Late Gothic masters, the threshold of the Renaissance, and the birth of secular art
Last week I introduced the Gothic tradition: its historical origins in the cultural shifts of the 12th century, its theological character as the art of those on pilgrimage between the fallen world and heaven, and its visual characteristics as illustrated in works by Duccio, Lorenzetti, and Matthew Paris. This week I turn to the later Gothic masters, the point at which the style begins its transition into something new, and the new art forms that the Gothic spirit made possible.
Late Gothic: Van der Weyden
The Descent from the Cross by Flemish artist Rogier van der Weyden, 1435, is a late Gothic work in which the degree of naturalism is substantially higher.
Because the Italian Renaissance was already underway at this time, albeit in its early stages, some classify this style as ‘Northern Renaissance.’ To my eye, however, this remains an essentially Gothic painting. The figures still occupy the middle distance, giving us a sense of emotional distance between the observer and the scene and positioning us as detached witnesses. That quality of detachment, inherited from the iconographic tradition, is the mark of Gothic art even at its most naturalistic.
Fra Angelico
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| Annunciation, Cell 3, Convent of San Marco, Florence, c. 1440-45 |
Fra Angelico was a Dominican friar from Fiesole, near Florence. He was aware of the changes in art occurring around him, but retained much of the Gothic spirit of his northern contemporaries, such as Van Eyck and Van der Weyden. He was willing to incorporate the new device of single-point perspective into his work, but used it sparingly and selectively, depending on the subject matter. I would still place him at the more naturalistic end of the Gothic spectrum rather than as a Renaissance artist, because his figures show no strong influence of classical Greek sculpture. For me, this is still the art of pilgrimage, of the baptized on their journey to heaven.
The Threshold of the Renaissance: Ghirlandaio
A Madonna and Child from around 1470-75 by Domenico Ghirlandaio illustrates precisely where Gothic art ends and something new begins.
Ghirlandaio has placed his figures within a flat architectural surrounding, as an iconographer or Gothic artist might, but the figures themselves are in a very different style. Their roundedness of form, so unlike Fra Angelico or Van der Weyden, is derived from his study of classical Greek and Roman sculpture. Suddenly, this is more connected and anticipates the styles of Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael, who followed him, than to the Gothic artists who preceded him. The figures seem ill at ease in the flat background he has given them. The medium, egg tempera, gives the image a natural flatness suited to iconography, but it sits at odds with the strongly three-dimensional character of the figures. This inherent tension between the flatness of the medium and the three-dimensional ambitions of the figures is precisely why it is so appropriate that artists of the period moved from egg tempera to oil, and began to place figures in settings that enhanced the illusion of depth. Leonardo, whose manner of representing the figure was not dissimilar to Ghirlandaio’s, used not egg tempera but multiple oil glazes that created a sense of plunging depth and space around the figure.
The Development of Sculpture
Sculpture is not forbidden in Eastern and Byzantine Rite churches, but it is rarely seen. This is because the iconographic style is essentially two-dimensional. The iconographer is deliberately seeking to eliminate as far as possible any strong sense of three-dimensional form or depth. Where carvings do appear, they are generally relief sculptures in which the artist cuts into the surface to create a shadow pattern, the form described by the contrast between lit portions and dark shadows. The result remains far closer to a flat image than to fully three-dimensional sculpture.
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| Anonymous artist, Byzantine Empire, pre-1453. Relief carving of the Nativity in the iconographic style |
Because the Gothic style allows for greater depth and more rounded forms than the iconographic style, it was natural that sculptors began to push outward from the surface. What began as deeper relief carving gradually became, over time, figures that stand free in three-dimensional space. The sculptures shown below, from Reims Cathedral in France, date from the 13th century. They are fully three-dimensional but still attached to the architectural surface; they have not yet escaped entirely to become figures one can walk around, as one might with a 15th-century sculpture. They depict the Annunciation on the left and the Visitation on the right.
The New Secular Art: Portraits and Landscapes
The greater interest in the natural world and the desire to see God reflected in the ordinary things of Creation also led to the development of portraiture and, to a lesser extent, landscape as distinct art forms. Some of what drove this was undoubtedly the vanity of those who now had the means to commission art, but there is also a holy and legitimate interest in the human person as a unique creation of God. This portrait of a man in a turban by Jan van Eyck (believed by some to be a self-portrait) was painted in 1433.
Stylistically, this portrait draws on the same visual language as the sacred art of the time, demonstrating a principle that runs throughout my writing: great art movements begin on the altar. The traditions formed in the service of the liturgy do not stay there; they flow outward into every aspect of the culture.
There is a way of understanding this that goes beyond the merely stylistic.
In an earlier post, I described the mandorla, the almond-shaped halo of light that surrounds Christ in icons of the Transfiguration. Its concentric rings represent, for me, the light of Christ reflected outward into the cosmos and human culture. A well-painted landscape, a sensitively observed portrait, a beautifully designed domestic object: all of these, when they participate in the tradition of beauty formed by the liturgy, become outer rings of that mandorla, reflecting something of the light of Christ into every corner of ordinary life. That is what Gothic art, at its best, achieved; and it is why the secular art that grew from it, for all that its subjects were not religious, remained in a deep sense sacred in spirit.
