At The Cloisters: the Medieval Garden

The Cloisters is a magical place, not only for its art and architecture, but also for its plants. The horticulturalists there have established beautiful medieval gardens, the largest of which is in the cloister which came from the Cistercian abbey at Bonnefont-en-Comminges in France. Although the height of the gardening season was past, this garden was still a lovely place, with plants creating lively interactions with the architecture. The museum has a blog for its gardens, full of interesting information on medieval plants and their uses, which you can see here. The plants were used for food and medicine and for dyes.




The ivy presents a soft geometry on the hard stone. The tree is a cornelian cherry (Cornus mas).




In the garden you can see traditional ways of training plants, such as this espalier, now almost leafless, leaving the structure clearly visible. This is a pear tree, and has been in the garden since the 1940s. I learned from the blog that this technique dates from the Renaissance, not earlier.




Behind some sturdy cabbages is a tuteur, a pyramidal structure to support plants. I don't know what was growing on this, or why it is full of small branches, but it is a gorgeously textured object.




One of the garden beds was labeled as "Plants used by Medieval artists", though from a little research, I think they were mostly used for textile dyes rather than pigments. The three plants above are Woad, Our-Lady's-Bedstraw, and Weld. Woad yields a blue dye similar to that of indigo, but not as strong; the tops of Our-Lady's-Bedstraw give a yellow dye, the roots red; weld is also yellow and when overdyed with woad produces a deep green.




I have a special fondness for thistle-type plants, whose form I find very rich with its geometrically ordered parts. This is Fuller's teasel, which interestingly was used in processing textiles, combing wool and raising its nap. Some weavers still use this plant although it was mainly replaced by metal combs.




And lastly, a look from the garden out over the Hudson River to the Palisades of New Jersey. I was so lucky to visit on such a perfect day at such a beautiful time of year.


Previous posts on the Cloisters:
At the Cloisters: Sculpture
At the Cloisters: Architecture

A New Textile: "Deep Purple/Yellow Ground"

Deep Purple/Yellow Ground, hand dyed wool on linen, 11 x 10 inches.

This piece is another in my series of figure/ground images, but I don't think a terribly successful one in my aim, which is to have shapes which are balanced so that none seem to be the primary "figure" of the composition. I liked the idea of using a deep warm purple along with a darkish warm yellow. At first I considered making the center shape dark and the surrounding quarter-circles yellow, but thought a dark center would recede, never holding the surface. What I didn't take into account when choosing the colors was that yellow would insistently say "star", which wouldn't happen with another color, let's say green. I was hoping your eye would bounce back and forth from central shape to surrounding curved corners, but I think the yellow takes precedence. Oh well... If you'd like to see some of the other works in this series, go to this blog post.




This detail shows how I put an edge around each form so one doesn't seem to slip behind the other. I keep the hooking direction simple and flat: horizontal and vertical. But even the simplest of ideas can switch gears on you without you realizing it; I don't mind the shift from time to time.

At The Cloisters: Sculpture

Nativity of the Virgin, detail; Germany, around 1480; Limewood with paint and appliqués.

I was enthralled, entranced, captivated, by the sculpture collection at the Cloisters. The same qualities that I love in Quattrocento painting – the simplicity and directness of form, the world of faith that existed before the humanism of the Renaissance – is here in the medieval collections. This sculpture of Saint Anne on the birthing bed is so sensitive, so full of revery and gentleness.

Nativity of the Virgin, detail of Saint Anne's head.

The head of Saint Anne touches me deeply; it is a portrait of womanhood, but the details – the rounded chin, the soft fleshy cheeks and throat, the elegant nose – become those of a real, thoughtful, person.

Enthroned Virgin and Child; central France, late 12th century; walnut with paint, gesso, and linen.

In this earlier sculpture, the forms are more stylized, with drapery creating large looping rhythms. There is tremendous power in the direct gaze and simply sculpted form of the two figures.

Seated Bishop, detail; Tilman Riemenschneider; Germany, ca. 1495-1500; Limewood and gray-black stain.

Riemenschneider was a great sculptor of the period that spanned the Gothic into the Renaissance. This portrait is a beautiful, sympathetic rendering of an aged cleric, one that expresses love and compassion.

Torso of Christ; France, Auvergne, late 12th century; poplar, gesso, paint, and gilding.

The stylized drapery makes the more naturalistically rendered torso seem all the more vulnerable.

Tomb Effigy of a Boy; Spain, ca. 1300-1350; Limestone and traces of polychromy.

I love this tomb sculpture for its details: the tassels and pattern on the pillow, the forms on the shoulder strap, and tiny buttons along the arm. They enliven the quiet, generalized portrait of a boy who may have been the Count of Urgell.

Relief with Saint Lawrence Presenting the Poor; Austria, about 1490; White or stone pine, paint, and gilding.

The photograph of this sculpture does not do it justice; I thought the piece was astonishing with its specific faces, and bodies huddled together in a compact mass; their humanity is so strongly expressed. The wall label describes the scene: "Saint Lawrence is shown presenting the poor as the true wealth of the Church". An ongoing lesson for us all.

Pieta, detail; Bohemia, ca. 1400; Limestone.

As in the Saint Anne above, I kept noticing details of sculpture that were so very beautiful, where the feeling was concentrated in a gesture. The Virgin's hand holds that of Christ so lightly, so tenderly, with restrained yet deep emotion.

Palmesel (Palm Donkey), detail; Germany, 15th century; limewood with paint.

This long fingered, thin hand, a fleshed skeleton, emerging from the mass of folds is very touching. The label for the sculpture tells me that the fingers on the hands were restored, so I don't know how original they are, but they are beautiful in any case.

Aquamanile in the Form of a Dragon; northern Germany, about 1200; copper alloy.

An aquamanile is a vessel with human or animal figures, sometimes used in religious ceremonies. I thought this piece was wonderful, with the figure emerging from the dragon's mouth. The fanciful patterns make the dragon into a bird, which made me think of the relationship between dinosaurs and birds.

Mirror Case or Box Cover with the Attack on the Castle of Love; France, ca. 1320-40; Elephant Ivory.

Not all the art objects produced during this period were religious in nature. I thought I'd end with two pieces with secular subjects. This small round relief delightfully shows knights being held off by women armed with roses, but the god of love is ready to loose his arrows.

Base for a Statuette; North France or South Lowlands, early 16th century; Ivory.

This piece has amusing scenes which likely allude to stories of love and infidelity. The small details are all marvelous: the fencing, the clothing, the stick with a head that the jester-like figure is carrying. There is such a fascinating range of sculpture to be seen at the Cloisters; within this limited time period is a wealth of artistic expression.


A previous post on the Cloisters:
At the Cloisters: Architecture

At The Cloisters: Architecture

Pontaut Chapter House, France, 12th century; from the Cistercian abbey of Notre-Dame at Pontaut, south of Bordeaux.

Standing in this beautiful room, with its arching vaults and curved windows, quiet and solemn feeling, made me intensely aware of the attraction of living apart from the world in a monastery.

Pontaut Chapter House

In this meeting place, the monks would sit on stone benches that ran against the walls, doubtless not very comfortable in winter; but certainly the simple yet soaring space was an aid to contemplation. How lucky we are to have a public museum in upper Manhattan in which we can experience actual medieval architecture as though we were visiting Europe, and also see a remarkable collection of objects.

The Cloisters Museum, a photo from the museum's website.

I hadn't been to the Cloisters in many years; I was inspired to visit by images of the collection posted by the artist Carol Heft on Facebook, and I'm so glad I went; I'll be writing several blog posts on the museum. The Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is located on a spectacular site high over the Hudson River. When you drive up to it, you pass under an enormous stone archway, setting the scene for the building above. It looks like a place out of time, an ancient monastery or church lifted from a French mountainside. It was designed by Charles Collens, the architect of Riverside Church, and incorporates elements of five medieval cloisters; John D. Rockefeller was its patron saint.

Fuentidueña Apse, Spain, ca. 1175-1200; from the church of San Martin at Fuentidueña, near Segovia.

As much as we might feel awed and hushed visiting a museum, the experience of the Cloisters is different; I felt as though I was in sacred spaces. The barrel vault and dome of this apse, with windows echoing the shapes above, gave me a sense of serene grandeur, a place for the spirit to expand.

Langon Chapel, France, after 1126; from the choir of the church of Notre-Dame-du-Bourg, at Langon near Bordeaux.

This chapel is another example of the beauty of the curved arches of Romanesque architecture; it is thick and heavy compared to the Gothic with its pointed arches and flying buttresses allowing for more light, but its calm masses are very pleasing to me.

Trie Cloister, France, Pyrenees, late 15th century;.

This lovely cloister incorporates elements from a convent, abbey and monastery in southwestern France. The original double columns are made of different marbles; the modern arches are pointed since the cloister is of a later date.

Cuxa Cloister, capitals, France, ca. 1130-40; from the Benedictine monastery of Saint-Michele-de-Cuxa, near Perpignan.

These fantastically carved capitals, with marvelous beasts and dramatically inventive designs, all come from Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa. From the explanatory text I learned that the monastery was sacked in the 17th century and had fallen into ruin by the 19th. I am so glad that some of this architecture was saved and transported to this great museum. The experience of architectural spaces goes beyond the visual, into deep bodily sensations.

Curried Lentil Soup with Tomatoes and Sorrel

The days have turned cool so my thoughts have turned to soup. This is a hearty recipe that I make while the sorrel is still green before hard frost and first thing in the spring when the sorrel emerges. It is spicy and flavorful, with the intense tastes of curry and ginger and lemon. The recipe comes from good friends in California, the artist Karen L. Haas and philosopher Tom Leddy.




1/2 cup chopped onion
2 Tbs vegetable oil
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 inch peeled, grated fresh ginger
1 Tbs curry powder (I used a hot curry powder which adds extra pizzazz)
1 teas ground cumin
1 cup lentils
1 quart chicken broth (I use water)
1 can chopped tomatoes
1 cup firmly packed coarsely chopped sorrel leaves (I used two cups)
fresh lemon juice to taste.

1. Cook onion in oil until lightly golden
2. Add garlic and ginger, cook for 1 minute
3. Add curry and cumin, cook and stir 30 seconds
4. Add lentils and 1 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil and simmer, covered, 5 minutes
5. Add broth and simmer, covered 25 minutes, until lentils are tender
6. Add tomatoes and sorrel and cook a few more minutes
7. Season with lemon, salt, and pepper to taste. (I found that with the larger amount of sorrel I didn't need any lemon juice. I also think the sorrel was extra flavorful this late in the season.)

**I'll be heading to NYC for a few days of family, friends and art. See you next week!

A New Painting: "Handle and Holes"

Handle and Holes, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 5 3/8 x 6 inches.

Here is the second of three paintings that I'm doing on the theme of handles; you can see the previous painting, titled Partnered here. I realize you might not believe me, but until I began working on this image I didn't see how amusingly sexual it was. It's perfectly fine for you all to laugh, because I think humor is welcome in this case. I also felt that I was painting something very cartoonish, with those googly eyes at bottom. So, a cartoonish sexy picture, painted in solemn dark reds (though red of course is the color of blood and passion). I wonder how this would have looked in perky yellow or bouncy blue; a little silly?




In this detail you can see some of the subtle variation in color in the reds that I painted in order to make the surface more lively; not too much to call attention to it, but enough so that the shapes have a sense of weight and presence. When I look at this picture, I begin to accept that I'm not yet a minimalist painter; I've got too many other pictorial notions bubbling up.

Our Pets and Other Animals

Poppy and Blinky when they were kittens, three years ago.

I've been thinking recently about our relationship to animals; we love our companions and are fascinated by untamed creatures. There are endless posts on Facebook of pets, of nature videos; there are numerous television shows dedicated to telling us the stories of wild animals. I remember being in Central Park one day, wondering what all those people with telescopes and zoom lenses were looking at; they were following the lives of the red tailed hawks living on Fifth Avenue. An essay that I'd read years ago by John Berger, the French artist and writer, came to mind; I remembered him writing about the intertwined lives that humans and animals used to have and how that had changed with modern life. The influential essay is called "Why Look at Animals" and was written in 1977 (which you can read here). I was happy to reread it; it's full of interesting insights, but is ultimately a bleak assessment of our modern human/animal relationships.

Blinky watching me work, sitting up on a speaker.

Berger writes that the Industrial Revolution of the 19th century began a process "by which every tradition which has previously mediated between man and nature was broken.". Before then, animals and humans were together, leading parallel lives; animals offered metaphor and magic; the human and the animal regarded each other across an "abyss of non-comprehension". How often do we feel when we return the look of an animal that we are encountering another kind of consciousness? but we can't know what this other is thinking. Berger writes that "Such an unspeaking companionship was felt to be so equal that often one finds the conviction that it was man who lacked the capacity to speak with animals..."

It was when animals became marginalized in the 19th century that zoos became popular, as did realistic animal toys and then pets. Berger sees this as a relentless removal of animals from human lives: "That look between animal and man, which may have played a crucial role in the development of human society, and with which, in any case, all men had always lived until less than a century ago, had been extinguished."

Ginger (1995-2008)

Berger has no sympathy for the contemporary pet owner, those of us who feel that we have a close connection, a deep look into the eyes of another species, so I was pleased to read an opinion piece, "Pet Lovers, Pathologized" in the NY Times last Sunday by the philosopher Kelly Oliver. In it she complains that "to love animals is to be soft, childlike, or pathological. To admit dependence on animals – particularly emotional and psychological dependence, as pet owners often do – is seen as a type of neurosis." She asks that society, philosophy, culture, take seriously our love of animals. When my dog Ginger – the charming, overly exuberant big dog who I could never train not to jump up on visitors, with one perked ear and one flopped – was alive, I often spoke of her as my best friend. When she died, I, who am not sentimental, buried her ashes under the spot by the house where she most loved to sit and survey the world.

Holstein heifers on a farm in northern Vermont.

I believe that even though we are far removed from John Berger's ideal world of the peasant, we are greatly enlarged by our encounters with animals, with these other spirits, whether in intimate relationships with pets, or with seeing animals on the farm or in the zoo, or if we're very lucky, in the wild; I vividly remember my two encounters with local bears, and my moose visitors. It is always good to remember that humans are not alone on this earth; we share it with all manner of creatures, all beautiful, all trying to survive.

A New Textile: "Three, Two, One"

Three, Two, One, hand dyed wool on linen; 3 pieces: 4 1/2 x 9, 7 1/4 x 9, 11 x 9 inches.

I've had an idea for a wall-to-floor piece for a long time, and have finally executed it, a very minimal design; I did another piece last year that touches the floor (see below), but never one that utilizes it. I remember years ago seeing a painting that was in two parts, one on the wall meeting one on the floor. I thought it might have been an Ellsworth Kelly, but I've never been able to find an image like that. My big decision with this piece was what colors to use, and there were many choices. I began by thinking of a gradual shift of color from top to bottom, using intense bright color; then I contemplated three different yet related colors, also saturated, or three primaries. In the end I realized that I wanted to use subtle, grayed color that wouldn't pop off the wall and floor, but rest inconspicuously there.




These are the two dye colors I used to mix my final colors. I added a little of the yellow to the blue and blue to the yellow, then mixed a middle tone between the two. I was surprised at the colors that resulted, a lot grayer than I'd expected, but I was happy with them.




To make the lines, which I also wanted to be subtle, I cut the tops of the loops.




Here is the piece installed in my studio alongside some drawings, the "hooked rug" creeping back to its origins as floor covering. Do you think my choice of subdued color was the correct one?

Up Down, 2010, hand dyed wool on linen; 4 pieces: 4 x 4, 4 x 10, 4 x 15, 4 x 14 inches.

This is the other floor piece that I did last year, with elements going up and down, needing the floor as an anchor, a spot of stability and repose.

The November Garden

We've had frosts, and snow (just 3 inches), the days are getting short; the garden should be finished by now. But the honeysuckle by the south facing front door still has a few perky blooms, and all its leaves.




The remarkably persistent Johnny Jump Ups that have seeded themselves in the vegetable garden are flowering in profusion.




I've been gradually cutting back the perennials, but there are plants like this amsonia whose leaves are so lovely in color that I will wait until they brown.




The mass of siberian iris in front of my shed is looking quite disheveled, but their greens and golds are too much alive for me to want to cut them away.




I am still eating vegetables fresh from the garden, the ones that love frosts, become more delicious in the cold. Brussels sprouts and leeks...




turnips (tonight I'm having caramelized turnips for supper)...




fennel, and of course kale.




Soon the entire garden will look like my peony bed, covered with the weekend's snow, in the northern shadow of the house. For now though, the grass is green and a few flowers bloom, easing me gently into the thought of winter.

Cold Stuffed Grape Leaves

One of my favorite dishes growing up was Yebra, grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice and cooked with apricots and tamarind. So I was very happy to find another wonderful recipe for grape leaves, this time stuffed with just flavored rice and served cold. It is in Claudia Roden's great book The Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York. In it she states that Muslims liked their grape leaves hot and stuffed with ground meat while Jews liked them cold with rice; this certainly wasn't true in my Syrian Jewish family, but I must say I love them cooked with lemon and served cold. The recipe looks like it might be difficult, but aside from the time it takes to roll the leaves, it's fairly simple, and definitely delicious. I made this last weekend for a potluck and it was a great success, with friends eagerly awaiting this recipe.


8 oz grape leaves preserved in brine
1 cup long grained rice
2 medium tomatoes, chopped fine
1 medium onion
2 Tbs chopped mint leaves
2 Tbs chopped parsley
2 Tbs chopped dill or fennel
1/2 teas cinnamon
1/4 teas allspice
salt and pepper
2 Tbs pine nuts (optional)
lettuce leaves or potatoes to line the bottom of the pot
3 or 4 garlic cloves, slivered
2/3 cup olive oil
1 teas sugar
juice of 1 lemon

• Remove the salt from the grape leaves by rinsing them in cool water.
• For the stuffing, mix rice with the tomatoes, onion, herbs and spices; add salt and pepper to taste and pine nuts, if using.
• Line a heavy bottomed saucepan with lettuce leaves or potatoes (that day I used cabbage leaves because I had a cabbage in the fridge). This will keep the stuffed grape leaves from sticking to the bottom of the pot and burning.
• Put a vine leaf on a flat surface, stem end up. Put a heaping teaspoon of rice – more if the leaf is large – at the top of the leaf. Fold the top parts over the stuffing, then fold the sides over toward the middle. Roll the leaf toward you, not too tight because the rice will swell as it cooks.

• Place the leaves tightly together in layers in the lined pot, with the ends of the leaves facing down. Put some garlic here and there between them.
• Mix the olive oil, lemon juice, and sugar with 2 cups of water (Roden says just 2/3 cup water, but I find that's not enough to cook the rice). Put a small plate on top of the leaves so they won't unravel during cooking.
• Simmer over very low heat, adding more water if necessary. Roden suggests 1 hour cooking time; my mother always cooks grape leaves a very very long time and I like the flavor that comes from long cooking, so I suggest 2 hours, always checking from time to time to be sure there's enough water in the pot. I would check one stuffed leaf after an hour to be sure the rice is cooking. Add more water if it's still hard.
  
• Let the grape leaves cool in the pot before turning them onto a platter.
• Serve cold with lemon wedges.

makes about 25 larger leaves, 40 small ones.