Title Page of Abbot Berno’s “Tonarius”: Initial D[omino], c.1030, Germany, Abbey of Reichenau, 11th century, ink, tempera, and gold on vellum, Sheet: 21.5 x 15.3 cm (8 7/16 x 6 in.). Purchase from the J. H. Wade Fund 1952.88

From Barnett’s Newman’s zips to the vibrating filaments of a Pollock painting to the
dizzying concentric circles of Op Art, abstract pictorial space has invited the modern, contemplative viewer to consider a realm behind and beyond the canvas. Perhaps upon receiving this tonary, the reader would have experienced a similar sensation of being drawn into abstract space in this medieval manuscript.

This leaf was originally the dedication page of the Tonarius (or Tonary) written by Reichenau’s Abbot Berno (1008-1048) and dedicated to Archbishop Pilgrim of Cologne (1021- 1036), whose name appears below the illumination: DILECTO (the term of dedication) ARCHIPRESVLI PILIGRIMO. Tonaries were manuals that regulated the Gregorian chant melodies used to sing the psalms. Presumably the first illustrated page in the manuscript, the illumination would have invited a reader into the book and into the initial itself. Three immediately recognizable letters emerge from among cloying tendrils of gold. A large “O” in gold and orange contains a small “n” and “o,” which are placed on top of each other on color fields of green and then blue, in the center of the smallest “o.” The DO inscribed beneath the initial indicates the word “Domino,” or “lord or master.” However, even as the initial is spelled out letter by letter, the illustration defies both figural space and language, reaching into the abstract. Floral filigree escapes the frame of the large O and creeps up to the wider frame of the illustration; individual gold-leaf vines outlined in orange weave under and over the framed border, transgressing even this visual space. Other letters from the word “Domino” remain elusive, which leads us to some specific questions about the initial and inscription.

Questions: Where is the “m” in Domino? Is it indicated by the line over the DO? What does the “Q” signify next to these letters suggest? Is the horizontal line running across the central “o” in the initial perhaps the “i” of Domino? Why is the “D” not a part of the initial? Moreover, as we take visual step back, questions arise about the page as a whole. Why does the initial transgress the frame in this particular location? What is the significance of the color and geometry within the initial and framed space? Are they abstract references to the heavenly realms or the cosmos? What specific text does the “Domino” refer to? Could the initial be an extremely abstracted reference to Archbishop Pilgrim himself—a “lord” in the church?

Sacramentary of Henry II, Clm. 4456, Regensburg, 1002-1014 360 leaves: parchment, illuminations; 30 x 24 centimeters

Borrowing patterns from the mid-Eighth century Carolingian Codex Aureus of Charles the Bald (Clm. 14000), the Ottonian Sacramentary of Henry II was likely produced before Henry II (973–1024) became Holy Roman Emperor. The borders and frontispieces in the manuscript are filled with elaborate and dizzying abstractions. Many are arboreal or floral, while others are solely geometric. A prime example of the abstractions found within the entire codex is folio 16v, which begins what is now known as the Missale Romanum 1962 and reads in near-invisible Latin uncials, “TE IGITVR CLEMENTISSIME PATER” (“Therefore, most gracious Father”). The word “TE” is incorporated into swirls of golden and orange-lined vines over a background filled with varying points of red, blue, and green. The “T” occupies most of the space; the “E” is smaller and relegated to the right side. The “T” is filled with Celtic-like knots, and it intimates heavily the shape of the Cross. Illusionistic and maze-like shapes occupy the borders, with windmill patterns (wreath and clipeus-esque) at the center right, left, top, and bottom margins. Taken in at once, the folio is bewildering. No single detail overpowers at first, and then the words suddenly emerge from the page, as if from ether.

Questions: While borrowing from the Codex Aureus perhaps implies a desire by the illuminator to emphasize an imperial lineage for Henry II, why reuse and expand the abstracted elements? What are the implications of the geometric and arboreal patterns intertwining or appearing side-by-side? How is abstraction used to suggest natural matter (hyle or silva) and perhaps Genesis? Why might these be important to the imperial provenance of the manuscript? How do arboreal and floral designs interact and relate to the materials of the manuscript (ink, paint, gold, and animal skin)? Does this kind of design prompt a certain reaction from the viewer? How and when is the viewer to interact with the codex? How was the page laid out? Is there a geometric root to the seemingly free-drawn designs?

– Reed O’Mara

Carpet page, Lindisfarne Gospels book, Lindisfarne, England, c.715-720, ink and tempera on vellum, 34×24 cm, The British Library, London, Cotton MS Nero D. IV, f. 210v

The Lindisfarne Gospels is an Anglo-Saxon illuminated manuscript, most likely produced around the years 715-720 in the monastery at Lindisfarne, off the coast of Northumberland, by Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne (698-721). Eadfrith’s successor, Ethelwald, crafted the now-lost original leather binding, which in turn was decorated with jewels and precious metal by Billfrith the Anchorite. In the third quarter of the 10th century, Aldred, provost of Chester-le-Street, translated word by word the Latin text of the Lindisfarne Gospels in an Old English gloss and added it between the lines of the original text. Aldred was also responsible for the colophon (f. 259r), in which he outlined the history of the manuscript. The creation of the Lindisfarne Gospels book was expensive and laborious. Indeed, 300 calfskins were used to make the vellum, and precious pigments were imported from the Himalayas for the ambitious decoration. Its images display a complex combination of artistic styles, ranging from Celtic and Anglo-Saxon to Roman, Coptic and Eastern traditions. The iconographic program includes the canon tables (ff. 10r–17v), a Chi-Rho page (f. 29r), and decorative initials throughout the manuscripts. In addition, each Gospel is introduced by a portrait of the Evangelist writing his text (ff. 25v, 93v, 137v, 209v), followed by an intricately “carpet page” (ff. 2v, 26v, 94v, 138v, 210v), and by the incipit of his gospel (ff. 3r, 27r, 95r, 139r, 211r). Folio 210v is one of the five “carpet pages,” named for its striking resemblance to a Persian rug, composed of intricate abstract design. This folio is located after the illumination with the evangelist John and before the incipit page of his gospel. It is an extraordinary example of a page for pure decoration. The symmetrical composition of the folio displays a central Greek cross, surrounded by four crosses in the shape of a “T”, four vertical rectangles, four “L”-shape patterns, and four small squares. These geometric forms are embellished by knot work, spiral motifs, geometric meanders, and framed by a thick red outline. They stand out against the intricate and meticulously designed background, which shows an extensive interlacing of colorful birds grasping each other’s tails. This complex visual puzzle is contained within a double red frame. Each corner is adorned by a red and blue checkered grid, ending with a zoomorphic gold head. Other similar hybrid animal heads, shown in profile and developed in intricate gold knot work culminating at a green round disk, resting above the images, are inserted in the middle of each side of the frame. 

What is the purpose of the abstraction on this page? How was this geometric illustration meant to elicit meditation from the viewer? The page shows a complex and very intricate design; how was this pattern created and outlined on the folio? Was this geometric design inspired by any other objects made in other media and produced at the same time or earlier?

– Angelica Verduci

Produced in Köln between the end of the 10th and the middle of 11th century, several Gospel books display an astonishing quantity of full page “abstract” illuminations. With minor variations, each illumination showcases a wide rectangular shape almost filling the entire page. Often, the central space contains a simple plain color – purple or white – or a series of colored horizontal stripes, framed by a simple combination of lines or a foliated decoration. In some examples, two small lion feet peek out from the bottom edge, while two equally small lilies stretch upwards from the top corners. Because of the presence of such illuminations in at least five different manuscripts, it seems they could not simply be preparatory frames for incipits or for any other kind of decoration that was left incomplete. Moreover, these illuminated pages belong exclusively to books containing the Gospels and are often inserted in key positions: either at the very beginning of the text or mirroring an important illumination such as the Maiestas Domini. The process of production of a manuscript in the Middle Ages implied a tremendous amount of time and resources, which correlates with the meticulous planning of text and illustrations. Because of this, it is sensible to assume that these pages bore a meaning that goes far beyond mere decorative purposes. However, the question still remains: what meaning could this be?

– María Aime Villano

Inhabited Initial C, Breviary, 1153, Montecassino, Italy, Europe, 19.2 × 13.2 cm, Tempera colors, gold leaf, gold paint, and ink on parchment, Ms. Ludwig IX 1, fol. 259v

The Montecassino Breviary (Ms. Ludwig IX 1) at the J. Paul Getty Museum is an extraordinary example of Romanesque manuscript illumination. It was created in the scriptorium at the Benedictine monastery in Monte Cassino, a famed center of medieval learning. A prayer on fol. 248v provides the identity of the scribe (and possibly illuminator): the monk Sigenulfus. Given its small size, the codex was almost certainly intended for personal recitations of the Divine Office. There are twenty-eight highly elaborate inhabited initials throughout the text, constructed through complicated series of images, both abstracted and representational. The letters are consistently obscured by their own designs, which burst out of their frames and imbue the illuminations with a sense of animation. Light and dark blue, red, white, black, green and gold tones are used throughout the manuscript to fill this intricate patterning.

Highlighted here is the large Inhabited Initial C (fol. 259v), which dominates the page and introduces the hymn Conditor alme siderum (Nourishing Creator of the Stars). This hymn would have been recited at vespers on the first Sunday of Advent. “Conditor” is written vertically, while “alme siderum” appears horizontally underneath the large initial. The Initial C fuses natural and geometric forms to suggest both chaos and sacred cosmic order. On the left, gold paint breaks out of the delineated letterform. It appears to fill a sacred space between two mirrored dogs and a heart shape, blurring the boundaries between form and background. Although the letter is infused with symmetry and mirroring throughout its decoration, this heart shape suggests a horizontal hinge at its center. Despite the slight variations suggested by color choice and alterations of form, there is an overall sense of balance and movement conveyed in the initial.

How is the initial’s circular symmetry related to the hymn Conditor alme
siderum? How might its infinite interlocking and spiraling tendrils suggest the infinite power of God as creator? Are its forms meant to remind a viewer of the cosmos, or zodiac and star charts? How does the illumination reflect the intellectual and theological discussions happening at Montecassino? What relationship might there be between the designs of the initials and sacred geometry?

– Alexandra Kaczenski

Matfre Ermengaud de Beziers, Breviari d’amour, French, mid-14th century British Library, Harley MS 4940, fols.44v and fol. 28r

Matfre Ermengaud de Beziers, Breviari d’amour, French, mid-14th century British Library, Harley MS 4940, fols.44v and fol. 28r

This fourteenth-century manuscript is a copy of the Breviari d’amour, originally composed by Matfre Ermengaud de Beziers between 1288 and 1292 (British Library, Harley MS 4940, fols. 44v and fol. 28r). The text is written in Old Occitan, and seeks to demonstrate that the entire world is an emanation of love. The miniature on f. 44v is a diagrammatic representation of the cosmic spheres. Medieval cosmology followed a Ptolemaic model, with earth as the motionless center of the universe, surrounded by various rotating spheres, represented here as a series of concentric circles. Because this particular manuscript was left unfinished, the spheres in this miniature are missing the labels that would presumably have been written in the blank v-shaped section at top. The sublunary spheres, made up of the planet earth and the four elements (earth, water, fire, and air) were understood to be materially corruptible and changeful, while the spheres of the celestial region above were incorruptible, immutable, and perfect. The celestial region contained the seven planetary spheres, the sphere of fixed stars, the crystalline ninth heaven, and the tenth heaven, also called the primum mobile. This tenth heaven was the sphere that initiated the motion of all the spheres below it, hence its label as the primum mobile or First Mover. Beyond the primum mobile was an unmoving sphere called the empyrean heaven, which was understood to be the dwelling place of God and the angels. The relationship between the empyrean heaven and the primum mobile is represented in a miniature on fol. 28r, wherein angels hover outside the abstract geometric rendering of the cosmos and turn hand cranks in order to set the spheres below them into motion. In both miniatures, the abstract geometry of the cosmological diagrams is set off by the figural representations around them (the angels, the vine scrolls) . This contrast between figurative representation and abstract diagramming reinforces the unknowableness and unrepresentability of the cosmos.

After all, how could artists represent something that they could never see for themselves? What other kinds images juxtapose the representational and the abstract, and to what effect? How do medieval diagrams make use of abstraction to communicate complex ideas?

– Aimee Caya

Anonymous, En la maison Dedalus, ca. 1377, Paris, France; Parchment, 210 x 158 mm (entire page); Jean Gray Hargrove Music Library, University of California, Berkeley (US- BEm 744, fol. 34v)

En la maison Dedalus is the sole musical composition in the Berkeley Theory Manuscript, a collection of music theory treatises copied in Paris in 1375 (Jean Gray Hargrove Music Library, US-BEm 744, fol. 34v). Its score is distinctive: two concentric five-line staves form a labyrinth. A red dot consumes the center, immediately catching the eye. This colorful point of abstraction may suggest that the composition holds sacred significance.

In the text, a lover laments his inability to reach his beloved who is trapped “in the house of Dedalus.” According to legend, the craftsman Dedalus ensnared a terrible Minotaur in an impenetrable labyrinth. Only Theseus, son of Aegeus, was able to navigate the sinuous path and slay the monstrous creature. Fourteenth-century literary texts, such as the Ovide moralisé and Petrus Berchorius’s Ovidus moralizatus, allegorize this legend in Christological terms: Christ traversed the labyrinth of sin, descended into hell, vanquished the devil, and emerged as Redeemer of the world. At this time, architects also installed magnificent labyrinths in French cathedrals, upon which clerics would reenact Christ’s Harrowing in Hell. The red center in En la maison Dedalus can be read within this theological tradition: the red dot may serve as an index both of the burning fires of hell and of the blood of Christ, which removed the stain of the Original Sin and restored order to the universe, here signified by the perfect circle.

En la maison Dedalus is first and foremost a secular chanson. In what way does the element of abstraction contribute to a sacred reading for this musical composition? Would those who interacted with the score have been aware of the possibility of such a theologically inflected reading? How does the composition, as both a visual and musical work, enter into dialogue with the surrounding treatises?

– Rachel McNellis