“Using or Abusing? On the Significance of Graffiti on Religious Wall Paintings.” In Out of the Stream: New Directions in the Study of Mural Painting. Ed. Luís Afonso and Vítor

Out of the Stream

Out of the Stream Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Mural

Painting

Edited by

Luís Urbano Afonso and Vítor Serrão

CAMBRIDGE SCHOLARS PUBLISHING

Out of the Stream: Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Mural Painting, edited by Luís Urbano Afonso and Vítor Serrão

This book first published 2007 by

Cambridge Scholars Publishing

15 Angerton Gardens, Newcastle, NE5 2JA, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2007 by Luís Urbano Afonso and Vítor Serrão and contributors

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN 1-84718-249-6; ISBN 13: 9781847182494

TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ........................................................................................ vii INTRODUCTION .....................................................................................................1 PART I – LOOKING AT PICTURES Chapter One .......................................................................................................10 Mural Paintings, Oral Society, Visual Linearity: The Act of Looking at a Picture Axel Bolvig Chapter Two.......................................................................................................22 «Hûsêre» and the «Topography of Contrasts» in 15th Century Mural Paintings from Tyrol and Trentino. Harald Wolter von dem Knesebeck Chapter Three.....................................................................................................42 Using or Abusing? On the Significance of Graffiti on Religious Mural Paintings Véronique Plesch Chapter Four ......................................................................................................69 Protection, Prestige and Authority: On the Functions of Portuguese Mural Paintings Luís Urbano Afonso PART II – MURAL PAINTINGS, WORKSHOP PRACTICES AND ITS RELATION TO OTHER MEDIA Chapter Five.......................................................................................................88 De la fragmentation du regard à l'identification des ensembles Joaquim Inácio Caetano

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Chapter Six.......................................................................................................103 Sur le bois et sur le mur: la gravure dans la peinture Portugaise de la Renaissance Manuel Batoréo Chapter Seven ..................................................................................................115 Maniera, Mural Painting and Calligraphy: Giraldo Fernandez de Prado (c. 1530-1592) Vítor Serrão Chapter Eight ...................................................................................................141 From Floor to Wall: An Oriental Carpet in a Portuguese Mural Painting of the Annunciation Jessica Hallett Chapter Nine ....................................................................................................166 Unexpected Symbiosis: Baroque Murals and Late Gothic Architecture Patrícia Monteiro PART III – DEATH AND ESCHATOLOGY Chapter Ten......................................................................................................182 Imaging the Tomb: Remarks on Funerary Murals of the 13th and 14th Centuries in Castile and Leon Fernando Gutiérrez Baños Chapter Eleven.................................................................................................206 The Dance of Death, the Dance of Life: Cemetery of the Innocents and the Danse Macabre Maja Dujakovic Chapter Twelve ................................................................................................233 The Virgin and Hell: An Anomalous Fifteenth-Century Italian Mural Marnie Leist PART IV – PAINTINGS, RELIGION AND POLITICS Chapter Thirteen ..............................................................................................260 Politics and Propaganda in Late Medieval Italian Mural Painting: Some Themes Brendan Cassidy

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Chapter Fourteen..............................................................................................291 Giotto’s Virtues and Vices in the Arena Chapel: The Iconography and the Possible Mastermind Behind It Andrea Lermer Chapter Fifteen.................................................................................................318 The Mural Paintings of Horsham Saint Faith, Norfolk: Secular Patronage and Monastic Memory Kathleen Ashley Chapter Sixteen................................................................................................335 The Marian Miracle Cycle in the Chapel of Eton College: Text and Context Sarah Glover Chapter Seventeen............................................................................................360 Mural Painting and the Transformations of Space and Meaning: The Sagrario Chapel of Córdoba in the Context of the Old Mosque’s Heritage and Reception António Urquizar Herrera Chapter Eighteen..............................................................................................383 The Text of Faith in Romanian Medieval Mural Painting: Vorone! Monastery Simion Doru Cristea Appendix A......................................................................................................402 Appendix B ......................................................................................................405 Appendix C ......................................................................................................408 Appendix D......................................................................................................412 Appendix E ......................................................................................................414

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is the result of an international conference that was held at the Faculdade de Letras of the University of Lisbon between 29th March and 1st April 2006, and organized by the Art History Institute and the Centro de História. This meeting was only possible thanks to the enthusiasm of number of people at the Faculdade de Letras (Maria João Neto, Fernando Grilo, Manuel Batoréo, António Ventura, José Varandas), and thanks to the financial and logistical support of various institutions. We would like to express our gratitude to the institutions that supported the staging of this event: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, Fundação Luso-Americana para o Desenvolvimento, Fundação para a Ciência e Tecnologia, Fundação da Universidade de Lisboa, Fundação Eugénio de Almeida, Instituto Cervantes, Cátedra de Estudos Galegos da Universidade de Lisboa, the German Embassy and the Danish Embassy in Lisbon. Some of these institutions also extended their generosity to supporting the publishing of this book, such as in the case of Centro de História da Universidade de Lisboa, Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian and Fundação para a Ciência e Tecnologia. We are sincerely grateful to them.

We would also like to thank Professors Kathleen Ashley and Jessica Hallett for their invaluable help and support. From the very beginning of this project–with the call for papers–until the moment when this book was given to the publishers, these two colleagues were the most enthusiastic supporters of the organization of the conference and the publication of this book. Their tireless work on the arduous task of revising and improving texts written in less than perfect English, their contribution to the reading and revision of the introductory text–which greatly benefited from their comments–and Professor Ashley’s “wrap up” at the end of the conference were invaluable. For their generosity, companionship and support they deserve our grateful recognition and heartfelt thanks.

The editors Luís Urbano Afonso and Vítor Serrão

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INTRODUCTION

LUÍS URBANO AFONSO AND VÍTOR SERRÃO

When Vasari1 wrote, compiled and organised the first biographies of artists, resurrecting a literary practice from antiquity, he presented them according to a chronological sequence that was almost always dependent on the teacher-pupil relationship, repeated successively, generation after generation. However, more than the linear nature of this time sequence or the direct descent between generations of artists, what really cements Vasari’s narrative is the combination of two things – one very old, the other much more recent. On the one hand, like Pliny the Elder and other classic authors who wrote about art, Vasari uses biological metaphors (genesis, maturity, decline) to explain artistic evolution, gauging the quality of the art via its capacity to imitate nature and its ability to be confused with the real thing. On the other, Vasari adds a triumphalist ideology of re-discovery, emulation and the overtaking of Ancient Art by a small group of Italian artists. Mural painting was ever-present in the construction of this great narrative. It was via this specific pictorial genre that many of the artists that Vasari wrote about and venerated made their contribution to the “development” of the art of painting. This presence is found at the moment when the light dawned again on the horizon, with Giotto in Assis and Padua,2 until the moment it reached its zenith, with Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel.3

Over time, however, mural painting ceded the important place it had occupied in Art History’s founding narrative, and little by little found itself on the margins of historiographical discourse. The reasons for the increasing marginal situation of wall painting are essentially related to the fact that this type of painting is tied up with architecture and cannot leave its original spot, making it difficult for connoisseurs to see it close up and, in particular, with the fact that it cannot be made into a saleable object that can be part of a private art or “universal museum” collection. The pleasure and prestige of possessing and

1 Giorgio Vasari, 1967. Le Vite de' piú eccellenti Pittori, Scultori e Architettori, 9 vols., Novara, Instituto Geografico de Agostini (following the 1568 Giustina edition). 2 idem, vol. I, pp. 304-307 (for Assisi) and p. 323 (for Padua). 3 idem, vol. VII, pp. 136-148 (vault) and pp. 166-67 (Last Judgement).

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exhibiting a Rafael, a Masaccio or a Fra Angelico is difficult to match with the wall paintings of these masters. When the first great European art collections were being put together, especially in those royal houses with hegemonic cultural and political pretensions, the kaleidoscope of masters and artistic periods focussed on marble, bronze, wood, canvass or paper–rarely on painted plaster-work. Despite a few attempts, the museums of the 19th and 20th century were also unable to find a place for a kind of painting that was difficult to make tradable and that was economically, culturally and artistically valuable.

History of Art has changed considerably since Vasari. In recent decades that

which was considered marginal has become the main object of analysis for professionals in the field. Women artists, heretofore forgotten, have finally stepped into the limelight. Works that were considered as minor are now considered to be as interesting as the work of the great masters. Although the differentiation between “Art” and “art” still lingers, the most insignificant or inapt artistic object of the past retains enormous potential for the study of art and the culture of a particular society. The interaction between the artistic centre and periphery has gained new perspective and value with the studies of authors such as Carlo Ginzburg and Enrico Castelnuovo.4 History of art seems to have left behind its evolutionist model and biological metaphor to focus on the analysis of the “texts” and “contexts” of production and reception of art objects. In more recent times it has also become simpler to access image databases. Via the Internet, research is quicker and, sometimes, more creative (with unexpected links), as well as having easy access to thousands of virtually unpublished images.5 In short, not only has the field of Art History been considerably extended, bringing marginal artistic traditions and genres to the core of the subject but also the historiographic discourse itself has sought consolidation within new paradigms.

The subject of this book arises from recent developments in the inventory, preservation and study of mural paintings from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, particularly those from what can be considered the periphery of Europe, from both the point of view of geography and of historiography. In terms of space, this concerns mainly Iberia, Scandinavia or Romania, but in terms of historiography it also includes mural paintings produced for parish churches and noble houses located throughout the rural or mountainous areas of Great Britain, France, Germany and even Italy–a heterogeneous region, which has informed much of the traditional formalist and evolutionary approaches to 4 C. Ginzburg and E. Castelnuovo, 1979. «Centro e periferia», in Storia dell’Arte Italiana, vol. I, Torino, Einaudi. 5 An example is the database of images of Danish wall paintings, created and developed by Axel Bolvig: www.kalkmalerier.dk.

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Art History. These developments allowed a number of studies to appear, which sought to explore new paths within the field of the historiography of mural painting. This can be seen in the volume edited by Peter Klein,6 on the correlation between the function and the location of wall paintings on the inside of buildings, or in the two studies that Marcia Kupfer7 dedicated to French Roman wall painting. Both of these studies were very aware of the function of images, be it in correlation with the establishing of the Gregorian Reform, be it in the association between the images painted on the walls and the thaumaturgic role of relics. The book that Axel Bolvig and Phillip Lindley8 edited in 2003 also includes various articles dedicated to this genre of painting. The articles in this book are a good example of the benefits that the study of peripheral wall painting can bring to Art History, be it for the perspective used in those texts, be it for the peripheral nature of many of the works that were analysed.

The aim of this book is to demonstrate the vitality that the study of wall painting in peripheral regions can bring to this discipline. The articles that we have collected in this book are overwhelmingly about wall paintings that would be hard pressed to be considered part of the master narrative of Art History. They are studies regarding regions and themes that are rarely present in the mainstream of the discipline, but their common thread is their focus on the functional dimension of mural paintings and on the complex interrelation between image, audience, social context and everyday life. From Denmark to Portugal, from graffiti to secular painting, from the orthodox monasteries of Moldavia to the noble residences of Tirol, from Giotto to anonymous and sometimes almost amateur painters, the studies gathered in this book place very distinct artistic realities side by side but offer complementary perspectives and insights. One of the most interesting aspects of this book, we believe, is the observation that small, half-destroyed works of art, works located in forgotten regions and places or works using apparently banal themes can give us richer and more complex information than a lot of works used as the paradigms for the stylistic changes in European painting. Furthermore, in comparison to the majority of easel painting from the same period, now preserved in museums, mural painting has the great advantage of being physically attached to its

6 Peter Klein (ed.), 1992. L’Emplacement et la Fonction des Images dans la Peinture Murale du Moyen Âge. Actes du 5e séminaire international d’art mural, Saint-Savin, Centre International d’Art Mural / Abbaye de Saint-Savin. 7 Marcia Kupfer, 1993. Romanesque Wall Painting in Central France. The Politics of Narrative, New Haven & London, Yale University Press. Idem, 2003. The Art of Healing. Painting for the sick and the sinner in a medieval town, University Park, Pennsylvania State University Press. 8 Axel Bolvig and Phillip Lindley (eds.), 2003. History and Images. Towards a New Iconology, Turnhout, Brepols.

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original and intended location. Thus it offers direct information about the specificity of contexts of production and reception, and is therefore a privileged field for micro-historical and anthropological inquiries.

This book is made up of eighteen studies organised into four parts. In the

first part, entitled Looking at pictures, we find four articles about completely different regions: Denmark, the Alps, Northern Italy and Portugal. Despite using different methodologies all of these articles approach the phenomenon of the fresco from a more anthropological point of view, looking at the spoken culture and the function of images in the society of the time. The first text, written by Axel Bolvig, is an especially interesting epistemological challenge. Indeed, Bolvig considers that linguistics and iconography are of little use when it comes to understanding the Danish wall paintings of the 15th and 16th century, doubting whether it is possible for verbal discourse to effectively translate visual discourse and also questioning the static form that historians use when analysing images. In these paintings the secular and the profane blend together and the images are distributed in a free and non-linear fashion, while surrounding the observer, creating random visual associations and paths that cannot be crystallised into photographs or into iconographic designations. Bolvig believes that the images in question were for an illiterate audience that was unaware of the vast majority of religious iconography, which is why he prefers to analyse them within the spoken culture of rural communities that had little religious culture and who would more easily recognise their day-to-day experiences in the images rather than any official discourse from the Church.

The interaction between spoken culture and literary culture is one of the issues dealt with by Harald Wolter von dem Knesebeck in a text dedicated to the late-medieval painting of the manorial residences of Tirol and Trentino. The author interrelates the topography of the residential space and the themes in the painting, mainly dedicated to moral questions associated with the virtues of the “House” and its inhabitants. Almost always organized via antithetic contrasts, such as the one established between the prudent hostess and the women who pick the fruit from the Phallus Tree, these secular paintings transmit a host of moral values associated with the honour of the “House” and those that its owners should possess. The concern with the maintaining of the “natural order of things”, namely in the relationship between men and women, explains the allegorical discourse based on the control of carnal desire, satirising the situations where that order and hierarchy are turned upside down or giving a warning about the tragic consequences that will follow via the themes of Judgement of Paris, Wheel of Fortune/Love, Phallus Tree, Aristotle and Phyllis or Samson and Delilah.


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Véronique Plesch analyses the secular graffiti painted over religious painting in Arborio, in the Piemonte region of Italy. These inscriptions transmit how this small community in the North of Italy experienced natural and astronomical phenomena, such as floods, poverty, fires, epidemics or the passing of comets and military events. They also represent a certain notion of community memory, with some monuments being the object of this type of graffiti for four centuries. Sometimes, the number of inscriptions is such that they almost obliterate the sacred painting that hosts them. The majority of these grafitti were painted on iconic images and, in the case of the references to epidemics, the favourite “canvass” was the one of the images of the anti-plague saints. The author considers that the practice of recording this type of event on sacred images should be understood as one of the ways that the local community dealt with their fears and, especially, as a way of them overcoming traumatic experiences and memories.

Luís U. Afonso’s study is based on a quantitative analysis of Portuguese wall painting between c.1490 and c.1550. Through the identification of the type of painting that predominated (iconic vs. narrative) and the most represented themes the author proposes that the essential motivation of those that commissioned these works was the production of apotropaic and preventative images, especially representing the anti-plague saints that would protect the local communities from epidemics and other ills. Another dominant tendency is related to the protection of the souls of the living and the dead, with the noteworthy number of intervening saints represented. One of the most interesting aspects of this study is found in the lack of importance given to the production of narrative and didactic discourse of this era, while the importance of the decorative component of the paintings was much more significant.

The second part of the book, entitled Mural paintings, workshop practices and its relation to other media, brings together five studies that have two things in common; all of the studies all deal with wall paintings in Portugal, from the 15th to the 18th century and the all of the studies focus their attention on the practical processes involved in wall painting and its relation to other arts, such as engravings, calligraphy, manuscript decoration, tapestry. The text by Joaquim I. Caetano develops methodologies that allow different wall paintings to be identified with the same workshop, based only on the identification of the workshop’s practices and especially on their use of the same decorative stamps. In doing this the author critically analyses the formalist method of Morelli and re-evaluates the importance of individual workshop processes in wall painting.

Manuel Batoréo demonstrates the importance of the Germanic engraved models for the creation of figures, scenes and decorative elements in Portuguese painting in the first half of the 16th century, both in terms of wall painting and easel painting. To a very large extent, these engravings facilitated rapid and

Introduction

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direct contact with some of the innovations in other parts of Europe, contributing to a certain aggiornamento of painting in Portugal and more effective work from workshops.

Vítor Serrão’s study is dedicated to an artist who, until recently, was virtually unknown, Giraldo Fernandes de Prado. The author identifies the work of the mannerist painter, both in wall and easel painting, as well as proving that he was also the author of calligraphy on a treaty kept in the Rare Book and Manuscript Library of Columbia University, in New York. Serrão analyses the multifaceted path of this blue-blooded artist, especially his relationship with the Portuguese humanist circles of the second half of the 16th century and the interaction between his easel painting, fresco painting and his calligraphy, highlighting its erudite nature and demonstrating the communion of forms and solutions that are found in the different artistic genre.

Jessica Hallett explores how the depiction of an oriental carpet can enhance the importance of an “out-of-the-stream” mural painting in a provincial setting, and make it worthy of appreciation. Hallett focuses her attention on a late 16th century Annunciation from the Convento das Maltezas in Estremoz, where the Virgin is depicted kneeling upon a carpet which has the word lillah (“belonging to God”) written in kufic script. The author develops an analysis that gives some prominence to the continuation of the Muslim custom of taking visual and tactile pleasure from the oriental carpet, as well as to the prominent place it held in the lives and households of Iberian women, two features that can explain why the carpet became a floor furnishing for prayer in convents.

This second part concludes with an article from Patrícia Monteiro, where she studies the way ceiling painters from the 17th and 18th century interacted with the late-medieval architecture of the Alentejo. Instead of destroying the previous architecture during this period, the artists were able to create a symbiotic relationship with the network of ribs and late-gothic vault cloths, incorporating them with frames or using them as decorative and compositive elements in the frescoes of the time, renovating religious places and making them more contemporary according to Gothic taste.

The third part of the book, entitled Death and escathology, collects three studies that all focus on wall paintings in funeral areas. The first study, by Fernando Gutiérrez Baños, consists of a statistical study of wall painting within the context of funerals carried out during the reigns of Castille and León throughout the 13th and 14th century, which corresponds to 20% of all preserved wall paintings. Unlike the funereal sculpture of the same time, which has been the object of countless studies, this wall painting has rarely been part of any histiographical research. The author presents a general picture of these paintings, in terms of their iconography, typology and topography. One of the aspects highlighted by the author relates to the interaction that exists between


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wall painting, funereal sculpture and sculpted portals, in terms of style and iconography and in terms of painting typology.

Maja Dujakovic takes us to Paris and studies the Danse Macabre painted around 1425 on one of the walls of the Cemetery of the Innocent. This painting, like other similar representations, has a generic moralist sense that is associated with the inevitability and universality of death and the transitory nature of human life and material possessions. According to the author, however, the political and social context in which the painting was created (France was occupied by the English, without a king and at a time when it was coming out of the Great Schism of the Western Church) permits a more specific understanding, namely the interpretation of this painting as a political allegory, where the main players are the Church hierarchy, secular power and Paris University.

The last study of this section is by Marnie Leist and looks at the representation of the Coronation of the Virgin in Paradise and Hell by Giovanni da Modena in the Bolognini chapel in the Basilica of San Petronio in Bologna. According to the author, this painting reflects the political alliances of the chapel’s patron, Bartolommeo Bolognini, and serves as a proclamation of the city’s desire for jurisdictional freedom. According to Leist this painting emphasizes the possibility of salvation directly through Mary, without the blessing of the Pope.

The last part of the book, entitled Paintings, religion and politics, brings together six studies. In contrast to most of the articles in this book, two of the studies are related to paintings or painters that are normally found in the discpline’s master narrative. Brendan Cassidy analyses the relationship between mural painting, the construction of civic identity and the manipulation of public opinion in some of the Italian city-states, namely the monarchy of Naples, the quasi-democratic oligarchies of Florence and Siena, and the despotic regimes of Milan and Verona. Drawing on a range of evidence, visual and textual, this article situates some Italian frescoes within the historical and ideological circumstances in which they were painted and indicate their social and political functions. Andrea Lermer’s study looks at the well-known frescoes Giotto painted in the Arena Chapel in Padua, highlighting some of Giotto's overlooked innovations. Drawing on the cycle of Virtues and Vices, the author highlights some of Giotto's inventions, both in artistic as well as intellectual terms. Lermer raises the question again of who devised the programme for the cycle at the base of the Chapel and discusses the painter's role in refining the iconography and choosing the appropriate artistic means to depict it. Finally, the author emphasises Giotto’s acquaintance with the literary milieu of early humanism and suggests the influence of Francesco da Barberino on Giotto.

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From Italy we move to England. Kathleen Ashley analyses a narrative cycle of wall painting found in the refectory of the old priory of Saint Foy in Horsham. The painting dates back to the 13th century and corresponds to a foundational narrative. Throughout the nine scenes this cycle illustrates the vicissitudes that the two people who founded the priory experienced in the South of France at the beginning of the 12th century and serves, above all, to highlight the role of the saint in freeing the pilgrims/founders from captivity. The author fundamentally focuses on the relationship between secular patronage and ecclesiastical institutions, exploring the role that the cycle of images would have had on the monastic imagination and memory of the old religious institution. Sarah Glover analyses the murals of the Eton College Chapel, one of the finest examples of fifteenth-century English wall painting. The author places this large Marian miracle cycle, painted in grisaille, within the context of the devotions it supported, particularly in opposition to Wycliffe and the Lollards. Glover emphasizes the selective choice of miracle scenes and the importance assumed by the Latinate inscriptions running along the frames, which transformed the cycle into a pictorial sermon defending the Marian devotions celebrated at Eton.

We go southbound again with Antonio Urquizar Herrera, to Andalucia, more specifically to one of the various aspects of the process of transforming the Old Great Mosque of Córdoba into a Christian Cathedral. The author focuses her attention on mannerist wall paintings of the Sixteenth Century tabernacle chapel, painted by Cesare Arbasia, and particularly on the way the link between the sacred Christian history and the Islamic legacy of this building was made. The author studies the iconography of this fresco campaign, which shows the death of the local martyrs at the hands of the Muslim rulers and reflects the ideological implications of this counter-reformist pictorial campaign, especially its attempt to unsuccessfully “domesticate” the Islamic and Gothic memories and forms of the place.

The last study, by Simion Doru Cristea, is quite unlike the other texts in this book, not only because it deals with a region even more peripheral in terms of art historiography, Romania, but also because it uses a perspective that is very distinct from the one normally found in this field. The author looks at the mural paintings of Romanian monasteries from a philosophical and spiritual perspective rather than a historical one, offering an interesting challenge to art historians, who normally neglect this aspect of the objects they study. This last text constitutes a fine epilogue to a book that intends to awaken interest in out of the stream medieval and Renaissance wall painting.

PART I:

LOOKING AT PICTURES

CHAPTER THREE

USING OR ABUSING? ON THE SIGNIFICANCE OF GRAFFITI ON RELIGIOUS MURAL PAINTINGS

VÉRONIQUE PLESCH

Introduction*

In the taxis in New York City, one can read the following notice:

REWARD UP TO $500.00

For the arrest and conviction of any who commits

GRAFFITI VANDALISM CALL

911 for Crimes in Progress 311 to Provide Information

REMEMBER: GRAFFITI VANDALISM IS A CRIME In it, graffiti, defined as a type of vandalism, is even called a crime. In a

culture that prosecutes urban graffiti, the act of scratching graffiti into old wall paintings can only seen as a form of abuse very far from the reverence works of art deserve. And yet, this practice was much more prevalent than what we would think–or would like to think. That writing on frescoes is usually considered a form of vandalism, is not difficult to prove at all: one only needs to become aware of how often these marks have been obliterated during restoration.1 When ! I would like to thank Colby College’s Lil Poirier Family Fund for generously supporting my sabbatical in 2004-05 during which the most recent field work was undertaken: my gratitude goes here to Dr. John Poirier and Ms. Lauren McReel. Research trips during that year, as well as earlier ones, benefited from Colby College’s Humanities grants. In situ, for hosting and assisting me in many ways, my thanks to the

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graffiti on paintings survive, they are hardly ever recorded–or even noticed. They are usually perceived as visual noise, getting in the way of a good “reading” of the artwork, and as such the viewer just “blocks them out”. Ask any art historian if there are graffiti on famous paintings such Giotto’s at the Arena chapel and they will say no, or, at best, might recognize that they would not be able to tell!2 This has been my experience in recent years. Since I started working on the topic, I have been surprised to discover that many pictorial programs, which I had viewed several times, carefully studied, and thought I knew intimately, held graffiti.

There are cases of graffiti that have been recognized and catalogued–Pompeian graffiti are a prime example–and the bibliography is abundant. There has been some important forays (Blindheim, 1985; Pritchard, 1967) but no attempt to address the issue at a European level across a long period and to explore its deeper meanings.3 Even fewer are the studies about graffiti on wall paintings. A well-documented and fascinating case is in the castle of Issogne in Val d’Aosta. Graffiti appear on late fifteenth-century secular frescoes that decorate the entry porch and that represent market scenes and a variety of shops, as well as soldiers in a tavern. The corpus, published by Omar Borettaz in 1995, largely consists of names (sometimes with dates), proverbs and other aphoristic statements, a few pieces of news, and declarations of the type “Viva…”. Issogne’s paintings are secular, and such scriptural interaction is perhaps not so shocking or surprising given the quotidian nature of the depictions. But what about religious wall paintings? There are of course the known instances in early-Christian catacombs, with graffiti sometimes made on painted surfaces. They belong to the wider category of pilgrims’ graffiti,4 which motivation is clear, as Alphonse Dupront (1987: 403) so well put it: “To write one’s name somewhere

Tagliabue and Tallone families and for their help in Vercelli’s archives, to Anna Cerutti and Chiara Cusano. I am also grateful to Dario Gamboni who alerted me to the graffiti in San Zeno and provided me with photos. 1 This is the case, to limit myself to just one example, of the frescoes in the Ligurian chapel of San Bernardo at Pigna, painted by Giovanni Canavesio in 1482. The many graffiti that could be seen back in the 1930s when the Frick Art Library conducted a photographic campaign were completely eliminated by subsequent restorations. On San Bernardo, see Plesch (2006: 299-304). 2 There are in fact quite a few graffiti at the Arena chapel. See, for example, Basile (1993: 286-87, 322-27, 345, 347-49, 359). 3 For a recent theory-informed approach, see Fleming (2001) and Gordon (2002). 4 Graffiti left by pilgrims represent an extremely important corpus and as such has received extensive scholarly attention. See, for instance, on Early Christian graffiti, Guarducci (1958), and on the abundant and multilingual (Aramaic, Greek, and Middle Iranian) corpus in Dura Europos, Kraeling et al. (1979: 261-320). See also the articles by Eck (1992; 1995).

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in a sacred place leaves a presence, one that outlasts the brevity of a life, indeed forever.”5 But what if the graffito is on a religious fresco but its content is not religious? For several years now, I have focused on a specific subcategory: graffiti that record events.

As is so often the case with scholarship, my attention was brought to this topic in a serendipitous way. In 1992, as I was researching late-medieval pictorial Passion cycles produced in the areas that belonged to the Duchy of Savoy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries (Plesch, 2004; 2006), I visited the chapel of S. Sebastiano, just outside the town of Arborio in the Piedmontese plain some sixty kilometers west of Milan. While photographing the Passion cycle that covers the nave walls of this small chapel, I noticed that in a small apse there were depictions of saints that were covered with graffiti (Fig. 3-1). What probably made me notice them was their sheer quantity. A few could easily and quickly be deciphered. They appeared on St. Anthony (Fig. 3-2):

1570 pestis maxima in partibus lombardie (In 1570 there was the greatest plague in Lombardy) (Fig. 3-3); 1592 fuit maxima penuria (In 1592 there was the greatest dearth); 1747 è venuta la abondanza nella… (In 1747 the abundant harvest came in…). And on St. Sebastian, in the same area: 1673 alli 16 maggio è tempestato dala terra in giu et ha portato via ogni cosa (On 16 May 1673 there has been a tempest from below the earth and it has taken away everything); 1661 ali 17 genaro si e seminato de la avena a fato bono proffito G. Giletta (On 17 January 1661 we sowed oats and made good profit, G. Giletta) (Fig. 3-4); 1654 otto il mesed di giuno la sesia a menato via il castello (On 30 March 1654 the Sesia took away the castle) (Fig. 3-4); 1664 ali 30 marzo è venuto la neve alta un piede (On 30 March 1664 a foot of snow fell) (Fig. 3-4); 1745 la morte nelle bestie (In 1745 death for the animals) (Fig. 3-5). Several years later, while I was preparing to teach a seminar on devotional

art, I came across an alabaster sculpture of the Trinity by Hans Multscher, from about 1430, which held on its back prayers incised into the surface such as: “Lord God, do not abandon me”, “Mary, come to my help”.6 These inscriptions, coarsely scratched into the sculptural material, reminded me of what I had seen at Arborio. I started thinking about those graffiti, and although none of them held any religious content, their placement in a chapel, on the effigies of saints, seemed to indicate a devotional intent, which I decided to explore. I considered 5 Unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. 6 Reproduced in Henk van Os (1994: 124-125).


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Arborio’s graffiti in the context of devotional practices in a talk I delivered in October 1997 to a group of local medievalists. I explained how the graffiti bore witness to a desire to connect with the saints.7 As for Arborio’s inscriptions, as they are scratched into the pictorial surface, they literally embody Panofsky’s “contemplative immersion”.8

Fig. 3-1. Arborio, San Sebastiano, small apse on the south wall of the nave

7 A revised version of this paper was presented at the Fifth International Conference on Word & Image Studies, held at Scripps College, Claremont, March 14-20, in 1999, and later published in the conference proceedings (Plesch, 2005). 8 For the concept of kontemplative Versenkung see Panofsky (1927: 264).

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Fig. 3-2. Arborio, San Sebastiano. St. Anthony Abbott.

Not only did my talk generate a warm response, but also questions, for instance: Who was responsible for the inscriptions (were there any signatures? Could different hands be distinguished?)? What time span did the graffiti cover? Were the inscriptions only dealing with public events? In short, questions that could only be answered by undertaking a systematic and comprehensive recording of the graffiti. This was carried during the following summer. About 150-some entries were gathered and the subsequent analysis of the corpus led eventually several publications. As I explored different approaches–moving


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from understanding the graffiti in light of devotional practices, to placing them in a ritual context (Plesch, 2002), to considering them as the product of a process of appropriation (Plesch, 2002a)–it became clear to me that Arborio’s case, although not unique nor isolated, was nevertheless a privileged instance because of its state of preservation–as it had not been restored–and because of the sheer quantity of inscriptions, and that it deserved to be studied in a comprehensive manner, that is, in a book-length monograph. It also appeared to me that although each of these approaches was pertinent, in no way were they exclusive of each other. I became intimately convinced of the profound resonance for the early modern public of this practice that was carried out for four centuries–and therefore must have been tolerated by the authorities–a practice that expresses devotion but also anger as it defaces holy depictions.

Fig. 3-3. Arborio, San Sebastiano. Detail of a graffito on the figure of St. Anthony

San Sebastiano: the chapel and its paintings

Located at the south entrance to Arborio (about 350 meters from the parish church of St. Martin in the center of the town), on the main road to Vercelli, the oratorio is a modest building, roughly some 18 meters long and 7 meters wide. When exactly it was built remains uncertain. While the Italian Touring Club guide suggests a Romanesque origin (Piemonte, 1976: 555), in the recent book on the town of Arborio, Riccardo Quaglia is more cautious about ascribing a date to the actual construction of the building. Noting the extreme poverty experienced by the community in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, he considers that it is likely that the entire building was erected in the fifteenth century or at least that it was enlarged at that point. Quaglia cites a will from

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14509 where reference is made to the chapel as “inchoate”, which he translates as “just begun” (“appena cominciata”) although “inchoatus” can also be translated as “incomplete”. Quaglia adds that it could refer to an enlargement rather than to the actual construction. As a matter of fact, the simple rectangular space (with an apse on the eastern side) contains a smaller apse on the eastern end of the south wall. Following Ferraris (1986: 133), Quaglia considers this smaller apse might have been that of an earlier church, oriented north-south, and that the enlargement that took place in the fifteenth century consisted in the placing of the actual nave along an east-west axis. This earlier building would go back to the thirteenth century (Quaglia et al., 2004: 56). A narthex was added later but was already in place in 1757 (ibidem).

The chapel is decorated with a Passion cycle that wraps around the south, west, and north walls.10 In the apse we find a Christ Pantocrator (with the symbols of the Evangelists) and a series of apostles, with in the middle, St. Sebastian (from left to right11: St. James the Lesser, St. Philip, St. Bartholomew, St. Matthew, St. James the Greater, St. Peter, St. Sebastian, a very damaged figure,12 St. Andrew, St. Thomas, St. John, two figures too damaged to be identified, but, according to Riccardo Quaglia, they could be St. Jude and Simon the Cananaean) (Quaglia et al., 2004: 63). A depiction of the Annunciation occupies the top of the triumphal arch, with saints on each side (a female on the left, too damaged to be identified,13 and St. Bernardine of Siena on the right). In 9 Will of G. M. de Bozolo before notary Oddone Avogadro Balzola, Arborio, 21 November 1450, which Quaglia et al. (2004: 237) cites from Ferraris (1986: 133): “item voluit, jussit, disposuit et ordinavit quod infrascripti eius filii et heredes teneantur et debeant ecclesie nuper inchoate Sebastiani de Arborio ad muraturam et in usum dicte ecclesie bariotas duas calcis cum aliis necessarijs operis dicte calcis” (“Also wants, prescribes, disposes, and orders that the sons and heirs herebelow mentioned be held responsible to give to the church of St. Sebastian in Arborio, which has been just begun (or is incomplete), for the construction of the wall, and for the use of the church, two measures of lime along with other works necessary for the said lime.”) 10 The Passion cycle counts 19 scenes: Entry into Jerusalem, Last Supper, Washing of the Feet, Agony in the Garden, Arrest of Christ, Christ before Annas, Flagellation, Mocking, Christ before Caiaphas, Suicide of Judas and Pilate Washes his Hands, Way to Calvary, Crucifixion, Deposition, Lamentation, Resurrection, Noli me Tangere, Supper at Emmaus, Incredulity of St. Thomas, Ascension. For a consideration of Arborio’s Passion cycle in the context of the cycles produced in the Duchy of Savoy, see Plesch (2004). 11 I follow Riccardo Quaglia’s identification (Quaglia et al., 2004: 60-63). 12 From the list of saints we can deduce it could be St. Matthias, who replaced Judas Iscariot among the Twelve; which is confirmed by the fact that the apostle is represented as a young man. 13 Two layers are visible. On the upper layer, one can see that the saint was blond and had long and flowing hair, as can be seen next to her right shoulder, thus suggesting this could be Mary Magdalen.


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the upper part of the small apse on the south wall (Fig. 3-1) is a Crucifixion, limited to Christ on the cross flanked by the Virgin Mary and St. John in front of a crenellated wall. On the wall below appears a series of saints, with from left to right: St. Anthony Abbott, an enthroned Virgin and Child with a donor, St. Bernardine of Siena, a bishop saint (perhaps St. Fabian) (Quaglia et al., 2004: 68), St. Sebastian, St. Christine,14 and St. Benedict.15 Above the apse, on what forms a triumphal arch, are depictions of the Vision of St. Eustache (a deer with a crucifix between its antlers) and of St. Agatha’s martyrdom (having her breasts cut off). On the south wall of the nave, below the Passion cycle appear a few more paintings (Fig. 3-6): (from left to right) a bishop saint16 (on an earlier pictorial layer), St. Bernardine of Siena, St. Clare of Montefalco,17 St. Roch, St. Sebastian between two men shooting arrows at him, St. Agatha, St. Gothard.18 On the north wall, below the Passion cycles is a depiction of the Martyrdom of St. Bartholomew; it was painted at a much later date, probably in the eighteenth century (Quaglia et al., 2004: 244). Finally, the decoration on the nave walls is completed by a frieze with busts of Old Testament figures.19

Several hands and several pictorial layers can be seen. The paintings in the apse, the small apse and the eight first scenes of the Passion cycle, were considered by Franco Mazzini to have been painted around 1450, possibly by a painter from Novara along with assistants (Mazzini and Romano, 1976: 105). In the last decade of the fifteenth century Tommaso Cagnola painted the saints below the Passion cycle on the south wall, while his workshop completed (around 1500) the second half of the Passion cycle (ibidem). Paola Astrua (1985: 166) calls the artist responsible for the first part of the cycle the “Pittore della Passione di Arborio” and assigns to him other paintings in the area, she

14 Identified by an inscription. Simply holding a martyr’s palm and a book, it is not possible to tell whether she is St. Christine of Bolsena or of Spoletto (Réau, 1958: 302-304). 15 Identified by an inscription and represented as a bishop wearing a mitre, holding a book and blessing. It remains open to question whether he is St. Benedict of Nursia or of Aniane. 16 Most likely St. Gothard, who appears represented very much the same way and identified by an inscription on the south wall. 17 Her attributes, a heart and a crucifix, distinguish her from the more famous Clare of Assisi (Réau, 1958: 319). 18 This figure is identified by an inscription. Réau (1958: 604) distinguishes between two St. Gothards: Gothard of Hildesheim, a Benedictine abbot (961-1038, canonized in 1131), who is invoked against gout, rheumatisms, and hail, and Gothard of Switzerland, who would have been converted by St. Roch (of whom he painted a portrait) and who retired as a penitent in the mountains near the pass that bears his name. 19 Quaglia lists the names, which appear in the scrolls they hold, which are still readable: Ezechiel, David, Daniel, Simeon, and Abacuc (Quaglia et al., 2004: 78-79).

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compares the paintings from the small apse to works from a workshop from Biella, among which is the fresco of the Cristo della Domenica (“Sunday Christ”) in Biella’s cathedral (idem: 167).

San Sebastiano’s graffiti

Overall, San Sebastiano’s decorative scheme is very much like any other northern Italian chapel: both in its style and iconography its pictorial decoration is rather ordinary and rooted in a long tradition, which explains its lack of scholarly notice.20 Of course, what is unusual here is the extensive corpus of early modern graffiti that these frescoes have received. The ensemble is remarkable both by its extent and by the uniformity of many of its features. Indeed, all of the 150-some entries I have deciphered follow the same structure: starting with a date, generally the year first, they record significant events in the life of this community, using a simple vocabulary and grammatical structure that remain constant over the course of the centuries. The majority of the inscriptions are in Italian, and a few, among the earlier ones, are in Latin. The earliest surviving entry goes back to 1531 and the most recent to 1889.21 It is likely that this inscriptional practice may have started earlier: given the fact that earlier pictorial layers exist and that it is clear that the most recent frescoes were “refreshed” by receiving coats of paint, it seems very difficult–if not outright impossible–to be able to affirm that the corpus did not begin before the 1531 entry. It should also be stressed that many inscriptions have been cancelled by scratching (Fig. 3-5).

The events listed at Arborio can be assigned to several thematic categories, most of which were related to the subsistence of the townspeople, and, sadly enough, most of which were completely out of their control. As would be expected for a rural community, a significant percentage of the corpus deals with meteorological events, including storms, heavy snow falls, droughts, but also more exceptional occurrences such as an earthquake in 1673,22 a comet in

20 R. Quaglia (Quaglia et al., 2004: 59-81) gives references to chapels in the area where these subjects appear as well. 21 Not until 2005 did I notice the 1960 date that appears on the depiction of St. James the Greater in the apse. I do not consider it as the terminus of the corpus because of the gap of 71 years that separates it with the previous entry and of the fact that it is not part of a fuller inscription, thus not in keeping with the type of graffiti that form the Arborio corpus. 22 On the St. Sebastian on the small apse, “1673 alli 16 maggio è tanpestato dala terra in giu et ha portato via ogni cosa” (1673 on 16 May it stormed from down the earth and it took away everything).


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174423, and an eclipse in 1706. Naturally related to this are observations about crops and livestock, most of them tragic: shortages, blight, epidemics (affecting both humans and animals). Also fundamental for a farming community, in particular in an area where rice was cultivated since the fifteenth century, is the ebbing and flowing of the Sesia river. A number of graffiti recount floods of the Sesia, one of them so severe that it destroyed Arborio’s castle (Fig. 3-4). Other topics include news of local interest, including the death of notables and construction of roads and bridges.

Fig. 3-4. Arborio, San Sebastiano. Detail of graffiti on the figure of St. Sebastian.

23 The comet is mentioned no less than three times in three different locations: on St. Sebastian in the small apse, “1744 e venuta la stella di mercurio con una scoa di foco nel mese di feb” (1744 the mercury star with a fire tail came in the month of February); on St. Benedict also in the small apse “1744 il mese di Febraro è venuta la stella con il raggio di focho largo un brazo” (1744 on the month of February came the star with the fire ray long of a brazo); and on the Entry into Jerusalem on the south wall “1744 fe di anno venuta una stela …” (1744 February of that year came a star …).

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Fig. 3-5. Arborio, San Sebastiano. Detail of graffiti on the figure of St. Sebastian.

We also find records of war, about eleven inscriptions directly related to the movement of French, Savoyard, Spanish, and German troops through the Po valley.24 As subjects of the Duke of Savoy,25 Arborio’s inhabitants experienced the Italian Wars in the sixteenth century, the Wars of Succession of Monferrato and of Spain in the seventeenth century, and the War of Succession of Austria in the eighteenth century. Arborio suffered in particular from its proximity to the

24 A few examples: “1544 die 27 maii traditum fuit castrum” (On 27 May 1544 the castle was betrayed); “Lanno 1672 a di 15 maggio il Duca di Savoia à fatto spianare tutto” (On 15 May 1672 the Duke of Savoy had everything razed). 25 In 1404 the nobiles de Arborio submitted to the authority of Amadeus VIII of Savoy. Along with them came a territory of about 50 km2 extending on both sides of the river Sesia. The area remained under Savoyard domination until Napoleon’s invasion (Piedmont was annexed to France after Napoleon’s victory at Marengo in 1802); at the treaty of Vienna it was restituted to Victor Emmanuel I and after the unification it became Italian.


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heavily fortified town of Casale Monferrato (46 kilometers south of Arborio) as is proven by a cluster of entries recording events related to the two Wars of Succession of Monferrato (1612-16 and 1628-31).26 In fact, Casale was an epicenter of hostilities involving Savoy, France, Spain, and the Gonzaga of Mantua for much of the seventeenth century (Ratti, 1994: 23). Its military citadel was one of most important in Europe and Arborio’s graffiti record its siege in 1628: “1628 del mese d Aprile D. Gonzalo di cordova governatore di mto assediò casale monferato” (1628 in the month of April, Don Gonzalo di Cordova, governor of Monferrato, besieged Casale Monferrato) as well as its destruction: “1695 alli 12 lulio il Duca di Savoia à pigliato casale à forca [forza] darmi è la fatto pianare tutta la cittadella daij francesi in una so…” (On 12 July 1695, the Duke of Savoy took Casale by force and had the French raze the entire citadel in one…).27

Fig. 3-6. Arborio, San Sebastiano. Paintings on the south wall of the nave.

In several of the entries referring to war, we find discrepancies between what

we learn in official history texts and what Arborio’s inhabitants recorded and experienced. Somehow this shows that, even in the field of l’histoire événementielle there is a longue durée (Braudel, 1958) and that, for example, 26 After the peace of Cateau-Cambrésis in 1559 (which put an end to the Italian Wars) the Monferrato became part of the lands of the Gonzaga. The first War of Succession followed the death of Vincenzo II Gonzaga. 27 The inscriptions appear respectively on the figure of St. Benedict, in the small apse and on the Entry into Jerusalem on the south wall.

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wars last longer for the common folk than official histories which record declarations and treaties would have us believe. A 1626 inscription in French28 was most certainly left by soldiers engaged in the War for the succession of the Montferrato, which was supposed to have begun in 1628, two years later. Another inscription from the same year tells us about military activity involving French, German, and Spanish soldiers in nearby Gattinara and Bugetto, again during what was supposed to be peacetime. Similarly, we find evidence of continuing hostilities, after the official end of the war in 1631–for example in 1636 when the Spaniards burned the rice fields and assaulted Arborio’s castle. We tend to think about historical events as having well defined or fixed beginnings and ends, but here and in popular chronicles we see that the people directly involved experienced these events much differently. One should keep in mind that, in addition to the obvious losses and suffering brought by warfare, the presence of soldiers was in itself a source of hardship for nearby communities which were required to lodge troops and provide food for the soldiers, hay for the cavalry and the artillery (Delumeau and Lequin, 1987: 298). This became even clearer to me in June 2005, when I consulted the town’s archives. I found documents listing the damages suffered by Arborio caused by both enemy and allied troops,29 the regiments lodged in Arborio, and the expenses incurred by the community.30 Wars also drain communities of young men, and this is especially difficult in a rural community as Arborio as is proven by a document dated 9 February 1708 in which the town states the scarcity of men able to serve as soldiers because of the lack of large families.31

San Sebastiano’s Graffiti: not a unique case

It should be stressed that San Sebastiano’s graffiti are not a unique case. This type of inscription can be found elsewhere and earlier: for instance, in San Zeno in Verona, on the fresco depicting San Zeno’s entombment, several 1390 inscriptions record the revolt of the Veronese against Gian Galezzo Visconti 28 “1626 le 2 aoust Arbero a loge 5 soldatz du regimt de Mr de St Paul de Grammont” (On 2 August 1626 Arborio billetted five soldiers of the regiment of Mr. de St Paul de Grammont). 29 «Consegna de danni pattiti dalla comunità d’Arboro tanto da nemici quanto dale truppe collegate» document Archivio di Stato, Vercelli (hereafter abbreviated ASV), Arborio 53:1, dated 21 May 1711. 30 The documents in ASV, Arborio in the Mazzo 53 deal with such issues: see, for instance ASV, Arborio, 53:1, from 13 October 1762 listing the regiments lodged in Arborio between April 1758 and October of that year (stating how many soldiers and horses were lodged and how much hay and oats was given), or another document dated 15 January 1546 that lists individuals who provided hay. 31 ASV, Arborio, 53:3.


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(Fig. 3-7). I have had the occasion to reproduce a fresco from the Basilica of San Giulio on the lake of Orta (Plesch, 2002: figs. 9-10; 2002a: figs. 9-10). On a saint painted on a pillar a cluster of inscriptions tells us–in Latin and in a syntax identical to that of our corpus–about a catastrophically cold April:

1513 die 21 aprilis imp… ventorum (1513 on 21 April … wind) 1513 die 22 aprilis pruina maxima (1513 on 22 April there was the greatest frost) 1513 die 23 aprilis neve maxima (1513 on 23 April there was the greatest snowfall)

Fig. 3-7. Verona, San Zeno. San Zeno’s Entombment

In nearby Ghislarengo (3.5 km north of Arborio), as early as 1960 and again

in 1986, Monsignor Ferraris noted the presence of many inscriptions on a Madonna painted on the façade of a house.32 He indicated that the oldest is “1527 die 9 de…”. He also reproduced several examples, such as, “1553 di 18 novembris i francesi introrno in Vercelli” (On 18 November 1553 the French entered in Vercelli). The state of the painting makes deciphering the inscriptions very difficult, in particular because of its location out-of-doors. But the few that are readable offer sufficient evidence to appreciate how similar they are to 32 The painting dates to the end of the fifteenth century or the beginning of the sixteenth.

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Arborio’s. Likewise, in Lenta, (6.5 km north of Arborio), in the Madonna di Campagna some frescoes still bear inscriptions. They too were noted by local historians, such as Ferraris (1986: 134) and Franco Ferretti (1986: 341-364). This latter noted that several inscriptions refer to floods of the Valigone, a canal that runs in the area, as for instance, “1612 il pº 8bre il gualigone intrò in questa Chiesa” (1612 on 1 October the Gualigone entered this church). I found several other inscriptions, particularly on the depiction of St. Anthony (Fig. 3-8) and most remarkably two of them refering to the execution of Louis XVI of France: “L’anno 1791 I Francesi hanno fatto morire il Re per fare Republica” (In the year 1791 the French put to death the King in order to establish the Republic) and “1791 fu decapitato il re de Francia per…” (1791 the king of France was beheaded for…). All the other graffiti that I was able to decipher are very much similar to Arborio’s and focus on local events as, for instance, “1793 lano della miseria e carestia” (1793 was a year of misery and famine).

The location of San Sebastiano’s graffiti

An analysis of the placement of the graffiti in relationship to the paintings shows that the inscriptions appear near or on the iconic depictions of saints rather than on the Passion cycle. It is clear that the narrative cycle was only chosen as a support because the inscribers had run out of space on the frescoes of the saints. Only the first three scenes received inscriptions, with an overwhelming majority to be found on the first panel with Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem (28 entries). The following depiction, the Last Supper, has three entries, while the next two, Christ Washing the Feet of the Apostles and the Agony in the Garden have each one inscription. The inscriptions on the Passion cycle tend to be more recent ones.

The fact that the graffiti appear on the walls surrounding altars, that is, the apse wall and the side niche with a secondary altar is not surprising: this is a feature that was observed by one of the very few scholars to deal with the question of graffiti on frescoes, Nicole Thierry (1990), in her study of Cappadocian churches that are rich in graffiti.33 Carola Jäggi (1999) made similar observations about the Tempietto sul Clitunno near Spoletto, where over 50 instances ranging from the seventh through the ninth century can be seen, and as Jäggi showed were gathered by the altar. This feature leads Jäggi to draw a parallel with the practice of inscribing names on altar tables.34 I should note 33 Thierry notes: “C’est donc l’image conceptuelle de l’incarnation et, en second lieu, les portraits de saints qui entraînèrent la ferveur locale, non le récit christologique” (Thierry, 1990: 440-441). 34 She refers to O. Oexle (1976: 74; 1985: 82), who called this practice “libri memoriales in stone”.


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that we have here a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation. For narrative scenes are usually placed on the nave walls of a church, while more iconic depictions are gathered near the altar–and I think what counts is not so much the location in relationship to the altar as the nature of the depiction.

Fig. 3-8. Lenta, Madonna di Campagna, St. Anthony Abbott.

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At Arborio, Saints such as Anthony (Fig. 3-2) and Sebastian are the figures who receive not only the most inscriptions, but some of the earliest surviving ones.35 St. Anthony was invoked against ergotism (or St. Anthony’s fire, as it was then called) and other skin diseases as well as for veterinary cases, in particular for pigs (his attribute) and horses; he was most certainly a useful saint in rural areas.36 His feast day (17 January) was the occasion for an important celebration in Arborio (Quaglia et al., 2004: 147). Sebastian, to whom the chapel is dedicated, was particularly popular in the Duchy of Savoy, with many chapels decorated with cycles of his life, or dedicated to him.37 He owed his popularity to his protection against the plague, which, at that time and place, was endemic.38 His importance at Arborio is further expressed by the fact that he appears no less than three separate times: in the center of the apse among the apostles (represented naked and pierced by arrows), a second time in the niche (as a knight holding a sword and three arrows, Fig. 3-1), and also in the nave (with two men darting arrows at him) (Fig. 3-6).

Although Sebastian “specialized” in the protection against the plague, Anthony as well was considered a saint antipesteux or pestheilig. On St. Anthony (Fig. 3-3) an inscription records an outbreak of the disease in 157039 and with a 7 added over the 0, a second outbreak in 1577 (the so-called “Borromean plague” that hit Milan in 1575-78),40 while another graffito, placed on the depiction of the enthroned Virgin and Child (Fig. 3-1) recalls the 1630 epidemic.41 This last outbreak, often referred to as the “Manzonian plague”

35 Fifteen entries for St. Anthony (with three from the sixteenth century), twelve entries on the St. Sebastian on the small apse (one of which is from the sixteenth century) and seven more entries on the representation of his martyrdom on the nave wall. The depiction of Sebastian in the main apse is too damaged to distinguish any inscription. 36 P. Walter (1996: 7) refers to St. Anthony as the “indispensable médiateur du monde paysan.” See Réau (1958: 103-104) for list of diseases. 37 See M. Roques (1961: 58-60) for the frequency of St. Sebastian chapels and pictorial cycles of his life in south-eastern France. Quaglia lists chapels from the area either dedicated to him or bearing depictions of the saint (Quaglia et al., 2004: 237). On the ubiquity of representations of the saint I quote Delumeau (1978: 107): “dans l’univers catholique jusqu’au XVIIIe siècle inclus, il n’y eut guère d’église rurale ou urbaine sans une représentation de saint Sébastien criblé de flèches.” 38 Greslou (1973: 15-16), lists 22 outbursts of plague in the city of Chambéry alone during the fifteenth century. 39 Bergeri (1988: 7) mentions plague in the Beaufortain in 1570. 40 The archbishop of Milan lived between 1538 and 1589 and was canonized in 1610 (Boeckl, 2000: 58-59). 41 “1630 a 12 Marci incepit Mortalitas de Malicarboni ut contagiato [contagioso ?] In loco Arboro et mensis et …tre menses et loca Lombardi” (1630 on 12 March begun the bubonic plague in the locality of Arborio and months and … three months in Lombard


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because the nineteenth-century author immortalized it in his novel I promesi sposi, was particularly devastating and raged for several years (1629-33).42 In nearby Casale Montferrato, for instance, 30 to 50 people were dying each day during the summer of 1630 (Ratti, 1994: 24). It should finally be noted that St. Roch, another saint whose protection was invoked against the plague (Boeckl, 2000: 57-58) is also present at San Sebastiano, although he bears only three inscriptions, all in a rather fragmentary state, dated 1665, 1737, and 1832. Louis Réau reminds us that the cult of this fourteenth-century saint developed in the fifteenth century and that he was canonized in the seventeenth. In addition to being invoked against the plague, St. Roch also protected animals (Réau, 1958: 1157).43

It should be stressed that Arborio was most likely to be in a location prone to the disease, as the flea that carries it thrives in a warm and humid atmosphere (15-20º degrees centigrade, hence the summer outbreaks)–an atmosphere very much that of an area where the rice fields are flooded from April until August.44 That this terrain was particularly favorable to the disease is perhaps best illustrated by the way in which the inhabitants of Masserano, a locality some 20 km north west of Arborio in the foothills of the Alps, referred in dialect to the plague as “La mort d’Arbô”.45

Delumeau (1978: 102; Delumeau and Lequin, 1987: 274) notes the increased vulnerability to the disease of populations that had just suffered from dearth.

localities). For the period during which these outbreaks recorded at Arborio took place, see Naphy and Spicer (2001: 81-102). 42 Cipolla (1981: 100) provides figures for the percentage of the population that died in Italian cities. Particularly relevant here are those for Milan (46%), Como (42%) and Carmagnola (25%). In Cipolla’s rates, the highest figure is in Verona, with a staggering 61%. Delumeau (1978: 101) gives an even higher percentage for Mantua, with 77%. On the plague in the Novarese, see Balosso and Papale (1985: 351). The nearby town of Momo, for instance, counted 721 in 1629 and only half of it at the end of 1631. 43 Réau recounts this tradition, although without specifying when nor where it was practiced: On his feast day (16 August), the priest blessed herbs that were then mixed to the animals feed to protect them against contagious diseases. The saint also protected vineyards. 44 Thanks to Paolo Tagliabue for the information. The cultivation of rice was established in the Vercellese since end of the fifteenth century, where the Po valley offered perfect conditions: with abundant rain and a marshy terrain (Quaglia et al., 2004: 98). 45 Achino et al. (1996: 29) adds that the 1630 plague saw the monatti (the removers of corpses during plague) flock from Arborio and Landiona. Because of the frequency of epidemics, the community instituted in 1583 free medical services and the oratory of S. Rocco was used as a lazzaretto until the beginning of the twentieth century.

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Penuria (dearth) is a term that recurs in the corpus.46 Our graffiti proves that Delumeau is right for there is a remarkable correlation between the 1570 and 1630 outbreaks and entries referring to penuria either the same year (for the first plague) or preceding it (for the second). As a matter of fact, for the 1630 outbreak, which we know was particularly devastating,47 the population had been weakened by a series of dearth. In the early modern climate of fear, one sought to find out what the future held. Comets and eclipses were among the “signs” that were believed to presage famines and other calamities (Delumeau, 1978: 69-71; Delumeau and Lequin, 1987: 249, 284, 290, 303-05). As seen above, in our corpus we find several mentions of such phenomena.

San Sebastiano’s graffiti: who were the authors?

Between the first dated inscription from 1531 and the most recent from 1889,48 we find nearly 150 more inscriptions within that 358-year period: 11 from the sixteenth century, 39 from the seventeenth century, 83 from the eighteenth century, and 11 from the nineteenth century. Of the sixteenth-century inscriptions, all but two are in Latin and these two inscriptions, in vernacular Italian, are clearly by the same hand. In the early seventeenth century we find inscriptions in both Latin and Italian and, after about 1630, exclusively in Italian. Of the 39 seventeenth-century inscriptions, only about twenty per cent are in Latin. The seventeenth century also offers the only instance of an inscription in another language, French,49 thus suggesting that “outsiders” were allowed in this practice.

The use of Latin in the sixteenth and into the seventeenth century indicates that the chroniclers, at this period anyway, were learned individuals. My recent research in Arborio’s archives confirmed indeed the limited literacy in this rural zone. In the period corresponding to that of San Sebastiano’s graffiti the number of Arboresi who couldn’t sign their name50 or even of consiglieri (town 46 “1570 fuit penuria maxima…”; “1587 fuit maxima penuria …siligott* militis (?)”; “1592 fuit maxima penuria”; “1628 Maxima fuit penuria in districta (?) huius (?)… pactus”. 47 See above for death rates in Italian cities during the “Manzonian plague”. 48 For this date as the real end of the corpus, rather than the 1960 date, see above, note 21. 49 That is the 1626 inscription cited above, note 28. 50 See, for instance, document ASV, Arborio, 16:5 (30 May 1764, heads of households agreeing to the building of a sacristy and the completion of the choir of S. Martino): out of the 139 signatures, 59 are crosses (that is, 42.44%); ASV, Arborio, 16:3 (11 and 22 July 1769, also concerning the work on S. Martino): bear respectively 40 signatures, of which 21 are crosses (52.5%) and 96 signatures of which 43 are crosses (44.79%), thus an average of 46.67% of illiterate citizens.


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councilmen) who could barely form the letters of their name remained extremely high.51 For the most part the inscriptions are anonymous, but in some rare instances, we find signatures (in several cases it is difficult to ascertain, given the fragmentary condition of the inscription if the name is a signature or not). It is remarkable that among the 150-some inscriptions of the corpus only five bear a signature (two of which are by the same individual). Three, dated 1661, 1677, and 1669 are signed by one Giacomo Giletta (Fig. 3-4).52 The Giletta were nobili rurali53 and Giovanni Deambrogio (1971: 20-21) states that the name appears in documents as nobile d’Arboro and that, along with the other aristocratic families of the place, were patrons of the now destroyed church of S. Maria di Piazza. The Liber Baptizatorum Ecclesiae Parochialis Sanctae Mariae de Platea ab anno 1660 ad annum 1822 records the birth in 1660 of Giovanni Battista, son of Giacomo and Elisabetta Giletta (idem: 31).54 In addition to these inscriptions, paleographic evidence shows that two more entries following the 1661 one, dated 1654 and 1664, are obviously by the same hand as the one signed Giletta.

A lengthy inscription, dated 29 May 1762, signed by one Giuseppe Schintone, records the lack of rain since September and adds that such as falizione has not been seen “in our times”.55 In the the Archivi di Stato in Vercelli several documents, starting in 1764, show the name Giuseppe Schintone, many of which contain his signature. A Registro della popolazione (a census) dated 1801, indicates that he was then 58 years old, therefore born in 1743 or about. He would then have been about 19 years old when he wrote his name on S. Sebastiano’s wall. He was to become an important citizen: a document from 1771 shows that he became a consigliere, a position he occupied for many years, as shows a document from 1798. Other names appear in more fragmentary inscriptions–they are all of important families, men who were town counselors and mayors.

51 Or who could not even sign, as in the case of a Bernardino Rosso: see ASV, Arborio, 53:1, 16 September 1736. 52 In the first two instances the signature only bears a G., in the latter, it states “Giaco”. 53 For the distinction between nobili maggiori or castellani (who became the lords) and nobili rurali (who held minor privileges), see Quaglia et al. (2004: 18, 26 and 229) and Deambrogio (1971: 11). 54 Quaglia et al. (2004: 53), referring to Ferraris (1960: 140), lists the patrons of the church in the eighteenth century. 55 “1762 dali 29 Maggo Non la Mai piouto sino ali 16 di 7bre una falanza simile Non si e maii veduto a notri temi in arboro è pertuto è venuto la Melia a lire 22 al saco @ 2 7bre Giuseppe Schintone” (From 29 May until 16 September 1762 it did not rain. Such a devastation has not been seen in our time, and everywhere polenta was sold 22 lire the bag).

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If signatures are a rarity, a name that recurs with more frequency is that of the town, Arborio, or “Arboro”, as it used to be called.56 I have recorded eighteen instances of the name. The individual identity is obviously not so relevant here, and what the scriptors share is their relationship to the place, and indeed their ability to record its history. Even in the case of the French soldiers, who were not citizens, their inscription affirms nevertheless that–for a while at least–they were part of the community. In fact, the sentence’s syntax is highly revealing, for it is written in the active voice, stating that “Arbero a loge 5 soldatz” (literally that “Arborio lodged five soldiers”).

San Sebastiano’s inventory of fears

Glancing through the corpus of inscriptions, one is struck how these events were of the kind that generate fear. Jean Delumeau’s classic study stresses how in the early modern period “not only individuals but also entire communities and civilizations were engaged in a permanent dialog with fear” (Delumeau, 1978: 2). It is in this context that one can understand the recourse to religion, to the protection of saints–hence the devotional dimension of this scriptural practice. It is indeed fear–and not, to follow Delumeau’s useful distinction, anxiety–that can be read on San Sebastiano’s walls. Although both feelings are related and eventually intermingle, fear deals with known factors, while anxiety is provoked by the unknown. The disastrous and threatening events are there, well-known, spelled out on the chapel’s frescoes. But living in a state of fear, being submitted to successive threats can lead to experiencing anxiety (Delumeau, 1978: 15-16). In this context, the role played by memory is somewhat ambiguous, since remembering traumatic events can contribute to reaching this “profound malaise” that generates anxiety crises, what has been called a “Damocles complex”. Delumeau (1978: 17) talks about “collectivités mal-aimées”–a phrase that could be applied to Arborio and her long litany of assaults, both natural and human.

Delumeau (1978: 22) considers that the fears experienced by early modern communities need to be studied in two separate enquiries, one dealing with “spontaneous fears” and one with “reflected fears” (“peurs réfléchies”). The first, experienced by the population at large, is the one that corresponds to our case; the second is the product of the clergy’s discourse. Spontaneous fears can themselves be split into two categories: fears of a permanent nature, such as those generated by the sea, the stars, omens, ghosts, and so on, and of a cyclical nature, such as plagues, famines, tax increases, passage of soldiers. Except for

56 Quaglia in Quaglia et al. 33. The town was thus called until last century.


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the sea–although here we have the unpredictable Sesia–all these fears appear at Arborio.

Fighting Fear by Writing History

A constant feature of the inscriptions is that they are all expressed in the past tense. It is reasonable to suppose that the inscriptions were recorded almost contemporaneously with the events, but that the past tense was used as a conscious effort to record the events for posterity and to address future readers. In 1745 (Fig. 3-5) everyone knew that cattle were dying in town–no need to record that! The fact that “cattle have died” is addressed to posterity. In other words the inscriptions are very much history writing.

Arborio’s corpus of graffiti fits the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of history, as a “continuous methodical record… of public events”. All the entries are written about Arborio, they are in the third person and in the past tense, not surprisingly since, according to Michel de Certeau (1975: 46), “history is a discourse in the third person”. Certeau tells us that writing an event in the past tense constitutes a discourse of separation between past and present (idem: 9). By being inscribed on the chapel’s walls, events were removed from the present and forever set into the past. Certeau showed that such distancing is what allows the present to become autonomous57–a critical issue for Arborio, as the town struggled to remain independent despite invasions and other threats. Arborio’s graffiti obviously do not constitute a history book, nor is their relationship to the recorded events intellectual or analytical. In fact, as a ritual, they aim at symbolical manipulation.58 What we have here is rather what Pierre Nora (1984-92) termed a lieu de mémoire, a place born out of the desire to crystallize memory. The need to create and maintain places of memory–all manners of archives and celebrations–is the result of the awareness that there is no such thing as spontaneous memory (Nora, 1984: xxiv, xxxv). The choice of a place of worship, and more specifically, of the effigies of holy figures as the site for this recording makes sense for, as Nora so well expressed it, “la mémoire installe le souvenir dans le sacré” (Nora, 1984: xix).59 From early in my project, I have been reminded of my mother’s bible, in which she kept letters and other objects of value to her. In so doing she was continuing the early modern practice of the

57 “ob-jet rejeté derrière soi pour qu’un présent autonome devienne possible” (Certeau, 1975: 11). 58 On Arborio’s graffiti considered within the framework of ritual studies see Plesch (2002). 59 “Memory situates remembrance in a sacred context” (Nora, 1996: 3).

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livre de raison or libro di famiglia, as did early modern individuals when they recycled prayer books into receptacles for familial landmarks.60

History writing can be seen as an attempt to understand the past, that is, as is made clear in Romance languages, to appropriate it, to take it with oneself–“cum-prendere”. This is why I will conclude with the issue of what has been termed appropriation (Ashley and Plesch, 2002): a building–the chapel–was appropriated. Within that building, the walls were also appropriated. On those walls, paintings were appropriated, but not indiscriminately, for almost exclusively iconic depictions received graffiti. This feature expressed the community’s desire to establish a contact with the depicted saints in an effort informed by devotional practices–or indeed, through the appropriation of such practices. Furthermore, Arborio’s chronicle, because of its insertion into a sacred space and appropriation of holy effigies as support for the entries, stands at the intersection of two worlds, the secular and the religious. This intersection–or, to borrow Mary Louise Pratt’s term, this “contact zone”61–is the site inhabited by the practice of lay devotion and may be understood in light of the practices associated with devotional art.62 Arborio’s inhabitants continued this ritually structured endeavor for at least four centuries, affirming that these events, even if endangering the town’s survival, were constitutive of the town’s identity: Arborio had a long and documented history.

In 1999 I organized with Béatrice Fraenkel a session for the sixth international conference on Word and Image Studies. Our aim was to critically revisit the common assumptions about graffiti, thus asking if this scriptural activity is indeed always illicit, popular, obscene, anonymous, hasty, informal, and ephemeral. Arborio’s corpus, along with the many similar instances that survive, certainly confirms the need for a reevaluation. More specifically for those of us who study wall paintings, what I propose is to look beyond the painting itself, to what is written on it, and through this scrutiny come to a better understanding of the continuing relevance of these works of art and their resonance for its public or, better put, their users.

60 An overview of the phenomenon of the livres de raison will appear in the introduction of Kathleen Ashley’s forthcoming book on the Miroir des Bonnes Femmes. The recent Art, Memory and Family in Renaissance Florence, edited by Ciappelli and Rubin offers excellent discussions on the ricordanze (as the libri di famiglia were called in Florence) as well as an extensive and up-to-date bibliography on the libri di famiglia. See also Ashley (2002). 61 Pratt (1992: 6). See Ashley and Plesch (2002: 4) for the concept of “contact zone” in the context of processes of appropriation. 62 I sketch this reflection in Plesch (2005).


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Documents

“Using or Abusing? On the Significance of Graffiti on Religious Wall Paintings.” In Out of the Stream: New Directions in the Study of Mural Painting. Ed. Luís Afonso and Vítor