In my previous two posts, I discussed medieval symbolic animals which derived from real-life creatures, and then the Monstrous Races, which were imaginings of human-variants quite alien and heathen. Here, let's look at some mythical beasts which were very popular in medieval religious and secular art.
Pegasus and Unicorns
Pegasus, sculpture from the Garden of the Monsters, Bomarzo, 16th century, by Simone Moschino
Bomarzo's garden of the monsters is replete with fantastic beasts, many representing Greek myths. This Pegasus is hardly a monster, Given the late date, this Pegasus is probably more a product of the Renaissance than late medieval. The medieval use of the winged horse as a religious symbol signified a surmounting of the physical temptations of the earthly plane. Pier Francesco Orsini is said to have ordered the the garden as a place to mourn the death of his wife.
Figure with Unicorn, Ely Cathedral misericord, 14th c.
Medieval bestiary descriptions of unicorns indicated that unicorns were symbols of Christ, in his purity, and his ability to break free of Hell upon his crucifixion. Unusual in this carving are the androgyny of the figure holding the creature (though it does seem to be swaddled in an elaborate cloak or dress), and the small size of the unicorn (is it a unicorn foal?).
San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore, Milan, 16th c.
This fresco looks astonishingly modern to me, and more a mural than a fresco. Nonetheless, the painter was Aurelio Luini, who painted a series of biblical scenes in the area of the monastery partitioned for nuns to take communion (through a squint window in a wall which separated them from the public, male parishioners). The unicorn pair stride confidently into the ark, just ahead of the elephants. What makes this fresco seem so unlikely as a 16th century piece is that (excepting the unicorns) all the other animals are depicted so realistically. There are lovingly drawn diverse species of birds; Luini must have actually seen elephants in his life, and at the bottom-right, the hedgehogs seem true to form, if not to scale (I thought they might be porcupines at first, but hedgehogs are a better match). The inclusion of unicorns in this painting of an Old Testament story seems to cast the image as a whole in a more whimsical light; quite a bit different from didactic medieval art when it takes this as its subject.
Basilisks
Beverley Minster, 16th c.
The basilisk is described by Pliny the Elder as a "king serpent" with a crown, but along the way in the Middle Ages (looking at you, Isidore of Seville) it becomes more rooster-like. Its modes of attack include its transfixing stare, and its overwhelming odor. The bench-end end in Beverley Minster resembles a chicken-dragon, looking quite peaceful and hardly scary at all, though it was considered a symbol of evil and death.
Basilisk on Capital, Louvre Museum, c.1125, from Auxerre region
This much-earlier carving of a basilisk also seems none-too-threatening, much more rooster than king serpent. More secular uses of roosters at the time symbolized aggressive masculinity (have you ever seen how relentless these guys are?!). It occurs to me that a rooster head would be much more familiar and less threatening to a medieval viewer than a full dragon or serpent, so perhaps these basilisks became more endearing over time? In the gospels, the cock is the creature who keeps time, announcing dawn (a time of spiritual awakening?) and pointing to Peter's guilt in betraying Jesus.
Gargoyles
Clermont-Ferrand Cathedral Gargoyle, 14th c. (restored 19th c.?)
Gargoyles can vary wildly in how they look, but often are rather dragon-like and demonic. Their purpose, unlike with the other animals we've looked at here, is functional as much or more than ornamental. Gargoyles are drain-spouts, directing water away from vulnerable surfaces of the exterior. (If you see a carving in a similar position, but without its spout, it's called a grotesque.) This specimen has a bemused, but leering expression, but is daunting to behold because it is made of lava-rock, as is the entire cathedral. Clermont-Ferrand's cathedral is a looming black structure dwarfing surrounding white buildings with orange roof tiles. It truly puts the "goth" in "gothic."
Plaster cast of 14th c. Gargoyle of Laon Cathedral, Cité de l'architecture et du patrimoine
This gargoyle and his friend have alarmed and rather poignant expressions. One theory of why gargoyles were so prevalent on church architecture is that they scared away evil from the church. Another, more elegant theory suggested that the gargoyles might look to some viewers as actual evil beings arrested in attacking the church, thereby advertising that safety from evil was to be found only within the church (literally and figuratively). In the case of these two, they look to me as caught in surprise at their transformation--wrong place, wrong time for evil travelers.
Fragmentary gargoyle, Sainte-Chapelle, Paris, 13th c.
For me, a visit to Sainte Chapelle is always alarming, because the building has left multiple fragments of sculpture that has fallen off the facade over the years, right as you enter, which makes standing in the entry queue an uneasy experience. The three pieces in the photo above were brought in for dressing up the entry hall (and gift shop). The gargoyle looks as though he still has a headache from his plummet to ground. You can see a chunk of his erstwhile wing behind him. The nice thing about being able to get so close to this fragment is that you can appreciate the sheer mass of these sculptures. The demonic head next to him may be from a smaller sculpture on the facade.
Plaster cast of female nude as gargoyle, Cité de l'architecture et du patrimoine, original circa 15th c.
I regret that I don't have the museum card which explained where the original of this was, but it is grouped with some from Laon. I share this image to show you that a gargoyle can be something as simply (misogynistically) evil as a naked woman. My guess would be that she was among other sinners, representing the damned on the facade of a cathedral.
Griffins
Mosaic Griffin, 11th c., paleo-Christian section (crypt) of the Bitonto Cathedral
Griffins are nearly ubiquitous in medieval churches. Not only are they apotropaic creatures, but they also symbolize both the earthly and divine nature of Christ. The griffin has a lion's body ( king of the earthly domain) and an eagle's wings and head (king of the heavens). This mosaic in what is now the crypt of the current (12th c.) church is a remnant from an earlier version of the church.
Basilica of Saint Androche, Saulieu, 14th c.
This small griffin carved into a seat-divider of a medieval choir stall in Saulieu's basilica is indisputably more cute than scary. While medieval (and later) choir stalls usually had an image-program of religious symbols or moral allusions, the space was a place of the gathering of the clergy, and this would fit into a genial place for singing and praying.
Aquamanile, Louvre collection, perhaps from lower Saxony, circa 1200
An aquamanile is a vessel containing water to wash one's hands. It can be a religious object, or a (wealthy) household item. This one is bronze. The experts at the Louvre feel that it is technically a dragon, but apparently other sources have called it a griffin, and that has stuck. The head does look more like a dragon (especially since it has ears), but my guess is that because the feet look more like paws than claws, and the wings are textured like feathers, the griffin voters carried the day. I'm curious about the medallion ornament containing a twig with leaves and a shelled nut. The leaves are the wrong shape for an oak with acorns. Perhaps it's a twig with a hazelnut? If so, the hazelnut reinforces the apotropaic function of the griffin, because hazelnuts were associated with protection from evil.
Capital, Mozac Abbey, 12th c.
Here is a quite common representation of griffins in Romanesque France. These two creatures face each other over a communion cup, with their paws touching. Their roles as symbols of power and dominance frame the life-giving communion cup. In this, they assure the viewer that they are protected and saved in the church.
Elephants
Elephants are not fictional creatures, and you might argue that they were better-suited to my discussion of real animals in my earlier post. I decided to discuss them here, because the majority of medieval depictions of elephants are clearly done by artists who had never seen one: a simulacrum based on generations of imagined versions of the animal. Because of this, I feel that the elephant in medieval art is, like lions, a fantastic creature, every bit as much as a gargoyle. Unlike griffins and basilisks, medieval elephants are not amalgams of known animals, but approximations from books which took descriptions and illustrations from earlier vague and dubious accounts.
Bench-end, Beverley Minster, 14th c.
This carved elephant is pretty close to an actual one. The ears are a little floppy and drapey, and the tusks too short, but the snout is fairly proportional and the feet are passable (though more hoof-like than they should be). The Christian symbolism of the elephant is rather convoluted. A dominant strain of the legends suggests that male elephants were reluctant to mate, and therefore they were initially pure, like Christ, but as the female seduces or drugs the male into mating, the pair resemble Adam and Eve. The "castle" on the elephant's back is either an evolution of an eye-witness account of a howdah, or, the strength and mass of the elephant are aligned with aristocratic, military power (borne out on some figures in heraldry).
Capital, Aulnay Church, 12th c. (restored)
The inscription above these figures reads, "These are elephants," in Latin. What I like about these elephants is that they are leggy and svelte. Look at their tiny ears!
Capital, Surgeres Church, 12th c.
This pair are a bit damaged from being exposed on the exterior of the church. They are quite similar to the carving in Aulnay (above), but their trunks are shorter. The church was built in the middle of a castle stronghold (which is mostly diminished now). The exterior of Surgeres is a very populated program, almost as though the church wanted to contain every symbol and ornament on offer for church carvings at that time.
Capital, Perrecy-les-Forges Priory, 12th c. (restored)
These elephants are so stylized that I could see them in an ad for some product in the Art Nouveau period. I feel like the carver isn't even trying to pretend accuracy here. The upward-pointing tusks and the almond eyes are delightful, but the tiny human-like ears are even more delightful than that. The trunks appear to be eating the foliage. The feet are like lion paws. The heads are resemble fishes. This artist was essentially creating a manuscript image in near-3D.
Sculpture, Bomarzo, Garden of the Monsters, 16th c., Simone Moschino
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