reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churches

Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Dec 17, 2013 11:10 pm

From Apollo Magazine

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A Sentimental Lot
ROBERT O'BYRNE
The Irish, as is well known, are a sentimental people. And nothing brings their sentimentality to the fore so much as the subject of emigration. Yet there is nothing new to this phenomenon: the Irish were ever a nomadic people. In 1816, for example, a parliamentary committee investigating the state of London’s police learnt the parish of St Giles alone contained six thousand Irish migrants. And from that time onwards the departure of native sons and daughters was abundantly marked, through lachrymose pictures like Henry Doyle’s Emigrants Leave Ireland (1868) or ballads such as Percy French’s Mountains of Mourne of 1896.
One might therefore imagine that after centuries of exporting generous quantities of her surplus populace to other countries Ireland was now accustomed to waving the farewell hankie. This is far from being the case: of late The Irish Times, which with its unofficial title of ‘The Paper of Record’ and distinguished history really ought to know better, has been indulging readers with a series entitled Generation Emigration. And a recent contribution on the @ireland twitter account summed up the national mood. ‘I wonder is there many from abroad coming home for Christmas?’ enquired the tweeter. ‘Such a great time of year, but possibly v sad if you can’t get home!’
Ah yes, the sadness of it all, let us not presume to suggest there might be just a smidgeon of self-indulgence in the mix. Just as there was of course none whatsoever apparent in a painting sold last week during an auction held by Adam’s of Dublin.

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The work in question is called The Emigrants’ Last Farewell and was painted by Alfred Grey (1845–1926), a member of the Royal Hibernian Academy. Ironically Grey was himself the son of an emigrant, even if his father Charles (likewise an artist) had only moved from the west coast of Scotland to Ireland.
Unable to shrug off his Scottish ancestry Grey junior specialised in paintings of cattle and Highland landscapes, some of which are believed to have attracted the attention of Queen Victoria. Back in Ireland at least one observer was puzzled by his devotion to Caledonian bovines. In Five Years in Ireland 1895–1900 that clever lawyer and anti-clericalist Michael J.F. McCarthy wrote, ‘Mr Grey’s bulls, cows and sheep look plaintively at us in March, April and May every year from the walls of the RHS in Abbey Street. They are capital cattle, on misty braeside or knee-deep in the placid Tolka. I personally know them all, as if they were old friends, quiet, healthy, contented-looking animals. Mr Grey is as keen a cattle artist as Sidney Cooper, I think; but why does he go in for Scotch cattle so much?’
It was perhaps by way of compensation for all that Highland livestock that Grey decided to paint The Emigrant’s Last Farewell. One rather wishes he had not done so. It is a spectacularly bad picture and not just because the artist was determined to squeeze every last drop of mawkishness out of the scene, with the young wife inevitably clutching a baby while attempting to staunch tears, her husband, who sits on a basket carrying the couple’s few possessions, pluckily waving a hat at the rapidly vanishing shoreline.
As if this were not bad enough, the painting also displays all of Grey’s weaknesses as an artist, his inability to achieve foreshortening, his failure to keep the figures’ heads in correct proportion with their bodies, his rudimentary grasp of perspective. Above all, his risible representation of the family dog which looks to have strayed into the picture from a children’s comic. Whatever about his facility in portraying cattle, Grey had trouble with other animals. Not that this hindered bidding at the Adam’s sale. Expected to make €1,000–€1,500, The Emigrant’s Last Farewell sold for €2,000. In Ireland sentimentality trumps aesthetic sensibility.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Dec 17, 2013 11:15 pm

From Apollo magazine

http://www.apollo-magazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/HR-image-1024x684.jpg

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Musée de Cluny, Paris
Plaque depicting the 12 tribes of Israel, mid 12th century
Northern France
Ivory, 19.2×13.1×0.5cm
Acquired with Fonds de patrimoine
Carved from a single piece of elephant ivory, this tiered relief depicts the 12 tribes of Israel – a subject usually treated in larger sculptures. It dates from the middle of the 12th century, and its small scale is beyond compare – there are no other known ivories like it, and scholars have yet to establish where it was made, and for what purpose. Classed a Trésor national, it is a superlative addition to Cluny’s impressive holdings of ivories. The museum has 300 pieces dating from late antiquity to the Middle Ages, forming one of the principal collections in Paris, rivalled only by the Louvre.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Dec 17, 2013 11:23 pm

From Apollo Magazine

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Iconoclasm Today
MARTIN OLDHAM
It was an unhappy coincidence that the same week Tate Britain opened its new exhibition ‘Art Under Attack: Histories of British Iconoclasm’, a controversial act of iconoclasm was taking place in Newport in South Wales. The Chartist Mural, a much-loved mosaic in the city centre, was demolished by Newport council to make way for a £100 million shopping development. In the exhibition, Tate presents iconoclasm as largely a historical phenomenon, but in doing so overlooks acts of image-breaking that are taking place all too frequently today both outside and inside the gallery.
The destruction of the Newport Chartist Mural has quickly become a political issue. Local protestors feel their democratic views have been brushed aside by a council more attentive to the commercial interests of the developers. The 35m-long mosaic, made in 1978 by Kenneth Budd, is of symbolic importance in this dispute, because it depicted a bloody confrontation that took place in 1839 between Newport Chartists – working class radicals who were campaigning for democratic reform – and government troops. Demolition of this image of popular resistance, in order to build a shopping centre, has not gone down well in the old socialist heartlands of South Wales.
The recent examples of ‘iconoclasm’ included in the Tate exhibition are timid by comparison. I found myself wishing for something more robust and provocative than the ‘exploratory and transformational practices’ producing ‘new works with new meanings’ offered at the end of the chronological hang.
Inevitably, this was going to be an exhibition characterised by absences. But some reference could usefully have been made to Rachel Whiteread’s House (1993), for example. This work consisted of the concrete cast of the interior of an East London house, left behind as the solitary monument of a demolished Victorian terrace. Although House was extremely popular, attracting thousands of visitors, the local council didn’t like it. On the same day that Whiteread was awarded the Turner Prize for the work, the council ordered its destruction. The motivations behind this act of obliteration are hard to understand today, but seem to be more about control of public space, than aesthetic considerations.
Even harder to understand are attacks by individuals on artworks in public galleries. It is a shame that the Tate could not include its own Black on Maroon by Mark Rothko in the exhibition, but this painting is still undergoing costly conservation work following an act of vandalism in 2012. The assailant wrote his name and a slogan in black paint on the picture, later claiming that ‘art allows us to take what someone’s done and put a new message on it’, a pronouncement that uncomfortably chimes with the ‘new works with new meanings’ definition of contemporary iconoclasm being used in the Tate show.
Sadly, the Rothko is not an isolated example. In 2011, someone sprayed paint on Poussin’s The Adoration of the Golden Calf in the National Gallery, London. A newly commissioned portrait of the Queen by Ralph Heimans was defaced in a similar way in Westminster Abbey earlier this year, by someone campaigning for equal parenting rights for fathers.
It is easy to dismiss such incidents as the isolated actions of irrational people. But as the Tate exhibition effectively demonstrates in a section on the Suffragettes, public art institutions become targets for iconoclastic attacks because they are perceived to represent a cultural or political establishment from which some people feel disenfranchised or excluded. And though most museums and galleries strive to be more accessible and less elitist, this openness leaves their collections exposed to those with malicious intent, and increasingly so at a time when funding cuts are affecting staffing levels.
Tate’s show explores historical iconoclasm by examining the contested relationship between art and power. But it is worth remembering that these conflicts are very much alive today, wherever art is publicly displayed.
‘Art under Attack: Histories of British Iconoclasm’ is on at Tate Britain, London, until 5 January 2014
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Dec 17, 2013 11:27 pm

From Apollo Magazine

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[align=]Bronze Blunders
ROBERT O'BYRNE[/align]

Last Sunday in the County Mayo village of Cong, an Irish government minister unveiled a bronze statue commemorating John Ford’s 1952 piece of hokum The Quiet Man, much of which was filmed in the immediate area. A few days earlier another government minister had unveiled a bronze statue in Celbridge, County Kildare commemorating Arthur Guinness, founder of the well-known brewery, who grew up in the town.
Politicians are not as a rule renowned for their aesthetic sensibilities, which is just as well since both the works here cited can most generously be described as banal. Until recently we Irish were better known for destroying or deporting old statues than for erecting new ones: in Dublin alone the grievous losses include Grinling Gibbons’ equestrian statue of William III (blown up 1929) and John Van Nost the Younger’s equestrian statue of George II (blown up 1937) as well as Van Nost the Elder’s equestrian statue of George I (sold to Birmingham’s Barber Institute 1937).
Today however like Cadmus’ Spartoí fresh statues keep springing up around the country, the majority of them initiatives by local townspeople with funding provided by individuals and businesses; the current downturn in the national economy has led to a corresponding drop in public art commissions.
One is of course delighted artists are kept in employment and foundries in business. And the desire to pay tribute to a person or occasion of importance within the vicinity is understandable. Yet the standard of much work now appearing across the country ranges from poor to dreadful: it can be stated with confidence that neither Mark Rode nor Jarlath Daly, respectively responsible for the The Quiet Man and Arthur Guinness sculptures, will ever be judged equal to Gibbons or either of the Van Nosts.

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At the moment popular taste prefers representational work, statues that look – albeit sometimes rather fuzzily – like their intended subjects. So, for example, sculpture raised to honour sportsmen (very in vogue) always shows them in action, lest we wonder why they are being honoured. An especially unimaginative bronze figure of Thin Lizzie’s Phil Lynott in central Dublin depicts the musician holding his guitar: incidentally it transpires Paul Daly, who made the piece in 2005, had never sculpted anything before.
Abstraction is out of favour, the last such large-scale work being the Spire on the capital’s O’Connell Street. This stands on the site of Nelson’s Pillar, a fine 121 foot high granite Doric column topped by a statue of the admiral. The pillar was detonated in March 1966 by the IRA as its own special contribution to events marking the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising. The Spire meanwhile is a giant stainless steel knitting needle and leaves as lasting an impression on the spectator as does that implement.
Dublin City Council, which spent €4 million putting it up 10 years ago, entertained delusional hopes the Spire would become an icon in the same way as has the Eiffel Tower for Paris. In fact, the city already possesses a piece of sculpture with which it has become synonymous: Jeanne Rynhart’s truly abysmal 1988 statue commemorating someone who most likely never existed, Molly Malone. Sited at the lower end of retail thoroughfare Grafton Street, the figure’s pneumatic breasts propose Molly as more street walker than street trader. Yet the piece is wildly popular, with tourists forever pausing to be photographed beside the so-called Tart with the Cart.
What Ireland badly needs is its own equivalent of a fourth plinth, onto which all this bronze can be lowered and subjected to quality assessment. The only problem would be that work is being churned out at such speed space would soon become an issue.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Wed Dec 18, 2013 12:26 am

From the City Journal

Stephen Eide

The New York Public Library’s Uncertain Future
A proposed renovation threatens one of the world’s great research institutions.


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No place does more for more New Yorkers”—so claims the New York Public Library. Unlike most institutional boasts, this one has merit, because the library has long balanced unparalleled excellence with remarkably open access. Serving Manhattan, the Bronx, and Staten Island—Brooklyn and Queens have their own separate library systems—the New York Public Library operates one of the world’s premier research institutions and a circulating system of 87 branches. The library’s research holdings far surpass those of any other public library in the nation and of most universities; access to the collection has been as deep a source of pride for the library as the breadth and depth of the collection itself. But now the library is on the cusp of enacting the most radical change in its 120-year history: under the Central Library Plan, as it’s been called, the library will sell two major facilities in midtown Manhattan and use the proceeds, plus city funds—$350 million in all—to renovate the iconic Main Building on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, which would retain its research function while also becoming the system’s central circulating branch.

Critics have attacked the plan’s design and scope and the lack of public input in formulating it. The library insists, though, that the renovation is necessary. “This is about improving services for our users—the public,” says David Offensend, the library’s chief operating officer. That claim seems dubious, at least for researchers. Even under the brightest scenario, the likely result would be an institution marginally more cost-effective but significantly downgraded from the research standard it has set during its illustrious history.

By the late nineteenth century, New York had established itself as America’s cultural capital; the city lacked only a world-class library system, though modest lending libraries—some fee-based, others free—could be found throughout town. The privately funded Astor and Lenox research libraries owned serious public collections, but they were little used. In 1895, they consolidated their collections and, with a bequest from the estate of former New York governor Samuel Tilden—who left some of his fortune for the purpose—formed a new research institution dedicated equally to intellectual excellence and public access. The library’s official name was The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations, which it remains today. City government provided land on the site of an obsolete reservoir between 40th and 42nd Streets, close to the old Grand Central Depot and near the planned Penn Station at 33rd Street and 7th Avenue, completed in 1910.

The Main Building’s classical design was the work of Carrère and Hastings, an architectural firm whose principals had studied at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. The structure took 12 years and $9 million to build, and it incorporated 14 varieties of marble—including some from the same Greek quarry that supplied the Parthenon. The building’s unique features include the pink-marble lions, named Patience and Fortitude by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia during the Great Depression, which guard the front portico; the third floor’s majestic Rose Main Reading Room; and the seven stories and 88 miles of cast-iron and steel bookshelves, closed to the public, which occupy most of the building’s west side and hold up the Rose Main Reading Room. These are “the stacks,” regarded as an engineering marvel in their day—even appearing on a 1911 cover of Scientific American.

The library began incorporating independent lending libraries into its organization in 1901. Circulating operations expanded vastly when Andrew Carnegie donated $5.2 million to build 65 branches across the city. The cost of building the average branch library in the early twentieth century was $80,000, or about $2.2 million in today’s dollars. Carrère and Hastings designed 14 Carnegie branches in New York City. City government agreed to fund the branches’ operating costs (it had pledged capital assistance only for the main research library). Ever since, the branches have been an integral part of the civic and cultural life within New York neighborhoods. “The local branches of the New York Public Library served ‘everybody“ but did not try to acquire ‘everything,’ ” writes library historian Phyllis Dain. “Essentially popular lending libraries of limited size (compared to the research libraries’ huge holdings), they focused on the people in their communities.”

The research library, meanwhile, quickly became one of the best in the world, in the same class as France’s Bibliothèque Nationale and the British Museum. Whole books have been written about the library’s collection, which now boasts some 45 million items (51 million counting the branch holdings), including a Gutenberg Bible and a 1623 Shakespeare First Folio from the Astor and Tilden libraries. The great libraries of the past were dedicated to preserving particular traditions, whether nationalistic or religious. The New York Public Library, Dain writes, did aspire to collect everything, “the obscure and unorthodox as well as the acclaimed and conventional, and in a variety of formats,” from as many traditions as possible. Of greatest value to researchers are the many special collections, such as the papers of Robert Moses and H. L. Mencken; the archives of The New Yorker and Farrar, Straus and Giroux; Bolshevik propaganda, along with thousands of volumes from the personal libraries of the deposed Russian royal family; nineteenth-century dime-store novels; eighteenth-century playbills; and much more. Though the research collection does not circulate, anyone can make use of it. Former library president Vartan Gregorian sees the institution’s mission as evidence that “democracy and excellence are not mutually exclusive; they are compatible.”

Barely a decade into its existence, the library began running out of space in the Main Building. In 1933, it bought a building on 25th Street to serve as an annex. About 30 years later, it sold off the original annex and purchased another building on West 43rd Street, which recently sold for $45 million. Today, in addition to the Main Building in midtown Manhattan, the library’s research operations include the Performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center (opened in 1965), the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture (formally designated as a research library in 1972, though it grew out of a Carnegie branch built in 1904), and the Science, Industry and Business Library (SIBL, opened in 1996). The truth is, it doesn’t make much sense to house a great research library in midtown, where space is at a premium—at least not in a building so revered as to prohibit demolishing or substantially remodeling it for functional reasons. For over a decade—before the Central Library Plan was developed—the library has kept a significant share of its books off-site at a Princeton, New Jersey, storage facility known as the Research Collection and Preservation Consortium (ReCAP), which it shares with the Columbia and Princeton university libraries. Patrons must ask for items in advance, and the library promises to furnish them within one business day if requested before 2:30 PM, a goal that it claims to meet 85 percent of the time.

Funding has also been an ongoing concern. From the outset, the Main Building was used well beyond its intended capacity. Some officials argued that the library was a victim of a “tragedy of the commons.” No one had an obligation to pay for its services, so it was over-patronized. Locals and nonlocals, businesses, writers, and the academic community—everyone used it. (True, for 25 years, the library banned high school students from using the Main Building without special permission, but the policy was largely flouted.) The library also found itself straining to keep up with acquisitions. Global output of published materials exploded throughout the twentieth century, and the costs of keeping up became exorbitant.

These pressures, combined with inflation and New York City’s financial struggles, created an ongoing fiscal crisis for the library that began in the mid-sixties and lasted until about 1980. Officials slashed hours at the Main Building from 87 to 43 a week, imposed furloughs and hiring freezes, and deferred basic maintenance. Nor could the library escape the blight of midtown Manhattan in the seventies. Located just a few blocks east of the red-light district that was Times Square in those days, the Main Building overlooked an open-air drug market in Bryant Park, its backyard. The wall facing Bryant Park was sometimes called “New York’s longest urinal.”

To ease the money crisis, the library began to diversify its revenues, securing additional financial support from New York State and the federal government, and expanding its donor base from 3,000 supporters in the early seventies to more than 40,000 a decade later. The new funding helped stabilize the library’s finances and set the stage for future growth. The real renaissance began with Gregorian, the former University of Pennsylvania president who led the library from 1981 to 1989 and forged a reputation as one of New York’s great fund-raisers. The Campaign for the Public Library, conceived by Gregorian and the library’s board of directors, raised more than $300 million from private and public sources in less than five years.

Thanks to Gregorian, the Main Building received its first major restoration. The library installed a temperature- and humidity-control system in the stacks, spent $1 million to dust the 88 miles of bookshelves—something that hadn’t been done in 75 years—added a new book-storage facility under Bryant Park, and refurbished much of the interior, including the third-floor reading room, which was duly renamed the Rose Main Reading Room in honor of its benefactors, the Rose family. The library’s endowment swelled from $75 million in 1981 to $400 million by the late nineties. The neighborhood branches benefited, too, with new facilities, renovations of old Carnegie libraries, and a few relocations. Many of the renovations came through the library’s innovative Adopt a Branch program, which linked neglected, low-profile branches with private and public funding sources.

Not every move succeeded. Library officials lavished $100 million on the Science, Industry and Business Library, housed in the former B. Altman department store on 34th Street and Madison Avenue, which it now plans to sell off, less than 20 years after it opened. Though the library claims not to be dissatisfied with the level of usage at SIBL, the facility clearly did not become what it was projected to be: the “vibrant center of information about business and science designed to serve the city and the nation . . . [that] contributes significantly to building the skills of the region’s work force, empowering immigrants through information and technology, and undergirding economic development in New York.”

But a larger concern than SIBL’s underperformance was what to do about the Mid-Manhattan central circulating branch. Located kitty-corner to the Main Building in another former department store (an escalator still operates between the first and second floors), Mid-Manhattan is one of the country’s most heavily trafficked public libraries. The library purchased the building in 1961, began operating some functions out of it in the late sixties, and formally opened it to the public in 1982, but somehow never got around to giving it a proper renovation. Shabby and smelly, Mid-Manhattan is to the Main Building what modern Penn Station is to the old Penn Station.

Mid-Manhattan’s days became numbered in March 2008, when officials unveiled the Central Library Plan, along with news of a $100 million gift from financier Stephen Schwarzman. (Technically, the Main Building is now the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building; unlike that of the Rose Main Reading Room, the new name has not caught on.) The plan proposes to demolish the Main Building’s stacks to make way for a new central circulating branch, which will replace Mid-Manhattan. Financing would come from the sale of Mid-Manhattan and SIBL, which library officials estimate will net about $200 million, on top of $150 million in funding from the city that the library secured in 2011. The trustees selected for the renovation the well-known British architect Norman Foster, who had completed modern additions to historic buildings such as the British Museum and the Reichstag.

Once fully implemented, the Central Library Plan will enhance overall research services, officials contend, by adding study space in the Main Building (some rooms now closed to the public will be opened for this purpose) and maintaining superior preservation conditions for the collection at ReCAP and Bryant Park (library officials say that temperature and humidity conditions in the stacks still fluctuate too much, despite the massive environmental-control upgrade implemented in the eighties). As they see it, the plan will also deliver considerable cost efficiencies.

Saving money is something that the library needs to do. Many New Yorkers don’t realize that the New York Public Library is not a city-run institution like the police department or the public schools but a nonprofit organization that receives government subsidies along with private donations and grants. One board and central administration oversees both branch and research operations, though funding arrangements differ for each. Public funds, mostly from the city, support 85 percent of branch operations but only 30 percent of research operations. The remainder comes from private sources. The library’s fiscal 2012 audit puts the value of its endowment at close to $900 million—a massive sum for a cultural institution but less impressive when measured against many private universities’ endowments.

When it announced the Central Library Plan five years ago, the library was riding high from the $100 million Schwarzman gift and the Wall Street boom. The endowment grew more than 60 percent from fiscal 2003 until the market crash, but the ensuing years of recession, along with overextended city budgets, took a toll. Since 2008, the library has cut its workforce by 37 percent at the branches, reduced branch hours, deferred planned maintenance, and gotten along with a smaller acquisition budget. These cuts are an inevitable consequence of public workers’ spiraling retirement and health-benefit costs, which drain municipal resources in New York and around the nation. After paying their employee costs and providing for schools and public safety, cities have less and less left over for libraries. And the library has its own pension problem. Though library employees technically work for a private nonprofit, all full-timers participate in the New York State and Local Employees’ Retirement System. Library pension costs came to $14.6 million in the 2012 fiscal year, up from $10.8 million five years earlier—a 35 percent increase. (Given its funding responsibilities for branch operations and some research costs, the city winds up paying for most of those pensions.)

“We’re hemorrhaging,” library president Anthony Marx said at a 2012 forum. In fiscal year 2012, the library received about $10 million less in city support than it got four years earlier; funding from New York State declined by $9 million. On the capital side, the library estimates that its needs run into the hundreds of millions. Library officials claim that the Central Library Plan will improve their annual bottom line by $15 million; $7 million would come from operational efficiencies—it’s cheaper to operate one facility in midtown, rather than three—and the remainder from increasing the endowment by selling the buildings and boosting fund-raising (by attracting donors for the new Foster facility). Assuming no cost overruns, the Central Library Plan would allow the library to recoup much, but not all, of the recent city and state funding cuts.

But these are risky assumptions. The library touts its record of completing recent capital projects on time and on budget, but the Central Library Plan is orders of magnitude more complicated in engineering and architectural challenges. Library officials insist that taxpayers’ commitment won’t exceed the $150 million from the city treasury. But what happens if they’re wrong? Perhaps the library assumes that its well-heeled donors would cover any excessive costs. The Nation’s Scott Sherman has criticized the library’s recent track record in real-estate transactions, pointing out that the former Donnell branch on West 53rd Street sold in 2007 for just $59 million—the building’s penthouse alone is currently on the market for $60 million. (The library insists that it “ran a very competitive sales process with Donnell” and that the listing price for the penthouse ignores costs that the new owner is putting into the building.)

Whether the plan saves money or not, many worry—rightly—that it will undermine the library’s research tradition. The New York Public Library’s collection does not circulate; it must be used on-site. Under the new plan, more than 1 million fewer books will be available on-site, and 3 million fewer books than the library could keep on-site. Researchers will have to request materials at least a day in advance, making research more inconvenient. Often, while studying a source on the premises, researchers discover through a footnote that still another source is needed. They will put in a request for that additional source, just as always—only now, they’ll often have to wait a day to get it. The discovery process will no longer flow as naturally. To non-researchers, this may seem a petty matter, but ready access to the collection—not just the collection’s magnificence—is what has helped make the New York Public Library indispensable.

Further, combining research and branch services in the same facility amounts to administrative folly. The Rose Main Reading Room, which can accommodate about 650 people, operates on most days close to capacity. It works: users are generally quiet and respectful of one another. But what would be the effect of introducing thousands more users to the Main Building every day? Unless one assumes that the new Foster space, and additional research space within the Main Building, will be more attractive than the space in the Rose Main Reading Room, crowding is likely.

Library officials remind critics that the Main Building did, for a time, house some circulating operations, before these were transferred to Mid-Manhattan—thus establishing a historical precedent for branch functions in the Main Building. But branch libraries’ functions have changed dramatically over the past half-century. Mid-Manhattan boasts a uniquely strong collection for such a library, but it also doubles as a quasi-social-services provider, as do many local libraries around the country. “Although they are often thought of as cultural institutions,” argued a 2013 report by the Center for an Urban Future, a left-leaning New York think tank, “the reality is that the public libraries are a key component of the city’s human capital system.” In this view, New York’s public libraries—and the branches in particular—exist to provide underprivileged groups with vital services, such as computer-literacy classes, job-search assistance, and “safe havens” for at-risk youths.

Assuming that the library (as opposed to some other agency or nonprofit) should be charged with assisting disadvantaged New Yorkers, it doesn’t follow that doing so is compatible with giving maximum access to one of the world’s great research collections. Would anyone ask the same of the Metropolitan Museum of Art? In times of austerity, it’s generally a good idea for organizations to combine operations in the name of cost savings and enhanced efficiency. That’s not the case here. Some functions are simply at odds. As a petition signed by Salman Rushdie, Tom Stoppard, and hundreds of other scholars and writers puts it: “NYPL will lose its standing as a premier research institution . . . and become a busy social center where focused research is no longer the primary goal.”

Finally, the Central Library Plan’s architectural design, at least as presently formulated, is uninspiring. In December 2012, the library released “renderings” of Foster’s plans. Patrons would reach the new circulating branch by walking through the main portico to the back of the Main Building, eventually coming to a vast open space with several terraces and a view of Bryant Park. Compared with Mid-Manhattan, the new space looked like an improvement, but that wasn’t saying much. Given the hype and cost, the design appeared entirely unremarkable, as New York Times architecture critic Michael Kimmelman noted—and other critics agreed. Stung by the criticism, the library sent Foster back to the drawing board. According to the Wall Street Journal, Foster’s new design, due sometime this autumn, will preserve “a significant portion” of the stacks and use them to hold books from the circulating library.

Responding to the research community’s complaints, the library obtained last year a grant from a trustee to enable a fuller build-out of book-storage space beneath Bryant Park, and it has agreed to provide an independent cost estimate for keeping the stacks in the Main Building while improving climate controls and refurbishing Mid-Manhattan, though it isn’t wavering from the Central Library Plan.

It should reconsider the plan. The New York Public Library is a great institution because of its research collection and its commitment to public access to that collection. Among Gotham’s institutions, some are better than their equivalents in other American cities, and some are just bigger. The branch library system, though valuable, may be likened to the New York Public Schools: it is primarily distinguished from other cities’ branch libraries by its enormous size. But the research library is uniquely excellent, like, say, the New York Police Department and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It has no equal in other American cities. Scholarship, education, and our cultural inheritance would all suffer if it is diminished. Despite claims to the contrary, the Central Library Plan will do exactly that.

Research for this article was supported by the Brunie Fund for New York Journalism.

Stephen Eide is a senior fellow at the Manhattan Institute’s Center for State and Local Leadership.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby gunter » Wed Dec 18, 2013 1:27 am

Praxiteles wrote:From Apollo Magazine

[align=]Bronze Blunders
ROBERT O'BYRNE[/align]



If Robert O'Byrne has moved on to dodgy art deprecation, which the dapper one was born to scorn, does that mean that we're now limited to sourcing our seasonal architectural triflings from Tarquin or Turtle?
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby StephenC » Wed Dec 18, 2013 4:34 pm

Sorry to intrude on this hallow'd ground. However this link might interest lovers of the nation's churches. Some images of the newly refurbished and reopened St Catherine's Church on Meath Street in Dublin.

http://www.frg.ie/local-news/gallery-im ... es-church/

(tipps hat...leaves)
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Thu Dec 19, 2013 10:04 am

From the Spectator

God in a stained glass window
'We don't realise how incredible life is,' says Patrick Reyntiens, whose work for churches up and down the country has finally been documented in a magisterial book.

Andrew Lambirth 14 December 2013

Image


Writing about Graham Sutherland in 1950, the critic Robert Melville observed: ‘When one looks at a picture one finds oneself over the frontier or one doesn’t. Criticism has no power of making converts to an experience which occurs without the intervention of reason … Criticism considers the sensitive flesh of the image and discovers its spiritual stature: indeed, unless we pursue the meaning of the image as language, painting may well fall silent and rest content in the pride of its flesh.’

This quotation is of relevance here for several reasons: because one of my principal roles as a writer is to function as an art critic; because Melville rightly identifies the limitations of criticism; and because he also points out criticism’s ability to uncover the spiritual stature of a work of art. I see my brief as a critic primarily as a purveyor of information, a sort of animated signpost, attempting to point out something that readers should then judge for themselves. I hope my enthusiasm or censure will inspire others to look and think independently. It is the act of looking at art — of sharing in this fundamental but highly sophisticated activity — that means most to me.

At this time of year, my thoughts turn invariably to the spiritual in an attempt to counteract the avalanche of materialism impossible to avoid now in a British Christmas. Art can help, for art is not just about pretty pictures to break up the wallpaper, it is also about our relationship to each other and to the world we inhabit, and about the spiritual dimension that exists behind surface appearances. It is food for the soul as well as for the eyes, and nowhere is this more evident than in the art of stained glass.

The leading practitioner of stained glass in this country is Patrick Reyntiens. Of Belgian extraction, Reyntiens was born in London, at 63 Cadogan Square, 88 years ago. He has spoken of the slightly raffish quality of the area, which appealed to him: ‘far more stimulating than the more aristocratic streets and squares of Belgravia’. In the 1920s and 30s, Arnold Bennett lived four doors up, and, whenever she could, Reyntiens’s nanny used to push the pram containing young Patrick into the novelist’s legs ‘by mistake on purpose’ she loathed him so much. And every night at 6 p.m. Nanny read Dickens for half an hour to the young boy, which gave him his great enthusiasm for reading. (He has subsequently amassed a substantial library.)

Reyntiens grew up wanting to be an artist, and after Ampleforth he studied at Regent Street Polytechnic School of Art and then Edinburgh College of Art. At Edinburgh he met his future wife Anne Bruce (1927–2006), herself a painter of considerable distinction. Apart from five years in the Army during the war, Reyntiens has devoted his life to being an artist, but has spent most of his energies on stained glass. He needed a job because he wanted to get married, and a position was vacant as assistant to the stained-glass maestro Eddie Nuttgens (1892–1982), friend and neighbour of Eric Gill at Piggotts Hill, near High Wycombe. Reyntiens took the job and has never looked back.

He is most famous for his 35-year collaboration with John Piper, with whom he worked on such prestigious commissions as the Baptistery Window at Coventry Cathedral (1957–61), and the lantern tower of Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral (1963–7), for which he is jointly credited as designer. The relationship between the two men was not simply that of artist and technical adviser, but a more equal collaborative undertaking. Reyntiens likens the activity to the co-operative and interpretative venture of music. For instance, it was Reyntiens who suggested, when Piper was a little at a loss for inspiration, that he should metaphorically throw a bomb into the middle of the Coventry Baptistery window and design a great explosion of light around it. Similarly Reyntiens’s input was crucial for the new Roman Catholic Cathedral in Liverpool. ‘I’d just been reading Dante,’ he says. ‘In the Purgatorio there’s a description of the Trinity as three great eyes of different colours winking at each other.’ Piper was intrigued if a little piqued. ‘It’s a pity Dante didn’t tell you what to do with the rest of the cathedral,’ he responded crisply.

The work with Piper has somewhat overshadowed Reyntiens’s individual creativity. He has worked extensively as a solo artist over the past half-century, designing and making stained glass for buildings up and down the country. At last this very substantial achievement has been fully documented in Libby Horner’s magisterial Patrick Reyntiens: Catalogue of Stained Glass (Sansom & Co, £60). The example illustrated here depicts the Virgin and Child, with attendant angels, in a three-light East window. It was designed, painted and made by Reyntiens in 1958–9 for St Mary’s, Hound Road, Netley Abbey, Southampton, a simple 13th-century church in the Early English style, described by Reyntiens as a ‘unique little building, intrinsically a powerhouse of spirituality and a venue for private prayer’. The commission was undertaken at the same time as he was working with Piper at Coventry, and Reyntiens considers it one of the best things he has ever done.

Pevsner, in his magisterial survey of the Buildings of England (Hampshire and the Isle of Wight), observed of this window that ‘the colouring bears only a partial relationship to the figures and is to a large extent composed as if the design were abstract. But the figures are strongly representational, with firm facial expressions and delicately composed hands and robes.’ The Virgin Mary is holding the infant Jesus, who opens his arms wide as if to bless or embrace the world. This gesture is immensely endearing, not to say moving, and is Reyntiens’s own interpretation rather than a standard item of traditional iconography in depictions of the Christ Child. He is not especially inspired by historical stained glass. He describes late 12th- and early 13th-century glass as being designed in ‘very pushy colours next to one another — exactly like Gilbert & George’ — though based on the look of the big flags emblazoned with armorial devices prevalent in the Middle Ages.

The colouration of the Hound window is mainly blue, mauve and green with touches of yellow and red, and the application of the paint on the glass is delicate — more like watercolour than oil in consistency. Reyntiens is a practising Roman Catholic and his strong faith is central to his life. Although Easter is the real high point of the Christian year, Christmas, he says, ‘gives an authority to the most important thing in your life — birth. The most amazing thing is our arriving in this whole situation.’ He gesticulates expressively with his hands. ‘I don’t know what beauty is really — except that in one way or another it is what we were all intended to experience. We don’t realise how incredible life is.’

This article first appeared in the print edition of The Spectator magazine, dated 14 December 2013
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Thu Dec 19, 2013 10:07 am

StephenC wrote:Sorry to intrude on this hallow'd ground. However this link might interest lovers of the nation's churches. Some images of the newly refurbished and reopened St Catherine's Church on Meath Street in Dublin.

http://www.frg.ie/local-news/gallery-im ... es-church/

(tipps hat...leaves)


This is certainly good news. Does anyone know if the the stained galss window in the sanctuary is to return or not?
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Fearg » Fri Dec 20, 2013 9:18 pm

back by next summer apparently..
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Tighin » Sat Dec 21, 2013 6:48 pm

Thuggish approaches are everywhere; in the military chapel in Arbour Hill a beautiful frilly white marble altar was replaced with a brutalist butcher's block in grey stone and a tabernacle like a wall safe. I'm told that the frilly white altars around the country (some of them made by the Pearses) are commonly broken up into chips for grave coverings, which has a certain horrid appropriateness.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Sun Dec 22, 2013 11:25 pm

any pictures?

who was the architect?
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Sun Dec 22, 2013 11:27 pm

Fearg wrote:back by next summer apparently..



good.

But I hear that glass restoration techniques rejected at St. Kevin's Harrington Street as inappropriate conservation methods are to be or have been applied to the glass in St Catherine's Meath Street. Any line on this saga?
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Fri Jan 10, 2014 5:03 pm

Cram & Ferguson Architects: An American Tradition



http://vimeo.com/81824643
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Sun Jan 19, 2014 8:42 pm

From the Journal of Sacred Architecture


smilis est Homini Patrifamilias
THINKING ABOUT THE CHURCH AS "SACRAMENTAL SIGN"
by Steven J. Schloeder, appearing in Volume 24


“. . . Like a householder who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (Mt 13:52).
The attempts over the past century to find a contemporary architecture that can bear the weight of the Church’s sacramental vision have largely been unconvincing. Yet we are immediately confronted with both the Church’s own statement that she adopts no particular artistic style as her own (the Church and the Gospel are rightly above any irrevocable association with any secular or culturally contingent forms), as well as the notion that somehow the Holy Spirit will guide the Church and her theologians, architects, and artists to find meaningful expressions of the timeless truths of the Faith in any era or social circumstance. While appreciating that the Church does indeed have a cultural memory, a traditio both in the apostolic sense and in the natural sense, the Church is not hide-bound to the accidents of the artistic traditions.

Given the difficulties in finding an appropriate modern language for church architecture, what can we positively propose as a direction for modern Catholic churches? Let us begin by recalling the guidelines given by the Vatican Fathers for the correct reformation of the liturgy: “In order that sound tradition be retained, and yet the way remain open to legitimate progress, a careful investigation—theological, historical, and pastoral—should always be made . . . and care must be taken that any new forms adopted should in some way grow organically from forms already existing.”1

Applied to ecclesial design, this passage certainly suggests that new churches be rooted to some degree in historical architectural precedent. Given the immense number of Catholic churches built over the centuries, one could hardly argue that this guideline would limit creativity. The Church also requests that “the general plan of the sacred building should be such that it reflects in some way the whole assembly.”2 That is, the spatial arrangements should express that the liturgy is “coherently and hierarchically ordered,” that the arrangement accommodates “the variety of ministries and the variety of actions according to the different parts of the celebration,” and that it both “allows the appropriate ordering of all the participants” and “facilitates each in the proper carrying out of his function.” The principle to be maintained is one of unity, expressive of the unity of the Body of Christ, while respecting that the body is comprised of different parts which have a hierarchical structure with a diversity of functions. The goal therefore is to create a church that expresses and manifests “a close and coherent unity that is clearly expressive of the unity of the entire holy people.”3 Only an arrangement derived from such an understanding can begin to address the iconographic concern of the building representing the Church as the Body of Christ and the People of God.

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Cathedral in Anguo, Hebei Province, China (now destroyed). Photo from L’Arte Cristiana Nelle Missioni, Celso Costantini.

We can also examine afresh the structural metaphors for the Church, both biblical and traditional, to explore new and relevant ways of expressing the ancient images of the Faith. Images such as the Temple, “the holy mountain” of the Psalms, the heavenly Jerusalem of Revelation, the womb of the Virgin, the Upper Room, and the cruciform body of the Lord are but a few of the scriptural metaphors rich with meaning and architectural potential. Other recurring images show the Church as the ark of Noah or as a ship, an ancient image first invoked by Saint Peter (1 Pet 3:20), and thereafter by Justin Martyr, Cyprian, Augustine, Bede, both Hugh and Richard of St.-Victor, Antoninus, and Nicholas V. Only recently have we seen a recovery of these ideas, and notably the return to the basilican arrangement in lieu of the spate of theater-style seating that have been nearly universal since the 1960s. But this is not just a matter of furniture arrangement: the question still is a sacramental one — the church building as a sacred sign of the Ecclesia herself—and of how to approach church design in this sense.

The Church Universal and the Particular Churches

If we accept that the church building should be a sacred sign of the Ecclesia, what does this tell us about how to approach the design of a church? How do we account for a common way of thinking about church projects whether the building is a church or a cathedral or an abbey? Or whether it is for the Roman rite liturgy or the Syro-Malabar rite or the Maronites? Or whether it is being built in an arid country with mud bricks or in a cold and wet northern climate with steel frame construction, an insulated brick veneer, double glazed windows, and forced air ventilation? Can we speak of any commonality in thinking about the various styles and techniques of church buildings over the past two millennia such that we can understand the intrinsic connections between them as legitimate expressions of the Ecclesia and as truly sacramental architecture? Is it sufficient to build in the western European styles of architecture—classical, Romanesque, Gothic—even in missionary territories where these are alien forms? Should these particular styles be elevated to universal forms for Catholic architecture?

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Sacred Heart Cathedral, Guangzhou, China. Photo by Steven Schloeder.

Clearly as we saw in Sacrosanctum concilium, no. 123, the Church is adverse to claiming any mere style of architecture as encompassing of her mission or liturgical vision. Architectural styles, even those that are claimed as perennial such as the Greco-Roman classical tradition that was adopted in the Constantinian era, resurrected in the Renaissance, and recently recovered by the “New Palladians,” are all historically and culturally contingent. Any style is a particular expression of the technology and technical abilities, aesthetic values, cultural norms, cosmological worldview, symbolic understanding, and deeply held values of an age. While it may be inarguable that the historical styles that constitute a significant body of the architectural patrimony and cultural memory of the Church have far more commonality and consonance with the deep traditions of the Catholic faith than architectural modernism does, it would be a mistake to assume that any previous style of architecture can be universalized for the Church’s mission.

The idea that western cultural norms should be the basis for the Church’s missionary activity has been implicitly rejected in the Church’s missiology, as evinced by the various papal documents of the mid-twentieth century. Benedict XV’s Maximum illud called for the missionary to leave behind the cultural norms of his native homeland, and rather to seek only the spiritual good of the people to bring them to “their homeland in heaven.” He noted that “the Catholic Church is not an intruder in any country; nor is she alien to any people.”4 His successor, Pius XI, cautioned against immediately building churches in missionary territory that were “too sumptuous and costly as if you were erecting cathedrals and episcopal palaces for future dioceses.” Rather, the Church should seek to grow organically among the people, and it was deemed vital to cultivate a local clergy to develop an indigenous Church that best could proclaim the gospel to the particularities of the native culture.5

Celso Cardinal Costantini, who was appointed by Benedict XV as Apostolic Delegate to China and later the Secretary for the Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide, decried the imposition of western art forms in foreign lands and worked to promote authentic and distinctive Christian art forms that grew from the sensibilities of the native people who embraced the Faith. His goal was “to Christianize true indigenous art itself, that is, the natural productions of the genius of the various peoples.”6 He saw that “Western art in China is an error in style. It is an error to import European styles, Romanesque and Gothic, in China.” His concern was deeply evangelical; that “Western Christian art used in China gives the impression that Christianity is a western, not universal religion; the Church throughout its history has adopted and adapted to local art forms; Chinese art and culture provide many opportunities for adoption and adaptation.”7 Such adoption and adaptation was not limited to China, but promoted wherever the Church sought to proclaim the universal message of the gospel unfettered by the cultural constraints of the western architectural styles and artistic conventions. The particular Churches in India or Java or Japan could find a happy synthesis between the architectural patterns of their respective ritual and civic buildings (much as the early Church did with the Roman judicial basilica) and the universal elements that properly ought to govern the shape of the church: the liturgical, canonical, and theological principles of church building.8

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Java Church. Photo from L’Arte Cristiana Nelle Missioni, Celso Costantini.

This approach is instructive for us in considering the question of an appropriate architecture to serve and reflect both the Universal Church and the local particular Church. These terms of Catholic canon law can help us to appreciate the idea that a church building ought to serve iconically both the universal message of the Gospel and local presence of the Church in a particular region. By discriminating between the particular—e.g., the culturally, historically, site and project specific, and technologically contingent aspects of a church—and the universal (the sacramental signifiers, the liturgical arrangement, the canonical requirements, and the theological import) we can reconcile the vast array of Catholic churches built over the past two millennia, irrespective of the vast differences in era, rite, style, climate, technique, materials and methods, budget, local culture, or capabilities of the builders.

With this in mind we can suggest that any successful Catholic church building, as a “sacramental sign,” should simultaneously be an icon of the Universal Church and of the particular Church. It will be reflective of the Universal Church when it is properly informed by the Church’s sacramental tradition of building (the language of the Body, the Temple, the City, etc.), an authentic liturgical sensibility, due consideration of the Church’s canonical requirements for the church and the various parts therein, and respect for the iconographic conventions that inform good sacred art in service of the liturgy and the devotional lives of the faithful. As importantly, it will be reflective of the particular Church, the local Ecclesia and the specific parish community, when the design addresses the local and vernacular concerns of the project.

The myriad of issues such as site considerations, vernacular architecture, budgets, planning and zoning requirements, building code regulations, variable “tastes” of pastors and building committee members, what the parish community will support financially, and the artistic talent of the design team will all shape the final building significantly even if the “universal” aspects are all meticulously attended to. As we have noted previously, the most concise statement of the universal aspect—which informs the liturgical, canonical, and much of the historical architectural patrimony—is that the churches “should be truly worthy and beautiful and be signs and symbols of heavenly realities.”9 If the thoughts and aspiration of the architect and the parish client are such that the whole building, all the component parts that serve the liturgy, and both the ministerial priest and the baptismal priesthood of the lay faithful should be truly turned versus Deum per Jesus Christum, then the building might well hold its place in the continuum of good sacred architecture as an icon of the Universal Church manifested in the local Church. For this is what we are always about in church design: manifesting the Heavenly City, the Church Universal, here in our own home town.
Steven J. Schloeder, PhD, AIA, is an architect and theologian. His firm, Liturgical Environs PC, (www.liturgicalenvirons.com) specializes in Catholic church building projects across the United States. He may be contacted at steve@liturgicalenvirons.com.

Endnotes

1 Vatican II, Sacrosanctum concilium (Dec. 4, 1963), no. 23.
2 General Instruction of the Roman Missal, Third Edition (2010) [= GIRM (2010)], no. 294.
3 ibid
4 Benedict XV, Maximum illud, (Nov. 30, 1919), nos. 16, 18, and 19.
5 Pius XI, Rerum Ecclesiae (Feb. 28, 1926), nos. 21 and 31.
6 Celso Cardinal Costantini, “Non vogliamo meticci nell’arte missionaria,” in Le Missioni cattoliche (1957), 25-26. Quoted in Sergio Ticozzi, “Celso Costantini’s Contribution to the Localization and Inculturation of the Church in China,” Tripod 28, no. 148 (Spring 2008): n. 17.
7 Celso Cardinal Costantini, “L’universalité de l’art chrétien,” Dossiers de la Commission synodale. Numéro special sur l’art chrétien chinois 5 (1932): 410-417.
8 See in Celso Cardinal Costantini, L’Arte Cristiana nelle Missioni (Vaticano: Tipographia Poliglotta Vaticana, 1940), 220, 259, and 282, inter alia, for examples of indigenous styles of Catholic churches that present dignified and locally relevant architectural forms detached from the western tradition.
9 GIRM (2010), no. 288.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Sun Jan 19, 2014 8:51 pm

From the Journal of Sacred Architecture

Bible Made in Brick
THE 125TH ANNIVERSARY OF SACRED HEART BASILICA, NOTRE DAME

by The Most Rev. Daniel R. Jenky, appearing in Volume 24

Bishop Daniel R. Jenky, C.S.C., gave the following homily at the celebration of the 125th Anniversary of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at the University of Notre Dame on July 16, 2013:

Everything about God is tremendous, and everything God does is extravagant! Our God is simply awesome. There is nothing meager about God. Think for just a moment about the miracle of creation. The universe is endlessly vast, almost beyond comprehension. There are countless galaxies of stars, scattered across the unbounded vacuum of space and time. Beside stars and quasars, planets and moons, asteroids and meteors, there is the dust of creation and the black holes of destruction. Our telescopes and satellites capture images of stunning beauty and fascinating complexity. And then there are the bugs and beasts, and that special beauty that Gerard Manley Hopkins once delighted to call “dappled things.” And also there’s us human beings, with our unique capacity for consciousness. You would have to be brain dead or as dull as a slug, not to feel wonder and awe before the spectacle of the material creation.

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Sacred Heart Basilica at the University of Notre Dame. Photo by Duncan Stroik.

But infinitely surpassing the glory of creation is the glory of the Creator. How does Saint Thomas Aquinas, whose painted image can be seen in the second spandrel of the East Nave, how does he describe the absolute singularity of God? The Angelic Doctor takes great pains to explain that God is ineffable. That means, God is incomparably greater than the capacity of our human language to either categorize or fully explain. God is in His essence, utterly beyond either similarity or difference. Because there is no kind of anything that God is. There is nothing in God that is not God Himself. That is why the endless mystery of God, echoed in the endless hunger of our humanity, is so captivating and fascinating. God is sheer existence, sheer being, sheer bliss. God is Who He is, or as God Himself reveals in the Third Chapter of the Book of Exodus: “I Am Who Am.” And this One True God, wondrously, is a Trinity of Persons. The Un-begotten Father speaks His Word, generating and loving His Only Begotten Son; the Son hears and loves and obeys the Father. And the Holy Spirit endlessly expresses this relational love among the Divine Persons.

Both creation and redemption come from this infinite plenitude of the Trinity’s inexhaustible love. For it was from that same super-abundance, that in the fullness of time, “the Word became flesh.” With amazing generosity, the Word was “tabernacle” among us. With astonishing condescension, the Word “pitched His tent” and made His “dwelling place” among us. Jesus, the perfect Image or Icon of the Father, reveals the splendor the Father’s love. Christ is the Sacrament of the Father, making visible the invisible glory of the Godhead. And the Church, the community of believers, is called to be the image or the icon of Christ, a living Sacrament that makes Christ present in this world, until He appears again in glory.

That’s why Catholics, despite some temporary bouts of iconoclasm or passing moments of spiritual amnesia, intentionally build glorious churches like this one. Catholic Christianity is sacramental and incarnational. That is the reason for this place. Down through the march of centuries and in the many and various changing styles of art and architecture, our churches are outward signs, material icons of inward spiritual realities, where the physical signifies the metaphysical. Glory and beauty are Divine attributes, and so believers of both the Eastern and Western traditions of Catholic Christianity have always tried to build churches as glorious and as beautiful as possible. Saint Francis of Assisi, whose image here is painted twice, once on a West Nave spandrel, and once more on the ceiling of the Lady Chapel, is rightly famous for his profound love of evangelical poverty. But in his own day, he was almost as infamous for his fierce insistence that poverty stop at the doors of the church. Folks often miss the sharp polemic of his witness against the heresies of his own era: the anti-sacramental Waldensians and the anti-material Albigensians. Along with his enthusiastic preaching of the Kingdom, his delight in the natural world, his direct service to lepers and to the poorest of the poor, Francis continued to collect stones to rebuild churches and chapels, almost until the very last year of his life. He certainly scandalized some folks, by spending a share of the money that he and his friars had begged, in order to purchase precious vessels, elaborate linens, and expensive sacred art, in order to glorify and beautify the House of God. For Francis and for so many of the Catholic saints that came before and after his time, what is spiritual and interior should be celebrated in this world by what is material and external. Consecrated Sacred Space signifies the beauty and glory of a “new heaven and a new earth,” in a world that is yet to come.

[img][http://www.sacredarchitecture.org/images/uploads/jenky_2.jpg/img]
The decorative ceiling depicts the Four Evangelists, prophets and angels. Photo by Matthew Cashore, University of Notre Dame.

When Blessed Basil Moreau built the Conventual Church of Our Lady of Holy Cross in Sainte Croix, France, and when Edward Frederic Sorin built this church here in Indiana, they both shared that profound Catholic conviction that nothing was too good for the honor and glory of God. By 1869 here at Notre Dame, the Old Church was no longer large enough for the needs of the student body. In the spring of that year, the Provincial Council decided to build a new collegiate church dedicated to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. Sorin rejected plans for a baroque church similar to “The Gesù” in Rome, as being simply beyond the means of the Congregation. Later there was another design for a gigantic, gothic church, most likely drawn up by Mr. J. Brady, a well-known architect from Saint Louis, Missouri. His drawings were also rejected, also because the church they envisioned was just too expensive. But the ever resourceful Brother Charles Borromeo, first “borrowed” those plans, extensively modified them, and then executed what became the design of the present church. It was Father Alexis Granger, Sorin’s great confidant, who was largely responsible both for the finance and decoration of Sacred Heart, in a process that was protracted over ten years.

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Entrance doors to the east transept of the basilica. Photo by Matthew Cashore, University of Notre Dame.

Regarding the final result I would assert that few in our Notre Dame Family would disagree with Father Arthur J. Hope’s evaluation of Sacred Heart given in his celebrated history of the University: Notre Dame One Hundred Years. He enthusiastically extols: “The exquisite grace of its exterior and the lavish attention given to the decoration of its interior.” This church in its history variously named: the New Church, the Church of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Sacred Heart Church and now in these days, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, is not a “Bible made in stone,” but is instead a “Bible made in brick,” indeed brick formed from the very clay of Saint Mary’s Lake [on the campus of Notre Dame]. Like all great Catholic churches, everything about Sacred Heart is both intentional and instructional. Luigi Gregori and his students did the paintings. The stained glass windows were imported from France. In this “House of God” on earth, there are vivid depictions of the “House of God” in heaven. When you look up, you see the stars, the prophets, and the angels. The saints in glory adorn the walls and the windows, beginning with Saint Rose of Lima, the first canonized saint from this hemisphere. The worshiping saints in eternity visually encircle us, the worshiping saints of time, in the celebration of the Sacred Liturgy. High over the sanctuary is Notre Dame our Mother, the type and symbol of the Church in glory, that most honored and revered title of this University, and the glorious patron of the Congregation of Holy Cross. Our Lady is depicted crowned, in prayer and rapture, beneath the Persons of the Most Holy Trinity. The tabernacle tower above the high altar triumphantly presides over the sanctuary and depicts the New Jerusalem “coming down from heaven like a Bride.” Above is “the Lamb once slain but now living forever.” Within its enameled and bejeweled walls, with the surrounding images of twelve angels and twelve apostles, the Most Holy Eucharist is reverently reserved both for our ministry to the sick and for our constant adoration and devotion. Beneath the altar is a shrine of martyrs, who shed their blood for the sake of Christ. And finally, at the heart and center of this church, as in every Catholic church, is the altar of sacrifice, where the one perfect oblation of Christ on the cross is daily renewed in our midst, and where we are fed with the “Bread of Life,” that Bread that comes down from heaven to earth.

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Stations of the Cross by Luigi Gregori, artist of the Household of Blessed Pius IX and Professor of Art at Notre Dame. Photo by Duncan Stroik.

125 years ago on the occasion of Father Sorin’s 50th anniversary of priestly ordination, this glorious church was gloriously consecrated. Most of the American hierarchy was in attendance, including my predecessor John Lancaster Spalding, the first Bishop of the Diocese of Peoria. At 6:00 am, Bishop Dwenger, the second bishop of the Diocese of Fort Wayne, assisted by two other bishops, consecrated this church, in a liturgy closed to the public but open to the clergy, that lasted for three and one half hours. This building was washed with Holy Water, the altar and walls were anointed with the Most Holy Chrism, the sacred linens were laid on, and the candles all lit. To mark the places on the walls that were anointed are the consecration candles, that are still in place and lit today. At the same time as the church was being consecrated, Bishop Maurice Burke of Cheyenne, in ceremony very much like the Rites of Initiation, named, baptized, and anointed the bells of Sacred Heart’s great peal, including the eight ton bell named in honor of Saint Anthony. Next the doors were opened wide, and almost at once the church was filled with a capacity crowd. A procession began at 9:30 am for a Low Mass celebrated by Father Sorin. Pope Leo XIII had granted a special Plenary Indulgence to all who assisted at Sorin’s Jubilee Mass. Immediately following at 10:30 am, another procession began including all the prelates, visiting priests, and an army of Holy Cross priests that made their way into the sanctuary for a Solemn High Mass celebrated by Cardinal Gibbons. Haydn’s Third Polyphonic Mass was sung by a paid choir imported from Chicago.

The sermon was delivered by Archbishop Ireland of Saint Paul, Minnesota. Its topic was the growth of the Church in America and the important role Father Sorin had played. “He had accomplished so much with so little,” was the Archbishop’s tribute to Sorin’s great labor, deep devotion, and intense American patriotism. This Mass did not end until 12:30 in the afternoon. Basically all the ceremonies lasted for more than six and one half hours, on a hot August day, without any air conditioning or even any fans, with the clergy, religious, and many of the laity fasting from midnight, even from water. This was a worship extravaganza that might have tested even the legendary liturgical endurance of Father Peter Dominic Rocca, the current and rightly renowned Rector of this magnificent Basilica.

The day’s extended festivities included what was called a French Banquet, but where in a totally un-French manner, toasts were proposed and parched throats slated only with water. This was in the spirit of the Catholic Total Abstinence Society, which at that time was strongly supported, at least in public, by many of the bishops as well as by many of the Holy Cross Fathers, because of the so called “Irish failing.” They had temporarily forgotten a perennial cultural truth, rendered in verse only a few years later. The words of the lyric are: “Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine, there’s always laughter and good red wine. At least I always found it so. Benedicamus Domino!” Let us hope, Reverend Father President [John Jenkins, C.S.C.], that on this festive day of anniversary, we remember that “we are ND” and that we are Roman Catholics and definitely not Southern Baptists.

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The belfry of Sacred Heart Basilica. Photo by Matthew Cashore, University of Notre Dame.

All the outward signs of glory in any Catholic church and in the Rites of Consecration are intended to signify an inward vocation to holiness to which all the People of God are called. Believers are the living stones that build up the Church of God. Christ is the Head and we are His members, constituting His Body which is His Church. And if we allow this sacred space to do its work with us, there should always be the glorious evidence of our cooperation with God’s glorious grace. Remember all the Baptisms, Confirmations, and all the Holy Masses celebrated here. Remember the multitude of sins forgiven and personal conversions continued here. Remember the visits, the prayer, and adoration that this holy place invites. Remember the Marriages, the Ordinations, the sad funerals, joyful Jubilees, the blessing of new projects, and the end of special events, that have all taken place within this consecrated space. We all have our own personal stories of praying and feeling, and again and again discovering, the consoling and the challenging presence of our Good God. Because what goes on inside these walls, and inside the other more than 63 chapels of Our Lady’s School, is all for the sake of what should always be witnessed outside these walls, that is, living the Christian life of love and service. Notre Dame’s intentional extravagance in this place of worship embodies the University’s hunger for holiness, confidence in learning, and commitment to service. The Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus is the sacred steward of our best memories and the sacred inspiration for our most audacious dreams. Glory’s Mantle and Notre Dame’s Golden Fame are imprinted everywhere you look, in this house constructed for the honor and praise of Almighty God and for the blessing of God’s People.

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Exaltation of the Holy Cross, Lady Chapel, by Luigi Gregori. Photo by Matthew Cashore, University of Notre Dame.

God is always the Master of His own House and the inherent holiness of this, His consecrated dwelling place. Notre Dame’s Basilica images the grandeur of the universe, because God fashioned the universe. This Basilica images the beautiful, because God is beautiful. This Basilica images God’s Holy Church because in this church the members of Christ’s Body are taken up through the celebration of the Mass into the very language and love shared by the Persons of the Most Holy Trinity. This Basilica images the Communion of Saints, because we are all called to be saints, and all saints share a vocation to signify the goodness and the glory of God. This Basilica images God and God’s incandescent heaven, because our destiny is to see God face to face in the eternal splendor of heaven.

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The altar in the Lady Chapel, fabricated by the school of Bernini. Photo by Duncan Stroik.

Right here, 125 years ago yesterday, on the Solemnity of the Assumption, the following majestic words of consecration were pronounced by Bishop Dwenger, I am sure, with some appropriate fear and trembling:

Be magnified, O Lord our God, in your holy place and show your presence in this temple which was built for you. According to your will, accomplish all things in your adopted children, and may you be ever glorified in your inheritance, through Christ our Lord. How awesome and terrible is this place! Truly this is the House of God, and the Gate of Heaven.
For the Congregation of Holy Cross and for the entire Notre Dame Family, may this deep conviction of our Catholic faith never be lost but ever be lived, affirmed, and gloriously celebrated!
Born in Chicago in 1947, Daniel R. Jenky was ordained a priest with the Congregation of Holy Cross in 1974 and served as Rector of Sacred Heart Basilica at the University of Notre Dame for twenty years. In 1997, Jenky was ordained as Auxiliary Bishop of the Diocese of Fort Wayne-South Bend, IN. He was appointed the eighth Bishop of Peoria, IL in 2002. His Excellency continues to serve as a Fellow and Trustee of the University of Notre Dame.
Praxiteles
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Jan 28, 2014 10:04 am

From the Journal of Sacred Architecture


Architecture as a Form of Erudition
Early Modern Priest-Architects
by Susan Klaiber, appearing in Volume 24

Disjunctions between contemporary Catholic architecture and the liturgical and representational needs of the Church often reflect conflict between the client’s sacred concerns and architecture’s secular culture, or divergence between the architectural needs of other denominations and those specific to Catholicism. But historically this was not always the case. A look at the early modern era—the period of Renaissance and Baroque architecture, and of the Counter Reformation—reveals a substantial tradition of the Church producing its own architecture, with architects drawn from the ranks of priests and other religious. Although such arrangements did not guarantee a lack of conflict between architect, clients, and donors, the practice generally met the needs of the Church in a period of rapid expansion. These priest-architects represent a unique architectural culture set somewhat apart from the rest of the early modern era, during which the architectural profession changed profoundly and secular architects sought to distance themselves from their origins in the crafts and trades through a process of professionalization. This involved, among other things, establishing a body of architectural literature, bringing architecture into the learned discourse of scientific scholarship, and founding architectural academies. Priest-architects contributed to this process in the secular world, but also within the context of religious institutions.

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Sant’ Irene Church, Lecce, Italy by Francesco Grimaldi, begun 1591. Photo by Angelo Costanza

The new religious orders founded in the sixteenth century, both before and after the Council of Trent, were at the heart of the priest-architect phenomenon.1 The orders of regular clergy, such as the Jesuits,2 Barnabites,3 and Theatines,4 as well as the newly reformed branches of medieval orders, such as the Capuchins and Discalced Carmelites, frequently drew on the architectural talents of their own members when constructing new churches, houses, and other institutional buildings. To be sure, the orders also employed secular architects during this period, particularly when generous local patrons played a prominent role in decision making. Yet architects from the orders could always help evaluate plans, fill in as construction superintendents, or provide designs themselves, particularly when funding was precarious. This essay furnishes an overview of some of these men and their buildings across Europe from c. 1550 to 1750, and situates their work within the institutional culture of the religious orders.

The first generation of Jesuit, Barnabite, and Theatine architects, active from the mid-sixteenth century through the early decades of the seventeenth century, generally had obtained their architectural training outside the order. These men with a background as craftsmen, such as the Jesuit Giuseppe Valeriano (1542 – 1596) who originally trained and worked as a painter, generally joined the new orders later in life.5 The Theatine Francesco Grimaldi (1543 – 1613) also entered the order late, at age thirty-one, but had already been ordained a priest prior to joining the Theatines.6 Grimaldi provided the first plans for Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome, designed several churches in Naples, and the Theatines’ Sant’Irene in Lecce (1588). In contrast to Valeriano and Grimaldi, Lorenzo Binago (1554 – 1629), the first prominent Barnabite architect, joined the order while young, at age eighteen. Yet Binago also seems to have had previous training in drawing or architecture, since his earliest known drawing—made a year after entering the order—is already quite accomplished.7

These priest-architects began to establish architectural identities for their religious communities as the orders moved from the temporary quarters of their earliest years to create permanent architectural presences in rapidly expanding networks of churches and houses across Italy and throughout Europe. Such early churches were often simple, since the immediate functional needs during expansion and financial constraints overrode wishes for more elaborate designs.


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Giovanni Francesco Grimaldi, black chalk drawing of Orazio Grassi’s Sant’ Ignazio Church under construction, Rome. Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum

After this first generation, the Jesuit Orazio Grassi8 (1583 – 1654) marks the transition to the later type of institutionalized scholarly priest-architects. By the early seventeenth century, the new orders had established themselves as centers of learning and education as well as patrons of architecture, constructing not only churches and convents, but also colleges and seminaries, hospitals, libraries, and other institutional buildings. The traits manifested in Grassi’s career came to characterize most priest-architects over the next century. These men were usually trained in mathematics through the educational programs of the orders—mathematics in its early modern sense of quantifiable crafts and activities such as mathematical astronomy, perspective, and architecture (“mixed mathematics”), in addition to the developing field of what is now known as pure mathematics.9 Thus equipped, the priest-mathematicians pursued vocations as teachers and scholars within their orders, and they participated as architects or consultants in many of their orders’ building projects.

Grassi’s career in the broad field of seventeenth-century mathematics unfolded primarily at the Collegio Romano, where he briefly considered establishing a Jesuit architectural school, but became most famous for his clashes with Galileo Galilei regarding comets.10 Grassi designed several buildings for the Jesuits, foremost Sant’Ignazio in Rome (begun 1626), the church of the Collegio Romano, but also at least portions of other buildings for the order, such as San Vigilio, Siena, and Sant’Ignazio (now Saint-Charles-Borromé) in Bastia on Corsica.11 Although Sant’Ignazio was not completed entirely to Grassi’s plans, it stands as a monument to the architectural-mathematical scholarship and practical skills promoted in the Jesuit curriculum at the Society’s colleges.

Under Grassi, the Jesuit order institutionalized the connection between architecture and mathematics, appointing the professor of mathematics at the Collegio Romano the order’s consiliarus aedificiorum. The consiliarus reviewed all plans for new architectural projects within the order, with his approval necessary before projects could proceed. The consiliarus commented on the plans, and when necessary, made suggestions for improvements—these were generally practical and economic in nature, rather than aesthetic. The plans were submitted in duplicate to the consiliarus, with one copy returned to the building site, and the other retained for the order’s archives; these plans are now all preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.12

In addition to architectural skills cultivated for the order’s own immediate needs, the Jesuit colleges throughout Europe often instructed their secular pupils in military architecture, such as the art of building fortifications. This met a future need for young men planning to pursue a military career, and was therefore included within their mathematics curriculum.13

Similar architectural needs, educational programs, and—sometimes—institutional mechanisms led to similar architectural cultures in other early modern religious orders, particularly those associated with the Counter Reformation. For these orders, architecture fit into a larger vision of the scholarship that priests would normally pursue, and indeed could be considered a kind of apostolate for the order. In this sense, when a priest designed churches for his order—or other buildings for its patrons, thereby also supporting the order indirectly—he was doing work that was part of his vocation as a priest.14

The Theatine Guarino Guarini (1624 – 1683) is perhaps the best-known of these architects, joining the ranks of major secular architects such as Bernini and Borromini in histories of Baroque architecture. Yet precisely this success has obscured his origins within the architectural culture of early modern religious orders. His early works in Messina and Modena, while accomplished and innovative in some respects, do not yet herald the radically inventive designs—particularly daring open-work domes—that he produced at the Savoy court in Turin, such as the Theatines’ ducal chapel of San Lorenzo (1670 - 1680) or the Chapel of the Holy Shroud (1667 - 1694) between the ducal palace and the cathedral. Guarini even officiated at the inaugural mass in San Lorenzo on May 12, 1680, although considering the dozens of early modern priest-architects, this was perhaps not quite the unique occurrence Rudolf Wittkower imagined.15

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San Lorenzo, Turin, by Guarino Guarini, 1670-80. Photo: SXC

Guarini was so successful as a court architect for the Savoy that he seems to have had various assistants supporting him toward the end of his career. Documents mention a Theatine lay brother assigned to help him, although the records do not specify if this help was specifically architectural, or simply general logistic assistance.16 For his two large secular projects for the Prince of Carignano, the Palazzo Carignano and the Castello of Racconigi, the surviving drawings show at least two or three other draftsmen besides Guarini. These draftsmen seem to have been secular architects hired by the patron to assist the priest busy with numerous publication projects as well as other duties beyond the building site.17

After publishing philosophy and geometry textbooks, and smaller works on astronomy, fortifications, and construction measurement, Guarini finally seems to have turned to writing his architectural treathttpise during the last five or six years of his life. Indeed, right up to the end of his life, Guarini remained a scholar: he died in Milan apparently while there supervising the publication of his two-volume astronomy treatise Caelestis Mathematicae (Milan: Ludovico Monti, 1683). Had he lived longer, he may well have written the theology textbook, a Cursum scholasticae theologia, which he had intended to write at least since his time in Paris in the 1660s.18 For Guarini and many other early modern priest-architects, architecture and scholarship were not separate activities pursued in addition to the priesthood, but rather integral parts of their vocations. Richard Pommer best expressed this in relation to Guarini when he remarked, “for him, architecture was a form of erudition.”19

Active priest-architects were not confined to Italy, but also based in Spain, France, the German regions, and the Southern Low Countries. Through the international ministries and missions of their orders, they often traveled extensively, spreading as well as gathering architectural ideas all along the way.

The Spanish Cistercian Juan Bautista Caramuel y Lobkowitz (1606 – 1682) was a polymath who published works in diverse disciplines and traveled extensively throughout Europe; he became bishop of Vigevano in Lombardy in 1673.20 Like Grassi and Guarini, Caramuel also approached architecture as a branch of mathematics, and he is best known for his architectural theory, first included in his mathematics treatise Mathesis Biceps (2 vols., Campagna, 1670), and then published separately as Architectura civil, recta y obliqua (Vigevano, 1678). The latter treatise is remarkable for its system of “oblique architecture,” which incorporated adjustments to architectural elements such as staircase balusters or colonnades on curved plans in order to avoid awkward transitions between rectilinear and oblique elements, or to compensate for other irregular optical effects.

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Juan Bautista Caramuel’s treatise Architectura civil, recta y obliqua, 1678, Part IV, Plate VI. Photo: Getty Research Library / Internet Archive

Caramuel’s single built work is the façade of the cathedral of Sant’Ambrogio in Vigevano, Italy, completed in 1680, which finished off the fourth side of the city’s Piazza Ducale designed by Bramante in 1492-94. The façade’s idiosyncratic design with four bays rather than three or five masks the church’s skewed orientation to the square and thus breathes the spirit of the architectura obliqua system. The solution was perhaps inspired by Guarini’s façade for Santissima Annunziata in Messina of twenty years earlier, but Caramuel also looked to a Roman model: the portal on the far left leads simply to a street as do the lateral portals at Pietro da Cortona’s Santa Maria della Pace in Rome (1656 - 1657), while the three other portals lead to the three aisles of the church.

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The title page of François Aguilon’s treatise on optics. Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum

The Belgian Jesuit François Aguilon (1567 – 1617) was known chiefly for his scientific work in optics, Opticorum libri sex philosophis juxta ac mathematicis utiles (Antwerp, 1613) with its frontispiece and six illustrations by Peter Paul Rubens. He directed the Jesuit college in Antwerp with its famous mathematical studies, and he also designed the splendid Jesuit church in Antwerp (1615 - 1621), St. Ignatius (now St. Charles Borromeo), together with the lay brother Pieter Huyssens (1577 - 1637) who took over the project after his death. Rubens also collaborated with Aguilon on this project, not only with his high altarpiece of the Deposition and thirty-nine ceiling paintings installed in the side aisles (now lost), but also contributing the design for various sculptural elements on the façade.

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Facade of Jesuit Church, Antwerp (completed 1621), print of 1678. Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum

The church suffered a devastating fire in 1718 which destroyed much of the interior, but one can still appreciate Aguilon’s original design in the rich façade and the barrel-vaulted nave with superimposed arcades, where the upper gallery was accessible to students from the adjacent college. The interest in optics at the Antwerp college probably also stood behind the innovative indirect lighting effects in the church’s Houtappel chapel, designed by Huyssens and perhaps inspired by Bernini’s early work at Santa Bibiana in Rome.21

Many early modern priest-architects remain relatively unknown even today, with their accomplishments often obscured by misattributions to more famous secular architects. The pilgrimage chapel at Telgte (1654 - 1657) in northwest Germany furnishes an example of such an oversight. The chapel was commissioned by the Prince-Bishop of Münster, Christoph Bernhard von Galen, soon after he established the Telgte pilgrimage in 1651, with its focus on the sculpted Gnadenbild (a devotional Pietà) of c. 1370. Long attributed to the Danish architect Peter Pictorius the Elder active in Münster, twenty years ago the historian Helmut Lahrkamp uncovered evidence reattributing the original octagonal chapel to the Observant Franciscan Pater Jodokus Lücke (ordained 1642, died 1681).22 Lücke also designed portions of the Franciscan churches in nearby Hamm and Warendorf, and held administrative positions in the order, serving several times as the provincial superior.23 Interestingly, Lücke’s design for Telgte was preferred to that of another religious architect, the Franciscan lay brother Gerhard Mahler.

Although gradually supplanted by academically trained priest-architects, lay brothers in the various religious orders continued to be active as architects and construction superintendents into the eighteenth century, although most of these men—lacking the formal education of priests—came from families already engaged in the building trades or other crafts. A few of these lay brother-architects achieved particular distinction.

The son of a painter in Lyon, the Jesuit lay brother Étienne Martellange24 (1569 - 1641) provided designs for numerous Jesuit churches in France, such as the Jesuit Novitiate church in Paris (begun 1630), closely modeled on Giacomo della Porta’s Santa Maria ai Monti in Rome. Known also for his drawings of French cities and landscapes, Martellange entered the Jesuit novitiate in Avignon in 1590, and is referred to as an architect beginning around 1603 when he took his vows as a Jesuit frère coadjuteur temporel.

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Étienne Martellange, Jesuit novitiate church, Paris (begun 1630), print by J. Marot, 1652-61. Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum

The Jesuit lay brother Andrea Pozzo (1642 – 1709) worked primarily as a painter, particularly noted for his illusionistic quadratura frescoes with architectural elements, as in Sant’Ignazio, Rome, and for his altars. But he also was a prolific architect, designing churches in Dubrovnik, Ljubljana, Trent, and Montepulciano, among others. Perhaps inspired by the erudite publications of his more learned priest colleagues, Pozzo published his influential treatise Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum (2 vols., Rome, 1693 - 1700) in a parallel Latin–Italian edition that was widely translated in similar bilingual editions, thus addressing both craftsmen and scholars. His younger brother Giuseppe Pozzo worked as a lay brother artist of the Discalced Carmelite order in various churches in Venice.25

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Preparatory drawing for the Sant’ Ignazio vault fresco, by Andrea Pozzo, 1685-90. Photo: Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington.

Caspar Moosbrugger (1656 - 1723) was a Benedictine lay brother from a family active in the building trades in the Vorarlberg region around Bregenz in western Austria, one of the dynasties comprising the so-called Vorarlberger school of architects and craftsmen. Moosbrugger trained and then worked as a stonemason until entering the order in 1682, around which time he began taking on the responsibilities of an architect. His architectural knowledge is preserved in the Auer Lehrgang, a manuscript treatise and pattern book used by the Vorarlberg builders’ guild. Moosbrugger designed numerous churches and monasteries in Switzerland, the most famous of which is the Benedictine Abbey Church of Einsiedeln where he spent most of his life.26

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Façade of the Benedictine Abbey Church of Einsiedeln, by Caspar Moosbrugger, begun 1721. Photo by Susan Klaiber

Collectively, priest-architects, with their lay brother colleagues, shaped substantial portions of the built environment in early modern cities across Europe. The priest-architect phenomenon flourished during a specific historical moment lasting perhaps three centuries. With the advent of modern professional training in architecture in academies and then schools like the French École des Beaux-Arts in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the orders’ practical and theoretical training programs for their members became superfluous. The various suppressions of the orders at the end of the eighteenth century also contributed to the demise of this architectural culture.

Although the nineteenth and twentieth centuries still produced some priest-architects, these were increasingly trained in mainstream secular schools of architecture, no longer within the Church’s educational programs. Some exceptions to this trend were priest-architects working in the mission field, where a general scarcity of formally trained architects prevailed—much as during the building boom of the Counter Reformation. The British Anglican priest William Grey (1819 – 1872) designed or remodeled eleven churches in Newfoundland according to the principles of Ecclesiology, and also trained Canadian Anglican seminary students in architecture.27 Other contemporary priest-architects, as with the early Jesuits, came from families active in architecture, such as the Dutch Benedictine monk Dom Hans van der Laan (1904 – 1991). Van der Laan studied architecture at the Technische Universiteit Delft and built austerely meditative churches and Benedictine abbeys in the Netherlands, Belgium, and Sweden.28 For all these men, creating sacred architecture comprised a facet of their religious vocation, helping them to serve the Church and their communities with buildings to further spiritual goals.

Susan Klaiber (Ph.D., FAAR) is an architectural historian based in Winterthur, Switzerland, whose work focuses on Baroque architecture in Italy, France, and Germany. Her publications include the book Guarino Guarini (Umberto Allemandi & C.), co-edited with G. Dardanello and H. A. Millon. She serves on the governing committee of the European Architectural History Network, and was founding editor of the Network’s EAHN Newsletter (2007-2010). Website: www.susanklaiber.wordpress.com.

(Endnotes)
This essay draws on material presented in my two forthcoming articles: “Architecture and Mathematics in Early Modern Religious Orders,” in A. Gerbino, ed., Geometrical Objects: Architecture and the Mathematical Sciences 1400-1800, (in press); and “Architectural Education and Early Modern Religious Orders,” Cambridge World History of Religious Architecture, Richard Etlin, general editor, 3 vols., New York: Cambridge University Press (publication scheduled for 2013 / 2014).
The title of this article draws on a comment by Richard Pommer, cited at note 19 below.
1. See Rudolf Wittkower, Art and Architecture in Italy 1600-1750, Pelican History of Art, 6th ed., rev. by Joseph Connors and Jennifer Montagu (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 1: 2-3, 15-16, 80-81, 84-87; Richard Bösel, “L’architettura dei nuovi ordini religiosi,” in Storia dell’architettura italiana: Il Seicento, ed. Aurora Scotti (Milan: Electa, 2003), 1:48-69.
2. Jean Vallery-Radot, Le recueil de plans d’édifices de la Campagnie de Jésus conservé à la Bibliothèque nationale de Paris (Rome: Institutum Historicum S. I., 1960);
Richard Bösel, Jesuitenarchitektur in Italien (1540 - 1773). Teil 1, Die Baudenkmäler der römischen und der neapolitanischen Ordensprovinz, 2 vols. (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 1986), and Richard Bösel and Herbert Karner, Jesuitenarchitektur in Italien. Teil 2., Die Baudenkmäler der mailändischen Ordensprovinz (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2007).
3. Jörg Stabenow, Die Architektur der Barnabiten: Raumkonzept und Identität in den Kirchenbauten eines Ordens der Gegenreformation 1600-1630 (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2011).
4. Because the early modern Theatine order lacked a central repository for architectural designs, no comprehensive summary of Theatine architectural practice or production has yet been written. For aspects, see: Silvana Savarese, Francesco Grimaldi e l’architettura della Controriforma a Napoli (Rome: Officina, 1986); Susan Klaiber, “Guarino Guarini’s Theatine Architecture” (PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1993), 9-38; and Fulvio Lenzo, Architettura e antichità a Napoli dal XV al XVIII secolo: le colonne del Tempio dei Dioscuri e la Chiesa di San Paolo Maggiore (Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 2011).
5. Pietro Pirri, Giuseppe Valeriano S.I., architetto e pittore, 1542-1596, ed. R. Colombo (Rome: Institutum Historicum S.J., 1970); and R. Bösel, “Giuseppe Valeriano,” in The Dictionary of Art, ed. J. Turner (London: Grove, 1996), 31: 819-820.
6. Francesco Andreu, Oppidani illustri: Francesco Grimaldi (Matera: Arti Grafiche E. Liantonio, 1984), 23.
7. Stabenow, 34.
8. On Grassi, see Richard Bösel, Orazio Grassi: architetto e matematico gesuita : un album conservato nell’Archivio della Pontificia Università gregoriana a Roma (Roma: Argos, 2004).
9. Antonella Romano, La contre-réforme mathématique. Constitution et diffusion d’une culture mathématique jésuite á la Renaissance (1540-1640) (Rome: École française de Rome, 1999); Gary I. Brown, “The Evolution of the Term ‘Mixed Mathematics,’” Journal of the History of Ideas 52, no. 1 (1991): 81-102; and my two forthcoming articles cited above, Klaiber, “Architecture and Mathematics in Early Modern Religious Orders;” and Klaiber, “Architectural Education and Early Modern Religious Orders.”
10. Bösel, Grassi, 29.
11. Bösel, Grassi, 31-33.
12. Vallery-Radot, Recueil, 8*-11*. The several volumes of plans in Paris may now be consulted online through the Gallica digitization project: http://gallica.bnf.fr/Search?ArianeWire ... doc=images (consulted May 29, 2013).
13. François de Dainville, “L’enseignement scientifique dans les collèges des jésuites,” in Enseignement et diffusion des sciences en France au XVIIIe siècle, ed. René Taton (Paris: Hermann, 1964), 52; Denis De Lucca, Jesuits and Fortifications: The Contribution of the Jesuits to Military Architecture in the Baroque Age (Leiden: Brill, 2012).
14. See Klaiber, “Architectural Education and Early Modern Religious Orders” (forthcoming, cited above).
15. Rudolf Wittkower, “Guarini the Man,” in Studies in the Italian Baroque (London: Thames and Hudson, 1975), 178-186.
16. Archivio di Stato, Turin, Sezione Corte, Lettere di particolari, “V”, mazzo 40, letter of the Theatine Father General Placido Visconti, dated May 22, 1677.
17. On the other hands in these drawings, see Augusta Lange, “Disegni e documenti di Guarino Guarini,” in V. Viale, ed., Guarino Guarini e l’internazionalità del barocco (Turin: Accademia delle scienze, 1970), I: 100-102.
18. Giuseppe Silos, Historiarum Clericorum Regularium (Palermo: Petri de Insula, 1666), III: 572.
19. Richard Pommer, Eighteenth-Century Architecture in Piedmont (New York: New York University Press, 1967), 7.
20. Augusto De Ferrari and Werner Oechslin, “Caramuel Lobkowicz, Juan,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani (Rome: Istituto della enciclopedia italiana, 1976), 19: 621-626, also available online: http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/jua ... rafico%29/ (consulted May 29, 2013); for an overview of his architectural activity in English, see also Werner Oechslin, “Caramuel de Lobkowitz, Juan,” in Macmillan Encyclopedia of Architects, ed. Adolf K. Placzek (New York: Free Press, 1982), 1: 380-383.
21. The exact division of labor and attribution of the various church components in Antwerp remain slightly unclear. On Aguilon, see August Ziggelaar, François de Aguilón S. J. (1567 - 1617): Scientist and Architect (Rome: Institutum Historicum S. I., 1983), and the recent overview in Joris Snaet and Krista de Jonge, “The Architecture of the Jesuits in the Southern Low Countries: A State of the Art,” in La arquitectura jesuìtìca, ed. María Isabel Alvaro Zamora, Javier Ibáñez Fernández, and Jesús Fermín Criado Mainar (Zaragoza: Inst. “Fernando el Catòlico”, 2012), 239-276, esp. 273 on the Houtappel chapel in the Antwerp church; also available online: http://ifc.dpz.es/recursos/publicacione ... ejonge.pdf (consulted May 29, 2013).
22. Helmut Lahrkamp, “Beiträge zur Hofhaltung des Fürstbischofs Christoph Bernhard von Galen – mit einem Exkurs über Peter Pictorius d. Ä.” Westfalen 71 (1993): 31-71. The ornaments atop the exterior columns and the lantern were apparently added later: for the engraving of Pater Lücke’s original chapel in a 1660 Jesuit devotional book held by the university library in Münster, see http://sammlungen.ulb.uni-muenster.de/h ... iew/834482 (consulted May 30, 2013). I thank Martin Raspe for drawing my attention to Lahrkamp’s work.
23. Lahrkamp, “Beiträge zur Hofhaltung”: 54.
24. This follows the recent study on Martellange by Adriana Sénard, “Étienne Martellange: un architecte de la Compagnie de Jésus en France au XVIIe siècle,” in La arquitectura jesuìtìca, ed. María Isabel Alvaro Zamora, Javier Ibáñez Fernández, and Jesús Fermín Criado Mainar (Zaragoza : Inst. “Fernando el Catòlico”, 2012), 213-237; also available online: http://ifc.dpz.es/recursos/publicacione ... senard.pdf (consulted May 30, 2013).
25. Vittorio De Feo and Valentino Martinelli, eds. Andrea Pozzo (Milan: Electa, 1996); Alberta Battisti, ed., Andrea Pozzo (Milan: Luni, 1996); Richard Bösel and Lydia Salviucci Insolera, eds., Artifizi della Metafora: saggi su Andrea Pozzo (Rome: Artemide, 2011).
26. On Moosbrugger, see Werner Oechslin, “Moosbrugger, Caspar,” in Macmillan Encyclopedia of Architects, ed. Adolf K. Placzek (New York: Free Press, 1982), 3: 231-233; and Hardy Happle and Werner Oechslin, editors, Auer Lehrgang, 3 vols. (Zurich and Bregenz: Vorarlberger Landesmuseum, 2008-2011). Online resource: Moosbrugger in the Einsiedeln Professbuch, with images of his drawings for the abbey church http://www.klosterarchiv.ch/e-archiv_pr ... hp?id=1374 (consulted November 30, 2012).
27. On Grey, see: http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/ ... lliam-grey (consulted May 29, 2013). For Grey’s sole surviving church, St. James Anglican Church in Battle Harbour, Newfoundland, and Labrador, see the entry on the Canada’s Historic Places website: http://www.historicplaces.ca/en/rep-reg ... px?id=2137 (consulted 29 May 2013). I learned of Grey through a paper given at the European Architectural History Network’s Second International Meeting in Brussels, May 31-June 2, 2012, “Periodicals, Patrons, and Practitioners: The Transmission of Ecclesiological Gothic to the Atlantic Colonies of British North America” (Peter Coffman, Carleton University, Ottawa).
28. On van der Laan, see the website of the Van Der Laan Foundation: http://www.vanderlaanstichting.nl/en/index.php (consulted May 30, 2013) with rich photographic and bibliographic resources.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Paul Clerkin » Thu Jan 30, 2014 5:18 pm

The Furrow, June 1855
The Case for Tradition, John J. Robinson
The Case for Contemporary, W.H.D. McCormick
https://docs.google.com/a/archiseek.com ... lzaTA/edit
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Paul Clerkin » Thu Jan 30, 2014 5:19 pm

Architecture and the Liturgy
Francis McHenry OSB
Catholic Truth Society of Ireland Publication
http://lxoa.files.wordpress.com/2011/03 ... iturgy.pdf
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Sat Feb 01, 2014 1:20 am

Paul Clerkin wrote:Architecture and the Liturgy
Francis McHenry OSB
Catholic Truth Society of Ireland Publication
http://lxoa.files.wordpress.com/2011/03 ... iturgy.pdf


Ifone were looking for a good contemporary example of an approach to the liturgy of the Second Vatican Council which proceeded from an hermeutic of discontinuity rather than one of continuity - a fundamental principle of the Council Fathers - then you have it in this document.

The polarization of "new style" orship and "old style" worship could not be clearer and could not be more pronounced. For eaxample:

- "The type (old type) is dated by the Vatican Council ...[and in this boolklet the author wishes] to espress the optimistic hope that the liturgical and archtectural conceptions behind it may be entirely discarded" (p. 5).

- It [the old type] spole, and still speaks of true religion and yet of modes of worship that are at variance with true religion". (page 7).

- "an entirely new orientation of priest and people around the altar" (page 9)

- "a new doctrinal and architectural context".


It will be noted that, the first part of the document, in referring to the Vatican Council very little explicit reference is made to Sacrosanctum Concilium and the documents on its implementation are also fairly sparce on the ground. In addition, no mention is made of the several letters issued by the Congregation of Rites deploring the destruction of churches.


Also, the ecumenical aspect of this this document is interesting. It should be noted that it appears to refer only to Christian communities deriving from the Reformation about whose sacramental economies (when the exist) there is, at the least, considerable debate as to their validity. On the other hand, the comments made in book about ecumenism do not appear to take into account the Oriental or Orthodox churches whose liturgical disciplines all derives from the principles underlying the "old style" liturgy so excoriated by the writer. One wonders just how acceptable these views are among Orientals about whose sacramental economies there can be no question regardings the thier validity. It would seem that the writers ecclesiology is a little short-sighted here and perhaps lacking in its consciousness of the many facets of the Church outside of Western Europe.

With the benefit of hindsight, it is amazing that this work was approved by an eccclesiastical censor.

The writer's attitude to 19th century architecture is also noteworthy - particularly to Pugin's neo-gothic since the view had been put to bed by Kenneth Clarke in 1928.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Thu Feb 06, 2014 10:56 pm

A complete scheme for the decoration of a Cathedral nave using scenes from the ecclesiastical history of England as published in the Tablet, 17 June 1899:

http://archive.thetablet.co.uk/article/ ... f-the-nave
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Thu Feb 06, 2014 10:59 pm

An earlier set published on 13 May 1899 in the Tablet:

http://archive.thetablet.co.uk/article/ ... ch-history
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Feb 11, 2014 1:17 am

Opus Sancti Lucae
eine Sammlung classischer Andachtsbilder


edited by Karl Dormanig (keeper of numesmatics at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Wien)

This edition was published in Stuttgart in 1900


This was a portfolio of images frm the classical canons of European painting and sculptor to help provide models for all sorts of painters, sculptors, mosaic workers etc.

http://bvbm1.bib-bvb.de/view/bvbmets/vi ... Pid2=true#
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Feb 18, 2014 8:35 pm

Paul Clerkin wrote:Architecture and the Liturgy
Francis McHenry OSB
Catholic Truth Society of Ireland Publication
http://lxoa.files.wordpress.com/2011/03 ... iturgy.pdf



The passage of time allows a more critical appraisal of the assertions (often with without references of any kind) contained in booklet such as this - albeit a one which, in Ireland, is at the source of a cultural vandalism not seen since Cromwell and, in wider terms, since the French Revolution, the wars of religion in France and the iconoclastic crisis.

That it had dated very considerably (at least in its theoretical formulation if not in its continuing practical application by surprisingly uncreative and imaginationless disciples) is very obvious. A very nice example of that can be found in an article entitled "Benedict XVI and the Eucharist" published by Eamonn Duffy in New Blackfriars [88/1014 (2007, pp. 195-2012. The following extract from the article serves to contextualize the booklet in the present contemporary situation:

"once one rejects the paradigm of the meal as the interpretative key to the Mass, the inner logic of the post-conciliar changes, from the re-orientation of sanctuaries to the deliberate cultivation of community spirit in such institutions as holy handshakes, collapses".

Keeping this comment in mind, re-reading Fr. McHenry's liturgical musings from the 1960s produces some interesting illuminations and consequencs.
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Re: reorganisation and destruction of irish catholic churche

Postby Praxiteles » Tue Feb 25, 2014 11:30 pm

Open Access
Contextualizing the Archivolted Portals of Northern Spain and Western France within the Theology and Politics of Entry


Mickey Abel


Image


Hardback
ISBN-13:
978-1-4438-3564-0

Price:
£39.99

Cambridge Scholars Press

Open Access: Contextualizing the Archivolted Portals of Northern Spain and Western France within the Theology and Politics of Entry explores the history, development, and accrued connotations of a distinctive entry configuration comprised of a set of concentrically stepped archivolts surrounding a deliberate tympanum-free portal opening. These “archivolted” portals adorned many of the small, rural ecclesiastical structures dotting the countryside of western France and northern Spain in the twelfth century. Seeking to re-contextualize this configuration within monastic meditational practices, this book argues that the ornamented archivolts were likely composed following medieval prescriptions for the rhetorical ornamentation of poetry and employed the techniques of mnemonic recollection and imaginative visualization. Read in this light, it becomes clear that the architectural form underlying these semi-circular configurations served to open the possibilities for meaning by making the sculptural imagery physically and philosophically accessible to both the monastic community and the lay parishioner. Pointing to an Iberian heritage in which both light and space had long been manipulated in the conveyance of theological and political ideologies, Abel suggests that the portal’s architectural form grew out of a physical and social matrix characterized by pilgrimage, crusade, and processions, where the elements of motion integral to the Quadrivium sciences of Math, Geometry, Astronomy, and Music were enhanced by a proximity to and cultural interaction with the Islamic courts of Spain. It was, however, within the politics of the Peace of God movement, with its emphasis on relic processions that often encompassed all the parishes of the monastic domain, that the “archivolted” portal, with its elevated porch-like space, are shown to be the most effective

Mickey Abel is Associate Professor at the University of North Texas, USA. Her scholarly interests focus on Medieval architectural space of both France and Spain – its historical analysis, its contextual setting, its liturgical and experiential perception, and its geographical determinants. She has published in Gesta, Avista Forum, Peregrinations, and the Hispanic Research Journal. Her current work engages the mapping of spatial/geographical relationships between religious buildings, historical events, and social/economic life. Underway is a monograph on the monastic development of the canal system in western France.
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