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A comic demon gargoyle
at Visby Cathedral, Sweden. Courtesy Alexandru Baboş Albabos
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After last week’s post on Notre-Dame,
a reader asked, “I just learned that gargoyles are functional art. Any idea why
they tend to be hideous?”
The word gargoyle
comes from Medieval Latin and Old French, and means ‘throat’ or ‘gullet.’ It’s
certainly more poetic than ‘downspout,’ which is what a gargoyle actually is. In
English, gargoyle has come to be used
for what are more properly known as chimeras or grotesques. These are the fantastic or
mythical figures used for decoration in architecture.
Gargoyles are usually elongated to divert water from the
wall. That’s why they’re the most visible of all the grotesques. We think of
them as medieval, but water deflection has been a part of architecture forever,
as has whimsy. The Egyptians and Greeks both used lions’ heads as gargoyles.
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Waterspouts and other
sculptured figures on the Freiburger Münster, Germany. The top waterspout is
defecating. Courtesy Rebecca Kennison
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But it was with medieval Catholic architecture that the
gargoyle reached its highest art form. Sculptors of the Gothic cathedrals were expected
to be ‘preachers in stone’ to the mostly-illiterate population of the time. They
told the stories of the Bible, but also portrayed the animals and beings of
popular imagination. Since their society was earthy, these figures can sometimes
be doing things we think aren’t appropriate for church, like defecating.
Grotesques were not universally popular. Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux
railed against them in his monastery:
“What are these fantastic monsters doing in the cloisters
before the eyes of the brothers as they read? What is the meaning of these
unclean monkeys, these strange savage lions, and monsters? To what purpose are
here placed these creatures, half beast, half man, or these spotted tigers? I
see several bodies with one head and several heads with one body. Here is a
quadruped with a serpent's head, there a fish with a quadruped's head, then
again an animal half horse, half goat... Surely if we do not blush for such
absurdities, we should at least regret what we have spent on them.”
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Le Stryge is a 19th
century Gothic Revival strix on the
North Tower at Notre-Dame and reflects Victorian sensibilities. Courtesy Prosthetic Head
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One of the most famous grotesques at Notre-Dame is not medieval
at all, but Victorian. Le Stryge is
a brooding demon who (until last week, at least) perched atop a buttress on the
north tower. Nineteenth century Paris was obsessed with occultism;
the grotesques added to Notre-Dame during its renovation reflect that.
Medieval society was less preoccupied with sin. “Whatever
they may have lacked, the Middle Ages were a time when fun was ‘fast and
furious,’ certainly in no respect behind our own day,” wrote architect Ralph Adams Cram in 1930. “Just because they were sincerely religious people and
involved in the sacraments… of their religion from the day of birth to that of
death—and after—it is assumed they… must have been sad, terror-stricken and
morose.”
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| This dear little reading monkey grotesque is Bavarian. Courtesy )o(Medousa)o(. |
It’s been theorized that the grotesques of medieval architecture
were to ward off sin or were pagan representations slipped into Christian art.
That theory would have seemed absurd to the churchmen
who oversaw construction of these churches. They were, in general, far more
sophisticated theologians than we are today.
What they had that we don’t, is an ability to laugh at cosmic
jokes. The greatest of these is the death and subsequent resurrection of Jesus
Christ, which puts Satan firmly in thrall. The medieval churchgoer was laughing
at devils and spirits that he knew were vanquished. Today we chuckle nervously
at devils we’re not quite sure are real.
