By the fourteenth century the donor of a religious painting or window had the recognised privilege of being added into the image as a humble suppliant. Initially the donors are smaller than scale and often outside the sacred space – the first of the congregation to adore, but with no pretence to join the object of adoration. The picture below is a good late fourteenth century example of the tiny donor.
Richard II, a King of notorious splendour, was an early adopter of a bolder style. In the Wilton Diptych he appears full size, kneeling at the foot of the saints who introduce him to the Court of the Madonna and Child. However, he maintains separation from the Court of Heaven by splitting the image between the two panels. The saints with Richard include his personal patron, John the Baptist and two previous Kings of England – Edward the Confessor and Edmund Martyr. The king at prayer in this world has powerful divine supporters who mediate for him with the Court of Heaven which he does not enter. This is theologically correct, but also makes a gesture towards the special sacredness of the King. The king is joined to the company of Heaven by his succession to the kingship, which he inherits from his sainted royal ancestors; the men who, by God’s will, have passed the royal mantle down to him. (Edward was, in fact, a relative of some sort, and why not Edmund too?)
But in the fourteenth century donors get bigger, and, although they still kneel piously, they move fully into the holy space. Sir John Donne of Kidwelly, sometime deputy governor of Calais, was not a King or even the despot of an Italian city state, but this is the painting he commissioned from Bruges in the late fourteenth century, featuring himself, his wife and a daughter.
Sir John Donne and his wife push Saints Catherine and Barbara into the background, and their full robes spill onto the carpet which defines the space allocated to the Madonna and Child. In fact the Holy Child is waving cheerfully in Sir John’s direction. The donors do not face the Madonna, or look sideways like many earlier and smaller donors. Instead they give the viewer the benefit of their true portraits.
Courtiers in real life, Sir John and his wife seem very much at home in the Court of Heaven. The Madonna wears the same type of oversized fur-lined robe as his wife. In token of her perpetual virginity, she has loose hair, but Saints Catherine and Barbara have courtly hairstyles and fasionable clothes. Saint Catherine wears the daring sideless surcote which shoes off the tight kirtle beneath. Saint Barbara’s sleeveless surcote shows off her rich under-sleeves. The Donne’s clothes are distinguished by less brilliant colour, but they are no less rich. Both husband and wife wear gold suns and roses with jewelled lion pendants specifically denoting their high tank under Edward IV, and probably given by him – the Court of Heaven is clearly Yorkist. They are nearer the Madonna than Sir John’s patron Saints, John the Baptist and John the Evangelist, who occupy the two wings of the triptych, now shown here.
The language of secular and spiritual power is one and the same. Those who are first on earth are most definitely not last in the Kingdom of Heaven – they are first there too. I find these paintings with integrated donors very hard to grasp at the spiritual level. Clearly, as a believer, Sir John imagines himself in the presence of Heaven when he prays, but does this personal spiritual sense of connection survive being transferred to public display? There something peculiar about worshipping yourself worshipping, let alone intruding your image into the prayers of others. Painting like this seem to stake the claims of secular lords to access to divine approval in a way which actually diminishes the separateness and holiness of the divine. Of course the Church of the period was a highly political place; what is striking is to see that secular power blazoning itself across religious icons, as if Adidas were to start sponsoring altars bearing their logo.
Part of the dissonance is, of course, the courtly fashions. It is no longer general practice to show holy figures in the clothes of the day. Ironically, decades of Christmas cards, have made us very accepting of showing divine figures in Renaissance clothing. On the one hand, there was no tradition in Western Europe of trying to reconstruct some sort of historical dress. But on the other, the fourteenth century shows a move from rich robes of fairly indefinite period to specific contemporary fashions. Pietro’s Madonna above, in the restrained style which originated with the copying and recopying of icons, is wrapped in a huge traditional veil which obscures any contemporary clothing features. In the Wilton diptych, the Kings have identifiable costume, but the Court of Heaven is distinguished by loose garments of overwhelming blue, except for the Christchild’s gold smock. I wonder how it affected the worshipper first to have the Saints become conscious of high fashion and then have the local gentry join them in their niches.
Sir John Donne’s confidence in divine approval was repaid. He was one of the Yorkist nobles who successfully retained favour in the Court of Henry Tudor, after the defeat of Richard III and his Yorkist forces in the Battle of Bosworth 1485. He and his wife are buried at St George’s Chapel, Windsor. His sons went onto found English dynasties – the Earls of Oxford, Burlington and Cumbria and the Dukes of Devonshire claim descent. His career is a reminder of how the Tudor dynasty began the marginalisation of the Welsh lands, as many great lords became satellites of the increasingly centralised English Court. Kidwelly itself has the ruins of its Norman castle to testify that it was once the stronghold of a powerful and wealthy dynast.
In this way, Kidwelly and other Welsh castle towns became forgotten by-waters, which now seem to have been gifted with ruins merely to increase the sense of the picturesque. Sir John Donne, knighted on Tewkesbury Field, a great lord of his time, with the might of Kidwelly behind him. Who would have thought it?
One last note on Sir John – in the picture both his wife and the Virgin have open books. It is quite novel to have the Madonna try to dandle the Christchild and read at the same time, though not unique. In fact, Sir John was also a commissioner of prayerbooks. Two are in the British Library and you can find out more about the third, now in Louvain, here. Wearing his armour, Sir John prays (rubric) to his good angel. The prayer begins ‘O angelic guardian.’ In the beautiful gilded border, under Sir John’s armorial bearings, a peasant cuts grapes. The creeping vines are heavy laden but infested with snakes. These could be an allegory of the devil, against whom Christ’s blood, consumed as wine in the Mass, is the sovereign remedy. Or they could be Lancastrians in the Yorkist vineyard. In any case, a guardian angel is evidently an important ally.
May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.