Published on November 24th, 2011
Written by: Bartlett Naylor
Before the press release, the self-promoting book, or the campaign television ad, there was the tapestry. So understood Portuguese King Alfonso V, who commissioned four enormous panels, each 12 feet tall, 36 feet long, to celebrate his invasion and conquest of a city on the coast of modern-day Morocco. For the first time, they are all on view at the National Gallery’s East building in the presumptuously named exhibit: “The Invention of Glory.”
Collectively known as the Pastrana Tapestries, the panels include “The Landing at Asilah;” “The Siege of Asilah;” “The Assault of Asilah;” and finally “The Conquest of Tangier.” In addition to insulating a cold castle wall, these otherwise enormous tapestries could be transported, a giant curriculum vitae enabling a proud king to impress when on the road, presumably aiding with fund-raising, or organizing the next army.
Depicting a Christian v Muslim battle in 1471 now understood in the context of crusades, these tapestries ambitiously attempt to show action over time. Elaborately armored knights advance on the heavily guarded walls of the city. Lances jut at angles. Banners wave. Light flashes off polished helmets. In the “Siege of Asilah,” solders must cross a river, and some are shown in the final stages of drowning.
On their own terms, these tapestries impress. We understand battle. We can place the opponents. Latin inscriptions across the top (helpfully translated) read as any modern film would do to supplement the narrative. The banners wave in the wind deftly. With careful use of thread, the circular reflections on helmets rival realism.
While vivid, these scenes suffer from underdeveloped perspective. The draftsman does understand that a figure in the foreground should be larger than one in the distance, but misses the scale. The nearly life-size figures nearby contrast with figures nearly as large a mile away. In the final panel, titled “The Conquest of Tangier,” the waves recede in size, but not nearly enough. The angles of the castle wall show depth, but the top and bottom walls do not vanish together.
These tapestries counted among the earliest attempts to commemorate contemporary events, as opposed to allegories or religious scenes. They reflect vibrant trade of the day, as Flemish weavers in modern day Belgium executed the commission for the Iberian royalty. Unfamiliar with North African architecture, these northern Europeans simply used local castles as models. Such discontinuity didn’t count as a mistake; Renaissance painters considered themselves licensed to paint Jesus and Mary living in the 16th century.
The bold name–“The Invention of Glory”– implies that the concept began with these grand 15th century tapestries. What about the statues of Greek heroes two millennia before? Or even the more ancient cave paintings celebrating victory over an animal? The exhibition title further denies point of view; the vanquished of Asilah certainly wouldn’t consider this glory. (Consider how we view the 9-11 attacks.) And for whom must “glory” be invented? Knights and rulers populate these tapestries, not the 30,000 serfs who accounting for the majority of killing and dying. The king apparently calculated his “base,” and elected only to pander as needed.
As Americans ponder the concept of the 99 percent toiling to benefit the 1 percent, as embodied by the Occupy Wall Street protest of income equality (and numerous other injustices), one can become cynical about the invention of glory.
