 |
| Can you guess which were the two monks that weren't paying attention during the health and safety lecture? St Gregory's Moralia in Job, Citeaux, twelfth century, (Dijon, Bibliotheque Municipale, MS 173). |
Sunday, 25 March 2012
When Cistercian Monks Were Branching Out
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Death To Palaeography V...
After spending several frustrating hours attempting to (ultimately unsuccessfully) decode an eighteenth century document, I was reminded of an old friend and so imagined a small continuing scene in which our palaeographer finds a streak of heroism...
The voice, as perhaps was expected, belonged to the Professor. She dodged past his crippled figure and ran for the door. She reasoned that a.) nobody would be particularly happy about being whacked around the head by a frying pan, even if it was only compact travelling sized, and b.) that she was heartily sick of the events of the day. She wanted to go home and cocoon herself in her own bed. The one with its springs broken by the energetic couple who had owned it first, the one with her cosiest pyjamas stowed under the pillow, and the one which remained far away from this nightmare.
Of course, as always, fate, ill-luck, or perhaps more likely the fact that in the mayhem she had misplaced her spectacles, conspired against her.
It pulled tight around her neck and she lost precious seconds fighting to untangle herself. Her fingers trembled with nervous energy and slipped over the woollen threads hindering her attempts. When finally she had worked it free, leaving tufts of wool snagged on the metal, she resumed her flight only to feel his hand gripping her upper arm. She wrenched herself from his grasp and turn to him angrily. She lifted the kitchen-utensil-come-deadly-weapon threateningly, too upset to care that he still held the gun in his hand.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” She yelled.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He interrupted, with equal vehemence, his hand rubbing what would soon be a sizeable lump on his forehead.
“With me? You’re the one who double crossed me!” She gestured violently at him, frying pan in hand, which he eyed with some alarm. “To think I trusted you. That I came to you for help. Was that your plan all along?” She studied him closely for any indication or expression of guilt. Except he didn’t look guilty. He just looked very confused.
“What?” He asked weakly. With sudden doubt she looked at the frying pan, wondering exactly how hard she had hit him.
Good Lord had she brained one of the university’s senior academics? They would never forgive her for that. And who would supervise her after they discovered that she had rendered her Professor a drooling fool. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. There was no sign of drool, yet. Perhaps after all she had not hit him too hard.
But then why did he look so confused? Why was he looking at her as if she had grown a second head with a full complement of green skin and antennae? Could it possibly be because he was innocent? If he was innocent then perhaps he wouldn’t want to hurt her. But maybe he would want to hurt considering the fact she had recently coshed him over the head.
She desperately wanted to believe he was innocent. Her conclusions were hardly based upon firm proof, and besides she had always been quite terrible at Cluedo as a child. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether believing in his innocence was a little like believing in Father Christmas.
The voice, as perhaps was expected, belonged to the Professor. She dodged past his crippled figure and ran for the door. She reasoned that a.) nobody would be particularly happy about being whacked around the head by a frying pan, even if it was only compact travelling sized, and b.) that she was heartily sick of the events of the day. She wanted to go home and cocoon herself in her own bed. The one with its springs broken by the energetic couple who had owned it first, the one with her cosiest pyjamas stowed under the pillow, and the one which remained far away from this nightmare.
Of course, as always, fate, ill-luck, or perhaps more likely the fact that in the mayhem she had misplaced her spectacles, conspired against her.
Her scarf caught on the handle of the door.
It pulled tight around her neck and she lost precious seconds fighting to untangle herself. Her fingers trembled with nervous energy and slipped over the woollen threads hindering her attempts. When finally she had worked it free, leaving tufts of wool snagged on the metal, she resumed her flight only to feel his hand gripping her upper arm. She wrenched herself from his grasp and turn to him angrily. She lifted the kitchen-utensil-come-deadly-weapon threateningly, too upset to care that he still held the gun in his hand.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” She yelled.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He interrupted, with equal vehemence, his hand rubbing what would soon be a sizeable lump on his forehead.
“With me? You’re the one who double crossed me!” She gestured violently at him, frying pan in hand, which he eyed with some alarm. “To think I trusted you. That I came to you for help. Was that your plan all along?” She studied him closely for any indication or expression of guilt. Except he didn’t look guilty. He just looked very confused.
“What?” He asked weakly. With sudden doubt she looked at the frying pan, wondering exactly how hard she had hit him.
Good Lord had she brained one of the university’s senior academics? They would never forgive her for that. And who would supervise her after they discovered that she had rendered her Professor a drooling fool. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. There was no sign of drool, yet. Perhaps after all she had not hit him too hard.
But then why did he look so confused? Why was he looking at her as if she had grown a second head with a full complement of green skin and antennae? Could it possibly be because he was innocent? If he was innocent then perhaps he wouldn’t want to hurt her. But maybe he would want to hurt considering the fact she had recently coshed him over the head.
She desperately wanted to believe he was innocent. Her conclusions were hardly based upon firm proof, and besides she had always been quite terrible at Cluedo as a child. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether believing in his innocence was a little like believing in Father Christmas.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Horticultural Happenstance...
And they say men don’t
grow on trees!
The clouds shuffled back slowly like a sleeper reluctantly parting with a blanket. One sleeper, however, was already awake, watching contentedly as the breaking cloud created a pink and orange patchwork across the morning sky. Instead of the usual sight of frost hanging grimly to branch and leaf a pleasant breeze drifted off the nearby stream and through the open window.
Bare feet tapped impatiently on the tiled floor and a streak of impulsiveness caused a hand to reach out for an uncomfortably scratchy woollen habit. Pulling it directly over her thin shift the watcher crept out of the dormitory careful to avoid disturbing her fellow sleepers. Those bare feet directed her automatically to the garden, where she paused, smiling and humming a soft reply to the stirrings of birds and curling her toes in the verdant softness.
The breeze stirred across her neck and she self-consciously raised a hand. She had still not grown used to her shorn hair. The uneven lengths curled about her face and inadvertently drew attention towards her unusual violet hued eyes and the full bloom of her lips. Hacking off the long braid had been the result of angry impetuousness, as had been her decision to take the veil.
Ruefully she acknowledged to herself that as with most decisions throughout her life she had acted in haste. The cloistered life was not one for which she was well suited, but regardless in a few days she would take the vows that would bind her to these stone walls. Perhaps in time, she reasoned, her nature would adapt to the strictures of the convent. Wildly following fleeting passions had after all only caused her trouble. And there were other benefits, for a woman could safely seek an education here, where otherwise she would be forbidden or persecuted.
The familiar rows of plants blurred before her eyes as she rehearsed once more the reasons for settling in the convent. A particularly fragrant blossom, however, caused her to stop and admire the delicate ruffled edges of its petals. It was then that her attention was snagged by something curiously foot-shaped. Upon second and third inspection as she drew closer she ascertained that it was indeed a foot. A fourth and fifth examination reassured her that it was connected to an entire body. And finally she noted with a certain amount of feminine interest that it was in fact a well-formed male body.
She blinked uncertain how she was meant to react to the unexpected male presence within a convent. Should she cry out and fetch the abbess? Or should she faint in maidenly shock? Quickly discarding both ideas as utterly ridiculous she bent over the strange apparition and checked his pulse as she had once read in the single Galen manuscript owned by the convent. Rocking back on her heels she frowned and then poked the body with a broken twig. After all she had only got halfway through Galen.
The body elicited a groan and then some particularly colourful curses which would have sent the matronly abbess into apoplectic shock. After what she felt was a decent amount of time had passed, in which the stranger had still not opened his eyes, her curiosity was unable to be restrained any longer.
“Why are you in our garden?” The rather blunt question caused one eye to peek open quickly before closing again on another groan. Clearly he had not been prepared for an audience. Abruptly she realised that he might in fact be injured and asked solicitously though not entirely sincerely, “Do you need any help?” For a moment she thought he had fallen unconscious again but eventually he replied with eyes still firmly shut.
“I’m just waiting for the world to stop tilting quite so violently.”
“Oh.” She said uncertainly but still feeling like she ought to say something.
“These leaves are damn prickly.” He continued.
“Perhaps then you should have fallen unconscious on a more comfortable plant.” She responded tartly.
“Why anyone would think you didn’t care for my well being.” He said with mock outrage.
“I don’t know you, but I know my plants. I grew these from tiny seedlings. Hours of attention annihilated by your heavy backside, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not more attentive to your grievous wounds.” His deep laugh reached the warmth of his brown eyes, which were suddenly fixed on her face. As she looked down at him, her stomach fluttering under the intensity of his gaze, she realised mournfully that once again trouble had managed to find her.
The clouds shuffled back slowly like a sleeper reluctantly parting with a blanket. One sleeper, however, was already awake, watching contentedly as the breaking cloud created a pink and orange patchwork across the morning sky. Instead of the usual sight of frost hanging grimly to branch and leaf a pleasant breeze drifted off the nearby stream and through the open window.
Bare feet tapped impatiently on the tiled floor and a streak of impulsiveness caused a hand to reach out for an uncomfortably scratchy woollen habit. Pulling it directly over her thin shift the watcher crept out of the dormitory careful to avoid disturbing her fellow sleepers. Those bare feet directed her automatically to the garden, where she paused, smiling and humming a soft reply to the stirrings of birds and curling her toes in the verdant softness.
The breeze stirred across her neck and she self-consciously raised a hand. She had still not grown used to her shorn hair. The uneven lengths curled about her face and inadvertently drew attention towards her unusual violet hued eyes and the full bloom of her lips. Hacking off the long braid had been the result of angry impetuousness, as had been her decision to take the veil.
Ruefully she acknowledged to herself that as with most decisions throughout her life she had acted in haste. The cloistered life was not one for which she was well suited, but regardless in a few days she would take the vows that would bind her to these stone walls. Perhaps in time, she reasoned, her nature would adapt to the strictures of the convent. Wildly following fleeting passions had after all only caused her trouble. And there were other benefits, for a woman could safely seek an education here, where otherwise she would be forbidden or persecuted.
The familiar rows of plants blurred before her eyes as she rehearsed once more the reasons for settling in the convent. A particularly fragrant blossom, however, caused her to stop and admire the delicate ruffled edges of its petals. It was then that her attention was snagged by something curiously foot-shaped. Upon second and third inspection as she drew closer she ascertained that it was indeed a foot. A fourth and fifth examination reassured her that it was connected to an entire body. And finally she noted with a certain amount of feminine interest that it was in fact a well-formed male body.
She blinked uncertain how she was meant to react to the unexpected male presence within a convent. Should she cry out and fetch the abbess? Or should she faint in maidenly shock? Quickly discarding both ideas as utterly ridiculous she bent over the strange apparition and checked his pulse as she had once read in the single Galen manuscript owned by the convent. Rocking back on her heels she frowned and then poked the body with a broken twig. After all she had only got halfway through Galen.
The body elicited a groan and then some particularly colourful curses which would have sent the matronly abbess into apoplectic shock. After what she felt was a decent amount of time had passed, in which the stranger had still not opened his eyes, her curiosity was unable to be restrained any longer.
“Why are you in our garden?” The rather blunt question caused one eye to peek open quickly before closing again on another groan. Clearly he had not been prepared for an audience. Abruptly she realised that he might in fact be injured and asked solicitously though not entirely sincerely, “Do you need any help?” For a moment she thought he had fallen unconscious again but eventually he replied with eyes still firmly shut.
“I’m just waiting for the world to stop tilting quite so violently.”
“Oh.” She said uncertainly but still feeling like she ought to say something.
“These leaves are damn prickly.” He continued.
“Perhaps then you should have fallen unconscious on a more comfortable plant.” She responded tartly.
“Why anyone would think you didn’t care for my well being.” He said with mock outrage.
“I don’t know you, but I know my plants. I grew these from tiny seedlings. Hours of attention annihilated by your heavy backside, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not more attentive to your grievous wounds.” His deep laugh reached the warmth of his brown eyes, which were suddenly fixed on her face. As she looked down at him, her stomach fluttering under the intensity of his gaze, she realised mournfully that once again trouble had managed to find her.
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Becoming A Book Worm
Now I am more likely to squeak excitedly over a crumbling
stone wall or grin inanely at some crudely executed tile decoration, but after having
spent a day handling rare and expensive manuscripts it seemed only fair to
include them amongst my weekly scribbles.
This is a Book of Hours made in c.1500 in Bruges. It is a tiny book measuring in at less than 10cm height. Written in a beautifully clear Gothic hand on vellum it contains several texts in Latin and French, including a Calendar, the Hours of the Cross and the Office for the Dead. In total it contains 14 full page miniatures of biblical scenes, such as the Crucifixion, Annunciation and Coronation of the Virgin. The marginal decoration around these images includes architectural details and various images of nature, such as birds, plants and insects.
Originally Books of Hours were created to allow lay people to follow monastic practices in a more simplified form. Prayers and psalms were organised into the eight canonical hours: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. However particularly by the later Middle Ages expensively made and well illustrated Books of Hours became a sign of status.
 |
| The Nativity, f. 135. Sam Fogg, Master of the Beinecke Hours, undated, |
This is a Book of Hours made in c.1500 in Bruges. It is a tiny book measuring in at less than 10cm height. Written in a beautifully clear Gothic hand on vellum it contains several texts in Latin and French, including a Calendar, the Hours of the Cross and the Office for the Dead. In total it contains 14 full page miniatures of biblical scenes, such as the Crucifixion, Annunciation and Coronation of the Virgin. The marginal decoration around these images includes architectural details and various images of nature, such as birds, plants and insects.
 |
| David and Bathsheba, f. 247. Sam Fogg, Master of the Beinecke Hours, undated, |
Originally Books of Hours were created to allow lay people to follow monastic practices in a more simplified form. Prayers and psalms were organised into the eight canonical hours: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline. However particularly by the later Middle Ages expensively made and well illustrated Books of Hours became a sign of status.