Strangers from a Strange Land: "Monstrous Races" in Medieval Religious Art

Triton, ridden by Poseidon, backgammon game piece, walrus ivory, Louvre Museum, Norway or Cologne origin, late 12th c.

Mythical monsters are (for the most part) neither Biblical nor Christian in origin, but almost every medieval church has at least a few inside and outside their walls. The sources for the medieval religious images of monsters come primarily from widely-available books in scriptoria--copies of Hesiod's Theogony (ca. 700 BCE), Pliny the Elder's Natural History (77 CE), Isidore of Seville's Etymologies (ca. 625 CE), and medieval bestiaries derived from one or all three of these. Some medieval maps (meant more to illustrate theology than for any sort of navigation) populated land far from Europe and the Mediterranean with these exotic creatures (believed to be real). These human/animal hybrids were often referred to collectively as the "Monstrous Races."

The game piece pictured above has two figures from Greek mythology carved on it. The piece was made in the 12th century, long after anyone was practicing ancient Greek or Roman religions, but the story of the figures may have captured the imagination of the patron who commissioned it, who was someone literate enough to know the myth. Or, the someone interpreted the creature as a merman, where it could be significant to a ship owner/sailor, or a religious person regarding it as a symbol of uncontrolled lust.

I like Triton's mustache being used as reins to steer him, as one might a horse. Poseidon's little spurs are a great touch, but I have questions about why the axe and mitre are there.

The monstrous, half-human, or weirdly human races were described in the texts as living in lands far distant from Europe. In bestiaries, or copies of the source texts named above, the creatures could be illustrated in the otherwise blank areas of the page. So, too, on large maps based on the source texts, these creatures would be drawn in the outer-margins of the document. This would be appropriate because medieval Christians were taught to think of Jerusalem as the center of the world, with Europe sprawling out beneath it. These monsters were symbolically and in artistically placed in the margins.

It seems appropriate to me, therefore, to describe the illustrations of monsters as physical marginalia within a religious building's main "text": the story of faith, fall, and redemption. Fittingly, one mainly finds the monsters in smaller touches around a church: capitals, misericords, archivolts, corbels, lesser frescoes--just like marginalia.

Blemmye, Bishop's seat, late 15th c., Ripon Cathedral

Blemmyes were described by diverse sources as dwelling in Ethiopia, or Libya, or India. Perhaps they're symbolic in Christian art is to represent a state of being where one is ruled by the body, and not the mind or soul. The blemmye above seems aggressive, wielding a baton in a potentially menacing way.

Blemmye, Bishop's seat, late 15th c., Ripon Cathedral

This one is on the same misericord, a supporter on the other side. With his/its hat and neutral expression, he seems more placid. His chaperon marks him as upper- or middle-class.

Blemmyes, St. Nicholas, King's Lynn, late 14th c., in Victoria & Albert Museum

The blemmyes in this misericord regard two men threshing wheat (commonly a symbol of August in the Labors of the Months cycles). The creatures resemble (not to put too fine a point on it) horses' asses. With their mouths slightly agape, it could be that they are offering unsolicited commentary on how the work is going.

Sciapod, early 11th c.,  Anzy-le-Duc Priory

Sciapods, humans with one large foot, used to shade them from the harsh sunlight, were described by our main sources as living in Ethiopia or India (places known then as very warm). But why put it on a capital or a bench-end (below)? The reclining posture might symbolize Sloth, a deadly sin.

Sciapod, 1450, St. Mary's, Dennington

This sciapod, thought to be the only image of one still extant in England, is quite cramped and confined in the frame of this bench-end. The sciapod, and all the Monstrous Races, are represented as also creations of God. Christians were encouraged to see these strange beings as demonstrations of the abundance and far-reaching scope of Creation.

Cyclops (with Pegasus!), mid-12th c., Eglise St. Pierre, Aulnay

Some educated medieval men would have known the story of the Odyssey. While it was studied in Byzantium in Greek, a few copies translated into Latin were in use in the West. This cyclops, at the apex of an archivolt above a Last Judgment scene, is one of many mysterious creatures surrounding the scene of Christ in Majesty at the ending of the world. His presence suggests the broad scope of the world, all subjugated under the authority of Christ. As well, these being are from pagan literature and art; they may be present among those who will not be among the saved in the Apocalypse.

Pentecostal Tympanum,Vezelay St. Madeleine, copy in Paris Architecture museum (cast made late 19th c.)

I'm using this plaster copy of the original carvings in Vezelay because it record s the tympanum and lintel in a better state than the ensuing 120-plus years have left it. (It was used as a reference in a recent restoration.) Sadly, the copy itself was made after a major restoration by Viollet-le-Duc in the 1840s, who was piecing it together from a still-earlier restoration done after the church was vandalized in 1793. And so it goes with much of surviving medieval art: copies of copies; simulacra of simulacra.

Nonetheless, we work with what we have: this tympanum is unique in that its subject matter is the evangelizing of the apostles by Christ, who adjures them to preach the gospel to all the corners of the Earth. Surrounding the central image are symbols and scenes trying to encompass the vastness of the project: there are zodiacal symbols representing the great wheel of time and the cosmos; there are the labors of the months, summing up the cyclical life of humans. Interestingly, the inner-most archivolt and the lintel contain figures from the Monstrous Races. Does this suggest that all of these hybrids and human variations have souls and should be saved?

Cynocephali, Pentacostal Tympanum, 1130, Vezelay Abbey

Perhaps, but maybe there are exceptions. Cynocephali (singular: cynocephalus) are placed near to Jesus' head, just to his right side--traditionally the side of the saved. I'd suggest this is because all dogs go to heaven.

As per the Bisotti in the New Yorker:

However, the human part of the cynocephalus might be holding him back from salvation. If you look at the two cynocephali in the close-up above, they look to be villainous. The one on the left holds a sword with which he may have attacked the slumping human beside him. The armed cynocephalus appears to be discussing with his buddy on the right the merits of finishing off the victim.

Panotti, 1130, Vezelay St. Madeleine, copy in Paris Architecture museum (cast made late 19th c.)

In the far-right corner of the lintel a family of panotti are having a charged moment. The panotti were described as a people with ears that could cover their bodies like a blanket, thereby reducing their need to wear clothes for warmth. The carver seems a bit conflicted about this scene. He puts a pelt over the adult male figure on the left, discreetly hides the genitals of the distressed boy figure, drapes a cloth over the woman's lower body, but endows her with an impressive, exposed bosom. In nearly all medieval Last Judgment tympanums, the lower-right, farthest from the enthroned Christ, is reserved for the certainly damned. Could this explain the panotti's anxiety? If it does, I'm still left wondering why they deserve this condemnation.

Manticore, 12th c., St. Pierre, Chauvigny

Manticores were very popular in medieval church art. I think I've seen at least one (and often several) in almost every medieval church I've visited. They have human heads, wings (usually), and a tail (which is supposed to be that of a scorpion, but that detail is frequently omitted). Their symbolism covers a range of ideas, but the range is fairly narrow and complementary: they are used to represent the devil, strife, and political oppression. I wonder if in some cases manticores serve an apotropaic purpose, like Christian lions and eagles often do.

In the capital above, these manticores stand close together, perhaps guarding something, with a lion's (or demon's) head swallowing their tails. Their expressions are not ferocious.

Manticore, 1235-1257, St. Pierre Cathedral, Poitiers

The manticore in this choir stall looks a little meaner, but he and the dragon behind him seem to be more of a team than in conflict. The manticore's wings are feathered and spread, whereas the dragon's are scaly and lowered on its back. Their necks, trunks, feet and tails are identical, mirroring each other. They literally have each other's backs.

Manticore, 12th c., St. Nicholas' Church, Barfrestone

This band around a rose window in Barfrestone is the oldest of these three carvings. I think it has two manticores, but they are quite different. The middle figure is more conventional--he gazes back over his wings and tail as though expecting an attack (or spoiling for one). The figure to his right has the usual body, but no wings. He also has the usual head--two of them, in fact. That's a new one to me. A dragon with a second head on its tail is called an amphisbena. Here's one below. You have to look hard for the little heads on their tails, but they're there!

Amphisbenae, late 15th c., Ripon Cathedral

But what does one call a manticore with two heads? I'm stumped.

Wild man with Belt battling Dragon, early 16th c., Manchester Cathedral

I'll finish this post with a monstrous human more at home in European lore: the wild man, or woodiwose, or wodewose (depending on how old you want your English naming to be). The creature is written about far before the Middle Ages, and may well have his origin in Classical mythology's satyr.

The wild man, as his predecessor does, represents unrestrained passions. In Christian symbolism, he is the beastly aspect of oneself that must be restrained to resist bodily sins like lust, gluttony, wrath, and sloth. He is often shown carrying a tree branch or wooden club, evoking his status as living like an animal in the forests. The one in the misericord above has a chain around his waist--a symbol of his need to be restrained. Because he is fighting a dragon (a symbol of evil), the chain suggests that the wild man is battling his temptations with all his might.

Wild men on Ivory Box, 1340, Louvre Museum

This ivory panel from a box in the Louvre uses the wild man for a secular story. The box as a whole has scenes from chivalric tales. So, here you see the wild men abducting the Lady, perhaps representing her own inappropriate desires. Her knight rescues her in the next scene, ostensibly shielding her from degrading lust, and elevating her desires to the (again, ostensibly) chaste and exalted forms of courtly love.

Wild man sculpture, 14th c., St. Mary's, Woolpit

This damaged sculpture of a wild man in Woolpit is quite the find. I haven't seen such a large sculpture of one. As I wrote above, these monsters are usually found in the marginalia of the church as a whole. They tend to be small, and subordinate to larger sculptures of Christ, saints, and angels. There are no notes telling of where he was found within the church (or on its grounds), but it looks as though he was hidden away with the images of saints banished after the dissolution of Catholicism in England.

Wild man lifting Lion, late 15th c., (original) Coventry Cathedral

This wild man misericord rescued from the ruins of medieval Coventry Cathedral echoes the Greek story of Hercules wrestling the Nemean lion, as well as the Christian uses of Samson and David as wrestlers of lions. The Coventry wild man lifts the lion off the ground to subdue it. It's a shame his arms were broken off from the carving--it would be interesting to know if he held his club, or was proclaiming his victory over pride.

Wild man battling Dragon, 1390, Chester Cathedral

In Chester Cathedral, there is a misericord with two wild men, each acting as supporters on either side of the main carving. On the left, our hero is combatting a dragon, but seems to be having a difficult time of it, despite sitting on top of the dragon and grabbing its tail and head.

Wild man winning battle over smaller dragon, 1390, Chester Cathedral

The wild man on the right is doing better, but his dragon is much smaller, and he has his club. These battles are unequal. Are we supposed to compare them? Is one wrestling a bigger temptation or fault than the other?

Penitent Mary Magdalene, 1260, Basilica of San Zeno

Rarely are wild women represented in medieval art (I can't think of one I've seen). However, Mary Magdalene offers a fascinating exception. Though a saint*, she is often linked with the sin of lust. She is conflated with the prostitute Jesus protects from stoning, and the woman Jesus casts devils out of, so all of her actions are viewed in the Middle Ages through the prism of her supposed tainted origins. After the crucifixion of Jesus, French medieval legends have her living out her life as a repentant hermit on a mountain near the Camargue. She deprives herself of all pleasures, save the singing of angels. Her clothes fall to pieces and her hair grows to great lengths, keeping her modesty. These stories may have nothing to do with the legend of the wild man, but the artistic expression in iconography screams its connection. In the frescoes from San Zeno, Mary Magdalene is set apart from the central figures--marginalized. She doesn't have the rags of a hermit, like John the Baptist wears; she wears her hair as a pelt.

(*) Years ago, I actually got into a heated argument with a religious medallion seller in St. Peter's Square in Vatican City because I wanted a Mary Magdalene medal, and he told me she wasn't a saint. I insisted she was (in my dubious Italian), & reminded him that she was the first follower the Risen Christ appeared to. He vehemently denied this, citing that she was a prostitute. This went on for several minutes until the Swiss Guard started giving us side-eye. She is a saint, and I'm better-medicated now.

Penitent Mary Magdalene at Crucifixion, 1260, Basilica of San Zeno

She has the same fur-like covering that a wild man has, but her halo suggests that while she embodies lust, she is a divine figure. This subtle condemnation derives from her being embodied as a woman, and from having expressed her devotion to Christ by attending his body with perfume and tears, kissing his feet as he dies on the cross, and preparing his corpse for entombment. She can't shed (pun intended) the bestial nature many medieval beliefs applied to women, but she, like the male wild man, has wrestled with her inherent sins. She has won, but she'll never quite be a part of saintly orders in the elite robes they comport in heaven.

If you are interested in more on this subject. The following books and website have been indispensable to me in researching this: The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought, The Marvellous and the Monstrous in the Sculpture of Twelfth-Century Europe , and the astounding folks who built Misericords of the UK.