamberg Msc.Patr.30, fol. 25r. See Leitschuh and Fischer 1895–1906, 387.

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resemblance and conceded that the Pythagorean symbol would have been known in the literature of monastic libraries of the period, but he was nonetheless reluctant to infer an intentional allusion: “Images that incorporate [this symbol] seem to have appeared only in the Renaissance, and the connection between our drawing and the Y may be merely coincidental.”19 This judgement is over-cautious. Had the image-maker not meant to evoke the Pythagorean Y, he could have drawn separate ladders, one up and one down, providing a simpler and more legible expression of the Gospel message. More explicit evidence is the framing inscription, which exhorts the viewer to “reach for the right branch and spurn the left” because the one leads to heaven and the other to the abysmal pit.20 The figure climbing the trunk of the ladder, before it divides, clearly evokes the classical bivium: a naked youth, in the first stage of life that precedes the parting of the ways, emerges from the mouth of a personification of nature (natu[ra]).21 The densely packed Erlangen miniature thus provides a visual rendition of the Christianized Pythagorean Y. Like Isidore of Seville’s textual exposition, it combines the antique bivium of right and left with the Matthean injunction, now intricately elaborated with a variety of Christian antinomies: angels and devils, the rich man and the poor man, virtues and vices, heavenly Jerusalem above and its inverted architecture below. The preserved and published record of medieval imagery seems to include no ancestors or progeny to this remarkable conceit. 3

The Pilgrim’s Choice

As a literary figure, the Christian moralization of the Pythagorean Y retained its attraction. Petrarch referred more than once to the left way as broad, easy, evil, and bent down towards earth, the road on the right being narrow, difficult, good, and ascending to the heavens.22 In a tract of 1334, the English scholar Richard de Bury railed against “degenerate clerks” (clerici degeneres): “At length yielding your lives to wickedness, reaching the two paths of Pythagoras, ye chose the left branch, and going backward ye let go the lot of God which ye had 19 20

Heck 1997, 88. My translation. The full inscription reads: “Dum sedem mentis vexant fantasmata carnis / Ad celum tendens suspirat christicole mens / Arbitrii dextrum ramum pete, sp[er]ne sinistrum / Nam dexter celum tibi pandit, levus abyssum.” 21 On the depiction of natura in this miniature, see Modersohn 1997, 24–25. Modersohn considers the Erlangen drawing an allusion to the Pythagorean Y. 22 Mommsen 1953, 187–88.

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first assumed, becoming companions of thieves”; their “fame and conscience stained by sins,” they will be “punished by a most shameful death.”23 The fork in the road was especially popular in allegories of spiritual pilgrimage, as in the short moralized stories known as exempla.24 French poets seemed particularly fond of sermonizing on the left and right ways. The genre is exemplified by Rutebeuf’s Voie de paradis (or Voie d’humilité), written around 1262, in which the narrator relates a dream of his pilgrimage to heaven.25 He starts out upon a narrow lane, crowded with travelers. Many take a road branching off to the left that is attractive, pleasant and easy, but it leads them to a den of pain and suffering from which there is no escape. Rutebeuf wisely chooses instead the path to the right that puts him on the way towards his goal.26 Surprisingly, having regard to the visual character of this image, the pilgrim’s bivium is not illustrated in surviving Rutebeuf manuscripts or in most other French pilgrim allegories of the period, with the important exception of a somewhat later work, Guillaume de Deguileville’s (or Digulleville’s) Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Guillaume (c. 1294–after 1358) was a Cistercian monk in the abbey of Chaalis at Senlis when he composed the first of three version of his pilgrimage poem in around 1330. It is preserved in some 70 manuscripts, over half of which are illuminated.27 A small minority of these include an illustration of a scene in which the protagonist faces a choice between two ways. Guillaume reprises the traditional pilgrim’s bivium but his story is meaningfully different from other versions in both the direct presentation and ultimate consequences. The narrator describes (verses 6503–50) how he came upon a fork in his path where it divided in two (Mon chemin vy qui se fourchoit / Et en II voies se partoit). The separate ways were neither far apart nor different; indeed, they 23

“Tandem aetate succumbente malitiae, figurae Pythagoricae bivium attingentes ramum laevum eligitis et retrorsum abeuntes sortem Domini praeassumptam dimittitis, socii facti furum … tam fama quam conscientia tabefacta sceleribus … servamini morte turpissima puniendi.” Richard de Bury, Philobiblon, 34–35, 38–39 (translation Ernest Chester Thomas); cited by Mommsen 1953, 1953, 185n6. 24 Examples cited by Dinzelbacher 1986, 80, who relates them, in a general way, to the Erlangen miniature. 25 La voie d’humilité, in Rutebeuf, Oeuvres complètes, 344–99 (old French text with modern French translation). Compare the slightly later version of Baudouin de Condé, available in a nineteenth-century edition: Baudouin de Condé, 1.207–09 (v. 73–120). 26 Verses 32–69. The figure occurs again later (verses 507–22), when he sees the seven cardinal sins on his left and is warned by Pity to stay on the road to the right. 27 The text used here is that published in 1893 by Stürzinger, available in an English translation by Eugene Clasby (1992). For an inventory of the manuscripts, see Duval and Pomel 2008.

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would have been a single path but for a thorny hedge in the middle extending off into the distance. On the path to the left sits a lady playing with a glove. Her disinterest in work identifies her as Huiseuse (Idleness). On the right is an assiduous workman, Labour (Work or Industry), reweaving and repairing old mats, repeatedly pulling his completed work apart and beginning over again. The pilgrim seeks advice from these personifications. Labour tells him to go to the right if he would reach his goal, Jerusalem, but Huiseuse convinces him of the pleasure and ease of the left. The tale continues with Guillaume’s travails and challenges as he pursues the path on the left, ever looking for a way to find his way back to the right. God eventually helps him to traverse the barrier between the two paths, known as the Hedge of Penitence, to find the right way. Guillaume’s revision to the theme of bivium, whether Christian or pagan, is novel. In the words of Philippe Maupeu: Unlike the antique and biblical tradition, senestre and destre designate not two opposed directions but two sides of a single road separated by a central hedge…. This [Hedge of Penitence] establishes a demarcation between the two paths but it is not impenetrable…. The introduction of this element radically alters the meaning of the motif: the life choice is no longer permanent; conversion through penitence, administered by the priest, is always possible…. Guillaume integrates the double movement of sin and confession by which a member of the flock who has strayed can always regain the right path, thereby manifesting the function of the church as mediator.28 A minimalist approach to illustration of this scene was adopted in four manuscripts, two conserved in the Bibliothèque nationale, Paris, and two in the Morgan Library, New York, all dated around the middle of the fourteenth century (i.e. during Guillaume’s lifetime). In these miniatures, the pilgrim stands alone at a fork in the road, the two ways separated by a hedge. Nothing distinguishes the left path from the right; no other figures appear (fig. 55, Arkyves 256, 257, 258).29 These representations give no hint of which path the pilgrim will actually choose to follow. The designers made no explicit allusion to, and perhaps did not understand, Guillaume’s spiritual plotline. The two ways are indistinguishable, but this is hardly sufficient to foreshadow the pilgrim’s fateful decision to 28 29

Maupeu 2009, 149–53, quoted passage at 151. My translation. Paris, BnF français 1645, fol. 48v (c. 1350) and BnF français 1818, fol. 57v (after 1355); New York, Morgan M.1038, fol. 55r (c. 1350) and M772, fol. 48v (1348).

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Figure 55 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Paris, BnF français 1645, fol. 48v (c. 1350) © BnF

succumb to the wiles of Huiseuse. In one of the Morgan miniatures (Arkyves 257), the Hedge of Penitence is a bush of circumscribed dimensions that demonstrably does not extend along the two roads, further undermining the author’s conception of this pilgrim’s progress. More fulsome renditions of the same scene add the personifications of Huiseuse flipping her glove along the left path and Labour industriously weaving on the right. A copy produced circa 1400 now in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, captures the elegance of Guillaume’s poetic description as well as its moralization of the fork in the road (Arkyves 259).30 The users of this manuscript would have understood the classical and biblical resonance in text and image, expressing the disparity between right and left. Another such completed picture appears in an earlier manuscript of the Pèlerinage conserved in 30

Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Douce 300, fol. 59r.

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Figure 56 Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine. Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, W.141, fol. 46v (1350–75)

the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore.31 Here, again, the two personifications are included but the miniaturist seems to have reversed them. Huiseuse appears near the right side of the fork and Labour along the left (fig. 56). This confusion may have been caused by the unusual depiction of the pilgrim facing outwards towards the viewer, instead of looking towards the branching paths to confront his moral choice. From the protagonist’s perspective, lateral values have been preserved: Huiseuse is on his left and Labour on his right. The miniaturist’s mistake was not so much a reversal of left and right as a failure to follow through on the design: the divide in the path should have opened towards the front of the picture frame rather the back, in which case the image would have been conformed to the approach in the Oxford version. No such explanation applies to a rendition of this scene in a manuscript in the British Library. Here, the illuminator has completely muddled the left-right symbolism (Arkyves 260).32 It is not clear whether there is a fork in this road or simply a sharp turn. In any case, the pilgrim must pass between the 31 Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery, W.141, fol. 46v (1350–75). 32 London, BL Add 38120, fol. 53v (c. 1400).

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personifications rather than advance towards one or the other, since they are situated on either side of a single path. He is not confronted with any moral choice of direction. To compound the misunderstanding, Huiseuse is on the pilgrim’s right side and Labour on his left. 4

A Matter of Mentality

There is a disconnect between text and image with respect to the Pythagorean Y. In its Christianized form, the figure was evoked in literary sources throughout the Middle Ages, sporadically at first but with increasing frequency by the eleventh century. Yet apart from a single, and singular, appearance in the Erlangen miniature, it seems entirely absent from the visual record until the second half of the fourteenth century, and not extensively used even then. In addition to the illustrations of Guillaume’s Pèlerinage, the letter Y itself was occasionally adopted in this late period as an emblem, mainly on seals, in the occasional manuscript, and most ostentatiously in the Apocalypse Tapestry in Angers, produced towards 1380. Jean-Bernard de Vaivre argued that the letter was precisely a reference to the classical allegory, and while he did not rely or comment upon the pictorial context, it fortifies his interpretation.33 No fewer than nineteen Y’s are integrated into the floral backdrop of a panel that depicts John led by an angel towards the great whore of Babylon (Apocalypse 17; fig. 57).34 She is seated on a mound, richly dressed and alluringly combing her long hair as she gazes into a mirror, a perfect figure for the evil that lurks along the left branch of the Pythagorean Y. The fourteenth-century images presage an increasing popularity of the Pythagorean Y in Renaissance prints and paintings. A typical example is Geoffroy Tory’s Champ fleury, printed in Paris in 1529. In two successive engravings the letter Y is inhabited by figures and explicated by inscriptions. The narrow branch on the right leads to glorification, the broad one on the left to suffering and hell-fire (Arkyves 261, 262).35 Pythagoras is even explicitly named. The reticence among medieval image-makers thus contrasts with both contemporary literary sources and the enthusiasm of their immediate successors.

33 34 35

Vaivre 1983, fig. 1–3, discussion at 104–11. Nicolas Bataille after a design by Jean Bondol, La grande Prostituée sur les eaux. Apocalypse Tapestry, panel 64. Angers, Château d’Angers (c. 1375–80). Geoffroy Tory, Champ fleury, Blois, Bibliothèque municipale Ms no. I 65, fol. 63r and 63v (1529).

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Figure 57 Nicolas Bataille after a design by Jean Bondol, La grande Prostituée sur les eaux. Apocalypse Tapestry, panel 64. Angers, Château d’Angers (c. 1375–80) © Caroline Rose / Centre des monuments nationaux

The rarity of earlier visual expressions was not due to any inherent limitation in the tools of representation; unlike many allegories, the Pythagorean Y is easy to depict. A list of probable causes – neither mutually exclusive nor collectively exhaustive – would include unmotivated coincidence, theological discomfort, and period mentality. Many other scenes and motifs competed for attention; some conservative image-makers, or their patrons and clerical advisers, could have found the motif’s pagan resonance inappropriate. The principal explanation for the paucity of medieval representations incorporating the Pythagorean Y probably lies in the prevailing visual discourse. Imagery is not always the handmaiden of texts. To adapt an observation of Michel Foucault, not every image is equally possible in every period.36 36

Foucault 2002, 49: “one cannot speak of anything at any time; it is not easy to say something new.”

Chapter 9

Sacred Movement The trajectory of an object in motion may be perceived by an observer in three dimensions: up/down, towards/away, left/right. The vertical component is conventionally fixed by reference to the force of gravity, which is the same for the observer and the observed. This is also the case with respect to movement along the observer’s line of sight. Horizontal motion is more complicated. As discussed in chapter 5, right and left are reversed for a viewer and a facing figure; when protagonists move to their right, viewers perceive the action as directed towards the left of the image. In medieval imagery, figures are commonly depicted moving not to their right or left but straight ahead, which is translated into horizonal movement across the plane of the image. The lateral direction of such a representation is a purely pictorial invention. The dozens of Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and Britons in an early twelfth-century English miniature in New York reproduced above (fig. 14, in chapter 3) are galloping straight ahead, but they appear in the picture to be moving to the right.1 That direction was not chosen at random. Medieval imagery exhibits a preference for motion left to right (LTR) over right to left (RTL). The phenomenon has not been much remarked in the literature of art history, with the notable exception of Don Denny’s 1965 doctoral dissertation, The Annunciation from the Right.2 A few classical archaeologists showed more interest. The most extensive study was Heinz Luschey’s 1956 Habilitationsarbeit, published posthumously only in 2002, in which he proposed a directional typology for Greek art. LTR characterized such representations as battling armies and leave-taking warriors; RTL was used for Phaeton in his chariot, wicked aggressors, and attacking Amazons.3 Luschey claimed that the choice depended on the underlying meaning of the image, rightward movement generally having more positive associations. This theory is not terribly persuasive for the classical forms of representation summarized by Luschey, and even less so for medieval imagery. An alternative explanation for the favour accorded LTR motion is suggested by modern scientific research.4 Brain structure seems to create an underlying bias: hemispheric specialization makes rightward motion appear 1 Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund, New York, Morgan M.736, fol. 7v (c. 1130). 2 Denny 1965. 3 Luschey 2002, 17–40. Earlier contributions focussed exclusively on representations of combat: Petersen 1896, 40; Wegner 1931, 83–85. 4 This brief summary relies principally on Chatterjee 2011; Friedrich et al. 2014; Maass, Suitner and Nadhmi 2014; Maass, Suitner and Deconchy 2014, 106–17; Suitner and Maass 2016. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_011

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more aesthetically pleasing, faster, and stronger.5 Over this common substratum a distinction in preference for LTR or RTL motion has been associated with visual scanning habits; these, in turn, are the predictable result of reading a language written in one direction or the other.6 Under a theory sometimes referred to as “spatial agency bias” (SAB), the asymmetrical scanning required to read and write generalizes to other tasks, including the creation and appreciation of images. SAB predicts that individuals accustomed to reading LTR will prefer representations in which the active protagonist, or agent, appears on the left and moves in parallel with an imagined text towards the target of its activity, referred to as the patient, at the right. Individuals in LTR-language cultures should, therefore, exhibit a greater bias in favour of LTR-depicted motion than those in RTL-language cultures, and the scientific research supports this hypothesis. In extrapolating the research findings to medieval imagery, several hurdles are encountered. First, the subjects of the experiments are literate (usually university students) and while the extent and character of literacy in the Middle Ages is a complex subject, the proportion of the population that could read fluently or at all was certainly far lower than today.7 Widespread illiteracy would presumably weaken, although it would not eliminate the impact of script direction on scanning habits, since this effect has been found even among the illiterate, attributable in particular to the ubiquity of visible writing.8 This first difficulty can, in any event, be substantially mitigated by focussing on illuminated manuscripts, in which images are juxtaposed with texts and most of whose viewers were also readers. A second concern in testing for directional bias based on script direction in medieval art is the relative rarity of comparable surviving imagery produced in the RTL-language context. This problem affects modern psychological research as well, since it is mainly conducted in the LTR-language societies of Europe and North America. The challenge is not trivial but scientists can address it by undertaking cross-cultural studies, comparing visual directional bias between

5 Friedrich et al. 2014. See, now, Boiteau et al. 2020, demonstrating this effect for groups without a written language. 6 A second factor cited by psychologists is word order, whether subject precedes object (SO) or vice versa (OS). SO promotes LTR scanning, OS RTL. The author is not a linguist, but it seems that the languages under consideration in this chapter are either SO or the syntax is too variable to have any reliable differential predictive force. See: Dover 1960, 25–31 (Greek); Devine and Stephens 2006, 37 (Latin); Hetzron and Kaye 2009, 592 (Hebrew); Robinson 2002, 37 (Syriac). 7 See, for example: Bäuml 1980; Graff 1987, 34–106. 8 Maass, Suitner, and Deconchy 2014, 15–18.

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LTR- and RTL-language subjects.9 Art historians have no such option; the preserved visual record is fixed. Notwithstanding these challenges, comparisons are possible. Some forms of representation are observable in both LRT- and RTL-language contexts, including within the most reliable class of sources, illuminated manuscripts. This evidence corroborates the anticipated effects of script direction on the depiction of movement: images produced for Latin- or Greek-speaking audiences favour motion LTR, and this preference is significantly stronger than it is with respect to otherwise similar images intended for viewers operating in Syriac or Hebrew. 1

Depicted Motion in Latin- and Greek-Language Cultures

The so-called Reidersche Tafel, discussed and illustrated in chapter 2, is an ivory plaque in Munich dated circa 400 on which the Ascension of Christ is represented by his climbing a hill next to an empty sepulchre, extending his right arm to clasp the welcoming hand of God (fig. 4).10 Many later medieval Ascensions adopted this iconography (Arkyves 30, 31, 32).11 Most of the examples cited in the earlier discussion appear in Latin manuscripts; one is an ivory with Latin inscriptions. In every case, Christ moves from the left of the picture towards the right. Other stereotypical motive scenes are also configured predominantly LTR, although without the thorough lateral homogeneity of the Munich type Ascension. Elijah accomplishes his own heavenly ascent in a chariot on an upward diagonal path, usually holding his mantle or passing it back to Elisha with his right hand (2 Kings 2:1–13). The direction is typically towards the right of the image. Hundreds of examples survive from all periods and regions: on Roman sarcophagi (Arkyves 263, 264),12 a sixth-century Egyptian slate plaque (Arkyves 265),13 in Byzantine and western manuscripts (fig. 58, Arkyves 266),14 on ivory carvings, church portals and stained glass (Arkyves 267).15 9 E.g. Maass, Suitner, and Nadhmi 2014, comparing three language communities: Italian, Malagasy (also LTR in direction, but OS in syntax), and Arabic. 10 Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum MA157 (c. 400). 11 See chapter 2, notes 40 and 41. 12 Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, FAN 92.00.2527 = Rep. III.85 (c. 390); Paris, Musée du Louvre Ma 2980 = Rep. III.428, left side (end of the fourth century). 13 Berlin, SMB Ident. Nr. 3297. 14 John of Damascus, Parallela sacra, Paris, BnF grec 923, fol. 286v (ninth century); Bible, Cambridge, Sidney Sussex College, MS 96, fol. 106v (c. 1260–70). 15 Stained glass roundel, Canterbury Cathedral, Corona Chapel, (early thirteenth century).

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Figure 58 Ascent of Elijah. John of Damascus, Parallela sacra. Paris, BnF, grec 923, fol. 286v (ninth century) © BnF

In a very few cases, all still produced in the LTR-language context and accompanied by Latin or Greek text, the diagonal is flipped and the prophet’s chariot ascends in the contrary direction (e.g. Arkyves 268).16 Elijah’s ascension is still near the high end of the range of LTR dominance in representations of sacred motion. The Magi usually approach the Virgin and child from the left (Arkyves 269, 270), but in a substantial minority of instances

16 Bible, BAV Reg.gr.1B, fol. 302v (tenth century). See also the consideration of the Klosterneuburg altarpiece, below.

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Figure 59 Annunciation. Relief panel. New York, Met, inv. 60.140 (1180–1200) The Cloisters Collection, 1960

they move in the opposite direction (Arkyves 271, 272).17 The same is true for Gabriel stepping towards the Virgin in the Annunciation (fig. 59, Arkyves 273, 17 LTR: Lectionary, New York, Morgan M.780, fol. 12r (1070–90); ivory panel from the Werden Casket, London, V&A 149A-1866 (c. 800). http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O92728/the -nativity-and-the-adoration-panel-unknown/RTL: Panel of the bronze doors of Bishop Bernward, Hildesheim Cathedral (1015); Berthold Sacramentary, New York, Morgan M.710, fol. 19v (1215–17).

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274, 275).18 Three neurologists examined a sample of 604 such Annunciations from major art museums and found that 67.4 per cent were LTR.19 Although the study found no significant variation based on the century of production, the sources consulted are not necessarily representative of medieval art and artefacts. They largely exclude manuscripts, for example. Denny concluded that the LTR Annunciation did not dominate until perhaps the ninth century, but that later in the Middle Ages the RTL version became rare.20 Many other scenes reflect a preference for depicting movement towards the right. Based on a review of several on-line databases, more than 90 per cent of the time Abraham stands at the proper right in the Sacrifice of Isaac; the paternal agent therefore directs his threatening action towards the filial patient from the left to the right side of the image (e.g. Arkyves 11–16); although on occasion, the motion is reversed (Arkyves 17).21 A similar, but less dramatic, directional preponderance applies to Christ’s entry into Jerusalem mounted on an ass (compare fig. 60 and 61; see also fig. 68 and 69 in chapter 10).22 No source text dictates the directional bias for any of these images. The brief reference to the Ascension in Acts 1:9–11 does not describe what it looked like to the apostles; the same applies to the sacrifice of Isaac and the Entry into Jerusalem. In each case, the format was determined by artisans, no doubt with clerical input, and the motion could have been either to the viewer’s left or right. Witnesses to these events would see them differently depending where they were standing. When topographical information is provided, as for Jesus’s arrival at Jerusalem from the East, it does not establish how the movement should look to an observer. Rather than depending on some external prescription, the empirical predominance of LTR in these medieval images – all the examples above were drawn from a LTR-language context – is best explained as a cognitive phenomenon. The depiction of motion validates the prediction based on modern research, that the preferred direction should follow the 18 LTR: Relief panel. New York, Met, inv. 60.140 (1180–1200) The Cloisters Collection, 1960; Psalter, Munich, BSB Clm 835, fol. 21v (first quarter, thirteenth century). RTL: Panel of the bronze doors of Bishop Bernward, Hildesheim Cathedral (c. 1015); ivory plaque, London, V&A 267-1867 (c. 1000–50). 19 Acosta, Williamson and Heilman 2014. 20 Denny 1965, 8–14. See also Cotsonis 1994, 92 (for the factual observation, without meaning to accept that author’s analysis of its reason or impact). 21 These examples are cited in chapter 2. There are many more reproduced in Speyart van Woerden 1961. The reviewed data bases included, in particular, the Princeton Index of Medieval Art. 22 LTR: Ivory diptych, Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, inv. 71.177 (1350–74); RTL: Mosaic. Athens, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century).

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Figure 60 Entry into Jerusalem. Ivory diptych. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, inv. 71.177 (1350–74)

dominant written script. In experiments, responses that do not conform with the anticipated result are counted as indicia of the strength of the preference, but they are not interpreted. The medieval visual record can add texture to the conclusion. RTL representations of motion produced in LTR-language contexts may point to a positive artistic purpose and to this extent, the exceptions are not just statistical noise. One such source of intentional reversal is the desire for symmetry, balancing leftward with rightward movement. For example, the RTL motion in a scene at one end of a sarcophagus may offset a LTR image at the other end: a RTL Adoration of the Magi and a LTR arrest and water miracle of Peter (Arkyves 202); or the same Petrine scene, now RTL, and Jesus moving LTR towards Lazarus (Arkyves 276).23 The choice of paired scenes was meaningful but their contrary motion was often driven by purely aesthetic considerations. In other

23 Vatican, inv. 315427 = Rep. I.43 (second quarter, fourth century); Museo Nazionale Romano, inv. 79983 = Rep. I.770 (first third, fourth century).

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Figure 61 Entry into Jerusalem. Mosaic. Athens, Daphni Monastery (late eleventh century) Author’s photograph

instances, however, the combination of RTL and LTR movement on the same monument had a distinct rhetorical function. One example is an ivory plaque forming the back cover to the Lorsch Gospels, conserved in the Vatican Museums.24 The bottom register consists of two almost mirror-image scenes (Arkyves 277): on the left, the three Magi advance RTL towards their audience with Herod; on the right, the same figures 24 Vatican, BAV Pal.lat.50 (c. 800).

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move LTR towards the Virgin and Child. The reciprocal outward motion is visually harmonious but it also serves narrative and symbolic functions. Gospel and apocryphal sources relate that the Magi came from the East to Herod in Jerusalem with rumours that the “king of the Jews” had been born, upon which he sent them to reconnoitre Bethlehem and bring him news, ostensibly so that he, too, might go to worship the newborn. The Magi headed eastward and discovered the holy family at Bethlehem, where they were told in their sleep not to go back to Herod, while an angel warned Joseph to leave with his family. For his part, Herod ordered the Massacre of the Innocents.25 The two depictions of the Magi on the Lorsch plaque recall the initial elements in this story. Reading LTR, we first see their arrival from the East in Jerusalem and then their departure back in the same direction to Bethlehem. (The fact that East and West on the plaque correspond to modern map-making convention is, of course, coincidental.) The opposing directions also highlight a meaningful moral and spiritual distinction between what are otherwise similar depictions of three men advancing towards a seated figure. A pair of bronze doors produced early in the eleventh century (c. 1007–15) for Bishop Bernward of Hildesheim illustrate another factor that could occasionally have affected the choice of laterality in the depiction of sacred motion (Arkyves 278).26 Each valve depicts eight scenes, stories from the Old Testament on the left and from the New Testament on the right. Movement is notably represented on around half of these panels. As would be expected, LTR dominates the Old Testament episodes (Adam led towards Eve, the first couple expelled from paradise, Abel tumbling under the blows of Cain). On the right valve, however, the Annunciation to the Virgin and the Adoration of the Magi are depicted RTL (Arkyves 271, 274). The difference in direction of motion may be a consequence of the mechanical operation of the doors. When they are closed, movement tends to point towards the centre, achieving a degree of harmonious symmetry; when they are opened, the figures in these scenes advance from outside to inside, directing and accompanying the worshippers across the liminal boundary into the holy vessel of the church. If this system did influence the designers in Hildesheim, it was not consistently followed on later Italian bronze doors.27 Sometimes, an iconographical peculiarity accounts for RTL movement in the LTR-language context. One example is the Sacrifice of Isaac as depicted 25 Matthew 2; Protevangelium of James 21–22 (Elliott 1993, 65). 26 Brandt and Eggebrecht 1993, 2.503–12 (cat. VII-33, “Bronztüren im Dom,” by Rainer Kahsnitz), with reproduction of the complete doors and each panel. 27 Compare the RTL Annunciations on the left valves at Pisa and Monreale. These and others are discussed by Denny 1965, 22–25. The scenes on these other doors are not arranged in the same way as in Hildesheim.

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Figure 62 Ascent of Elijah. Nicholas of Verdun, Enamel plaque of the Klosterneuburg retable (1181) Photograph: Drexler and Strommer 1903, pl. 42 (The Warburg Institute Iconographic Database ID 33493)

in a thirteenth-century manuscript in Dijon. The narrative here is extended so that the protagonists appear twice. First they climb up the mountain LTR; the path then curves back to the left so that in the second depiction, Isaac arrives first at the altar with Abraham behind, i.e. towards the right side of the image (Arkyves 17).28 Another instance of an unusual composition for a common scene altering the direction of movement is Elijah’s ascent on Nicholas of Verdun’s famous Klosterneuburg retable (fig. 62).29

28 See note 21 above. 29 Nicholas of Verdun, Enamel plaque of the Klosterneuburg retable (1181).

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Unusually, the disembodied hand of God reaches down to grasp the prophet’s right wrist and pull him heavenward while with his left hand, rather than the usual right, Elijah gives his mantle to Elisha. It would have been difficult to accommodate both these gestures if the chariot moved, as it normally does, from left to right. Admittedly Christ’s right hand is also extended to the hand of God in the Munich format Ascension without requiring any such reversal in the direction of the motion (fig. 4, in chapter 2); but unlike Elijah, Christ’s left hand is not occupied in some other, mechanically conflicting activity. Furthermore, the LTR arrangement of the Ascension is necessary so that Christ should arrive at the right hand of the Father, not a matter of concern in Elijah’s case. A more common cause for such RTL depictions of motion is the arrangement of images in sequence. The relationship between script direction and the construction of multi-scene pictorial programs is the subject of the next chapter. A separate question is how the chosen order of scenes affects the depiction of motion within them. The answer is that motive direction may in these circumstances become disconnected from the expected LTR preference based on the reading of texts and follow instead a pattern that conforms to a “reading” of the program. On another bronze monument commissioned by Bishop Bernward, a spiral column (c. 1022) installed in the monastic church of St Michael’s of Hildesheim (fig. 66 and 68, in chapter 10), scenes follow one another from right to left, creating a virtual momentum that overwhelms script direction.30 Episodes from the life of Christ wind upwards to the left, beginning at the bottom with Jesus’s baptism in the Jordan and culminating with his entry into Jerusalem, represented as usual by Christ riding an ass into the city. Bernward’s Column provides one of the contrarian RTL examples of the Entry and in this instance, the choice of direction can be ascribed to the leftward spiral form. The storyline forces the viewer’s gaze towards the left. The anointing of Jesus at Bethany precedes his arrival at Jerusalem but is depicted immediately to the right of the Entry. A smooth and continuous visual experience requires that Jesus ride leftward. Thus, the direction of the column’s spiral – itself an anomaly discussed at some length in chapter 10, below – conflicted with, and won out over, the LTR scanning habits of its Latin-reading designers, patron, and monastic viewers.

30

Brandt and Eggebrecht 1993, 430–548 (cat. VII-17, “Bernwardsäule,” by Rainer Kahsnitz); Brandt 2009. Both provide illustrations of the full column and each scene.

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Figure 63 Six enamel plaques. Dom-Museum Hildesheim, Inv. Nr. DS-30 (last third of the twelfth century) Based on reconstruction in Brandt 2001, 155, 185

A more complex demonstration of this same effect is provided by yet another monument from Hildesheim, this one dated to the twelfth century.31 Its surviving elements are six rectangular enamel plaques, each comprising three framed panels depicting scenes from a Christological cycle. A persuasive reconstruction proposed by Michael Brandt extrapolates to an original eight plaques affixed in pairs around a square antependium (fig. 63). The narrative begins at the top right with the Annunciation to the Virgin, Nativity, and Annunciation to the shepherds (plaque  #1), followed by one of the missing 31 Dom-Museum Hildesheim, Inv. Nr. DS-30 (last third of the twelfth century). Brandt 2001, 185 (cat. 4.11); Lambacher 2010, 88–89 (cat. 38; notice by Michael Brandt); Barnet, Brandt, and Lutz 2013, 78–81 (cat. 27; notice by Melanie Holcomb). The reconstruction was made in plexiglass for the 2001 exhibition (illustrated Brandt 2001, 155).

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pieces; the sequence continues to the left along the bottom with the Entry into Jerusalem, footwashing, last supper, Betrayal, Crucifixion, and Deposition (plaques #3 and #4); it then turns up the left side, after a missing lower plaque, with the announcement of the Resurrection, road to Emmaus, and dinner at Emmaus (plaque #6); finally, to the right across the top are the scenes of Christ before his apostles, doubting of Thomas, Thomas recognizing Christ, election of Peter, Ascension, and Pentecost (plaques #7 and #8). Viewers following the chronological program by proceeding clockwise encounter three instances of movement that conform, or reinforce, the direction of their gaze: on the bottom, a RTL Entry to Jerusalem (first panel on plaque #3); on the top, LTR, Thomas approaching Christ and Peter coming to the resurrected Jesus (last panel on plaque #7, first panel on plaque #8).32 The designers of both the column and the antependium from Hildesheim faced a binary choice of direction: the spiral must go to the left or right; if the viewer’s experience is to be uninterrupted, the perimetric narrative must go either clockwise or counter-clockwise. The impact of other sequential arrangements on the direction of motion is more subtle. In a purely vertical format, for example, where successive scenes are stacked one on top of the other, motion in each register can follow the LTR inclinations of the audience without confronting any contrary tendency imposed by the overall program. Yet even this type of sequence may stimulate a mixing of motive directions, as in the three scenes of an infancy cycle presented on a ninth-century ivory book cover in Paris (fig. 64).33 In the Annunciation on top and the Massacre of the Innocents on the bottom, motion is LTR, but the Magi proceed RTL in the Adoration of the middle register. This zig-zag pattern, or boustrophedon, enabled viewers to follow the story without lifting their eyes, beginning with Gabriel at the top left and negotiating a continuous path to Herod enthroned at the bottom right. The direction of motion does not always follow the sense of sequential narrative, even within a single monument. Such a contradiction appears on a lavish marble candlestick in Gaeta, dated circa 1340. It depicts the conception, birth, life, passion, and resurrection of Christ in 24 coffered panels occupying one half of each of 12 circular registers (24 more panels recount the life of

32 Lateral direction is not relevant in the same way to the vertical plaques. The very first scene is an Annunciation from the right, which might have been so directed in order to point towards the centre of the antependium. 33 BnF MS latin 9393 (845–55). The ivory plaque was placed on the cover of this manuscript in the sixteenth century. It was originally part of the Gospels of Dogron, BnF MS latin 9388. See Laffitte and Denoël 2007, 201–03 (cat. 54b).

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Figure 64 Ivory book cover. Paris, BnF latin 9393 (845–55) © BnF

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the local patron saint).34 The Christological cycle is arranged boustrophedon starting at the top left; thus, on the first, third, fifth, etc. registers the scenes follow one another LTR, while on the even-numbered registers they are RTL. The direction of movement in most of these scenes follows suit: Adoration of the Magi and Flight into Egypt LTR in register three; Entry into Jerusalem RTL in register six. But the opening depiction of the Annunciation in register one is also RTL. It is likely that the image-maker allowed a desire for symmetry to overcome the LTR narrative direction, since the Annunciation from the right results in pivoting back-to-back angels between this scene and its adjacent Visitation. 2

The Syriac and Hebrew Evidence

All the representations referred to thus far in this chapter were created in LTR-language cultures. They are generally consistent with the theory that depiction of motion tends to correspond to script direction. Some representations that break the pattern can be explained by the impact of identifiable extrinsic causes, whether aesthetic, semantic, or narrative. To properly test for a link between script direction and depictions of motion requires an additional step, a comparison between images produced in LTR- and RTL-language contexts. The experimental research seeks empirical confirmation of the hypothesizes that RTL readers are more likely to prefer images with RTL motion than are LTR readers. Note that this proposition is weaker than a claim that the RTL bias among RTL readers should be equal to the LTR bias of LTR readers. Subjects accustomed to RTL languages may also prefer LTR images, but less so than those from LTR-language cultures. The principal reason for this imbalance is the differential impact of linguistic contamination: subjects in LTR-language societies have less direct contact with RTL languages than vice versa. This asymmetry was equally prevalent in the Middle Ages. Those who used RTL languages like Hebrew, Syriac, or Arabic were more likely to have seen written Latin or Greek.35 The contamination was visual as well as linguistic. Prototypes developed in Latin- and Greek-language contexts disproportionately influenced 34 35

Zchomelidse 2014, 204–24, with illustrations of some scenes and a useful schematic diagram of the program (211, fig. 183). A full set of individual illustrations was provided by Ferraro, 1905, 79–106. In addition, any physiological characteristic favouring LTR, like hemispheric specialization, would affect both groups in the same way.

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the imagery of RTL-language enclaves or groups. Thus, one might expect the historical result to be perhaps weaker but in the same sense: medieval depictions of motion should exhibit a weaker LTR preference in RTL-language contexts. The usual method for testing directional preference in the research setting is to display the same image to subjects accustomed to reading in one direction or the other. An equivalent retroactive “experiment” would compare instances of the same form of representation made in RTL- and LTR-language contexts. One potential source of RTL data is illuminations in Syriac manuscripts.36 Jules Leroy’s survey of this material reproduced no depictions of the Sacrifice of Isaac, the ascension of Elijah, or the Munich form of Christ’s Ascension and only a single, atypical representation of the Magi. In this miniature, they appear on horseback pursuing a star, without the Virgin and Child. They ride LTR, or strictly speaking top to bottom since this representation, like others in the manuscript, is rotated clockwise 90 degrees (Arkyves 279).37 However, Leroy’s catalogue includes eight miniatures for each of two other Christian scenes often found in the Latin and Greek contexts, the Annunciation and Entry into Jerusalem.38 All eight of these Annunciations are from the left, opposite to Syriac script direction (e.g. Arkyves 280).39 The Entries, on the other hand, are equally divided between left- and right-directed motion (compare Arkyves 281 and 282).40 That score increases to 5–4 in favour of RTL if one includes a sixteenthcentury drawing generally regarded as based on a thirteenth-century Persian model.41 The difference between the treatment of motion in these two forms of representation could be the result of imported models. Syrian manuscript illumination is heavily dependent on Byzantine painting, but even within a single volume the degree of connection may vary for different scenes.42 36 Survival in other media is scant. A fresco of the ascension of Elijah is preserved at Mar Musa Al-Habashi (dated 1058–88); the context is Syrian but the panel bears inscriptions in Greek reflecting its likely Byzantine model: Dodd 2001, 49–50, fig. 5-II, pl. XI, 36. 37 Leroy 1964. The Magi miniature (his fig. 115.3) is from a homiliary in Berlin, SBBerlin Sachau 220, fol. 8v (eighth or ninth century). 38 Representations included by Leroy but dated after 1450 are not included in this survey. 39 Leroy 1964, fig. 22.2, 35 (across the gutter), 73.3, 73.4, 105, 127.1, 138.1, 143. Illustration: BAV Vat.sir. 559, fol. 8v (1219–20). 40 Leroy 1964, fig. 30.1 (Rabbula), 53.2, 55.2, 144 (LTR); and fig. 66, 86.1, 86.2, 129.2 (RTL). Illustrations: BAV Vat.sir. 118, fol. 212r (1092); Vat.sir. 559, fol. 105r (1219–20). 41 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Cod. Orient. 81, fol. 128v (1527); Leroy 1964, fig. 156.2. On the reference back to a Persian original, see Dinkler and Brandenburg, 1970, 34–35, fig. 34; Schapiro 1973, 497, with the direction of motion remarked in his n. 7. 42 Buchthal 1939.

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It is possible that a Greek or Latin LTR model governed the laterality of the Annunciations while local influence dominated the Entries. This distinction is consistent with the forms adopted for these scenes in two of the manuscripts in which both are depicted. The LTR Annunciations are quite similar, probably derived from a common prototype; the Entries are both RTL and reflect a degree of artistic independence that suggests greater input from the community of Syriac-speaking clerics and image-makers.43 The Syriac material is consistent with the hypothesis but not especially robust. A clearer pattern emerges from medieval Hebrew-language manuscripts. The scope for direct comparison with imagery from Greek- and Latin-language contexts is necessarily narrow: Jewish prayer-books and bibles do not include representations of the Ascension, Entry into Jerusalem, or Annunciation. They do, however, display a shared fondness for the Sacrifice of Isaac. Joseph Gutmann compiled a catalogue of 25 Sacrifice miniatures in Hebrew manuscripts from the thirteenth to the early fifteenth century, most produced in Germany but including examples from Spain, Italy, and the Franco-Flemish territories.44 In fourteen of these representations, Abraham appears on the right side of the image directing his action to the left (Arkyves 283, 284; LTR in 285).45 (Parenthetically, it may be observed that the Sacrifice of Isaac among the wall paintings of the Dura Europos synagogue, circa 245–56, is also RTL: Arkyves 8.)46 And while most Islamic depictions of this scene are later than the period under study, Gutmann also published four examples in Persian-language (RTL) manuscripts from the Timurid Empire (in presentday Iran) dated to the first half of the fifteenth century. Three of them are RTL (fig. 65).47 The LTR format thus accounts for only 44 per cent of the Sacrifice representations in the Hebrew-language sample, or 41 per cent of the larger group 43 London, BL Add. 7170, fol. 15r, 115r, and BAV Vat.sir. 559, fol. 8v, 105r. On the connection between them: Leroy 1964, 312–13; Boehm and Holcomb 2016, 86–87 (cat. 27, notice by the editors), where the distinct character of the Entry representations is remarked. 44 Gutmann 1987. For comparability, the “medieval” sample used here excludes two representations cited by Gutmann but dated after the middle of the fifteenth century (his cat. 17 and 18). 45 Illustrations – RTL: Haggadah (Spain), London, BL Oriental 2737, fol. 93v (last quarter, thirteenth or first quarter, fourteenth century); The Northern French Miscellany, London, BL Add 11639, fol. 521v (1277–86). LTR: Mahzor, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud Or. 321, fol. 184r (1270–80). 46 On the Dura paintings, see references in note 4, chapter 2. 47 Gutmann 2001, his fig. 1–4. Illustration: Sacrifice of Ismāʿīl, in Ḥāfiẓ-i Abrū, Majmaʿ al-tavārīkh, Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery Ms. W.676, fol. Aa (c. 1430).

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Figure 65 Sacrifice of Ismāʿīl. In Ḥāfiẓ-i Abrū, Majmaʿ al-tavārīkh. Baltimore. Walters Art Gallery, W.676, fol. Aa (c. 1430)

including the Timurid miniatures. This compares to as much as 90 per cent for medieval imagery from Greek and Latin sources. Under standard statistical tests, this difference is significant at a very high level of confidence. 3

Conclusions

Medieval depictions of motion created in LTR-language cultures are predominantly organized in parallel with the direction of the Latin, vernacular, or Greek script. This result is consistent with the predictions of modern scientific research. The higher proportion of RTL motion in representations of the same stereotypical scene produced in Syriac and especially in Hebrew manuscripts provides convincing evidence of the causal effect of script direction. The sample is not large, but the disparity is actually higher than found in the experimental studies, perhaps because of the reinforcing effect of prototypes. The

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substantial number of RTL Sacrifice representations in the Hebrew-language context is also inconsistent with any claim that the direction of motion was due to any embedded differential value of right and left. Script direction is not the only determinant of how motion is depicted. Other factors can magnify or mitigate its impact. Specific iconography may be chosen for a representation that strongly affects the direction of motion, as in the ascension of Elijah panel from the Klosterneuburg altarpiece (fig. 62, above). It that instance, the demands of accommodating the prophet’s hand gestures overcame two sources of LTR preference: Latin script, in the immediately adjacent inscriptions as well as the society at large, and the sense of the narrative sequence (discussed in the next chapter). Purely aesthetic concerns, notably symmetry, might have a similar impact. Such competing directional pressures are minimized in controlled research studies; the viewed images are generally schematic and decontextualized. The degree of consistency in the uncontrolled experiment of regarding medieval imagery is all the more remarkable.

Chapter 10

Narrative Sequence Continuous narrative, or more correctly punctuated narrative, presents a series of scenes, inviting the viewer to connect them into a story. Such pictorial programs were briefly considered in the preceding chapter to suggest a potential connection between the direction of the sequence and the motion within its component images. The subject of this chapter is the laterality of the arrangements themselves, with special emphasis on the contrarian direction adopted on Bernward’s bronze column in Hildesheim. 1

Script Direction and Pictorial Programming

The spatial organization of narrative programs has not been much studied, with the notable exception of Marilyn Aronberg Lavin’s examination of medieval and Renaissance mural decoration in Italian churches.1 She identified eight patterns in the organization of frescos along parallel walls and the apse they enclose, along with a few repeated variations.2 Although her presentation did not consider laterality, it does facilitate an analysis of the programs from this perspective. Several of the dispositions Lavin identified cleave faithfully to the left-to-right (LTR) direction of Latin and Italian writing. In what she called the “double parallel,” the sequence runs from the apse outward along the right wall, jumps the open space and continues back into the apse on the left wall; in her “apse pattern,” the episodes follow a continuous path LTR starting on the left wall, into and across the apse, and then out on the right wall. Lavin’s typology also includes one right-to-left (RTL) format, the “counterclockwise wraparound,” which is the reverse of the “apse pattern.” Others of her patterns combine directions, like the “wraparound,” in which the scenes run outward from the apse on both sides, and the zig-zag boustrophedon. There are also some purely vertical systems that do not engage the issue of direction. Lavin’s patterns thus include LTR, RTL, and mixed lateral arrangements, but looking at the catalogue in quantitative terms, LTR is clearly dominant over RTL in the medieval examples. Fourteen of the 24 mural programs created before 1300 are exclusively LTR and the other 10 combine the two directions 1 Lavin 1990. 2 Lavin 1990, 6–10, with helpful schematic drawings of each.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_012

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(nine “wraparounds” and one boustrophedon). Of the 33 examples from the fourteenth century three are LTR, 18 include both directions, and the rest are vertical. No strictly RTL dispositions are recorded until the fifteenth century, and they become common only in the sixteenth.3 Lavin surmised that the choice between the various schemes might have reflected differential liturgical practices, or in some cases the subjects of the images. Whatever may have been the underlying motivation for the design, LTR was clearly preferred over RTL, at least before 1500. This is apparent not only in the total statistics but also in the construction of certain “mixed” types. The boustrophedon programs, for example, all begin LTR. The decoration of these chapels and churches is consistent with an underlying LTR bias in the construction of sequential narratives within a LTR-language medieval culture, but it is not an ideal vehicle for exploring the subject. Movement into, out of, and within these three-dimensional spaces influenced their design and obscures the impact of laterality in determining the disposition of images. Chronologically sequential episodes projected onto a single plane provide a better test. Gothic ivory diptychs with Christological or Marian cycles furnish a convenient and abundant medium. A representative sample is conserved in the Victoria & Albert Museum, London. Excluding modern copies – on the grounds that it is possible, if unlikely, that scenes could have been reversed – and purely vertical arrangements, the collection displayed on the museum web site comprises 27 such objects, dated between 1280 and 1414 and almost all of French manufacture.4 It is not a truly random sample, in the sense that the pieces reflect the tastes and opportunities of collectors who donated to the Museum, but it can reasonably be assumed that their buying decisions were not affected by laterality. The clear and consistent LTR bias is, therefore, significant. About half of these V&A diptychs, 13 out of the 27, present one scene on each leaf; in every case, the earlier event is on the left. Thirteen more have two or three registers, providing a composite composition in four or six panels. The chronology of the narrative may start at the top or the bottom but within each register the clear preference, governing 10 of the 13, is LTR (e.g. Arkyves 286).5 In two of the four-compartment diptychs, the sequence is boustrophedon, so 3 Lavin 1990, 8 (diagram 2); the diachronic development is discussed at 15–42. 4 Inv. 211-1865, 300-1866, 367&A-1871, 148-1866, A.552-1910, 6824-1858, 521-1893/A.67-1925, A.5451910, 5623-1859, 235-1867, 294-1867, 292-1867, A.554-1910, A.19-1940, A.555-1910, 311-1889, 6651853, A.18&18A-1940, 802-1891, 234&A-1867, A.21-1940, 291-1867, 290-1867, 293-1867, 241-1867, A.566-1910, A.553-1910 = Williamson and Davies 2014, cat. 68, 70, 72–75, 77, 79, 83, 84, 86, 87, 90, 91, 93–96, 98–103, 105, 106, 112. 5 The web illustration is London, V&A 5623-1859 (c. 1330–50).

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that one register proceeds LTR and the other RTL; in both cases, the narrative begins at the bottom left, so that the LTR direction is still privileged. This applies as well to the one boustrophedon six-compartment example in this collection, the exceptional Soissons Diptych (Arkyves 287).6 Christ’s Passion begins with the kiss of Judas at the lower left corner and then proceeds LTR in the bottom register, RTL in the middle register, culminating in his Ascension at the top right. Finally, the latest of these V&A diptychs, dated around 1414, comprises twelve panels in three registers.7 The left leaf displays a Marian cycle, its scenes strictly LTR in each register. A Christological cycle on the right begins at the bottom, continues to the top, and ends in the middle, but horizontally it, too, is entirely LTR.8 In sum, the V&A diptychs, with one less degree of freedom than Lavin’s Italian churches, are more consistently faithful to a LTR arrangement. The only exceptions are three boustrophedon plaques, and all these still display a directional bias by starting at the left.9 Multi-compartment productions in other media present a similar, if somewhat less homogeneous, preference for the lateral organization of sequential narratives. Schemes are unidirectional or incorporate both directions – boustrophedon, episodes running around the perimeter of a rectangle – but the overall bias is LTR. In Latin- and Greek-language contexts, the Annunciation is rarely to the right of the Nativity; the Last Supper almost always appears to the left of the Crucifixion. As discussed in chapter 9, this LTR preference can plausibly be connected to script direction since, like the representations of moving figures considered there, narrative sequences produced in RTL-language societies manifest a substantially reduced LTR bias. Most Syriac manuscripts do not lend themselves to a test of this claim because the miniatures are presented singly or one above another; the RTL script cannot therefore dictate a RTL series of representations. The expected result is, however, found on two four-compartment miniatures of a thirteenthor fourteenth-century Gospels book.10 The first depicts the Annunciation in the upper right and the Nativity to its left; below are representations of Christ’s 6 London, V&A, inv. 211-1865 (c. 1270). 7 London, V&A, inv. A.553–1910 (c. 1414). 8 This discussion concerns the sequence among compartments. On many of these diptychs, more than one event is depicted within a single panel, and LTR normally controls the progression of these episodes as well. 9 A selection of eleven Gothic ivory diptychs from the Thomson Collection in the Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, published in Lowden and Cherry 2008, 64–101 (cat. 22–32), corroborates the V&A result. All are organized LTR. 10 Quaraqoš (in modern Iraq), Church of Mar Giwargis, in Leroy 1964, 390–96, fig. 143, 144; date suggested by Leroy.

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presentation at the Temple, right, and his baptism, left. The RTL sequence continues on the next page (turning, of course, towards the left): Entry into Jerusalem followed on the left by Crucifixion on the upper register, Christ’s descent into Hell (right) and his Ascension (left) below. This lateral disposition of images is just the reverse of two four-compartment miniatures with many of the same scenes in a roughly contemporary German manuscript in Cleveland (Arkyves 288).11 Jules Leroy remarked the RTL ordering in the Syriac manuscript and explicitly attributed it to script direction.12 A few further instances of RTL preference can be discerned in the most famous of Syriac manuscripts, the Rabbula Gospels. On several folios, canon tables (parallel passages from the Gospels presented in vertical columns) are accompanied by small drawings of biblical scenes; in each case the chronology of these marginal miniatures is RTL: Nativity before (i.e. to the right of) Baptism (Arkyves 35); entry into Jerusalem before communion with the apostles; Judas betraying Christ right before his suicide by hanging.13 Hebrew manuscripts corroborate the association of narrative sequence with script direction. The Sarajevo Haggadah opens with representations of the Creation in two quadripartite, full-page miniatures on successive folios. On folio 1v, chaos at the upper right leads to the separation of light from darkness on the left. The events of succeeding days are similarly represented RTL, first on the bottom register of this folio and then on the next (paging to the left) folio 2r, ending at the bottom left with a resting man who symbolizes the Sabbath (Arkyves 289).14 The same four-compartment format is used a dozen times in the fourteenth-century Golden Haggadah in London.15 In every case, both upper and lower pairs are sequenced RTL. On folio 2v (Arkyves 290), for example, Adam names the animals (Genesis 2:19–20) at the upper right, followed on the left by a double image of the creation of Eve from Adam’s side (2:21–22) and the first couple’s temptation by the serpent (3:1–7), also arranged 11 12

13 14 15

Cleveland Museum of Art, inv. 1933.448.1, 2 (c. 1230–40). One of these folios is LTR on top (Ascension, Pentecost) with two scenes on the bottom that are not part of the narrative. Leroy 1964, 394: “Il est notable cependant que l’ordre suivi ici, fondé sur la suite chronologique, est strictement syrien, car il commence non à gauche, mais en haut à droite, c’est-à-dire selon la marche de l’écriture syriaque.” [It is noteworthy, however, that the order followed here, based on chronology, is purely Syrian, because it begins not at the left but in the upper right, that is to say, following the direction of Syriac writing.] Florence, Biblioteca Laurenziana Plut. I.56, fol. 4v, 11v, 12r (dated by its colophon to 8 February 586). Sarajevo, National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina (c. 1350); Kogman-Appel and Laderman 2004, illustrated as their fig. 1 and 2. London, BL Add 27210, fol. 2v, 3r, 4v, 5r, 7r, 8v, 9r, 10v, 11r, 12v, 13r and 15r (second quarter, fourteenth century).

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RTL. Below are the offerings of Cain and Abel (4:3–4) on the right, with Noah, his family and the animals leaving the ark (8:18–19) on the left. It is sensible and foreseeable that medieval image-makers in RTL-language societies, especially manuscript illuminators, would have conceived the direction of continuous narratives in conformity with their scripts, which in turn dictated the pagination of the books. It nonetheless represented an assertion of difference. Syriac- and Hebrew-speaking audiences were embedded within a dominant Latin- or Greek-language context. Image-makers, while often borrowing forms, styles, and iconographies, nonetheless presented the product in a way that reflected their customers’ lateral bias. 2

Linear Programs and the Puzzle of Bernward’s Column

Unlike the wall decoration of chapels or the multi-compartment representations on ivory diptychs and manuscript folios, an extended single row of images with a coherent, chronological story offered image-makers a simple, binary lateral choice: LTR or RTL. In theory, the arrangement could incorporate flashbacks and foreshadowing, reverse course in mid-stream, or simply jumble scenes without regard to narrative sequence. But while an event is occasionally displaced, perhaps by error or in deference to some unusual source or local custom, once the number of individual scenes reaches around half a dozen, the programs typically unfold in an orderly and didactic course beginning at the left and advancing towards the right, consistent with the written word in the LTR-language contexts in which they were produced.16 Cycles from the life of the Virgin were a popular instance of this format. The half dozen scenes strung out under the Virgin and Child on the Sainte-Anne Portal of the west façade of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame in Paris (Arkyves 291), and the mosaics added by Pietro Cavallini and workshop at the end of the thirteenth century below the earlier Glorification in the apse of Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome (Arkyves 292), proceed strictly LTR. Scenes from the life or passion of Christ are similarly arrayed, as on a painted beam in the Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, produced in Catalonia around 1200 (Arkyves 293).17 Its seven episodes begin at the left with Christ’s betrayal and arrest, and

16 17

The surviving elements of the fresco program in the Syriac-language setting at Mar Musa Al-Habashi presents many fascinating representations but no coherent narrative. See Dodd 2001. Barcelona, Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, inv. 015 833–000 (c. 1192–1200).

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end at the right with the three women visiting his empty tomb, the Crucifixion placed strategically in the central compartment. The longer the sequence, the more insistent the impetus towards LTR conformity. The Klosterneuburg retable displays 51 gilded copper and enamel plaques in three registers. Produced by Nicholas of Verdun and his workshop, these plaques were originally attached to a cubic ambo in 1181, probably covering three of its sides; after a fire in 1330, they were remounted on the current three-metre-wide triptych altarpiece. Their arrangement is dictated by the Christological cycle in the middle that depicts events from the Annunciation at the far left to the Last Judgement at the right (Arkyves 294).18 The LTR direction is consistent with but not forced by Latin inscriptions that identify each scene, since these run around the edges of each plaque. Old Testament episodes occupy the top and bottom registers, separated into events before and after the proclamation of the Mosaic Law. These are not ordered chronologically but rather according to a strict, if sometimes forced, typology with the Christian narrative. Although the sequence on the original ambo cannot be definitively determined, it must have followed the same typology and presumably the Christian LTR chronology.19 A monument like the Klosterneuburg altar permits viewers to see all the images in one sweep of their gaze. A rigorously unidirectional arrangement is even more important when only part of the sequence is visible at any given moment. This is the case for the tenth-century Joshua Roll, a masterpiece of Byzantine manuscript illumination (Arkyves 295).20 Now detached into 15 sheets, it was originally a single scroll more than ten metres long. As it was unfurled, the observer was presented with a series of pictures recounting 36 distinct events from the eponymous biblical book situated across what Kurt Weitzmann called a “panoramic landscape.”21 Greek inscriptions, original or added later, label the individual representations. The story was told visually as it would have been in words, from left to right.22 The record for medieval linear pictorial narration is held by the Bayeux Tapestry. Its embroidered account of the Norman conquest comprises 75 scenes 18

Nicholas of Verdun and his workshop, church of Stift Klosterneuburg. See Buschhausen 1980. 19 On the chronological sequence and the arrangement of the plaques on the ambo and the retable, see Schlie 2017. 20 Vatican, BAV Pal.gr. 431.pt.B (third quarter, tenth century). See Weitzmann 1948; Wander 2012. 21 Weitzmann 1999, 311. 22 The many Exultet rolls from southern Italy are replete with illustrations but do not engage the issue of laterality because text and images always run vertically down the length of the scroll. They are illustrated in Cavallo, Orofino and Pecere 1994.

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requiring a full seventy metres of fabric about 50 centimetres wide (Arkyves 296).23 As on the Joshua Roll, individual episodes are explicated with inscriptions, now in Latin. The text would remind a viewer of script direction, but the rightward flow of images was more powerfully dictated by the unfolding plot, following the narrative succession expected in a LTR-language culture. The rightward direction was also, as Carola Hicks remarked, propelled by “a whole series of sophisticated visual links,” like pointing a finger or turning the body towards the next scene.24 Longer than the Joshua Roll but shorter than the Bayeux Tapestry is the 15 metre frieze that winds its way up a bronze column in Hildesheim produced under the patronage of its Bishop Bernward and installed in the monastic church of St Michael’s around the time of its consecration in September 1022, two months before the bishop’s death.25 The column’s 28 scenes present a truncated life of Christ, commencing with his baptism and ending with his entry into Jerusalem. Bernward was an active player in both imperial and ecclesiastical politics but he is remembered mainly for his artistic legacy, including two great works in bronze, this column and the famous pair of doors cast around 1015 and now at the main portal of the Hildesheim cathedral.26 The doors are a masterpiece of medieval metalwork, exquisite in craftsmanship and innovative in both form (the first such depiction of biblical scenes on the valves) and technique (a revival of the ancient lost wax casting process). The column, often considered less elegant in design, is not equally original. Its casting repeated the process used on the doors, albeit in a virtuoso performance whereby almost the entire shaft was cast as a single piece. And the spiral form bears the imprint of ancient Roman monuments. In one respect, however, Bernward’s Column is strikingly original: its narrative program unfolds from right to left (fig. 66). The genre of the spiral historiated column originated with the dedication of Trajan’s Column in Rome in AD 113 (fig. 67).27 This remarkable monument 23

Bayeux, Musée de la Tapisserie de Bayeux. See Bouet and Neveux 2013. An 0n-line panoramic viewer is provided by the Hochschule Augsburg: https://www.hs-augsburg .de/~harsch/Chronologia/Lspost11/Bayeux/bay_intr.html. 24 Hicks 2006, 4. 25 On the column: Haftmann 1939; Tschan 1942–52, 2.271–350; Adamski 1979; Brandt and Eggebrecht 1993, 430–548 (cat. VII-17, “Bernwardsäule,” by Rainer Kahsnitz); Brandt 2009. On the life and legacy of Bishop Bernward: Tschan 1942–52; Schuffels 1993; the facts are mainly derived from a Vita produced shortly after Bernward’s death by Thangmar. 26 On the doors: Brandt and Eggebrecht 1993, 2.503–12 (cat. VII-33, “Bronztüren im Dom,” by Rainer Kahsnitz); Brandt 2016. Lutz 2017 summarizes the state of the question regarding their original location in either St Michael’s or the Marian cathedral. 27 This discussion of spiral columns draws on Couzin 2017b. It abbreviates the consideration of the pre- and post-medieval monuments while expanding and re-evaluating the discussion of Bernward’s Column.

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Figure 66 Bronze column of Bishop Bernward. Hildesheim (c. 1022) Photograph: Arnoldius / CC BY-SA

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Figure 67 Trajan’s Column, Rome. ad 113 Photograph: D-DAI-ROM 79.1055B (H. Schwanke)

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consists of a marble shaft 27 metres tall (100 Roman feet) and over three metres in diameter (with variation providing for moderate entasis), set on a massive, square base.28 A frieze of relief carvings over 200 metres long spirals around the column in 22 turns relating 155 episodes of the victorious Dacian campaign. Trajan’s Column was originally surmounted by a bronze statue of the emperor, which was lost at some point in the Middle Ages and replaced by St Peter in 1588. The spiral is dextral and the narrative begins at the bottom, meaning that the scenes succeed one another to the right. This column bears no inscriptions but its frieze does naturally bring to mind a scroll – with writing, pictures, or both – leading to repeated speculations of a manuscript prototype. A more persuasive causal connection operates in the other sense, the column having inspired imitations on parchment, possibly including the Joshua Roll.29 Whatever its relationship with any actual scroll, the LTR sequence of episodes on Trajan’s Column is itself a picture book of imperial victories and accomplishments carved in stone. It is probably not coincidental that this monument was dedicated just one century after the Augustan Res gestae, a written recital of the first emperor’s achievements that had been and still was displayed on bronze and stone tablets across the Empire.30 Trajan is believed to have commissioned a similar document recounting his own campaigns, to be preserved in libraries built adjacent to his column. One distinction between the pictorial relief carving and records written on a plaque or a scroll is that the frieze becomes progressively less legible. This problem has long exercised scholars seeking to understand the intentions of imperial designers and the experience of citizen viewers but it does not challenge the analysis of spiral direction. The LTR succession of images is clear on the lower windings, and its continuance would have been obvious even if the precise content became harder to make out. The Roman Empire produced three more such columns. The first was erected around 70 years later and 650 metres away, in honour of Marcus Aurelius.31 Differing stylistically and in some technical details, its emulation of the model is nonetheless obvious: the Aurelian column also depicts imperial military exploits in a LTR frieze, it is of the same height, and it too was surmounted by a statue of the eponymous emperor, eventually replaced in this case by St Paul. Two more such columns were erected in Constantinople at 28 The literature on Trajan’s Column is extensive. Representative studies are Becatti 1981; Coarelli 1999; Galinier 2007. The papers presented in Mitthof and Schörner 2017 provide a multi-dimensional examination of this monument. 29 See the discussion by Becatti 1960, 21–22. Wander 2012, 90–91, implausibly suggested the Joshua Roll could be a model for Bernward’s Column; cf. Anderson 2012. 30 On a possible connection between the column and the Res gestae, see Huet 1996, 21–24; Galinier 2007, 125. 31 Becatti 1960, 47–82; Beckmann 2011.

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the cusp of the fifth century, the first between 386 and 393 for the Emperor Theodosius I, the second some ten years later by his son Arcadius (Arkyves 297).32 Neither survives but documentary and graphic evidence indicates that they both followed Roman precedent in essential respects, including the rightward direction of their spirals. Notwithstanding their impact on residents and travelers alike over the centuries, these four antique columns inspired very few later monumental successors. The best known is Napoleon’s bronze monument in the centre of the Place Vendôme, Paris, explicitly meant to be “modeled on the one erected in Rome in honour of Trajan.”33 It is taller than the original but emulates the theme of imperial victory and self-representation, depicting the exploits of the Grande Armée and topped with a statue of Napoléon in Roman toga.34 The spiral is dextral. Another Trajan-inspired column was erected in Astoria, Oregon in 1927, with a frieze depicting regional historical events painted on concrete, with no statue, and unlike all the earlier examples bearing a ribbon of explanatory text. Here the LTR direction of the English language does not merely suggest but demands a right-handed spiral. To complete this brief history of modern spiral historiated columns, two instances of leftward spirals should be remarked. Both can be explained by peculiarities of the specific monuments. The first appeared in eighteenthcentury Vienna, where a pair of columns were engaged to the façade of the new Karlskirche (Arkyves 298).35 Replicating the spiral form of the Roman monuments, they were certainly meant to evoke that earlier empire, although the subject of the frieze is spiritual rather than martial, recounting events from the life and post mortem miracles of the titular saint. In deference to the symmetry of the neo-classical portal, the architect prescribed opposing spirals, righthanded on the right side and left-handed on the left. The other left-handed example is a three-metre tall column in Cocking, West Sussex. Dedicated in 2005, it bears 48 bronze plaques illustrating a millennium of local history.36 The spiral direction on the Cocking column, although contrary to the example 32

See Becatti 1960, 83–264; Sodini 1994. Drawing of the Column of Arcadius by Lambert de Vos (?), 1574, Freshfield Album, fol. 13, Trinity College, Cambridge. 33 “Monument désigné pour la place Vendôme, à Paris,” in Recueil Polytechnique 1807, 155– 56, my translation. 34 Traeger 1977. The original plan of 1803 called for a column about half as tall as Trajan’s, decorated with 108 allegorical figures representing the several départements of the Republic and surmounted by a statue of Charlemagne. The frieze on the final production of 1810 is 280 metres long. 35 Sedlmayr 1976, 174–84; Fergusson 1970; Seitschek 2017, 295–300. 36 Leslie 2006, 60–62; extensive information on the column at http://www.public sculpturesofsussex.co.uk/object?id=244#references.

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of Trajan’s Column (by which it was explicitly inspired) confirms rather than challenges the impact of script direction. This is because its scenes run from top to bottom. The chronological sequence is, therefore, LTR, the same direction as the English-language inscriptions within and between the plaques. Bernward’s spiral historiated column is the only extant monument of this type produced between the fifth and the eighteenth century. Its leftward spiral departs from the precedent set by the Roman antiquities and offends the reading and scanning directions of eleventh-century Hildesheim. There is little doubt that Bernward’s conception harkened back to the imperial models. Having studied the arts as a young man, his official visit to Rome of several weeks in 1001 provided ample occasion to view the great monuments of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius; and if the bishop was otherwise occupied, his travelling companion, teacher, amanuensis, archivist, and biographer, Thangmar, may be credited with an accurate recollection of their appearance. Sketches might have been made, but none have been found. The Hildesheim column differs in scale, material, and function from its Roman predecessors: of bronze rather than stone, an order of magnitude shorter, and made not for imperial glorification in a public forum but confirmation of the Christian faith within a church. The most obvious and important similarity, of course, is the upward spiralling continuous narrative frieze. The columns erected by Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, and Bernward also share certain details of iconography. They all begin with a river, the Danube or the Jordan, presented by a classical personification. The fluvial symbolism of triumph, military in Rome and eschatological in Hildesheim, is reinforced by the centrally positioned figure of Victoria on the imperial columns and the similarly situated Transfiguration on Bernward’s. The unexpected and ostentatious reversal of the helix can hardly have been inadvertent. No such mistake was made in Constantinople (or Paris, or Oregon), and Bernward (or Thangmar, or both) almost certainly had personal knowledge of the Roman columns. At least as important as its stark departure from precedent, the leftward spiral also forced its observers to override their natural inclination to read sequential narrative like a Latin text. Bernward and his design advisers could not fail to notice that books in the monastic library were written LTR, including manuscripts of the Gospels relating the very events depicted on the column. Indeed, not only the general sweep of narrative but also the presentation of at least one of its scenes, the final Entry into Jerusalem, was jarring (fig. 68). As noted in chapter 9, the RTL action of this episode as depicted on the column both complements and is dictated by the direction of the overall sequence. And while Bernward’s Column is certainly not the only instance of a RTL Entry, it is probably unique for its time

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Figure 68 Bronze column of Bishop Bernward (detail of Entry into Jerusalem). Hildesheim (c. 1022) © Bildarchiv Foto Marburg / Photograph: Frank Tomio

and place. Brandt likened several elements in the iconography – apostle with book in hand, the way the cloak is placed in Christ’s path, the extension of city architecture – to miniatures of the period from Reichenau, and in both his specific examples, the action proceeds LTR.37 Several other Ottonian depictions of the Entry could be added; all represent Jesus approaching the city from the left, including a miniature in the Gospels book commissioned by Bernward himself and presented as another founding gift to the same abbey of St Michael (fig. 69).38 37 Brandt 2009, 82–85, fig. 78 and 80, reproducing folio 87v of the Bernulphus Codex, Utrecht, Museum Catherijneconvent C.903 (1040–50) and folio 29v of an Evangeliary in Brescia, Biblioteca Civica Queriniana Ms.F.II.1 (end tenth century). 38 Bernward’s Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom- und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz 18, fol. 175r (c. 1015). On the manuscript: Kingsley 2014, colour plate 16. Other examples: SBBamberg Msc.Lit.2, fol. 44v (1062); New York, Morgan G.44, fol. 58v (c. 1050) and M.781, fol. 69r (second quarter, eleventh century); Codex Egberti, Trier, Stadtbibliothek Hs 24, fol. 66r

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Figure 69 Entry into Jerusalem. Bernward’s Gospels. Hildesheim, Dom- und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz 18, fol. 175r (c. 1015) © Dommuseum Hildesheim

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Modern observers may not find the left-handed spiral on Bernward’s Column significant or disconcerting; they may not notice it at all. But it would have been remarked by medieval monks and clerics. They had read the life of Jesus and probably seen it in manuscript illuminations, always from left to right. These directions, as repeatedly observed in previous chapters, were charged with meaning: right and left were distinguished in scripture, keenly discussed in theological literature, reflected in liturgical practice, and embedded in church design. Medieval viewers were sensitive to the aesthetic and above all the symbolic qualities of various characteristics of images, including material, colour, form, and number.39 The direction of narrative sequence, and especially its unexpected and unprecedented reversal, would likewise capture their attention. Bernward’s Column is routinely, almost ritually, compared to Trajan’s Column, but the difference of spiral direction is usually either ignored or simply recorded as a bald fact, like its height or the number of windings. In the voluminous bibliography, only three scholars have even briefly raised the question. Their theories are included among the seven hypotheses discussed below. 2.1 Inversion in Production Some media, like prints and coins, are prone to lateral error because a step in the production process entails creation of a mirror image. Sometimes, plateor mould-makers carefully reverse the entire composition in order to preserve its original laterality, but often they do this only for elements that absolutely require a fixed direction, like inscriptions. This accounts for a number of reversed reproductions of Trajan’s Column.40 Such an oversight is not possible in the case of Bernward’s Column. The lost wax process by which it was cast is not susceptible to lateral reversal since it begins with a model, generally in clay or plaster, that represents the intended form of the final product. Unlike the plate of a print or the mould for a coin, the images on this model are positive, not negative.41

39 40 41

(c. 983); Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum MS 156142, fol. 111r (Echternach, c. 1040). Kumler & Lakey, 2012; Kessler 2019; on numerology and Bernward’s Column: Brandt 2009, 15–17. On these reversals, see Couzin 2017, 20–26. On the lost wax process, see Hemingway 2000, 39–44.

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2.2 A Left-Handed Designer The sculptors who made the model for Bernward’s Column almost certainly followed drawings. The tendency of left-handers to slant diagonals upwards to the left and right-handers in the opposite direction is a characteristic often cited in the analysis of hatching on artists’ sketches.42 Might a left-handed designer, by reason of this manual habit, have drawn a sinistral spiral with a leftward progression of episodes? Other, right-handed participants in the production – modelers, bronze casters, workshop supervisors, clerical advisers – would have resisted such directional guidance unless, perhaps, the directive came from Bernward himself. His biography provides no hint of his handedness; probability favours the right without excluding the left. Yet even a left-handed Bernward is not likely to have imposed a leftward spiral. The bishop was a fluent reader of more than one LTR language (certainly Latin and German, probably Greek). Psychological research indicates that left-handed LTR readers are no less inclined to favour LTR images than are right-handers; indeed, the effort required to read LTR script may incline the left-handers to greater bias in that direction.43 A sequential narrative based on holy scripture would be especially resistant to any RTL graphic habit. This second hypothesis may also, therefore, be safely rejected. 2.3 The Multi-Column Conjecture Although post-dating Bernward’s Column by over seven centuries, the twin columns on the Karlskirche in Vienna invite the thought that symmetry could also account for the left-handed spiral of the medieval monument if it was, or had been intended to be, one of a pair or group. Other analogies, less perfect but more chronologically apt, are the opposing motion in door panels and ivory diptychs remarked in chapter 9, or the pairing of spiral fluted columns, most famously the twisted spirals of St Peter’s.44 Faced with the abbreviated narrative on Bernward’s Column, comprehending only events from Jesus’s baptism to his entry into Jerusalem, some historians posited that a set of four was originally planned, perhaps as supports for a ciborium.45 The first column would depict Christ’s birth and childhood, and two more could cover his Passion and Resurrection. A less ambitious but still

42 43 44 45

Bertrand 2008, 206–210; Jung 1977, 216. Maass, Suitner and Deconchy 2014, 113–16; Suitner and Maass 2016, 262. Ward Perkins 1952. The hypothesis is discussed and rejected by Tschan 1942–52, 2.273–75.

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adequate conjecture would suppose just two columns with opposing spirals, as in Vienna. There is no evidence that more than one column was ever erected in St Michael’s and a consistent tradition to the contrary. A fifteenth-century manuscript that may have been copied from a Vita written circa 1200 records that Bernward placed in his church “a [in the singular] massive bronze column” surmounted by a large crucifix.46 A monastic chronicle confirms that the bishop erected a single bronze column behind the cross altar.47 And when local Protestants thought to melt down the column for canon metal in the 1540s (eventually settling on appropriating only the crucifix), their resolution referred to only one such monument.48 Large medieval objects do sometimes disappear and the historical record is admittedly scant and retrospective, but it does corroborate the assumption that there was never more than one bronze spiral column in St Michael’s. A less aggressive version of the multiple column conjecture would claim that only one was cast because the project died with its patron. It is hard to see why the workshop would start with the second (Baptism to Entry) of a four-column set, so the more likely form of this speculation would imagine an originally planned pair. Since there cannot very well have been two crucifixes placed next to one another, nor likely one column with and one without, yet another undocumented hypothesis is required: that the cross or crucifix was a later addition.49 Thus, the multi-column conjecture, although not excluded by any explicit evidence, rests on several improbable speculations. 2.4 Christian Composition In 1931, Max Wegner published a lengthy study of the Column of Marcus Aurelius in which he briefly commented on the direction of its spiral, a consequence, he suggested, of the rightward motion preferred in antique narrative representations.50 As a passing observation, Wegner noted that Christian art manifested the opposite bias because of its elevation of the perspective of holy protagonists, especially Jesus. This, he said, tends to direct narrative to the left and accounts for the spiral on Bernward’s Column.51 The observation that 46

Kratz 1840, 62n45: “eine mechtigen kopperen Sule,” citing from a manuscript of 1419 said to be based on a work by Theoderich II, abbot of St Michael’s from 1180 to 1204. 47 Chronica Monasterii S. Michaelis, 518: “in ecclesia ejusdem monasterii retro altare S. Crucis in Columna aerea, quondam a S. Berwardo erecta.” 48 Kratz 1840, 63; Brandt 2009, 11. 49 Another theory noted and rejected by Tschan 1942–52, 1.273. 50 Wegner 1931, 83–85. The subject was taken further by Luschey 2002. 51 Wegner 1931, 85–86.

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medieval representations preferred an object- to a viewer-centred perspective is consistent with the discussion in chapters 5 to 7 above, but Wegner’s claim that this can explain the reversed spiral on the column in Hildesheim is not persuasive. Roman representations also accorded higher status to figures at the emperor’s, not the observer’s, right, yet the antique columns are all righthanded spirals. More important, the privilege of the right side does not automatically translate into a reversal of narrative direction. As remarked above, Christian monuments commonly organized pictorial sequence LTR (at least in LTR-language cultures). The same Christological cycle depicted on Bernward’s Column is often found proceeding to the right in other media. This last observation also undercuts a variation of Wegner’s hypothesis proposed by Joanna Olchawa.52 In a contribution devoted explicitly to the relationship between Trajan’s and Bernward’s columns, she properly remarks the right- and left-handed spirals as a point of distinction. Her brief explanation for the chosen direction is that following the format of contemporary manuscript illuminations, most episodes on the column depict figures next to or opposite one another, and since Christ is usually towards the left margin of the image, the narrative is propelled in that direction. It is debatable whether scenes with Christ at the left do dominate the column; he seems more often to be near the centre. His position is not, in any event, an obvious determinant of narrative direction. In most of the nine episodes where Christ is situated towards the left, he is turned or advancing towards the right; if there is any visual motive impulse here, it suggests a right-, not a left-handed spiral. More generally, the compositional variety in the 28 scenes prevents any overall feeling of motion in one direction or the other, and certainly not a force to overwhelm the intuitive LTR reading of chronology. Equally, if not more important, the manuscript miniatures to which Olchawa herself refers as inspirations for these compositions all suggest a LTR narrative direction. 2.5 Perspective from the Top Michael Brandt, a leading expert on all things Bernwardian, devoted two sentences to the issue of spiral direction in a short monograph on the column.53 His theory focused on the cross or crucifix supposed to have originally surmounted it. From the perspective of Christ, represented either bodily or symbolically on top, the narrative starts at the far end, the bottom for the mortal viewer, and proceeds upward. Brandt correctly remarked that as Christ would

52 53

Olchawa 2017, 260. Brandt 2009, 16–17.

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have seen it, had he cast his gaze earthwards, the sequence of scenes on the column thus proceeds to the right, not to the left. A household screw has a right-handed thread. Its handedness is the same regardless of how it is held and from which end it is regarded. Brandt’s conception is, therefore, based not on the direction of the column’s spiral, which is constant, but on the direction of its narrative, which depends on whether the sequence is read bottom up or top down. These two orientations coincide if the hypothesized viewer starts at the near end. An observer on the ground follows the scenes on the right-handed spiral of Trajan’s Column from left to right as his gaze rises, and from right to left on the left-handed spiral of Bernward’s Column. The result is different if a viewer starts at the far end. This is the sense of Brandt’s hypothesis. Christ, he suggests, follows the scenes depicted on the Hildesheim column starting with his baptism at the bottom and working his way up to the Entry at the top. For him, even though the spiral is to the left, the narrative moves to the right. This same effect was remarked above in connection with the History Column in West Sussex, a left-handed spiral with episodes that are nonetheless read LTR because they begin at the top and are regarded by viewers standing at the bottom; so on Bernward’s Column, Christ looking down at the scenes progressing upwards on its left-handed spiral would read them LTR. The logic of Brandt’s hypothesis did not govern the construction of other spiral historiated columns. Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, Theodosius I, and Arcadius all stood atop their columns, as Napoleon still does on his, but imperial perspective did not alter the right-handed direction of the screw.54 And, not to doubt the superiority of Christ over mortal viewers, the episodes depicted on Bernward’s Column are directed to them, not him. For unlike the observer in West Sussex, who also starts reading at the far end of the column, Christ would see the scenes upside down. Had they been given Latin tituli, the words would be backwards and the letters inverted. Although Bernward’s Column is the only known medieval monument of its kind, Christ often appeared along with, and in a sense presiding over, narrative programs. His presence did not habitually force any reordering of the otherwise preferred sequence. Several Ottonian miniatures depict a Crucifixion in the upper register foreshadowing the Deposition and Entombment depicted below. Those two events are inevitably ordered LTR from the reader’s, not

54

Gyllius 1729, 194, 250 (first published in 1561), records imperial statues on the columns in Constantinople.

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Christ’s, perspective (e.g. Arkyves 299).55 Innumerable other examples can be cited throughout the Middle Ages. The painted cover of a wooden reliquary box from the Sancta Sanctorum in the Lateran Palace, now conserved in the Vatican Museums, was produced in Syria or Palestine in the sixth century. The middle of its three registers presents the Crucifixion, while four accompanying scenes complete an abbreviated cycle of Christ’s life and resurrection: Nativity and Baptism below, holy women at the tomb and Ascension above. Both pairs are organized LTR as the viewer sees it (Arkyves 300).56 Towards the other end of the medieval time line, a fourteenth-century tabernacle by Pacino di Bonaguido (painted c. 1325) provides an especially elaborate illustration of the principle, with 16 episodes flanking a central Crucifixion (Arkyves 301).57 On the viewer’s left are eight compartments relating events from the Visitation through the Agony in the Garden, presented LTR across four registers, top to bottom. On the other side are eight more scenes, beginning with the Betrayal and ending with the Resurrection, arranged in the same way. In sum, the rightward spiral retained on antique columns surmounted by imperial statues, the upside-down appearance of the scenes when viewed from the top, and the common practice in medieval imagery generally and Ottonian representations in particular of retaining LTR narrative sequence from the observer’s vantage point rather than that of the crucified Christ – all these factors challenge Brandt’s hypothesis for the leftward spiral on Bernward’s Column. 2.6 The Christianization of Trajan’s Spiral A feature common to the theories offered by Wegner, Olchawa, and Brandt is that they all invoke the Christian character of Bernward’s Column: each posits that the insertion of Christ into or above the narrative scenes caused the reversal of the spiral. Another, more abstract, notion of “Christianization” might more convincingly be invoked as a rationale for the left-handed spiral. Bernward’s monument effected a “conversion” of Trajan’s prototype that overpowered both the authority of Roman precedent and the viewer’s inclination to follow the visual narrative LTR. 55

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Gospels of Otto III. Munich, BSB Clm 4453, fol. 288v (Reichenau, c. 1000). Other examples include: Evangelistary of Henry III, Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek Bremen, MS b.21, fol. 58v (Echternach, c. 1040); Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum MS 156142, fol. 111r (Echternach, c. 1040). Wooden reliquary, Vatican Museums, cat. 61883.2.1–2. Pacino di Bonaguida, Tabernacle with scenes from the life of Christ, Tucson, The University of Arizona Museum of Art, ID#1961.013.013 (c. 1325); Sciacca 2012, 193–95 (cat. 37).

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Francis J. Tschan highlighted the evangelical significance of the column’s message in early eleventh-century Saxony, where the population was still in or susceptible to the thrall of paganism: The erection of a Christussäule, therefore, would appeal to Bernward as an apt means of substituting things Christian for the things pagan that some of his people still regarded with lingering reverence. By “things Christian” and “things pagan” Tschan meant imagery, and compared with its imperial predecessors, Bernward’s Column did demonstrably replace the latter with the former. Yet the medieval designers, and especially the bishop, may have felt this solution still incomplete and insufficient. The quandary they faced was how to preserve a connection with antiquity, explicitly and intentionally recalled by the borrowed form of a spiral historiated column, without intimating a false, even blasphemous, equivalence between Christ’s triumph and worldly victories.58 It was important that the emulation of these pagan monuments add dignity and majesty to the bronze column without eliding the moral, spiritual, even ontological distinction between the life and deeds of Jesus and mere historical military campaigns. Reversing the spiral was a means of simultaneously evoking and negating imperial precedents. The RTL narrative direction on Bernward’s Column reminded those who knew the Roman monuments that while an allusion to their antiquity and authority could ennoble a depiction of the life of Christ, the pagan and Christian narratives were still fundamentally different. The leftward spiral also intensified the viewers’ attention to the sacred Christian story related in its images, whether or not they were familiar with the old columns. Contemplating the life of Christ as depicted RTL on the Bernward’s Column forced observers to reverse their habitual reading habits, an effort that would pique their interest and sharpen their memory.59 Playing on the chirality of left- and right-handed screws was a typically medieval rhetorical device: one spiral cannot be superimposed on the other, just as the events foreshadowing Christ’s passion, crucifixion, and resurrection are incommensurable with human achievements, however remarkable these might be.

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The conflict was noted by Haftmann 1939, 157. The connection between effort and memory is a leitmotif in Carruthers 1998.

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2.7 Liturgical Movement Ritual circumambulation was common in antiquity and continued into early Christian liturgy. The ancient practice was to move clockwise around objects of veneration such as altars in order to keep them in the place of honour at one’s right.60 Were Bernward’s Column to be circled in this way, its spiral narrative would unfold in proper sequence before the peripatetic viewer, the leftward direction being an intelligible and elegant design to meet the requirements of this specific context. It is impossible to determine with assurance that such circumambulation to the left occurred, but the conjecture is not implausible. Literary and archaeological evidence indicates that the column was located behind a free-standing altar of the Holy Cross situated at the eastern end of the nave, near the transept crossing and, appropriately enough for a monument redolent with connotations of victory, beneath the triumphal arch.61 Bernhard Gallistl speculated that the column was installed on an elevated platform the same height as, and engaged to, the altar in order that the lowest windings could be seen from the front.62 Another, more widely accepted view has the column only slightly above the floor on its plinth, but set back somewhat behind the altar as an alternative solution to visibility.63 Circumambulation around this altar could (would, under Gallistl’s conception) have included the column, and if the movement was clockwise, it would parallel the sequence of the narrative. Such liturgical motion may well have taken place, in particular in connection with the dedication of the Holy Cross altar and the column in 1022. Circumambulation is often prescribed in early Christian rites and the circling of a church altar seemed to follow the antique clockwise direction, a reflection of the shared principle of deferring to a holy object by keeping it at one’s right.64 The practice of walking around the altar continued in (and after) the Middle Ages. Otto Nussbaum, however, remarked that in the modern Roman rite, the celebrant incenses the altar circling anti-clockwise; he inferred that the direction of motion must at some point have reversed, and situated this change as early as the ninth century.65 When, where, for what 60 61 62 63 64 65

Pax 1957, col. 143–49 (RAC s.v. “Circumambulatio”); Guillaumont 1985, 165–66; Mehl 2002, 48–49. The direction was generally reversed in funerary rites. On the placement of the column and the location and function of the cross altar: Gallistl 1993, 27–36; Brandt and Eggebrecht 1993, 2.540–41 (by Rainer Kahsnitz); Brandt 2009, 9–10. Gallistl 1993, frontispiece and ground plan sketch (p. 22). See also Olchawa 2017, 259. See the reconstructive drawings in Kruse 2008, 153 (fig. 17); Brandt 2009, 10 (fig. 2). Pax 1957, col. 147–48; Nussbaum 1962, 167. Nussbaum 1962, 167–68.

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rituals, and in what circumstances the practice of clockwise circumambulation was turned around are matters open to debate. As for Hildesheim, there is no evidence on the matter at all in the relevant period, neither with respect to liturgy in general nor for the consecration or operation of St Michael’s. Ritual practices in the eleventh century were notoriously unsettled and inconsistent, both in their prescription and application. No single rule book had universal authority; local versions of pontificals and missals diverged; and even where some liturgical code was nominally in effect, performance did not necessarily conform. Such variability extended to ceremonies of consecration: “There was never one rite for the dedication of churches in the Middle Ages, nor was the rite uniformly practised or enforced.”66 Accepting these caveats, one ritual stipulation of potential application nonetheless merits attention. The compendium of manuscripts known as the Pontifical Romano-Germanique du dixième siècle (PRG) reflects a tradition centred in tenth- and eleventh-century Germany. It is of obvious relevance to, if not inevitably determinative of, the consecration rituals that were performed in Hildesheim in September of 1022.67 Two chapters of the PRG refer to circumambulation of the altar upon dedication of a church. Both prescribe that the celebrant should circle the altar seven times sprinkling hyssop.68 The text does not, unfortunately, prescribe the direction of motion, but the number seven is of some interest. Its origin can be traced to pre-Christian sources that refer to seven circuits around an altar, and Christian numerology provided additional reasons for choosing this particular figure (from the seven days of creation to the repeated sevens in the Book of Revelation).69 Seven-fold circumambulation around Bernward’s Column, if it proceeded in the clockwise direction, would correspond strikingly with its design: the 28 episodes are displayed on seven superposed bands of relief (fig. 66). During such a hypothetical ritual, the circling viewer would thus follow (or be led by) the complete narrative in its proper sequence.70 66 Bruun and Hamilton 2016, 178–82 (citation at 178). See also Hamilton 2010, 13–26. 67 On the status of the PRG: Parkes 2016. 68 PRG XXXIII.16 (p. 84): “Inde cum ysopo aspergat altare in circuitu septem vicibus, canendo antiphonam istam: Asperges me, cum psalmo Miserere mei Deus.” Essentially the same text appears as XL.43 (p. 141). The prescription appears in the Gallican rite: Duchesne 1919, 410. 69 For antique practice, see note 60. The Trinitarian three represented the number of circuits around the church itself in consecration ceremonies. 70 Some observers refer to eight turns on Bernward’s Column (e.g. Tschan 1942–52, 2.271), perhaps referring to the number of borders visible from any spot. Returning to the same place seven times, however, is sufficient to see all the scenes.

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The notion that a left-handed spiral was chosen for this column with just such a ritual in mind – to be performed at the consecration ceremony in 1022 and perhaps repeated regularly thereafter – is intriguing but unprovable, and likely to remain so. Recent archaeological investigations have probably revealed all that will ever be known about the placement of the column;71 barring a major documentary discovery, the practice of circumambulation in St Michael’s during the eleventh century will not become any clearer. Nonetheless, liturgical movement as an alternative to – or perhaps in support of – the Christian reinterpretation of imperial historiated spiral columns remains an attractive potential explanation for the contrarian and puzzling left-handed spiral of Bernward’s Column. 71

See Brandorff 2008, in particular at 91–98.

Epilogue This study has approached the analysis of medieval imagery from the perspective of handedness, broadly conceived as governing not only manual activity but also place and direction. Its underlying thesis is that including this dimension in the analysis enriches our understanding of how image-makers worked and what their audiences saw. Some forms of representation rely on the pre-eminence of the right, while others exploit the lesser value of the left. The organization of compositions, narrative sequences, and even architectural arrangements may be explained by the priority of position to the right over the left, or by the direction of writing in the surrounding language culture. Exploration of the treatment of laterality may reveal, or complicate, connections between representations; anomalies can provide clues regarding production methods or patronage; differences may expose diachronic developments. This Epilogue is not a restatement of conclusions or a summary of open questions but an exercise in historiographic introspection. If right and left matter, why are they so rarely remarked by sensitive, knowledgeable, and meticulous observers? My aim is not to question or undermine any scholars’ contributions, and certainly not to challenge their competence. The exclusion of laterality from the study of medieval art is a systemic characteristic of the field, not a failing of individual practitioners. 1

Misapprehension

As discussed in previous chapters, when asked directly and given sufficient time, normal adults can distinguish a right hand from a left and locate objects to the right or left side of a figure facing them.1 But the error rate in these tasks is not zero, and although self-selection and training should make professional art historians more adept than average, they, too, can make mistakes. A few instances of explicit and incorrect labelling of right and left suggest the operation of such perceptual confusion. The late antique grave plaque of Eutropos, made in Rome and conserved in the Museo lapidario of Urbino, is best known for its precious depiction of a sarcophagus workshop (Arkyves 302).2 The figural decoration also includes 1 Discussions of aspects of the perceptual challenges are found in chapters 1, 2, and 5. 2 Urbino, Museo lapidario (Palazzo Ducale), inv. N. 40674; Gori 2007. Variously dated in the late third or the fourth century.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004448711_013

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a standing man, usually considered to represent the deceased, holding a beaker in one hand and raising the other, palm facing out, in a gesture of prayer or reverence familiar in the Christian and non-Christian funerary art of this period. When this gesture is made with only one hand it is always the right, and that is the case here. The cup is, perforce, held in the left. A description by Paola De Santis nonetheless puts this vessel – and another in a similar representation on a roughly coeval plaque – in the right hand; the figure stands, she says, “with his arms raised and a cup in the right hand.”3 De Santis does not say that the deceased gestures with his left, and might well have corrected the description had she focussed on that implication. Just such an explicit misidentification of handedness appears in an old catalogue entry by Montague Rhodes James (noted in chapter 3) for a miniature in the Trinity College Library, Cambridge, depicting Matthew’s angelic symbol holding a pen (fig. 26): “his L arm, across his body, holds out a blank scroll to R. His R hand holding a pen rests on a writing-board on his lap”.4 In fact, the scroll is held in the angel’s right hand and the pen in his left. James’s entry on this folio of the manuscript is longer and more detailed than any of the others, suggesting he paid it particular attention. He could perhaps have been regarding a backwards photograph, although the reproduction in a subsequent volume of his catalogue was correct.5 A third example of misdescription concerns a late twelfth-century French miniature in the Hague presented and more fully described in chapter 1 (fig. 1).6 The upper register shows a dismissive and threatening Emperor Julian the Apostate confronting St Basil; below, the Emperor is assassinated by St Mercurius acting at the command of the Virgin Mary. She speaks and her agent acts with the expected right hand; the Emperor communicates in both frames with gestures of his left. Yet the on-line entry of the respected Index of Medieval Art describes Julian as holding up his right hand in both instances.7 These three misdescriptions are quite different in their context and impact. In displacing the cup on the Eutropos grave plaque, De Santis misspoke but did not misinterpret. James’s “correction” of the angel’s handedness prevented the reader from focussing on its strangeness. The treatment of Julian’s gestures in the Hague miniature is the most serious. His raised hand was sinister in both 3 De Santis 2013, 383, fig. 3a, 3b: “Con le bracchie alzata e un bicchiere nello mano destra.” 4 Evangelia IV Glosata, Cambridge, Trinity College Library MS B.5.3 149, fol. 4v (thirteenth century); James 1900–04, 1.187 (cat. 149). 5 James 1900–04, vol. 4, Pl. XIII. 6 The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek MS 76 F 5, fol. 25v (1190–1200). 7 Index of Medieval Art (formerly the Index of Christian Art), Princeton University, ID no. 53672. The “create date” for this notice is listed as 1 October 2017, updated as of 26 February 2019.

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senses of the word, an elegant rhetorical device of using the left hand to signify wickedness and blasphemy. Such erroneous entries could have resulted from momentary perceptual confusion. It is, however, noteworthy that unlike the occasional wrong answers by subjects in psychology experiments or the botched surgeries targeted in medical malpractice lawsuits, the misdescriptions of medieval imagery, judging from an admittedly small sample, are asymmetric: they seem always to favour the right hand. 2

Inattention

The same type of perceptual misapprehension leavened with a bias towards the right could account for some instances where an anomalous and ostentatious handedness, like the left hand of God, is passed over in silence. It might also explain the absence of any comment regarding lateral confusion in visually complex representations. One commentator described the double coronation miniature in the Gospel Book of Henry the Lion discussed in chapter 2, where God’s two hands are reversed (fig. 7), as a kneeling bride and groom “crowned by two hands reaching out from heaven.”8 Perhaps he mistook right for left and left for right, mentally uncrossing the divine arms. Alternatively, his reticence on the matter may have stemmed from inattention rather than misapprehension. The latter explanation must apply to the silence of commentators with respect to most of the representations considered in this study, where the identification of handedness or orientation is not especially difficult and falls squarely within the disciplinary expertise of uncovering, cataloguing, and comparing visual forms and relationships. Right and left are not positively mistaken; they are simply not noticed. One positive indication of such inattention is the treatment of accidental lateral reversals in publications.9 The history of reproduction is replete with accidental mirror images. The spiral of antique historiated columns goes the wrong way on Roman coins,

8 Luckhardt and Niehoff 1995, 208 (cat. D31, Joachim M. Plotzek): “das kniende Herzogspaar (sic – she is standing) … das von zwei aus dem Himmelssegment herausreichenden Händen die Krone empfängt.” The miniature is Gospels of Henry the Lion, Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library Guelf.105 Noviss. 2o = Munich, BSB Clm 30055, fol. 171v (c. 1188). 9 Some of these examples of publication reversal were discussed in my unpublished presentation to the 36th Canadian Conference of Medieval Art Historians in Québec City on 1 April 2016.

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Renaissance city plan drawings, and later prints.10 One of these engravings crops up in the medieval art literature. As noted in the preceding chapter, Bernward’s Column is inevitably compared to Trajan’s without much comment on their contrary spirals. The discrepancy neatly disappears in one monograph where side-by-side photographs show both spirals directed to the left, a result accidentally achieved by illustrating the Roman column with one of those reversed nineteenth-century prints.11 The oversight is two-fold: not noticing that Trajan’s Column was backwards, and ignoring a difference between the two monuments. Inattention may engender new image reversals as well as replicating old ones. The Chicago Manual of Style warns proofreaders to be on guard against vertical and horizontal inversion of illustrations.12 In practice, figures rarely appear upside-down because that mistake is usually hard to miss.13 The historiographic significance of left-right inversions, what copyeditors call “flopped” images, lies not in the mistakes themselves, likely the result of carelessness by printers and commercial compositors, but rather in whether they are noticed by authors, readers, and reviewers. There has been no empirical study of professional reactions to such publication reversals. It is clear in some cases that authors knew the correct orientation of the images. In his catalogue notice concerning a late fourth-century sarcophagus front in the Vatican Museums on which Christ stands among his apostles, each accompanied by a lamb, Umberto Utro correctly notes that he is touching the head of the animal at his immediate right standing before Peter (Arkyves 184), but the illustration is backwards.14 One page of Jeffrey Hamburger’s St John the Divine juxtaposes two miniatures of Evangelists writing their Gospels from the Sainte-Chapelle Gospels in Paris, the surprising lefthandedness of St Mark contrasting with the conventional right-handedness of St Luke.15 Mark’s true orientation is apparent from the inscription above the figures, which the author would have seen in the museum photograph of the 10

Several examples are discussed and illustrated in Couzin 2017, 20–26. On Roman coins, see now Woytek 2017, 212. 11 Gallistl 1993, 39. The unreversed initials “B&H” at the bottom right of the engraving indicate that the error was in the original print, not in its twentieth-century reproduction. 12 Chicago Manual of Style Online, 17th ed., 2.115. 13 Such an inversion of a catacomb wall painting appears in Fiocchi Nicolai 1999, fig. 10. The error might be attributed to the unusual under-water photography, although figure 16 of the same article also laterally reverses an old photograph of the same painting from Wilpert 1903, fig. 159.1. 14 Utro 2009, 192–94 (cat. 64, Utro). Vatican, inv. 31534 = Rep. I.30. 15 Sainte-Chapelle Gospels. Paris, BnF latin 8851, fol. 52v (980–1000); Hamburger 2002, 60, fig. 49 (dated by him to the early eleventh century).

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miniature, but the text is illegible in the printed book (compare the digitized version on the BnF web site, Arkyves 303). Other reversals seem so obvious that one can hardly imagine a reader, let alone an author, not noticing them. A tenth-century ivory carver would not likely have depicted Gregory the Great and three monastic scribes all as lefthanded, yet that is how they appear in the reproduction of a plaque in Vienna in an exhibition catalogue published in 2000.16 The original, of course, portrays four right-handers (fig. 20, in chapter 3).17 Christ is baptized by an improbable left-handed John under an equally improbable left hand of God in a miniature from the Armenian Etchmiadzin Gospel as reproduced in André Grabar’s widely read Christian Iconography: A Study of Its Origins of 1968.18 Notwithstanding the eminence of the author and the blatantly erroneous reproduction, this last example strongly suggests inattention, not in the original publication of the flopped reproduction but by reason of its repetition in the paperback printing twelve years later.19 A similar case of persistence concerns a limestone relief carving of Peter and Paul in facing profile conserved in the Museo Paleocristiana of Aquileia, discussed in chapter 5 (Arkyves 175), printed in reverse in two contributions by Fabrizio Bisconti more than a decade apart.20 And Jean-Claude Schmitt’s well-known La raison des gestes dans l’occident médiéval reproduces a folio from the Utrecht Psalter showing David holding a pen or pointer over his Psalms in the left hand, with the same mistaken image appearing in a Czech translation 14 years later (the original is Arkyves 104).21 In order to find more direct evidence of inattention, I undertook a few personal inquiries in 2015. Schmitt confirmed that neither he nor the publisher 16 Wieczorek and Hinz 2000, Katalog 02.02.24 (24–25, notice by Irmgard Siede). 17 Vienna, KHM Kunstkammer 8399 (late tenth century); Haag 2007, 38–39, cat. 1 (where dated ninth century). 18 Grabar 1968, fig. 233. The miniature is Matenadaran MS 2374, fol. 228v, correctly reproduced by Durnovo 1961, 39. The manuscript is dated 989 but this miniature is probably from the sixth century. 19 Grabar 1980, fig. 233. 20 Bisconti 2000, 52; Bisconti 2011, 267, fig. 49. I base the correct, opposite, orientation on the original publication by Abramich 1916, 47, the image posted on the Museum web site (https://musei.fvg.beniculturali.it/musei?mid=7198&nome=museo-paleocristiano-di -aquileia), and several other reproductions, including Donati 1996, 181 (cat. 22, notice by Cristina Ravara); and Cuscito 2008, 23, fig. 3. 21 Schmitt 1990, 102–03, fig. 4; Schmitt 2004, 71. The miniature is Utrecht, Universiteits­ bibliotheek Hs 32, fol. 1v (c. 820–25). I thank Zdeněk Matušík of the National Library of the Czech Republic for providing me with a copy of the illustration from the Czech translation.

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had ever remarked the inversion.22 The Utrecht Psalter drawings are admittedly rather sketchy and the figure of David is small. The same cannot be said for Giotto’s Baroncelli altarpiece (Arkyves 236). Its mirror-image printing in Rosamond Mack’s Bazaar to Piazza transforms an influential model for the Coronation of the Virgin into an apparent exception to the customary placement of the Mother of God at her Son’s right (see chapter 7).23 This author also confirmed she was not previously aware of the error.24 Nor was Elizabeth Rodini, who explicitly referred to this image in her review of the book.25 Mack cited the Baroncelli altarpiece not for its Coronation iconography but rather to highlight the pseudo-Arabic in the angels’ halos. The form of representation itself was the central theme of Lasse Hodne’s Sponsus amat sponsam, where another reversal appears.26 In an interesting twist, two of his nineteen reproductions show the Virgin on the proper left instead of the customary right; one is accurate, and one is not. Jacopo di Cione did, in fact, adopt this contrarian arrangement on a panel conserved in the Vatican Museums, but a painting of the subject by Bernardo Daddi now in the Galleria Sabauda, Turin, was printed in reverse.27 Its proper orientation cannot be mistaken if one gazes upward to a pinnacle surmounting the Coronation in which Christ gestures in speech or blessing, a sure sign of the right hand, but the image in the monograph was cropped to eliminate this information. Like Schmitt and Mack, Hodne had not remarked the printing mistake; nor had he considered the unusual lateral organization, correct or erroneous.28 Not surprisingly, the internet is well-stocked with laterally erroneous images, including not only uncurated sites but also reputable commercial vendors and even institutional collections. At the time of my writing, backwards reproductions of the same Daddi Coronation are available from Getty Images and Alinari/Art Resource; Alamy offers one of the Munich Ascension ivory (fig. 4, in chapter 2).29 In my research for this book, I encountered several 22 23 24

I acknowledge with appreciation Schmitt’s private communication of 28 December 2015. Mack 2002, fig. 56 on p. 64. I thank Mack for her personal communication of 4 December 2015. She recalled labelling the orientation of her illustrations, instructions that were evidently not followed. 25 Rodini 2004; I thank her for a personal communication of 29 December 2015. 26 Hodne 2007. 27 Hodne 2007, fig. 17 (Daddi) and 20 (di Cione). The Daddi is reproduced in the conventional orientation by Gabrielli 1965, fig. 9, and also in the photograph on the Fondazione Federico Zeri web site (http://catalogo.fondazionezeri.unibo.it/cerca/opera) under no. 2728. 28 I thank the author for his private correspondence of 24 August 2015. 29 Daddi: Getty Images no. 187392327, www.gettyimages.com; Art Resources ref. ART136160, www.artres.com. Reidersche Tafel, Alamy image ID BA1HF2, www.alamy.com.

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reversed images in the digital repositories of public and university libraries and museums: an ivory diptych with the Coronation of the Virgin in the V&A (Arkyves 304; compare Arkyves 305); Peter and Paul gold-glasses at the British Museum and the Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, both with backwards inscriptions (Arkyves 166, 168); and an ivory plaque with scenes of Cain and Abel in the Musée du Louvre (Arkyves 26).30 The latter two images have since been corrected on the museum web sites, in response to my inquiries. The digitization projects of these institutions are so vast and the results of such value to scholars that it would be unfair and ungracious to criticize the occasional error. Yet the fact that they occur, and persist, is significant. The inadvertent reversal of images, although itself a marginal (albeit interesting) phenomenon, provides anecdotal evidence of inattention to right and left among authors, editors, reviewers, curators, readers, and researchers. More generally, such unconscious disregard for handedness is probably the main reason this dimension of medieval imagery is so widely ignored. Modern observers, lay and professional alike, often seem not to notice which hand is being used or how protagonists are laterally positioned. The human capacity to recognize right and left has not diminished over the centuries, and in some respects contemporary society makes even more strenuous demands in this regard (notably for reading), but only a pale vestige survives of the symbolic, moral, and spiritual significance that hands, orientation, and direction had in the Middle Ages.31 Historians have become sensitized to other components of medieval imagery that have equally lost their resonance, but right and left continue to escape attention. 3

Disinterest

Although oversight accounts for most of the reticence regarding right and left in the discourse of medieval art history, some historians must notice which 30 Coronation: V&A 11.1872; compared to the correct image on the web site of the Gothic Ivories Project at The Courtauld Institute of Art, London, www.gothicivories.courtauld .ac.uk. Gold-glasses: London, BM 1863,0727.8; Berlin, SMB, inv. 6631. Cain and Abel: Paris, Louvre, inv. OA4052. Another gold-glass in Berlin, SMB, inv. 6185, is reversed on purpose; to get the clearest image, it was photographed from below. I thank Dr. Cäcilia Fluck of the Museum for confirming this. 31 In contemporary society, literacy requires individuals to overcome mirror-image invariance in distinguishing certain letters and palindromes. The research is vast. See the landmark study on children’s reading problems: Orton 1937, especially 79–85.

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hand is being used or who is seated on which side and yet still exclude any mention of this in their commentaries because they find the fact either selfevident or irrelevant. Disinterest and inattention are distinct mental states but they become entangled: observers who consider the laterality of an image uninteresting are less likely to notice it; those who do not notice it cannot discuss it. Depictions of normative laterality may fall at this juncture. Descriptions cannot be exhaustive; choices must be made of what to include. The hand of a blessing God or writing Evangelist is almost always the right, so historians may find lateral specification otiose; or, since it is entirely expected, handedness in these representations may never enter their conscious apprehension. Even in these cases the neglect is not entirely benign. As discussed in chapters 2 and 3, the detailed rendition of the divine right hand and the overrepresentation of right-handed sacred writers are not trivial and, depending on the context, worthy of consideration. The more significant the role of right and left in an image, the more tenuous the decision to exclude laterality from description and analysis. Departures from an established norm are not irrelevant, whether the analytical perspective is historical, semantic, or formal. The respective positions of Peter and Paul or husbands and wives are not random. A speech gesture or act of violence accomplished with the left hand instead of the right is often meaningful. Any depiction of God’s left hand is remarkable; it is especially hard to miss and wrong to ignore when regarded alongside a related representation that does not share this peculiarity, like the mosaics at Daphni and Hosios Loukas (fig. 9 and 10).32 Inattention prevents observers from noticing pictured handedness or orientation; disinterest undervalues its potential significance. There may also be circumstances in which the subject is not merely overlooked or ignored but consciously avoided. The bias against reporting null results in biological, physical, and social science research has long been decried and attributed to an incentive structure – grants, academic promotion – that principally rewards novelty and discovery.33 Art history is no different from other academic disciplines in preferring certainty or at least plausible speculation to admissions of ignorance. Perhaps silence in the face of especially knotty problems – like the left-handed spiral of Bernward’s Column (chapter 10) – reflects a reluctance to ask a question to which one has no ready answer.

32 33

See the discussion in chapter 2, and its notes 78 and 79. See Munafò and Neill 2016; for the social sciences, Conlin et al. 2019.

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Future Directions

Art historians take justifiable pride in noticing and interpreting subtle and sometimes minute visual details of an image. Inattention to right and left should no more be condoned than a failure to discern forms of gesture, styles of clothing, facial types, colour, use of materials, or the role of number. Once noticed, the handedness and orientation of an image, like any other dimension or element, may properly be passed over in silence if it is of no significance, either in general or having regard to the aims of the specific art historical investigation, recognizing, however, the medieval penchant for symbolic and object-centred viewing. Medieval imagery is teeming with missed opportunities; the role of right and left in its creation and reception is a fertile and largely untouched field of research. Unresolved problems and puzzles abound, including but by no means limited to those touched upon in this study. Some of these questions invite cross-disciplinary collaboration with students of laterality in the biological and social sciences. The suggestion is not novel. Archaeologists have embraced computer science (imaging, graphics, spatial analysis); historians of visual and material culture engage scientific colleagues to assist in dating and comparing artefacts (radiocarbon emissions, dendrochronology, metal alloy content, spectral and chemical analysis). In one unusual study, evidence regarding the Roman diet was related to visual representations and religious practices.34 Laterality is relevant to most medieval images, important in many, and a critical component of some. Yet the difference between hands, positions, and directions has gone largely unnoticed, or when noticed, underappreciated. Virtually every theme current in medieval art history – iconography, visuality, reception, narrative, form, gender, patronage – will be enriched by embracing an examination of right and left. 34 Rutgers et al. 2009.

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Index of Works and Monuments Note: Page number in bold indicate reproduction in the text. Amiens, Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole MS 18 (Corbie Psalter) 68 MS 108 (Pamplona Bible) 108 MS Lescalopier 30 (Ambrose, Hexameron) 64 Ancona, Museo Diocesano, sarcophagus of Gorgonius 41, 44, 146–47 Angers, Château, Nicholas Bataille, Apocalypse Tapestry 190–91 Aquileia, Museo Paleocristiana, stone relief carving 118, 138 Arles, Musée de l’Arles antique, sarcophagi FAN 92.00.2482 143–44 FAN.92.00.2487 90, 128 FAN.92.00.2503 27 FAN 92.00.2527 194 Assisi, San Francesco, Cimabue frescos in upper church 63, 163–64, 166, 172 Astoria, Oregon, spiral column 220 Athens Benaki Museum, seal amulet, no. 13539  56 Cannelopoulos Museum, ring 150 National Library, MS 151 75 Augst, Augusta Rarica, floor mosaic 53 Autun, Cathedral 90–91, 104–5 Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery ivory diptych, inv. 71.177 197–98 manuscripts W.26 (Claricia Psalter) 29 W.30 184 W.141 (Guillaume de Deguilville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 188–89 W.676 208–9 W.836 (Ethiopian Gospel Book) 71 Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek  Msc. Patr. 5 (Ambrosius of Milan, Opera varia) 65, 76 Msc. Patr.30 185

Barcelona, Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya Passion beam, inv. 015 833–000 215 antependium, inv. 15809 58 Basel, Universitätsbibliothek, Codex A.N.IV.2 74 Bayeux, Tapestry (copy in Reading Museum) 18–20, 55, 216–17 Berlin Gemäldegalerie, Deodato Orlandi, wing of a triptych, inv. 1041 68 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Sachau 220 (Homiliary) 207 Sachau 304–2 (Gospels) 91 Theol.lat.fol.323 (Rufius Probianus diptych) 63 Theol.lat.fol.358 (Werden Psalter) 67 Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin  Berliner Pyxis, inv. 563 23 gilded bronze medal, inv. 3331 117 gold-glasses inv. 6185 240 inv. 6186 115 inv. 6631 115, 240 Hamilton Psalter, Kupferstichkabinett cod. 78 A 9 147 ivory plaques inv. 2108 (footwashing of Peter) 91 inv. 8505 (Moses receiving the Law) 24 Roman gem stone, FG 7737 53 slate plaque, Inv. 3297  194 Bern, Burgerbibliothek, Cod. 120.II (Peter of Eboli, Liber ad honorem Augusti) 55 Besancon, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 54 (Psalter) 171 Birmingham Department of Special Collections, University of Birmingham, Mingana Collection, manuscript, Peckover Greek 7 (=Gregory Aland 713, Algerina Peckover 561) 78–79, 81

Index of Works and Monuments Blois, Bibliothèque municipale, MS I 65 (Geoffroy Tory, Champ fleury) 190 Boulogne-sur-Mer, glass bowl 36, 45 Bourges, Cathédrale Saint-Étienne 171, 175 Brescia  Biblioteca Civica Queriniana, Ms.F.II.1  222 Museo di Santa Giulia, Brescia lipsanoteca 134 Brussels Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique  MS 9492–3 149 MS 9961–62 (Peterborough Psalter)  91 Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire Fonts baptismaux de Tirlemont, inv. 354 94 Stavelot portable altar, inv. 1590 71 Bucharest, Academy of Sciences, MS 32 75 Budapest, Museum of Fine Arts, portal tympanum, inv. 55.976 147 Castello Ronchi (Emilia-Romagna), gold-glass 115 Cambridge Fitzwilliam Museum MS 12 (Peterborough Psalter) 96 MS 242 (Pabenham-Clifford Hours) 157–58 MS 262 (Gratian, Decretum) 160 Mariotto di Nardo, Coronation of the Virgin, inv. M.28 172–73 Sidney Sussex College, MS 96 (Bible) 194 Trinity College Library B.5.3 149 79–80, 235 R17.1 (Eadwine Psalter) 64 Freshfield Album 220 Canterbury Cathedral, Corona Chapel, stained glass roundel 194 Castellamare di Stabia, Museo Diocesano Sorrentino, inv. 64977, ivory plaque, 122–23 Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Chateau, MS 27  59, 98 Chartres, Cathédrale de Notre-Dame, portal 90–91, 168 stained glass 91, 167

283 Chauvigny (Vienne) Saint-Pierre-les-Églises 60 Cleveland Museum of Art enamel pyx, inv. 1949.431 23–24 ivory box, inv. 1924.747 26 manuscript, inv. 1933.44811 and 2 214 Cocking, West Sussex, spiral column 220–21 Cologne Cathedral, choir stalls 147, 166 Erzbischöfliche Diözesan- und Dombibliothek, Cod. 12 (Hillinus-Codex) 68 Museum Schnutgen ivory plaque, inv. B16 147 stained glass panel, inv. M 3, 154 Corning, NY, The Corning Museum of Glass, gold-glass, inv. 62.1.20 115 Cosenza (Calabria), relief sculpture 156 Daphni, Monastery, mosaics 38, 39, 40, 45, 197, 199, 241 Dečani, monastery church 56 Dijon  Bibliothèque municipale, MS 562 24, 201 Cathedral 171, 175 Musée des beaux-arts, enamel plaque, inv. CA T 1250 19 Dura Europos, synagogue wall paintings 8, 22–24, 31, 33, 48, 53, 208 Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 8 179, 182, 183–85, 190 Farfa, Abbey, casket 90 Florence Accademia di Belle Arti, inv. 4634 (Master of the Dominican Effigies) 174 Biblioteca Laurenziana, Plut. I.56 29, 201, 214 Santa Croce, Giotto, Baroncelli Altarpiece 166, 239 Santa Maria del Fiore (Cathedral), Gaddo Gaddi (attr.), fresco 168 Santa Maria Novella Giotto, Crucifixion 94 Master of the Dominican Effigies, Christ and Virgin Enthroned 174–75

284 Freiburg im Breisgau Münster Unserer Lieben Frau, relief carving 29, 59, 63–64 Universitätsbibliothek, Hs 24 (Psalter) 59 Fulda, Hochschul- und Landesbibliothek MS 100 Aa 35 (Collectarium) 91 Göttingen, Niedersächsische Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek 2o Cod. theol. 231 (Fulda Sacramentary) 68 Grissiano (South Tyrol), church of San Jacopo 33 Hague (The), Koninklijke Bibliotheek MS 76 F 5 15–16, 101–02, 108, 235 MS 76 F 23 108 Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek Cod. Pal. germ. 848 (Codex Manesse) 159 Hildesheim Cathedral Bernward’s bronze column 217, 218, 219–21, 222, 223–33, 237 Bernward’s bronze doors 196–97, 200 Dom-Museum Bernward’s Gospels, inv. DS-18  222–23 enamel plaques (antependium), inv. DS-30 203–04 Ratmann Sacramentary, inv. DS-37 163 Hosios Loukas, Monastery, mosaics 38, 39, 40, 45, 241 Istanbul (Constantinople)  Archaeological Museums, sarcophagi  inv. 02.4 24 inv. 02.5 141 inv. 02.6 135 inv. 90.53 135 inv. 2396 135 inv. 4508 118–19 inv. 5422 135 inv. 5423 135 Columns of Theodosius I and Arcadius 219–20, 228

Index of Works and Monuments Jerusalem, Israel Museum, MS 180/057 (Birds’ Head Haggadah) 26, 33 Klosterneuburg, altarpiece of Nicholas of Verdun 201–02, 210, 216 Le Mans, Bibliothèque municipale Ms. 263 (Pliny, Naturalis historiae) 65 Lisbon, Calouste Gulbenkian Collection, ivory diptychs 95 Liverpool, National Museums, Walker Art Gallery, ivory plaque, inv. M8011 153 London British Library Add 10546 (Grandval Bible) 88 Add 11639 (Northern French Miscellany) 208 Add 11695 (Beatus manuscript) 58 Add 17738 (Floreffe Bible) 30, 91–92 Add 19352 24 Add 21926 (Grandisson Psalter) 94 Add 27210 (Golden Haggadah)  214–15 Add 38120 (Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 189–90 Add 42555 (Abington Apocalypse) 59 Add 47682 (Holkham Bible Picture Book) 68, 94 Add 54179 (York Psalter) 166 Cotton Caligula A/VII.I 57 Cotton Claudius B IV 68 Cotton Nero D.IV (Lindisfarne Gospels) 71 Cotton Otho B.VI (Cotton Genesis)  26 Cotton Tiberius C.VI (Tiberius Psalter) 56, 59, 91 Cotton Titus D. XVI (Prudentius, Psychomachia) 53 Egerton 2781 (Neville of Hornby Hours) 86–87 Egerton 3028 (Chanson de Fierabras)  19 Harley 4979 (Roman d’Alexandre en prose) 159

Index of Works and Monuments Laud. Or. 321 (Mahzor) 208 Oriental 2737 (Haggadah) 208 Royal 1.D.X (Psalter) 91, 97 Royal 2.B.VII (Queen Mary Psalter)  36, 56, 58 Stowe 944 (Liber vitae) 153 Yates Thompson 12 (William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer) 148 Yates Thompson 27 (Hours of Yolande of Flanders) 166 British Museum coin, apotheosis of Constantine, BM 1986,0610.1 27 gold-glasses BM 1863,0727.8 113, 240 BM 1863,0727.4 116 ivory plaque (Baptism), BM 1896,06181.1 29 portable altar, BM 1903,0514.6 147 Projecta Casket, BEP 1866,1229.1  138–39 National Gallery, Bernardo Daddi, Coronation of the Virgin NG6599 166, 239 Victoria and Albert Museum Andrews Diptych, inv. A.47&A–1926 19, 56 copper plaque, inv. 223–1874 63, 86–87 ivory plaques (including diptychs) inv. A.5–1941 166 inv. 11–1872 240 inv. 161–1896 and others 94–95 inv. 211–1865 (Soissons) 212 inv. 267–1867 196–97 inv. 270:1–1867 71, 74 inv. 378–1871 27 inv. 5623–1859 212 reliquary inv. M.66–1997 57 Werden casket, inv. 149A-1866 196 Madrid Museo Arqueológico Nacional capital, inv. 50174 55 sarcophagus, inv. 1929/71/1 119 Thyssen-Bornemisza Museo Nacional, inv. 247, Master of 1355, panel painting 167 Mantua, Cattedrale di San Pietro, sarcophagus 142

285 Milan Archivio Storico Civico e Biblioteca Trivulziana, Ms. Triv. 1080 (Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, miniature, Master of the Dominican Effigies) 174 San Celso, sarcophagus 128 San Lorenzo, Chapel of Sant’Aquilino, mosaic 126, 137 Sant’Ambrogio, sarcophagus 44, 126, 127, 128 Minneapolis Museum of Art Coronation of the Virgin, stained glass 167, 169 Mariotti di Nardo, Coronation of the Virgin, inv. 65–37 172–73 Montgauch (Ariège), Saint–Pierre 101 Monreale, baptism mosaic 40, 45 Mount Athos Chilandari mural painting 75 MS 9 75 Protaton, Karyes, wall painting attributed to Manuel Panselinos 75 Stavronikita, MS 45 75 Vatopedi MS 602 (Octateuch) 75, 85–86 MS 937 75 Muncie, Indiana, David Owsley Museum of Art at Ball State University, Master of the Bracciolini Chapel, Coronation of the Virgin, inv. 1940-033.000 174-75 Munich Bayerisches Nationalmuseum Antonius Berthold, sandstone relief, MA 957 156–57 Reidersche Tafel, MA 157 27–28, 88, 194, 239 Rosenheim Altarpiece, MA 2363 167 Bayerische Staatsbibliothek Clm. 146 (Speculum humanae salvationis) 149–50 Clm. 343 68 Clm. 835 68, 196–97 Clm. 935 (Prayer book of Hildegard of Bingen) 41, 42–43, 44 Clm. 4451 (ivory book cover) 29 Clm. 4452 (Evangeliary of Henry II) 30, 90

286 Munich (cont.) Clm. 4453 (Gospels of Otto III) 154, 229 Clm. 4453 (Gospels of Otto III) 154 Clm. 4456 (Sacramentary of Henry II)  31 Clm. 4550 (Honorius Augustodunensis, Opera exegetica) 166 Clm. 7355 68 Clm. 30055, see Wolfenbüttel Cod. Gall. 16 (Psalter) 149 Naples, Museo Archeologico, inv. 9084 and 9058 (“Sappho” fresco) 62 New Haven, Yale University Art Gallery, Giovanni del Biondo, Glorification of the Virgin, inv. 1871.19 175 New York Cooper Hewitt, textile band, inv. 1902–1 142, 23 Metropolitan Museum of Art Brass sculpture, monk on dragon, inv. 1982.60.396 63 Gold-glasses inv. 11.91.4 116 inv. 15.168 140 inv. 16.174.3 113–14 gold medallion, inv. 58.12 139 ivory pax (Crucifixion), inv. 1970.324.9 94–95 relief panel (Annunciation), inv. 60.140 196–97 Morgan Library and Museum Manuscripts G.44 222 M.75 56 M.193 68 M.240 (Toledo-Morgan Moralized Bible) 164, 166 M.289 (Dante, Divina commedia)  63 M.323 (Bible Historiale) 68 M.429 (Huelgos Apocalypse) 89 M.521r (Psalter leaf) 36 M.620 (Armenian Gospel book) 74 M.638 (Picture Bible) 55

Index of Works and Monuments M.641 (Sacramentary of Mont-Saint-Michel) 27, 30, 89 M.644 (Beatus manuscript) 24, 58 M.645 (Psalter) 91 M.700 (DuBois Hours) 157 M.710 (Berthold Sacramentary) 57, 196 M.736 (Miscellany on the Life of St Edmund) 30, 34, 53–54, 192 M.739 (Book of Hours) 24 M.756 (Cuerden Psalter) 147 M.769 (Heinrich von München, Weltchronik) 32, 55 M.772 (Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 188 M.780 (Lectionary) 196 M.781 (Gospel Book) 71, 222 M.791 (Lothian Bible) 68 M.969 71 M.1038 (Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 187 Stavelot Triptych, AZ001 29 New York Public Library, Spencer Collection Ms. 22 108 Nicosia, Cyprus Museum, inv. J452 (David plate) 151 Osnabrück, portable altar 33 Oxford Ashmolean Museum, gold-glass, inv. AN2007.13 140 Bodleian Library Auct. T.inf. 1.10 (Codex Ebnerianus)  70, 72–73, 83 Auct. T.inf. 2.6 75 Bodl. 717 (Jerome commentary, Hugo Pictor) 18, 64–65, 66, 67, 69–70, 82, 83 Bodl. Douce 300 (Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 188–89 Bodl. Lat.liturgy.f.5 (St Margaret’s Gospels) 79, 82 Bodl. Selden Sup.6 75 Paris  Basilica of Saint-Denis 109 Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal MS 5211 (Bible de Saint-Jean d’Acre) 63

287

Index of Works and Monuments Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève MS 0775 (Historia romana) 62 MS 2200 (Guillemus de Conchis, De Philosophia mundi) 159 Bibliothèque nationale de France gem stone, inv. 2166bis 120 copte 13 (Gospels) 29, 91 français 183 (Maître de Fauvel, Légendier) 107 français 316 (Vincent de Beauvais, Miroir historial) 87 français 403 (Sarum Apocalypse) 58 français 598 (Bocaccio, Des cleres et nobles femmes) 66 français 606 (Christine de Pizan, Epistre d’Othea) 63 français 779 (William of Tyre, Histoire d’Outremer) 148, 156 français 1645 (Guillaume de Deguilville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 187, 188 français 1818 (Guillaume de Deguileville, Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 187 français 12420 (Bocaccio, Des cleres et nobles femmes) 66 grec 139 (Paris Psalter) 24–25, 89 grec 510 (Gregory of Nanzianzus, Homilies) 27 grec 923 (John of Damascus, Parallela sacra) 56–57, 68, 194–95 italien 115 (Meditatione de la uita del nostro Signore Ihesu Christo) 86 latin 1 (Vivien Bible) 24 latin 238 (Psalterium ad usum ecclesiae Trecensis) 169–70 latin 770 (Psalterium Cantuariense)  71 latin 817 (Sacramentary of St Gereon)  27 latin 819 (Missal) 30 latin 1987 (Gospel Book) 68 latin 8851 (Sainte-Chapelle Gospels) 71, 237 latin 9388 (Gospels of Dogron) 204 latin 9393 (Ivory book cover) 204–5 latin 9428 (Sacramentary of Drogo) 27

latin 10525 (Saint Louis Psalter) 26 NAF 16251 56 NAL 2334 (Ashburnham Pentateuch)  86 Cathédrale Notre Dame Portal of Sainte-Anne 215 Portal of the Virgin 168 Musée de Cluny crucifix 23932 30 ivory casket 13075 55 Musée du Louvre Domitius Ahenobarbus relief, MNC1786 62 enamel reliquary, OA10406 21, 58 gold marriage belt, Bj22701 50–51 ivory figures, OA58 166 ivory plaques OA4052 (Abel and Cain) 26, 240 OA6331 (Evangelists writing) 71–72 sarcophagi  MA2980 (Borghese=Rep.III.428)  147, 44, 194, 224 NIII2295 126 silk, MI 1121 153 Musée Marmottan-Monet, Cesi Master, Assumption, D.9–1993 163–64, 172 Place Vendôme, spiral column 220 Parma, Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, Benedetto Antelami, Deposition 108 Patmos, Library of the Monastery of St John, MS 82 75 Philadelphia Museum of Art, Master of the Pesaro Crucifix, Saint Celia and Valerian 154–55 Princeton, University Art Museum Altichiero, panel painting, y1935–15 86 Gospel book, y1957–19 77–78, 81 Private collection, ivory plaque, formerly owned by Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza 37–38, 45 Ravenna fresco, Santa Chiara 71 mosaics  Arian Baptistery 88–89, 134 Cappella Arcivescovile 134

288

Index of Works and Monuments

Ravenna (cont.) Neonian (Orthodox) Baptistery  88–89, 134 San Vitale 23–24, 26 Sant’Apollinare in Classe 30 Sant’Apollinare Nuovo 101 sarcophagi Cathedral, sarcophagus of Archbishop Rinaldo Concoreggio 133 Museo Nazionale 133 San Francesco, sarcophagus of the Bensai-Dal Corno family 133 San Francesco, sarcophagus of Liberius (modern) 134 Sant’Apollinare in Classe 133–34 Santa Maria in Porto fuori, sarcophagus of Pietro degli Onesti 133 Reading Museum of Art, capital, REDMG: 1992.951 165, 169; see also Bayeux Tapestry Red Monastery Church; see Sohag Reims, Cathedral, portal 168 Rome Catacomb of Domitilla 126 Catacomb “ex Vigna Chiaraviglio,”  122–23 Catacomb Maius 27 Catacomb of Saints Marcellinus and Peter 129, 131, 137 Catacomb Via Latina, lead plate 34 Column of Marcus Aurelius 219, 221, 226, 228 Museo Nazionale Romano, sarcophagus, inv. 79983 198 San Paolo fuori le mura 122 Sant’Agnese fuori le mura 30 Santa Costanza 128, 136 Santa Maria Maggiore 26, 85, 86, 124–25, 134, 137, 143, 165 Santa Maria in Trastevere 160–61, 162–66, 169, 215 Santa Prassede, Zeno Chapel 125 Santa Pudenziana 129–30, 137 Santa Sabina mosaic 119 wooden door panels 128, 137

Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo, Last Judgement 104 Trajan’s Column 217–18, 219–20, 224, 227–29, 237 Salerno, Museo Diocesano, “Salerno ivory,” 36–38, 45 Sarajevo, National Museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Sarajevo Haggadah 214 Schwäbisch Gmünd (Baden-Württemberg), Holy Cross Minster, portal 57 Senlis, Cathedral, portal 168 Siena Museo dell’Opera del Duomo Duccio, Maestà 91 Duccio, rose window 167 Pinacoteca Nazionale, Lorenzetti, Crucifixion, inv. 147 96 Sinai, Monastery of St Catherine icon (Moses receiving the Law) 36 mosaics 24 Moses Cross 33 Siracusa, Museo Archeologica Regionale P. Orsi, sarcophagus of Adelphia 23 Smyrna, Octateuch formerly in the Evangelical School of Smyrna 24, 26, 53 Sohag (Egypt), Red Monastery Church 33 St-Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 402 (Breviary) 171 Strasbourg, Cathédrale Notre-Dame 171–72, 175 Stuttgart, Landesbibliothek Stuttgart, Cod. Bibl.fol.23 (Stuttgart Psalter) 30, 55, 56, 88 Tarragona, Museu, Necròpolis paleocristians sarcophagi inv. MNAT(P)42 33 inv. MNAT(P)58 119 Thessaloniki Archaeological Museum, grave relief, inv. 10105 62 Museum of Byzantine Culture, Herakleia casket, inv. BA 71 88 Nicholas Orphanos 71 Toledo, Museum of Art, gold-glass, inv. 1967.12 128

Index of Works and Monuments Toronto, Art Gallery of Ontario, The Thomson Collection, ivory diptychs, AGOID.29104 and others 94–95 Trier  Rheinisches Landesmuseum glass bowl, inv.-Nr. G. 696 36, 45 ivory pyxis, inv-Nr. 09,866 23 Stadtbibliothek und Stadtarchiv Hs 24 (Codex Egberti) 57, 222 Hs 31 (Trier Apocalypse) 30 Tucson, The University of Arizona Museum of Art, Pacino di Bonaguida, Tabernacle, ID#1961.013.013 229 Turin, Galleria Sabauda, Bernardo Daddi, Coronation of the Virgin 239 Urbino, Museo lapidario (Palazzo Ducale) Eutropos grave plaque, inv. N. 40674  234–35 Utrecht Museum Catherijneconvent, C.903 (Bernulphus Codex) 222 Universiteitsbibliotheek, Hs 32 (Utrecht Psalter) 238–39 Vatican Biblioteca Apostolica  Boldetti medallion 117–18 manuscripts  Pal.gr.431 (Joshua Roll) 216 Pal.lat.50 (Lorsch Gospels) 199 Reg.gr.1B (Bible) 195 Vat. Barb.gr.372 (Barberini Psalter) 91 Vat. Barb.lat. 4406 (watercolour) 122 Vat. gr.699 (Topographia Christiana of Cosmas Indicopleustes) 24, 53 Vat. gr.746 (Octateuch) 24 Vat. gr.747 (Octateuch) 24, 26, 53, 68 Vat. gr.749 149 Vat. gr.1613 (Menalogion of Basil II) 30, 58 Vat. lat.2491 (Gratian, Decretum)  149 Vat. lat.8541 68

289 Vat. sir.118 207 Vat. sir.559 58, 207, 208 Campo Santo Teutonico, sarcophagus  141 St Peter’s sarcophagus of Junius Bassus 125 sarcophagus of Probus 131 Vatican Museums Asellus grave plaque, inv. 28596  112–12, 118 Column base of Antoninus Pius, cat. 5115 27 gold-glasses, inv. 60768 and others  113 plaster cast, inv. 64451 120 sarcophagi inv. 28591 117 inv. 31429 131 inv. 31456 131 inv. 31532 33 inv. 31534 126, 237 inv. 315427 (Dogmatic) 141, 198 inv. 31543 (Two brothers) 117, 141 wooden reliquary box from Sancta Sanctorum, cat. 61883.2.1–2 229 Vienna Karlskirche, spiral columns 220, 225 Kunsthistorisches Museum ivory plaques Kunstkammer 8399 (Gregory the Great writing) 68–69, 238 inv. 7284 (Ascension) 27 silver reliquary, Antikensammlung VII 760 131 Österreichische Nationalbibliothek Cod. 2576 (Histoire Universelle) 26 Cod. 2739 (Lilienfelder Prayer Book)  41 Theol.gr.524 90 Venice Galleria dell’Accademia, Paolo Veneziano, Coronation of the Virgin, inv. 21  166–67 San Marco, mosaics 26, 80–81 Verona, San Giovanni in Valle, sarcophagus  128 Vic, Museu Episcopal, MEV 4, 10, 11, 172

290 Vindolanda (Northumberland), inscribed Roman tablet 62 Washington, DC Dumbarton Oaks, pyxis, BZ. 1936.22 89 National Gallery of Art  Master of the Dominican Effigies, Laudario di Sant’Agnese 174 Paolo di Giovanni Fei, Presentation of the Virgin, 1961.99.4 86

Index of Works and Monuments Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Library Guelf. 61.2 Aug. 8° (Wolfenbüttel Musterbuch) 76 Guelf. 105 Noviss. 2o (Gospels of Henry the Lion) 34–35, 147–48, 236 Guelf. 521 Helmst 24 Yerevan (Armenia), Etchmiadzin Gospel, Matenadaran MS 2374 29, 238

Index of Names and Subjects Abel and Cain 22, 26, 31–34, 200, 215, 240 Abraham 24, 26, 53, 91; see also Sacrifice of Isaac Abramich, Michele 118, 238n Acts of Pilate 106–07 Adam 47, 149–50, 152, 200, 214–15 Aeneid, Virgil 50–52 ambidexterity 52, 76 Ambrose, saint 64 Ambrosiaster 145, 151–52 Annunciation to the Virgin direction of 192, 196–97, 203–07, in Syriac manuscripts 207–08, 213–14 sequence in narrative programs 213–14, 216 anthropology 3–4, 6, 7 anthropomorphism 46–49 Antichrist 58–60, 82 apse mosaics 30, 126, 128, 129–30, 137, 160–66, 215 Aquinas, St Thomas 106, 132n Arcadius 220, 228 Aristotle 5 Armellini, Mariano 116–17, 119–20 art historiography and laterality 7–10, 234–41 artistic convention 50, 53, 83, 88–89, 93–94 Ascension of Christ 27–28, 31, 88, 164, 194–98, 201, 214 Ascent of Elijah 194–97, 201–02, 207, 210 Assumption of the Virgin 30, 162–64, 171–75 Augustine of Hippo 6, 48, 68, 121 on marriage 145–46, 152 Baptism of Christ in Ravenna baptisteries 88–89, 134 in Daphni, Hosios Loukas, Monreale mosaics 38–40, 45, 241 footedness of John in 88–89 hand of God in 28–29, 36–40, 45, 49 left hand of God in 36–40 on Salerno ivories 36–38 baptism of Constantine 29 baptism of Paul 36 Bartolo da Sassoferrato 87, 106

Beatitudes of Jesus 41–44 Bernard of Clairvaux 163 Bernward of Hildesheim 200, 202, 217; see also Bernward’s Column, bronze doors Bernward’s Column 217–33, 237 bronze casting of 217, 224 Christianization of Trajan’s spiral 229–30 Entry into Jerusalem on 221–23 impact of Christianity on direction 226–27 left–handedness and design 225 linear programs and 215–33 liturgical movement and 231–33 multi-column conjecture of 225–26 perspective from top and direction of 227–29 Trajan’s Column and 217–19, 224, 228, 229–30, 237 Bertrand, Pierre-Michel 7, 9, 19n, 20n, 62, 225n biblical heroes, handedness 56 Birk, Stine 141n, 143, 143n Bisconti, Fabrizio 116n, 122n, 238 blessing with the right hand 18–19; see also Christ bivium figure; see Pythagorean Y Borromeo, Charles 85 boustrophedon arrangements 204, 206, 211–13 brain, hemispheric specialization 192–93, 206n bronze doors Bernward’s (Hildesheim) 196–97, 200, 217 Italian 200, 217 Brandt, Michael 203, 203n, 226n, 227–28, 229, 231n Bucher, François 108n Bury, Richard de 185–86 Cain; see Abel and Cain Camille, Michael 105 case study method 12 Cavallini, Pietro 215

292 chapels arrangement of 108–09 narrative programs in 211–12 Christ; see also Ascension, Baptism, Crucifixion, traditio legis hand blessing and speaking 1, 50, 129, 172, 239 performing miracles 1, 19, 56 incarnation of 22, 48–49, 71 position among apostles 135 at right (hand) of God 5, 47, 70, 101 with Peter and Paul 123–31 with Virgin and John 106 with Virgin in Coronation 160–75 Christological cycles 212–14, 216 Chronography of 354 122 coats of arms 106 columns, see Bernward’s Column, spiral columns, Trajan’s Column combat; see fighting Constantine apotheosis 27 baptism 29 coins 27, 120 Constantinian dynasty coinage 120 Constantinople 135–37, 219–21; see also Index of Works and Monuments coronation, royal 34–35, 147–48, 236 Coronation of the Virgin 8–9, 159, 160–75 Assumption and 163–64, 171–72 Glorification, Triumph, Coronation 165 origins of iconography 165 publication reversals 239–40 spiritual marriage and 163 sponsa and sponsus (Song of Songs) and 138, 162–64, 166 Virgin on the left 169–75 French church portals 171–72 Italian Trecento painting 172–75 Virgin on the right 160, 163–69 concordia  of emperors (concordia augustorum) 120 of Peter and Paul (concordia apostolorum) 111, 120–22, 135–37 of spouses 144–45

Index of Names and Subjects Crucifixion 30, 93–98, 106–8, 213–14, 228–29 Ecclesia and Synagoga 108 hand of God 30 three-nail iconography 85, 93–98 in narrative programs 213–14, 228–30 position of Virgin and John 106, 153 position of thieves 106–08 crux invicta 131 cultural constraints on handedness 3–7, 17–19, 50–51, 61–62, 83 on footedness 84 Daddi, Bernardo 166–67, 239 d’Alverny, Marie-Thérèse 152 Damasus, pope 121 Dante Alighieri 63, 174 David 88, 238–39 deesis representation 106 De Hamel, Christopher 65, 67, 69n Deitmaring, Ursula 6, 10, 18n, 101n, 183n Denny, Don 104–5, 108, 192, 197, 200n De Santis, Paola 235 Desiderius of Monte Cassino 131–32 De Universo, Rabanus Maurus 10 de Vaivre, Jean-Bernard 190 dextrarum iunctio; see handclasp motif  Dio Cassius 52 divine embodiment theory 48n; see also anthropomorphism double portraits; see Coronation of the Virgin, Peter and Paul, spousal imagery Duby, Georges 151, 153n Duplessis, Frédéric 181 Dura Europos synagogue 8, 22–24, 31, 48, 53, 208 Ecclesia and Synagoga 108, 128 Elijah 23, 59; see also Ascent of Elijah Entry into Jerusalem on Bernward’s Column 202, 217, 221–22, 225 direction of motion 197–200, 206, 207–8 on Hildesheim antependium 203–04 left-to-right 197–98 in narrative programs 203–04, 214

Index of Names and Subjects right-to-left 40, 198–99, 206 in Syriac manuscripts 207–08 error artisanal 41, 44–45, 123, 224 cognitive and perceptual 41–42, 45–46, 82, 234–36 in reproductions 236–40 in restoration 40, 47 Eusebius of Caesarea 27, 116n Evangelists “left-handed” examples in Spatharakis 75–77 left-handed writers 77–82 symbols 33, 71, 79–82, 130 writing 70–82 Eve  creation 22, 26, 214–15 marriage with Adam 149–50, 200 original sin 152, 214–15 evil and the left 15, 20–21, 56–58, 185, 190 evolution and genetics 2–3, 17, 51 Exultet rolls 216n feet altar steps 85–87 aesthetic convention 88 cultural preference 84, 87 of Christ in Ascension 88 climbing or advancing 87–89 of crucified Christ 85, 93–98; see also three-nail Crucifixion in fighting and combat 88 in footwashing 89–93 in Jewish ritual 84 of John in Baptism 88–89 “natural” footedness 84, 96 in Presentation of the Virgin 86–87 fighting; see also violence as evolutionary hypothesis for lefthandedness 3, 51 documentary sources on handedness in 51–52 footedness 88 good and bad 56–60 handedness 18, 20–21, 50–60, 83 left-handedness 18, 51, 55–58 medieval imagery of 53–60

293 military training 50–52 right-handedness 50–60 writing and 83 Fiocchi Nicolai, Vincenzo 237 footedness; see feet “fork in the road”; see Pythagorean Y  Foucault, Michel 191, 191n frames of reference 103–05, 108–109; see also visuality Fremantle, Richard 174 Frothingham, A.L. 8 Gallistl, Bernhard 231, 237n Gameson, Richard 65, 82 Garrucci, Raffaele 115, 116n, 117 Gaudentius of Brescia 121 Gelasius, pope 68 gem stones 53, 120, 123 gender; see also spousal imagery, women gender affinity in composition 153–54 Coronation of the Virgin and 146, 160–75 in double portraits 138 gold-glasses and 139–41 legal status of women 144, 146, 151, 153 in portraiture 138, 147–49 on sarcophagi 141–44, 146–47 spatial positioning and 138–75 spouses in early Christian representations 138–47 spouses in medieval representations 147–60 subordinate status of women 144–45, 151–53 writing and 63 genetics; see evolution Giess, Hildegard 92–93 Gilbert of Limerick 152 Giotto 87, 94n, 166, 239 Giovanni del Biondo 175 Giovanni Fei, Paolo di 86 glance curve 7–8 Glorification of the Virgin, see Coronation of the Virgin God; see anthropomorphism, hand of God Golden Legend (Jacobus de Voragine) 86, 154, 162n, 164, 175

294 gold-glasses Peter and Paul 113–17, 118, 120, 123, 137, 240 spousal portraits 140–41 traditio legis 128, 136 Gothic ivory diptychs  narrative sequence on 212–14 three-nail Crucifixion on 94–95 Grabar, André 22, 238 Greek antiquity 8, 9–10, 179–80, 192 Gregory the Great, pope 68, 69, 238 Grig, Lucy 113n, 121, 139n Guillaume de Deguileville (Pèlerinage de vie humaine) 186–90 Gutmann, Joseph 208 Gyllius, Petrus 228n Hall, James 9, 105, 106n, 109–10 Hamburger, Jeffrey 237 hand of God; see also left hand of God in antique and Jewish imagery 22–23 in apocalyptic visions 30 in baptism 28–29, 36–40, 45, 49 in Christian imagery 23–46 in royal coronations 34–35 handedness of 5, 22–49, 236 meaning 30–31 in Old Testament scenes 23–27, 31, 33 in New Testament scenes 27–31, 34–46, 49 right hand 22–31 two hands 31–36, 147 handclasp motif 27, 142–44, 149–51, 160 handedness; see also left-handedness, righthandedness, specific topics of Antichrist 58–59 in antiquity 4–5 art historiography and 7–10, 234–41 asymmetry and polymorphism 3, 51 in Christianity 4–7, 18–21, 68–82 culture and 4–7, 17–19 depiction of 15–21, 47, 49 disinterest by historians in 240–41 errors in distinguishing 41–42, 45–46, 82, 234–36 of Evangelists 70–82 evolution and genetics 2–3, 17, 51 of God 5, 22–49, 236

Index of Names and Subjects inattention to 236–40 in Judaism 4–5, 17 in languages 4, 19 in Middle Ages 17–18, 52, 61–62 misapprehension of 45–46, 234–36 moral distinctions 19–21, 56–60 “natural” 2–3, 17–18 of saintly figures 68–82 of Satan 59–60 spatial positioning and 101–3 in sports 51 sublimation of right and left 3–7 truth, falsity, and 19–20 in violence 18, 20–21, 50–60, 83 in writing 60–83 hands; see also hand of God, handedness depiction of 19, 47, 49 perception of 45–46, 103, 234–36 handwashing of Pilate 90–91 Hebrew language; see languages Hebrew manuscripts Birds’ Head Haggadah 26, 33 depicted motion in 206–10 narrative sequence and 214–15 Heck, Christian 183n, 184–85 Hercules, choice of 180n Hertz, Robert 3–4, 5n hetoimasia throne 124–25, 134, 137 Hewitt, Joseph William 94, 96, 98 Hicks, Carola 217 Hildebert of Tours 183 Hildegard of Bingen 41–44, 152 Hildesheim; see also Bernward’s Column, Index of Works and Monuments antependium 203–04 bronze doors 196–97, 200, 217 Hodne, Lasse 162n, 165, 166n, 239 Honorius Augustodunensis 166 Hugh of St Victor 184 Hugo de Folieto 152–53 Hugo Pictor self-portrait 18, 64–70, 82, 83 Hunger, Herbert 75n, 76n, 77 Huskinson, John M. 111, 121, 125–28, 125n, 134n, 135n, 137 illiteracy; see literacy Incarnation 22, 48–49, 71, 111, 164

Index of Names and Subjects Index of Medieval Art (Princeton University) 197n, 235 Innocent II, pope, 160–61 inverted reproductions author reactions to 238–39 in print 237–39 on web sites 239–40 Isaac; see Sacrifice of Isaac  Isidore of Seville 180–81, 185 Ivo of Chartres 152 Jacobus de Voragine; see Golden Legend James, Montague Rhodes 79, 235 Jerome, saint 64–67, 68–70, 82, 145, 180 Jerusalem; see also Entry into Jerusalem assault by Antichrist on 58 Erlangen manuscript miniatures 183–85 holy Jerusalem 6, 30, 187 Magi 199–200 pilgrim’s goal 187 John I, pope 57 John, apostle 106, 153 John the Baptist in Baptism 38, 40, 88, 238 at Last Supper 92 naming of 68 Virgin Mary and (deesis) 106 John Cassian 183–84 John Chrysostom 68 John of Damascus (John Damascene) 48, 56, 57, 68 John, Evangelist apocalyptic visions 30, 47–48, 190 left-handed 79, 80–81 Prochoros and 71, 74 writing 70–82 Johnson, F.P. 8 Joshua Roll 216–17, 219 Judaism and Jews, see also hand of God, handedness, Dura Europos synagogue, Hebrew manuscripts, languages divine anthropomorphism 48 figural imagery 23, 25 ritual 84 Judas 92 Julian the Apostate 15–17, 15n, 235–36 Justin Martyr 47–48

295 Kessler, Herbert L. 71, 120n, 122–23, 224n Kitzinger, Ernst 135, 160n, 162n, 165n, 166n Koch, Guntram 135 Lactantius 180 languages  structure and syntax 194; see also script direction valuation of right and left 4, 19 Last Judgement 1, 96, 101–102, 104–6 Last Supper 89–92, 204, 213 Lavin, Marilyn Aronberg 211–13 left hand of God in Baptism of Christ 36–40 in Beatitude representations 41–44 perceptual confusion 45–46, 234–36 production error 44–45 two-handed representations 31–36 left-handedness in antiquity 4–5 Bernward’s Column and 225 in Christian doctrine 6, 19 in combat 18, 51, 55–58 evil and 56–58 of God 31–46 moral inferiority in 68 in Old Testament 5, 52 picturing 18–21 in writing and left-handed scribes 61– 62, 65–68, 70, 75–82, 83 left-to-right languages; see languages legs; see feet Leo the Great, pope 121–22 Leroy, Jules 207, 208n, 213n, 214 literacy 45–46, 61, 161, 193, 240n liturgical movement, direction of; see also motion and feet 84 around Bernward’s Column 231–33 in PRG (Pontifical Romano-Germanique du dixième siècle) 232 Luke, Evangelist  left-handed 77, 79 writing 70–82 Lurker, Manfred 9 Luschey, Heinz 8, 192, 226n

296 Mack, Rosamond 239 Madonna; see Virgin Mary Mâle, Émile 165 Mamachi, Tomasso Maria 106, 112n, 113, 115, 119 Mamre angel, footwashing 91 Marchesin, Isabelle 162n Marian cycles 212, 213, 215 Mark, Evangelist, writing 70–82 marriage; see also spousal imagery Church authority and 151 courtship 158–60 marital hierarchy 154 Psalms and 162 Song of Songs and 162–64 spiritual 11, 162–63 wedding band 4 wedding imagery 147–48 women and 144–47 martyrs 30, 56–58, 83 Mary; see Virgin Mary Massacre of the Innocents 20–21, 58, 200, 204 Master of the Dominican Effigies 172, 174–75 Matthew, Evangelist left-handed 79–80, 235 writing 70–82, 235 Pythagorean Y and 179–83 Maundy Thursday ritual 84–85, 93 Maupeu, Philippe 187 McManus, Chris 2n, 4n, 9n, 10, 45n, 103n, 104n, 109, 110n men; see gender Michelangelo 104 military training 50–52 Millet, Gabriel 40 mirror-image invariance 45–46, 240n Morey, Charles Rufus 113–15 Moses  Aaron and 36, 84, 121 footedness of 88–89, 93 marriage of 142–43 receiving the Law 5, 24–26, 30, 33, 36, 41, 44, 68, 89, 216 in spousal imagery 143 mother and son imagery 154, 156, 163

Index of Names and Subjects motion, depiction of in Adoration of the Magi 198–200, 207 in Annunciation 196–97, 207 in Ascent of Elijah 194–95, 202 in Christian imagery 192–210 in Entry into Jerusalem 197–99, 207–08 in footwashing 90 in Hebrew manuscripts 208–09 impact of narrative sequence on  198–200, 202–06 impact of script direction on 192–94, 209–10 in Latin- and Greek- language cultures 194–206 left-to-right 90, 192–206, 209–10 right-to-left 198–210 in Sacrifice of Isaac 197, 208–09 symmetry and 199–200 in Syriac manuscripts 206–08 narrative, direction of; see also Bernward’s Column, Trajan’s Column on Bayeux tapestry 216–17 Christological cycles 212–14, 216 church decoration 211–12 direction of sequence 211–33 in Hebrew manuscripts 214–15 impact of script direction 211–15 ivory diptychs 212–13 on Joshua Roll 217, 219 linear programs 215–17 Marian cycles 212, 215–16 on historiated spiral columns 217–33 in Syriac manuscripts 213–14 “natural” handedness 2–3, 17–18 Nelson, Robert S. 105 Nicholas of Clairvaux 164 Nicholas of Verdun 201–02, 216 Nussbaum, Otto 231–32 Olchawa, Joanna 227, 229, 231n Origen 48 papal seals 106 Patton, Pamela A. 108

Index of Names and Subjects Paul, saint; see also Peter and Paul baptism of 36 handedness of 19–20, 70, 73 perception 41–42, 45–46, 82, 103, 234–36 Persius Flaccus, Aulus 179–81 Peter and Paul apostolic equality or precedence  120–23, 131–37 on bronze medallions 117–18 in catacomb painting 122, 126, 129 concordia apostolorum 111, 120–22, 135–37 in double portraits 112–23 on gold-glasses 113–17 hetoimasia throne and 124–25 Jesus and 123–31 in mosaics 124, 126, 128, 129–30 physiognomies 112–13, 116–18 regional attitudes towards 122–23, 132–37 on sarcophagi 116–19, 126–28, 131–35 symbols of 119 in “teaching” scenes 125–34 tituli inscriptions 112–13, 116, 119, 125 in traditio legis 126–29, 131, 133–34, 136–37 writing 70–73, 83 Peter Abelard 164 Peter Damian 106, 112n, 131–32 Peter of Eboli 55 Petrarch 180n, 185 Philonenko, Marc 8, 31 pictorial space; see spatial positioning picturing handedness 15–21 Pietri, Charles 111, 112n, 121, 125n Pilate, handwashing 90 pilgrim’s choice 185–90 Pliny the Elder, Natural History 4–5 portraits 64–67; see also Peter and Paul, self-portraits, spousal imagery of biblical figures 55–57, 68, 72–73, 83 double portraits 112–25, 138, 156–57, 237–38 of Church Fathers 68–71 of Evangelists 70–71, 74–82 medieval portraiture 63–65 Pre-eminence of the right anthropology 3–4, 6, 7

297 in antiquity 4–5 in Christianity and New Testament 6–8 in Judaism and Old Testament 5 physiology, genetics and evolution 2–3 socio-cultural 3–4, 17–18 Presentation of the Virgin 86–87 priestly blessings 18–19 Prochoros 74 Procopius 51–52 Publication reversals; see inverted reproductions Pythagorean Table of Opposites 5 Pythagorean Y  bivium and 179–83, 185–90 divided ladder in Erlangen Lamentation miniature 182, 183–85 as emblem 190 Guillaume de Deguileville’s Pèlerinage de vie humaine and 186–90 Matthew and Pythagoras 179–83 medieval mentality and 190–91 Persius and 179–81 Rutebeuf’s Voie de paradis and 186 pilgrim’s choice and 185–90 Rabanus Maurus 10, 52 Ravenna; see also Index of Works and Monuments Paul and Peter in 132–37 Reinsberg, Carola 143–44 Renaissance 105, 190–91, 211–12, 236–37 right and left sides; see spatial positioning right-handedness; see also handedness and specific subjects in antiquity 4–5 Christian doctrine and 5–7, 19 in combat 50–60 of Evangelists 68–75 of God 22–31, 56, 239 in Middle Ages 17–18 “natural” or physiological 2–3, 17–18, 50–51, 60–61 right-to-left languages; see languages ritual footwashing 89–90 Jewish 84 Maundy Thursday 84–85, 93

298 Rome; see also Index of Works and Monuments antiquity 8, 15, 135–37 apotheosis imagery in 27 coins of 236–37 early religious objects from 22 pre-eminence of the right 4–5 hand used in combat in 51–52 hand used for writing 62 Pythagorean Y 179–81 sarcophagi 41, 143–44 spiral columns 217–21, 226–27, 236–37 status of women (spouses) in 144–45 Rutebeuf 186 SAB; see spatial agency bias sacred movement; see motion Sacrifice of Isaac 23–24, 26, 33–36, 197, 200–201, 207–9 saintly figures 68–82; see also specific saints Sand, Alexa 157n, 158 sarcophagi; see also specific subjects Christian 116–19, 131–35, 141–43, 146–47 Roman 41, 143–44 Satan 5, 59–60, 182, 184–85 Saul 36n, 56–57, 151 Saxer, Victor 122 Schapiro, Meyer 88–89, 104, 109, 207n Schleif, Corine 9, 109n, 138, 149–50, 156–57 Schmitt, Jean-Claude 20n, 41n, 238–39 scribes; see writing script direction; see also spatial agency bias impact on depiction of motion 194–10 impact on narrative sequence 211–15 self-portraits 64–67; see also Hugo Pictor semantic enclaves 162 Simon Magus 19 Solomon  mother at his right 5 right-handed 56 Song of Songs 138, 162–64, 166 Spatharakis, Ioannis 8, 71n, 75–81 spatial agency bias (SAB) 193–94, 206–07 spatial positioning; see also Coronation of the Virgin, Crucifixion, Last Judgement, Peter and Paul, spousal imagery, visuality of chapels 108–09

Index of Names and Subjects compared to handedness 101, 103 frame of reference and 103–05, 108–09 picturing position 101–10 proper right and left 109–10 terminology 104–05, 109–10 values of right and left 104 Spieser, Jean-Michel 125n, 128n, 132n spiral columns 217–33; see also Bernward’s Column, Trajan’s Column spiritual marriage of Christ and Virgin  162–63 spousal imagery; see also Coronation of the Virgin courtship and 158–59 dextrarum iunctio and 142–43 early Christian 138–47 female patronage and 156–58 on gold-glasses 140–41 medieval 147–60 men on the left, women on the right 138–47, 153–60 men on the right, women on the left 147–53 mother-son portraits 154, 156 rationales for positions 144–46, 151–53, 154, 156 in Roman antiquity 141, 143–44 on sarcophagi 141–44, 146–47 weddings and coronations 147–49 stained glass 91, 167, 169, 194 Strasbourg 171–72, 175 Studer-Karlen, Manuela 139n, 141n, 142n, 143n, 147n Suetonius 62 Suger, abbot 165 Sullivan, Ruth Wilkins 112, 121n, 136–37 symmetry 58, 90, 198–200, 206, 210, 225 Synagoga; see Ecclesia and Synagoga  synagogue decoration 23, 25–26, 108; see also Dura Europos synagogue Syriac language; see languages Syriac manuscripts 58, 206–09, 213–14 terminology 104–05, 109–10 Theodosius I 219–20, 228 Thietmar of Merseburg 181 three-nail Crucifixion origin 94

Index of Names and Subjects Gothic ivories 94–95 moralization 96, 98 panel paintings 95–96 right foot bias 85, 94–98 Tiberius 62 tituli inscriptions Peter and Paul 112–13, 116, 118, 119, 125 sponsa and sponsus 166 traditio legis 44, 126–29, 131, 133–34, 136–37, 146–47 Trajan’s Column 217–21, 224, 227–30, 237; see also Bernward’s Column Trecento Italian painters 95–96, 166–67, 172–75, 212 tribe of Benjamin, Paul and 132 Triumph of the Virgin; see Coronation of the Virgin Tschan, Francis J. 217n, 225n, 230 Turner, Ralph V. 158 Turpilius 4–5 Uhrbrock, Richard S. 9 Utro, Umberto 116n, 117n, 118n, 122n, 126n, 131n, 235 Vegetius 52 Verdier, Philippe 8–9, 160n, 165n, 166n, 167n, 168n, 169, 171n, 172 violence; see also fighting by Antichrist 58–60, 82 against Christian martyrs 56–58, 60, 83 good or evil 56–60 handedness and 18, 20–21, 50–60, 83 left-handedness and 56–60 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène 109 Virgil, Aeneid 50–52 Virgin Mary; see also Annunciation to the Virgin, Assumption of the Virgin, Coronation of the Virgin Christ Child and 10, 147, 156–57, 195–96, 199–200, 207, 215–16 at Crucifixion 106, 153 John the Baptist and (deesis) 106 Presentation of 86–87

299 right-hand gesture of 19 as sponsa of Song of Songs 162–64, 166 visuality 105–08 vita activa 132 vita contemplativa 132 Vitruvius 85 von den Steinen, Wolfram 60 Wallis, Mieczysław 162 Walter, Christopher 76n wedding imagery 147–49 Wegner, Max 8, 192n, 226–27, 229 Weitzmann, Kurt 77, 216 Wirth, Henning 4n, 5n, 8, 27n, 52n, 53n, 84n, 85n, 171n Wölfflin, Heinrich 7–8 women; see also gender, marriage, spousal imagery legal status 144, 146, 151, 153 misogyny 151–53 as mothers 5, 154, 156, 159, 163; see also Virgin Mary original sin 152, 214–15 patronage by 156–59 subordinate status of 144–46, 151–53 superiority and saintliness of 154–56 writing by animals 63–64 antique imagery 62–63 book-making and 61 by Church Fathers, saints, and prophets 68 documentary sources on handedness 62 by Evangelists 70–82 by female scribes 63 fighting compared to 83 handedness in 60–83 left-handed scribes 62, 64–68, 70, 75–82, 83 medieval imagery of 60–82 pen knife 64, 65, 67, 70, 76–77, 79–80 by Peter and Paul 70, 72–73 right-handed scribes 61–64, 68–75 training for 61–62