Tudor Liveliness: Vivid Art in Post-Reformation England by Christina J. Faraday
Paul Mellon Center for Studies in British Art, Yale University Press, 2023
A Tudor painting is a two-dimensional object with height and width but no depth, a flat surface upon which paint has been applied to create the illusion of three-dimensional space. Within that space there are often allusions which give the painting additional meaning beyond the obvious attempt to create a human likeness or a visual representation of an event or mythical story. These allusions, to which the Tudors themselves referred as ‘liveliness,’ are often ignored or misunderstood in the analysis of Tudor portraits. The author of this book is to be commended for attempting to unravel the codes that Tudor artists employed in their works.
The Tudor portrait can often present as a complex puzzle which, nearly five hundred years later, is almost impossible to unscramble. Faraday uses the National Portrait gallery painting of Sir Henry Unton to show how the concept of ‚liveliness‘ was embedded within the structure of this painting, as in many others. With careful investigation, we begin to understand how Elizabethans would have understood this complex image.
On a superficial level, the painting is easy to read. It depicts the life, death, and funeral of Sir Henry Unton, an important diplomat at Elizabeth’s court. He was bilingual in English and French, ambassador to the court of Henry IV, King of France. While there he died in 1596 at the age of just forty, probably of a fever. His memorial portrait, commissioned by his wife, highlights significant events in his life. Delve a little deeper, and other meanings begin to emerge.
The painting is divided into several sections, each depicting an aspect of Sir Henry’s life, so that it provides a comprehensive biography of one of Elizabeth’s most trusted servants. We see him as a baby with his mother; at university; travelling to Padua; on campaign in Flanders; and engaged in various social activities such as entertaining at home and playing the viol with others. Then comes the deathbed scene, in which he is surrounded by physicians, and finally the funeral, occupying almost half the picture.
However, it is the hidden messages that make this picture so beguiling. While each scene is self-contained, it is more than a simple factual representation. For example, the small panel which opens the story shows us where Sir Henry was born, but it also tells us much more: that he came of a wealthy, noble family. His mother was Lady Anne Seymour, part of the same branch of the Seymours to which Lady Jane Grey belonged. The coats of arms record his family history, while the floor coverings and objects on the table indicate wealth and status. Thus the peripheral imagery establishes both character and heredity, foretelling that the child will grow into a person of importance. Then again, take the panel showing Sir Henry at Oxford University. Through other sources we know that he attended Oxford at the age of fourteen but left before taking his degree. This was not uncommon, but the interesting aspect here is that he is shown reading, alone with his books in the centre of the city: we are meant to see him as a model student who took his studies seriously.
In another portrait, which Faraday spends some time exploring, ‘liveliness’ is conjured in more explicit detail. Edward Russell, Son of Francis, Earl of Bedford (1573) is a beautiful painting by an unknown artist. Although the sitter has been identified as Edward Russell, because he died around the time that the portrait was painted it may either be a memorial portrait, or it could in fact be a painting of John Russell, another of the Earl’s four sons. Whichever is the case, this is an engaging depiction of a young nobleman, apparently at the start of his diplomatic and political career.
The subject is shown in three-quarter length, wearing a silken doublet and draped in a cloak delicately embroidered with what looks like gold thread. The label at the side which appears to identify him as Edward Russell immediately indicates his important birthright, and his clothes and feathered hat merely confirm this. However, two aspects of the portrait require some explanation. The first is at the bottom left, where Edward’s hand is tightly grasping five writhing serpents. One of them holds a parchment in its mouth with the Latin motto 'fides homini serpe tibus fraus,' which translates as 'faith to man as fraud to serpents.' In the top left corner is a small scene with a male figure clothed in a similar outfit to Edward’s, standing in the centre of a labyrinth with the inscription underneath 'fata viam invenient,' 'fate will find a way.'
The Elizabethans loved puzzles. They created codes in order to send secret messages, and 'emblem books' were very popular, containing cryptic images only accessible to those in the know. Another favourite was the imprese, a combination of words and imagery that expressed a particular personal attribute or philosophy. So let us look again at the puzzles in the portrait of Edward Russell. The image of the serpents is taken from an Italian emblem book of 1568, in which the motto ‘they have laboured in vain’ was attached to it. The writhing serpents are all firmly held by Edward and cannot possibly escape. The labyrinth, on the other hand, is from a French emblem book of 1551 (translated into English in 1591) in which the author depicts the maze as God’s path to eternal life, so that the position of the little figure at the centre means that he has attained heaven and eternal life. Returning to the serpents, 'faith to man as fraud to serpents' suggests that by thwarting them, Edward is confirming the strength of his commitment to God. Taken together, these two seemingly disparate images thus convey the same message: the young man portrayed here in his finery is devout and steadfast in the new Protestant faith. This is just one typical example of a Tudor portrait containing objects, animals, and mottoes that might seem random and incomprehensible to us now, but for contemporaries with the necessary knowledge to decode them would be loaded with meaning.
One very familiar form of Elizabethan art is the decorative miniature. Nicholas Hilliard made a career out of painting these tiny portraits, many of Elizabeth herself. Faraday’s chapter on the miniature is one of the most fascinating in the book, drawing the social function of the art form together with the meanings behind some of these obscure images. The miniature portrait is unique in that it is not designed to be seen by many people. Unlike a large canvas portrait, which often hangs in a public or semi-public space, the miniature by its very nature is a personal item, given by one person to another as a gift and implying intimacy between them. Often set in gold or silver, sometimes encrusted with precious stones, it was a valued possession imbued with meaning accessible only to the giver and recipient. For this reason, some of these delicate, beautifully-executed images now contain tantalisingly unsolved puzzles.
One such miniature which the author discusses at some length is the exquisite Unknown Man Holding a Hand from a Cloud by Hilliard. This depicts a well-dressed man in a black doublet with a lace collar and a hat decorated with pearls. His upraised hand is holding another hand which has descended from the clouds. Beside the hands, running alongside them, is the motto ‘Attici amores ergo’ which may translate as ‘Attic (Greek) because of love.’ This has been interpreted in several ways. Clasped hands can be a symbol of betrothal, so it could be that the man is expressing his undying love for a lady. An alternative view is that the mystery hand belongs to another man and that the inscription means ‘Athenians because of love,’ a reference to homosexuality. A final interpretation, and the one which the author suggests is most likely, is that the descending hand is that of Calliope, muse of rhetoric, making the image a celebration of the subject’s eloquence and education, given him directly by the goddess herself. While we may never know for certain which theory is correct, Hilliard —who would have painted this image from life— as well as the picture’s subject and intended recipient would all have understood the meaning of the joined hands.
A further example discussed by Faraday is Hilliard’s miniature of Lady Elizabeth Stanley. In this picture, her figure is flanked by two mottoes. The first is positioned underneath the rays of the sun pointing towards her, and reads 'facies mutabilis sed amor stabilis' ('appearances may change but love is immutable'), while on the right, situated beneath a tiny heart pierced by an arrow, is the phrase 'semel misses temper fixa' ('once pierced, always fixed’). The portrait’s subject has placed her hand over her heart, which, combined with the mottoes and emblem, suggests the theme of constancy in love. Perhaps the picture was a gift to Lady Elizabeth’s suitor, who would have recognised the coded messages. It demonstrates that such images were capable of expressing emotions beyond the figurative reality that would initially have been understood only by the recipient. To us, this picture represents a proclamation of enduring devotion, from the lady who commissioned the miniature to the gentleman who received it —a personal statement of the utmost importance, like a love letter.
The author finds evidence of ‘liveliness’ in almost every walk of life and in everyday objects. In the chapter on liveliness in the home, for example, she examines common earthenware pots and jugs and finds that they, too, could carry significant messages. Such vessels were imported in huge quantities in the Elizabethan period, and many are thought to have been designed to be brought to the table, their contents then decanted into glass or pewter vessels. Many were decorated with bearded faces, some serious, some grinning; some were inscribed with messages; while others were emblazoned with coats of arms and heraldic devices. All of these decorations are reminders not only of heritage and ancestors, but also of our own mortality. Clay itself carries significance, for Adam was formed by God from clay, out of the earth to which we will return after our mortal life ends. Some bottles, somewhat unsettlingly in the context of food and drink, even carried memento mori inscriptions. The author mentions one to be found on a 1656 jug: ‘Eart I am et yes most tru des dan me not for so are you’ ('Earth I am it is most true, disdain me not for so are you').
The final chapter on liveliness and exploration is a fitting conclusion to this fascinating if quite difficult book. The Elizabethan age was marked by voyages of discovery and the opening-up of previously (to the English) unknown territories. It provided opportunities in many different spheres, not least for artists, who could portray these lands and their populations to an eager audience. John White was one such artist, part of a voyage to Roanoke Island in what is now America. A previous trip had established good relations with the local Indigenous Secotan tribe, led by their chief Wingina. White, who appears in the crew list as ‘Gentleman,’ had been tasked with producing maps and images to encourage the establishment of a new colony. We have already seen how the concept of ‘liveliness’ involved using parts of an image to transmit information beyond its obvious representation of a perceived reality. The ‘liveliness’ present within White’s drawings derives from their relationship with the intended audience. He was required not merely to record what he saw in these new lands, but to depict his experiences in such a way as to draw investors into schemes to colonise and exploit these far-off places. In his watercolour The Town ofPomeiooc he shows a well-ordered Indigenous settlement of homes and storehouses, surrounded by a sturdy fence. To a contemporary English viewer this would seem an attractive, settled community, ideal for investment. However, White has provided an additional incentive. There is a fire in the centre of the settlement, and White has used specks of gold to create a flickering effect when the page is moved. He did the same with an image of a flying fish, painting the scales silver so that they glimmered in the light, mimicking the movement of the fish through the air.
This book has been extensively researched, and it is well worth making the effort to understand some of the more challenging arguments presented. It sheds light on the somewhat mysterious world of Tudor art, too often dismissed as poorly executed and lacking in quality. Many English paintings from this period are generally regarded as inferior when compared with contemporary art in other parts of Europe. What the author clearly establishes, however, is that many Tudor artists were not concerned with pushing the boundaries of the art form, and instead were exploring how it might be manipulated to convey subtle meanings discernible only to those with inside knowledge.
Overall, one is left with the overwhelming impression not only that is there still much to uncover, but also that Tudor art is of a far richer quality than was previously thought. The artists who produced it were in no way inferior to their contemporaries elsewhere; they were just attempting to do something quite different. --Paul Flux