Made of silk, pearls, gems, and gold, Roger II’s mantle tells a story of Mediterranean connectivity in Norman Sicily.

Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna). Speakers: Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker

Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Standing before the Mantle of Norman King Roger II in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum, visitors encounter one of the most remarkably preserved medieval textiles: a semicircular cloak of luminous red silk, embroidered with gold thread and thousands of pearls and gemstones, depicting lions subduing camels flanking a stylized palm tree. An Arabic inscription in elegant Kufic script curves along its hem, proclaiming:

Of what was made in the khizāna (treasury), regal and plentiful, with happiness and honor, and good fortune and perfection, and long life and profit, and welcome and prosperity, and generosity and splendor, and glory and beauty, and realisation of desires and hopes, and delights of days and nights, without end and without modification, with might and care, and sponsorship and protection, and happiness and well-being, and triumph and sufficiently. In the city of Sicily, in the year 528.translation from Isabelle Dolezalek, Arabic Script on Christian Kings: Textile Inscriptions on Royal Garments from Norman Sicily (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), p. 9

For centuries, the Eastern Roman Byzantine Empire and then Islamic rulers governed Sicily before Norman invaders from Northern France conquered the island in 1091 and established the Norman Kingdom of Sicily. Although the Norman kings were Latin Christians, they now governed a diverse population of Muslims, Arab- and Greek-Christians, and Jews. Why would Roger II, a Latin Christian ruler of this new kingdom, commission such a remarkable mantle with Arabic epigraphy as his most precious royal textile? The answer lies in understanding how the mantle was used and how the kingdom’s many audiences would have understood its complex layers of meaning.

Clasp and medallion (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A Mediterranean object

The mantle defies simple categorization. Its Arabic inscription dates it to the Islamic hijri year 528 (1133–34 C.E.) and identifies its creation in Palermo’s royal workshop, staffed by both Christian and Muslim artisans. Yet its semicircular form follows conventions of Byzantine and Latin ceremonial regalia, resembling both the Byzantine chlamys worn by emperors during secular ceremonies and semicircular mantles worn by Latin Christian rulers like the Star Mantle of Henry II. Its imagery draws from a visual vocabulary shared across Mediterranean courts, while its materials tell stories of far-flung trade networks and diplomatic connections.

Two lions trample two camels, separated by a central palm tree. Although the motif of a lion triumphant over another animal was common across the medieval Mediterranean—appearing on Byzantine silks, Islamic portable objects, and Romanesque sculpture—the choice of a camel as the defeated animal is highly unusual. The substitution may carry pointed political meaning. According to a later account, Roger’s father, Roger of Hauteville, sent Pope Alexander II four camels captured as booty after the 1063 Battle of Cerami, where Norman forces triumphed over Arab and North African troops. In this context, the mantle’s lions trampling camels could have deliberately evoked Norman victories over Muslim rulers in Sicily and North Africa.

The practice of Arabic inscribed textiles, known as tirāz, had deep political significance. They were distributed to courtiers and individuals of merit or used as diplomatic gifts, their inscriptions marking the ruler’s power. While the inscription on Roger’s mantle does not follow standard tirāz inscriptions (which typically name the caliph and invoke religious authority), it draws on the same tradition likewise evoking royal authority and legitimacy. Stylistically, the inscription is closest to inscriptions from pre-Norman Islamic Sicily and Ifriqiya (North Africa), suggesting both continuity with the island’s Islamic past and a distinctive Norman adaptation.

In Roger’s Sicily, where the king governed a multiethnic and multilingual population, the mantle’s imagery would have communicated differently to different audiences. For Latin Christians it might have evoked triumph; for Arabic-speaking courtiers, the lion and palm tree imagery may have demonstrated the king’s participation in Mediterranean court culture; for Greek-speaking subjects, it may have recalled Byzantine imperial imagery and notions of paradise. The mantle’s power lay precisely in this multiplicity—its capacity to mean many things to many people simultaneously.

Clasp and medallion (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Materials and networks

Its materials tell a story of Mediterranean connectivity. The red samite silk that forms the base fabric likely came from the Byzantine Empire, possibly imported pre-woven. [1] The gold threads are of exceptionally high purity, significantly richer than other contemporaneous Sicilian textiles, and their technique of wrapping thin metal strips around a yellow silk core represents Byzantine expertise that Sicily did not yet possess. [2] Like the silk, these threads may have also come from Constantinople, capital of the Byzantine Empire.

Pearls (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14)

The pearls presented their own logistical challenges. Thousands were required for the embroidery. They were likely sourced through long-distance trade networks connecting the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf and beyond. Each pearl had to be pierced and stitched individually, a labor-intensive process that proclaimed the workshop’s technical mastery and the patron’s economic power. [3] Enamel plaques and gemstones (garnets, glass, rubies, and sapphires) completed the decoration, products of the royal enamel workshop in Palermo that also created works for the Cappella Palatina and other Norman monuments.

These were among the most expensive and luxurious materials available. The expense, effort, and networks necessary to acquire them created a garment that displayed not just wealth, but the geographic reach of the Norman kingdom and the king’s ability to foster trade networks across the Mediterranean and beyond.

Camel (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Function and performance

Although it has long been described as King Roger II’s “coronation mantle,” the actual function of this garment remains uncertain. The embroidered inscription clearly dates it to 1133–34, three years after Roger’s coronation in 1130. Moreover, the mantle shows remarkably little evidence of wear, suggesting that it was rarely, if ever, used in regular court display. How then do we account for the commission of such a magnificent textile?

Several possibilities have been proposed. The first situates the mantle within Roger’s efforts to secure his dynastic succession in the early 1130s. During this period, he invested his three eldest sons with strategic titles: Roger III as Duke of Apulia, Tancred as Prince of Bari, and Alfonso as Prince of Capua. Such ceremonies would have required appropriate regalia—perhaps the mantle was commissioned just for these purposes, designed to project royal authority and continuity. [4] Imagine such a ceremony: as the prince knelt before his father, the vast mantle spread out around him, its pearls and gold embroidery catching the light before the assembled witnesses—a material performance of legitimacy and inherited sovereignty.

Others have suggested that the mantle was made to be used as Roger’s shroud, or burial garment, on the occasion of his death. William Tronzo has noted that the mantle’s iconography, with its paired lions in combat, recalls motifs common on Roman imperial sarcophagi. [5]

Sarcophagus, late 2nd–early 3rd century C.E. (Roman; Sicily, Italy) (Museo Diocesano di Monreale; photo: Alex Brey, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Porphyry sarcophagus (a gift of Roger II to the Cathedral of Cefalù), 12th century (Sicily, Italy), later used as the tomb of Frederick II (Palermo Cathedral; photo: Bernard Blanc, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The connection gains further plausibility from Roger’s own donations to the Cathedral of Cefalù in 1145: two monumental sarcophagi, one Roman, eventually used as the first tomb of Roger’s grandson King William II, and a second porphyry sarcophagus originally intended as his own tomb. [6] At the time of his death in 1154, Cefalù Cathedral had not yet been consecrated and his remains were interred in a more modest porphyry sarcophagus in Palermo Cathedral. Yet the paired lions in combat on both tombs, ancient and medieval, bear striking resonances with the mantle’s imagery, suggesting the textile could have been conceived as part of a broader program of royal commemoration. Ultimately, Roger was not buried in the mantle itself; instead, it entered the collection of royal garments inherited by his descendants and eventually the Holy Roman Emperors.

While we may never know the mantle’s precise function, in whatever context it appeared, it materialized and perpetuated the image of sovereign power.

Lion, camel, and inscription (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Visibility and legibility

The Kufic script along the mantle’s hem is exceedingly clear and beautifully formed, yet how many people could actually read it? Even among Roger’s multilingual court, Arabic literacy was limited to specific communities: Muslim subjects and chancery officials.

Consider how the mantle would actually have been worn—not as it is displayed in Vienna today, suspended in space, but draped over a human body. The central palm tree would have appeared at the center of the wearer’s back. The heads of the animals, along with the intricate patterns of precious pearls and enamel work, would have been most visible at the front, framing the wearer’s body. The inscription, however, would have been largely obscured by the natural folds of the draped fabric, visible only on either side of the vertical axis formed by the wearer’s back. The factual information—where and when it was made—would have appeared at the front, while the central poetic praise of the royal workshop fell along the king’s back, often hidden from view.

The mantle’s inscription employs an Arabic literary form known as sajʿ, rhythmically structured prose connected through rhymes, specifically intended to be recited aloud before an audience. The inscription was not meant to be read silently, but performed aloud. During investiture ceremonies or other court rituals, someone, perhaps a court official or poet, could have recited the inscription’s praises, transforming the textile from material object into acoustic praise. Even for those who could not read Arabic, the luminosity of the golden script, moving and catching light as it draped over the wearer’s body would have been highly visible and impressive. [7]

Interior lining with intertwined serpents (detail), Mantle of Roger II, 1133/34 (Norman Sicily, Italy), textiles, patterned samite (kermes dye), gold and silk embroidery, pearls, gold with cellular enamel, rubies, spinels, sapphires, garnets, glass, tablet weave, 146 x 345 cm (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, XIII 14; photo: Sara Kuehn)

The hidden interior: serpents and protection

While the exterior of the mantle commands immediate attention, the interior textiles tell an equally compelling story. The lining consists of five separate sections, composed of fragments from three different precious textiles, commonly referred to as the “fabric of the birds,” the “fabric of the dragons,” and the “fabric of the tree of life.” All three are tapestry-woven silks interwoven with gold thread.

Two of these textiles belong to a corpus thought to have been produced in Palermo from the 10th century onward, while one appears to have originated in Khurasan in Central Asia. This combination of textiles from different periods and places was certainly deliberate. The palace workshop likely maintained a treasury of fabrics, acquired through diplomatic gifts, inherited from previous rulers, or taken as spoils of war, which could be drawn upon for special commissions. [8] The choice to line the new mantle with these older, prestigious textiles physically incorporated Sicily’s layered past into its Norman present.

But the most intriguing aspect of the lining is its dominant motif: intricately knotted serpents. These ophidian forms appear across all three textiles in complex, intertwined patterns—elaborate lattices and knots, bodies looping around stylized trees and forming heart-shaped interlaces, and drinking from vessels.

Serpentine fountain (detail), illustration from a 12th-century manuscript copy of Saint Gregory of Nazianzus’s 4th-century homilies (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Grec 550, folio 166 verso)

In the medieval Mediterranean, serpents carried ambivalent meanings. Some Christian traditions associated them with evil and temptation, recalling the biblical serpent in the Garden of Eden. Yet Byzantine sources also connected them with water, healing, and protection. Serpents drinking from fountains appeared frequently in Byzantine art, especially in imagery of fountains and basins, as symbols of eternal life, their intertwined bodies suggesting continuous, unending flow. They also appeared as apotropaic symbols, as guardians offering protection.

The lining’s serpentine imagery takes on additional resonance if the mantle were intended for a funerary context. With their associations of eternal protection and the water of life, the serpents would serve as threshold guardians, accompanying the deceased ruler in his transition to the afterlife. Their multiplication across multiple textiles reinforced their protective power. [9]

Reproduction of a gold-woven textile from the shroud found in the sarcophagus of Roger II, Palermo, Sicily. Francesco la Marra, plate C, engraving, from Francesco Daniele, I regale sepolcri del duomo di Palermo, 1784 (Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles)

Evidence supports this interpretation. Between 1781 and 1799, Roger’s sarcophagus was unsealed in Palermo Cathedral and fragments of his burial attire were discovered. An 18th-century drawing and description survive, showing his burial mantle, decorated with a pattern of intertwined serpents remarkably similar to those on the Vienna mantle’s lining. The contrast between exterior and interior becomes meaningful: the exterior proclaimed authority to living audiences through familiar Mediterranean imagery, while the interior provided spiritual protection. The mantle thus could have been intended to operate on multiple planes simultaneously: political and spiritual, visible and hidden, for the living and for eternity.

Albrecht Dürer, Karl der Große (Charlemagne), 1510, ink and watercolor, 41.5 x 28.4 cm (The Albertina Museum, Vienna)

An object of many lives

Throughout its subsequent history, the mantle continued to accrue new meanings and associations. It entered the Holy Roman Empire’s coronation regalia through Frederick I, Roger II’s grandson, gaining new associations through its use in the coronation ceremonies of German emperors.

Franz von Matsch, Ankeruhr Clock, Hoher Markt, Vienna, Austria, 1914 (photo: Rizka, CC BY-SA 4.0)

In 1510, Dürer created an imaginary and anachronistic portrait of Charlemagne wearing the mantle, cementing its iconic status for centuries to come. The connection became so embedded in Viennese culture that in the early 20th century, the artist Franz von Matsch incorporated the figure of Charlemagne wearing Roger’s mantle into a monumental mechanical clock on Hoher Markt, one of Vienna’s oldest squares. Every day at 2 PM, the Carolingian emperor appears wearing the iconic Norman mantle, a daily performance that continues to this day.

In this jewel box of a Byzantine church, the solid walls of a Greek-cross plan dissolve into golden light.

Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice, begun 1063 and Anastasis (The Harrowing of Hell) mosaic, c. 1180–1200, Middle Byzantine. Speakers: Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker

Exterior façade of the Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice (photo: Jorge Franganillo, CC BY 2.0)

An impressive building

The Basilica San Marco anchors the Piazza San Marco, the large public square that was the center of religious and political power in Venice. The church extends five portals across the width of the piazza. Five bulbous onion domes topping the structure create heft and presence. Glittering gold mosaics and multicolored marbles—both inside and out—project wealth, power, and more than a little dazzle.

The current basilica is the third iteration of the church on the site and the product of centuries of remodeling, additions, and decoration. From the Middle Ages on, the state of Venice used the Basilica San Marco to craft a civic identity and state mythology. It achieved this by appropriating both style and materials from the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire, aka Byzantium. [1]

Map showing the location of Venice, Rome, and Constantinople (underlying map © Google). The boundaries of the Byzantine Empire shifted and contracted during its nearly one-thousand-year existence

A century after its 5th-century founding, the city of Venice was a minor outpost, a subordinate vassal subject to orders from the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire, whose capital was Constantinople. By the 13th century, Venice had transitioned to an imperial power itself. To communicate this new status, the Basilica San Marco was adorned with spolia taken directly from Constantinople. It was a clear declaration that Venice would be controlled by the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire no longer.

Creation dome, Narthex mosaics, 13th century, Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice (photo: amberapparently, CC BY 2.0)

Visitors entering the narthex find themselves surrounded by mosaics decorating walls and ceiling over tessellated multi-colored stone floors swirling in varied geometric patterns. Inside, patterned marble revetment clads the lower part of the building.

Interior view of nave looking towards apse, Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice, begun 1063 (Middle Byzantine) (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Above, gold mosaics wrap the heavy vaults and domes with a shimmer that lightens their visual weight. The tomb of Saint Mark, for whom the church is named, lies past the crossing and rood screen in the apse.

A body presents opportunities

When the body of Saint Mark arrived in Venice in 829 C.E. it was such a win that the city built an entire basilica to house it. As a vassal state in the 9th century on the far edge of the Byzantine Empire, Venice wielded little political power. Religiously, the fledgling city held no ecclesiastical control (it was subject to the competing patriarchates of Grado and Aquileia on the mainland). However, with the relics of a martyr, who was one of Christ’s original twelve apostles and one of the four evangelists, Venice could establish itself as a divinely chosen location. It could also wrest religious prominence away from the city of Grado on the mainland that was the seat of the bishop.

Bottom left: Dream of Saint Mark: an angel appears to Saint Mark dreaming on a boat and tells him his body will rest here—the location that will become Venice centuries after his death, Cappella Zen mosaics (Basilica San Marco, Venice)

The myth making began immediately. To counter any suspicion that the Venetians had illicitly stolen the relics (as they, in fact, had), a praedestinatio myth developed that Saint Mark had a dream prophesying that someday his body would rest in Venice (a city that did not exist during the evangelist’s lifetime).

The doge (labelled “DUX” above), clergy, and patricians of Venice pray inside the basilica for the relics to be found. Preghiera, Prayers for the discovery of the body mosaic (Basilica San Marco, Venice)

Civic mythmaking

A story pointedly connecting the doge, Saint Mark’s relics, and the basilica appears on the walls of the Cappella Zen (now an enclosed chapel in the basilica, but formerly the primary entrance for visitors arriving from the water). In two mosaics with gold backgrounds, we see Venetians gathering in the Basilica San Marco. In the first scene, the Preghiera or Prayer, the doge leads Venetian patricians in three days of fasting and prayer in the partially-constructed structure. They bend heads over folded hands while clergy prostrate themselves on the floor. In the second scene (not shown), the Apparitio or Appearance, we see the clergy, doge, and patricians of Venice witnessing the miraculous opening of a column revealing the body of Saint Mark inside (before the second iteration of the Basilica San Marco was constructed beginning in 976, the relics of Saint Mark were thought to be lost). Not only did this story allay fears that the relics were lost forever (or worse, replaced with fakes), it underscored Saint Mark’s repeated choice of Venice as his body’s final resting spot and the importance of the basilica itself.

Saint Mark’s coffin enters the Basilica San Marco’s main portal. The Porta Sant’Alipio Mosaic, c. 1270–75, Basilica San Marco, Venice (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Eventually in multiple locations the basilica itself would relate the stories of how Saint Mark chose Venice—on its façade in mosaiced lunettes made in the 13th century, inside the Cappella Zen, and on the Pala d’Oro altarpiece. In Martin da Canal’s 13th-century chronicle Les Estoires de Venise, he tells readers that they can confirm his historical account by checking the Basilica San Marco’s façade. The authoritative images depict the basilica and doge in the civic myths of Venice. Far from a separation of church and state, this was a marriage of church and state.

A government chapel

From its first iteration begun in 829, the Basilica San Marco was part of the Venetian state—literally. The Basilica San Marco began and existed as a palatine chapel, that is, it was legally part of the doge’s palace, albeit a very large and exterior part for one thousand years (it was only designated a cathedral in 1807 following the fall of the Republic of Venice to Napoleon). Indeed, when the Bishop Ursus of Olivolo-Castello in Venice, received Saint Mark’s body, he led the relics in procession to the doge’s palace. [2] Over the centuries Venetian rituals that blended state, civic, and religious elements reinforced not only a bond between church and state but a lack of division at all. [3]

Mosaics on the pendentive and dome, with marble revetment visible in the lower right. Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice, begun 1063 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The existing Basilica San Marco has changed over its history, but the form we see today dates to its third iteration begun c. 1063 under Doge Domenico I Contarini, which significantly enlarged the building. [4] The south and north transepts were lengthened. The narthex was constructed. Piers and walls were reinforced to support the weight of heavier vaults and the domes above the decoration increased in opulence. Patterned marbles and mosaics covered every surface. Surrounded by refracting gold mosaics and wavy veined marble, the visitor can lose the sense of weight, of load and support communicated so clearly in classical architecture. Instead, the effect can be dizzying.

Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), 11th century and later, Venice (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

In the 11th century many cities on the Italian peninsula renovated their cathedrals, but Venice’s looks decidedly different. The façade is richly decorated in antique spolia exclusively, unlike other late medieval Italian examples that included contemporary sculpture. [5] In Venice, political portrayals of a city’s history appeared in predominantly religious spaces, whereas on the Italian peninsula, they appeared in primarily civic spaces.

Floor plan, Basilica San Marco, Venice, from Banister Fletcher, A History of Architecture on the Comparative Method, 5th edition (London: B. T. Batsford, 1905)

And instead of building a longitudinal nave of the type found in Pisa, Rouen, or Santiago de Compostela in western Europe, Venice built a central plan church, a distinctly different form and one associated with the Byzantine Empire.

Illumination depicting Apostoleion in Homilies of James Kokkinobaphos, 12th century (Byzantine) (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris, Grec 1208, folio 3 verso)

An Eastern model

All three iterations of Basilica San Marco directly emulate the Apostoleion, also known as the Church of the Holy Apostles, in Constantinople (capital of the Byzantine Empire). Like that church, Venice’s basilica possesses five domes, one over each equilateral arm and the crossing, a Greek cross central plan, and opulent interior mosaics. For the third and final iteration, Doge Contarini hired an Eastern architect, presumably for authenticity.

Originally founded by Roman Emperor Constantine around 330 C.E., the Apostoleion contained twelve cenotaphs for Christ’s apostles. [6]

Imitating the form of the Apostoleion enabled Venice to appropriate that church’s imperial associations as Venice pivoted from vassal state to full sovereignty and, eventually, its own empire. Viewers at the time recognized the Basilica San Marco’s resemblance to the Apostoleion. A 12th-century monk at San Nicolò di Lido in the Venetian lagoon wrote the new church was built “in a construction similar to that of the Twelve Apostles in Constantinople.” [7]

Exterior with spolia from the Fourth Crusade, Basilica San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basilica), Venice, begun 1063 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Imperial theft

The boldest of Venetian imperial statements at the Basilica San Marco occurred in the 13th century when Venice diverted the Fourth Crusade from its intended target in the Holy Land to the wealthy Byzantine capital of Constantinople. Venetians looted heavily, shipping window screens, sculptures, columns and capitals, and even wall sections of carved stone back to Venice.

Prior to the Sack of Constantinople, Venice’s power had been growing and the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire had long conferred Byzantine aristocratic titles on Venetian doges. In recognition of Venice’s growing power, the titles increased in rank from ypatos (consul) in the 9th century until, finally, in the 11th century the title protesvastos, reserved for the emperor’s closest relatives was granted to the doge by the court at Constantinople. [8] But when Venice conquered Constantinople, the doge assumed the title “Lord of One Quarter and Half of One Quarter of the whole Roman Empire”—and kept using it even after Venice lost the Latin Kingdom in 1261. [9]

The Four Tetrarchs, from Constantinople, c. 305 C.E., porphyry, 4 feet 3 inches high (Basilica San Marco, Venice; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Notable spolia on the basilica include the Four Tetrarchs, an ancient Roman sculpture made of porphyry, broken in half to fit on the corner of the basilica treasury. The sculpture’s missing foot was found in the 20th century in Constantinople (today Istanbul).

View of the north side of Saint Mark’s Basilica with the “Pillars of Acre,” Venice (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The so-called “Pillars of Acre,” two free standing piers carved with vines and pomegranates, stand outside the basilica’s north face and actually come from the church of Polyeuktos in Constantinople. An imperial porphyry bust rests on the porch balustrade. A rare surviving quadriga (a four-horse chariot used in Roman racing) mounted on the porch facing the piazza connects Venice to the ancient Roman Empire.

Today, replicas adorn the basilica and the original can be seen inside. Horses of San Marco, 4th century B.C.E.–4th century C.E. (ancient Greek or Roman, likely Imperial Rome), copper alloy, 235 x 250 cm each (Basilica San Marco, Venice; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The 19th-century British writer John Ruskin remarked, “the front of St. Mark’s became rather a shrine at which to dedicate the splendor of miscellaneous spoil, than the organized expression of any fixed architectural law or religious emotion.” [10] Aesthetic judgment aside, the purpose of the awkward, mismatched prominence of spolia on the façade was, indeed, to declare the inversion of the political order. The vassal was now on top. [11]

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The popularity of religious pilgrimages transformed church architecture in the Romanesque period.

Romanesque architecture explained, in Durham Cathedral, begun 1093. Speakers: Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris

The name gives it away—Romanesque architecture is based on Roman architectural elements. It is the rounded Roman arch that is the literal basis for structures built in this style.

Ancient Roman ruins (with arches)

All through the regions that were part of the ancient Roman Empire are ruins of Roman aqueducts and buildings, most of them exhibiting arches as part of the architecture (you may make the etymological leap that the two words—arch and architecture—are related, but the Oxford English Dictionary shows arch as coming from Latin arcus, which defines the shape, while arch—as in architect, archbishop, and archenemy—comes from Greek arkhos, meaning chief and ekton means builder).

Interior of the Palatine Chapel of Charlemagne, Aachen, Germany, 792–805 (photo: Velvet, CC BY-SA 3.0)

When Charlemagne was crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 800 C.E., the remains of Roman civilization were seen all over the continent, and legends of the great empire would have been passed down through generations after the fall of Rome in the fifth century. So when Charlemagne wanted to unite his empire and validate his reign, he began building churches in the Roman style—particularly the style of Christian Rome in the days of Constantine, the first Christian Roman emperor.

After a gap of around two hundred years with no large building projects, the architects of Charlemagne’s day looked to the arched, or arcaded, system seen in Christian Roman edifices as a model. It is a logical system of stresses and buttressing, which was fairly easily engineered for large structures, and it began to be used in gatehouses, chapels, and churches in Europe.

Gloucester Cathedral, begun 1089 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

These early examples may be referred to as pre-Romanesque because, after a brief spurt of growth, the development of architecture again lapsed. As a body of knowledge was eventually re-developed, buildings became larger and more imposing. Examples of Romanesque cathedrals from the early Middle Ages (roughly 1000–1200) are solid, massive, impressive churches that are often still the largest structure in many towns.

In Britain, the Romanesque style became known as “Norman” because the major building scheme in the 11th and 12th centuries was instigated by William the Conqueror, who invaded Britain in 1066 from Normandy in northern France. (The Normans were the descendants of Norse, or north men (“Vikings”) who had invaded this area over a century earlier.) Durham and Gloucester Cathedrals and Southwell Minster are excellent examples of churches in the Norman, or Romanesque style.

Gloucester Cathedral, nave, begun 1089 (ceiling later) (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The arches that define the naves of these churches are well modulated and geometrically logical—with one look you can see the repeating shapes, and proportions that make sense for an immense and weighty structure. There is a large arcade on the ground level made up of bulky piers or columns. The piers may have been filled with rubble rather than being solid, carved stone. Above this arcade is a second level of smaller arches, often in pairs with a column between the two. The next higher level was again proportionately smaller, creating a rational diminution of structural elements as the mass of the building is reduced.

Gloucester Cathedral, decorative carving on the nave arcade and triforium (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The decoration is often quite simple, using geometric shapes rather than floral or curvilinear patterns. Common shapes used include diapers—squares or lozenges—and chevrons, which were zigzag patterns and shapes. Plain circles were also used, which echoed the half-circle shape of the ubiquitous arches.

Early Romanesque ceilings and roofs were often made of wood, as if the architects had not quite understood how to span the two sides of the building using stone, which created outward thrust and stresses on the side walls. This development, of course, didn’t take long to manifest, and led from barrel vaulting (simple, semicircular roof vaults) to cross vaulting, which became ever more adventurous and ornate in the Gothic.

Saint Wilgefortis, Book of Hours and Psalter, c. 15th century, ink and gold on vellum (The University of Manchester Library, Rylands Collection, Latin MS 20, sheet 78)

Though you may have never heard of Saint Wilgefortis, she was once popular enough in Europe to rival the Virgin Mary. Religious reforms and controversies resulted in the destruction of shrines, paintings, and statues dedicated to her and she was almost forgotten. [1] The surviving artworks depicting her attest to a strong cult, especially in Central Europe in the early modern period. A great deal of Wilgefortis’s appeal lay in her specialty: relieving women of unwanted husbands. Images of Wilgefortis depict a crowned woman with a beard on a cross uncannily reminiscent of imagery of Christ on the cross. Sometimes there is little visual differentiation between Christ and Wilgefortis on the cross save a feminine dress.

A complex figure, Wilgefortis speaks to medieval and early modern understandings of gender beyond a simplistic binary and often undocumented histories of women suffering abuse. [2] Recent interest in Wilgefortis has been buoyed by interest in queer histories. In accordance with current scholarly literature, this essay uses female pronouns for Wilgefortis following medieval and early modern texts while recognizing textual pronouns are but one part of Wilgefortis’s legend. 

Saint Wilgefortis, Book of Hours, c. 1440 (The Morgan Library and Museum, MS W.3, folio 200 verso)

Legend of Wilgefortis

The legend seems to have appeared around the 14th or 15th centuries. With the exception of the facial hair detail, the legend follows standard virgin martyr tropes. Wilgefortis was a princess, the daughter of the pagan king of Portugal. She had converted to Christianity and taken a vow of virginity. She expressed a desire to be married only to Christ himself and remain a virgin bride her whole life. Wilgefortis resisted the marriage her father had arranged with the king of Sicily. Enraged, her father imprisoned his daughter. In some versions of the story, he tortures her as well. Wilgefortis prayed for a physical transformation that would render her too unattractive for marriage. Miraculously she grew a beard and the King of Sicily withdrew from the betrothal agreement. At this point, the King of Portugal decided to crucify his bearded daughter. During her crucifixion, Wilgefortis prayed that those who remembered her martyrdom be delivered from their burdens. Wilgefortis has been considered a patron saint of prisoners, the ill, soldiers, female health issues (including childbirth and uterine cancer), sexual abuse survivors, and women trapped in bad relationships.

Wilgefortis’s role as a saint who frees people from their burdens is expressed in the variety of names by which she is known. In Dutch she is known as “Ontcommer” and English “Uncumber,” monikers that literally name the saint as an “unencumberer.” Some French cults of the saint referred to her as “Débarras,” from the verb “débarrasser,” meaning “to get rid of.” The Tyrolian name Kümmernis likely derives from the German word “Kummer,” meaning “grief” or “sorrow.” Wilgefortis might be a German transliteration of the Latin “virgo fortis,” meaning “strong virgin,” or alternatively from the German “hilge vratz,” meaning “holy face.”

Volto Santo, c. 770–880, polychrome wood and gold, 2.4 m high (Cathedral of San Martino, Lucca; photo: Holly Hayes, CC BY-NC 2.0)

Like Christ

In visual art we typically see Wilgefortis in a standing position affixed to a wooden cross, often wearing a crown. Shoulder-length hair and a beard heighten the comparison to Christ. Her calm demeanor is suggestive of the Christus triumphans type of crucifix, with the iconography of Christ standing upright rather than sagging. In this form, Christ stretches his own arms into the familiar T shape rather than hanging on the nails affixing him to the cross, emphasizing Christ’s triumph instead of his suffering, and his voluntary acceptance of the crucifixion. [3]

An example of the Christus triumphans crucifix can be seen in the famous miracle-working wooden Volto Santo (Holy Face) crucifix housed in the Cathedral of San Martino in Lucca, Italy in which Christ appears alive, standing, crowned, and wearing robes of kingship and priesthood. This figure’s attire already appeared somewhat feminine to late medieval viewers. The additional clothes, ornaments, and shoes added to the sculpture for special feast days furthered the perception that the statue might portray a woman. [4] It’s possible that the cult of Wilgefortis, the crucified bearded princess in a crown, emerged from devotional practices around the Volto Santo (supporting their connection of Volto Santo and Wilgefortis is a legend associated with them both that involves a musician and the gift of a golden shoe). 

Saint Wilgefortis, c. 1750–1800, wood, 254 cm high (Museum of the Diocese Graz-Seckau, Graz; photo: Gugganij, CC BY-SA 3.0)

Wilgefortis’s similarity to Christ in art visually expresses broad medieval and early modern Christian cultural understandings of gender and the divine. The princess saint grows a beard and becomes more Christ-like in advance of her crucifixion that imitates Christ’s own. [5] The beard was not perceived as a transgression of femininity, but rather as confirmation of her holiness. Since medieval and early modern Christian European culture viewed masculinity as superior to femininity, we might expect praise for women saints who imitated Christ by performing masculine actions. The Virgin Mary and some female martyrs were praised for what were perceived to be manly virtues. What might be more surprising are historic ideas concerning Christ’s feminine qualities. 

Medieval Christian writings often attributed feminine qualities to Christ’s body. Mystical interpretations of Christ’s side wound likened it to a vulva and vaginal opening, associating Christ’s life-giving blood with the life-giving blood of childbirth. His body was understood as both male and female: male as the son of God, female as flesh made by the body of his mother Mary. [6] Wilgefortis’s dual masculine and feminine qualities only enhanced her laudable imitation of Christ. 

Hieronymus Bosch, The Crucifixion of Saint Wilgefortis, c. 1497, oil on panel, 104 x 119 cm (Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice)

In the cultural context of European Christian thought, Wilgefortis was not anomalous. The visual arts present her as a serious figure without sensationalizing her possession of a beard for spectacle—no circus “freaks” here. [7] Even Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych depiction—recently recognized as portraying Wilgefortis—presents the saint in markedly feminine attire with long hair and a light beard, keeping the focus on the martyrdom of Wilgefortis rather than playing up her facial hair. In an anonymous 18th-century German painting, Wilgefortis stands on a pedestal with only a horizontal beam suggesting a crucifix behind her. Her beard matching her hair color exists simply on her face. The same straightforward presentation can be found in the earlier images. The 15th-century Morgan illumination depicts Wilgefortis’s angry father in red shaking a scepter at his daughter high on the cross, but the saint herself is presented serenely, bearded, gazing down at her father. Images of Wilgefortis contrast with sexualized images of female saints who were stripped (Saint Catherine in the Belles Heueres) or faced sexualized torture (Saint Agatha whose breasts were removed with pincers).

Wilgefortis now

Wilgefortis was never officially canonized by the Catholic Church. In 1969, following Vatican II, her feast day was removed from the Catholic calendar. Nevertheless, she was an important saint to many people centuries ago—and recently too. LGBTQ+ communities in particular have embraced Wilgefortis as a testament to queer histories and queer holiness. Contemporary artists continue to find Wilgefortis fascinating; for example, queer Chicana artist Alma Lopez included Wilgefortis in a “Queer Santas: Holy Violence” series she painted in the 2010s. [8] A news article about the exhibition asked, “Were some Catholic saints transgender?”

Art historians ask instead, “how did people relate to the figure of Wilgefortis and what can we learn about that through the history of art?” As with all culture, especially cultural figures that have remained relevant over time, there is no ultimate determination that can define what Wilgefortis is or was historically. As art historians, we describe how a symbol, story, or figure functioned in a culture and how people responded with historical practices. Cultural responses change over time as do understandings and beliefs. What can be said with certainty is that Wilgefortis’s gender expression outside of a strict gender binary formed a fundamental aspect of her appeal in the medieval and early modern periods and continues to generate interest in the figure today.

Miracle of the Black Leg (detail), Master of the Rinuccini Chapel (Matteo di Pacino), Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian, c. 1370–75, tempera and gold leaf on panel, 79.4 x 135.6 cm (North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh)

The Miracle of the Black Leg is a medieval Christian legend of a miracle performed by two doctor saints that explicitly mentions race. From the 14th through 16th centuries it appeared frequently in European Catholic art. Stories that people find appealing can tell us a lot about social and cultural values. Because they select specific moments from a story and render details vividly, visual representations of those stories can reveal further unspoken cultural beliefs and assumptions. The Miracle of the Black Leg’s popularity in visual art coincides with the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade, but the story’s origin predates race-based slavery, raising questions about the connections between cultural ideas and historic practices.

Master of the Rinuccini Chapel (Matteo di Pacino), Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian, c. 1370–75, tempera and gold leaf on panel, 79.4 x 135.6 cm (North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh)

The earliest surviving artistic rendition of The Miracle of the Black Leg can be found on a 14th-century altarpiece painted by Matteo di Pacino, also known as the “Master of the Rinuccini Chapel.” The altarpiece features a larger main panel with Saints Cosmas and Damian, twin doctor saints, standing against a gold leaf background facing the viewer as was common in Italian depictions of devotional figures. At the bottom of the altarpiece are two smaller narrative panels making up the predella. Predella panels typically depict stories from the life of the devotional figure in the main panel above. On this altarpiece, we see the Miracle of the Black Leg and a second panel showing the martyrdom of Saints Cosmas and Damian by beheading.

Many Catholic saints achieved martyrdom through beheading; only Cosmas and Damian performed the miracle of interracial surgical transplantation. According to the Golden Legend (Legenda Aurea), the authoritative 13th-century compilation of lives of saints, Cosmas and Damian were born in the 3rd century C.E. in the area of the Roman Empire that is now modern-day Turkey. [1] Instructed in medicine by the Holy Ghost, the two Christian physicians refused payment for their services.

The miracle

The Miracle of the Black Leg was a posthumous miracle—it was performed by Cosmas and Damian in the 6th century C.E. hundreds of years after their deaths. A pious man who worked as a verger caring for a church dedicated to Cosmas and Damian unfortunately suffered from a cancerous leg. One night while the verger slept, Cosmas and Damian came to his room, amputated the verger’s painful leg, and replaced it with the leg of a recently deceased man who had been buried in a nearby cemetery. In the Golden Legend and most visual representations, the deceased man is pictured as Black.  

Miracle of the Black Leg using continuous narrative (detail), Master of the Rinuccini Chapel (Matteo di Pacino), Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian, c. 1370–75, tempera and gold leaf on panel, 79.4 x 135.6 cm (North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh)

Pacino’s panel uses continuous narrative to show the viewer both the placement of the Black leg on the verger and the graveyard where the Black man’s body can be seen lying in the exhumed coffin. The Golden Legend says the verger’s friends were skeptical of the miracle and went to the graveyard where they found that indeed the deceased Moor’s removed leg had been replaced with the verger’s diseased leg. The contrast between the skin colors is amplified by the markedly diseased state of the verger’s leg attached to the unblemished Black man’s body.  

Miracle stories involving bodies made whole are common in Christian medieval hagiographies, but most miracle stories did not involve racial or ethnic designation of the participants the way the Golden Legend specifies in the Miracle of the Black Leg. The Greek version of the Cosmas and Damian miracle does not specify a race, religion, or ethnic group for deceased man whose leg is taken. The Golden Legend text refers to as both a “Moor” and “Ethiopian,” a term used in Europe to broadly refer to anyone of African descent. 

During the Middle Ages and Renaissance, Europeans frequently used the terms “African,” “Black,” “Moor,” and “Ethiopian” interchangeably. As Europeans began enslaving Africans in large numbers, they began associating Blackness itself with slavery. [2] The racial and ethnic terms and their meanings vary, but consistently frame Blackness as the Other, a binary idea of the “not us.” Nevertheless, multiple iterations of the Miracle of the Black Leg including the Golden Legend text source, Pacino’s predella panel, and part of an altarpiece by Fra Angelico all predate the transatlantic slave trade and even the Portuguese introduction of West Africans they enslaved into Europe. 

Fra Angelico, Miracle of the Black Leg, part of the San Marco Altarpiece, tempera on wood, 37 x 45 cm (Museum of San Marco, Florence)

In nearly all depictions of the miracle, the transplanted limb has Black skin that contrasts visually with the verger’s skin. The story’s text does not specify the verger’s race; in art he is portrayed as light-skinned. The coloristic contrast, prominent compositionally, emphasizes race as an important element of the legend. 

Blackness in late-medieval Europe

European attitudes towards Black people and Blackness during the late medieval and Renaissance periods varied. Early instances of anti-Blackness include negative depictions of demons, Jews, and Muslims with dark skin. The term “Moor,” which can mean both Muslim or a person with dark skin, further suggests a correlation between dark skin and a person who is not Christian. Conversely, medieval European Christian practice also venerated Black figures including Saint Maurice, the Black magus who visited the infant Christ, and various Black Madonna figures. Ethiopian ambassadors emphasized their common religion of Christianity when practicing diplomacy at European courts. 

An Adoration with Black Magus, part of The Salzburg Missal, c. 1478, ink and gold on parchment, 38 x 28 cm (Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, volume 1 Clm 15708 I, folio 63 recto)

Interestingly, the Golden Legend implies that the Black man whose leg was taken by Cosmas and Damian to heal the verger was Christian even if the text refers to him as a “Moor.” According to the text he was buried in the cemetery of San Pietro in Vincoli, a Christian church. Representations that attach the verger’s diseased leg to the Black man’s corpse attends to contemporary Christian concerns that a body needed to be “whole” for the promised resurrection at the Last Judgement. [3]

Isidro Villoldo, Miracle of the Black Leg, c. 1547, polychrome carving on wood, 88 x 80 x 17 cm (Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid; photo: Jl FilpoC, CC BY-SA 4.0)

The structure of the story both in the Golden Legend text and in multiple visual representations appears to use racial differentiation between the healed man and the unwitting donor as justifying logic for the saints’ miraculous action. In other words, his Blackness makes his body available for use. Some renditions of the story even depict the Black man as awake and in pain in the verger’s bedroom (such as Isidro de Villoldo, Miracle of the Black Leg). [4] Contemporary viewers would have read these later representations that eliminate the graveyard and turn the corpse into a “mutilated living African man” as portraying an enslaved man. [5] The taking of a Black man’s limb without consent for its utility unsettlingly parallels future instances of medical experimentation and exploitation of Black persons. [6]  

Fernando del Rincon, Miracles of the Doctor Saints Cosmas and Damian, c. 1510, oil on panel, 188 x 155 cm (Museo del Prado, Madrid)

Ideas of race and racial categories are determined not by biology but by cultural and historical ways of thinking. Thinking about race as a system of organizing people into groups and distributing power—often unequally—helps us understand historical ways in which cultures thought about categories. [7] While late medieval and Renaissance European notions of race differ from 21st-century categories of race, they nevertheless form the history of contemporary thought.

This lavishly illuminated book enshrines an earlier understanding of the natural world.

De Natura Avium; De Pastoribus et Ovibus; Bestiarium; Mirabilia Mundi; Philosophia Mundi; On the Soul written and compiled in the late 12th century by Hugh of Fouilloy and William of Conches, manuscript produced in 1277 or after (possibly in Thérouanne France, once Flanders). Tempera colors, pen and ink, gold leaf, and gold paint, 23.3 x 16.4 cm (each leaf) Ms. Ludwig XV 4 (83.MR. |74), J. Paul Getty Museum. Speakers: Dr. Kristen Collins, curator of manuscripts, J. Paul Getty Museum and Dr. Steven Zucker, Executive Director, Smarthistory

Are you interested in old books? Written and compiled in the late 12th century, this luxury manuscript compiles several texts about the natural world, including from natural philosopher and medieval scientist William of Conches. Lavishly illuminated with lapis, gold, and other pigments, this educational manuscript enshrines learned clerics’ efforts to reconcile the natural world to a divinely ordered universe.

Getty has joined forces with Smarthistory to bring you an in-depth look at select works within our collection, whether you want to learn more at home or make art more accessible in your classroom. This video series illuminates art history concepts through fun, unscripted conversations between art historians, curators, archaeologists, scientists, and artists, committed to a fresh take on the history of visual arts.

“De Natura Avium; De Pastoribus et Ovibus; Bestiarium; Mirabilia Mundi; Philosophia Mundi; On the Soul” is featured in the exhibition “Lumen: The Art & Science of Light,” part of the larger initiative “PST ART: Art & Science Collide.”

Martin and George of Kolozsvár, Saint George (replica), 1373, bronze, 196 cm high (Prague Castle; photo: Dennis Jarvis, CC BY-SA 2.0)

One of the most significant bronze statues of the late Middle Ages features Saint George and the dragon. The lively and dynamic composition is about three-quarters life-size (almost 2 meters high). The horse rides toward the left on a rocky terrain inhabited by snakes and lizards, but rears up and turns his head back toward the dragon. Saint George holds his spear in his right hand and thrusts it diagonally in front of the horse, hitting the throat of the dragon. In his left hand, he once held a shield with a cross and an inscription that dated the work to 1373 and named its makers. 

Subject and iconography: Saint George and the dragon

According to legend, Saint George was a Christian Roman knight in the late 3rd century who had arrived in the town of Silena, Libya. The town was terrorized by a dragon living in a nearby swamp, who first demanded the sacrifice of sheep and then people to spare the town. When George arrived, it happened to be the turn of the daughter of the King to be devoured by the dragon. George defeated the dragon—killing it with his lance. He attributed his victory to the help of Christ, thereby converting the entire town to Christianity. 

Saint George and the Dragon, c. 1370–1420, painted and gilded alabaster, 81.5 x 60.5 x 20.5 cm (National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.)

As this was the time of great Christian persecution, George eventually suffered martyrdom by the orders of the Roman prefect Dacian. He was then canonized (made a saint) and revered as a martyr. Later, he became immensely popular due to his victory over the dragon. His cult grew first in the Byzantine Empire and later spread west (primarily in Rome and later in England). He was one of the most popular saints in Eastern and Central Europe as well.

Saint George was a patron saint of knights, especially of Crusaders. The most popular version of his legend was included in the Golden Legend compiled by Jacobus de Voragine around 1260. King Charles I of Hungary established a knightly military order in his honor in 1326. 

In the Byzantine Empire, Saint George was usually depicted in the company of other military saints such as Saint Demetrius and Saint Theodore. Cycles showing his life and martyrdom can be found in manuscripts and wall-paintings, but by far the most common depiction of Saint George was his fight with the dragon. In a moment frozen in time, Saint George defeats the beast and saves the princess, setting an example to all Christian knights.

Martin and George of Kolozsvár, Saint George, photographed before 1927 on its Baroque pedestal, 1373, bronze, 196 cm high (Prague Castle; photo: Bildarchiv Foto Marburg)

The makers of the statue

Saint George’s now-missing shield, which was stolen in 1795, carried an inscription in Latin that was copied several times before it went missing. It offered the name of the creators of the statue along with the year of completion: “In 1373, this image was made by Martin and Georg of Clussenberch.” The unfamiliar name of the town can be read as Klausenburg, the German name of the Transylvanian town of Kolozsvár, at that time part of the Kingdom of Hungary (now Cluj-Napoca in Romania). This was the key to the identification of the masters, who are well-known from other inscriptions of famous statues that once stood in front of the cathedral of Várad (these were destroyed when the Ottomans occupied the town in 1660, but their inscriptions had been recorded earlier). 

These sources offer some insight into the artists Martin and George: we learn that their father was a painter (Nicholas of Kolozsvár). In the 1360s, the brothers came to Várad and set up a bronze foundry in the town, which was able to produce unparalleled monumental statues. 

Monumental bronze in the late Middle Ages

Although the statues at Várad do not survive, the statue of Saint George in Prague attests to the skill of the brothers Martin and George. It was made using the lost wax technique, which requires a complex workshop and tremendous skill. According to several historical observations, the statue of Saint George was also at least partially gilded, which would have further enhanced its already splendid appearance. 

Matteo di Ugolino da Bologna, Saint Michael the Archangel (with detail of face), 1356, bronze (Orvieto Cathedral; photos: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The process of making a large-scale bronze statue can take years. The brothers may have become familiar with bronze casting in Hungary, where bells were made in this technique. Martin and Georg of Kolozsvár were also likely familiar with sculptural work in Orvieto, Italy. The head of their Saint George bears a close resemblance to the bronze figure of Saint Michael cast by Matteo di Ugolino da Bologna in 1356 and placed on top of the gable above the right portal of the Orvieto Cathedral.

Orvieto Cathedral façade with Saint Michael circled, Orvieto, Italy, begun 1290 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

It is very likely that the young brothers from Hungary spent some time in the cathedral workshop of Orvieto, learning the technique of casting large-scale figural statuary and getting to know the Italian art of the mid-14th century. The composition of their Saint George figure—the best analogs of which can be found in Italian book illuminations of that period—also betrays their Italian training. If they were born in the 1330s, they likely spent their early twenties in Orvieto around the 1350s, after which they returned to Hungary to start work as independent masters. 

Martin and George of Kolozsvár, Saint George (replica), 1373, bronze, 196 cm high (Prague Castle; photo: Jacek Halicki, CC BY-SA 4.0)

The commissioner of the Prague statue

The Prague statue of Saint George was first mentioned in 1541, when it suffered some damage during the catastrophic fire that destroyed much of Prague castle. At that time, the right arm of Saint George broke off. In 1562, we read that it served as a fountain and that it was broken again during the coronation of Maximilian II. Spectators climbed up on the statue, which fell as the legs of the horse broke and the head of the horse smashed. Repairs were carried out in the following years. The statue was later placed on top of a Baroque fountain and was moved a few times within Prague castle.

Its present arrangement dates to 1927 when the Slovenian architect Jože Plečnik created a new pedestal for it. The original statue was restored during the German occupation of Czechoslovakia, in 1941–42. At that time, the statue was moved into a museum and replaced with a copy. Since April 2004, the original statue has been on display in the permanent exhibition dedicated to the history of Prague Castle. Full-scale copies of the statue can also be found in many museums and on public display, including at Cluj-Napoca, the hometown of the masters.

Although first documented in 1541, most scholars believe that the statue has been in Prague since 1373. It is most likely that work was carried out at Várad and the statue was transported to Prague. 

Dragon and swampy environment at the base of the statue (detail), Martin and George of Kolozsvár, Saint George (replica), 1373, bronze, 196 cm high (Prague Castle; photo: Dennis Jarvis, CC BY-SA 2.0)

The original function and setup of the statue is unclear: some argue that the swampy environment, alluded to in the details of the base, indicates that perhaps it was always intended to be a fountain statue. Others presume a more religious context for the work, in which case it was probably placed under a canopy, possibly inside a church. 

Regardless of its history, the statue of Saint George slaying the dragon is a marvelous survival and a unique testament to the refinement of East-Central European Gothic art and of the very strong reception of Italian art in the Kingdom of Hungary during the Angevin period. Along with the statue of Saint Ladislas, it is the first monumental bronze equestrian statue since Antiquity, pre-dating by several decades Donatello’s Gattamelata and the equestrian statue of Niccolo d’Este in Ferrara.

This visually dazzling manuscript helped lift King Louis IX to sainthood. A dedication page shows the book’s illuminator at work.

Moralized Bible, c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm, MS M.240, folios 7 verso and 8 recto (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York). Speakers: Dr. Joshua O’Driscoll, Associate Curator of Medieval & Renaissance Manuscripts, The Morgan Library & Museum, and Dr. Steven Zucker

Top: Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France; and below: Author Dictating to a Scribe, Bible of Saint Louis (Moralized Bible), c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York, MS M.240, folio 8; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Blanche of Castile

In 1226 a French king died, leaving his queen to rule his kingdom until their son came of age. The 38-year-old widow, Blanche of Castile, had her work cut out for her. Rebelling barons were eager to win back lands that her husband’s father had seized from them. They rallied troops against her, defamed her character, and even accused her of adultery and murder.

Caught in a perilous web of treachery, insurrections, and open warfare, Blanche persuaded, cajoled, negotiated, and fought would-be enemies after her husband, King Louis VIII, died of dysentery after only a three-year reign. When their son Louis IX took the helm in 1234, he inherited a kingdom that was, for a time anyway, at peace.

Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France (detail), Dedication Page with Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France, Bible of Saint Louis (Moralized Bible), c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York, MS M.240, folio 8; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A manuscript illumination

A dazzling illumination in New York’s Morgan Library could well depict Blanche of Castile and her son Louis, a beardless youth crowned king. A cleric and a scribe are depicted underneath them (see image at the top of the page). Each figure is set against a ground of burnished gold, seated beneath a trefoil arch. Stylized and colorful buildings dance above their heads, suggesting a sophisticated, urban setting—perhaps Paris, the capital city of the Capetian kingdom (the Capetians were one of the oldest royal families in France) and home to a renowned school of theology.

A moralized Bible

This last page the New York Morgan Library’s manuscript MS M 240 is the last quire (folded page) of a three-volume moralized bible, the majority of which is housed at the Cathedral Treasury in Toledo, Spain. Moralized bibles, made expressely for the French royal house, include lavishly illustrated abbreviated passages from the Old and New Testaments. Explanatory texts that allude to historical events and tales accompany these literary and visual readings, which—woven together—convey a moral.

Assuming historians are correct in identifying the two rulers, we are looking at the four people intensely involved in the production of this manuscript. As patron and ruler, Queen Blanche of Castile would have financed its production. As ruler-to-be, Louis IX’s job was to take its lessons to heart along with those from the other biblical and ancient texts that his tutors read with him.

Blanche of Castile (detail), Dedication Page with Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France, Bible of Saint Louis (Moralized Bible), c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York, MS M.240, folio 8; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

King and queen

Louis IX (detail), Dedication Page with Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France, Bible of Saint Louis (Moralized Bible), c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York, MS M.240, folio 8; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

In the upper register, an enthroned king and queen wear the traditional medieval open crown topped with fleur-de-lys—a stylized iris or lily symbolizing a French monarch’s religious, political, and dynastic right to rule. The blue-eyed queen, left, is veiled in a white widow’s wimple. An ermine-lined blue mantle drapes over her shoulders. Her pink T-shaped tunic spills over a thin blue edge of paint which visually supports these enthroned figures. A slender green column divides the queen’s space from that of her son, King Louis IX, to whom she deliberately gestures across the page, raising her left hand in his direction. Her pose and animated facial expression suggest that she is dedicating this manuscript, with its lessons and morals, to the young king.

Louis IX, wearing an open crown atop his head, returns his mother’s glance. In his right hand he holds a scepter, indicating his kingly status. It is topped by the characteristic fleur-de-lys on which, curiously, a small bird sits. A four-pedaled brooch, dominated by a large square of sapphire blue in the center, secures a pink mantle lined with green that rests on his boyish shoulders.

In his left hand, between his forefinger and thumb, Louis holds a small golden ball or disc. During the mass that followed coronations, French kings and queens would traditionally give the presiding bishop of Reims 13 gold coins (all French kings were crowned in this northern French cathedral town.) This could reference Louis’ 1226 coronation, just three weeks after his father’s death, suggesting a probable date for this bible’s commission. A manuscript this lavish, however, would have taken eight to ten years to complete—perfect timing, because in 1235, the 21-year-old Louis was ready to assume the rule of his Capetian kingdom from his mother.

Coronation of the Virgin, tympanum of central portal, north transept, Chartres Cathedral, c. 1204–10 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A link between earth and heaven

Queen Blanche and her son, the young king, echo a gesture and pose that would have been familiar to many Christians: the Virgin Mary and Christ enthroned side-by-side as celestial rulers of heaven, found in the numerous Coronations of the Virgin carved in ivory, wood, and stone. This scene was especially prevalent in tympana, the top sculpted semi-circle over cathedral portals found throughout France. On beholding the Morgan illumination, viewers would have immediately made the connection between this earthly Queen Blanche and her son, anointed by God with the divine right to rule, and that of Mary, Queen of heaven and her son, divine figures who offer salvation.

Cleric (left) and scribe (right) (detail), Dedication Page with Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France, Bible of Saint Louis (Moralized Bible), c. 1227–34 (France, probably Paris), 37.5 x 26.2 cm (The Morgan Library & Museum, New York, MS M.240, folio 8; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A cleric and an artist

The illumination’s bottom register depicts a tonsured cleric (churchman with a partly shaved head), left, and an illuminator, right.

The cleric wears a sleeveless cloak appropriate for divine services—this is an educated man—and emphasizes his role as a scholar. He tilts his head forward and points his right forefinger at the artist across from him, as though giving instructions. No clues are given as to this cleric’s religious order, as he probably represents the many Parisian theologians responsible for the manuscript’s visual and literary content—all of whom were undoubtedly told to spare no expense.

On the right, the artist, donning a blue surcoat and wearing a cap, is seated on cushioned bench.

Knife in his left hand and stylus in his right, he looks down at his work: four vertically-stacked circles in a left column, with part of a fifth visible on the right. We know, from the 4887 medallions that precede this illumination, what’s next on this artist’s agenda: he will apply a thin sheet of gold leaf onto the background, and then paint the medallion’s biblical and explanatory scenes in brilliant hues of lapis lazuli, green, red, yellow, grey, orange, and sepia.

Advice for a king

Blanche undoubtedly hand-picked the theologians whose job it was to establish this manuscript’s guidelines, select biblical passages, write explanations, hire copyists, and oversee the images that the artists should paint. Art and text, mutually dependent, spelled out advice that its readers, Louis IX and perhaps his siblings, could practice in their enlightened rule. The nobles, church officials, and perhaps even common folk who viewed this page could be reassured that their ruler had been well trained to deal with whatever calamities came his way.

This 13th-century illumination, both dazzling and edifying, represents the cutting edge of lavishness in a society that embraced conspicuous consumption. As a pedagogical tool, perhaps it played no small part in helping Louis IX achieve the status of sainthood, awarded by Pope Boniface VIII 27 years after the king’s death. This and other images in the bible moralisée explain why Parisian illuminators monopolized manuscript production at this time. Look again at the work. Who else could compete against such a resounding image of character and grace?

Large, colorful gems ornament this magnificent Ottonian cross, likely made for emperor Otto III.

Cross of Lothair II, c. 1000 (Ottonian), oak core, gold, silver, gems, pearls, Augustus spolia cameo, cloisonné enamel, 50 x 38.5 x 2.3 cm, base dates to the 14th century, dedicated by Otto III (Aachen Cathedral Treasury Germany). Speakers: Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker

The scene of the Death of the Virgin exhibits a new naturalism and inspiration from ancient Roman sculpture.

Death of the Virgin, South portal, Strasbourg Cathedral, c. 1230. Speakers: Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris

With towering stained-glass windows and an open plan, the Chapter House of York Minster is an extraordinarily grand space.

York Minster (The Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of Saint Peter), begun 1220, consecrated 1472; Chapter House completed by 1296. Speakers: Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris

With both Romanesque and Gothic design, the Peterborough Cathedral has a long architectural history.

The Cathedral Church of Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint Andrew, 1118–1237 (15th century retrochoir), Peterborough, England. Speakers: Dr. Ron Baxter, Fabric Advisory Committee, Peterborough Cathedral and Dr. Steven Zucker

Imagine yourself at a desk, preparing for an evening of private study. But instead of a chapter of political theory or a thorny set of math equations, what you are facing is a sacred text which, according to Jewish teaching, was delivered directly from the mouth of God to the hand of Moses. Would you dive right in and get to work, or would you need a moment or two to collect yourself?

If you chose the second approach, you would be in good company. In the Jewish tradition, study of Jewish scripture and law (Torah) is equivalent—perhaps even superior—to prayer and requires serious attention. Medieval Iberian Jewish scholar and philosopher, Maimonides, advocated for a measured, reverential approach, “one should sit awhile before prayer in order to direct the mind, and then pray gently and beseechingly.” [1]

Turning the luxurious opening folios of Kennicott 2, a Hebrew Bible codex made by Joshua ibn Gaon in early 14th-century Iberia, we can see how a ritualized, mindful engagement between reader and Hebrew Bible is supported by the manuscript’s decorative program. 

Preliminary texts set in architectural frames. Right: Folio 5r; center: 5v; left: 10r, all from Joshua ibn Gaon, MS. Kennicott 2, 1306, Soria (Spain) (Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

The bible opens with a series of preliminary texts set in architectural frames. These prefatory texts provide information to help guide the reader in their study of the texts that follow: the Torah (Five Books of Moses), Writings, and Prophets. In this case, these preliminary texts comprise a list of the 613 Mitzvot and their locations in the text of the Torah.

Right: folio 14r; center: 14v; left: 15r, all from Joshua ibn Gaon, MS. Kennicott 2, 1306, Soria (Spain) (Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

But, at the conclusion of these preliminary texts, before we reach the famous words of the first book of the Hebrew Bible—”In the beginning, God created the heavens and earth”—we come across three additional pages, where the decoration intensifies: we find three full-page decorated folios (often called carpet pages) composed of geometric interlaced ornament painted in rich colors.

Joshua ibn Gaon, Folio 14r, MS. Kennicott 2, 1306, Soria (Spain) (Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

One of these folios (fol. 14r), contains a mesmerizing full-page golden pattern framed on all sides by a red border in which a golden Hebrew inscription from the Book of Psalms shimmers:

The law [Torah] of the Lord is perfect, restoring the soul;
the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.
The precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart;
the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.Psalm 19: 8-9 

When one pauses to read this inscription, it becomes apparent that the material features of the folio’s design mirror the qualities attributed to the Torah by the words which surround it. The qualities conveyed by the Psalmist—such as “enlightening the eyes”—are mirrored by the golden pattern, which stands out against its unpainted parchment background. Viewed directly, the design is symmetrical and balanced. At the same time, the gaze is invited to follow its turnings and to penetrate its openings as if peering through a window lattice. 

Since the Hebrew language is read from right to left, the text begins in the upper right corner of the design, reads across and then down the left margin, then down the right margin, and finishes on the bottom left. In order to read the Hebrew inscriptions that run down the long sides, the reader must rotate the bible, inviting a different perspective of the golden pattern within.

Folios (pages) with butterfly forms highlighted, 14r, MS. Kennicott 2, 1306, Soria (Spain) (Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

The composition has two focal points which each resemble open butterfly wings. These are presented horizontally above and vertically below the panel’s midline. If one turns the codex in a clockwise direction to read the inscriptions on the folio’s long sides, these butterfly-shaped forms shift their orientation: now the vertically aligned one becomes horizontally aligned and vice versa. No matter which direction you turn the codex, the reader will always see one horizontally- and one vertically-aligned butterfly shape.

Hebrew Bible, 1300–50, ink, tempera, and gold, 23.7 x 20.1 cm, Castile, Spain (The Cloisters, The Metropolitan Museum of Art; photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Over a hundred bible codices survive from medieval Iberia—some of which are even more highly decorated than Kennicott 2. The ancient rabbis considered it a mitzvah (positive commandment) for a man to copy his own Torah scroll, so that he might better study the Torah. In medieval times, when Torah scrolls were stored for communal use during weekly worship in the synagogue, this notion was applied to bible codices, which could be used for personal study. Books like Kennicott 2 were commissioned for private study and many contain colophons (a statement naming their patron, or owner, and scribe).

We cannot be certain of the original patron of Kennicott 2; the manuscript’s colophon (which names Moses ibn Haviv as recipient and Joshua ibn Gaon as scribe) appears on a page that may not have been part of the original commission. Kennicott 2 is one of seven bible codices connected to Joshua ibn Gaon’s workshop either because these manuscripts contain his actual name or because they so closely resemble the signed examples.

By medieval standards, Jews were well-integrated into society in Islamic Spain. They spoke and wrote in Arabic and served as important officials in the courts of al-Andalus. Iberian bibles likewise feature designs that display vegetal and geometric forms derived from an Islamicized visual repertoire. 

Geometric ornament in window screens, Puerta del Espíritu Santo, Great Mosque of Córdoba, 10th century, window screens restored c. 14th century (Ariel Fein, CC BY-SA 2.0)

The interlace ornament in folio 14 recto (fol. 14r) finds parallels in textiles, metalwork, stucco, ceramics, and other media. For example, the window screens (celosias) of one of the gates of the Great Mosque of Córdoba, restored in the 14th century, are similar in their repeated and interlocking designs. In other settings, such as palaces, the geometricized ornament of al-Andalus communicates the authority of its residents. The use of interlocking geometricized ornament in Kennicott 2 was surely also associated with luxury and affirms the owner’s status. 

The preparation for the Passover festival, the Golden Haggadah, c. 1320, northern Spain, probably Barcelona (British Library, MS. 27210, fol. 15r)

While Iberian bibles like Kennicott 2 favor interlace imagery, in other Hebrew manuscripts produced in Iberia at the same time, human and animal figures predominate. For example, haggadahs, manuscripts used for the holiday of Passover commonly feature figural imagery. It is thought that such images may have been permissible due to the book’s use in the domestic and family-oriented Passover ritual known as the Seder. Those making Hebrew Bibles—the holiest text in Judaism—were more reticent about employing figures, due to the honor accorded to sacred scripture and Islamicizing forms offered an avenue for decoration and expression without contravening the Second Commandment prohibition against graven images. 

Joshua ibn Gaon, Folio 14r, MS. Kennicott 2, 1306, Soria (Spain) (Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford)

Even though they are aniconic, carpet pages like the one discussed above may still be seen as meaningful—perhaps even capable of expressing certain concepts more fully than figural compositions. The decorative program of Kennicott 2 expresses the way people thought about the Bible’s contents. This is an assertion we have seen made, as well, for sacred codices in Christianity and Islam. The opening folios of Christian bibles and Qur’ans also feature full-page decorative designs popularly known as carpet pages. The opening folios of these codices evoke the protective qualities of city-gates, portals, and even the silks once used to wrap separate sections of the holy texts.

Medieval Iberian Jews used the term mikdashyah (Temple of the Lord) when describing the Bible codex in recognition of its relevance to maintaining Jewish life after the Temple in Jerusalem, the site for community offerings and sacrifice, was destroyed by the Romans in the 1st century C.E. Many bibles open with frontispieces which depict the Temple Implements described in Exodus, while others rely on carefully placed carpet pages at the beginning of the Torah, Prophets, and Writings to indicate the tripartite arrangement of the bible, which mirrored the three-part structure of the lost Temple’s architecture. [2] In this way, the decoration of the bible codex presented the notion of its centrality to the survival of the Jewish people until the Temple could be rebuilt in the Messianic age.

The codex of the entire Hebrew Bible was the medium through which medieval Iberian Jews had their most intimate encounter with scripture. The notion of “Torah” as a endless body of knowledge—capable of providing guidance for and limitless readings by its followers—is spurred by the pious engagement of scholars like the person (almost certainly a man) who commissioned Kennicott 2. The abstract ornament we see on fol. 14r of Kennicott 2 participates in this enterprise. It allows the reader to slow down and enjoy the experience of study. It acts as a visual metaphor for the ideation surrounding Torah. It helps us to understand the transition made by the holiest texts of Judaism: from the top of Mt. Sinai to a reader’s desk.

An ancient sacred space in modern Milan.

Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio, Milan, consecrated 379, present structure c. 1080–99, nave rebuilt c. 1128–44; atrium, 9th century, left tower 1199 and late 19th century, right tower, 9th century. Speaker: Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris

A close look at Synagoga and Ecclesia at Strasbourg Cathedral helps to illuminate the shifting meanings of Gothic sculpture.

South Portal of Strasbourg Cathedral, c. 1230, with mid-nineteenth century restorations (lintels, Solomon, and Christ). Speakers: Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris

Cormac’s Chapel, 1127–34 C.E., sandstone, Rock of Cashel, County Tipperary, Ireland

Just how did Gothic architects support heavy stone ceilings and create the effect of heaven on earth?

A conversation with Dr. Steven Zucker and Dr. Beth Harris in Beverley Minster, England, 1190–1420

West transept of Salisbury Cathedral, Salisbury, England, begun 1220 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

Early Gothic arches, Southwell Minster, Southwell, England, 1300 (photo: Billy Wilson, CC BY-NC 2.0)

“Gothic”

Forget the association of the word “Gothic” to dark, haunted houses, Wuthering Heights, or ghostly pale people wearing black nail polish and ripped fishnets. The original Gothic style was actually developed to bring sunshine into people’s lives, and especially into their churches. To get past the accrued definitions of the centuries, it’s best to go back to the very start of the word Gothic, and to the style that bears the name.

The Goths were a so-called barbaric tribe who held power in various regions of Europe, between the collapse of the Roman Empire and the establishment of the Holy Roman Empire (so, from roughly the fifth to the 8th century). They were not renowned for great achievements in architecture. As with many art historical terms, “Gothic” came to be applied to a certain architectural style after the fact.

Gothic architecture style

The style represented giant steps away from the previous, relatively basic building systems that had prevailed. The Gothic grew out of the Romanesque architectural style, when both prosperity and relative peace allowed for several centuries of cultural development and great building schemes. From roughly 1000 to 1400, several significant cathedrals and churches were built, particularly in Britain and France, offering architects and masons a chance to work out ever more complex and daring designs.

The most fundamental element of the Gothic style of architecture is the pointed arch, which was likely borrowed from Islamic architecture that would have been seen in Spain at this time. The pointed arch relieved some of the thrust, and therefore, the stress on other structural elements. It then became possible to reduce the size of the columns or piers that supported the arch.

Nave of Salisbury Cathedral, Salisbury, England, begun 1220 (photo: Bernard Gagnon, CC BY-SA 3.0)

So, rather than having massive, drum-like columns as in the Romanesque churches, the new columns could be more slender. This slimness was repeated in the upper levels of the nave, so that the gallery and clerestory would not seem to overpower the lower arcade. In fact, the column basically continued all the way to the roof, and became part of the vault.

Tracery of west window of Southwell Minster, Southwell, England, 1300 (photo: Alan Murray-Rust, CC BY-SA 2.0)

In the vault, the pointed arch could be seen in three dimensions where the ribbed vaulting met in the center of the ceiling of each bay. This ribbed vaulting is another distinguishing feature of Gothic architecture. However, it should be noted that prototypes for the pointed arches and ribbed vaulting were seen first in late-Romanesque buildings.

The new understanding of architecture and design led to more fantastic examples of vaulting and ornamentation, and the Early Gothic or Lancet style (from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries) developed into the Decorated or Rayonnant Gothic (roughly 14th century). The ornate stonework that held the windows–called tracery–became more florid, and other stonework even more exuberant.

The ribbed vaulting became more complicated and was crossed with lierne ribs into complex webs, or the addition of cross ribs, called tierceron. As the decoration developed further, the Perpendicular or International Gothic took over (15th century). Fan vaulting decorated half-conoid shapes extending from the tops of the columnar ribs.

Lierne vault over choir, Gloucester Cathedral, Gloucester, England, begun 1089 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

The slender columns and lighter systems of thrust allowed for larger windows and more light. The windows, tracery, carvings, and ribs make up a dizzying display of decoration that one encounters in a Gothic church. In late Gothic buildings, almost every surface is decorated. Although such a building as a whole is ordered and coherent, the profusion of shapes and patterns can make a sense of order difficult to discern at first glance.

Gothic windows at Gloucester Cathedral, Gloucester, England, begun 1089 (photo: Steven Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

After the great flowering of Gothic style, tastes again shifted back to the neat, straight lines and rational geometry of the Classical era. It was in the Renaissance that the name Gothic came to be applied to this medieval style that seemed vulgar to Renaissance sensibilities. It is still the term we use today, though hopefully without the implied insult, which negates the amazing leaps of imagination and engineering that were required to build such edifices.

The Cross of Cong (commissioned by Tairdelbach Ua Conchobair king of Connacht and high king of Ireland), 1123, oak core within cast bronze, rock crystal, gold filigree, gilding, silver sheeting, niello and silver inlay, glass, and enamel, 76 x 48 x 3.5 cm (National Museum of Ireland); speakers: Dr. Lauren Kilroy-Ewbank and Dr. Steven Zucker

The early Christian church of Santa Maria Maggiore has some of the oldest mosaics in Rome.

The 5th and 13th century mosaics in the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, c. 432–1743