Romanesque Cezanne

Of the hundreds of thousands of worshipers and sightseers who have entered the Cathedral of St.-Lazare in Autun, on a hill 150 miles southeast of Paris, probably only a handful have seen or pondered long over the words carved at the foot of a primitive Christ above one of the doors. The words are "Gislebertus Hoc Fecit," and thanks to this signature, the glories of medieval European art do not, as in almost all instances, have to be written off as the work of devoted but anonymous artisans.

In France last week, Gislebertus was enjoying a sudden spurt of fame. Just out was a scholarly book about him (Gislebertus: Sculpteur d'Autun; Trianon Press), and an exhibition of photographs of his sculpture let the public see clearly details that in the Autun church are set too high or lit too dimly for close inspection. The French were obviously delighted by their new celebrity. Culture Minister Andre Malraux pronounced Gislebertus "a Romanesque Cezanne."

The story of his rediscovery began one day in 1949 when Arnold Fawcus, a British publisher of art books who lives in France, stopped off to take a look at the Autun cathedral. As he gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, he noticed high in the apse a headless figure who seemed to be a Christ. The unusual pose--knees turned out as if the legs were bowed--and the perforated drapery recalled the Christ bearing Gislebertus' signature. Was it possible that Gislebertus had done the entire cathedral?

The Master's Touch. Fawcus found a fellow enthusiast in the cathedral's choirmaster, Abbe Denis Grivot. Fired by Fawcus' visit, the abbe started an investigation with the help of London University's expert on Romanesque art, George Zarnecki. After twelve years of study, Grivot and Zarnecki wrote the book that Fawcus' Trianon Press published.

The cathedral was begun in 1120, when Autun was a part of prosperous Burgundy, whose dukes were more powerful than the French King himself. The church was originally intended for lepers and was dedicated to St. Lazarus whose bones are supposedly buried there and whom the people confused with the "Lazarus full of sores." In spite of its humble beginnings, it was gradually turned by the genius of one man into a rare treasure house. Except for two capitals by a fellow "master mason of freestone" and some minor pieces done by assistants all of which were destined for dark and obscure places--every column and figure in the cathedral bears the Gislebertus touch.

All About Eve. He did not jam his spaces with entangled and interlaced figures as was the habit in those days. He left room in between to permit shadow to play upon the relief. No contemporary had his gift with drapery; each figure's clothes mold the body while the spiraling folds and pleats seem in places to hang as if the stone were gossamer, in other places to billow before the wind. According to Expert Zarnecki, the Gislebertus touch was copied by anonymous artists in other churches of the 12th century. But whatever his influence, his work at Autun is the greatest achievement in Romanesque art by a single man.

Aside from the figure of Christ, whose out-turned knees and outstretched hands register perfect compassion, the most striking of all Gislebertus' figures is that of Eve. Though delicate foliage shields part of her body, she is still a full-bodied nude. The deep relief--over five inches--makes her almost a figure in the round. But it is her personality, not her beauty, that is so tantalizing. She is almost nonchalant as she reaches, without even looking, for the apple. In her eyes, once bright with colored paste, there is the faraway look of the habitual daydreamer. The great sculptor almost seems to have suspected that at the most delicate moment in the history of mankind, Eve was just not thinking what she was doing.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.