By the Garden Gate: A Journey With Robert Campin

A few years ago, in New York for a conference, I made a pilgrimage to The Cloisters museum and gardens. I use the term “pilgrimage” advisedly. Like a medieval traveler going to a shrine, I went to see a sacred object—the painting known as the Merode Altarpiece by Flemish artist Robert Campin. From Midtown, the Cloisters was enough out of the way to make the journey a little difficult, the gratification a bit delayed. The museum’s medieval setting enhanced my sense of sacred purpose.

Once at the Cloisters, I discovered that Campin’s painting has its own gallery, called the Merode Room. I made straight for it. At the time of my visit, the altarpiece hung above a medieval bench opposite the gallery entrance. By some miracle, the room was empty. The painting beckoned me forward, and I walked toward it as to an altar.

I saw, at first, what other viewers do—a charming moment in the life of the Holy Family, a suspended moment just before the world changes. In the central panel, the angel Gabriel is about to announce to Mary that she will bear the Christ child, who, holding a cross, descends on golden rays toward her seated figure. In the right panel, Joseph drills holes in a workshop. These interior scenes boast a multitude of objects that dazzle the eye even as they have long dumbfounded the scholar, at least, the scholar who seeks to unlock a hidden meaning based in disguised symbols and erudite allusions.

That day in the Cloisters, Campin’s painting revealed its meaning loud and clear. Its not-so-hidden message was encoded in the left panel, where a man and woman, the patrons of the altarpiece, kneel at the door to Mary’s chamber. They peer in at the Holy Family as we do, as I did, and they discover the heart of their faith.

Figure 2. Robert Campin, Merode Altarpiece, left panel, via Wikimedia Commons
Figure 2. Robert Campin, Merode Altarpiece, left panel, via Wikimedia Commons

Much art historical ink has been spilled trying to identify this couple. What mattered to me was the way in which the man and woman echoed my own footsteps. Just as I had journeyed to the altarpiece, they had traveled a path—beginning in the town visible in the background and passing through a gate and into an enclosed garden—that led to the threshold of the Beloved. Having completed their journey, they are rewarded with a glimpse of the divine.

The couple models spiritual pilgrimage, a theme common in late medieval devotion and one that remains relevant today. In the texts of mystics such as Walter Hilton, physical pilgrimage is symbolic of every Christian’s interior travels. When we pray, read Scripture, or meditate on sacred truths, we take a journey of sorts. We go in our hearts to Jesus, leaving behind the distractions of the world and entering through the gate into the garden of our faith. In the quiet, we kneel in the presence of the divine, and we are restored. In the bustling city that is our life, our faith is an oasis to which we must journey daily.

Standing before the painting, my physical journey also became a spiritual one. When I made this trip to the Cloisters, I had just left my academic job and had no prospects. I didn’t know who I was or what to believe about myself. Yet standing before Campin’s painting, I could affirm two things. I still loved art. And I still loved Jesus. I believed everything Campin placed before my eyes. The historical moment of the Annunciation. The Virgin birth. The Trinity. The cross. Just as Campin’s painting was built of layer upon layer of nearly translucent brushstrokes, so a layer was added to my faith that day. I left having taken a pilgrimage as vivid as the painted couple’s journey.

I began to think of Campin not just as a Flemish master but also as a guide or mentor in my journey of faith. “You can have dead mentors,” I heard someone say recently. In fact, Campin positions himself as a spiritual guide. In the background of the left panel, a figure stands by the garden gate. He is dressed as a town messenger or herald. An older tradition says that Campin gave his own features to this figure.

Figure 3. Robert Campin, Merode Altarpiece, detail of left panel with possible portrait of Campin, via Wikimedia Commons
Figure 3. Robert Campin, Merode Altarpiece, detail of left panel with possible portrait of Campin, via Wikimedia Common

If this is true, we can say that the artist himself acts as a herald, ushering the painted couple—and all viewers who are willing to go through the gate—to the threshold of their faith. This is what great art does; it takes us to the edge of what we believe. Sometimes, it gives us a little nudge. It cannot complete the journey for us, but it can help us peer through the doorway. With Jesus’ help, we go through.

But this travel narrative has a twist. Campin is not only a guide but is himself a pilgrim, and not the kind we might expect. Reading up on the painter after my visit, I learned that in 1429, he was accused of political fulmination and sentenced to go on pilgrimage to St. Gilles, a shrine along one of the routes to Santiago de Compostela. In 1432, he was sentenced to another pilgrimage for immoral living (this latter pilgrimage was, however, commuted to a fine).

We tend to think of pilgrimage as a voluntary journey to fulfill a vow or to renew one’s faith. But in the Middle Ages, penitential pilgrimage was just as common. It could be imposed not only by a confessor but also by a civic court, especially for crimes of a sexual or political nature. Criminals and even murderers were sent to a shrine, often barefoot, sometimes chained. Upon return they were to submit proof that the pilgrimage was completed—although what court could look into the heart and see the change such penitence had (hopefully) wrought?

We don’t have proof that Campin completed his pilgrimage to St. Gilles. We only have the figure by the garden gate. Scholars believe this figure was added to the left panel of the Merode Altarpiece in the early 1430s—that is, after Campin’s 1429 sentence and perhaps even after his 1432 conviction for immoral living. Did Campin mark his return by stepping through the gate and into his painting? Is his portrait a proof of pilgrimage or perhaps even a confession?

I confess to experiencing a moment of disillusionment upon discovering Campin’s sentences, the kind you feel when your spiritual mentor stumbles. It was difficult to reconcile Campin’s role as guide with his hefty rap sheet. But in the end, I couldn’t hold on to my self-righteousness. What am I if not a fellow sinner? What do I need if not someone to model the journey of repentance?

When I saw the painting next, I paid special attention to the figure in the background. And the meaning of his painting deepened. Of course I couldn’t look into Campin’s heart, but I could see the testimony he left, like a footnote (or footprint?), nearly buried in the background of his painting. I imagined that this man, painter-cum-criminal, had just returned from his penitential journey. Too abashed to come forward, he stays by the gate, his gaze turned toward the Holy Family and directing our own eyes there once again. His quiet presence reveals another aspect of spiritual pilgrimage: there is no faith without repentance. When we walk to Jesus, we carry our sins chained to us, like a medieval pilgrim on the road. Jesus unshackles them and takes them from us, freeing us to set out on a new path.

I still travel with Campin, although my footsteps do not take me to the Cloisters as often as I would like. When they do, Campin’s altarpiece always takes me on a journey. In the presence of the Merode Altarpiece, I affirm who I am. Like the painter, I am a pilgrim. Every day, I go through the gate and kneel in the presence of the Beloved. Every day, I rely on him to unburden me of my sin.

Only Jesus can take me over the threshold of my faith. But I will always find a traveling companion in the unassuming figure by the garden gate.

Lisa Deam has a Ph.D. in art history and writes on late medieval art and spirituality. She is the author of “A World Transformed: Exploring the Spirituality of Medieval Maps”(Cascade, 2015) and blogs at lisadeam.com.

Advertisements

99 thoughts on “By the Garden Gate: A Journey With Robert Campin

    1. Lisa, you take us on a very special “discovery” adventure in your writing about Robert Campin’s masterpiece. I’ve never heard anyone bring so much life and meaning into such a painting, but of course, I’m partial 🙂 I’m going on Google to find out where he lived, as St. Gilles and Merode are also well known names here in Belgium!

      Liked by 6 people

      1. Hi Didi – nice to see you here! And thank you for your kind words. Robert Campin’s workshop was in Tournai, which I’m sure you know very well. I think the painting is called the Merode Triptych because it was owned by the Merode family sometime in its history (Merode was a Belgian family).

        Liked by 2 people

  1. I’m fascinated by the concept of a religious pilgrimage as a punishment – I was unaware of this wonderfully odd concept.

    I am also struck by the depth of your faith and the solace you found in the symbolism of this piece of medieval art. A lovely, interesting discussion.

    Liked by 8 people

  2. It is amazing how one can write something that is both thought provoking at the same time affirming of ones faith, leaving no doubt about who one is in front of the divine images.

    Liked by 11 people

    1. We can only guess what one is thinking while expressing himself with anything other than words and that to doesn’t always apply, for example a poem or even a simple story. It is hard to know the mind of an artist. But it is always fun to try and figure out the art.

      Liked by 9 people

      1. That’s very true. And it can even be hard to guess when the artist is using words! Partly this essay was about my imagining Campin’s story and making it my own, although I try to stay as true as I can to what I see in the painting.

        Liked by 5 people

      1. No – thank you. Your writing talked to me.
        The answer – many many many works of art but I saw the mission to get to the art as a metaphor for other experiences also.
        The [piece of] art that gives me a “religious” experience is Van Gogh’s ‘Wheatfield of Crows’ which I’ve been fortunate to see in [the flesh] twice in Amsterdam. You can flip the painting at any angle and it tells a different story. It’s the interpretation of the viewer that is interesting though. You can see the painting and feel hope or despair, darkness or light, struggle or victory – or a combination of all like a life story. It was one of Van Gogh’s final paintings before his premature death. I must get an update of what the progress is with the revamp of the museum and if the painting is there or still being stored at the Hermitage. As well as the Rijksmuseum – I’ve been out of touch of late.

        Liked by 4 people

  3. A masterful handling of such a difficult subject.

    “Only Jesus can take me over the threshold of my faith. But I will always find a traveling companion in the unassuming figure by the garden gate.”

    Thank you for sharing this gem.

    Liked by 5 people

  4. Even if humans are disappointing me lately I’m still amazed of the beauty that can be stored in a human mind. Beyond any imagination….it can hide an entire world of mystery, color, shapes, ideas…all meticulously designed taking care of every detail! Thank you for showing us the beautiful human mind and the stories behind it. Lovely post, thank you for sharing Lisa!

    Liked by 4 people

  5. I read your post once,thought it was sort of interesting,then I read it again.
    As I’m from England,I don’t have any narrative about the gallery your writing about,of about the Painting,but yes,I have my own perception of Piogrimage.
    Thank you for polishing it up,as it were.
    As a very Poor music student in the 1970s,I spent many a Saturday at the NG in Sq.I used to sit there for hours.Eventually,the paintings started to affect my feelings,they got into my core so to speak,they started to reach out to me.That was my Pilgrimage.

    Like

  6. Thank you for your post. I managed to set off the proximity alarm three times the last time I visited the piece at the Cloisters. It’s long been my favorite work of art. I appreciate the additional research you shared- until now my fascination has been with the religious iconography…Devil’s mousetrap, Holy Trinity, etc. One account I recall is that the female form on the left was added later, after the male (likely the patron).

    Like

    1. The proximity alarms – that is too funny! I’ve never done that. I believe you’re right about the woman on the left panel. Scholars also think that the entire left and right panels were painted at a later date than the central panel.

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s