A co-authored post by Levi Prombaum and James Cameron, respectively a modernist and a medievalist and both PhD students at the Courtauld Institute, about experiences of the Sculpture in Situ day.
Dr Kim Woods began the Sculpture in Situ day under the shadow of the Gherkin at St. Helen’s Bishopgate by introducing the group to the funerary monument of Sir John Crosby (d.1476) and his wife. It looked, to modernist eyes, completely impenetrable, whereas for medievalists, it was par for the course: man and wife, alabaster, side-by-side, tomb-chest, polished limestone, mid-C15, surely. Beyond style, medievalists immediately begin to think of the patron’s wishes to place himself by the altar, and to invite prayers for their souls within the ritual and devotional space of the parish church. This is not totally unlike museums where modernist sculpture is presented according to the artist’s wishes, so that viewers participate in the objects’ careful explorations of space, tying together the artist’s engagement with history, medium and meaning. But here spatial relations are distorted with the removal of the things which conditioned the original context: unusually for an Anglican church there is not a single altar remaining at St. Helens, and the floor has been raised, hiding the base of the once more elevated tomb, making these associations with place more difficult to unravel.
Yet the two figures of the Crosby tomb were from a different historical context from the institution of the gallery and the emancipated artist, springing out of a vastly different relationship between craftsman, patron and space and composed of possibly unfamiliar materials. Dr Woods made clear, however, that the key ingredient to studying sculpture in situ successfully was not necessarily immediately spotting clear answers to all of your questions. Instead, a good investigation starts by giving yourself enough time to look. One must attend to the quality of the sculptural material and its current condition, including registering traces of past sculptural elements and carefully considering its setting. Whether one starts from a small iconographic detail and works outward, or begins with a general condition report that unearths specific details later on, the act of looking cannot be rushed, and like the sculptural object itself, good sculptural research, demands that we inhabit multiple perspectives.
We also investigated the monument that was moved to St Helen’s in the late nineteenth century from the demolished parish church St. Martin Outwich. The identity of the figures as John de Oteswich and wife is often taken for granted on antiquarian evidence, yet deserves questioning. What engages most are some exceedingly high-quality virtuoso flourishes on the hilt of his sword, the sign of a highly skilled sculptor. But what altered the discussion most of all was when his hefty and copiously proportioned money-bag was pointed out. It is often questioned why accurate portraiture is generally untypical in medieval effigies, but we can see with something like this, it was because the patrons were more concerned about what they were, not how they looked. It is hard when interrogating a monument so intensely as to not think of Philip Larkin, who obsessed over the detail of a sculpted lord and lady holding hands in his poem An Arundel Tomb, dismissing it as a thrown-off detail which only assumed sentimental value after the end of the Middle Ages. Certainly our London monument had the standard little dogs beneath the feet as absurd as they get, but this purse was clearly a detail very carefully chosen, with which to manifest this unknown man’s self-image, and our little group’s discussion allowed this image to briefly resonate once more.
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The need for multiple perspectives became clearer as we moved to Mercer’s Hall, where, in place of covered nobility, was a suffering Christ from the long-destroyed medieval Mercer’s Chapel, with an arched back and writhing body whose vulnerability was echoed in deep folds of fabric cut into the stone on which he lay. Though it was made less than half a century later than the Crosby tomb, the dramatically different carving style was a good reminder of what a hodgepodge of techniques that economic and cultural centres like London have been for centuries. Taking on the object from all angles was not only an important part of solving the mystery of this sculpture’s destruction, but also allowed us to see that this single object played multiple roles for viewers within the church throughout the calendar year.
The Mercer Christ is a harrowing object, a true masterpiece of late medieval pathos. Not just because of its subject, but because of the way it seems to have been destroyed. There are four main areas of damage: firstly, all four extremities have been bashed off, the Crown of Thorns sliced off along with a good portion of His skull, and most perplexingly of all, there is an X-shaped incision over the heart. This seems to have been a methodical way of de-sanctifying the image. If someone who was unfamiliar with the old religion had been called upon to destroy it, they surely would have ground it into rubble. But someone who formerly venerated this image went about it a different way – with the five wounds of Christ cancelled out, this was now a mere object with aesthetic qualities, but ruined for devotion. Fitting, then, that now we could gather round it, investigating it forensically like an empty shell of a body in a morgue, and only speculate about His original context within medieval piety and sacred space.
In her later work, art historian and critic Rosalind Krauss has characterized all media as having origins that are multiple, and conventions that depend on this multiplicity to generate meaning. This study day with Material Witness made us more critical about some of the limiting assumptions that we make while looking at sculpture in museum settings, for every installation is a complex negotiation between different parties and changing materials. It also encouraged us to centre the search for this multiplicity of function and meaning in the act of looking itself, and indeed, since we were around one single sculpture continuously for nearly two hours, how much we can get out of the act of looking if we simply slow down.