Looking at God

The idea that images have sacred power is an old one- and something our modern sensibilities impute to historic or so-called primitive cultures. But it is still a behemoth that lurks uneasily beneath the entire tradition of Western art, and opens up one particularly baleful eye in the genre of medieval religious art.

To Classical thinkers, the term ‘image’ was richer than simply a pictorial depiction of a subject; it implied oikeiosis, a mystical, almost magical kinship to the model that established a unity with the divine realm. For Plato, art was but an imitation of the world, itself an imitation removed from the transcendent reality of ideas. For Aristotle, however, the artist strives to imitate tangible reality that is the manifestation of that transcendent realm/force…a force seen by the less sophisticated as the gods.

But where Plato decried art being only a painted surface, unable to be anything more than a shadow of the divine object, it was the Aristotlean ideal of artistic mimesis, the trend toward naturalistic representation, that echoed resoundingly in Christian posterity. In encouraging the imagination and eliciting an instrinctive emotional response, naturalistic art prompts the viewer to suspend their disbelief, to accept visuality as the complete verisimilitude of the subject. And just as the aesthetic fantasies of hyperrealistic Classical sculpture drove renaissance art to become ‘so like to life that it lacked only breath,’ the culture of sacred images and ritual-centres viewing shaped the Christian use of icons, relics and devotional paintings.

In the Antique world, the investment in ‘reading in’ invited by naturalism led to a lack of differentiation between deity and image.  The image of a deity was imagined to possess both volition and interventionary powers whether miraculous, healing, talismanic or protective, which necessitated the treatment of the image as if it were the deity itself: paintings and statues, especially those within a sacred enclosure, were dressed, bathed, fed, garlanded, paraded and offered worship.

The visuality of those images was centred around ritual- the viewer was prepared for their encounter with the image through a series of ritual acts, from bodily postures and reverential attitudes to the privations of the pilgrim’s journey. The normal discourse of society is removed from the viewer in favour of a collective subjectivity in order that they might not only look on the image, but in order that the image should look back and heed their supplications.

Before the fifth century, the Church fathers- themselves technocrats of the written word, presiding over a religion of sacred texts- had inherited a lingering distrust toward images formed in the faith’s clandestine past, fearing that unsophisticated converts would respond to Christian images with just this kind of inappropriate adoration. Christianity had, for centuries, consciously avoided those practices and rites they observed in pagan society, and in many quarters of the church the ingrained fears of idolatry persisted. Some, such the Serenus the bishop of Massilia, went so far as to destroy the images of saints that adorned his church, furiously stating they should not be adored.

But as Christianity grew into a confident polity, its leaders began to reappraise the potential of art, both to further understanding and devotion in its adherents and express its triumphant presence. As religious images played an increasingly important role in conversion and instruction, serving as visual narrative to those without access to writing or from differing cultural backgrounds, pope Gregory the Great defended their function:

‘What Scripture is to the educated, images are to the ignorant, who see through them what they must accept; they read in them what they cannot read in books…placed in the church not in order to be adored but solely in order to instruct. It is not without reason that tradition permits the deeds of the saints to be depicted in holy places.’

Gregory held that images were able to convey the messages taken from written texts that were inaccessible to the uneducated or non-literate. He exhorted Serenus and other iconoclasts to permit images to ‘gain from them the instruction for which they were made…(and) explain that it was not the sight of the story related in a painted text that angered you, but the worship which had been paid to them illicitly.’

The crucial distinction Gregory draws is that it is the act of reading the image, of carefully intellectually grasping the meaning and spiritual relevance of the narrative, that should replace the physical responses such as bowing and kissing associated with worship of a literal spiritual presence. It is not the image that is moderated, but the action and intent of the viewer, who would then understand the images not as direct avatars of the deity as in Antiquity, but as intercessory glimpses of a distant and divine world.

Religious art retained this function throughout the middle ages. Its gilded hieratic majesty moved the worshipper bodily and spiritually, drawing them into a timeless, otherworldly realm that existed beyond, and removed from, the secular world. But while the bulk of medieval art brought the viewer to God, late medieval Flemish art subverted that trope to bring the divine into the everyday.

Artistic, religious and social thought of the time was governed by a complex interplay of intellectual pretence inherited from medieval exegetic scholarship, and realist pictorial skepticism. Realism and symbol, surface and depth were not exclusive but well understood to be subject to a web of overlapping meanings and interrelationships. Influenced by humanism and in particular the movement devotio moderna- a lay spiritual trend that advocated a more direct relationship with God and individualistic attitude towards belief that was popular among the wealthy merchant classes- Flemish art responded to the demand for religious imagery to be made accessible, made ‘real’, made immediate to daily life.

Artists such as the Tournaise painter Robert Campin pioneered a new class of religious imagery, forging medieval religious symbolism with devotio moderna’s assertion of the presence of the divine amid everyday reality into an iconographic language that was once at once utterly symbolic and utterly naturalistic.

One of the hallmarks of this language was its articulation of religious narratives within a homely context, actualising gospel events as a focus for devotion in a way that was instantly relatable to the middle-class viewer. Rather than taking the viewer into a timeless divine space, the divinity and mystery of the events are brought into the space of contemporary domestic life, a practice eloquently depicted in the Merode altarpiece.

Now held in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Merode Altarpiece was begun after 1422, most likely between 1425 and 1428. With the centre panel measuring just 65 x 63 cm, the small size of the triptych, the intimacy of its imagery, and the depiction of the Virgin as the Madonna of Humility all indicate that the work was intended as a focus for private devotion rather than public worship- indeed, there is no evidence that the work was ever used as an altarpiece. As such, the conventions of this type of painting were less restrictive to the artist, allowing Campin to innovate within the established visual language of religious art.

The triptych’s centre panel contains what is at first glance a conventional Annunciation scene, with the angel Gabriel bearing news of the Incarnation to the Virgin; the right panel shows St Joseph in his workshop with a Belgian cityscape through the window. The left panel has portraits of the donor Pieter Ymbrecht (Petrus Engelbrecht) and his wife, unconventionally placed together. Both kneel ‘outside’ the house wherein the Annunciation is occurring, gazing through the open doorway at the miracle unfolding within.

The donor’s pose and placement indicates their instinctive response to the focal scene, mirroring the instructions to prayer given by Bernard of Clairvaux to approach the divine event personally, witness the miracle and be consoled by the message. That the donors kneel on the threshold, the final step of the garden path and the road outside, suggests the pilgrimage-like aspects to the adjustment to prayerful devotion: with road and window, Campin in particular calls attention to the spaces surrounding the central event, imbuing the scene with a latent narrative of spiritual journey to echo the earthly journey of the donor (and other observers). The viewer is thus cast as a pilgrim, penitent and mystical witness in the very act of looking at the painting.

Like most Flemish religious works, the Merode triptych was not designed for cursory glances. The work is saturated with symbolic detail and embedded meaning that requires prolonged contemplation to discern, and meditate upon their implications so as to make their spiritual ‘reality’ immediate and vivid. Like van Eyck after him, Campin’s structuring of the symbolism rewards prolonged looking, delaying awareness of the underlying meanings to produce a more vivid experience upon recognition, as if the picture reveals to the attentive viewer a glimpse of a profound spiritual meaning beneath the quotidian reality. The effect is not one of de-ciphering hieroglyphs, but of witnessing the image spontaneously transform itself.

In the central panel, the Virgin is herself contemplative, seated humbly on the floor in the instantly recognisable posture of the Madonna of Humility, emphasising her obedient humanity. Rather than being seated on a cushion she leans against a bench, its backrest decorated with carved lion finials that indicate the importance of this type of bench, both as a prized possession and symbol of hospitality in the medieval home and an item often taken on pilgrimage, but also indicating the kingly throne of a Madonna in Majesty (Sedes Salomonis). The lily in an everyday maiolica pitcher is a standard prop of Annunciation scenes, indicating the purity of the Virgin.

The light falling on the Virgin’s robe forms a star pattern, a delicate articulation of the medallion crosses adorning the mantle of the Theotokos in Byzantine art, that had during the middle ages transformed into the distinctive star recalling the Marian epithet as Star of the Sea. Just as subtly, the gleaming crescent arc of the candlestick base beside the Virgin references the contemporary theological controversy surrounding the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception: whether Mary was an ordinary woman, or an extraordinary one without the stain of sin and thereby worthy to bear the son of God. Campin seems to not merely record the discourse, but to advocate a position.

Each of the domestic objects in the scene, depicted with relentless realism and in minute, precise detail, furthers the symbolic strata, easily discernable to the spectator accustomed to an abundance of visual cues to meaning. The room is lit by three windows, obviously and unambiguously representative of the trinity; the room’s suffusion with light is indicated by Campin’s clear, pure tones and the highlights painted in pure white. The casement window is partially shuttered, symbolic of the mortal flesh which hide Christ’s divine nature. This is echoed in the just-extinguished candle, as Christ’s divinity is eclipsed by the moment of his Incarnation, but qualified by the sole candle in the two scones above the fireplace: although there are two spaces, the duality of God and Man, the presence of just one candle indicates Christ’s nature as wholly divine.

The laver and towel hanging in the corner niche is an unusual inclusion in an Annunciation scene, and though often presumed to symbolise the Virgin’s purity, is by no means as clear-cut as it appears. Their presence references not a domestic setting but the piscina in the sanctuary, where the priest would wash the hands after the sacrifice and communion. That the messenger angel Gabriel appears robed in the alb and stole of a deacon continues the revelation of the domestic interior as the interior of a shrine. In this context, the table takes on the aspect of an altar, its sixteen sides and Bible open atop it proposing the theological view of the Incarnation as the fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy.

In painting the rays of light streaming through the glass window, piercing without breaking, Campin continues the medieval allegories of the perpetual virginity of Mary. Yet the tiny, flying baby Christ that rides down the seven gilded rays (enumerating the gifts of the Holy Ghost) is a surprisingly literal inclusion in a scene that so carefully hides its symbolism behind a convincing imitation of reality. In this case, the plastic-baby Jesus acts as the tabernacle within the sanctuary-room: in Annunciations where the sanctuary holds the host-container, it was heretical to depict the Incarnate Christ as well; in those where Christ is the tabernacle himself, the Infant can be safely shown in the flesh because He is already in the womb. As the tabernacle is a symbol for the Virgin as the hostel of Christ, the Merode Annunciation equates the physical body of Virgin with the spiritual/communal body of the church.

This is not to say that a contemporary spectator would read angel, flying infant or even the laver and linen as literally present in a middle-class house, but rather as indications of a transfigured, sanctified arrangement of reality; the scene littered with fictional signals as clues that it is not intended to depict reality, even the sacralised reality of a Flemish interior. Rather than a retrograde literalism, these are actually a sophisticated depiction of the mystery and doctrine being actively imagined by the donors, their religious sensibilities and personal intellectual-emotional engagement being galvanised through their prolonged contemplation of the triptych.

Religious art of the Middle Ages obviously differed in content and timber from the deity-images of Antiquity; while images were not held to contain the divine, they certainly subsumed it. Yet since those centuries past, the function of the devotional image remained, at its most basic level, unchanged- a ritual-centred means of viewing that moulded the body and drew the mind to the proper attitudes for contemplation their faith, and reception of a message of personal spiritual consolation.

 

The New Face of Art

It’s 8am, on a dismal morning. Coffee in hand, you’re walking into your office- through a shimmering waterfall of light that foams and dances around your body as you linger beneath it, for just a second. The new foyer is cocoon-like, bathed in ambient twilight. The couch wriggles and yips as you sit down, and you can’t help but smile at its contented trilling as your fingers play over the intricate embroidery that twines its sleek fur. On a nearby wall, a video painting depicts a lone skateboarder in the rain, poetic as he pirouettes in slow motion. But your eyes are for the unearthly faces projected against the trees in the shadowed atrium, seeming to murmur poignant secrets.

As you pass an ordinary black-and-white photograph, its figures suddenly gasp and scurry out of sight; you can’t help ducking back to see if they reappear. You chuckle that you’ve already witnessed six impossible things this morning…and wonder what might be next. Reaching your desk, it dawns that by crossing your foyer, you’ve interacted with sophisticated technologies without a single click. The simple act of coming to work has moved you to wonder, sadness and delight, in ways you could never expect.

Sounds like the escapist daydream of every office worker, doesn’t it? So it might surprise you to learn that this ability to turn your corporate space into a trip down the rabbit hole is well within reach. Because each of these marvels actually exists, and have already enchanted close to half a million people during exhibitions staged by Experimenta, Australia’s powerhouse of media art. Over the past 8 years, Experimenta has showcased the cutting edge of new media- a tactile, technosensual and highly imaginative experience of art- in biennial exhibitions that tour Australia, the Asia Pacific and the UK.

Last year, Experimenta Playground redefined interactivity for more than 44, 000 visitors in Melbourne by appealing to the formative instinct of play. In 2005- 06, Experimenta Vanishing Point lured 122, 208 visitors nationwide to step through the technological looking glass, and Experimenta House of Tomorrow (2003- 05) broke attendance records around Australia.

Media arts are not new, per se: video, digital, and multimedia have been reshaping our industries and our daily lives for a few decades now. What is new are the innovative ways that artists are expanding those media and fusing them with state-of-the-art technologies to communicate their ideas.

Such as Melbourne artist Daniel Crooks. His mesmerising video panoramas On Motion and Perspective Part 2 and Train No.9 present floating, endlessly morphing urban landscapes where time is a tangible, fractured thing. Crooks describes his works, which inventively marry conventional film techniques with customised tracking hardware and intricate digital editing, as ‘a different way of seeing the world outside our normal perspectives.’

Narinda Reeders goes even further to combine video with motion-sensing software, letting The Shy Picture spring impishly to life as its characters flee from sight at our approach, creeping back when they think themselves unobserved.

Reinventing interactivity along such lines is a hallmark of media art, creating an immediate experience far beyond the pedestrian point-and-click. What’s truly remarkable is that the formidable technology driving these artworks-experimental hard- and software, pattern recognition, digital animation, biometrics and more- is made to disappear. ‘With the machinery hidden,’ says Experimenta’s artistic director Liz Hughes, ‘the experience of the work is that much more powerful. The idea that the technology brings to life, is what its about.’

‘Instead of keeping people at a distance like traditional art can, media works engage them physically as well as emotionally. Media art affects the ways people think and feel and act; it subtly transforms, enriches and energises their space,’ she observes, noting that it’s these qualities that lend media arts to being imagined in the workplace.

Not that it’s a leap to replace traditional framed art with sophisticated video paintings in business environments that already take data projection technology and flat panel screens in their stride; nor is it hard to see how they provide a spark which can jumpstart creative thinking.

Media projections can also create strange immersive worlds within real-world architectural and public spaces. In 2003, for example, artist Craig Walsh transformed the headquarters of the Commonwealth, ANZ and Reserve Banks into gigantic fish tanks as his virtual Urban Tide swept in, the colossal fish swimming among the floating office furniture creating a startling and whimsical illusion.Interactive works have an even more enlivening effect on corporate spaces. Unexpectedly appearing in Sofitel Melbourne’s public foyer during September 2007, Stephen Barrass’ wriggling, touch-responsive ZiZi the Affectionate Couch (part chaise longue, part pampered purple pet) and the bashful inhabitants of The Shy Picture generated intense public interest as well as delighting and intriguing guests and staff alike.

It’s no secret that the advantages to buying art go beyond simple monetary returns. Media art in particular positions the investor as an innovator; it speaks unmistakably of a company that is energetically engaged, socially aware, and willing to take risks in embracing new technology and new ideas.

It also connects with the growing international presence of media art. Leading Australian artists are prominent at events like ISEA08 in Singapore and ZeroOne in San Jose amongst others, with media artists Susan Norrie and Daniel von Sturmer selected as national representatives to the prestigious Venice Biennale in 2007.

And do we even need to go into the publicity potential and boldly original, open-era prestige branding such as realised by Sofitel Melbourne’s micro-exhibition? That’s press you just can’t buy. Researcher and artist Barrass is quick to point out the human rewards, not least of which is giving companies a competitive edge in attracting- and retaining- well-educated and sophisticated staff and clientele. He predicts that in building profile and brand loyalty, ‘corporate spaces will increasingly become public places of entertainment and leisure as well as business innovation.’

The last five years have seen investors adopting a forward-thinking approach, pursuing both the up-to-the-minute cultural cachet and the innovative branding potential offered by contemporary art. Corporate collections especially are being overhauled to highlight attention grabbing and incisive works which, more and more, means media-based art.

‘New media is simply where contemporary art is,’ insists Ruth Bain, director of Anna Schwartz Gallery Melbourne, ‘so it’s inevitable that, as a collector, you’re going to be interested in it…or left far behind.

‘The people who are buying art now have grown up with media technologies. They are completely unafraid of it. It’s embedded in their environments and in their minds; it’s second nature to them. But it’s not only younger investors- informed collectors of all stripe are interested in artists like Daniel Crooks or Shaun Gladwell not because they’re specifically media artists, but because they are considered leading, and very bankable, contemporary artists.’ Bankable indeed, with both men recently ranked among Australia’s 50 most collectible artists.

As with any investment, it pays to cover the ground. Bain is reassuring that, as the go-to people, art dealers now need to keep abreast of emerging technological developments just as much as artistic trends. ‘We need to be able to advise clients on technology that is sustainable and appropriate for the purpose, and liaise with agencies like Experimenta who unearth the latest breakthroughs.’

As with traditional art, potential buyers need to ask hard questions of the media art they are drawn to- does the work represent quality and innovation? Is it relevant to the collection? For that matter, how can you make sure it won’t be on YouTube next week? Because definitions of art and authenticity can get nebulous around endlessly reproducible digital media, many artists offer a tangible, limited-edition version of their work: typically an archival-standard DVD accompanied by certification of authenticity.

Unlike traditional artists, media artists often take an ongoing interest in how their works are presented and how they perform. Some artists offer forms of after-care as part of purchase arrangements, and many contractually stipulate the display hardware, fair use and site-specificity of the work to ensure their original vision is respected.

Determining whether an artist has staying power- if they are represented by reputable dealers, if they are exhibiting regularly, if their interests and directions will continue to break new ground- is often the key to substantial returns. In 2003 Sherman Galleries sold a copy of Gladwell’s iconic Storm Sequence for $3000; two years later, it sold privately for $65, 000 and was again on-sold by Sotheby’s in 2007 for $84, 000- the first video artwork auctioned in Australia.

Obsolescence is an ever-present issue when dealing with technology, and the implications for media art warrant careful consideration. Re-releases and upgrades can render common platforms resistant (to some degree) to the process: ‘New digital technology tends to ingest the old,” says Crooks. “Some works can be migrated onto new platforms as they become available,’ agrees Bain, ‘but with others, the technology is integral. It becomes a patina of age, part of their being works of a certain time.’

Sponsorship represents an innovative investment alternative, one that carries a different value relationship than work bought off the shelf. ‘The large scale of public art spectacles appeals to large thinking,’ says Queensland-based Craig Walsh, known for his transformational, immersive digital projections commissioned for public festivals around Australia and in the Asia Pacific region. ‘As well as placing them on the cultural map, it gives a business a chance to stamp their brand on the public domain in a way that people remember.

‘Because installations are site-specific and continually evolving, there isn’t an object to on-sell. Their value is in the unique experience of the work that draws people to that place. It’s not like buying shares, there’s a kind of faith required, a long-term commitment to the art.’

Bain concurs, adding that while corporations may not ‘have a saleable object at end of the day, there’s something spectacular that reflects who you are as a company, and what contribution you make to the world.’

As media technology has changed and grown, so have its creative possibilities. And in a re-imagined art of the future, there may be little distinction between seeing and experiencing, between corporate and personal, between art and our environment. So when you go to the office tomorrow, will you be stepping into a standard workplace- or a vibrant, whimsical, engaging place where you can do some work as well?

Published Fast Thinking 2008

Hopelessly Devoted

With such a large number of religious paintings among those currently drawing crowds, it’s disappointing to see so little effort being made to redress the old chestnuts of medieval art, and the religious feeling that inspired it.

The perception of medieval devotion in particular is a simplistic one: a picture of the Age of Religion wherein the church coerced conformity through public worship, and the laity fervently engaged in religious practices that, at times, bordered on superstition. It’s undeniable that Christianity, soaked in blood and limned in beauty, was the primary shaping influence on society for centuries- indeed, taking religion out of the Middle Ages is like taking the wet out of rain. But this prevailing view serves only to taint our perceptions of the magnificent art inspired by that faith, and impedes a genuine understanding of its actual sophistication.

Part of the problem is that academic scholarship persists in making distinctions between public and private, secular and spiritual, individual and corporate. Yet to the late medieval mind, these distinctions did not exist. Public piety, civic patronage and private spirituality were inextricably entwined, each influencing the forms and uses of devotional art in both the public and private spheres.  Just as those devotional objects/habits usually regarded as ‘private’- namely, the exquisite books of hours popular in the late middle ages- contained a purposeful public dimension, so the majestic altarpieces that exalted the sacred space of the church were designed to engage the spiritual sensibilities of the viewer on a very private, deeply personal level.

By the fourteenth century, books of Hours had become the vehicle of both the loftiest intellectualism of Christianity, as well as popular piety at its most basic: abbreviated and easily accessible versions of the religious offices observed in monastic communities. Moreover, their hallmark was their richly appointed decoration. Wrought of costly materials such as silk, gold and lapis lazuli, Hours were such ostentatiously displayed public indicators of status and conspicuous consumption that the trend  was satirised by popular writers of the day, such as the poet Eustace Deschamps:

‘An Hours of Our Lady must be mine,
that are of subtle workmanship
encircled with gold and azure rich,
ordered and painted beautifully,
with fine cloth of gold covered well;
and to hold the pages,
two clasps of gold to close.’

This ostentation was not simply crass display: medieval culture and collecting privileged the adornment of both natural and devotional objects, underpinned by the same exegetic philosophy that saw saintly relics encrusted with gems and gold. Precious objects were infused with spiritual qualities: untarnishable gold was equated with Christ’s incorruptibility, red coral was regarded as protective, and so forth, leading to a costly culture of devotional display.

This philosophy is articulated even more subtly in the books belonging to Jean, Duc de Berry (1340-1416) one of the wealthiest and prolific collectors, bibliophiles and patrons of illuminated Hours in late medieval Europe. As a patron his oeuvre reflected late medieval material culture and spiritual concerns; as an aristocrat in close proximity to the throne and as a powerful mediator between rival political factions, his ‘private’ devotional books of necessity created a public image that announced not only his wealth and taste, but demonstrated the piety that was no affectation (or even genuine feeling) but the divinely ordained basis of his position and power.

The devotional book as a status symbol is exemplified in the Grandes Heures, created in 1409. Its enormous size and the fact that its leaves assembled the leading illuminators of the day indicates it was intended for a public audience, rather than the private reading a more portable tome with a single artistic programme would be suited to.  Folio 96 in particular unambiguously demonstrates the fusion of public secular promotion with public spiritual spin. Jean’s dynastic arms occupy the same vignettes as his devotional cypher EV (En Vous, ‘In You’). Jean’s bear and swan emblems (ours and cygne) form a pun on the regional patron, St Ursine- as well referencing his mistress of the same name.    Above the historiated capital of Monsieur le Duc at prayer, the miniature depicts his self-confident petition to enter Heaven. Presenting himself to St Peter (who takes him sternly by the wrist like a naughty child) Jean indicates his collar of estate from which hangs a massive jewel of sapphire surrounded by seven pearls: symbolic of the vault of heaven and of Christ, respectively, and more subtly of the Christian virtues/gifts of the Holy Ghost.  Aristocratic birth and enormous wealth are transformed into virtues, and are his credentials to enter Paradise.

An even subtler dialogue is presented in the famed calendar cycle of the Tres Riches Heures, created 1413-1416. The calendar miniatures form a unified narrative within the larger programme common to books of Hours, and are unusual in their presentation as full page miniatures isolated from text, but also for the fact that for the first time the patron enters into (actually, dominates) the previously generalised agricultural/astrological representations in the calendar.

This entry is no accident: Jean, grandiosely present on the first page of the calendar clearly demonstrates the perspective from which the succeeding images of peasant labor and aristocratic pastimes are to be seen. The seasonal activities are depicted with meticulous attention, and through imaginative composition and colouring lend an aspect of the liturgical theatre to everyday activities.

But for all their ‘realism,’ these scenes are not neutral: they form a directed ideological discourse. The semiotic ‘network of difference’ contrasts the representation of peasants at toil with the light hearted pursuits of the landowning nobility: in winter the duke and his court feast warmly, while the workers who produce his sustenance are shown outside suffering from the cold, inhabitants of irreconcilable milieus.

While this may seem to be a simple reinforcement of the feudal social order, the format of the cycle’s miniatures has a spiritual significance. Rather than simply an illustration of a text, these secular scenes, placed and framed exactly as devotional donor images, similarly invite pause and contemplation in a frame of mind appropriate to a devotion context. So too, the use of skilled techniques such as washing paint over silver and powdered gold to enhance the suspended moments of the composition, creates a lucent illusion that equates exactly with the timeless, shimmering spiritual space of religious imagery. Although worldly scenes, they deftly use the language of religious images to draw a devotional response.

More so, the gold frame and arched vault suggests the architecture not of a window frame, but an altar frame: the calendar miniatures act as religious panels combining to create an altarpiece-like narrative cycle.

In this interpretation then, the calendar cycle acts a de facto altarpiece, proposing the commonalities and feudal obligations between seigneur and serf as a form of contextual devotion, wherein the duke’s grandeur, wealth and position is ordained by God as his due with the implied social-charitable obligation as protector of his people. His presence, by proxy of his chateau in the background of each miniature, refutes the historical moment of a turbulent, fractured France at the time of the book’s creation; he imposes his unifying, sheltering presence on the landscape to preside over an idealised medieval worldly ordering.

Just as the ‘private’ books of the Duc de Berry served a public purpose, the public religious paintings of Flanders, and in particular the works of Jan van Eyck, contained a private dimension that activated spiritual awareness and engagement on a very personal level.

Even in mercantile, bourgeois Flanders during the fifteenth century, religion and salvation were prime concerns for people at all levels of society. Emphasis was placed on frequent participation in the mass and the reception of the sacraments, which Christians believed would ensure their reception into heaven. Worshippers would have viewed the majestic religious works over the altar on an almost daily basis, so that they were engrained in their perceptual landscape.

In the bustling urban setting of Flemish religious art, with its tensions and exchanges of wealth, status, and public benefaction, artistic patronage assumed the status of civic and social ritual.  While the distribution of gifts was the medieval noble’s standard method of displaying his family identity, social standing, wealth, and personal generosity, alms-giving was a complementary form of liberality mandated by the Church and practiced not just by the nobility, but by all social groups. Gifting to the Church and the poor served a higher purpose, applicable to all levels of society, of ensuring the salvation of the benefactor’s soul: where nobles founded churches or donated costly objects, those lower on the social scale gave according to their means.

The presence of the Burgundian court in Bruges brought the city’s civic gentry and its wealthy merchants and bankers into close contact with this aristocratic culture of display- and they eagerly took it as their example, resulting in a vigorous interest in devotional patronage. The founding and financing of family chapels and altars in the local parish and monastic churches provided wealthy burghers with an ideal way of displaying their religious and socio-cultural aspirations that overlapped with genuine personal concerns for charity and salvation.  Complete with the donors’ portraits or coats of arms, the altarpiece was an integral part of that display, and its dual function manifest in its iconography.

Influenced by humanism and devotio moderna, a lay spiritual trend that advocated a more direct relationship with God and individualistic attitude towards belief that was popular among the wealthy merchant class, Flemish religious art responded to the demand for religious imagery to be made accessible, made ‘real’, articulated in terms of domestic life.  Religious artistic thought of the time had grown out of a complex interplay between medieval exegesis and realist pictorial skepticism: reality and symbol, surface and depth were not exclusive but well understood to be subject to a web of overlapping meanings and interrelationships.  Artists such as Robert Campin, Rogier van der Weyden and Jan van Eyck create a new class of religious imagery, fusing medieval religious symbolism with devotio moderna’s assertion of the presence of the divine amid everyday reality into an iconographic language that was once at once utterly symbolic and utterly real.

One of the hallmarks of this language was its articulation of a domestic context into a public space: although located in public spaces, Flemish art subverts the usual visual tropes, placing the miraculous story inside a homely domestic setting immediately relatable to the middle-class viewer. Rather than taking the viewer into a timeless divine space like medieval art, the divinity and mystery of the events are brought into the space of contemporary domestic life. (This is not to say that a contemporary spectator would read the action as literally present in a middle-class scene; rather as indications of a transfigured, sanctified arrangement of reality.)  Each of the domestic objects in the scene furthers the symbolic strata, easily discernable to the spectator accustomed to an abundance of visual cues to meaning.

Yet this discernment did not take place as part of public worship; indeed attendance at mass was neither regular universal or fervent, and individuals displayed varying attitudes toward piety and devotional practices just as they do today.  Rather, it occurred during private contemplation of public religious works, which were in turn geared to elicit that contemplative engagement.

Stretching more than 5 metres wide and soaring 3.6 high, Jan van Eyck’s Ghent altarpiece (1432) is a tour de force of closely observed realism as much as densely complex symbolic iconography. Yet its ambitious scale and overwhelming opulence tends to obscure the subtlety with which it negotiates and articulates the religious sensibilities of the viewer. The closed panels of the triptych depict the patron Jodocus Vijt and his wife Lysbette Borluut, kneeling prayerfully before trompe l’oiel statues of Ss John the Evangelist and John the Baptist. Above is a contiguous scene of the annunciation set in a Flemish home, with Biblical sybils and prophets atop the exterior panels.

Rather than a self-aggrandising gesture, the donor couple actually stand as examples for/in place of the viewer, indicating the bodily attitude of devotion which draws the worshipper to contemplation of the religious mystery. Subtly but significantly, there is no eye contact between the donors and the statues- they do not see them. They are not kneeling before the statues, but beside them, their abstracted gaze indicating they are not literally addressing the archetype but engaged in a more active imagining of the mystery. At the same moment as their relentless realism places them in the viewer’s space, their architectural framing removes them from that space: the intellectual contemplation of the divine enacts/ is enacted within a ‘different’ reality, constructed by their devotional actions.

But looking at the annunciation scene above the donors, van Eyck’s realism seems jarred. Although the chamber is spacious, with a view over the city, the ceiling is too low, and for the intimacy of what passes between angel and Virgin, the space is too wide. The figures literally do not fit the domestic space. The unreality of the scene is strengthened by the wings of the angel, a startling arpeggio of green and orange that visually overwhelms the pale figure of the Virgin, drained of colour. It is clear van Eyck does not offer a simulation of the Annunciation in the same sense as the lifelike simulation of the donors: the scene is deliberately made unreal, and littered with fictional signals such as the sculpture-like dove above Mary’s head, as clues that it is not intended to depict reality, even the sacralised reality of a Flemish interior.

The upper register of the scene is even more sophisticated, its figures caught halfway between realism and sculpted frieze indicating their conceptual meaning. What van Eyck presents is not a conventional image of a literal/symbolic ‘actual’ miraculous Annunciation, but a sophiscated depiction of the mystery being imagined, visualised and intellectualised through the worshippers’ prolonged contemplation of the work. Van Eyck’s visual cues reward time spent alone with private thoughts before the altarpiece; once they are discerned, the work comes alive with dynamic interactions that extend far beyond the picture plane, to engage the internalised religious knowledge and sensibilities of the individual in a way unheard of today. The viewer receives not only the experience of ‘decoding’ a symbolically erudite work of art, but achieves a level of heightened consciousness and spiritual clarity doing so. Understanding the disguised symbolism in Flemish religious art through contemplative devotion reveals it as enactive symbolism, able to galvanise an active engagement with a public work of religious art to yield a deeply private spiritual experience.

Out of Time

As time moves on, art can say something to us today that differs greatly from what the author was trying to say at the time.

Film critic Chuck Sonnenberg today posed the question: ‘does that mean we are mistaken? Or is it valid to say that the echo of our own thoughts, hopes and fears is as much a part of what we take away from art as the image itself?

Is the question not ‘what does this mean?’ but really ‘what does this mean to me?’ If what was said is not what is heard, does that mean that the emotion felt, the thought provoked, the impetus planted, are wrong?’

If we are no longer able to fathom the intended meaning, is it valid to fabricate one out of our own cultural mores and personal experience?

Discuss…

Rewriting the Renaissance

For well over a century, august art historians have presented the story of renaissance art as a kind of cultural big bang, an ex novo burst of glory that rescued civilisation from medieval darkness. And indeed, almost every text on the art of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italy rings with words like innovation, individualism, moralism, rationalism, genius- a smug teleology for the modern era.

The idea of the era as a cultural rebirth isn’t a new one. In 1344, the poet Francesco Petrarca (better known as Petrarch) declared his age as a break with the ignorant, benighted ‘middle ages’ that had occured between the glorious civilisations of Antiquity, and Antiquity reborn. This was accepted at face value by nineteenth-century art historians who have co-opted the Renaissance- and its implicit legacies of rational intellectualism and cultural evolution- as the cornerstones of contemporary Western culture. As such, renaissance art is habitually discussed in terms of elevated intellectual and philosophical ideals, moralising beauty and virtue.

Yet such sententious interpretations fail to take into account the myriad roles that art played in renaissance society, the ability of its artists to articulate layers of meaning or the ability of its citizenry to participate, both consciously and actively, in the art that defined and reshaped their culture. Nor does it recognise that during these centuries, conditions for art were rapidly changing as access to material wealth and a growing perception of art as the ultimate luxury commodity afforded greater scope both for expression and conspicuous consumption. Given this a wealthier and better educated population, the need naturally arose for rulers to find mew ways to promote their civic interests and exercise social control. And they did so by making canny use of the layered yet clearly directed messages that only art could convey.

Without discounting the leaps in thought that took place at the time, or the play of symbolism and allegory that is an art historian’s delight, art in Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries can be rewritten pragmatically, even sordidly, as a story of medievalism, money and manipulation.

Many historians have regarded medieval culture as something that had to expire before a new phase of history could take its place. Yet this overlook the reality that many of the hallmarks of the renaissance actually flourished before the twelfth century: artists revived Antique styles and re-used ancient decorative materials, and a vigorous strain of humanism is evident. Medieval literature and documents reveals a sense of self-awareness and perception no less complex than today, rendering the Burckhardtian assertion that medieval man was ‘conscious of himself only as a race, people, party, family or corporation- only through some general category’ as unsupportable as it is ridiculous. Fortunately, recent scholarship has favoured a transitional model that emphasises the slow synthesis and transformation of medieval society and its continuity with the post-1300 era

This medieval continuity is demonstrated in the patronage of the Florentine oligarch Cosimo dei’ Medici, who garnered social influence and support for Medici domination through astute image management. Cosimo’s restoration of the convent church of San Marco around 1434, for example, was informed by a characteristically medieval mix of personal and civic concerns that did not make modern distinctions between public and private, secular and spiritual, individual and corporate: in the quattrocento these purposes were not absolutes, but served simultaneously.

In addition to public piety, this act of ecclesiastical charity served as restitution for Cosimo’s sins of usury: the concern for salvation remained unchanged from earlier centuries, and permeated the daily lives of even worldly renaissance Christians. Although Medici arms proudly proclaim the patron’s largesse, rebuilding the church rather than founding a new one neatly avoids the appearance of presumption, and retains charitable humility for the patron.

The image of intercession depicted in the San Marco altarpiece by Fra Angelico reflects a uniquely Florentine worldly ordering, relating civic and spiritual authority. As patrons acted as protector-intercessors for their clients, so by charitable works the patron earned saintly patronage and intercession on their own and their client’s behalf. Popular identification of the Medici with Saints Cosmas and Damian is echoed in the personal association with the saints by Cosimo and his deceased twin, Damiano. The altarpiece combines both aspects: the saints’ role as intercessors bridging this world and the next assumes a human dimension in their resemblance to the brothers, and their traditional placement supporting the triangular composition signals their namesake’s support of the Church. The altarpiece presents a complex assertion that entwines secular wealth and power with public charity and personal devotion.

Similarly, the ouvre of the artist who practically defines the renaissance is  can be reassessed as persistently medieval. Leonardo da Vinci is universally regarded as the ultimate innovator, although scant attention is paid to the gracefully articulated late medieval elements that underpin his work. His Annunciation (1475-1480), for example, echoing the decorative qualities of Botticelli’s Primavera in its stylised trees, floral carpet and clearly delineated figures, also evokes the millefleur textiles of the middle ages. The sole Antique element is the Virgin’s marble table: the background belongs to the Flemish tradition, and glows in the same way as gilded religious panels; the figures themselves in their fluttering draperies display the gestural artificiality more usually associated with international gothic art than the naturalism of the renaissance.

Where renaissance artists created a brave, bright world of reflected light and rational clarit, da Vinci’s later works in particular made sophisticated use of gothic patterns of light and murky darkness. Leonardo’s chiaroscuro is undeniably more complex than its antecedents, but his luminous textures and dark foregrounds nonetheless recall the natural play of light found in the burnished gold of medieval religious works. His softly-limned figures similarly suggest the delicacy of the international gothic that flourished in the early to middle quattrocentro, rather then hard, stony technique described by Vasari as used by painters such as Mantegna and Lippi.  This delicacy is taken to incredible heights in his masterful portrait of Lisa del Gioconda, where the astonishingly motile figure is deeply veiled in shadow, silhouetted against a luminous background. The fantastic rocky landscape itself, like Madonna Lisa’s smile, gives fresh currency to medieval formulae; the portrait’s exploration of man as a microcosm of the world derives from Ristoro’s thirteenth-century cosmology. More than any other renaissance artist, da Vinci drew heavily upon the gothic tradition and gave it vibrant new life, becoming genuinely progressive by looking backward.

In Venice, medieval artistic traditions endured unabated, and were pressed into service even more overtly. As much as the Tuscan capital, the maritime republic gloried in fine appearances and outward show, and was perhaps even more successful at adapting to its own purposes the political potential of the visual arts.

Italian city-republics had, since the twelfth century, used art to promulgate their political virtues and civic concord, often couched in allegory. Alone among these, Venice remained true to the medieval civic tradition, avoiding complex neoclassical allegories in favour of works that directly communicated its own social myths- the untrammeled liberty, steadfast religiosity, social harmony and political unification that characterised La Serenissima in contrast to the faction-ridden despotism and public brawling of other turbulent city-states.

In this pursuit, Venice uniquely drew on its Byzantine rather than Roman heritage, co-opting and adapting the iconographia of the Eastern church to build its own civic cults and legitimise itself as heir to the New Rome. One of the best examples of this is the small portrait of San Bernardino by Jacopo Bellini. Bellini harnesses the timeless qualities of a religious icon at the same time he imbues the figure with a gaunt, ravaged physicality that recalls medieval mortuary sculpture, and a psychological narrative that is equally intense. The timeless, otherworldly gilded space behind the figure has become a shimmering green-gold fabric, influenced by Netherlandish canopies as well as Venice’s material trade, placing the saint in a more immediately temporal surrounding. The points of light on his homespun robe, suggesting the shimmer of light on the Venetian canals, is likewise infused with an ecstatic, eternal quality, transmitting the easily recognised qualities of a religious painting to the physical environment of the city.

This same tradition informs Saint Mark, painted by Paduan-Venetian artist Andrea Mantegna around 1448. The painting aggressively promotes the Venetian of St Mark and the story of the praedestinatio as a form of civic hagiography, reinforcing the divinely-favoured status of the city. Mantegna depicts the saint leaning out from a marble casement, recalling the intimacy of fifteenth-century ‘bedroom icons’ designed for a domestic setting. While they seem contemporary at first glance, the saint’s clothes are actually the semi-antique garments familiar from medieval manuscript painting; the symbolic attributes of the book and fruit on the ledge are similarly medieval, and belie the fashionable embellishments of the coloured marbles and Italic cornucopia. The costly, richly coloured pigments and the sail canvas substrate specifically reference- and lend evangelical sanction to- the expanding mileu of Venetian trade.

Giovanni Bellini’s penetrating portrait of Doge Leonardo Loredan completes the evolution from religious to secular icon. Just like St Mark, the doge is realistic yet timelessly remote, at once immediate yet distilled, with even more subtlety, to an Eastern icon. The ruler of Venice is portrayed with- and indeed needs- no other attribute than his traditional mantle and corno ducale. In the quasi-religious context of the painting these take on the air of saintly trappings, the gilded band of his distinctive headdress subtly taking the place of a halo. The reflected light from a gilt background is here echoed in the more subtle waver of light on water that illuminates the ducal countenance, its division into light and shadow indicating the harmonious union of public and private spheres. The portrait reeks of the prosperity of trade: the doge’s robes are of brocade silk imported from the Levant, and the sea-blue background is painted with glowing ultramarine, a pigment even more costly than the gold leaf used in traditional religious panels. The entire painting is a precious object, itself as much an icon of Venice as the shrewd ruler it depicts, afire with the saintly glow of civic zeal.

Renaissance people were acutely aware not only of the persistence of medieval elements in their art, but that the key to redefining their society lay in the energetic new ways to engage with, articulate and innovate upon those same elements, balancing cultural change and with continuity. That story is only beginning to be told.

Objects in Space

Sculpture now is big. As in, prodigious in scale. Coming from a lineage of epic engineering, mammoth industrial sculpture and site-specific installation, contemporary sculpture is a powerful presence in our environment.

Big art requires big space, that is rarely available in even the largest of public galleries. And with so much contemporary sculpture relating to nature as much as the urban environment, and reliant on materials that weather and change over time, the best way to appreciate sculpture is to set it free.

In recent years, private and public sculpture parks have proliferated around Australia and New Zealand, becoming important fixtures in the cultural landscape showcasing the crème of contemporary sculpture. Sculpture parks show outdoor works to their best advantage as an entity that shares our world, giving us the space to move and time to connect with the art in a more accessible setting than stark white walls.

As both natural and cultural spaces, sculpture parks are a natural focus for community engagement and cultural activities as well as simpler pleasures: contemplating art, studying nature, relaxing in the gardens. And with many incorporating quality licenced restaurants, they are the perfect destination for a day away from the urban routine.

But unlike wineries that might dot a few sculptures about their grounds, sculpture parks are no less dedicated or sophisticated than indoor galleries. The quality contemporary art they exhibit represents a genuine engagement with culture that is immediate and multi-sensory, taking us outside our regular, received experience of art.

With events like Sculpture by the Sea (now in its tenth year) becoming ever more popular, the public awareness of sculpture is being matched by a surge of interest by collectors. While still a young tradition in Australia, investors are being drawn to sculpture as the mark of someone who appreciates something aesthetic, expertly crafted, and made to last.

Sculpture parks are also increasingly important as long-term environmental assets, with some even recognised by government agencies as permanent ‘carbons sinks’ under the Kyoto protocols.

Although sculpture in the landscape may sound like a limiting formula, these galleries-without-walls are as varied and as distinctive in style and philosophy as the sculptures they exhibit. Come on a stroll through five of the very best.

Victoria- McClelland Gallery + Sculpture Park

Established in 1971, the McClelland Gallery + Sculpture Park is the premier institution of its kind, a verdant retreat on Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula that boasts some of the most important names in Australian art.

The art at McClelland represents a deep engagement with Australia’s artistic heritage. ‘Our focus has always been on the art of nature, in particular work by Australian artists that delves into landscape, the environment and history,’ says director Robert Lindsay, noting that the collection extends to painting, photography and works on paper displayed in one of the three indoor spaces.

But it is the sculpture collection that commands attention, showcasing works by preeminent Australian sculptors including Inge King, Lenton Parr, Norma Redpath, Rick Amor, Ken Unsworth and Lisa Roet. Set on 16 hectares of bushland and landscaped gardens, the collection of more than 70 permanent works draws thousands of guests each year. The indoor spaces are treated as coterminous to the outdoors, often exhibiting smaller scale works and maquettes to expand on the sculpture in the gardens.

Whether viewing the prestigious McClelland Sculpture Survey and Award or Frankston City Award, or simply visiting the gardens and café, everyone comes through the Sculpture Park. Lindsay is yet to see anyone able to resist at least a second look at the works they pass. ‘Sculpture gets to you,’ he smiles. ‘It’s a presence that can’t be ignored.’

Collection highlight: Dignified as the bust of a Roman emperor, Lisa Roet’s White ape (2005) whimsically deflates human nature’s pompous tendency to place itself above the natural world.

New South Wales- Macquarie University Sculpture Park

It comes as no surprise that the works at Macquarie University Sculpture Park are chosen for their relevance to the academic environment.

‘Our works serve as teaching resources for various courses,’ explains curator Leonard Janiszewski. ‘Each is selected not just for aesthetic appeal but for the insights it offers into literature, the humanities or science: stone formations or alloy models, for example, or contextual relationships to media and politics.’ Smaller sculptures carry this philosophy inside the University buildings, with the foyers of several faculties being small galleries in themselves, reflecting the ideas being investigated.

The leafy bushland site in Sydney’s northern suburbs was established in 1992 by sculptor Errol Davis. Strolling along trails that lead through the native arboretum and beside the small natural lake, delighted visitors can discover for themselves the collection of close to 100 sculptures, the largest in the southern hemisphere.

Macquarie University sees its campus as more than a place to study, engaging with the community as a growing cultural precinct and inviting green space that is accessible day and night. Not only students but local residents make use of the Sculpture Park, for everything from impromptu picnics to poetry readings. The University also holds enchanting twilight tours with enlightening commentary on the fascinating pieces on the grounds.

Collection highlight: Andrew Rogers’ Labile (2005) is an exuberant, weightless veil of crumpled bronze that intimates change and transmutation.

ACT- National Gallery of Australia

It seems impossible to imagine the National Gallery of Australia without its sculpture garden on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin, its monumental works tracing the development of sculpture from genteel figuration to industrial postmodernism.

Director Ron Radford makes no distinction between the outdoor works and those housed inside the gallery. ‘The works outside are more robust,’ he agrees, ‘but we consider our sculpture collection as a single portfolio, with the critical depth that befits a national collection. Some artists are represented nowhere else in Australia.’

Founding director James Mollison established the sculpture garden- an unheard of concept for a public institution in 1975- to house the Gallery’s burgeoning collection that included sculptures by Rodin, Maillol, Henry Moore, Clement Meadmore and Robert Klippel. The native garden, an assertion of uniquely Australian identity, is divided into ‘rooms’ that give a sense of discovery that proves enticing to local and international tourists.

With 400, 000 visitors each year, sympathetic maintenance of the sculptures and gardens is neither simple nor inexpensive, even with federal funding. Radford wryly notes problems with water management, in particular: ‘Usually- not enough of it.’

Radford has plans to extend the gardens, encircling the gallery with a sculpture park that incorporates more flexible spaces for temporary exhibitions. ‘The garden has unwittingly become almost a heritage site,’ he laughs. ‘People would get quite upset if we moved their favourite piece.’

Collection highlight: Bert Flugelman’s steel Cones (1982) has become an iconic presence in the garden, of glittering geometry on an epic scale.

Western Australia- Gomboc Gallery and Sculpture Park

When he bought the scrub-ridden horse acreage in 1982, sculptor Ron Gomboc had no idea that three decades later, his property would be at the centre of the West Australian visual arts.

Located a comfortable drive from Perth at the head of the Swan Valley, the Park operates as a trading gallery, exhibiting works on consignment by artists who are passionate about sculpture. With new exhibitions each month matched by new settings for outdoor pieces, visitors wandering down the trails from neighbouring wineries always find something surprising.

‘There is a physicality to sculpture that captures people,’ Gomboc observes, adding that they respect the skill and materials evident in each piece. ‘If a sculptor is honest with himself and his work, something of true value will come out of it.’

Gomboc is unsurprised that collectors are taking serious notice of sculpture. ‘There is no better investment than being long sighted: look around, go outside the gallery circuit and invest in unique work.’

Though promoting interstate sculptors and hosting international artists in residence, the Gallery goes to great lengths to foster West Australian talent. Tertiary students from Curtin University, Edith Cowan University and Swan TAFE flock to contest the Gomboc Gallery Sculpture Survey, now in its 26^th year.

Gomboc is pleased to offer the $6000 student prize as incentive. ‘Every year the numbers grow,’ he grins, ‘and the quality and imagination in the sculptures gets more exciting.’

Collection highlight: Jean-Pierre Rives’ Untitled series are a majestic presence, combining grand scale and weight with almost lyrical simplicity.

New Zealand- Waitakaruru Arboretum and Sculpture Park

Carved from a Waikato hillside, the Waitakaruru Arboretum and Sculpture Park is practically a sculpture in itself- a landscape of rocky outcrops, tiny waterfalls and pools and breathtaking vistas.

When she purchased it for tuppence in 1991, Dorothy Wakeling intended the derelict former quarry as a regeneration project. But the property was such an ideal setting for outdoor sculpture that the idea stuck.

Today more than 70 sculptures grace the 17 hectare property, the most extensive display of outdoor sculpture in New Zealand. Most are temporary installations, with the Park staging 20 exhibitions of outdoor sculpture since 2003. Wakeling prefers a small permanent collection, wary that ‘a larger collection might compromise some possibilities for future exhibitions.’

While at first placing the works herself, Wakeling is delighted that more and more artists are creating site-specific installations. ‘Once they take the time to understand the site intimately and realise the possibilities it offers, they create beautiful, beguiling artworks that speak to the landscape and the culture of the region’.

With more than 18,000 trees from Asia and the Americas planted since 1991, the Arboretum has been named one of New Zealand’s prestigious ‘gardens of significance’. It is also one of its most successful ecological rehabilitation projects, attracting rare bird species including the ruru, the native owl for which the park is named, back to the area.

Collection highlight: Aspiring (2010) is a graceful natural obelisk, delicately layered of native stone and wood by artist Ian Boyle.

Published Il Tridente 2010