Stained glass knights

click photo to enlarge

There is not as much medieval stained glass in England as might be expected. Many continental European countries that saw land warfare in WW1 and WW2 suffered great losses. Similarly, those that were the subject of heavy and systematic aerial bombing lost much in the major cities. England experienced no ground warfare, but was heavily bombed. However, though these major wars did destroy some of our remaining old stained glass they were not the main cause of its disappearance. That had happened much earlier in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

The Protestant Reformation produced national protestant churches that either replaced or complemented the existing Roman Catholic religion. Its clergy and congregations often saw stained glass as idolatrous. It did not fit with the new churches' ideas of what should be found in a building dedicated to worship. Consequently much was broken and disposed of, and much was sold. In England the Dissolution of the Monasteries following Henry VIII's assumption of the role of head of the church of England saw the deliberate destruction of monastic abbeys, priories, convents, friaries etc, with their wealth being seized by the crown and their property sold. In the following years zealots and iconoclasts before and during the English Civil War smashed yet more ancient glass in cathedrals and parish churches. But, this wanton destruction notwithstanding, today it is not unusual to come across re-assembled fragments, some whole windows and a few quite complete schemes.

Today's photograph shows part of a window, one of seven of the fourteenth century, in the chancel clerestory at Tewkesbury Abbey in Gloucestershire. The heraldry of the knights' surcoats suggests a date of around 1340. The families represented are, from left to right, Fitzroy, de Clare, le Despenser and Fitzhamon. It is thought that the donor was Eleanor de Clare (d.1337) and the scheme was supervised by her son, Hugh le Despenser. Most of this glass is original. Some re-assembled fragments can be seen in the shields of the four shapes across the bottom of the image. The windows were restored to their present beauty by Kempe & Co. in 1923-4.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 161mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 1600
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The knight and the carnations

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One of the basic themes found in all forms of art is the pairing of unlikely bedfellows. The story of Beauty and The Beast exemplifies this very well, so much so that its basic idea was plundered, and subtle changes introduced, in stories such as The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Cyrano de Bergerac.

Fashion photographers are particularly drawn to this theme, placing their model and the the clothes they are showing off in the most unlikely of contexts. The English photographer, Cecil Beaton (1904-1980), renowned for his photographs of Audrey Hepburn and other film stars, as well as for photoshoots for the big fashion houses, is generally remembered for the images of elegance that he produced. However, one photograph that sticks in my mind is of a refined woman, coat casually draped around her shoulders, reading a newspaper that she holds in her white-gloved hands, whilst sitting on a concrete splattered saw-horse among grimy buckets, spades and the like. The contrast between the subject and setting was what drew the viewer into the shot.

Today's photograph is also an unlikely pairing, but one which I think works really well. It shows a tomb of a Knight of the Order of St John, dating from the 1400s, in the church of St Botolph's, Boston, Lincolnshire. I posted an image of this knight on the blog a while ago, and it depicts the tomb as one is used to seeing such things. However, when I visited the flower festival at St Botolph's (see yesterday's post), I found that someone had surrounded this fine piece of sculpture with pink carnations (and a few orange daisies). That simple act transformed the cold, dead stone, injecting life where there was none, lightening the mood surrounding the effigy, and introducing a colour that complemented the bluish tones. It was a photographic opportunity not to be missed, so I composed this shot using the out-of-focus blooms on the left to balance the head on the right.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.2
Shutter Speed: 1/50 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The quest for immortality

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Is the personal quest for immortality through artefacts anything more than simple vanity? I can't see that it is. The idea that you want or need people to remember you after your death seems absurd to me. That family, friends and admirers might wish to remember a person is an entirely different matter, but naming a building after yourself, building your own marble mausoleum, having your statue cast, or writing a book with that purpose in mind, seems to me a rather pathetic act of weakness and vanity. I remember being disappointed when I read that John Keats' poetry was motivated, in large part, by his desire for fame and immortality, and that the drive that leads many to write was only a small part of his motivation. His reason for writing seemed to demean both him and his work.

This thought sometimes comes into my head as I look at the monuments and memorials in churches. Many are erected with gratitude by people who knew the deceased. But others are works commissioned by the person commemorated, and are clearly designed to portray him or her in a flattering light. Those depicting eighteenth century aristocrats in antique Roman costume, exuding classical nobility and learning, accompanied by a tablet of unctuous prose, are the ones I find particularly repugnant.

I don't know whether this fifteenth century knight of the Order of St John in the church of St Botolph, Boston, Lincolnshire, commissioned his own effigy, or whether it was made after his death. It is an interesting alabaster piece, and without sculpture such as this we would know much less about the armour of people of that time. However, as a commemorative piece it has failed, because, unlike many in this type of memorial, we no longer know precisely who is shown. We do know that the Order was active in Boston in the thirteenth century, that it maintained two hospitals and St John's church in the town, and that it was dissolved in 1540, but beyond that we know little. It may be connected with the family of Sir William Weston. Today we can enjoy it as a piece of sculpture, as social history, and as a tangible link to the place's past. But not as this person's stab at immortality.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On