A Modern French Painter in Love with Our Lady: Maurice Denis’ Remarkable Annunciation Paintings

Annunciation (1912)

Until a couple of years ago I had never heard of the painter Maurice Denis (1870–1943). The beautiful autobiography of the painter and, later, Benedictine monk Jan Verkade (Dom Willibrord, 1868–1946) introduced me to him. Here is a brief description from The Art Story website:

Maurice Denis is perhaps unique amongst avant-garde French painters of the late-nineteenth century in combining a strong commitment to formal and stylistic innovation with an equally profound sense of the significance of tradition: in art, culture, and, perhaps above all else, religion. His boldly colored, vibrant paintings, like those of the artists with whom he is generally grouped together - Paul Sérusier, Pierre Bonnard - express a commitment to abstraction, and to relaying the inner life of the soul, which is, at one level, quintessentially modern. But unlike his peers, the soul which Denis sought to express was integrally shaped by his religious faith which can already be sensed from his earliest paintings as a member of the Nabi group which he co-founded in 1888, and which would lead him, later in life, to activities such as church renovation and altarpiece design. By the end of his life, Denis was also renowned as an art critic, having produced a series of influential essays on aesthetics and spirituality.

There is much one could say about his life and art, so thoroughly integrated with his Catholic faith and with a happy marriage and family—such unusual traits, it sadly seems, in the annals of famous artists. As another website, Sacred Art Pilgrim, explains:

There is a feeling of great intimacy in Denis’ religious art. A devoted husband and father, the artist often used his beloved first wife, Marthe, and their six children as models, placing sacred figures in settings from his daily life in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the Breton seacoast, where the family spent their summers, or an Italian villa they had visited in Fiesole, near Florence. Denis was especially drawn to maternal images of the Virgin Mary, making paintings and prints of the Annunciation and the Madonna and Child in multiple variations… French Dominican Friar Marie-Alain Couturier, a onetime student and leading proponent of Modernist sacred art, offered what is, perhaps, the most fitting epithet for his former mentor. Denis was, in his words, the painter of “the sweet presence of God in our life.”

Today, in honor of the great Marian feast we are celebrating, I wish to share a few of the vast number of strikingly original depictions of the Annunciation that Denis painted over his fruitful career. He seems to have had a particular fascination for this biblical subject over all the decades of his output. The titles are linked to the online sources from which the images were taken. (N.B.: If anyone has access to better images, please send them to me by email so that I can swap them in.)

May this gallery be like a bouquet of flowers to the Blessed Virgin Mary on Lady Day.

In the first image, we see a theme to which Denis will return again and again: the depiction of the Archangel Gabriel as a deacon bearing a book, almost as if Our Lady is the priest at Solemn Mass to whom the book is carried for her to kiss. In this very early depiction, painted when the artist was 19, he has even included a couple of acolytes bearing tapers.

Le mystère catholique (1889)

We see something similar in this depiction from ca. 1914, except that here the deacon-angel bows his head and raises his arms in a gesture of homage, while Our Lady bows her head in a reciprocal greeting. She is dressed as a bride.

Annunciation at Assisi (c. 1914)

As mentioned above, Denis loved Fiesole, where Fra Angelico used to live, and painted many religious paintings there. St Gabriel is looking especially diaconal in this 1919 depiction. Once again the Virgin is dressed in white as a bride, and the Holy Ghost is imaged as a dove with rays from the upper right corner stretching to Mary’s womb.

Anunciación en Fiesole (1919)

In another version, Denis switches the roles, and has the Virgin kneeling near vessels (of water? wine? an allusion to the Cana yet to come?), on a rug, while the angel stands monumentally above her with hands outstretched in a priestly gesture.

Annonciation à Nazareth (1929)

In the very different medium of a monochrome lithograph, Denis has the angel kneeling but with the same outspread hand gesture, while Our Lady stands with serenity, almost looking beyond the scene at a future vista. Is it meant to capture the moment before she is fully aware of her visitor?

The Annunciation (no date given)

Denis’ love of the Italian landscape around Fiesole was such that it sometimes becomes the main subject of the painting. Perhaps he is attempting to set the great mystery against everyday surroundings, to emphasize the penetration of the divine into the human and natural? Our Lady herself, it seems, was engaged in some menial task such as watering or cutting flowers...

The Annunciation in Fiesole (no date given)

One of my favorites is a depiction in which we see the familiar deacon-archangel holding a Gospel book, accompanied by the candlebearing acolytes, approaching the Blessed Virgin on what appears to be a rooftop terrace, with the sun streaming behind her (which is somewhat unconventional; usually the beam of light comes across the scene from the other direction). The sublimity of the setting and its vertiginous perspective hint at the lofty grandeur of the miraculous conception. (How I wish I could find a better graphic than this!)

The Annunciation at Fiesole (no date given)

Here is a Denis looking more fauvist and cubist than usual. For whatever reason he has decided to give Gabriel a chasuble this time rather than a dalmatic, and no book, but something more like a priestly orans gesture. The servers, too, do not bear candles, but simply walk ahead. The haloes are more pronounced.

Annunciation at the Window in Prayer (no date given)

The whole series thus far have been landscape-oriented; here we have an unusual portrait-oriented setting, which allows for ample attention to the wonderful arches and their almost Boethian musical-ratio relationships. The plants exercise a prominent role, with one growing on top of the wall, the potted lily, another flower pot at the front right, and, most strikingly, the “burning bush” directly behind Our Lady. St. Gabriel here is almost timid, afraid to disturb the Virgin’s reverie.

The Annunciation under the Arch with Lilies (no date given)

The tenth and last that I found online seems to be only a portion of a larger whole that I have not had success in locating.

It is usually my colleague David Clayton who provides us with in-depth analysis of modern sacred art (and I hope he will enjoy this post!), but my concluding thought is simply this: if Maurice Denis could return again and again to a great mystery of the Christian Faith and find inexhaustible inspiration and joy in looking at it from every angle his imagination suggested, why cannot our artists today do the same? No subjects for painting can be greater, richer, nobler, more evocative, dynamic, or rewarding. May God grant us more painters like this, through the prayers of His most holy Mother.

The Church of Ss Peter and Paul in Tylicz, Poland

A recent post about a Dominican Mass in a church in L’viv, Ukraine, which has some interesting fresco work on its interior walls, reminded reader Robert Prybyla of a church with a similarly colorful painted interior which he visited in a village in southern Poland called Tylicz. The church was originally built in 1612, and dedicated to Ss Peter and Paul; it is made almost entirely out of wood, although the roof and cupola are now covered in metal. The altars are from the later part of the 18th century, and the paintings over them are older, but much of the painting of the walls was done in two phases relatively recently, in 1950 and 1960. Thanks to Mr Prybyla for sharing these pictures with us.

“The House of God”

The main altar, with a painting of the Virgin and Child that slightly predates the construction of the church.

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The Other Modern in Music: Videntes Stellam by Francis Poulenc

A musician friend, Mr Ján Janovčík of the Netherlands-based Early Music ensemble Cantores Sancti Gregorii, recommended this motet by the French composter Francis Poulenc (1899-1963) as a good example in music of what we like to call “The Other Modern”, (i.e., the Modern that doesn’t wallow in ugliness,) usually in reference to things like architecture and vestments. The text is the antiphon for the Magnificat on January 7th, but would be perfect as an Offertory or Communion motet.

Aña Videntes stellam Magi gavisi sunt gaudio magno: et intrantes domum obtulerunt Domino aurum, thus et myrrham.

Aña Seeing the star, the wise men rejoiced greatly; and entering the house, they offered to the Lord gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

This recording includes three other motets for the Christmas season, O magnum mysterium, Quem vidistis pastores, Videntes stellam and Hodie Chistus natus est.

And speaking of sacred music, our readers may also be interested in a new streaming radio station, SacredMusicFM, which offers a good mix of Gregorian chant and polyphony 24/7, and can be listened to on the usual range of mobile devices.

Missals from Silverstream Priory (3): Augustinian Missal of 1716

One of the oldest missals, if not the oldest, that the Benedictine Monks of Perpetual Adoration at Silverstream Priory have in their possession is this lavish volume from 1716, the title page of which clearly proclaims that it is a Roman Missal with all the feasts proper to the order of Augustinian hermits.

As is typical with books of this period, the artwork is monochromatic, while the text features red rubrics (that’s a redundancy of course!) and red capitals. The book is in excellent shape given that it is exactly 300 years old.

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Missals from Silverstream Priory (2): Regensburg

For an explanation of this series, see this article from last week.

Today, we will look at a German altar missal.

Unfortunately, I did not record the date of this particular missal printed in Regensburg by the famous publisher Friedrich Pustet, but judging from the artistic style and the use of color printing, it is likely from the 1920s or 30s. (It certainly must predate the dogmatic definition of the Assumption, for reasons that will become clear later.)

This missal takes the prize for the largest number of thematic drawings I have ever seen in any altar missal. An incredible attention to detail governs every page, with capitals illuminated in reference to the particular day of the liturgical calendar rather than generically styled.

There is a luxuriant creativity at work here, perhaps at times distracting and whimsical, but full of vitality and boldness, that bespeaks a laudable desire to produce a new work of art rather than merely regurgitate past conventions. I cannot show all of the artwork (I took about 150 photos of this missal!), but the selection below will give a good sense of this missal’s uniqueness.

I wonder: Could we ever commission another such missal, where every saint had his or her proper emblem, where each solemnity was graced with an illumination? Perhaps one day, in better times, it will happen again -- once we are no longer fighting about such arcane questions as whether sacramental marriage is between one man and one woman for life, or whether it is permissible to murder unborn humans (or to elect officials who think it is). We need a little Pax Romana first. But I digress...

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Missals from Silverstream Priory (1): Maria Laach Altar Missal of 1931

In my family’s week-long visit to Silverstream Priory this past July — a visit that I can only describe as a time of profound grace for me, my wife, and our children[1] — my son Julian and I (not too surprisingly) spent a fair amount of time in the library of the good monks. Like the best libraries in the world, this one is not large in number of volumes but prizes quality over quantity. In addition to books of theology and spirituality, the shelves house a treasure-trove of monastic and liturgical literature. Of this genre, we were particularly impressed with the altar missals we found, and photographed many pages from them:

My plan is to share, over time, pictures of the very best of these missals, to show the kind of care and artistry that used to be invested in books for the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass,[2] to rejoice in their wonderful aesthetic qualities (which ought to be imitated and revived), and to document this piece of liturgical history, which is quickly being forgotten as the decades inexorably pass by. My commentary will be minimal; the pictures can speak for themselves.

Today's featured missal is a magnificent altar missal published in 1931 under the auspices of the Benedictine monastery of Maria Laach, which, as many will recognize, played an important role in the early phase of the Liturgical Movement. When we look at this missal, we see a number of noteworthy features. First, its artwork, though based on traditional models, is distinctively modern; it can be taken as an example of "the Other Modern."[3] Second, the craftsmanship is impeccable, sturdy, meant to last for centuries. Third, the content of the missal, its age-old prayers, is treated with what might be called artistic reverence: initials are beautifully decorated, texts are laid out thoughtfully and proportionately, and the images, where they appear, are bold and refreshing. It shows the original Liturgical Movement's deep love for the Church's traditional liturgy -- that is, the actual inheritance of our rite, instead of the thought experiments of innovators -- and the desire to rediscover it, re-present it to a new generation as the treasure it is and will always be.

The preface by Abbot Ildefons Herwegen

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Grand Public Architecture: Why Is This No Longer the Operative Model?

On a trip to Boston a few years ago — the first time I really made any effort to get to know the city — I was deeply impressed, not to say stunned, by the architecture with which this historic place abounds, particularly in its religious and cultural buildings that are intended for the general public. It got me thinking about how radically different was the attitude of our forefathers when it came to the erection and ornamentation of edifices. For them, public buildings are far more than the functionality offered by roofs, walls, doors, windows, and rooms. Such buildings embody and represent worthy ideals shared by many; they inspire viewers and impress visitors; they convey a sense of the grandeur of man's intellectual, cultural, and religious aspirations, which are the highest activities of the rational animal. These buildings are built to witness to a common vision of what is best as well as to help a society come to see what matters most. The gifts and sacrifices that make them possible are rewarded by the service (as it were) that these works of art subsequently render to the public, decade after decade, century after century, in both subtle and obvious ways.

My example will be the Boston Public Library.

The front of the library, looking towards Trinity Church

The grand stairway

The main reading hall

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Josep Obiols, An “Other Modern” Artist from Catalonia

From time to time, the New Liturgical Movement will cover the work of artists and architects from recent history, whose work, while “modern,” nonetheless took a different and more traditional path than that of the “modernism” of Le Corbusier or Picasso, a path which we call“the Other Modern.”

My Cuban grandfather, José Morell, was never quite sure where his family had come from. Blue-grey eyes and a rather unconventionally un-Spanish last name made him suppose they might have been Basque, or French, or Catalan. A bit of genealogical research and the fact he shares a last name with a very small town near Valencia—where my family, on vacation in 2014, found an open coffee shop and some very friendly if ultimately somewhat perplexed locals—suggests the Morells were probably Catalan at one time. So, when we took a day trip on that same vacation up to the Marian mother shrine of the Catalan people, the mysterious monastery of Montserrat, I took more than a usual interest. As I write, a small black and gold image of La Moreneta—the Black Madonna—watches me from one of my shelves.

Montserrat is worth an article in itself—it is an eerie, moving, otherworldly sort of place, suspended below the great toothed mountain that gives the shrine its name, its slopes spiked with great rocky promontories that appear always on the verge of looking like something else, but never quite do. The Benedictine monastery there has been embellished numerous times over the centuries, the present church having been begun in 1559 and consecrated in 1592, though much of the interior decoration and its apse is in the high-flown nineteenth-century chivalric style of the Catalan Renaixença, and the exterior contrafacciata looks mid-twentieth century—its inscription, “Cataluña será cristiana o no será” is, somewhat pointedly, in alien Spanish.

Much of the excellent painted paleo-Christian style decoration that marks the long rising ambulatory up to the shrine statue dates from this era, and is the work of Josep Obiols i Palau (1894-1967). One of the more distinguished of Catalonia’s twentieth-century painters, after time in Italy he made a name for himself as a muralist, and his work at Montserrat is only part of a larger oevre that includes everything from large-scale work in Montjuïc’s Palacio Nacional to rather sketchy, abstract bookplate designs. An excellent monograph is available on him (Josep Obiols: Pintor de Montserrat by Alexandre Cirici Pellicer et al.), though it is unfortunately only available in Catalan and Spanish.

Most of his work at Montserrat consists of frescoes in an interestingly loose, almost El Greco-esque take on early Christian and Byzantine art, without eschewing a touch of something modern, or at least unique, that nonetheless does not shade into the angular sterility of modernism. Catalonia is full of such apparent and quite triumphant artistic contradictions—indeed, had Picasso bothered to study the Romanesque murals in the Catalan National Museum with more diligence than fervor, we might have gotten quite a few more Pantocrators and a lot less Demoiselles d'Avignon.

Obiols’ frescoes can be seen in the shrine ambulatory, the monks’ refectory (1945), the new sacristy (1944-1945) and abbot’s sala (1951). In addition to his work near the shrine of the Madonna, which also includes some stunning mosaics around the statue itself (1947) and relief work on adjacent doors (1953), he executed a series of stunning marquetry images of local saints and holy figures—including several uncanonized but significant abbots of Montserrat shown with the old square halo, an interesting choice—for the cabinet doors of the new sacristy (1945), as well as for the abbatial throne (1957); it is unclear to me if this is the current abbatial throne in the choir, a former throne there, or a throne elsewhere in the complex; in any case, the insertion of that more “modernistic” element into the lush décor of the main church is a bit jarring.

His is a fascinating style as it owes very little to many of the “Other Moderns” we have discussed before, which often have a far clearer link to Art Nouveau or even Art Deco. There is also a small touch of Art Deco here (mostly in the marquetry), but there is also much that is uncategorizable or perhaps reminiscent of mainstream continental painting of the period, albeit quite successfully blended into the numinous, symbol-rich, yet strangely straightforward art of the early Christians. The fact that an unabashedly traditional artist was working with great, almost medieval-level Church commissions so late into the last century (and not only that, but in 1945, when the rest of the continent was otherwise occupied) only adds to the unique and peculiarly Spanish and Catalan story behind his work. But, considering he sprang from a city whose most daring and avant-garde architect ended life as a reclusive saint living in the crypt where he would some day be buried, it is no surprise that another Catalonian could close that gap so successfully.

Another Modern: New Gargoyles on a Gothic Chapel

The humor website Cracked.com just published an article called “7 Awesome Buildings That Look Like They’re Designed by Kids”. One of these (#5) is a small Gothic chapel near the French city of Nantes, the Chapelle de Bethléem. In the course of a restoration done between 1993 and 1995, the decision was made to replace the lost pinnacles at the corners of the building, and the statues on them; a sculptor named Jean-Louis Boistel was then allowed to create a thematic sculptural program for each pinnacle. So for example, the “pinnacle of memory” has statues of the Four Evangelists.

The symbols of St. Matthew, Luke and John on the pinnacle of memory. Image from the chapel’s website. 

This is not the why the chapel was noted in the Cracked article, however. This is:

Yes, that is Gizmo from the movie Gremlins. And of course, if you feed him after midnight....

Gizmo and the bad Gremlin share the “pinnacle of the reckless” with a character from a Japanese anime popular in France in the 1990s, a good and heroic robot called Goldorak.

The program of the “pinnacle of origins” includes a rather unique representation of “nothingness” or “the void”, understood as a rival to God inasmuch as it wants to destroy what God has created, but will be defeated by God.

One would assume that there could only be one church in the world which has a representation of the xenomorph from the Alien movies... but one would be wrong. Paisley Abbey in Scotland was decorated with one at almost the same time as the Chapelle de Bethléem. (This appears to be the baby alien when it makes its altogether memorable entrance... or rather, exit.)

For a time the famous astronaut on the door of the New Cathedral in Salamanca looked liked his arm was bitten off during an encounter with a xenomorph...

but it has subsequently been fixed.

An Art Deco Chasuble

A friend brought to my attention this unexpectedly quite good chasuble and stole set he discovered on the online auction site eBay. It really is a stunning piece, and a reminder of some of the intermittently remarkable ecclesiastical design that characterized much of the design work taken in the first forty or so years of the previous century. I remember, on a visit to a monastery some time ago, discovering the sacristy had what seemed to be scores of fine vestments from that period which only occasionally now saw the light of day. I pray this set gets a good and worthy home, and is put back to work soon!