When Tudor art is studied and discussed, especially with reference to royal patronage and decoration, wall hangings, tapestries, and other ephemeral objects are often neglected —partly because so little has survived in good condition, and partly because art historians have traditionally paid more attention to the works of renowned artists like Holbein and his contemporaries. This fine book not only redresses the balance somewhat but, more significantly, makes clear that the interior decoration of royal and ecclesiastical residences was of enormous political importance, perhaps even more than the symbol-laden royal representations created by Tudor painters. While a portrait might be commissioned from an artist for a reasonable price, the most sumptuous wall hangings, using the finest materials including gold, silver and silk threads, could cost enormous sums. Lynn states in her introduction that while the court painter Holbein was paid an annual salary of £50, a set of the finest tapestries might cost £1,500, a vast amount for the period. Tapestries not only decorated internal spaces, they were also easily transported from place to place and could therefore be used to display wealth and power to those privileged to see them. Just such an occasion occurred early in 1520.
The meeting between the young kings Henry VIII and Francis I at what became known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold was an affair of glorious excess. For two weeks in June 1520 the rival monarchs made a display of friendship and harmony, while also out-doing one another with ever more ostentatious displays of costly interior decoration. In an environment where presentation was everything, the tapestries and wall hangings became symbolic representations of both royal authority and seemingly unlimited resources. While the political outcomes of the meeting were rendered irrelevant within a short space of time, the visual impressions were more lasting. In the absence of permanent buildings in which to stay, the royal rivals sought to top each other with their temporary living quarters, covered in expensive cloth, with, inside, the most lavish (and expensive) arras and tapestry. Lynn notes that upon his death in 1547 the inventory of Henry’s possessions listed nearly 2,500 tapestries and wall hangings, 430 of which were housed at Hampton Court, the gift of Cardinal Wolsey. Some of the most important would have been on display in Henry’s quarters. One set that we know hung there depicted scenes from the life of King David, who represented an ideal of kingship (despite the incident with Bathsheba in which David arranged the murder of her husband Uriah so that he could marry her and legitimise their son, a sin for which he paid with the baby’s life —which showed that even kings must obey the laws of God, or face the consequences).
Holbein’s The Ambassadors is one of the best-known portraits of the Tudor period. It has been endlessly analysed and its complex symbolism unravelled, the two figures revealed within a scene that combines ideas of the new learning encouraged by thinkers like Erasmus with the memento mori of the distorted skull in the foreground. In Derek Wilson’s definitive biography of Holbein from 2006, four pages are devoted to a detailed description and comprehensive explanation of the picture, yet he fails to mention the significance of the background damask curtain or the richly decorated carpet which covers the upper table. The green silk wall hanging occupies the same amount of space as the decorated tile floor at the bottom of the picture, with a pattern which looks the same as part of the floor near Edward the Confessor’s shrine in Westminster Abbey and is clearly included to highlight the artist’s technical skill and allude to England’s religious past, but Wilson overlooks them both.
Lynn makes reference to this picture in her chapter “Private Spaces: The Textiles of the Privy Chambers.” While the clothes which adorn the two diplomats make clear that these are important people, and the objects around them indicate that they are men of learning, it is the background that confirms their wealth and status. The green damask silk wall hanging, embroidered with floral designs, could only be found in the richest residences. For the French ambassador Jean de Dinteville, who commissioned the portrait, and his friend and fellow diplomat Georges de Serve, this picture is both a statement and a record. It is a snapshot of their diplomatic activity in a foreign country in the service of their monarch, but also a lasting memorial of their affluence and intellectual interests, the luxurious background confirming their prosperity.
While wall decorations such as those in The Ambassadors conveyed a message of wealth and influence, the depiction of biblical narratives gave tapestries additional significance. In Hampton Court there is a set of ten tapestries depicting the story of Abraham, made in the Brussels workshop of Willem de Pannemaker. These were commissioned by Henry VIII, probably shortly after the birth of his son Edward in 1537, were delivered in 1543, and hung in the Great Hall at Hampton Court, where they remain today. The tapestries contain a vast amount of gold and silver thread as well as fine silk, and their cost would have been obvious to contemporary visitors. Indeed, after the execution of Charles I in 1649 the royal art collection was valued and this set of tapestries was assessed at £8,250, the highest of any single item. However, as Lynn explains, the subject of these tapestries is not a random choice; Henry would have chosen the themes carefully to reflect and make clear political and religious messages, and to add meaning to their significant monetary value.
Abraham was the founding father of the Jewish faith and passed God’s covenant on to his son Isaac. In a similar way,(at least in Henry’s view), Henry was Head of the Church of England and would pass that title and role on to his newborn son. The tapestries told the story of the patriarch and the parallels would have been clear: that Henry was positioning himself as the intermediary between God, the Church, and his subjects, and his son would inherit both his temporal and spiritual authority. Hung in the Great Hall, where Henry would receive foreign envoys, ambassadors, and the higher echelons of his court, these images and the story they told would reinforce the notion of royal power and validity: an authority confirmed by God’s covenant and handed down to Henry’s male heir. The combination of biblical legitimacy and visible wealth made these objects a powerful message-laden backdrop in a significant royal space.
While the decorative panels that adorned the Tudor public spaces reveal much with regard to displays of royal authority and power, the more private rooms present rather different issues. Foremost is the very notion of privacy itself. Tudor palaces, and Hampton Court in particular, were highly regulated buildings with only the closest advisors and friends allowed into the most private rooms. However, even these —the bedrooms and dressing areas— were, to our modern eyes, not at all private, for they were accessible to the favoured few. Lynn mentions the household code issued by Cardinal Wolsey in 1526, which states that the esquires “shall nightly lie on the pallet within the King’s said privy chamber.” Within the presence chamber, the first of the more exclusive spaces, there was the chair of estate, a throne-like object from which the king would receive his advisors and important visitors. Much importance was placed upon the cloth that covered the chair and its canopy, and in Hampton Court there is a painting from 1545 which shows Henry seated beneath a beautifully embroidered cloth on just such a chair. Several royal portraits depict various monarchs with a cloth of estate in the background, and the one which Lynn has chosen to illustrate this is the ‘Hampton Portrait’ of Elizabeth, with its golden cloth delicately embroidered and embellished with jewels. Clearly these objects were another demonstration of royal authority and a visualisation of majesty, this time only for the most privileged visitors and court members.
The final chapter on the materials and techniques involved in the production of the different kinds of textiles might seem at first glance to be the least interesting, but the opposite is the case, due to the author’s expert guidance. Unlike a painting, which basically requires canvas and suitable paints, the materials and processes involved in producing high-quality textiles could be both complex and expensive. Wool, silk, gold and silver threads, and the dyes needed for the bright colours which made the tapestries so appealing, all required skilled workers to prepare and finish them. There were complex economic processes involved, embedded in a chain which might start with a sheep farmer in rural Gloucestershire and end in a tapestry workshop in Brussels. Lynn describes these in some detail, and the reader becomes aware of how sophisticated these processes were —and how essential to the well-being of those involved.
Throughout the book the significance of fine tapestries as representations of royal power and economic might is continually stressed, and the point is well made. As if saving the best for last, the author gives us an epilogue which seems to encapsulate everything that has gone before. The painting of The Somerset House Conference, now in the National Portrait Gallery, is both well-known and of political importance. Following Elizabeth’s death in 1603 the new king James was keen to end the hostilities with Spain that had lasted for more than twenty years. At the 1604 conference a truce was agreed, and this painting was commissioned to show the main participants from each country, the English deputation led by Robert Cecil, portrayed at the head of the table. However, Lynn identifies the tapestry that adorns the wall behind the Spanish representatives as one originally commissioned by Henry VII: it shows the episode from the life of David mentioned earlier, namely that in which David hands Uriah the message that will lead to the latter’s murder.
Clearly there were reasons for this tapestry to be hung in such a private, yet politically sensitive setting. In 1527, when the Venetian ambassador first saw the set of tapestries to which it belonged, he claimed that they were “the richest in England.” The tapestry may have been chosen to hang behind the Spanish delegation to remind them of the historic wealth and power of England, even before the hostilities with their country began. Furthermore, the subject would have reminded them that kings can make mistakes for which God will punish them, perhaps alluding to the failures of the various Armadas as cases in point. What the tapestry does definitively demonstrate is the ability of such objects to convey political and economic messages that would have been clearly understood by those who were meant to see them.
This beautifully illustrated book deserves a wide audience. The tapestries produced in the Tudor period can tell us so much about the people who made them and those who paid the vast sums for their production. The political messages that they convey may have been forgotten or overlooked, but once they have been teased out again by historians like Eleri Lynn, they become vital to our understanding of the dynamics of the age and demonstrate not only how the royal elite saw themselves, but also how they wished to be seen. It is indeed fascinating to look again at some of these familiar objects and see —perhaps for the first time— just how powerful were the political, social, and economic messages painstaking integrated into their delicate fabric. --Paul Flux