Conclusions

Cecily Hennessy and T. A. Heslop

Like many famous works of art, the Cloisters Cross is a contested object.¹ Its origins, function, provenance, ownership, and meaning have been and will continue to be subjects of debate. This collection of essays offers new data and fresh interpretations to add to those already generally available, with a view to encouraging further research. The sophistication of technology for analysing materials, as discussed by Robyn Barrow, is becoming increasingly more fruitful. The ivory of the Cloisters Cross (and the Pilate plaque and the Oslo Corpus) could be examined in more detail as regards its age and the genesis and habitat of the walrus(es) from which it comes, although the origin of the walrus tusk does not, of course, necessarily indicate where or when it was carved. The paint on these objects also deserves careful assessment of pigments, medium, and mode of application.

The introduction and the first two essays have revealed some of the dilemmas faced by the great collecting institutions of England and the United States, less than two decades after the Second World War. These essays put into the public domain conversations, memos, and relationships that are not widely known as well as the views of some of the deeply knowledgeable minds who tackled an understanding of the Cross, with no access to reliable information about it. Although coming to the subject from different angles, all the authors of the essays here have posed views on the Cross which complement each other in various ways. None of us is arguing for a date for the Cross earlier than about 1150 or later than 1190. There is agreement that the material and the sophistication of its carving imply familiarity with the character of walrus ivory, which indicates manufacture in north-western Europe or by an artist trained there. Its textual content, as has been reiterated here by Sabrina Harcourt-Smith, almost certainly derives from biblical scholarship of a kind developed around Paris from the mid-twelfth century but which spread widely. All the essays point to recognition that the investment of time, money, expertise, and imagination in the creation of the Cross imply an elite context. One direction in which this might point is secular patronage in association with monastic or episcopal involvement, though of course virtually all great churches had secular patrons. Among those mentioned here, Henry the Lion, duke of Saxony, and Matilda of England; Cnut VI, king of Denmark and Gertrude of Bavaria; and Béla III, king of Hungary and Margaret of France, all had close connections with monarchs and their courts in England, France, and the Holy Roman Empire. They also had close if sometimes turbulent relations with the religious authorities of their day.

As implied in several of the essays here, in the case of a complex work such as the Cloisters Cross, it is likely there were at least three parties concerned with the eventual outcome, the finished object. They were the patron (perhaps both the funder and intended recipient, though they may be separate people or institutions), the maker(s), and the advisors, who may have helped create the brief and acted as intermediaries while the work was in progress. It is quite unlikely that the motivation came primarily from the artist because of the need for such resources as time, money, and materials. The impulse to commission may, however, have depended on there being an artist with the known ability to do the work and to do it well. That said, it is rarely clear how much detail is specified and what is left to the creativity of the artist. Whatever the patronage, the chances are that the Cross was eventually preserved in a church (or chapel) treasury. Where that was is unknown and may remain so.

As has been shown here by Charles T. Little and Neil Stratford, the intentional evasiveness and contradictory hints of Ante Topić Mimara (hereafter Topić, as he was generally known), the first known owner of the Cross, have obscured its post-war provenance and perhaps also its place of origin. In terms of areas where further research could perhaps prove useful, one is the possible eyewitness recollection offered by Josef Kugler, re-evaluated here by Little. According to Charles T. Little and Elizabeth Parker’s interview with Kugler, he saw the Cross in 1932–33. He claimed that the Cross was with ‘papers’, indicating that the ‘Cross was taken on a crusade by a soldier who was bringing it to Jerusalem in order for it to be blessed’. According to Little’s evaluation, ‘the idea was that it never reached Jerusalem and was left behind.’² Kugler’s story would be a curious (and unnecessary) one to invent. He had read the Reader’s Digest shortened version of Thomas Hoving’s book on the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s purchase of the Cross.³ This contains a his/story of where Topić found the Cross, in a monastery in eastern Europe in 1938, and also notes that the Cross was then in five pieces.⁴ Kugler may have had some personal investment in telling a tale. But, like Topić, that might have been to put people off the scent rather than to solve the puzzle. It would be good to know more about Kugler’s activities and his whereabouts during and after the war. Similarly, further investigation into Topić’s career and any evidence of a relationship with Kugler could possibly give useful leads. There is still mystery about when and where art historians, including John Pope Hennessy, Erich Meyer, William Milliken, James Rorimer, Richard Randall, Hanns Swarzenski, and Fritz Volbach, first became aware of the Cross and what they may have known about it.⁵ Rorimer’s published statement that the Met knew of the Cross in 1956 seems entirely possible; several others may have known about it before then or shortly afterwards.⁶ As has been shown here, all these uncertainties add to the mystery and to the impulse to suspect a coverup or a conspiracy. Hoving’s various accounts of the pursuit of his ‘quarry’, their relation to what is otherwise documented, and some strange absences in and additions to the narrative contribute further to the sense that the requisite genre is the detective thriller set in the turmoil of post-war Europe rather than art history.

The essays here reflect art historical methods that contribute to the dating and attribution of an object. With architectural sculpture, wall painting, or stained glass, usually tied to a fixed location, issues of date and patronage are often resolved by the building from which the work comes. For illuminated manuscripts, there are multiple means of approach: the character of the script, the source of the text, the style of decoration, and/or an ex libris inscription or other indication of ownership help clarify where, when, and for whom a book was made. Small-scale metalwork, ivory carvings, and textiles are another matter. Some helpfully carry on them the names of their maker and patron; would we otherwise know or even be able to guess that Gunhild’s Cross was made by a ‘German’ artist, Liutger, for a Danish princess? But for undocumented and portable Kleinkunst, scholars have tended to rely in the first instance on assessments of artistic style. This is true, for example, of ivory carvings (from the Early Christian period through to the Gothic) and of Romanesque crucifixes, predominantly made of cast-copper alloys. One way forward is the identification of stylistic or iconographic groups. A ‘group’ may have a pattern of distribution revealing a common area of origin or shared patronage. Using stylistic analysis and iconographical details, the essays here have suggested various places of origin. However, in a multicultural environment with a complex interplay of familial and political relationships, movement of artisans and artists, and exchange of artistic practices, such specifics are hard to tie down. For an anonymous, seemingly unique, custom-made artefact such as the Cross without known provenance, it remains a challenge to tie it to a particular place or cultural context.

Working from well-documented cases, it would be possible to systematise, in general terms, how medieval art was produced. This can, however, only suggest something like ‘normal’ procedure, and in acting as a rough guide, its analytical potential is limited. All this is not to discount the wealth of experience, research, conversation, collaboration, and thought that has gone into the essays in this book, which we trust bring significantly more insight to our understanding of the Cross. Analysis of the Cross and deductions about the circumstances of its creation also impact our understanding of related objects and contexts. In such cases as the Cloisters Cross, proof is often elusive. We offer, however, several hypotheses that individually or together suggest solutions for some of the Cross’ riddles, adding pieces to a jigsaw which may help to make sense of the picture as a whole.