"...And Did Those Feet, in Ancient Times....?"* Curious Images of Ascension Day in Medieval Art

Christ's Ascension, Ceiling Boss, Norwich Cathedral, 14th century

It's a tricky assignment: visually representing a supernatural experience--a disappearing act. The ascension of Christ into heaven, forty days after his resurrection from the dead, is related three times in the New Testament (Mark 16:19, Luke 24:50-53, and Acts 1:9-11), but the details are scant and vague. He is "lifted" or "taken, " or "carried" up to heaven. Only in Acts does it say that "...a cloud took him out of their sight." An artist would have little direction from the text. Perhaps consequently, from Late Antiquity to the Gothic Middle Ages, it's one of the few scenes from the life of Christ which has varied significantly in representation over centuries.

Ascension of Christ, Panel from Wooden Doors of the Basilica of Santa Sabina, 430-440, Rome

The carved doors of Santa Sabina are believed to be the earliest public representation of the figure of Christ in human form. I wrote about the doors in another post, including their striking crucifixion scene, and above you can see this artist's illustration of the ascension. The apostles themselves below Christ appear to be floating in space, as the difference between ground and sky are indeterminate. Three of them have their arms raised in a gesture of prayer. The three angels in the top register seem to be lifting Christ, as much or more than he ascends under his own power.

Ascension of Christ, Ivory Situla, 860-880, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

This ivory bucket, used to contain and carry holy water, has several scenes from the life of Mary and Christ carved onto it, in a style that was common in the Carolingian Empire. In the upper left is the Ascension scene. It's quite a contrast from the depiction on the doors (400 years earlier), in that Christ fills the frame, and the witnessing apostles are cast to the sides, seen solely as heads and shoulders. The depiction of Christ is very dramatic, and it may be the only one I've ever seen (in 40 years of looking) where he doesn't have a full head of hair. The carver decides to make his ascension is quite theatrical: he rises in a mandorla (which probably originally was brightly painted and may have been rimmed with gold beads), with a garland or sash behind him which resembles a device to lift him up, reminiscent of ancient Greek theater's "deus ex machina." His arms are out-stretched, as though reaching up to embrace his Father in heaven. On the door panel, the angels in heaven are given a slightly larger scale than Christ, but in this image, Christ is larger-than-life, and heaven is only a gesture implied in the mandorla and sash.

Ascension of Christ, Ivory Plaque, Germany (originally), circa 1050, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Two hundred years later, this ivory plaque places Christ and two apostles in an entirely symbolic space. The artist is not embracing the Romanesque, despite the date, and is more interested in Ottonian style, using classical figures in the bottom corners to represent the material world with a genius loci of the seas on the left, and earth on the right. The apostles hover with Christ in a middle space, perhaps due to their being blessed and charged to go forth on their holy mission, while Christ reaches for his crown, offered from above by the hand of God. The apostle on Christ's right holds his arms up in prayer, but the other apostle's arms to my mind appear to be sorrowfully relinquishing his savior from his last embrace. It looks as though in his gesture of pointing, Christ is identifying himself with God's authority, and through this power, he rises.

Ascension of Christ, Bas Relief in corner of the cloister, 11th century, Santo Domingo in Silos, Spain

The master carver of the cloister of Santo Domingo in Silos not only takes on the subject of the ascension in a completely different scale (more than 10 feet high), he dispenses entirely with the convention of showing Christ with a body rising through the air. It seems that, to the artist's mind, the import of the story for the centuries of monks who would walk past this tableau every day, was the witnessing of the miracle. The monks could identify closely with the apostles, the bottom row of which would be on eye-level with the audience of monks. They would gaze up from the same angle to see Christ already in (what would then have been) a brightly colored heaven, free of the pains and profanity of human flesh. All of the saintly figures in the scenes have at least one arm raised in prayer, and the position of the feet on the apostles in the bottom row are pointed down, giving an illusion that they, too, are rising.

Ascension of Christ, Ivory Plaque, Cologne, Germany (likely, originally), 1150-1160, Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Over time, Ascension art settles into a basic form that remains fairly predictable until the end of the Middle Ages. For the rest of the medieval period, I see a trend I think of as the "going, going, gone" phenomenon of Christ's ascent to heaven. Looking at the plaque above, you can see the climbing Christ. Though he's in the spiritual space connoted by the mandorla, he has one foot still outside of it upon the rock of the implied earth, and with the other foot he makes his first step up towards heaven. You're now accustomed to the audience of disciples, the attending angels, and the hand of God reaching down to clasp the upward-grasping hand of Christ. In the bas relief in Santo Domingo (previously) and in this plaque, Mary (first figure, bottom-right) is introduced as a standard figure in the scene.

The "climbing Christ" is an intriguing motif, given that none of the scriptures describing the ascension state that he climbs; just the opposite. He is lifted. Why choose this? My guess is that it was an effective way for the artists to imply upward motion. Secondarily, it gives Christ more power and agency, as befitting a god, than a passive rescue.

Ascension of Christ, Ivory Plaque, France ( originally), 1160-1170, Victoria and Albert Museum, London

This plaque, slightly later in time, and from a workshop farther west in Europe, has dispensed with the rock, but the implication of ascension as a climb is still there. The feet of the apostles break the frame of the scene by resting their feet upon it, making the frame itself the material world. Oddly, in this version of the Ascension, the angels swoop in like a menacing flock to snatch up Christ, and the terrified apostles duck to avoid injury.

Ascension of Christ, 5th panel of Despenser Retable, late 14th century, Norwich Cathedral, England

Going. With this late 14th century painting, we're at the second "going" stage. The top of this panel is so damaged that there's no image any more (I cropped out the blank wood that was there), so we have no idea of whether there was much more of Christ or more definite details of Heaven, but there wasn't enough room for a full body of the savior, unless he was wierdly contorted. The gold background seems to continue up around the mandorla which shows Christ from the waist-down. Mary and the apostles see him disappear into the ether. The artist adds a detail to Christ's feet which I haven't seen in other examples--the wounds left by the nails of the cross.

Ascension of Christ, Ceiling Boss, 15th century, Norwich Cathedral, England

Going. There are at least four or five late medieval survivals I've seen of this version of the Ascension, which evokes in me a word that doesn't come up all too often in my analysis of medieval art: it's adorable. We have Mary and the apostles, and the central rock, and in the shimmering cloud we see Christ disappear into a haze of gold, save the hem of his robe and his holy feet.

Ascension of Christ, Ceiling Boss (1840 faithful reproduction of damaged original from 14th century) photo by Aidan MacRae Thompson, York Minster (I had my own photo, but my memory card was corrupted and the image lost!)

GOING! The most clever minimalist medieval representation of the Ascension is this one from York Minster (a faithful reproduction from 1840, after a fire). Here's all you need: Mary, Apostles, A rose to imply heaven, and the worm's eye view of Christ's robe and feet.

Ascension of Christ, Ceiling Boss, 14th century, Tewkesbury Abbey, England

And: GONE! In this ceiling boss from Tewkesbury Abbey, a great deal more attention and "real estate" is given to the apostles and Mary (but that's been the case for centuries by now), heaven is golden petals or foliage, and just the hem of Christ's robe is visible. If you squint, you might see his toes a little to the left of the middle of the hem.

What to make of this shift over the centuries, from emphasizing Christ's whole body in the representation of his ascension to focusing on his absence, and the witnesses he left behind? I have no authoritative answers. One speculation I have, though, is that, as Last Judgment art became more and more prominent in churches and their liturgy, perhaps other imagery--of Christ enthroned, on Judgment Day--crowded out a part of the narrative that was never the biggest part of the story. Nativity, Crucifixion, Resurrection, Second Coming--all these were compelling art subjects because of their immediacy, melodrama, and pathos. The Ascension was a miracle, a magic trick (if you will), but also a temporary farewell.

If you wish to read scholarly analysis of Ascension art, I recommend these two excellent pieces: here and here.

Note: The last four images are English, and there was a British anthem very much on my mind when I first thought to create this post: "Jerusalem," by William Blake, which, being of a certain age and American, I first came across only by hearing it sung irreverently in a Monty Python skit, and then heard it again when I watched Chariots of Fire. Being young, and ignorant--and never having remedied the latter--I always wondered why the English thought Christ's feet were so important. So, when I started paying attention to Ascension art in England, I couldn't get Eric Idle singing "Jerusalem" out of my head. I apologize to every English friend I have. Here's a lovely version of the hymn.