By The Book, Kings and Angels

In a previous post, I offered thoughts about various artistic representations of Judith and Holofernes (or at least his head), because it related to my last book, BETHULIA. If you want to know how, read the book.

Having set the precedent, I am taking the opportunity to waffle about another work of art: The Wilton Diptych. You can see the real thing if you visit the National Gallery (see a high resolution image here), but I have cherished a copy (interior only) since I was knee-high to a white hart.

It’s a diptych – two-sided altarpiece (as opposed to the common or garden triptych) – designed to travel with the owner and be used for his personal devotions. Medieval French artists painted it, but the original owner was Richard II, who nursed a very exalted view of his sacred kingship. He was anointed and therefore semi-divine and untouchable. Unfortunately for him, he was deposed and murdered. It was later owned by Charles I, who shared his views on kingship and didn’t do too well out of it, either.

The diptych was designed to focus Richard II’s devotions, as he knelt to pray. On the left side it shows Richard being presented by three saints, John the Baptist, St Edward the Confessor and St Edmund, martyred king of East Anglia. Okay, so John the Baptist was nothing like royalty, but basically it’s a picture of kings. Dicky is being presented to the assembly on the other side of the diptych: the Madonna and Child, with a bevvy of angels, all a vision in very expensive lapis lazuli blue. The angels are obligingly reciprocal by wearing a white hart badge, Richard’s personal symbol, and one is holding the banner of St George, patron of Richard’s kingdom.

What do you make of it all? I have no doubt that the French creators intended to glorify Richard and I’m sure that’s how he saw it. Heaven is waving an English flag and flaunting his badge to confirm his divine right to the kingdom on Earth and entry to a kingdom yet to come. But all I can see in this diptych is irony upon irony.

For a start, whenever Richard knelt devoutly at his portable altar, in front of this piece, who was he worshipping? The Christ child and Holy Virgin, on the right? Or Richard himself, on the left?

Isn’t it a delicious piece of tastelessness for the angels to be waving the banner of St George, when facing St Edmund across the great divide? Edmund, martyred in the 9th century by those bloody Vikings, was the patron Saint of England, until his place was usurped by St George, a possibly real Cappadocian soldier martyred in the Diocletian persecution of 303AD (make a note of that for pub quizzes), who had nothing at all to do with England (or dragons). Talk about rubbing Edmund’s nose in it.

The real irony, though, for me, lies in the expressions depicted on both halves of the diptych. I am sure the intention was to portray sublime faith and security in the wisdom of God. All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well, and all that jazz.

But what I see is this.

Richard, glorious in his gilded robes, is supremely smug in his conviction that he is exactly where he’s supposed to be: waiting on the threshold of Heaven. It’s only right and proper for the angels and archangels and even the Son of God to be honouring him, because he is going to be claiming his rightful place amongst them when the time in right (sooner than he knows).

His saintly backers, in their gorgeous robes (and shaggy goatskin), have the unsmiling vacancy of guys who are doing their duty by him as he requests, but they have already been there, done that, suffered the pains of death and martyrdom, and discovered that the t-shirt wasn’t really worth the bother. “Here he is,” they are saying. “Another schmuck.”

And on the other side, the heavenly host regard the presentation with quiet disinterest. Or is it contempt and derision? They are torn between yawning and mocking. ‘Hello, little earthling turd,’ they are saying. ‘Are you really arrogant enough to imagine you belong here in our home?’

And the Christ Child, in blessing, is raising two fingers.

Why am I writing about the Wilton Diptych? It plays a part in BY THE BOOK, the third volume of my Science Fiction trilogy, SALVAGE. I am assuming that when civilisation as we know it collapses in the wake of environmental catastrophe, epidemics and war, there will be a lot of art loot in circulation. I like to think that this particular piece will finish up in the hands of someone who appreciates its irony.

BY THE BOOK. Buy the book now.

Salvage Part I, INSIDE OUT

Salvage Part II, MAKING WAVES