Lament for a Lamentation

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Spencer Museum of Art: July 1, 2007–June 30, 2008

Lament for a Lamentation MARILYN STOKSTAD

A flock of sheep munching their way through a landscape is a pretty sight. Goats are another matter—cantankerous, head-butting, rough, and tough—and, I am convinced, endowed with a wicked sense of humor. In Norwegian folklore the billy goats take on the trolls and win.

The Greeks made the wild satyrs and their leader, Pan, half-man, half-goat.

One day—in 1962 or 63—while poking around New York, I decided to visit Manhattan art dealer Ed Lubin, who often had very nice Medieval and Renaissance sculpture. I arrived unannounced just at the moment when Ed was unpacking some crates. In fact, he had an entire Fig. 1

tympanum (a relief sculpture that fits under an arch), which was carved with the Lamentation

Masters of 15th Century

(Fig. 1; Christ’s mother and followers mourning the body of Jesus). Ed told me that he had found

Burgos School, Tympanum

the crates in a railway car on Long Island. The crates had never been unpacked, he said, but he

with the Lamentation (Pietà), circa 1500–1510, limestone,

would say no more. I guessed that they had been one of American newspaper magnate William

115.6 x 204.4 x 43.2 cm,

Randolph Hearst’s acquisitions at the time that he had his agents buying up entire cloisters in

Museum purchase with State

Spain. Extended chat led to my acquiring the sculpture for the University of Kansas. Ed let me pay

funds, Gift of Edward R. Lubin, 1963.0020. Photo by Robert Hickerson.

for it on the installment plan over three years, as we had almost no money for art. The tympanum arrived in Lawrence still in the crates that had been built in Spain years earlier. The crates had some

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Lament for a Lamentation

Fig. 2 Ruins of the Monastery of Santa María de la Armedilla, Cogeces del Monte, Valladolid, Spain. Photo by Marilyn Stokstad.

cryptic markings on them, including the letters VAL. Valladolid? Or Valencia? The style of the sculpture seemed to me to be Castilian, not Catalan, so the Province of Valladolid seemed to be a good starting place to begin finding out more about it (Fig. 2).

Fig. 3 Maud Alene Ellsworth, Spooner-Thayer Museum, woodcut, 117 x 84 mm, Gift of Christopher Bunn, Class of 2002, 2003.0181. Photo by Robert Hickerson.

But first the sculpture had to be installed in the University of Kansas Museum of Art. Only then did I realize the hazards presented by old Spooner Hall’s (Fig. 3) structure. Would the floor hold the sculpture’s weight? When the university architect pulled out old plans and analyzed the building’s structure, he found only four places where my treasure could be

safely placed. Keith Lawton, who was in charge of physical-plant operations, even worried about transporting the weight across the floor of the gallery. By this time, having upset Irv Youngberg at the KU Endowment Association with my creative financing, Keith Lawton with the potentially destructive weight of the piece, and various deans and professors who were convinced that I was wasting the state’s resources, and with only KU Chancellor Clarke Wescoe backing me, I knew I had to know a lot more about this sculpture to convince people that it was a worthy addition to KU’s collection.

What could be learned from the sculpture itself? Could the “mute stones” be enticed into speaking? The subject—the Lamentation—and shape of the sculpture suggested that the relief could have formed the back of a niche for a wall tomb or might have fit above a church or cloister door. The sculpture must have been exposed to the weather, for the upper surface of the high relief was eroded, whereas the inner surfaces, which would have been protected, remained crisply carved. Seen at eye level (we couldn’t boost the massive rocks any higher)

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Spencer Museum of Art: July 1, 2007–June 30, 2008

Fig. 4 Helen Foresman Spencer

and consequently seen head on, the figure of Christ, unlike the other figures, appeared awkward:

(d. 1982) surveys the new Spencer

tipped up and flattened, pressed into the foreground. But when viewed from below (I had to lie

Museum of Art at its grand opening in 1978. Named in her

down on the floor to get the right angle—and I always hoped no visitors would come by), the figures

honor, the building was funded

fell into place, with Christ appearing to lie on Mary’s lap—and not to levitate in front of her knees.

by the Kenneth A. & Helen F.

The sculptor had calculated the sight lines and wanted to make the image of Christ fully visible by

Spencer Foundation. Photo courtesy of University Relations, the University of Kansas.

placing him parallel to the front plane of the relief. Yes, we had portal sculpture. Years later we would install it over the door into the central court of the new Spencer Museum of Art (Fig. 4).

In good late-Gothic fashion, the figures were carved with a combination of surface realism and a kind of ideal abstraction that suggested the coming influence of the Italian Renaissance.

In Spain that style appeared late in the 15th century, in some places as late as circa 1500. Mary Magdalene’s rich dress, John the Baptist’s cloak, and the men’s hats were typical of the costume introduced into Spain from the Burgundian court, by then both areas were part of the empire inherited by Charles V (I of Spain).

Having exhausted the resources of the KU libraries, I put my faith in the art history research institutes in Madrid, Barcelona, and Valladolid. In the summer of 1966, I had saved enough money to go to Spain to continue my research on the art of the pilgrimage roads and, incidentally, on our tympanum.

What might I find in Spain? In the 19th century people with that new invention, the camera, had traveled throughout the country photographing everything of interest. Their work was gathered in photo archives. These photographs, taken before the destructive Spanish Civil War in the 1930s, could be invaluable. Yes, I found an early photo of our tympanum, but it had already left its original location and was in a private collection in Madrid. No records survived, so I redoubled my hunt for a needy wall.

I had also found a 1923 book on the medieval monasteries of the province of Valladolid by Prof. Francisco Anton. Was he still alive in 1966? Yes, he was. I realized that there was no point in writing to him with questions. His generation had learned to be wary; recall that I was working in Generalissimo Franco’s Spain. I could only hope for information in person and probably by innuendo. I took the old coal-burning train to Valladolid.

I must digress for a moment. Of course I had problems in Franco’s Spain. I was a woman and a foreigner. In those days women had to dress “respectably,” that is, I had to wear a skirt even when climbing up into vaults and through the rubble of fallen walls. Furthermore, a woman could not

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Lament for a Lamentation

travel alone unless she had a letter of permission from her father or husband. I was protected by my American passport, but I was often stopped by the Guardia Civil (the paramilitary police).

Fig. 5

I also carried something almost as valuable as a passport, one of what we called “the magic cards of

West façade of Santa María de

Professor Cook.” American art historian Walter W. S. Cook had saved many scholars during and

la Armedilla. Note the outline

after the Spanish Civil War. They repaid his kindness by helping his friends. Cook’s calling card

of the pinnacles that once framed the portal. Photo by Marilyn Stokstad.

was like a talisman, an open sesame to information.

My goal was simple—I needed to find an empty portal or tomb niche whose dimensions matched our tympanum. I wanted to find an arch, perhaps even one with carved archivolts still in place (Fig. 5). If I could find a gaping hole just the right size, in a wall of the right date, I could argue that our sculpture belonged there.

In Valladolid Professor Anton agreed to see me.

In a long afternoon’s visit—beginning more as an interrogation than a conversation—I had to demonstrate my dedication to Spanish art as well as my knowledge of Spanish sculpture. Soon the appearance of small glasses of very good dry sherry meant I had passed the test! The old gentleman knew every inch of his province. I believe that he could have told me more about the circumstances surrounding my sculpture. But he carefully only directed my attention to the abandoned monastery of Sta. Maria de la Armedilla, which already lay in ruins, stripped of any sculpture, when he studied it for his 1923 publications. Although he confirmed nothing, I was not surprised. In those days one expected only nods and hints. From the scholar’s study I moved to the desolate plains of Castile—the countryside around Valladolid in those days made western Kansas seem densely populated. Little burros provided most of the transportation.

What to do? To find my ruins I needed not a car but a car and driver. Cars were so old and roads so bad that one could expect at least one and maybe two or three flat tires on a day’s trip.

So I contracted with a taxi driver and we rattled off in grand style—except for the fleas in the upholstery—across the plains toward Cogeces del Monte, a place so obscure that it was not even in Baedecker’s infamously complete guide book, looking for the ruins of La Armedilla.

Many Spanish monasteries like La Armedilla were destroyed in the Napoleonic wars at the beginning of the 19th century. Their ruins became quarries; their stones used for fences and sheep pens. Shaped stones from the walls and fallen vaults were piled into dry-stone walls. People brought

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Spencer Museum of Art: July 1, 2007–June 30, 2008

Medieval and Renaissance fragments to decorate walls and gardens; sometimes they used them as paving stones. I always hoped that antiquarians or collectors who appreciated the sculpture would buy the stones. Yes, our ideas about the preservation of a nation’s cultural property have changed in the last decades.

Fig. 6 Castilian landscape with ruins, Cogeces del Monte, Valladolid, Spain. Photo by Marilyn Stokstad.

As my taxi lurched through the desolate landscape, my hopes rose. Surely we would soon see piles of rubble and, if I was lucky, a few standing walls. And indeed we did (Fig. 6). We came upon the walls of the once great Cistercian monastery, rebuilt by the Duke of Albuquerque in 1508 and

Fig. 7

1511–12. Described as in ruins (by Madoz) in 1850, and

The nave of Santa María de

photographed by Anton early in the 20th century when

la Armedilla. The ribs of the

parts of its vaults still hung in space, it now stood alone

vault are in place, but the vaults themselves have fallen.

in a field. Walls with gaping holes where portals once

No sculpture remains in the ruins.

stood rose over bramble-covered rubble. The only living

Photo by Marilyn Stokstad.

things to be seen were sheep, with not a shepherd or even a sheep¬dog to watch. I saw only desolation. We stopped.

Fig. 8

I got out. There were no fences or sign postings. I eagerly

South wall of Santa María de la Armedilla showing doorway

hiked across the fields and through the ruins while the taxi

into the cloister. Photo by

driver stretched out for a well-deserved smoke and siesta.

Marilyn Stokstad.

The sheep ignored me, and in return I paid no attention to them. Laden as always with my not-at-allladylike purse—a leather messenger bag filled with camera, tripod, light meter, steel tape measure (cloth stretches), notebooks and pencils, trusty Girl Scout jackknife, passport, money, cheese sandwich (I normally carried between 10 and twenty pounds when I was working), I searched and photographed the ruins. The sculpture could have come from that door over there. No proof but a strong possibility.

Or perhaps that tomb—No, too small. Or the door between church and cloister. Better yet, the west portal. La Armedilla had been thoroughly destroyed and looted (Figs. 7, 8). In a few hours I had done as much as I could at the site.

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Lament for a Lamentation

I continued my exploration of the piles of bramble-covered stones—just in case I had missed something. Suddenly I was discovered—not by a sleepy shepherd or an alert sheep dog, but by the true master of the land—the biggest, meanest looking billy goat I had ever seen. To use arthistorical jargon, his horns seemed truly “monumental” (Figs. 9, 10). We stared at each other with total dislike and mistrust. Then I made the mistake of breaking eye contact. At this sign of weakness he charged. Swinging my weighty satchel at him and using my tripod like a ski pole, I leapt up the rubble pile through the thorns. With full force the goat hit the very stone on which I had been

Fig. 9 Master of the Die, Frieze with a Putto Knocked Down by a Goat, 1532, engraving, 76 x 254 mm, Gift of the Max Kade Foundation, 1969.0117.

Photo by Robert Hickerson.

Fig. 10 Frank C. Gall, Mountain Goat, 2001, woodcut, Gift of BarenForum.org, 2001.0091.09.

Photo by Robert Hickerson.

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Spencer Museum of Art: July 1, 2007–June 30, 2008

standing and knocked himself silly. I completed the job with a whack of my purse. We both staggered off—he to his friends in the flock; I out of the rocks and thorns and across the fields to my taxi.

But the story does not end here. Seeing my bloody and bedraggled state (remember the brambles and respectable skirt!), the driver was horrified and refused to drive me back to town.

As he tried to turn his taxi around, I blocked his way. I refused to be abandoned in such a desolate place, and besides I had not—and would not!—pay him until I was back in Valladolid. He claimed that if he took me back to town in my condition—bleeding and with torn clothing—he would be accused of attacking me. I swore I would defend him—after all, I had been violently attacked, but by a four-legged male—goat, of course. At last he agreed, with the understanding that I would not bloody up his taxi, would sneak back into my hotel without anyone seeing me, and would not denounce him to the Guardia if we were caught on the way.

I would like to say “mission accomplished.” But like many missions, mine left questions unanswered and problems unresolved. I had no proof—only reasonable probability.

The museum label would likely have to read, Tympanum with the Lamentation (Pietà), limestone, sculptor unknown, probably working in the shop of Simon de Colonia, perhaps from a portal in the monastery of Santa Maria de la Armedilla, Province of Valladolid, Spain, about 1500.

And the goat isn’t talking.

About the Author Marilyn Stokstad is Judith Harris Murphy Distinguished Professor Emerita of Art History at the University of Kansas.

The Stokstad Portraits - No. 3, 2008, by Cody McLouth, oil on canvas, 30” x 24”, from the KU class Captured Alive: Lessons in Portraiture, Prof. Judy McCrea (Fall 2008).