One has to be brave to return to the subject of Byzantine Iconoclasm, a subject which, we may feel, has been done to death. But the division in Byzantine society which lasted off and on for over a century, from 726 to the ‘restoration of orthodoxy’ in 843, was so profound that any Byzantine historian must at some time try to grapple with it. This is especially so if one is trying to understand the immediately preceding period, from the Persian invasions of the early seventh century to the great sieges of Constantinople by the Arabs in 674-8 and 717. It is well recognized by historians that this was a time of fundamental social, economic, and administrative change, which coincided with, but was by no means wholly caused by, the loss of so much Byzantine territory to the Arabs. However, the connection, if any, of this process of change with the social and religious upheaval known as Iconoclasm still leaves much to be said; indeed, no simple connection is likely in itself to provide an adequate explanation. In this paper I want to explore further some of the background to the crisis, without attempting here to provide a general explanation for Iconoclasm itself. I shall not venture beyond the first phase of Iconoclasm, which ended with the Second Council of Nicaea in 787, and after which the argument is somewhat different. Indeed, I shall be focusing here not even on the period known as ‘first Iconoclasm’, but mainly on the preceding period, when the issues inherent in the controversy were already, and increasingly, making themselves felt. Though we shall inevitably be concerned with some of the arguments brought against icons by their opponents, it is the place of images themselves in the context of the pre-Iconoclastic period which will be the main issue. Finally, while I want to offer a different way of reading the rise of icons, I do not pretend that it is the only one, or even possibly the most important. I do suggest, though, that it can help us to make sense of some of the issues that were involved.

The lesson that people hold radically differing views about church art is the harder to learn when one comes to it from the iconodul-istic side. Looking back on my own Roman Catholic schooling, and the place of statues and holy pictures in the religious devotions of that milieu, I realize that once sacramental awareness develops, it is not always easily confined to the matter of the theological sacraments themselves. The beheading of the statues in the Lady Chapel at Ely, which I visited at the age of eleven, seemed a shocking circumstance whose motivation was totally incomprehensible, even allowing for the fact that it was the work of Protestants, and the Old Testament, which might have brought the dawn of understanding, was, of course, no part of an ordinary Catholic education at that time. In short, the author of Charlemagne’s Libri Carolini would have found much upon which to make adverse comment in me, my fellows, and the monks who taught us. With the first artistic love of my student days, which was Romanesque sculpture, came an awareness of the voices and practice of those great medieval Protestants, the Cistercians. But only in the later encounter with Charlemagne was I forced to listen seriously to the moral and theological arguments against the unbridled use of figurai art in the service of the Church.

Forty years after Charlemagne’s imperial coronation, Walahfrid Strabo, thirty-three-year-old abbot of the monastery of Reichenau, wrote a history of mid-ninth-century Frankish liturgy: Libellas de exordiis et incrementis quarundam in observationibus ecclesiasticis rerum—A Little Book about the Origins and Development of Certain Aspects of the Liturgy. It was the first account of liturgical development, and the topics ranged widely over thirty-two chapters, from bells to baptism, language to litany. Most of the subjects were in a state of change or expansion. Where there was controversy—for example, should a priest celebrate the Eucharist more than once a day—the history of a practice would help to underline the essential elements and to demonstrate the Christian constants as opposed to cultural diversity. Where there was development, such as the increasing number of hymns available for the Liturgy of the Hours, the history of that practice was appropriate and timely.

This paper is an attempt to offer a preliminary study of a Christian tradition of allegorizing the zodiac which is found in certain literary texts and artistic representations. What prompted the investigation from the artistic point of view was an examination of the twelfth-century baptismal font in the church of St Peter at Hook Norton, Oxfordshire, which is decorated with a mixture of selected signs of the zodiac and scriptural images (plate i). It raises the question of how early was the tradition in which the zodiac was linked with baptism in Christian thought, and what other connections there might be. So the question I should like briefly to illustrate here is the connection between Christian decorations which feature the zodiac, particularly in the medieval period, and an allegorical tradition which goes back to the early Church.

Hugh of St Victor’s two treatises on Noah’s Ark, De arca Noe morali and De arca Noe mystìca, are major twelfth-century writings on the contemplative life with a significant relationship to the medieval iconographie tradition. Both refer to a drawing that symbolically presents the spiritual teaching of the treatises. Unfortunately this drawing no longer exists, but De arca Noe mystica describes it in detail. That description and passages in De arca Noe morali show that the drawing had three major iconographie elements:

(1) a figure of Christ ‘seated in majesty’ as seen in a vision by the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 6);

(2) a symbolic cosmos, with the earth at the centre, surrounded by the regions of aer and aether; and

(3) a schematized drawing of Noah’s Ark, depicting it as a three-storeyed, pyramidal vessel viewed from above.

These three ‘units’ were arranged so that the figure of Christ held the symbolic cosmos in front of his body (with only his head, hands, and feet visible), while the diagram of the Ark was placed in the centre of the symbolic cosmos so that the earth surrounded the Ark.

On at least three occasions during the pontificate of Innocent III, Gerald of Wales—failed bishop, celebrated story-teller, and inveterate and inventive pilgrim, made the journey to Rome.There, having already carried out his preliminary research, he was always eager to examine two of the most outstanding images in Rome at close quarters. These two images—the Uronica at the Lateran and the Veronica at St Peter’s—made such a deep impression upon him that his description and explanation of their importance was to form a central role in his Speculum Ecclesiae, which he wrote on his return home. He clearly saw them as a pair, having similar names and being held in equal reverence, although perhaps their authenticity sprang from different roots. His remarks would have greatly pleased Innocent, for this was precisely the approach which the pope aimed to achieve. He considered it essential that the long and damaging rivalry between the two great basilicas of the Lateran and the Vatican, which had existed for much of the twelfth century, should now be resolved. It was a rivalry which had brought scandal to the papacy and grave detriment to the Church. In thiscontroversy the Lateran had some advantages, both historically—as the cathedral of Rome and hence of the world—and in the popular appeal of its fabulous relics. A brief glance at a contemporary inventory shows the outstanding richness of this collection. Innocent’s aim was not to diminish the Lateran, but instead to raise the status of St Peter’s, so that both became co-equal seats of the pope-bishop of Rome. What Gerald of Wales had written confirmed Innocent’s own reading of the Liber Pontif¡calis, which was to form the basis for his important reform of the liturgy at this time. Nor was his approbation merely directed towards Gerald. It went to all observant pilgrims, particularly that small number of highly significant archbishops and metropolitans who came to Rome to collect their pallia on their appointments. That great show, the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, saw almost all of them in attendance. ‘Here was a wonderful opportunity for Innocent to stress the underlying purpose of his artistic patronage, whereby Lateran and Vatican were to achieve coequal status whilst, at the same time, the Church’s real message was being strengthened.

Few incidents in the life of St Francis strike the art historian more than his demolition of the newly constructed chapter-hall in Assisi. As the date of a chapter at S. Maria della Portiuncula was fast approaching and there was no accommodation for the large number of friars expected, the people of Assisi built a house to shelter the incoming friars. Coming across this structure, Francis became so irritated that he climbed the roof and threw down tiles and rafters, and was only stopped when knights interfered and the municipality argued that the building belonged to them. Ironically, this same man had answered God’s call and had repaired the ruined churches of S. Damiano, St Peter, and S. Maria della Portiuncula in Assisi.

From the twelfth century onwards it became common for sacred spaces—that is, churches—to be invaded by objects and imagery which are often surprising and bizarre and which, in their secular-ity, have little to do with the fundamental teachings of Christianity. Many of these objects are familiar, some less familiar; arid the topic seems appropriate for a ‘generalist’ audience of ecclesiastical history specialists. It should be said at once that this secularity seems to reach a peak around the middle of the fourteenth century, to be followed by a slow and somewhat irregular retreat; but since the entire sequence of events is accompanied by an almost complete silence in the written sources, the reasons for what was happening remain largely speculative. I shall return to this point.

The indulgence is one of the Church’s mechanisms for encouraging pious practices which has generally had a bad press. This paper is concerned with its use in the veneration of three images: the Veronica, the arma Christi or instruments of the Passion, and the Man of Sorrows with the indulgence referring to the Mass of St Gregory. It addresses in particular the circumstances of the original grant of indulgence (whether real or spurious) and the role played by the indulgences in the transmission of these images in devotional manuscripts in England. The earliest of these indulgenced images, the Veronica, is also the most famous, and the one whose origin is most clearly attested. The Chronica maiora of Matthew Paris tells how the Veronica suddenly reversed itself while being carried in procession in 1216. Innocent III responded by composing a prayer in its honour, with an associated indulgence of ten days for each time the prayer was recited. It is noteworthy that although Innocent’s indulgence is commonly referred to as creating the new category of indulgenced image, the indulgence is attached to the prayer, and there is no suggestion that it was necessary to view the image. As is made clear in the Chronica, the addition of a representation of the image (plate 1) was prompted by the fervour of devotion: people did it for themselves. Thus two related, but not identical, impulses joined together to produce the indulgenced prayer to be said before the image, the model for all other indulgenced images. An early example of the prayer used as part of an exercise in devotional propaganda is found in the Revelations of Mechtild of Hackeborn. These normally followed the liturgical year, and on the day of the exposition of the relic she had a vision, aimed at arousing piety towards the image, in which she saw Christ in Majesty, with those who honoured the holy face with a special prayer approaching him,

It has always been recognized that during the fifteenth century the vigorous and affluent commercial towns of the Low Countries served as centres of artistic excellence, especially in respect of painting and of manuscript production and illumination. That the region was no less fertile a generator of practitioners and composers of music—especially of music for the Church—has also long been appreciated. If for present purposes the Low Countries be defined—rather generously, perhaps—as the region coterminous with the compact area covered by the six dioceses of Thérouanne, Arras, Cambrai, Tournai, Liège, and Utrecht (see map), then it was an area if not packed with great cathedrals, yet certainly thickly populated with great collegiate churches, which sustained skilled choirs and offered a good living and high esteem to musicians who composed; the area also sustained a catholic and generous patron and consumer of artistic enterprise of all sorts, sacred and secular music included, namely, the House of the Valois Dukes of Burgundy and its Habsburg successors. From the end of the fourteenth century to the first half of the sixteenth, the region produced church musicians in such numbers that it became the principal area of recruitment for those princes of the south of Europe who were seeking the ablest men available to staff their household chapels. The Avignon popes of the 1380s and 1390s, the dukes of Rimini and Savoy, and the Roman popes of the mid-fifteenth century, and from the 1470s onwards the fiercely competitive dukes of Milan and Ferrara, the popes, cardinals, and bishops of the Curia, the king of Naples, the prominent families and churches of Florence and Venice, all alike recruited from the North; and though many of the ablest, like Ciconia, Dufay, Josquin, Isaac, and Tinctoris, were lured south to spend their lives in the sunshine, many more remained at home to maintain the Low Countries tradition.

Historians have long been aware that patronage is a crucial factor in interpreting the social meaning of art. The late Middle Ages knew a variety of patrons, each employing art to communicate different sorts of concern: royal and aristocratic courts emphasized political messages, urban communes created governmental myths, cathedrals and monasteries gave expression to spiritual ideas—and all used art to convey notions of social identity. Recent investigations into the process of choosing and procuring works of art in these contexts have not only added perspective to formal art criticism, they have also deepened our understanding of the groups interested in the creation of art. One area in which questions of patronage could perhaps be better illuminated is the community of the parish. The parish served as the primary religious community for the majority of men and women for most of the Middle Ages. It was complex in composition, involving both laity and clergy, encompassing other religious associations, such as gilds, and including the devout and the indifferent, the orthodox and the dissenters.

It may be debated how far the liturgy of the medieval Church (in particular the Mass) can be considered as ‘drama’, but its theatrical impact and organization are undeniable. Staged within a distinct space, the principal act of the Church’s worship had its own text and directions, which through contemplation and allegory summarized Christ’s terrestrial experiences and various aspects of the Christian faith. The Mass and other liturgical celebrations were events to be visualized, both externally and internally. It has been said of medieval plays that their

The liturgical section of The New English Hymnal contains musical settings for both eucharistie orders of the Church of England’s Alternative Service Book 1980. The modern-language service, Rite A, is provided with a newly-composed congregational setting in speech rhythm. The texts of Rite B use the traditional language of the Book of Common Prayer, and are given a musical setting taken from The Booke of Common Praier Noted by John Marbeck, published in 1550. An accompaniment is added, and the text is adapted where the original is no longer accurate. Its inclusion in this new hymn-book is evidence of the popularity which Marbeck’s setting has enjoyed for more than a hundred years. Its rediscovery took place in the nineteenth century through the influence of the Tractarians and their successors, who sought to revive traditional liturgical practices such as the singing of plainsong during worship. The Booke of Common Praier Noted is a musical setting of parts of the first English Prayer Book, which had been promulgated in 1549. The appearance of a second Prayer Book in 1552 rendered Marbeck’s work obsolete, as the new book expresses a different attitude towards music in worship. The 1549 Prayer Book encourages singing in many of the services, not least the Office of Holy Communion. The clerks, singing-men usually in minor orders, are expected to take a full part, and the normal eucharistie celebration is one which is sung virtually throughout. The Offices in the 1552 Book contain very few references to singing, and the clerks are nowhere mentioned. The only direction for singing any part of the order for Holy Communion is found at the end, when ‘Glory be to God on high’ may be said or sung. A rubric at Morning Prayer allows for the singing of the lessons in that service and at Evening Prayer, as well as the Epistle and Gospel at Holy Communion, so that the people may hear them more clearly. It is possible that the retention of this reference to singing from the first Prayer Book may have been an oversight, as the rubric is situated away from the main body of the service.

The illustrations in the Bishops’ Bible have received more attention from art historians than from historians, though their story—which turns out to have been remarkably complicated—calls for the skills of both disciplines. The tale, which I can only outline here, throws interesting light on the state of the arts and art censorship in the early Elizabethan Church, at a time when there was much interrelationship between England and continental artists and craftsmen.

To Mr Thomas Neale and his wife, my loving son and daughter, for a poor token of remembrance, a pair of great French candlesticks and one great brass pot… a fair table of walnut tree standing in the great parlour… two pieces of Arras wrought in pictures with silk and gold, six tapestry cushions and the bedstead of walnut tree wherein I used to lie at Warnford … To Joan Knight, daughter of my son Mr John Knight, my diamond ring of gold and a pair of bracelets of gold which were given unto me by my … husband.