9
Whodunnit? Patronage, the Canon, and the Problematics of Agency in Romanesque and Gothic Art
Studies of patronage occupy a critical niche in the history of medieval art, since they function as alternatives to the formalist and iconographic interpretations that have shaped the discipline for over a century. But like so many other approaches to art history, they also derive from dominant paradigms and the field’s ever-changing methodological priorities. Patrons and their monuments were often integrated into the evolutionary model of art history around 1900, for instance.1 Similarly, an emphasis on the spending habits of powerful men followed the lead of Renaissance scholarship shaped by Vasari and Burckhardt.2 Since the 1970s, scholars have been seeking to identify a greater variety of patron groups and reconstruct more specific connections between works of art and the intentions, ideologies, demands, and desires of the individuals who paid for them or were their primary users.3
Given these contextual concerns, patronage studies have often coincided with the aims of the so-called Social History of Art.4 But while that movement has seen its ups and downs, the subject of patronage never disappeared from studies of medieval art. This staying power derives in part from the impact of the Annales School and the long-standing interdisciplinarity of scholarship on the Middle Ages. Recently, studies of patronage have characterized art as constitutive of social, political, economic, and other ideas; they have engaged a host of disciplines (such as literary, religious, gender, and other histories), and with them, attendant subject formations, foundational texts, and theoretical models.
Despite the recent flourishing of patronage studies, there have been few attempts to discuss the theme broadly. The largest obstacle to such a project is the sheer variety of contexts, types of patronal involvement, and artworks found during the Middle Ages. An overview of reference materials suggests that the specialization of academic discourse also has hampered such efforts. Whereas the Encyclopedia of World Art (1966) featured a synthesizing entry on patronage in Western art,5 the most recent reference work of that genre, the Grove Dictionary of Art (1996), does not. Only a handful of topics explored in its “Romanesque” and “Gothic” entries deal expressly with patronage issues.6 A rare attempt to generalize about medieval patronage is Brenk’s short essay in the Enciclopedia dell’arte medievale (1994).7 Beyond such reference works, some focused studies contain in-depth examinations of patterns and types of patronage.8 But none offers as highly developed a model for understanding the phenomenon as early modern settings have inspired for decades.9
Still, this subfield has coalesced in the postwar era around salient themes. The principal loci of patronage examined in the literature are the primary institutions on which medieval society was constructed – court, cathedral, and monastery – many of which established their own aesthetic conventions. Within and outside of these contexts, patronal categories have multiplied. Queens are differentiated from kings, as are canons from bishops, and the impact of the laity has come to the fore. The taste and intentions of each group are seen as contingent upon many internal and external factors.
Despite this trend toward fragmentation and its result, our greater awareness of the variety of contemporaneous art forms, dominant narratives of medieval art still emphasize eschatological meanings. This structure makes sense for obvious reasons, but it comes at a price. Things outside that framework, such as secular monuments, continue to occupy the margins of the discipline, despite our increasingly liberal definitions of material and visual cultures.10
This chapter probes these and other problems relating to patronage, artistic production, and agency in the later Middle Ages. It begins by discussing some of the major themes that emerged at St Denis and their implications for how art history has been written. It then investigates debates surrounding artistic patronage, including the problem of agency, sites of patronage, and motivations for it. First, however, a caveat: this historiographical journey takes its cue from generations of art historians, and, like them, concentrates on elite patrons of religious art. An accompanying bibliography invites wider views of the subject, although it, too, is far from comprehensive.
Shaping the Canon: Suger and St Denis
When the glorious and famous King of the Franks, Dagobert, notable for his royal magnanimity in the administration of his kingdom and yet no less devoted to the church of God… had learned that the venerable images of the Holy Martyrs who rested there [at St Denis] – appearing to him as very beautiful men clad in snow-white garments – requested his service and unhesitatingly promised him their aid with words and deeds, he decreed with admirable affection that a basilica of the Saints be built with regal magnificence.11
The abbey of St Denis constitutes a critical juncture between Romanesque and Gothic in narratives of medieval art, a pivotal moment illuminated by Suger’s writings. In this passage from De consecratione, Suger (d.1151) summarized paradigms of artistic patronage operative in the later Middle Ages. He also suggested the ideologies and conventions that had long sustained such paradigms and would continue to do so well into the fourteenth century. As such, the passage articulates many of the themes that have shaped our understanding of patronal motives in medieval art and the priorities of art historians.
First and foremost, this account characterizes the Merovingian king Dagobert (d.639) as a pious and generous sovereign. This is a familiar trope; the principal motives behind royal and lay patronage generally claim to derive from Christian ideals, in which almsgiving, donations of all types (money, materials, land), and endowments of liturgical celebrations were perceived as fundamental duties of the faithful. For the wealthiest members of medieval society, these pious expressions and largesse on a grander scale (such as the foundation of monasteries) articulated one’s social station in life. But they were also essential responsibilities of that social station.12 Here, then, patronage is naturalized as an attribute of a Christian king. Suger, in citing Dagobert’s prestigious name, also strove to codify and reinforce the tradition of royal support of the abbey.
Using a variety of strategies and motifs, including the convention of visionary experience, Suger’s passage establishes the intimacy between royal patrons and large-scale building projects. Imperial or royal commissions shape most narratives of medieval art, from Old St Peter’s in Rome to the Chartreuse de Champmol outside Dijon. This is not surprising, since so many extant medieval monuments derive from royal patronage, due to the concentration of human, economic, and material resources in the hands of monarchs. Royal settings are also better preserved and documented than more humble ones, thereby creating a wider interpretive framework for analysis. But the contours of the canon also reflect attitudes regarding originality and quality. Interpretations of medieval art tend to begin with the assumption that taste and related cultural practices were established at the pinnacle of society and inevitably trickled down to its more humble sectors. Works of munificentia are often assumed to derive from regal settings, and royal art is equated with quality. Given such historical and historiographical factors, it is not surprising that royal contexts have dominated patronage studies.
Although Suger and St Denis introduce many of the major themes in the literature, Suger’s precise role in artistic production remains a matter of debate. As a reasonably learned man in charge of an important monastic center, was he well enough versed in theological matters to invent iconographic programs? Were more accomplished theologians working for him, and if so, who were they? Was he responsible for locating and hiring the diverse teams of artists and builders on the site and supervising their activities? Or was he merely empowered as the holder of the purse (and pen)?13
Scholars have addressed such questions since Panofsky’s work on Suger appeared in 1946. His interpretation of the abbot as an erudite philosopher well versed in Pseudo-Dionysian theology, as well as von Simson’s vision of Suger as all-encompassing intellect behind the building campaign, have been questioned and revised.14 The abbot’s indebtedness to Augustine and Hugh of St Victor has come to the fore, as have more nuanced views of the reception of Cistercian ideology in mainstream Benedictine settings.15 But while some consensus has emerged concerning Suger’s circumscribed role as guiding intellect in the reconstruction of St Denis, basic questions concerning the dynamics of patronage and production there remain unanswered.
As such, the abbey is representative of many key Romanesque and Gothic monuments in which the nature of a patron’s participation is unclear. For more than a quarter of a century, conceptualizations of what could be called the patronal field have expanded to help address this problem of agency. Scholars have come to emphasize that the individuals or institutions traditionally seen as great patrons – Bernward of Hildesheim, Louis IX, the mendicant orders, and so on – acted within a cultural fabric into which myriad threads were woven. Theoretical or multidisciplinary perspectives have provided critical tools for reconstructing and assessing this enlarged patronal field.
The question of agency lies at the heart of patronage studies. Whose actions had the greatest impact on the appearance of a work of art? Who could claim credit, particularly for a large-scale project? Efforts to characterize agency have taken many forms. Marxist concerns with who controls the means of production and thereby determines whether or not a work is made seem straightforward enough. But such conditions are difficult to reconstruct. As Caviness notes regarding the Shaftesbury Psalter (c.1130–40), the image of a woman praying below Christ in Majesty should not be identified as the patron until the genesis of this manuscript is better understood.16 If the woman received the book as a gift, then our interpretive strategies must change (see below). And given the large scale and long gestation of so many medieval projects, rarely could a single person act as what Warnke has called a superpatron.17
Brenk avoids rigid paradigms by differentiating between the “patron-concepteur” as overriding intellect/manager, and donor as financial contributor (likely one of many for large-scale projects).18 This distinction is critical for creating more nuanced assessments of agency, but it can underestimate the impact of “mere” donors. Modest gifts of land to monasteries were common following the rise of feudal elites in the Romanesque period. Tracing the patterns of such donations and their impact on monastic coffers can illuminate the formation of local religious allegiances,19 as well as the chronology of building campaigns.20 Such gifts also facilitated the expansion of libraries and treasuries.21 Donors often had little control over how their contributions were utilized, but many institutions depended on them to advance their artistic agendas.
One problem lurking behind discussions of art and agency concerns terminology. Whereas scholars tend to utilize “patron” or “donor” to characterize initiators of art-making, this practice corresponds neither to the complex circumstances of production in the Middle Ages, nor to medieval usage. Records and inscriptions instead tend to express the role of the patron in verbs. Suger, for instance, characterized his role – and Dagobert’s – through a series of actions: “we undertook to renew,” “we caused to be composed,” “he decreed,” and so on.22 Similarly, the foundation charter for Notre-Dame at Ecouis (c.1310), written by Philip the Fair’s Superintendent of Finances Enguerran de Marigny, expresses Enguerran’s patronage as a series of differentiated acts: “I… do establish, found, and endow,” “I grant and give,” “I establish and ordain,” “I institute,” and so forth, as he touches upon all matters regarding the creation and ongoing liturgical and financial operations of his collegiate church in Normandy.23 Inscriptions on works of art show comparable patterns.24 These representative samples suggest that medieval sources yield more complexity and often less certainty regarding matters of agency than our habitual use of the monolithic term “patron” might imply.
In discussions of objects large and small, much of the scholarly literature modulates between empowering the patron or the artist. At stake is the division of labor, which was traditionally perceived as the patron’s jurisdiction over subject and the artist’s over form.25 This dynamic is often observed through the lens of historiographic debates and contemporary intellectual concerns. Panofsky’s portrait of Suger as theorist has been seen as a challenge to Viollet-le-Duc’s emphasis on Gothic as structure,26 and investigations into artistic freedom flourished around World War II.27 Assessments of the individuality of artists are again coming to the fore,28 in tandem with our attempts to understand the meaning of authorship and ownership in a digital culture.
The question of agency in monastic art production is particularly fraught. Long-held views fueled by critiques of industrialization held that monks labored selflessly in closed environments to create buildings and objects for their own use.29 Distinctions between patron, artist, and user collapse, thereby upholding the Marxist ideal that monks were not alienated from their work.
Early Cistercian regulations seemingly corroborate this view, since they specify that communities be established far from existing human settlements. But since the publication of Mortet’s Recueil de textes (1911), scholars have come to emphasize that the monks could not realize their spiritual agenda without involving the secular in their artistic endeavors.30 An account of the construction of Clairvaux II (c.1133–45) narrates that, “The bishops of the region, noblemen, and merchants of the land heard of it, and joyfully offered rich aid in God’s work. Supplies were abundant, workmen quickly hired, the brothers themselves joined in the work in every way.”31 Studies of Cistercian expansion in England and Germany have stressed similar lay/monastic interplay.32 Despite the involvement of lay donors and builders, the order was still able to maintain stylistic consistency and austerity, due to the cooperation of monks, lay brothers (conversi), and professional artisans, as well as frequent communication between parent houses and new ones.33
Later contexts illuminate these dynamics. A contract of 1398 for a dormitory at Durham clarifies that the prior and convent established the parameters of the project, including window locations, variations in masonry, and the form of a tower; the master mason offered solutions to those needs.34 Monastic patrons should be given credit, Shelby argues, for urging lay masons “onward by setting more and more difficult tasks.”35 The discussions of specialized branches of knowledge (structural, financial, liturgical, aesthetic, etc.) that ensued in such circumstances have been seen as a critical moment in intellectual history.36
The nineteenth-century elision of monastic artist and patron has reemerged in studies of religious women, albeit from a feminist perspective. For some time, abbesses and nuns have been appreciated as sophisticated patrons and users rather than creators of art.37 Recent debates over Hildegard of Bingen’s role in the creation of the Rupertsberg Scivias (c.1165) provide another perspective. It has been suggested that the idiosyncratic style of the now-lost manuscript complements Hildegard’s textual descriptions of visions and must be attributed to her own hand.38 Any attribution of this sort is fraught, since the manuscript is known only through copies made between 1927 and 1933. But codifying Hildegard’s artistic agency not only would establish the significance of the abbess in a new realm of activity – in painting, versus music, theology, medicine, and administration, her other areas of expertise; it would also expand our knowledge of women artists in Romanesque monasticism. As such, the production of the Scivias possibly anticipates women’s artistic experiences at St Walburg in Eichstätt around 1500 as reconstructed by Hamburger.39
Hierarchies of Agency, Webs of Production
Studies since the 1970s have rendered the issue of agency more complex by emphasizing the webs of interaction that led to the creation of medieval art. Considering the social and political overtones of the word “patronage” helps reconceptualize the dynamics of artistic production.40 The relationship between patron and artist was not asymmetrical, oppositional, and merely economic, but also potentially about both participants gaining distinction, access to other artists/patrons, intellectual camaraderie, and so on.41 Furthermore, this model expands the artist/patron binary to incorporate third parties, such as theological advisors working in courts, cathedrals, and monasteries.
A folio from the Toledo Bible moralisée idealizes this hierarchical model of patronage and production (fig. 9-1). In this work of c.1234–5, Blanche of Castile and Louis IX are enthroned in an arcade above two figures. Blanche’s demonstrative, open-handed gesture toward her more passive son suggests her control over the project.42 Below her, a theological advisor looks down at his book and points toward the figure on the right; he is clearly dictating the manuscript’s complex typological and exegetical principles. Lowden has identified the figure on the lower left as a secular ecclesiastic and the lower right a lay artist, who is creating the manuscript’s circular underdrawings.
These two figures must be understood as generalizations, since so many people were involved in the creation of these densely illustrated works.43 The hieratic image also suggests that Blanche’s commanding presence was somewhat abstract during the making of the book. As such, the circumstances of production differed from some outside royal settings. As Stones recently construed, the many additions made to the Book of Madame Marie indicate that its patron (Marie de Rethel? d.1315) and her Franciscan advisor consulted with the illuminators while the book was in process and likely convinced them to make changes.44 This difference in production also signals difference in type: whereas a variety of complex intellectual formulations informed the Bibles moralisées, mendicantinflected prayer books emphasized emotional connections with Mary and Christ.45
The literature on Gothic cathedrals explores tensions between the intellect(s) who developed thematic programs and the donors/patrons who contributed to the church fabric.46 In contrast to monasteries, cathedrals are often characterized as urban monuments in which lay participation was prominent. This view derives in part from the “cult of carts,” which held that all members of Christian society were moved by their faith to perform hard labor on cathedral construction sites.47 There are some examples of unity and participation, as at Amiens in the 1220s and’30s.48 But scholars have questioned how such participation unfolded, given the centralization of power in the hands of the bishop and the small scale of lay commissions (stained glass, wall paintings, side chapels, etc.).
Recent studies have disentangled these threads of agency by examining episcopal hierarchies. Bishops tended to initiate and manage building campaigns (they also contributed significant amounts of their personal wealth to the projects), while canons engaged in small fund-raising activities and supervised the flow of building materials, money, and labor through the vestry or fabbrica.49 But given the number of participants involved, how did Great Churches achieve the coherence of the sort described by iconographers like Mâle and von Simson? What choices did patrons of lesser stature than, say, kings, bishops, or deacons have in shaping their commissions? The windows at Chartres illuminate the problematics of agency in episcopal settings after 1200.
FIGURE 9-1 Hierarchies of agency as represented in the creation of the Toledo Bible moralisée. New York: The Pierpont Morgan Library, MS 240, fol. 8r.
Representations of artisans plying their trades and knights on horseback bedecked with armor and heraldry have prompted the windows to be interpreted as “donor portraits” that commemorate diverse contributors to the building campaign. Questions about who developed such imagery and why have fueled considerable debate.50 Mahnes-Deremble has argued convincingly that the chapter itself determined the content of the windows, which articulate the church’s view of proper modes of royal and lay behavior. Iconographic choice, then, rested in the hands of the chapter, rather than in those of financial contributors.
Gifts and Patronal Identity Politics
Questions of agency increase in complexity in the widespread practice of gifting, a problem that scholars have addressed in creative ways. As Camille points out, gifts are ambiguous, as they range from concretizations of a giver’s desires, idealizations, and assumptions to reasonable fulfillments of the needs, taste, or wishes of the recipient.51 They also act as abstract currency, imposing a debt of a political, economic, or other sort on the recipient, and as a means of culturalartistic transmission.52
Consequently, the “first owners” of objects must not be construed automatically as patrons. Extensive notations in a Bible in Troyes indicate that the manuscript belonged to St Bernard. But it is full of color, gold, and grotesques, the very features he railed against in monastic settings. Cahn has hypothesized that the book was a gift to Bernard and the product of a lay atelier – hence its deviations from his ascetic ideals.53
Caviness has argued that works of art given to women must be scrutinized to determine “whether their messages were encoded for, by, or ‘against’” their recipient.54 Her feminist inquiry illuminates canonical works of art, the St Albans Psalter and the Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, which previously had been discussed primarily in iconographic and stylistic terms.55 She argues that the psalter (c.1120–30) was made with the precise needs of Christina of Markyate in mind, whether for her or for the monk Roger, who perhaps used it for her spiritual instruction. Carrasco’s work corroborates this view by demonstrating that the psalter’s representations of the Magdalen typified new interpretations of the sinner-saint as a penitential paradigm for women.56 Hence the appropriateness of such imagery for and “pro” Christina. In contrast, Caviness argues that much of the imagery in the Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux (c.1324) works “against” the young queen, as its ribald marginalia caters less to her spiritual interests than to the desire of her new husband to shape her views of marriage, sexuality, and reproduction.57 This famous book may bear the name of Jeanne, but its texts and images divulge the agency and agenda of Charles IV.
Representing Agency: Donor Imagery
Images of patrons/donors on many late medieval works of art assert ownership of or affiliation with the object in question, regardless of the complexity of its production process. Studies of this feature of patronage illustrate the discipline’s movement away from Vasarian paradigms. Classic investigations of donor imagery sought to identify patrons and relate them iconographically to Early Christian or imperial prototypes, in which patrons generally offer a model of the commissioned work to holy figures or kneel before them.58 In contrast, recent work highlights the semiotics of such scenes. Some studies focus on manipulations of hierarchy in presentational imagery; others examine how donor images structure or represent visionary experience.59 Still other scholars have emphasized the salvational dynamics of such imagery or considered a wider range of patron groups.
Studies of the tympanum of Mervilliers (first half of the twelfth century) reveal the web of financial and spiritual relationships generated around patronage.60 Replacing the holy figures usually displayed on tympana, here a knight offers a gift to St George; an inscription states that “Rembald, the knight… conferred on me [St George] present treasures in order to have [treasures] without end.”61 Although rarely represented in this literal way, such contractual arrangements multiplied after the codification of the doctrine of Purgatory (1215).62
Within this salvational matrix, burials and family chapels of the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries often included effigies, personalized inscriptions, and heraldry in order to clarify for whom surviving family members, the religious, and faithful should pray. Morganstern has shown that some Gothic tombs conveyed legal meaning, as their figural displays of lineage provided focal points for future generations of liturgical caretakers.63 The new and increasingly elaborate visual language of heraldry articulated this literal type of lineage, while also displaying webs of political affiliation and projecting social status. And as Michael has demonstrated, the proximity of shield to images of holy figures articulated connections between the patron and his or her heavenly intercessors, thereby expediting the process of salvation.64
Motivating Patronal Agency: Power and Family
Royal initiatives began to dominate patronage studies in the first half of the last century, as the foundational works of Schramm, Kantorowicz, and others on the iconography of power indicate.65 Now, however, authority is no longer seen in purely iconographic terms; the semantic field has expanded to include styles, references, monument types, materials, and motifs. Furthermore, newly accessible settings in Central and Eastern Europe have expanded the canon beyond its narrow postwar boundaries, as have studies of East–West relations.66 Interpretive models informed by literary criticism, cultural studies, and feminism cluster alongside ones of traditional but interdisciplinary derivation.
Take the case of St Louis. Whereas Branner’s influential study argued that the modern style and luxuriousness of the Sainte-Chapelle were de facto royal characteristics and thus emulated beyond the Île-de-France, later studies have sought to understand the wider circumstances and abstract references embedded in the royal foundation which legitimate the sacral foundations of Capetian kingship.67 For instance, Weiss emphasizes the chapel’s evocations of the Holy Land, which were intended to frame its relics of the Passion and promote conceptions of Louis IX as anointed ruler of a new Chosen Land.68 Jordan’s study of narrativity in the chapel’s stained glass links the windows to contemporary Parisian literary circles and the ars poetriae.69
Although these studies take different paths, they magnify the underpinnings of French regal authority as articulated visually through “ideological, material, and formal integration,” as Brenk observed.70 As such, the Sainte-Chapelle can be seen as overlapping with other areas of Capetian patronage: the Bibles moralisées, Grandes Chroniques, new tombs at St Denis, and so on.71 Thematic and iconographic consistency possibly derived from the involvement of the king, as Jordan hypothesized for the Sainte-Chapelle; but it also speaks to the vast resources that the Capetians channeled into artistic production and the resulting ability to complete projects quickly – and under the aegis of a few advisors, say, rather than generations of them. It is vexing that the advisors who shaped such multilayered, propagandistic representations often remain unknown.72
Studies of power patronage in Germany and England have uncovered other dynamics at play. Rather than asserting authority through sumptuousness or modern visual and literary idioms, the Landgrave Hermann of Thuringia (d.1217) utilized imposing, imperial design elements for his palaces.73 Meanwhile, Binski has emphasized the appropriational character of Plantagenet art, which drew from a wide range of sources and ideologies and recontextualized them for home consumption.74
Scholarship on royal and other women moves away from power paradigms. While women commissioned innovative and large-scale projects (i.e., Blanche of Castile’s Bibles moralisées and Cistercian monasteries),75 recent studies have reconstructed more subtle activities, including how women fueled private piety and its attendant material culture, and transmitted cultural-artistic practices from their places of birth to where they spent their adult lives.76
Women commissioned small projects, such as prayer books and liturgical objects used in private chapels, because they were in charge of the “spiritual and moral welfare of their families,” as Gee has emphasized.77 English women often conferred with mendicant confessors while creating religious environments appropriate to the home. Works of art such as the Clare Chasuble (after 1270), attributed on the basis of heraldry to the patronage of Margaret de Clare,78 demonstrate the potential richness of such environments. Others, such as the de Brailes Hours (c.1240), define new types of objects that historians have come to associate with women’s spirituality.79
As with other branches of art history, studies of patronage have followed the trajectories of the discipline as a whole. Supplementing strictly formalist or iconographic interpretations, foundational scholars such as Meiss and Branner tended to focus on elite, male patrons and the artworks associated with them. In the last 30 or more years, research has encompassed more diverse patron groups, including the laity and women of varied status.
This new inclusiveness is but one feature of the widening patronal field. Scholars have also examined mechanisms of art production and negotiations of agency within complex economic, social, intellectual, and theological systems. Motives for patronage likewise have come to the fore with greater specificity; scholars have endeavored to reconstruct the personal or cultural circumstances which fueled patronage, rather than simply characterizing the resulting art as generic expressions of concern with the afterlife. Similarly, others have emphasized the motives, means, and impact of recontextualizing pre-existing works or artistic conventions, and helped define patronage as an act of consumption as well as production. Feminism, Marxism, and other theoretical models of contemporary resonance have fueled these processes, as have creative perspectives drawn from a variety of historical disciplines. Through various means, then, patronage studies have consistently evaluated the myriad functions and roles of art, and in so doing challenged canonical views of both medieval art and society.
Many thanks to Adam Cohen, who read an earlier draft of this essay, and to the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada, which supported aspects of this project.
1 E.g., the stylistic precocity of the Normans. Bilson, “The Beginnings of Gothic Architecture in England,” pp. 259–69 and 289–326; Bony, “La Technique normande,” pp. 153–88.
2 For example, Meiss, French Painting.
3 Macready and Thompson, eds., Art and Patronage; Camille, “For Our Devotion and Pleasure.”
4 Foundational studies: see Burckhardt, Kultur der Renaissance; Antal, Florentine Painting; Hauser, Social History of Art. Critical fortunes of Hauser and movement see Jonathan Harris, “General Introduction,” pp. xv–xxx.
5 Haskell, “Patronage.”
6 See D. Park on Romanesque wall painting (vol. 26, p. 656); C. M. Kauffmann on Romanesque manuscripts (vol. 26, pp. 659–60); P. Binski on Gothic painting (vol. 13, pp. 127–8), and D. Sandron on Gothic sculpture (vol. 13, pp. 76–7). See also Turner, ed., Dictionary of Art.
7 Brenk, “Committenza.”
8 E.g., studies by Bell, Bergmann, Binski, Caviness, Gee, and McCash (cited below).
9 For example, Haskell, Patrons and Painters.
10 Notable exceptions: Hindman, Sealed in Parchment; Fernie, Architecture of Norman England, ch. 3.
11 Suger, Abbot Suger on the Abbey Church, pp. 86–7.
12 Duby, Early Growth, pp. 48–57, and “Culture of the Knightly Class.”
13 For Suger as guiding force, see Gerson, “Suger as Iconographer,” in Gerson, ed., Abbot Suger and Saint-Denis, pp. 183–95; versus Skubiszewski, “L’Intellectuel et l’artiste” and Rudolph, Artistic Change. For the middle ground, see Grant, Abbot Suger.
14 Kidson, “Panofsky, Suger.” Also see Grodecki, “Les Vitraux allégoriques”; Rudolph, Artistic Change; and von Simson, The Gothic Cathedral, ch. 4.
15 Rudolph, Artistic Change; Grant, Abbot Suger.
16 Caviness, “Anchoress, Abbess, and Queen,” p. 113; also p. 107. British Library, Lansdowne Ms 383, fol. 14v.
17 Warnke, Bau und Überbau, p. 58.
18 Brenk, “Committenza”; see also Bergmann, “Prior Omnibus Autor.”
19 Bouchard, “Knights.”
20 E.g., Carlson, “A Charter for Saint-Etienne,” pp. 11–14; Hill, “Lay Patronage and Monastic Architecture.”
21 Cahn, “Rule and the Book.”
22 Suger, Abbot Suger, pp. 66–7, 76–7, 86–7.
23 Gillerman, Enguerran de Marigny, Appendix A.
24 E.g., Herimann Cross (1056) from Werden, inscribed “Herimann Archiep(iscopu)s me fieri iussit” – versus artists’ signatures, “Eilbertus coloniensis me fecit” on a portable altar in the Guelph treasury (c.1150).
25 For historiographic analysis, see Cahn, “Artist as Outlaw”; see also Kessler, “On the State of Medieval Art History.” See an extension of this idea in Henning, “Patronage and Style in the Arts.”
26 Kidson, “Panofsky, Suger, and St. Denis.”
27 Key studies are discussed in Gilbert, “Statement of Aesthetic Attitude.” See also note 25.
28 E.g., articles in Gesta 41 (2002), ed. Sherry Lindquist and Stephen Perkinson.
29 Montalembert, Les Moines d’occident; Morris, “Art and Socialism”; foundations are in Bizzarro, Romanesque Architectural Criticism, p. 130. For early revisions, see Mortet, Recueil de textes; Swarthout, Monastic Craftsman.
30 Fergusson, Architecture of Solitude, ch. 1; other works cited below.
31 S. Bernardi vita prima quoted/translated in Brooke, “St Bernard,” p. 21.
32 See Brooke, “St Bernard”; Burton, “Foundation of the British Cistercian Houses”; Davis, “The Choir of the Abbey of Altenberg.”
33 Brooke, “St Bernard”; Hill, “Lay Patronage.” [On the question of Cistercian stylistic consistency, see chapter 27 by Fergusson in this volume (ed.).]
34 Shelby, “Monastic Patrons.”
35 Ibid., p. 95.
36 Price, “Effect of Patronage.”
37 E.g., Cohen, The Uta Codex. Also Hamburger, “Introduction,” in his Visual and the Visionary.
38 Caviness, “Hildegard as Designer.” Also see Caviness, “Hildegard of Bingen.”
39 Hamburger, Nuns as Artists. [For more on Hildegard of Bingen, see chapter 6 by Kurmann-Schwarz in this volume (ed.).]
40 Cooper, “Mecenatismo or Clientelismo?”
41 Martindale, Rise of the Artist; Warnke, Hofkünstler; Chartier, Forms and Meanings.
42 Lowden sees the gesture as conveying her political stature during the regency. On her patronage of the earliest Bibles moralisées, see Lowden, Making of the Bibles moralisées.
43 Ibid., p. 130.
44 Stones, Le Livre d’images, pp. 36–8.
45 [For more on the Bibles moralisées, see chapter 20 by Hedeman in this volume (ed.).]
46 [On the Gothic cathedral, see chapter 18 by Murray in this volume (ed.).]
47 Noted in the twelfth century around repairs at the Cathedral of Chartres; introduced a utopian ideal celebrated by Romanticist writers and proponents of Gothic Revival such as Pugin, Viollet-le-Duc, and Henry Adams. Documents translated in Frisch, Gothic Art, pp. 23–30. For a Marxist critique of the consensual model, see Abou-El-Haj, “Urban Setting.” Also see Kraus, Gold was the Mortar.
48 Kraus, Gold was the Mortar, ch. 2; Kimpel and Suckale, Gotische Architektur, ch. 1.
49 Erlande-Brandenburg, The Cathedral, ch. 5; also, Kurmann-Schwarz, “Récits, programme,” p. 67.
50 E.g., Brenk, “Bildprogrammatik”; Williams, Bread, Wine, and Money; Kemp, Sermo corporeus; Mahnes-Deremble, Vitraux narratifs. For a critique, see Kurmann-Schwarz, “Récits, programme”
51 Camille, Medieval Art of Love, ch. 2.
52 Mauss, The Gift; Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners;” von Euw and Schreiner, eds., Kaiserin Theophanu.
53 Troyes, Bibl. Mun. Ms. 458. Cahn, Romanesque Bible Illumination, p. 234; see also Cahn, “Rule and the Book,” esp. Appendix of donors.
54 Caviness, “Anchoress, Abbess, and Queen,” p. 108.
55 Hildesheim, St Godehard; and New York, Cloisters 54.1.2. See classic studies of Pächt et al., The Saint Albans Psalter, and Mâle, L’art religieux, pp. 3–13.
56 Carrasco, “Imagery of the Magdalen.” [For more on Christina of Markyate, see chapter 6 by Kurmann-Schwarz in this volume (ed.).]
57 Caviness, “Patron or Matron?” Holladay’s “Education of Jeanne d’Evreux” sees a different instructional function; the Hours of St Louis provides behavioral role models for Jeanne.
58 For example, Prochno, Schreiber- und Dedikationsbild; Ladner, Papstbildnisse.
59 E.g., Buettner, “Profane Illustrations,” p. 78; Gee, Women, Art, p. 46 and fig. 5.
60 Maines, “Good Works”; and Skubiszewski, “L’Intellectuel et l’artiste.”
61 Transcription/translation in Maines, “Good Works,” pp. 82–3; p. 91, n.64.
62 Le Goff, La Naissance.
63 Morganstern, Gothic Tombs; for an overview of the literature on tombs, see Holladay, “Tombs and Memory.”
64 Michael, “Privilege of ‘Proximity’.”
65 Schramm, Herrschaftszeichen; Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. For National Socialist problems, see Cantor, Inventing the Middle Ages, ch. 3.
66 Crossley, “Architecture of Queenship.” Also see Rosario, Art and Propaganda; Lillich, “Gifts of the Lords of Brienne.”
67 Branner, St. Louis and the Court Style. Significant critiques of Branner’s “court style” include Colvin, “‘Court Style’ in Medieval English Architecture;” Bruzelius, Thirteenth-Century Church, ch. 7; and most forcefully, Binski, Westminster Abbey. For diverse takes on his legacy, see Gesta 39 (2000), ed. Paula Gerson and Stephen Murray.
68 Weiss, Art and Crusade.
69 Jordan, Visualizing Kingship.
70 Brenk, “Sainte-Chapelle,” p. 196.
71 Erlande-Brandenburg, Le Roi est mort, III.2, and Wright, “Royal Tomb Program”; Hedeman, The Royal Image; Lowden, Making of the Bibles Moralisées.
72 Similar observations in Rosario, Art and Propaganda.
73 Holladay, “Hermann of Thuringia.”
74 Binski, Westminster Abbey. Draws upon foundations as diverse as Elias’s theories of civilizing influences and contemporary consumption theory.
75 See Gajewski-Kennedy, “Recherches sur l’architecture,” and Kimpel and Suckale, Gotische Architektur, pp. 382–3, on Blanche’s architectural innovations; versus Branner, St Louis. For the manuscripts, see Lowden, Making of the Bibles Moralisées.
76 See Bell, “Medieval Women Book Owners,” for comparable arguments regarding manuscripts.
77 Gee, Women, Art, p. 39.
78 Ibid., p. 66.
79 British Library Ms Add. 49999. Donovan, De Brailes Hours; Gee, Women, Art, ch. 3; Hamburger, “Before the Book of Hours.”
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