And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
- And did those feet, William Blake
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onsdag 26. august 2015

The Mannerist Saint Louis

 

Yesterday, August 25, was the feast of St. Louis of France who died in 1270 and was canonised by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297. Louis is an immensely fascinating character, and I have written about him elsewhere as a saint rather than as a living monarch (see here, here and here). The cult of Saint Louis became very widely disseminated in Europe, largely thanks to the family ties of the Capetian dynasty which introduced him to Spain, The Kingdom of Neaples, Bohemia and Hungary. (1) As a consequence, Louis is endowed with a rich iconography which has received input from changing trends in art. In this brief blogpost, I give you a rather late rendition of the royal saint, painted by El Greco c.1586. El Greco was influenced by the Mannerist movement, but in his own version in which the the shapes are more voluble and elongated, and the use of perspective is applied more playfully and with less rigour than in the Italian schools of the sixteenth century. As we see in the image below, El Greco also employs shadows and light in a way reminiscent of the chiaroscuro technique perfected by Caravaggio but which had been developed since the late fifteenth century or so.


El Greco's Saint Louis, c.1586
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Louis as we see him here has greater resemblance to the Renaissance princes that were so often subject of mannerist portraits, and when compared with the medieval illuminations below we see that El Greco has brought out Louis' personality more acutely. This is of course unsurprising since completely different iconographic rules applied to Mannerist painting and manuscript illuminations of the high and later Middle Ages. It is nonetheless interesting to note that the Louis seen in the illuminations are more serenely beatific, almost as an embodiment of the perfect Christian king, whereas in El Greco's painting he is more reminiscent of the worldly king. El Greco's Saint Louis has no halo to suggest sanctity, and only his sombre, almost sad, expression and his thin, almost scrawny face might give a hint of the strict mendicant lifestyle he is said to have embraced.


Saint Louis standing serene
Châteauroux - BM - ms. 0002, f.298v, breviary, use of Paris, c.1414
Courtesy of enluminures.cultures.fr


The liturgical Saint Louis
Paris - Bibl. Mazarine - ms. 0344, f.242, breviary, Use of Paris, c.1318
Courtesy of enluminures.cultures.fr


Naturally, the image of Saint Louis changed over the years, both in art and in literature, and this is the normal progression in saints' cults. When comparing to so diverse expressions of imagery as the medieval illumination and the sixteenth-century painting we see how differently one saint might be imagined. The important thing about this difference need not be the medium through which these images come down to us. Naturally, illumination and painting work differently and have different audiences and purposes, which also means that they have different messages in their iconography. But we also could argue that aside from the iconographic rules intrinsic to the various pictorial genres, we see here how the king and saint has been envisioned in different milieus and different spiritual climates. The medieval illuminations belong to a period close to the canonisation and close to that widespread enthusiasm which found expression both in lay and monastic art. The mannerist depiction by El Greco, however, belong to the Counter-Reformation and its more sober, restrained approach to the cult of saints, which might more than anything else account for Louis' dark, gloomy appearance.


Notes
1) For the cult in Spain and Neaples, see Gaposchkin 2010: 210ff; for the cult in Bohemia see Marosi 2011: 188; for the cult in Hungary see Szakács 2011: 222.


Bibliography


Gaposchkin, Cecilia, The Making of Saint Louis, Cornell University Press, 2010

Giorgi, Rosa, Saints in Art, translated by Thomas Michael Hartmann, The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2003

Marosi, Erno, "Saints at Home and Abroad: Some Observations on the Creation of Iconographic Types in Hungary of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries", printed in Gecser, Ottó; Laszlovszky, József; Nagy, Balázs; Sebók, marcell; Szende, Katalin (eds.), Promoting the Saints – Cults and Their Contexts from late Antiquity until the Early Modern Period – Essays in Honor of Gábor Klaniczay for His 60th Birthday, CEU Press, 2011

Szakácz, Béla Zsolt, "Palatine Lackfi and his Saints: Frescos in the Franciscan Church of Keszthely", printed in Gecser, Ottó; Laszlovszky, József; Nagy, Balázs; Sebók, marcell; Szende, Katalin (eds.), Promoting the Saints – Cults and Their Contexts from late Antiquity until the Early Modern Period – Essays in Honor of Gábor Klaniczay for His 60th Birthday, CEU Press, 2011

søndag 25. mai 2014

Slayer without a dragon - Károly Lotz' frescoe of St. Ladislas of Hungary


But she was not the bishop's daughter

Sed illa filia episcopi non fuit
- Chronici Hungarici compositio saeculi XIV, printed in
Scriptores Rerum Hungaricarum tempore ducum regumque stirpis Arpadianae gestarum, ed. by Imre Szentpétery, vol. 1: 369

In a recent blogpost I wrote about Hungary's three medieval king-saints, Stephen, Emeric and Ladislas. In this blogpost I will present a fresco of St. Ladislas, whose composition bears a striking resemblance to the dragon-slayer motif from late medieval Italian Renaissance paintings. The fresco in question was painted by nineteenth-century Hungarian painter Károly Lotz in the Matthias Church in Budapest. (My thanks to art-historian and blogger Nóra Vézpremy for helping me with the ascertainment of its provenance.)

The fresco depicts one of the most famous episodes from the hagiographical material of St. Ladislas. The legend takes as its starting point the Battle of Kerlés in 1068 which was waged against the pagan Cumans, and tells of a daring and chivalrous feat of King Ladislas. Although the story is set in the mid-eleventh century, the legend itself is significantly more recent. According to Gabor Klaniczay, the legend is a "thirteenth-century interpolation of the twelfth-century original" (Klaniczay 2002: 190), brought to us from a fourteenth-century source. Naturally, this story conveys the chivalric ideal of the 1200s rather than eleventh-century preoccupations.

The story goes that Ladislas spotted a Cuman warrior riding away with a beautiful Hungarian woman, whom he thought to be the daughter of the bishop of Várad. Despite being wounded in the battle, the chivalrous and saintly king set after the pagan and almost managed to get close enough to stab the fleeing pagan with his lance. The horse could go no faster, nor did the other horse slow down, and Ladislas then called out to the Hungarian lady to grab hold of the Cuman and to throw herself to the ground. When Ladislas made ready to lunge his lance into the unhorsed enemy, the girl pleaded for his life, and the chronicler comments that this was surely sign of some illicit love between the two. The Cuman is nonetheless killed following a fight with Ladislas, and the girl turns out not to be the bishop's daughter.

St. Ladislas and the Cuman Warrior
Károly Lotz, 19th century

The episode was very popular in the cult of St. Ladislas, and it has been the subject of several renditions in both text and image. One of the most important medieval examples is perhaps the fourteenth-century Angevin Legendary.

In terms of time, Károly Lotz's fresco is far removed from the origins of this legend, but as a Hungarian he must have been very familiar with the story, and he also had a long tradition of art to draw from in his depiction. As mentioned above, the fresco is remarkably similar to certain depictions of the legend of St. George as it was portrayed in late-medieval art. The poise of the knight in the saddle is the most obvious feature, while the defeat of the Cuman being positioned in the forefront of the scene makes for interesting parallels with the vanquished dragon from the legend of St. George.

There are, of course, also differences. In most of the depictions of St. George, the lady is situated comfortably a little way away from the main action, whereas Lotz has placed her in the forefront along with the Cuman warrior. This placement also draws the woman into the action itself, making her not only more visibly positioned, but also a vital part of the conflict itself.

I can not claim that Károly Lotz drew on this treasure trove of imagery in his composition of the St. Ladislas fresco, and even if he did, I can not with any certainty suggest from which images he drew his inspiration. However, to highlight the similarities between Lotz's fresco, I will present some late-medieval depictions of the famous scene of George fighting the dragon, and the readers can decide whether they agree or disagree. All pictures are taken from Wikimedia.

St. George (Sant Jordi) fighting the dragon
Bertan Martorell, 1434-35

Rogier van der Weyden, before 1464

Altar wing from a church in Praha, c.1470

Raphael, 1505-06

søndag 11. mai 2014

Hungary's Royal Trinity - a brief introduction to the cults of the Hungarian king-saints


By the mid fourteenth century, the three holy kings of Hungary ad come to forma a harmonious iconographic scheme
- Klaniczay, Gabor, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses – Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, translated by Éva Pálmai


Taken from Veszprémy 2006

The above frontispiece from the Missal of Esztergom, printed in Lyon in 1501, is a summary of Hungarian sainthood. Here we see the Virgin Mary as Patrona Hungariae together with the kingdom's three royal saints, Stephen, Ladislas and Emeric respectively, each carrying his main attribute while supported by a shield depicting the Hungarian emblem which also can be found in the modern flag. In this blogpost, I intend to take this frontispiece as a point of departure for a brief introduction to the cults of the three king-saints of Hungary.
Miniature of St. Stephen from Chronicon Pictum. 14th century
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Background

The medieval kingdom of Hungary was founded by King Stephen, or Istvan (c.975-1038). He became duke on the death of his father Geza in 997, and his accession as followed by a series of insurrections against his authority, which he successfully repelled. Having vanquished his rivals of power, Stephen asked for Pope Silvester II to acknowledge him as king of Hungary and to send him a royal crown. This was done, and Stephen was crowned in 1000/1001. By this time, Stephen had already established a number of monasteries, as part of his implementation of Christianity in the kingdom. During Stephen's reign, the dichotomy between pagans and Christians was upheld by law, since intermarriage between these groups were forbidden, and pagan customs were forbidden. The royal acts of Stephen fit the pattern of a founding Christian father, which was an important aspect of the cult of royal saints as it came to be formulated in the course of the 12th century. Stephen was a church-builder, an alms-giver, a just king and a soldier of the faith.

Following Stephen's death in 1038, the kingdom of Hungary descended into chaos as rival factions within the dynasty vied each other for power, and this unrest continued throughout the 11th century. It was not, however, a struggle between pagans and Christians, but rather between various members of the royal family. In 1074, King Solomon was ousted from his position after he was defeated in battle against his cousin Geza and then incarcerated. Geza's brother Ladislas (or Lázló) succeeded his brother to the throne in 1077.

King Ladislas' position was not very secure. His cousin had been the legitimate king of Hungary, and was furthermore married to the daughter of Emperor Heinrich III of Germany. To strengthen his position, Ladislas orchestrated the canonisations of five saints throughout the year 1083 – by which time he was still not crowned, a fact that made his position presumably more precarious – and these canonisations must be seen, as pointed out by Gabor Klaniczay, as political means to strengthen Ladislas' position. This perspective is strengthened by the fact that the imprisoned Solomon was set free following the canonisations, whereupon he fled the country.


Three of the five saints of 1083 were bishops and missionaries, the fathers of the Hungarian church who all had important positions in the conversion narrative of Hungary. These ecclesiastical saints were Andrew (Zoerard) and Benedict, both hermits, and Bishop Gerard. According to Klaniczay, only the latter can be said to have served political purposes, since, unlike the two others, he was a symbol of the struggle against the pagans. The remaining two saints were both royal saints, and their canonisations had strong political dimensions. These saints were King Stephen and his son Emeric (Imre), who had died before his father and had therefore never become king.  

Stephen and Gisela founding a church
From Chronicon Pictum. 14th century
Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Stephen

King Stephen was of course the most important of the Hungarian saints. He was the founder of the kingdom and he was the apostolic king who implemented the Christian religion, thus concluding the work of the ecclesiastical saints mentioned above. There is, however, no evidence of a spontaneous cult following Stephen's death, nor is it likely that the canonisations were carried out after an exhortation from the pope, as it has been claimed in the Legenda maior of St. Gerard, written most likely in the 14th century.

The liturgical cult of Stephen came into being shortly after the canonisation and relied in the first stage on mass and office material from the Commune Sanctorum. A 13th-century liturgical fragment shows that the common material was to some extent replaced by rhymed antiphons during Lauds. These antiphons were most likely composed in the late 12th century, and it is likely that there were rhymed antiphons composed for the other hours as well, at least Matins, the central point of the office cycle. In the liturgical material, Stephen's role as the apostolic king is emphasised through his namesake Stephen Protomartyr, who allegedly comes to his mother in a dream and exhorts her to give his name to his unborn son, a sequence clearly modelled on the episodes from the Gospels concerned with the births of John the Baptist and Christ.

The liturgical material proper to Stephen was to a great extent based on the Legend of St. Stephen written by Bishop Hartvic/Hartvik during the reign of King Coloman (1095-1116), and in this legend we encounter the claims of an early cult centered around the place of Stephen's burial, Székesfehérvár, where numerous sick and afflicted sought and found a cure for their sundry pains. As mentioned, such a cult can not be ascertained, and it is more likely that Hartvic projected the topoi of saints and their miracles onto history because since Stephen was a saint, it was logical to expect such thaumaturgical preludes to a canonisation.

Stephen's apostolic place in the Christian history of Hungary ensured him an elevated position in the country's religious observance. Interestingly, following a period of unrest in the 13th-century, Stephen was also recast as not only a founder of the Christian kingdom, but as a liberator of his people from the oppression of the pagans. This recasting of Stephen strengthened the existing characteristics and emphasised his role as a champion of Christ against the heathen descendants of Attila. The liturgical texts construed him as a new Samson who fought the lion of paganry, and whose faithfulness (credulitas) was superior to the cruelty (crudelitas) of the Hunnic tyranny.

Scenes from the Life of Emeric
From the Angevine Legendary, 1330s
Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Emeric

Emeric was set out to be his father's successor, but died in 1031 by which time he was in his late twenties. According to later legends, he was well-educated and the alleged addressee of Libellus de institutione morum, a prince's mirror ascribed to King Stephen. Of the five saints canonised in 1083, Emeric was perhaps the one who was most important to King Ladislas personally. The reason for this was that Emeric was said to embody all the virtues expected of a Christian prince – mercy, largesse, humility, justice, etc. - and according to the chroniclers, no other Hungarian king could display such a wealth of virtues except Ladislas himself. Emeric became, in a way, Ladislas saintly forebear. Another reason why Emeric was of great importance to Ladislas personally, was the fact that that he was the son of Stephen and Gisela. Gisela was a German noblewoman who belonged to the house of King Ladislas' father-in-law, Rudolf, who was at that time a rival of the German Emperor Heinrich III. By proclaiming Emeric's sanctity, the family of Ladislas' wife was given a saintly member, and this would strengthen both Ladislas' own position, and the position of his father-in-law. This need was all the more pronounced by the fact that Solomon, the king Ladislas had deposed, was the son-in-law of Emperor Heinrich.

The cult of Emeric was also important to the church. Through Emeric it transmitted the ideal of the virtuous prince, who was chaste even in marriage and who was educated in religion. As Gabor Klaniczay points out, the Hungarian church used Emeric to emphasise the didactic and moralistic aspect of sacral rulership. Because Emeric had died before he became king, it was easy for later chroniclers and hagiographers to emphasise his chastity and proclaim him, as the earliest 12th-century legend did, a scorner of the corruptible flesh and – similar to the beatus vir of Psalm 1 – a man meditating on the word of God.

Scenes from the Life of Emeric
From the Angevine Legendary, 1330s
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Miniature of Ladislas, from Chronicon Pictum (14th century)
Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Ladislas

Ladislas was canonised under the auspices of King Bela III in 1192, and must be seen in light of two important aspects of the political scene of 12th-century Hungary. The first aspect is King Bela's Byzantine background. He had been educated at the court of Emperor Manuel Comnenons, and it is likely that it was here Bela became exposed to devotion of Ladislas, especially since the Hungarian king had been the father of Emperor Manuel's mother. The sanctity of Ladislas thus provided an important link to the Byzantine royal family, as well as the Hungarian throne.

Another important aspect might be seen in the circumstances in which both Bela and Ladislas ascended to the throne. Like Ladislas, Bela had to fight for his position, and since Ladislas's brother had ousted his cousin Solomon in 1174 and thus given way to Ladislas himself, he was a natural model for King Bela who had been brought up in Byzantium and was something of an outsider. King Ladislas himself, introduced the idea that the right to rule should be founded upon a king's likeness to previous kings – an idea known as ius idoneitatis or the right of likeness – instead of the right of blood known as ius legitimum which looked at family ties, bloodline and proximity. It is not stated expressly to what extent this concern informed Bela in his devotion of Ladislas, but it is an interesting connection between the two kings.


While Stephen was an apostolic king and Emeric was a virtuous prince, Ladislas was cast as a chivalric king, a knight-king, which was a figure of increased popularity in the 12th century, following the dissemination of the legend of St. Alexis and the crusader movement. This popularity also found its expression in reformulations of saints like Olaf of Norway and St. George. The extent to which Ladislas was formulated as a knight, can be seen in the early-13th-century legend's claim that he participated in the first crusade. Since Ladislas died in 1095, the very year in which the crusades first were preached, we know this to be a fiction, but it is an important piece of evidence to the importance of the chivalric aspect in the cult of Ladislas.  

Ladislas fighting a Cuman warrior, similar to St. George killing the dragon
Fresco from the Matyas Church in Budapest, date uncertain
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Concluding Remarks: The Later Middle Ages

Towards the end of the 13th century, these three king-saints had become an integral part of the history of Hungary, and from the end of the century they were often depicted as a saintly collective, appearing together as a joint force of sanctity interceding for the sake of Hungary. The first such depiction can be found in a diptych from the late 13th century commissioned by King Andrew III. Here the three holy kings, together with Elizabeth of Hungary (d.1031) who had been the queen of the German Emperor, appear as a collective of saints. This collective was further cultivated in the iconography of Hungarian Christianity throughout the 14th century, as witnessed by joint altar dedications – such as in the Chapel of the Virgin in 1355 – and a set of bronze statues erected in the 1360s by the cathedral o Nagyvárad.

That these three saints were grouped together into a unit appears to be a current of religious iconography common in 14th-century Europe. Similar triads could be found in Scandinavia and France, and in England we encounter frequent pairings of the saints Edmund and Edward the Confessor from the same period.





Literature

Dobszay, László, "From 'crudelitas' to 'credulitas': Comments on Saint Stephen's Historia Rhythmica", printed in Hankeln, Roman (ed.), Political Plainchant? Music, Text and Historical Context of Medieval Saints' Offices, The Institute of Mediaeval Music, 2009

Farmer, David, The Oxford Dictionary of Saints, Oxford University Press, 2004

Klaniczay, Gabor, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses – Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, translated by Éva Pálmai, Cambridge University Press, 2002


Veszprémy, László, "Royal Saints in Hungarian Chronicles, Legends and Liturgy", printed in Mortensen, Lars Boje (ed.), The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c.1000-1300), Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006