Walters Art Museum: Waste Not: The Art of Medieval Recycling

A Review of “Waste Not: The Art of Medieval Recycling,” at the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, MD

Reviewed by: Karl Fugelso (kfugelso@towson.edu)

Had it addressed ecotheory more completely and directly, this exhibition might have accomplished much more in its discussion of medieval recycling, but while it may fall short in that regard, it raises important questions about the definition of the Middle Ages and medievalism.

Though the curators did not produce a catalog for the twenty-three artifacts in this one-room show, their numerous, well-written placards construct an extensive definition of recycling.  The longest and most explicit of these statements, which appears just inside the entrance to the show, classifies recycling with upcycling and adaptive reuse as common medieval practices that were not only “acceptable” but “at times even desirable,” especially given the skill with which medieval craftsmen could “artfully repurpos[e] earlier medieval culture.”  And many of the labels explain how a particular example of recycling might have been motivated by convenience, economics, aesthetics, and/or historical appreciation.  But especially after the curators claim that modern recycling, upcycling, and adaptive reuse are “necessary responses to the growing awareness of our planet’s limited resources and to the environmental damage caused by our everyday activities,” the show could use an explanation of the differences among these categories and a detailed discussion of the ways in which their medieval incarnations may reflect and/or have influenced contemporaneous perceptions of surrounding ecosystems.  For example, beyond noting that recycled parchment indicates a scarcity of sheepskin, the curators might have examined how a particular reuse relates to the local availability of sheep, how that availability might have related to broader shifts in agribusiness, how those shifts might have related to ecological changes, and how, if at all, the recyclers and/or their contemporaries recorded their perceptions of those changes, other than through the reuse of parchment.

Yet, though the curators may not have fully explored the implications of medieval recycling, they foreground important issues through their definition of the Middle Ages.  While the placards adhere to tradition in dating the start of that period to the fourth century, the exhibits include a copy of Aesop’s Fables printed in 1495 and subsequently covered in a twelfth-century folio, a thirteenth-century Bible wrapped in a fifteenth-century folio sometime during the sixteenth century, and the insertion of mid-fifteenth-century miniatures in the Lace Book of Marie de’ Medici after the first quarter of the seventeenth century.  These and similar examples are a far cry from standard definitions of the Middle Ages, such as the one implicit in the mission statement for Studies in Medievalism as “an interdisciplinary medium of exchange for scholars in all fields […] concerned with any aspect of the post-medieval idea and study of the Middle Ages and the influence […] of this study on Western society after 1500.”  And a traditionalist may indeed doubt that anything made for Marie de’ Medici, who was a long-term guest of, and occasional subject for, Peter Paul Rubens, could be medieval.  But in ascribing these recyclings to the Middle Ages, the curators underscore the subjective nature of determining precisely when and where the period ends.  Even as late as the seventeenth century, a fondness for mid-fifteenth-century miniatures may mark more a sense of continuity with the past than nostalgia for it; in many parts of Europe, the sixteenth century was not much different from the fifteenth, fourteenth, or even earlier centuries; and, though printing is often seen as signaling the end of the Middle Ages, that perception is far from universal, particularly for books as old as the aforementioned copy of Aesop’s Fables.  Unless someone referring to the Middle Ages explicitly treats that period as prior to and distinct from his or her milieu—and perhaps not even then, given postmodernity’s doubts as to the reliability of such evidence—that reference may not qualify as post-medieval.

That ambiguity has obvious implications for medievalism, but our field may be even more challenged by some of the show’s earlier works.  While the fourth-century belt with medallions of Constantius II and Faustina merely echoes the most recent exhibits in questioning the chronological parameters of the Middle Ages, the ninth- or tenth-century Byzantine ring built around a Greco-Roman cameo, the twelfth-century German altar incorporating eleventh-century plaques, and several of the other exhibits that fit well within traditional definitions of the Middle Ages embody the many problems inherent in the possibility of medieval medievalism.

Relative to traditional perceptions of the Middle Ages as a monolithic period stretching from Antiquity to the Renaissance, the ring cannot represent medievalism, for the cameo would not qualify as medieval.  Nor, in such circumstances, can the altar embody medievalism, as it would not be post-medieval.  But if the Middle Ages were seen as a collection of middle ages, the altar and all other works that date from these periods and incorporate material from an earlier, post-Ancient period could qualify as medievalism.  And if the term “middle ages” were extended to any milieu that departs from the recycler’s and has a distinct predecessor, the ring and almost all other references to the past, including the aforementioned belt, could represent medievalism.

The difficulty with those approaches, particularly the latter, lies with deciding who would make such determinations and what we would accept as support for them.  If the choice were to rest solely with scholars of medievalism, then virtually any material from the past would indeed be fair game, our field would risk collapsing with all other studies of the past, and the term “medievalism” would lose much of its purpose.  If, however, we insist that the medievalist recognize the middle age(s) as such, then even if we brush aside postmodern doubts about knowing someone else’s thoughts, we might run into a paucity of evidence, especially for responses from the traditional Middle Ages.  Though the Walters show suggests that at least some medieval artists perceived their recycled material as originating from a milieu other than their own, as when a Talmud folio was treated with so little respect as to be used for covering the aforementioned copy of Aesop’s Fables, there is no proof in this exhibition—or, to my knowledge, anywhere else—that medieval artists saw their recycled material as coming from a chronologically bracketed period.  In fact, even when the recyclers imply they are aware of contextual differences, as with the Talmud folio, they do not necessarily treat these departures as diachronic.  And some artists demonstrate complete ignorance of their material’s original meaning and/or purpose, as when the twelfth-century German altar (mis)pairs a panel of John the Baptist with one portraying the Holy Women at the Tomb.  Thus, even if we expand our definition of the Middle Ages well beyond its traditional parameters, we do not seem to have a convincing case for medieval medievalism.

However, in merely raising that possibility, this small but stimulating show performs a great service, for it reminds us to ground our work in a clear definition of the middle ages and to explain as fully as possible how our material relates to yet departs from them.  Moreover, as this show highlights the difficulties in doing so, as it calls into question the boundaries and beliefs of our field, it paradoxically advances what we do, for only by constantly asking what medievalism comprises can we answer how and why it matters.

“Waste Not:  The Art of Medieval Recycling,” June 25—September 18, 2016, at the Walters Art Museum, 600 N. Charles St., Baltimore, MD 21201, free museum and exhibition admission, open 10-5 Wed., Fri.-Sun., 10-9 Thu., handicapped accessible with some free parking on nearby streets, <http://thewalters.org>.

Karl Fugelso

Towson University

Morrison: Grendel's Mother

Susan Signe Morrison, Grendel’s Mother: The Saga of the Wyrd-Wife. Winchester, UK; Washington, USA [sic]: Top Hat Books, 2015. Pp. 226.

Reviewed by: Jana K. Schulman (jana.schulman@wmich.edu)

Susan Morrison’s familiarity with and love of Germanic literature can be found on every page of her novel about Grendel’s mother, the unnamed aglæcwif and ides introduced in the poem Beowulf.  In the Anglo-Saxon poem, Grendel’s mother enters Hrothgar’s hall to avenge her son and take back his arm. This is not to imply that the poem says nothing else about her: we know that she is in idese onlicnæs, in the shape of a woman, and we learn that she is a far superior fighter than her son when she poses a significant threat to Beowulf. In their fight, though Beowulf has a difficult time, he is able to decapitate her. That, short of Beowulf’s recapitulation of the events that took place in Denmark to Hygelac and his court is all that the Beowulf-poet relates of her. Like John Gardner’s novel, Grendel, that gave Grendel a voice and a story, Susan Signe Morrison gives a voice—as well as a name and history—to Grendel’s mother in this novel that tells the story, from beginning to end, of a female foundling from across the sea.

Called Brimhild by the couple that adopts her, Brimhild’s story unfolds against the backdrop of the Scylding court.  Juxtaposed with the court is the sea, with all that it promises, in terms of fish, travel, exploration, and raids.  These are a seafaring people. Brimhild herself goes to Hrothgar’s court when she is old enough; there she comes into contact with a new religion, though not for the first time, politics, class consciousness, and violence. Morrison’s novel shines in its depiction of Brimhild as idealistic, hopeful that violence—in the form of raiding specifically and cycles of violence generally—is not requisite for her society. In Beowulf, we see the women of the poem in the context of the masculine economy, trying to work within masculine expectations of feminine behavior.  The poem is nostalgic for a time when heroism was appreciated.  In Grendel’s Mother, we have a story where a woman is confronted with the truth of the hall: that without cycles of violence warriors become slothful, that a great hall like Heorot cannot even be built without gold and treasures obtained in battle or from a conquered people. The novel makes a reader think about the costs of heroism for everyone in a so-called heroic society.

Unfortunately, Morrison is too self-conscious, too aware of what she wants to accomplish; this historical novel, so-called adult fiction, is chock full with references to other Germanic literature: Norse poems such as “Þrymskviða,” (“The Lay of Thor”) “Völundarkviða” (“The Lay of Volund”), “Hávamál” (“Sayings of the High One”), Norse prose such as the Saga of the Volsungs and Þidrek’s saga; and Old English poetry such as “Widsið,” “The Wanderer,” “The Wife’s Lament” as well as others. One can commend Morrison for her desire to bring these other stories to her readers, but there are references without context with the result that the story is overwrought. Chapter 22, titled the Angel of Death, which itself is a reference to Ibn Fadlan’s report of a Viking funeral and a woman so called, opens with Brimhild, Grendel’s mother, and Freawaru, Grendel’s half-sister and lover, mourning Grendel. The narrator tells us “they suffered more than Gjaflaug, Herborg, and Gullrond, those widowed ladies each claiming she was most unhappy” (155). If the reader does not know who these women are, which the reader will not know unless she has read the poem “Gudrunarkviða in fyrsta” (The First Poem of Gudrun”], then the comparison of the level of grief, of the depth of sorrow, does not register.  It is only in the list of Proper Names, found at the end of the novel, that Morrison explains the reference and the significance of the comparison. 

Furthermore, Morrison has chosen to incorporate alliteration, a requirement for Germanic poetry, into her prose. While it is possible that a little alliteration might have worked—after all, Ælfric has rhythmic prose sentences that have occasional alliteration—Morrison’s alliteration has no discernable pattern and is all too frequently over done.  Consider the following 17 word sentence: “Hale heath heroes will harass halls, gone will be golden gables, bone-rings will burst in the blaze.” Five words alliterate with h, 3 on g, and 3 on b, with 11 words out of 17 bearing alliteration; there are just too many words in this sentence that alliterate, forcing the reader to focus less on the story than on a stylistic choice. Alliteration has, moreover, made for some infelicitious word choices, resulting in incongrous or offputting imagery: “foe’s female” (74, ‘female’ used because it alliterates, but one would have expected a word such as ‘wife,’ or ‘mate,’ or ‘bride’, given the context); the phrase “embraced by Hrothgar’s fleshly fetters” (78, a reference to Hrothgar’s arms—‘fetters’ works here as he has embraced Brimhild to hold her still, but ‘fleshly’ resonates weirdly); and “a fighter lowed a lacivious laugh” (93, according to the dictionary only cattle low, raising the question of how the reader is to think of the fighter). 

In addition to the problems with the alliteration, there are some odd turns of phrase: “had it off” (44); “wielding his metal friend” (141-2, a reference to a sword, but off-putting, off sounding to those who know Anglo-Saxon or Old Norse); “dragon fell” (155, a reference to dragon skin, but not explained) just to name a few. Morrison also incorporates basic kennings into her novel:  “gannet’s bath” (111), “whale’s back” (115), “victory-twig  (152, not explained in the glossary, but a reference to a sword), just to name a few.

A Note to the Reader, found at the end of the novel, explains Morrison’s reasons for writing the novel and provides some background about Beowulf. There are also Sources for Quotes, a Bibliography (for both the book and further reading), a Glossary, and a list of Proper Names. Unfortunately, there’s no table of contents that lets a reader know that these aids are there. I found all of these useful resources only when I had finished the book. I was also struck by the references to older translations for the eddas.  Morrison refers readers to Jean Young’s translation of Snorri’s Edda, i.e., the Prose Edda, when Anthony Faulkes’ translation is newer, complete, and much better than Young’s; she cites Lee Hollander’s 1964 translation of the Poetic Edda, when Carolyne Larrington’s more recent translation is more readable and, in my mind, far better.

I tried to read this novel simply as a novel, but I had real difficulties moving past what I have noted above.  In addition, I found archaic word choices and the occasionally didactic tone problematic, even out of place. Certain things were predictable (such as who Brimhild’s father was) and others unexpected (but possibily uncalled for—such as the doubled incest story).  What I found most insightful and thought provoking about this novel, Grendel’s Mother: The Saga of the Wyrd Wife, was that it asked me to rethink Anglo-Saxon culture as a whole, particularly in terms of violence and its repercussions.

Jana Schulman
Western Michigan University

Mintz: Arthurian Tales

Leon Mintz, Arthurian Tales: Ambrosius Aureliani. Pontiac, MI: Erie Harbor Productions, 2010.

Reviewed by Ann F. Howey (ahowey@brocku.ca)

Arthurian Tales: Ambrosius Aureliani by Leon Mintz is the first book in a projected four-book series. It tells the story of Ambrosius Aureliani (the legendary King Arthur’s uncle) through the first-person narration of Merlinus (Merlin). In this review, I will primarily address its strengths and weaknesses as a work of fiction; that might seem an obvious statement to make, but while Mintz’s book is a novel, it is also an argument for a certain interpretation of early medieval history, as the paratexts make explicit; it would be entirely possible to review it from the standpoint of historical plausibility alone. Reviewing it as fiction reveals real strengths, such as the pacing of certain battle scenes, but also weaknesses in dialogue and characterization, and these problems underscore a dilemma of medievalism: how to create a plausible, “authentic” past in the language and cultural idiom of twenty-first-century readers?

The novel covers the entire span of Ambrosius’ life, from his infancy to his death in a woodland skirmish with Attila the Hun. The narrator Merlin is only fourteen years older than Ambrosius and is involved in Ambrosius’ destiny originally as part of a conspiracy that switches the infant son (Ambrosius) of Princess Placidia and King Adaulphos with a dying child. Merlin spirits the true heir of the empire to Armorica and then to Britain, where Ambrosius is raised as a son of Constantine, and as brother to Cai and Geraint. When Ambrosius’ foster mother is forced to flee with him years later, she takes refuge at Merlin’s estate in Aureliani; once Merlin returns from his travels in the Far East, he becomes a mentor and advisor to Ambrosius. They return to Britain with Bishop Germanus, and Ambrosius eventually takes a leading role in the defeat of Grallon (Mintz’s version of Vortigern). Ambrosius returns to Aureliani to marry, essentially abdicating his role as High Commander of the Council to Euthar Pendragon (revealed later to be Ambrosius’ twin brother). Euthar eventually sends his son Arthur to be fostered with Ambrosius and Merlin, setting up the events of novels to come in the series.

As that brief summary suggests, Mintz has incorporated many events traditional to Arthurian legend: the invitation/invasion of the Saxons, Vortigern’s death by fire in a fortress, the poisoning of Vortimer, and the removal of the Giant’s Dance from Ireland to England. Some events, such as the conception of Arthur, are reported very briefly, as they happen away from the main characters of this novel. All of these events are situated in a continental, imperial context, so the novel also incorporates many events of Roman and continental history (the drowning of Ys, the presence of Attila, and many others). The novel is thus ambitious in its scope: even in 350 pages, it is a lot of material to cover.

That emphasis on bringing many historical events together is elaborated in the paratexts of the novel. A section called “The Making of Arthurian Tales” is followed by a Chronology, lists of sources, and rationales for seven key elements of the story. Sources include medieval chronicles (Geoffrey of Monmouth, Nennius) and other primary texts (Gildas’ The Ruin of Britain, for example), as well as various non-fiction sources on Arthurian legend and the time period (Leslie Alcock’s Arthur’s Britain, Geoffrey Ashe’s The Discovery of King Arthur, and many other texts that promote historical theories for King Arthur); no literary texts are mentioned, however. Although the most explicit argument for a particular interpretation of history is reserved for the paratexts, the sense of the novel itself as an argument persists, in part because of the attempt to be encyclopedic in the inclusion of events and historical characters, and in part because of the framing of the novel (in the initial Note from the Author as well as the concluding paratexts) as part of a scholarly historical debate rather than as part of a literary tradition.

The tension between the demands of fiction and the demands of historical argument is not entirely resolved. The descriptions of various battles create effective pacing and suspense, particularly those where Ambrosius begins to come into his own as a warrior and leader. In other respects the novel seems choppy as it moves quickly from one encounter to another (the short chapters contribute to this sensation); historical details, rather than characters’ experiences, have priority. Because Merlin is a first-person narrator who is away from Ambrosius periodically, the early years of Ambrosius in Britain have to be summarized in conversation, as do Ambrosius’ experience of marriage and the loss of his wife in childbirth later in the novel. Consequently, the novel keeps the title character distant from the reader; Merlin recounts facts of what has happened, and although he can remark on the physical symptoms of grief or anger that Ambrosius displays, he cannot provide the emotional experience of Ambrosius’ romantic attachment and heartbreak (to give one example). The novel’s narrative strategy, therefore, works against the creation of fully realized characters because of its focus on events and because of Merlin’s lack of knowledge of the inner feelings of other characters.

The insistence on historical accuracy (or at least plausibility) creates another dilemma: that of language. In dialogue, in particular, demotic expressions and twenty-first-century cultural idioms at times clash with the epic register of many of the other scenes. This dilemma is not unique to this novel, but is rather typical of fictional medievalism. How can one represent the thoughts, feelings, words of a people so removed in time from us in a way that suggests historical authenticity while being intelligible to twenty-first-century readers? For some authors, the solution is an “historical” Arthurian novel that is actually a hybrid, including some elements of fantasy; Mary Stewart’s Merlin trilogy of the 1970s springs to mind, where historical detail combines with fantasy elements such as Merlin’s powers of the Sight. The fantastic elements absolve the text from the need for strict accuracy; in contrast, Mintz’s emphasis in this novel as providing “a historically plausible, ‘World-Restorer’ scenario for King Arthur while utilizing a vast majority of the sources in a synchronized manner” (Note from the Author) suggests that all aspects of the novel, including language and characterization, will be historically accurate. Consistency in register, it seems to me, is key to maintaining the sense of “authentic” history; unexpected shifts in register bring me, as a reader, out of the fictional world and simultaneously undermine characterization.

My reception of the novel no doubt is influenced by my preference for fiction over history, and Ambrosius Aureliani, I would argue, privileges history. Ultimately, this first of the Arthurian Tales suggests the ambition of the project and the dedication of its author to creating a historical account of Ambrosius’s rise to power, but the potential of those events as fiction is not fully realized, at least in this installment.

Ann F. Howey

Brock University