Many of you will also be interested in the Museum’s upcoming exhibition The Art of Illumination: The Limbourg Brothers and the Belles Heures of Jean de France, Duc de Berry, opening March 2, 2010, which will focus on one of the masterpieces of medieval book illumination.

Thank you for your interest and participation in this exciting project.

—Melanie Holcomb

Citation:
Holcomb, Melanie. “Post title.” Pen and Parchment: Drawing in the Middle Ages. (http://blog.metmuseum.org/penandparchment/). The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Blog. Date of access.

Above: Jean Pucelle (active ca. 1320–1324) Saint Louis Feeding the Sick from The Book of Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux Paris, France, 1324–28, 3 1/2 x 2 5/8 in. (8.9 x 6.2 cm), The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; The Cloisters Collection, 1954 (54.1.2); Opicinus de Canistris (1296–ca. 1354) Diagram with Crucifixion, Avignon, France; 1335–50, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vatican City, Pal. Lat. 1993.

In last week’s post I discussed the earliest drawings in the exhibition, the initials in the Corbie Psalter, which date to around 800. I began the exhibition with this work because I have long felt the two anonymous scribe-artists responsible for the book were among the first great medieval draftsmen. They understood the power of the drawn line. Their expressive impulse seemed to derive organically from the words they were writing.

As the exhibition enters its final week, I have been thinking about the very last drawings in the show, works which were created more than five hundred years after the Corbie Psalter. One is the exquisite, astonishingly tiny Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, a masterpiece by Jean Pucelle. Every aspect of this prayer book, a gift from King Charles IV of France to his queen, Jeanne d’Evreux, some time between 1324 and 1328, seems designed to provoke wonder. Its parchment, of exceptional creaminess and suppleness, is so thin at places as to be translucent. The sheer number of illustrations and the variety and inventiveness of the images, particularly in the margins, yield endless delight. Using a fine pen and brush to apply iron gall ink, black carbon ink, and lead white pigment, Jean Pucelle creates nuanced contours and delicate lines. He often sets the figures against richly colored backdrops to make their sculptural qualities all the more apparent. The elegance of the manuscript is undeniable.

Another body of work, which couldn’t be more different from the Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, is the mesmerizing set of drawings from the portfolio of Opicinus de Canistris created around 1335–50. Drawing on both sides of unwieldy, imperfect, and untrimmed pieces of parchment, Opicinus conveyed his own understanding of the structure of the cosmos through an idiosyncratic set of diagrams. The visionary cleric drew upon the medieval diagrammatic tradition to be sure, but he pushes that tradition to an extreme, creating an almost hallucinatory effect. Within a geometric matrix, he places bodies within bodies (”like Russian dolls,” as one visitor remarked). Text—allusive explanations, word games, snatches of autobiography—operate independently on the page, sometimes shifting in orientation. For all his seemingly inscrutable organizational schemes, he is a fine draftsman, and part of the pleasure of viewing his works derives from discovering the subtly rendered figures hidden in them. In one instance, a close look beneath a dense network of radial lines reveals a delicate pair of crucifixions.

While grounded in medieval traditions of draftsmanship, both of these works anticipate attributes and uses of drawings typically associated with the Renaissance. The illustrations in the prayer book show an engagement with the material world—an interest in direct observation and illusionistic space. Virtuosity, achieved through pen and ink, is an end unto itself. Opicinus uses drawings to express an intensely private vision, all the while engaging with the artistic currents of his day. His drawings record the feverish workings of his mind.

Well before the “Old Masters,” we find older masters still.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: Zoomorphic Initial (detail) and Initial P (detail), From the Corbie Psalter, Corbie, France, early 9th century. Bibliothèques d’Amiens Métropole, MS 18C

One point I have stressed in both the exhibition and its accompanying catalogue is the intimate relationship that existed in the Middle Ages between drawing and the written word. Few works better illustrate this point than the Corbie Psalter, created around 800. This endlessly fascinating book contains both the Psalms and the Canticles (the songs in the Bible that are not Psalms). Its illustrations consist entirely of remarkably inventive initials for the first letter of the first word of each text.

In many cases, we understand the artists and the scribes of a medieval book to have had separate tasks: the scribe wrote the text on the ruled lines of the page, leaving space for an illustration to be added by the artist. In the Corbie Psalter, however, the scribes were also the artists, and they drew as they wrote. The illustrations clearly arose from their consideration of the text, and the text is laid down on the page in consideration of the illustration.

How can we tell from the existing book that the scribes-artists worked in this manner? Have a look at the initial for Psalm 123. The text, in Latin, begins “Nisi quia dominus erat in nobis. . .” (”If it had not been that the Lord was with us. . .”). The artist clearly created the letter “N” first, using two hounds and a bird, and then adjusted the rest of the phrase to the initial’s contours. Note how the paw of one of the intertwined hounds carefully perches on the “in” of the first full line of text and the way in which the “d” of “dominus” actually ascends right into the illustration. In order to achieve this, the artist must have created the image before writing in the text.

While the artist who illustrated Psalm 123 chose a zoomorphic, or animal-shaped, initial, in other cases the drawing was meant to enhance the readers’ experience or understanding of the text. The illustration for one psalm tells the story of young David’s defeat of the giant Goliath. Little David, with his slingshot full of stones, rests inside the circle of the “P” of the word “Pusillus” (”small”), while the mighty Goliath forms the letter’s long stem. The rest of the text then continues alongside the letter. The psalm and its illustration are thus marvelously integrated. Here again, writing and drawing are a seamless enterprise, with each informing the other.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: Two photos during the installation of the exhibition show the process of opening pages; the new opening from the Corbie Psalter now on view in the galleries.

A few days ago we turned the pages in three of the manuscripts on view so that we can show different “openings,” or double-page spreads. If you have a chance to visit the exhibition again, you’ll notice a new set of images for the Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, the Prato Haggadah, and the Corbie Psalter. The new opening from the little book of hours for Jeanne d’Evreux includes an image of the Miracle of the Breviary, in which a dove wondrously returns to an imprisoned Saint Louis a prayer book that had been lost in battle. In the Prato Haggadah, we are now showing the pages for the “Dayyeinu” portion of the Passover seder, in which the words of the refrain are set within a Gothic tower. I admit that my favorite new opening is the one that shows the initial M and the initial N from the Corbie Psalter (See a more detailed image of the initial N.) The M of the word Magnificat—formed by the bodies of Elizabeth and Mary—is one of the most inventive depictions of the Visitation I know.

Some visitors have asked why we can’t turn more pages more often. It might seem a simple matter, but turning a page is actually a very involved process. Most lenders of manuscripts require that their own representative be present anytime a case is opened, both to ensure that conditions in the case are not changed and that any page-turning is done to their specifications. In the case of foreign lenders, this creates some logistical problems. In addition, cradles that hold the books open in the galleries are created specifically for each opening. If a new opening dramatically shifts the weight of the book a new cradle must be created.

I find it fascinating that conservators often talk about books as living things—“the page wants to do this,” “it seems comfortable at this spot”—and they strap the pages of the book down very carefully and gently so the book is under no strain. There are different techniques for strapping, but our conservators often use one wide, clear polyethylene strap to hold down the pages behind the one we want to show, and a fine, unobtrusive silk thread to hold down the pages on view. To turn a page, one person holds one side of the book upright and another person holds the other side while the conservator does the strapping and tying. Believe it or not, it took five people and two hours to turn three pages.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: Evangelist Luke, From the Morgan Gospels, Northeast France, second half of the 9th century, 9 5/8 x 8 1/4 in. (24.5 x 21 cm), The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. Purchase by John Pierpont Morgan, Jr., 1919. MS M. 640; Evangelist Matthew, From the Arenberg Gospels, Canterbury, England, ca. 1000–1020, The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, M. 869.

One point that I’ve emphasized in the exhibition is that though we normally think of drawing as a preparatory exercise—a way to explore an idea or map out a composition—medieval artists and patrons, particularly in the early Middle Ages, often thought of drawing as a finished product, worthy of important and luxury books. Some artists even made use of gold to embellish their drawings. Though it wasn’t my intent, the exhibition provides a nice survey of gilding techniques.

When installing the exhibition, I fell into a discussion with conservators from the Morgan Library and from the Met over the strange green-gold that appears in the Morgan Gospels. You see it on the halo, the lectern, and the footstool in the image of Saint Luke writing his gospel (above left). We had noted the same pigment in the illuminations of other early books, and one of the conservators recalled some medieval recipes for gold paint that combine gold with verdigris, the green coating or patina formed when copper is exposed to air.

A medieval source called the Mappae clavicula includes the following recipes:

Gold paint
Mix 2 parts of gold powder and 1 part of verdigris with the composition [binding agent]; mix it again and make use of it as you wish.

Verdigris
Take very clean copper leaf and hang it over very sharp vinegar. Leave it undisturbed in the sun for 14 days. Open it up, take away the leaf, and collect the efflorescence, and you will make the cleanest verdigris.

Another better-known and more frequently used method of gilding involved the application of gold leaf, whereby thin sheets of gold are laid down on a binding medium applied to the page. The portrait of Matthew from the Arenberg Gospels (above right) provides a marvelous instance of drawing mixed with gold leaf. I particularly love how the pages of the book held by Matthew were deemed worthy of gilding.

A few days ago, a visitor to the exhibition approached me to ask about the raised and impressively shiny gold letters in the Tickhill Psalter. In that instance, gesso was used as the binding medium to give added height and to create an ideal surface for burnishing. In the case of the unfinished pages of the Prato Haggadah, the pink Hebrew letters that we see are the result of a colorant added both to make the binding agent more visible and to enrich the tonality of the gold leaf that, had the pages been completed, eventually would have been added.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: Façade of Strasbourg Cathedral (“Plan A1”), Strasbourg, France, 1260s, 33 7/8 x 23 1/4 in. (86 x 59 cm), Musée de l’Oeuvre Notre-Dame, Strasbourg, Inv. no. 2.

The so-called Strasbourg Plan A1, seen above, offers an exquisite example of medieval architectural drawings, which are rarely accessible to anyone, including scholars and researchers. It is one of the earliest surviving graphic documents of a monumental structure, authored by an anonymous artist. Although we do not know his name, the artist left us with enough information, in pen and ink, to express his vision for the design of the west façade of Strasbourg cathedral.

It was more than pen and ink that I wished to find when I approached the framed drawing for the first time. It was leaning against the wall, silently, waiting to be hanged. I knelt down and started looking for prick holes—yes, prick holes—those barely discernible marks left by the sharp point of a compass. Prick holes serve two important functions. In an original drawing, they reveal the invisible geometric forms underlying the design: circles, say for a rose window; or arcs, two of which combine to form a pointed arch for a window or doorway. Prick holes penetrating through the entire thickness of the parchment may suggest that at some point the drawing was used as a master for copying, when the sharp point of the compass or a similar instrument needs to reach the parchment below. Key details of the original drawing—for example the apex of a pointed arch, the cusps of a tracery window, or the outline of a doorway—would be pricked through. A précis, or essential summary, of the design would then be transferred onto a sheet of fresh parchment directly underneath, visible with the marks (prick holes) made by the sharp point. These marks would then serve as guides for the artist to complete the copying process. Medieval Xeroxing, one might say.

When the Strasbourg Plan A1 was removed from its frame in the studio of a restorer in Paris, prick holes were only visible on the front face, with none discernible on the back. This suggests that it might have been copied from another drawing, perhaps the so-called Plan A, which is almost identical to Plan A1 but has fewer intricate details. We know that Plan A1 belongs to a set of drawings depicting the various designs for the Strasbourg west façade, now known as Plans A, A1, B, B1, and D. None of these drawings was followed exactly when the façade was constructed, although Plan B seems to be the closest version to the main bulk as built. We know from documents that construction of the west façade began on May 25, 1277, but we do not know when the various designs for the façade were attempted. A logical and commonly accepted strategy is to date some of these designs to the 1260s and 1270s. The chronology of these drawings, and the incongruities between their renderings and the actual façade, only add to the intrigue and challenge of understanding the drawings’ history.

Anyone visiting the cathedral of Strasbourg cannot help but be impressed, if not outright awed, by the enormity of the spectacular façade. Yet, to untangle the thinking behind its design, we rely on—among other things—the tiny prick holes.

—Nancy Wu, Museum Educator, The Cloisters Museum and Gardens

Above, from left to right: Saint Jerome (detail), from Life of Saint Paul by Jerome and Life of Saint Guthlac, England, probably Canterbury, probably 2nd quarter of 11th century, Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, MS 389; Battle Scene (detail), from Book of Maccabees I, Saint Gall, Switzerland, second half of 9th–early 10th century, Universiteitsbibliotheek, Leiden, Cod. Perizoni F.17; Saint Paul Preaching to the Jews and Gentiles of Rome (detail), from the Pauline Epistles, Saint Gall, Switzerland; second half of ninth century Stiftsbibliothek, Saint Gall, Cod. 64.

The exuberant drawing of Saint Jerome with a quill in his right hand, its tip pressed against the ruled pages of an open book, and, in his left hand, a knife used for sharpening the quill and scraping away mistakes, provides a memorable image of the scribe at work. I’ve always marveled at the resourcefulness of medieval scribes and artists in terms of the preparation of their tools and materials. As if the process of creating folios of parchment were not expensive and time-consuming enough, artists also had to prepare their own pigments and pens. Inks could be made from a combination of materials, but almost all featured some kind of ground material suspended in a binding solution. Unlike tempera paints, inks are not generally known to be bound with egg whites, but rather with gums (polysaccharides), such plant saps or animal-based glues, which allow fluidity of line and an even distribution of color. Commonly used pigments included organic materials such as madder, a plant whose root was crushed for its color, and clay; both produced a brownish hue.

Organic materials produced the most stable and basic colors of the medieval palette and offered a variety of bright tones, including my favorite pigment, cochineal—a scarlet color created from the crushed shells of dried insects. However, the most brilliant shades were derived from ground minerals or man-made concoctions. The presence of such materials in a manuscript, even in a drawing, would certainly have connoted rarity and preciousness to medieval eyes. Perhaps the most famous pigment of all was derived from the mineral lapis lazuli, transported from Afghanistan, which offered a deep, serene blue prized for its rarity and beauty.

I have been particularly interested of late by a red-lead oxide known as minium, whence derives the term “miniature” to describe the finished illustrations found in manuscripts. Minium was used by early artists to map out compositions that were later painted over, and by scribes to pick out words and initials. While paging through the illustrations of the Leiden Maccabees (see center image above), I noticed bright-red patches that seem to lie underneath the brown lines, perhaps serving as preliminary sketches for more finished drawings. Could this be an example of the technique used in the service of drawing rather than for painted illumination? Several other texts from the monastery where the Leiden Maccabees was created (Saint Gall), feature a similar shade of red ink in their ornamental letters and texts.

In its original manuscript, opposite the lively drawing of Paul preaching (see image above, at right), is a page of text whose ink color offers the very immediate impression of scribes and artists busily at work, sharing ink as they copied and illustrated their manuscripts.

Although medieval manuals do record recipes for making inks, the idiosyncrasies of each artist’s technique for mixing pigments and the sheer variety of materials employed leaves us with an incomplete sense of how artists made such beautifully subtle colors. Because the process of preparing pigments was the most basic chore, it was often assigned to apprentices who studied how to make the colors first-hand and their methods were not recorded in manuals with any precision. Yet the importance of the process is evident in later medieval legal documents, which stipulate that artists should be paid for the amount of precious pigment used rather than for a work’s size or for the amount of time it took to make.

This seems to place a very different value on a work of art than would be the case today, when an artist’s signature or the rarity of a piece might determine its relative worth. Does this medieval appreciation of material have any parallels in the making of today’s art?

—Elizabeth Williams, Exhibition Assistant

Above, from left to right: Jean Pucelle (active ca. 1320–1324), Saint Louis Feeding the Sick (detail), From The Book of Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, Paris, France, 1324–28, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, The Cloisters Collection, 1954 (54.1.2); Opicinus de Canistris (1296–ca. 1354), Diagram with Zodiac Symbols (detail), Avignon, France, 1335–50, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vatican City, Pal. Lat. 1993.

Often when I view medieval manuscripts I become so focused on the words and pictures adorning the pages that I forget to take note of the materials with which they were created. Yet after traveling through this exhibition, it becomes strikingly evident that the materials themselves—the parchment and ink—are as important as the narratives they contain.

Parchment was the primary support employed by medieval scribes to preserve their written words. Its use extends as far back as the fifth century B.C. According to the great Roman historian Pliny, the material was invented in Pergamum (the Latin word for “parchment” is pergamenum) in the second century B.C., after the exportation of papyrus from Alexandria was halted. Paper—which was invented in China during the second century B.C.—would not become widely used in Europe until the twelfth century A.D.

Like leather, parchment is manufactured from animal hides, but it differs from leather in the way it’s produced and treated. Parchment is stretched, scraped, and dried, while leather is tanned—a process that involves adding vegetable tannins to the skin to chemically alter its physical properties. A quick glance at the exhibition’s earliest manuscripts, like the pages from the ninth-century Corbie Psalter, reveals parchment’s amazingly durable nature.

The two words “parchment” and “vellum” are often used interchangeably. Both materials come from animal hides, but the distinction between them may be made clear through etymology: “vellum” comes from the Latin vitulinum, meaning “veal” or “calf.” Parchment, on the other hand, may be made from the skin of a sheep or a goat. Apart from the linguistic distinctions, a well-trained conservator’s eye is able tell the difference between the two materials due to the hair patterns still evident in the surface of the skins.

One particular manuscript in our exhibition, The Book of Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux (see image above, at left), is made from a type of parchment called slunk. The finest form of parchment, slunk was taken from the hides of stillborn calves. The pages of this text are buttery smooth and paper thin, lacking any marring or imperfections. (Hanging on the opposite wall in the exhibition galleries is a small sketch that represents the other extreme; its parchment appears thick, dirty, and worn, as if it had been crumpled and then smoothed into a frame.)

It was not until I saw the folios of Opicinus de Canistris, the eccentric cleric working in the papal court of Avignon, in relation to the other manuscripts of the exhibition that I grasped the enormity of labor and expense that went into the production of a medieval manuscript. Opicinus utilized entire untrimmed sheets of parchment, which still retain the original shape of the goats from which they were made (see image above, right). On average, one animal skin could yield two to three bifolia, which would produce eight to twelve pages for decoration. Of course, the number of pages depended on the size of the book. A text like the Salomon Glossaries, the largest book in the show, most likely required one animal per bifolium. This 229-folio book required 115 bifolia, or roughly 115 individual animal hides. We can see that the resources required to make one medieval manuscript were exorbitant—from the hundreds of animals required to make the pages to the often exotic minerals ground for the scribes’ ink palette. (All parts of the animal were utilized, from the meat to feed the local people to the hooves for glue.)

Unlike painting, which seeks to obscure as much of the substrate as possible, medieval drawings reveal the scribe’s line as a chisel, portioning off areas of raw parchment to hew figures. In many respects, I see parchment as the primary material here, with the inked lines as accessory tools involved in the craft.

—Eric R. Hupe, Exhibition Intern

Above: Byrhtferth’s Diagram; Computus Diagrams (detail), from the Thorney Computus, Cambridgeshire, England, ca. 1102–10, Saint John’s College, Oxford, MS 17.

I have long been fascinated by medieval diagrams. Even before this exhibition provided the opportunity to unpack their often arcane content, I appreciated their elegant geometry. Although the systems of thought and basic formats of these diagrams often come from antiquity, I like to think their aesthetic potential was only fully realized by medieval thinkers and draftsmen.

We attribute the form of the magnificent diagram from a twelfth-century manuscript known as the Thorney Computus (shown above) to Byrhtferth, a monk and scholar who lived at Ramsey Abbey in England around the year 1000. Like all effective graphs and charts, whether modern or medieval, the diagram seeks to convey a maximum amount of information in a clear, concise, and aesthetically pleasing manner. Byrhtferth’s diagram coordinates the many quaternities—or four-part schemes—used by ancient and medieval thinkers to organize and explain natural phenomena. Thus at a single glance we can see how the four elements, the four directions, the four ages of man, the four winds, the four seasons, the twelve signs of the zodiac (divisible into four), among other pieces of information, could be mapped one on top of the other. With its multiple sets of neat correlations, the diagram also gave visual affirmation to the medieval idea that the cosmos is a splendid system, organized according to the divine geometry of God. (These systems of fours appear again in a wind diagram that is also on view in the exhibition.)

As mentioned above, Byrhtferth’s Diagram is found in a computus book, replete with some one hundred other fascinating diagrams. (Computus refers to the measurement of time, particularly as it concerns the complex calculations required to determine the dating of Easter and its associated feasts.) I can’t begin to tell you how most of these diagrams work, but I can admire their beauty. Many of the diagrams in this manuscript are framed by architectural elements, and as I first turned the pages, I felt I was on an extraordinary architectural tour. The care with which these diagrams were rendered, the lively use of color, the quality of the parchment, and the relatively large size of the book gives a sense of how much the monks at Thorney Abbey, where this book was housed, valued its content. McGill University has created a digitized version of the manuscript (see http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/ms-17/index.htm) that allows visitors to see each of its pages, along with helpful commentary written by Prof. Faith Wallis, the leading expert on the Thorney Computus.

The most geometrically perfect diagram in the entire exhibition may be the Consanguinity Chart (Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, Clm. 13031), which was found within a copy of a medieval encyclopedia. It is a meticulously symmetrical composition made up of rigid straight lines, perfect circles, tidy triangles, and neatly detailed inscriptions that adhere to the chart’s overall geometric aesthetic. The purpose of the chart is to determine degrees of kinship—important in matters of marriage or inheritance.

Studying medieval diagrams has made me all the more appreciative of well-designed graphs and charts of any era, and in that regard, I’ve learned the most from Prof. Edward Tufte, who has been called “the Leonardo da Vinci of data.” Prof. Tufte has graciously agreed to speak about medieval diagrams at the Metropolitan Museum on Sunday, July 19, at 3:00 p.m. I hope many of you can join us for what will surely be an enlightening program.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: Matthew Paris (ca. 1200–1259). The Virgin and Christ Child; Christ Crucified; Christ in Majesty. From Chronica Majora, vol. 1. Saint Albans, England, ca. 1240–53. Corpus Christi College Library, Cambridge, MS 26.

During the course of preparing this exhibition, I felt I came to know many of the draftsmen featured in the exhibition quite well. Their distinctive way with the pen would appear in a new [to me] manuscript, and I felt I was reacquainting myself with an old friend. Of course, we don’t know most of the names of these draftsmen, but one whose name is well known, at least among students of the Middle Ages, is Matthew Paris, a monk who lived in the first half of the thirteenth century. The exhibition features one work by Matthew—a marvelous, highly finished drawing of a set of heads. It is single sheet bound into a chronicle Matthew maintained as the designated historian for Saint Albans monastery, outside of London.

If I could choose one manuscript in the exhibition to have disbound in order for visitors to see the array of drawings inside, it would probably be this one. Fortunately, you can page through this work by logging into the website for the Parker Library at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge; it’s manuscript number 26.

Matthew was a prolific draftsman, very conscious of the different ways he could use drawings to enhance his texts. The margins of his texts are scattered with all kinds of drawings—some used as place markers, some used to indicate significant events. Some assist in cross-indexing entries in his chronicle, and others—little pictures of documents of various sorts—testify to the fact they he laid eyes on the texts he cites in his work. Matthew excelled in every genre of drawing—maps, charts, diagrams, simple graphic icons, gripping narrative scenes. There’s really no artist quite like him in the history of medieval art, and I’ve sometimes wondered if his inventive, even eccentric, take on images might have been abetted by the fact that, as the abbey historian, he worked outside of the scriptorium, in relatively secluded quarters.

The drawing of heads is his only full-page drawing without a text to accompany it, and is surely one of his loveliest. In her book The Art of Matthew Paris in the Chronica Majora (University of California Press, 1987), Suzanne Lewis has suggested that the work portrays works of art that Matthew saw, perhaps even in his own monastery. In another manuscript, Matthew provided pictorial documentation of the gems and rings in the monastery’s collection. There he attempts to provide pictorial documentation to accompany a catalogue. The documentary nature of the gems stands apart from the heads, which he attempts to imbue with beauty, vitality, or pathos, as appropriate. I am intrigued by the fact that he chose to focus exclusively on faces, and seems to have selected these works to capture a variety of poses, moods, and affects. Though his subjects are works of art and not live human beings, I can’t help but be reminded of the kinds of studies of heads—such as the sketches of Jacquemart de Hesdin in the Morgan Library—that we associate with the later Middle Ages and the Renaissance.

—Melanie Holcomb

Above: The Sawley Map (detail). From the Imago mundi by Honorius Augustodunensis. England, probably Durham, ca. 1190. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, MS 66, Part 1.

Today, we look at maps to help us get somewhere, or to show us geological or geographic features of a place. In the Middle Ages, some maps were certainly drawn for the same purpose. One example, a famous atlas created by the Islamic cartographer Il-Idrisi for the Norman king Roger II in Sicily, includes Europe, Asia, and parts of Africa, and is often praised today for its relative accuracy. Its sixty-six sections describe countries, their principal cities, roads, borders, waterways, and mountains. (See images of a thirteenth-century copy of this map at the Bibliothèque nationale de France.)

Other maps in the Middle Ages, however, played a much different role. The Sawley Map shown above, which is on display in the current exhibition, is something else entirely. Created by a twelfth-century English monk, it was the first image in a book called the Imago Mundi (Image of the World), a kind of medieval encyclopedia. A rare early example of a detailed world map, the Sawley Map places the Mediterranean Sea at its center, Paradise at the top, and Africa and the British Isles at its edges. Contemporary cities and places appear alongside biblical ones; standing landmarks share terrain with creatures and peoples from ancient legends and popular adventure tales. The map marvelously and efficiently compresses time and space, legend and fact into a single image. It is in some ways a one-page visual précis, presented in geographical terms, of the vast information contained in the encylopedia it introduces. While the Il-Idrisi map addresses the aspirations of a medieval king to look outward and to demonstrate awareness of his immediate neighbors, the Sawley Map speaks to a monk’s wishes to stay put and look inward, to locate himself—the island of Britain after all is clearly indicated on the map—within the world of books and knowledge, both ancient and biblical.

To me, the delicacy of the Sawley Map’s colors and the graceful manner of the angels that guard the earth at its four corners make it one of the most fascinating drawings in the exhibition. I also love the way it defies modern expectations of what a map is and how it should function. I suppose there are people who might have trouble getting past the Sawley Map’s seeming lack of interest in charting the visible world, perhaps viewing the Il-Idrisi atlas as more “correct” and therefore closer to modern maps. But is that a fair assessment? Aren’t there abstract concepts that we find important to conceptualize spatially?

—Melanie Holcomb