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During the Advent season, which starts on Sunday, December 1, Brothers Robert Kinzler and Leonard Marsh will provide three brief reflections on pieces of art from the La Salle University Art Museum. These will consist of a guide “Looking at the Art” as well as a spiritual “Reflection” based on the piece itself. It is our hope that these words will provide some starting points for your own reflection. It is our hope that after reading these and viewing the actual piece of art in the museum you will deepen your own Advent journey.
late 15th Century
15th Century
42 x 13 x 9 in. (106.7 x 33 x 22.9 cm)
Unknown Artist, German School of the Lower Rhine, German School of the Lower Rhine
Object Type: SCULPTURE
Creation Place: Europe, Germany
Medium and Support: Lindenwood
Credit Line: Gift of Lady Isolde Radzinowicz
Accession Number: 06-SC-56
Current Location: Art Museum : 15-16 C Gallery
Sculptures are three dimensional in nature. You can walk around them. You can see and (if you could touch) even feel the hands, face, nose and folds of the garments sculpted in relief. Paintings, on the other hand, are limited to their two-dimensional canvass, although some painters can create an illusion of three dimensions. Why is this important in discussing this sculpture of St. Anne holding her baby, the infant Mary?
We see St. Anne’s left hand supporting her baby Mary, holding her from under her bottom and pressing her to herself. On the other hand, literally, we see the mother’s right hand peeking out, but not stretching out, from under her sleeve as if to hold back an invitation for the viewer to approach. Devoid of facial expression, the mother and daughter project a staid and stately demeanor. All of this amid the movement of the myriad folds and layers of her and the baby’s garments, their ridges and grooves capturing the light and bouncing it back and forth to make them look real. A mother and child composite foreshadowing the more identifiable Madonna and Child where this baby Mary becomes the mother holding her own baby Jesus.
St. Anne was an important Saint when I was a child. My mother had a strong devotion to her and her feast day, July 26, was a Holy Day of Obligation for all practical purposes. When we picked this image for the first week of Advent, I had some concerns about what there was to say. A handsome piece, it is rather straight forward and has little nuance about it. It struck home however because of memories that it produced. I am reminded at this beginning of Advent that we await a savior, one who will be one of us. Just like the first chapter of Matthew’s Gospel or the Kalends, which is read on Christmas Eve, this statue of Anne, the grandmother, and Mary, the mother, root Jesus’s birth in time and place. It reminds us of how much Jesus shared our humanity. The human Jesus learned about love from his parents and his grandparents. (How many of us had important relationships with a grandparent?). As a young child, Jesus skinned his knee running and playing soccer. He struggled with all the emotions of his father’s death. He worried about his mother. He felt sorrow at the betrayal of Judas and the lack of support that the apostles gave him at the end. I believe that for the redemption to mean anything it is Jesus in his humanity who ultimately accepts the cross. Jesus in full and total acceptance of what it means to be human said a definitive yes to God. The statue of Anne then not only brings back fond memories but reminds me that I am always surrounded by those that love me. It also reminds me that while I will never be divine I can, like Jesus, strive to accept my humanity in all that God wills for me.
Stone relief with shades of polychrome and gilt
French
14th century
This portrayal of the Visitation most likely adorned a wall with other scenes like the Annunciation and the Nativity that shared the same architecture: Corinthian columns and a tripartite vault. The faithful walking along the wall would be inspired to reflect on the events leading up to the birth of Jesus. Here Mary, who has just discovered from an angel that she is pregnant, visits her older cousin Elizabeth, who was thought to be barren but who now is also pregnant with the future John the Baptist. Mary on the left exhibits a relaxed posture with one leg bent at the knee that shifts the weight to the other leg. The sculptor takes advantage of this early Renaissance revival of the Greek inspired posture called contrapposto to portray a pregnant Mary who needs to shift her weight especially after a tiring trip on foot to visit her cousin. Elizabeth in turn extends her right arm around Mary to welcome her and her left arm in front as if to feel the baby carried within her cousin Mary. Unique in this rendition of the Visitation is that Mary is carrying a bound and locked codex, forerunner of the modern book which was to become ubiquitous after the invention of the printing press in the mid-1400s. Whether or not this is seen as a gift for her cousin, it represents Jesus as the Word of God made flesh that she is carrying in her womb. The entire scene is blessed by the appearance of the Holy Spirit dove above the women who are themselves crowned with gilded halos. It is amazing that still after seven hundred years some of the color and gilt is preserved – a reminder that this act of human interaction is blessed and meaningful today.
I am struck by the fact that Mary is holding a book (the codex). In one of the traditional statues of St. Anne and Mary, unlike the one we examined last week, it appears that Anne is teaching Mary to read. Mary, a young girl of ten or twelve, holds an open scroll while Anne points to it. Both portrayals, I believe, highlight that Mary is carrying the Word within her, as “the Word became flesh.” The Visitation exemplifies why she is seen this way. Just as the original Ark carried the Word of God—the Commandments—Mary carries the Word of God, Jesus. She is often referred to as the new Ark of the Covenant and is held out as the model disciple.
What strikes me about this is that the moment of the Word becoming flesh does not lead Mary to a purely contemplative stance, although Luke often tells us that Mary pondered these things in her heart. Instead, this action compels Mary to go, to serve others, and to share the good news of what has happened to her. She does this at a time that is neither easy nor convenient. The journey from Nazareth to Elizabeth’s house would have taken two or three days through mountainous terrain. We do not know where she and Joseph stand—has he accepted the pregnancy, or is he considering divorce? Mary could easily have justified staying home to ensure Joseph would be part of the family. However, she does not think of herself but goes out to help another who is also struggling with an unexpected pregnancy.
I ask myself, what does hearing the Word and holding the Word of God in my heart, letting it live within me, ask of me? Do I make easy excuses—I’m old, others will take care of it, I am too tired, I’ve done enough? Or, like Mary, am I willing to trust the Word within me and act on it, trusting in the providential love of God to take care of me?
Bavarian stained glass window panels (formerly in St. Leonard’s Academy, 39th & Chestnut Streets, Philadelphia)
Mayer & Co. of Munich (aka Franz Mayer & Co.), German
1905
84 x 48 in. (213.4 x 121.9 cm)
Gift of Mr. and Mrs. B. Douglas Heckmann
Every traditional detail of the Christmas story is depicted in these stained glass panels. The Christ child is lying in a manger on a bed of straw. His adoring mother Mary is kneeling on one side of the manger and on the other side an angel kneels in adoration. The foster father Joseph stands holding a lantern while to his right are the requisite stable animals. This occupies the center panel of the lower half which is flanked by two panels portraying shepherds with their sheep. Above the center panel an angel hovers bearing a scroll that announces “Gloria in excelsis Deo” (“Glory to God in the highest”). Two other angels on either side complete the picture as they look down in adoration.
What is not traditional in this composite is that the whole is situated within an architectural frame. See the base, the thin columns on either side and some very ornate architectural elements atop the side panels. These are part of the stained glass not the structure in which the window is found. As such, this is a window depicting a window. Above the angel holding the scroll we see another ornate structure reminiscent of a cathedral façade. A trefoil (three-part leaf evoking the Trinity) occupies the space of a rose window and on top of that a larger trefoil culminates in three columns, each bearing a regal golden orb adorned with a cross. This elaborate structure contrasts vividly with the story being told of Jesus’s humble birth portrayed below.
What can be said of all of this? It is all about looking. We are looking through a window that is a picture of a window. Take a look at the lower right panel. See the young boy peeking through a window of his own to catch a glimpse of this marvelous event. Just like him we are looking and admiring in wonder at this historic event.
T. S. Eliot’s quote, “Human beings cannot bear too much reality,” from his poem “Four Quartets,” suggests that people often struggle to handle too much truth or reality, preferring to ignore or deny it. The Incarnation, the birth of God as a human being, is an overwhelming event—perhaps the most overwhelming event in history. It is the foundation for everything else, including death and resurrection.
We all have a need to make things familiar and known to us, and the Christmas story is no exception. Growing up, I sang Polish Christmas carols like “Hola hola, pasterze z pola,” “A cóż z tą dzieciną,” and “Hej hej, lelija Panna Maryja,” where Bethlehem was depicted as snowy, with long, cold nights, and Mary and Joseph as our neighbors. This imagery helped my Polish ancestors cope with the harsh winters of Poland.
This image reminds me of that. The window maker sets the Nativity in a familiar setting, or at least one he believes is fitting for the event. While all the traditional elements are present, there is no sense of the simplicity and poverty portrayed in Luke’s gospel. We see the Christ Child born in a manner befitting God become human. This makes me reflect on how I perceive the Incarnation. Do I try to sugarcoat it, denying its reality? This might influence how I view other situations, such as immigrant families today.
The Nativity is not an easy story to tell or hear if we remain true to the scriptures. Over the years, this reality has been sugarcoated to the point that many of us see it as a children’s story. How can I reclaim the power and wonder of this narrative so that it prepares for the Paschal mystery it foreshadows? Can I engage with the scriptures of this Advent and experience the Nativity anew? Can it transform me as it was meant to, rather than me transforming it to meet my needs?
Attributed to Joos van Cleve
Flemish, c. 1485-1540
Oil on panel
This is one of the numerous depictions of the Madonna of the Cherries. Some of them feature the Jesus’s foster father Joseph and others include John the Baptist. Of them all ten are known to be by the Flemish painter Joos van Cleve and his studio. This one is notable due to the absence of Joseph and John. Instead, we see here a window that opens onto a winding path toward a mountain probably representing the Child’s future path in life to the temple of Jerusalem. The plump and bulbous infant gestures toward the window while Mary with her calm and finely sculpted countenance looks on as the traditional Renaissance woman dressed in red and gold. Compositionally, the open window in the upper left is counterbalanced by the block on the lower right where Mary calmly rests her arm. On that block rests a bunch of cherries just as cherries are held by the infant pointing to Jerusalem in the open window.
Why cherries? They are symbolically rich, often associated with the fruit of paradise and, in Christian iconography, they signify the blood of Christ. So, in this painting the cherries evoke Mary as the new Eve and Jesus’s future suffering in Jerusalem.
When I heard the name of this painting, I immediately thought of the Cherry Tree Carol. For those who do not know the carol, Mary and Joseph are walking, and Mary asks Joseph to gather her some cherries. Joseph, in less than kind words, suggests that the father of her child pick her cherries. The tree immediately bends down so that Mary can pick her own cherries, implying that the child in her womb ordered the tree to accommodate his mother’s wish.
In this picture, however, the child has been born. What I see is Mary, pondering much in her heart, spending a quiet moment with her son. Both mother and child look serious, as if the weight of the world is upon them. Brother Leonard has already pointed out that cherries symbolize both the fruit of paradise and the blood of Christ. This image brings all salvation together, garden to garden, cradle to cross.
I am reminded that the joy of Christmas involves both our sinfulness from the first garden and our redemption from the second garden. I have no idea what the mother and child are thinking of in this picture, but I am asked to hold the tension of birth and death together in this season of light. It is in this tension that the incarnation takes on its full meaning. The gospels constantly hold this tension in front of us. We know the end of the story as we tell it. We are not asked to do this in some morbid way but to remember that the story needs to be told in full. The wood of the cradle becomes the wood of the cross. In this birth is our redemption. May The Madonna of the Cherries help me to remember the full story.