Exhibition Offers Bounty of Artifacts from Medieval Europe to Define Links Between the Artist and the Natural World—Even in the 21st Century
by James D. Balestrieri
If earth, air, fire, and water are the ancient alchemical elements of the universe, the elements of art—art before the computer, anyway—are wood, plants, clay, stone, minerals, and metals. It’s a short step from the elements of art (as in the materials that artists use) to the idea of material culture, that is, the examination of objects in the larger context of the cultures that gave rise to the creations themselves.
The “material” half of the phrase “material culture” is on the minds of museum curators around the world as they ask themselves and are asked: “What is the carbon footprint of an exhibition? What are the costs to the environment? Where does the museum fit in its own cultural context?” With yet another short step, this concern with materiality leads to questions of artistic production as scholars consider: “What is the artist’s environmental impact? What are the ecological costs of the raw materials the artist requires?”
Bartomeu Robió, The Lord Reprimanding Adam and Eve, Spain, c. 1362, alabaster with traces of polychromy, 20 1⁄4 x 25 3⁄4 x 4 3⁄4 in.
Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, museum purchase, M.H. de Young Museum Society. Pho-to: Randy Dodson, courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco
“The Nature of Things: Medieval Art and Ecology, 1100-1550,” an exhibition at the Pulitzer Arts Foundation, St. Louis, Mo., through August 6th, unites these ideas, examining how art in what we call the Middle Ages affected the environment and, in turn, how the environment affected the arts. Further, the exhibition explores how museums in the 21st century can mount exhibitions while reducing their impact on an overstressed planet.
Many books, artworks, and exhibitions have taken The Nature of Things as their title, but it is worth returning to the source, an enormously influential work of natural philosophy, De Rerum Natura (often translated as On the Nature of Things), written by the 1st century BCE Roman poet and philosopher Lucretius. On his rediscovery during the Italian Renaissance, Lucretius was seen as an apostate by Christians and an apostle of the humanist awakenings of the period. Following the teachings of Epicurus, Lucretius saw the world and everything in it as provisional, that is made of combinations of atoms. As such, neither death nor the gods were to be feared. To Lucretius, existence was random; creation required transformation and destruction. In Book V of On the Nature of Things, for example, Lucretius speaks of nature as the “artificer” and describes the processes of the natural world in terms that describe the Medieval artist’s transformation of raw materials into works of art: “…Nature alters and impels everything to change.”
Against this rich historical and admittedly philosophical background, the Pulitzer’s “The Nature of Things” exhibition is divided into four parts: Forest, Field, Earth, Quarry and Mine (Stone and Metal).
Wood was essential to Medieval life. Most people lived in wooden structures. Everyone burned wood as fuel and for heat. Everything from ships to spoons and bows to bowls was made out of wood. The demand for wood often outstripped the pace of new growth. As a consequence, communities enacted laws to protect and sustain forests, even as they sometimes had to resort to importing wood from great distances. Significantly enough, as the gallery text asserts: “Medieval authors compared trees with human bodies because both have trunks, limbs, sap (blood), and bark (skin), and could live, suffer, die, and rot.” In a very real sense, trees were seen as life forms with a strong kinship to human beings—a metaphor that reaches down into the Hudson River School, Thomas Cole in particular. The forest could evoke dark imagination or inspire spiritual transformation, or, as in the case of Dante in the Divine Comedy, instill both at the same time.
Saint Anthony, Germany, c. 1500, limewood, 40 x 14 x 8 3⁄4 in.
Philadelphia Museum of Art, The John G. Johnson Collection.
Wood could be carved into useful objects but also into representations of the natural world (including, of course, people). One of the key objects in the “Forest” area of the exhibition is the full-figure sculpture of Saint Anthony, which was made c. 1500 in Germany. Carved of lindenwood, also known as limewood, a material prized for its softness and ability to convey detail, the piece reveals not only the artistic and aesthetic potential of wood but also its inherent metaphysical qualities. Lindenwood was thought to have had therapeutic properties—a statue of a saint fashioned from that material doubly emphasizes its power to heal. Art in the Middle Ages, thus, has a kind of alchemical function. Moreover, it is worth noting that the exploration of artistic materials, as well as their relationship to the production, reception, and meaning of artworks, is something that would have been largely overlooked in art history until recent times.
Artworks made from sources in the plant and animal kingdoms comprise the “Field” section of the exhibition and include objects made from ivory and bone, plant fibers, and animal skins—vellum in particular, which was used to make parchment for books. In Medieval Europe, as in much of the pre-modern world, there was no clear line between utility and artistry. The sumptuous Millefleurs Tapestry, woven in Bruges c. 1500-1525, no doubt hung where it could deflect drafts even as it delighted the eye. With its millefleurs, or “thousand flowers,” as a background, the birds and beasts—from the unicorn to the collared hound—form a bestiary that, at least at first, seems Edenic in its plenitude. The weaving is alive from edge to edge with a rhythm of groups of flowers. Fauna punctuate the scene with the regularity of a pageant. And yet, on second look, a predator/prey dynamic operates in the warp and woof. A pair of wolves have a rabbit and a bird, respectively, in their mouths. The leopard is on its hind legs, as if poised to pounce, and the hound “courses” the ram. (Coursing is the Medieval word for “hunting with hounds.”) The unicorn, often a symbol of Christ’s uniqueness, is on the run—looking behind him, panting and tongue extended—as is the moose at lower right. Some allegory is at work here, though it is hard, at our remove in time, to decipher it precisely. Whatever it is, it speaks to us as a cautionary tale about what we stand to lose if we over-exploit our resources—the sanctity of the earth itself. Deflecting drafts turns to delight, which, in its turn, transmits a didactic message to those who huddled between the tapestry and a fire on a cold night in the 16th century.
The Casket from the Workshop of Baldassare degli Embriachi, carved c. 1400 in Italy, is a splendid example of adaptation to the scarcity of materials. Ivory would have been the first choice for such a rich object; however, Africa and India, the sources of elephants and ivory, were far from Italy, rendering it prohibitively expensive. As an alternative, the artisans in the workshop of Baldassare degli Embriachi chose bone and horn, both readily available materials. The carving is exquisite, and the result is all but indistinguishable from a similar creation in ivory.
Cover for a Writing Tablet with a Romance Subject, attributed to the Atelier of the Boxes, France, 1340–1360, ivory, 3 1⁄4 x 1 7⁄8 in.
Toledo Museum of Art, purchased with funds from the Libbey Foundation, gift of Edward Drummond Libbey.
Glass and pottery, made from sand and clay, were crucial to both spiritual wellbeing and the business of everyday life in the Middle Ages—and objects in the “Earth” section of the exhibition reflect the centrality of these materials. Glassmaking demanded tremendous amounts of wood to maintain the temperatures required to transform sand into glass. As a result, glassmakers invented forms such as the triangular “kick” at the bottom of the Forest Glass Beaker (Krautstrunk) to strengthen the glass and reduce breakage. Abstract dark green leaves and an austere form lend the beaker—which was likely made in Germany or Switzerland and dates from 1500 to 1525—a proto-modern air, one where utility and artistry harmonize.
Stained glass, of course, epitomizes the Middle Ages, bringing scripture to life through the power of light. In a way, God and the Tree of Knowledge, made c. 1250 in France, encapsulates the various aspects of the Pulitzer exhibition. Eating of the fruit of the tree was forbidden to Adam and Eve; yet our humanity is born in the gesture in which Eve consumes the fruit—and, by extension, the natural world. Indeed, many would argue that human history depends upon her transgression. In the window, surrounded by fragments of plants and flowers and deep blue panes suggestive of water, God brings the tree into being, knowing full well what will and must happen as human creatures assume stewardship—that is, responsibility—over the earth.
The tin-glazed earthenware work, Dish with a Bird, made 1430–1450 in Spain, moves the exhibition from “Earth” to the final section, “Quarry and Mine.” With tin mined in Cornwall, England, cobalt blue pigment mined, as the gallery cards reads, “in Germany, Morocco, or as far away as Iran,” and with motifs drawn from Islamic Spain, this object—utilitarian and decorative—sums up the themes of the exhibition. Further, the technique of tin-glazing spread from Iraq, where it was invented to “imitate the white color of Chinese porcelain.”
Artists, artisans, and craftspeople in the Middle Ages traded far more extensively than we think. They were aware of one another and sought and incorporated exotic materials and methods. Their relationship to the natural world was as complicated as ours. They relied on the resources around them but had to learn to conserve them and adapt and employ substitutes when they were scarce.
Workshop of Baldassare degli Embriachi, Casket, Italy, c. 1400, carved bone, stained horn, wood, pigment, gilt metal, 11 1/8 x 13 x 7 1⁄2 in.
Los Angeles County Museum of Art, purchased with funds provided by the William Randolph Heart Foundation.
We don’t often think about the linen canvas under the painting, the cotton or flax plants whose fibers are woven to provide the supports for our favorite paintings. We don’t often think about the origins of the bronzes and marble sculptures we admire. Who grew the cotton and flax? Who mined the copper, tin, and zinc or quarried the marble? Where does paint come from? But it’s always worth going back to the beginning to ask these questions. Artists work in the context of their times, cultures, and in terms of the natural world around them.
Art isn’t made in a vacuum. Nor do museum exhibitions simply appear out of thin air. Artifacts must be packed and transported, then stored and displayed in climate-friendly spaces. Instead of shipping objects from across the globe, the curators at the Pulitzer chose to restrict their borrowing to institutions within the United States. Other objects are displayed virtually, enhancing the exhibition without increasing the museum’s carbon footprint. Aware of the original environmental stresses and costs of creating the works in the exhibition, the costs of preparing and sending works across oceans might have seemed to be adding fuel to the fire. The combination of actual and virtual artworks is intriguing and will no doubt become a more regular aspect of museum practice.
Earth, air, fire, and water. “Forest,” “Field,” “Earth,” “Quarry and Mine.”
If Lucretius could see The Nature of Things: Medieval Art and Ecology, 1100-1550, he might remind us that “…Nature alters and impels everything to change,” and then add, “So does art. After all, it’s the nature of things.”