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Calligraphic portrait of King Charles I.
Brown ink and metalpoint on parchment, with
blue pigment and shell goldlate 16th century.
St John's College, Oxford University
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The Secret in front of Our Eyes
Not long ago, during one of my by now almost
ritual visits to the Conservation Studio, I had a wonderful and unexpected
surprise. To my predictable question about interesting new projects, Jane
Eagan (Head of the Oxford Conservation Consortium) kindly showed me a
rather unusual drawing recently brought in from St John’s College. Marked
by an old water stain at the bottom, this particular drawing (a portrait
of King Charles I of England) did not - in the first instance - seem to
stand out in any way.
The work of an anonymous author, this picture dates from the late 16th
century. Like many of his contemporaries, the painter opts to remain
unknown. In contrast, his treatment of the subject is very different. Not
only does he make the figure of the King easily recognizable, he also
encloses written details about the name and function of the character
represented: “Serenissimus Potentissimusque Princeps Carolus, Dei gratiae,
Britanniae Magnae, Franciae & Hiberniae Rex fidei Propugnator etc.”
The iconic face of King Charles I (1600-1649) was often painted. There are
148 identified portraits, the best known (5 in number) being the work of
Anthony Van Dyck. St John’s drawing is not in the same league. The value
of the latter relies on something very different and rather more subtle.
Painted in brown ink and metalpoint, this portrait is largely monochrome.
Except for the blue ribbon supporting the King’s medallion, everything in
this composition is in pale tones of sepia. The use of the metalpoint is
particularly visible. It covers extensive areas of the portrait,
complementing the gold strokes in the clothing and hair, the straight
lines of inscription and, most of all, the eyes. Their sad, proud,
piercing look catches the viewer’s attention, channelling it towards the
more striking elements of this work.
Without any doubt, one of these elements is the blue of the ribbon. The
colour and thickness of it contrasts dramatically with the lace-like
texture that constitutes the rest of the drawing. Interestingly, tests
have revealed that the pigment so heavily applied to the ribbon is a later
addition. The effect is somewhat disconcerting, but one has to agree that
it does soften the visual impact of the water damage and perhaps (in a
symbolic way), does also allude to the state of mourning incurred by the
events which led to the abolition of monarchy.
The execution of the King in January 1649 created an underground movement
against the new political order instituted with the Protectorate. From the
point of view of the royalists, the death of King Charles I was regarded
as martyrdom. The story of the St John’s portrait is directly connected to
this underground trend and to a book published only a few days after the
execution. This volume, Eikon Basilike, the Pourtraiture of His Sacred
Majestie in His Solitudes and Sufferings, was set to haunt the decade
that followed. Passing as an anthology containing personal reflections of
the King, this publication marked the beginning of the cult of Charles I.
In less than two months the volume (issued in secret) went through at
least sixteenth editions and was translated into Latin, Danish, Dutch,
French and German. During the first year there were sixty different
editions altogether. Most of them pocket-size, easy to hide, but also easy
to carry. Very much like a prayer book.
No matter what edition, the volume had the
same frontispiece, an engraving by William Marshall. The image reflects
the book’s representation of Charles as a saint and martyr – a second
David in his psalm-like prayers, a second Christ in his passion and death.
Marshall’s elegant portrait shows Charles kneeling in prayer and grasping
a crown of thorns (inscribed Gratia), with his regal crown (inscribed
Vanitas) at his feet, and a third crown (inscribed Gloria) awaiting for
him in heaven.
The composition suggests two comparisons. On
the one hand, there is the obvious immitatio Christi motif. On the
other, if we take into account some of the poems in the volume, the
engraving hints at a possible parallel with David.
The analogy between Charles I and David may be traced (though in a less
straightforward way) in the portrait at St John’s as well. In this case,
the function of what was initially a somewhat flat, uninspired drawing
changed dramatically almost overnight. By virtue of becoming the object of
real pilgrimage, the portrait turned into the equivalent of an icon. This
phenomenon is in part explained by the fact that during the Civil War
Oxford University was largely on the side of the monarchy (with Parliament
having moved to the Convocation House and the King living at Christ
Church).
Photographic enhancements by Tom Costello
Beyond the historic context favouring the
metamorphosis of this portrait into an icon, a careful look at the
composition reveals a rather puzzling element: the King’s hair is
unusually long and undulating in waves over his left shoulder. Adding to
the riddle, tradition has it that the lines in this section of the
portrait are, in fact, text. More precisely, the text of the Penitential
Psalms. A possible parallel between Charles I and David is thus hinted at
in no ambiguous manner. It is however not so much the motif, but the form
which the latter takes that makes this drawing altogether exceptional.
Like a secret code deeply embedded into the underlying structure of the
artefact, the meaning which this portrait was invested with appears to
depend almost entirely on its form delivering the content intended.
The problem here is that, rather disappointingly, no clear script could be
revealed under magnification. This does not necessarily imply that there
could be no script. But, one wonders, if the supposed text were really
absent, would the picture be a failure? Both its form and content would be
seriously flawed by being void of the expected connotations.
It is true, script has been elusive. It may or may not be proven to exist.
But, irrespective of what future and high tech equipment might reveal, a
fact remains. Past generations were certain that the psalms were there.
They did not need proof. They did not need to see the letters of the text
in order to believe. This is the key to our understanding the mysterious
portrait at St John’s College in Oxford. It is in the unwavering faith of
the beholder that the image crosses the boundaries and turns into an icon.
It is in the belief that the verse must be there. Pulsating miraculously
from a space hidden from the eyes. A space however no less accessible and
relevant. A locus amoenus, volatile and full of poetry, the coordinates of
which reside not necessarily in the reality surrounding us, but in
ourselves, in our innermost humanity, a humanity quickened by
intelligence, creativity and love.
There is also a certain detached, light humour in all this: an artist
assuming the role of an unlikely homo ludens challenging his audience with
a riddle. Is there a text at all? Chances are there is not. Then again,
there may be … Under the pale but sharp metalpoint of endless curves and
razor-thin lines, the answer is in front of our eyes. Tangible … And yet
impossible to touch!
Text copyright © 2006 Cristina
Neagu
Translation into English of the essey
'Secretul din fata ochilor'
published in the Romanian literary journal
Adevărul literar şi artistic (Bucureşti: 1 November: 2006), 15.
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