Look up, but look down too

click photo to enlarge

It's a natural reaction, when approaching a medieval cathedral, minster or abbey, to look up. The architecture, indeed the main premise of such a building is to inspire that reaction in people: to make the passer-by admire the soaring towers, the pinnacles, the buttresses etc but, more importantly, to gaze heavenward. Identical intentions attach to the interior of these great churches, though here the iconography is more explicit and a visitor can be in no doubt of the message that is being broadcast.

In truth there are precious few surfaces of a cathedral that are not enlisted in the proclamation of the faith. From the "unnecessarily" ornate carving of capitals, windows, roof bosses etc, the celebration of Biblical figures in carving, stained glass and other materials and the heavy use of symbolism, to the beautiful carved and painted scripts that proclaim their messages, the building is a vehicle for the religion that erected it.

But, whilst it is natural to look up in a church, fewer people look down at the floor beneath their feet. Yet here too beauty and the message can be found. Some of our churches still have the original stone paving that replaced the rushes and compressed earth of the first religious buildings. Others retain medieval tiles impressed with geometric shapes, foliate crosses, leaves and other patterns, including the elaborate letter "M" signifying Mary or Madonna. Marble paving of the eighteenth century can also be seen: I posted a photograph of a trompe l'oeil example in the choir of Beverley Minster, East Yorkshire, earlier this year. The great restorations of the nineteenth century have left a wonderful legacy of floor tiles. Many of these take their lead from the medieval styles and colours but original designs abound too. This photograph of the area around the font of the church at Swineshead, Lincolnshire, shows very characteristic Victorian tilework. And then there are examples that are difficult to date because stylistic clues are few.

Today's photograph is such a tile scheme, also at Beverley Minster. Is it eighteenth or nineteenth century, or does it date from some time in the twentieth? Whenever it was made it works well. The eight pointed star is centred under the crossing tower, and the complexity of the pattern lessens as it spreads into the transepts. The design is strong, with contrast, but the colours are relatively muted, and it works with the surroundings. My photograph shows visitors in characteristic pose, faces turned upwards to the glories overhead. I wonder if they also looked down at the lesser, but also interesting, beauties beneath their feet.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 29mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/25
ISO: 1600
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0
Image Stabilisation: On

Regimental colours

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In a south aisle in Beverley Minster hang flags of the East Yorkshire Regiment (The Duke of York's Own). How old are they? Some must be many decades old, others much more ancient. Time is slowly decaying their woven cloth and fading their bright colours. Yet still they record the campaigns of this illustrious local regiment - Oudenarde, Malplaquet, Louisberg, Quebec, Ramilles, and others - names from history books, battles fought by local men recruited from towns such as Beverley, Driffield, Bridlington, Hedon and the city of Hull.

Many of our larger churches have such flags, often as in the case above, of regiments long gone in British Army amalgamations, the banners, and associated plaques and memorials remembering their deeds and their local connections. I suppose it's not only the religious aspect of remembrance that makes such a setting seem appropriate for these artefacts: the timeless character of a minster, a cathedral or a big medieval parish church must also promise a location that will endure and ensure that the sacrifice and achievements of these soldiers will not be forgotten.

I photographed these flags on a day when the glow of the sun was penetrating the darkness of the building, making the stained glass and old stone glow, and illuminating the tattered remnants hanging from their poles.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 60mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 3200
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Deceiving the eye

click photos to enlarge

The main photograph in today's entry shows the floor in the choir at Beverley Minster, East Yorkshire. In the smaller image you can see the floor in context*. The three-dimensional effect was achieved by the early eighteenth century restorers using four different colours of marble set in such a way that they suggest cubes. It is hard to imagine anything more different from the small, symmetrically patterned floor tiles that medieval builders favoured for such locations, and which came back into favour during the Victorian period. Yet, one of the marks of the styles in our great churches is that each generation tended to employ that which was fashionable at the time, and the eighteenth century loved this kind of thing.

The Arts and Crafts Movement of the second half of the nineteenth century abhorred such illusionism. They felt that flat surfaces should not be made to appear three-dimensional, that such trickery wasn't being true to either the surface or the materials. I was thinking about this as I photographed the floor, and also when I pointed my camera upwards at the underside of the crossing tower. It's something of a paradox, I thought, that from this point of view the vaulting looks very flat, linear, a touch Rococco even, and the perfectly flat floor looks like it is constructed of angular cubes. Of course, when you position yourself to one side of the crossing, as I did for my earlier photograph, the ceilings' curves, ribs and soaring arches reveal the architecture to be very sculptural. Similarly, a walk down the choir soon reveals the "blockiness" to be smooth, shiny and flawless, a tribute to the workmanship and chosen materials of three hundred years ago.

*Note: choir is used in the architectural sense to mean the place where the choir would sit and services were sung.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Main photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 28mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 2500
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Films, paint and stone

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I was re-reading Oliver Rackham's fine book, "The History of the Countryside" the other evening when I came across an aside that registered more strongly with me than it had done the first time I saw it. Talking about the scope of his book in a chapter entitled "Animals and plants: Extinctions and new arrivals", he observes that "The history of cultivated plants and domestic animals is generally well known*.... The asterisk refers to a footnote which says, "But not to producers of historical films: they do not allow Charles I to fly in a plane, but they do let him ride among Corsican pine plantations or Frisian (sic) cattle."

The same could be said of the medieval architecture we see in films of that period. The interiors of churches, cathedrals and castles are invariably shown as they appear today: cut and pointed stone, carved stone, but barely a hint of paint. In fact, the use of paint in such buildings was widespread. Columns, capitals, window and door surrounds, vaulting and many other surfaces were covered with, in the case of ecclesiastical buildings, illustrations of Biblical characters and episodes, or exuberant decoration. Much of this was removed during the centuries following the Reformation, and the Victorians completed the job, at least until people such as William Morris proclaimed "Enough!" During the nineteenth century a number of churches were painted in the medieval manner, but those receiving "the full works" are few and far between. The church of St Michael, Garton on the Wolds, East Yorkshire, is one such example that I've photographed. One of the best original examples at Kempley, Gloucestershire, will the subject of an upcoming post.

I was thinking about this last week as I looked up at the crossing inside Beverley Minster, East Yorkshire. I was trying to imagine what the building would have looked like with painted capitals etc. The bands and rings of dark Purbeck marble of the thirteenth and fourteenth century stonework adds an element of colour, as does the painted vaulting, but other than that it is pretty much devoid of surface decoration. I rather think that I wouldn't like it to be painted, having become used to the unadorned stone!

Anyone who is a regular visitor to this blog will know of my liking for vaulting, and will have seen several examples. Each time I take such a photograph I search for a new approach. This time I stood under the arch between the nave and the crossing and let the receding verticals of the massive compound piers take my eyes upwards.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 640
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: N/A