The Analysis of Gothic Architecture

AVISTA Studies in
Medieval Technology, Science and Art

Editor-in-Chief

Jennifer M. Feltman (University of Alabama)

Editorial Board

Robert Bork (University of Iowa)

George Brooks (Valencia College)
Ellen Shortell (Massachusetts College of Art & Design)
Sarah Thompson (Rochester Institute of Technology)

volume 14

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/mtsa

The Analysis of Gothic
Architecture
Studies in Memory of
Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon

Edited by

Robert Bork

leiden | boston
Cover illustration: Bourges Cathedral; photoelastic cross-section of choir model by Robert Mark at left,
laser-scanned longitudinal section of choir by Andrew Tallon at right

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mark, Robert, honouree. | Tallon, Andrew, 1969-2018, honouree. |
Bork, Robert, editor. | International Congress on Medieval Studies (56th
: 2021 : Kalamazoo, Mich.)
Title: The analysis of Gothic architecture : studies in memory of Robert
Mark and Andrew Tallon / edited by Robert Bork.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2023] | Series: AVISTA studies in
Medieval technology, science, and art, 2634-4750 ; volume 14 | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022048702 (print) | LCCN 2022048703 (ebook) | ISBN
9789004529113 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004529335 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Architecture, Gothic--Expertising. | Structural analysis
(Engineering) | Imaging systems in architecture.
Classification: LCC NA440 .A53 2023 (print) | LCC NA440 (ebook) | DDC
723/.5–dc23/eng/20221011
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048702
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048703

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface.

issn 2634-4750
isbn 978-90-04-52911-3 (hardback)
isbn 978-90-04-52933-5 (e-book)

Copyright 2023 by Robert Bork. Published by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.
Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink,
Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic.
Koninklijke Brill NV reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for
re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents

List of Figures vii

Notes on Contributors xii

1 Introduction 1
Robert Bork

2 Robert Mark: In Memoriam 8

Ethan Mark

3 Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral 12

Stephen Murray

4 Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 19

Robert Bork

5 From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon: Writing the History of

Medieval Architecture between France and America 35
Arnaud Timbert

6 Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon: A Roundtable

Discussion 49
Robert Bork, Sergio Sanabria, Ellen Shortell, Elizabeth Smith and
Nancy Wu

7 Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs (and Their

Implications for Understanding Suger’s Saint-Denis) 75
Robert Bork

8 Archaeology and Standing Structure: An Archaeological Approach to

the Relative Building Chronology of Santa Maria at Alcobaça 104
Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines

9 Between Reims and Soissons: Gothic Space and Place in a Medieval

Landscape 132
Kyle Killian

10 Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 152

Rebecca Smith
vi Contents

11 Reims Reconsidered: New Arguments for Dating the West Façade of the
Cathedral 174
Peter Kurmann

12 Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 192

Michael T. Davis and Stefaan Van Liefferinge

13 Tracing the Past: A Digital Analysis of the Choir Vaults at Wells

Cathedral and Ottery Saint Mary 212
James Hillson with Alexandrina Buchanan and Nicholas Webb

14 “And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves”: The Nave Vaults of Santa
Maria Novella in Florence 238
Elizabeth B. Smith

15 Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame: The Workshop of the Cathedral in the

Fourteenth Century According to the Fabric Accounts 253
Dany Sandron

16 The Image of Notre-Dame: Architectural and Artistic Responses to the

Cathedral of Paris 264
Lindsay S. Cook

Index 289
Figures

1.1 Andrew Tallon and Robert Mark together in June 2017 2

1.2 Bourges Cathedral; photoelastic cross-section of choir model by Robert
Mark at left, laser-scanned longitudinal section of choir by Andrew Tallon at
right 2
1.3 Sens Cathedral; ANSYS finite-element model by Robert Mark, 1986 3
1.4 Sens Cathedral; laser-scanned 3D model by Andrew Tallon, 2011 4
1.5 Quadripartite vaulting; finite element model mesh above, and force
trajectories, below, by Robert Mark 4
1.6 Notre-Dame Cathedral, Paris; laser-scanned cross-section of choir with
equilateral triangle superposed by Andrew Tallon 5
2.1 Robert Mark 8
2.2 Amiens Cathedral; photoelastic patterns in model of nave, by Robert
Mark 9
3.1 Andrew Tallon 12
3.2 Beauvais Cathedral, laser scan model by Andrew Tallon, 2013 15
4.1 Robert Mark in his office, with photoelastic model of Amiens nave 20
4.2 Robert Mark’s polariscope equipment at Princeton 20
4.3 Beauvais Cathedral, photoelastic model of choir section 26
4.4 Hagia Sophia, finite-element model by Robert Mark and Ahmet Çakmak 31
4.5 Joe Alonso and Robert Mark together at Washington Cathedral 32
5.1 Stephen Murray 36
5.2 Amiens Cathedral, computer model from Stephen Murray’s Amiens Trilogy,
1996 38
5.3 Andrew Tallon, with Leica laser scanner in the nave of Notre-Dame, Paris 40
5.4 Saint-Denis Abbey, photo by Andrew Tallon as seen in Mapping Gothic
France 41
5.5 Amiens Cathedral, successive phases of laser-scan model development, by
Andrew Tallon 45
6.1 Robert Mark, seen with model of Chartres Cathedral nave in polariscope 51
6.2 Andrew Tallon, Princeton graduation photo, 1991 53
6.3 Bourges Cathedral, view from roof down staircase on southeast flying buttress
of choir 54
6.4 Amiens Cathedral, photoelastic model being pulled laterally by fishing
weights to simulate wind load 56
6.5 Noyon Cathedral, caveau phonocamptique, panoramic photo by Andrew
Tallon 57
viii Figures

7.1 Comparative plans of four Parisian Early Gothic choirs: Saint-Martin-des-

Champs, Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame. Saint-
Martin-des-Champs after Deneux 1913 Saint-Denis after Crosby 1987 Saint-
Germain-des-Prés modified after Plagnieux 2000, and Notre-Dame after
Andrew Tallon and Laurence Stefanon 77
7.2 Paris, Saint-Martin-des-Champs, basic steps of plan geometry 78
7.3 Paris, Saint-Martin-des-Champs, geometry of plan and section 81
7.4 Saint-Denis Abbey, geometry of crypt plan 84
7.5 Paris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, geometry of plan and section 88
7.6 Paris, Notre-Dame, geometry of choir plan. Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid
on plan by Andrew Tallon and Laurence Stefanon 94
7.7 Paris, Notre-Dame, geometry of choir section 96
7.8 Saint-Denis Abbey, geometry of choir plan and section, with hypothetical
superstructure alternatives 100
8.1 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, satellite view of the monastery 110
8.2 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, redrawn plan of the medieval monastery 111
8.3 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, interior view looking east 112
8.4 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, plan of the church, showing phases and pier forms,
(after Cocheril, Études, 1966, p. 247) 113
8.5 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, reconstructed medieval plan (after Cocheril, Notes
sur l’architecture, 1972, fig. 9) with arrows showing location of construction
breaks identified by interruptions in the integrity of masonry courses 122
8.6. a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction break in the 5th bay of the south nave
side-aisle. b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction break at the twelfth bay of
the north nave side-aisle. c) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction break above
the portal of the west façade 123
8.7 a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, water reservoir in seventh bay of the south side-
aisle of the church b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, redrawn plan of the medieval
monastery showing hydraulics 124
8.8 Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of the church, construction
phase 1 126
8.9 a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of the church,
construction phase 2. b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of
the church, construction phase 3 130
9.1 Medieval parishes between the cities of Reims and Soissons 136
9.2 Medieval parishes showing medieval architectural survival 138
9.3 Parish church of Notre-Dame in Rosnay 139
9.4 Parish church Notre-Dame in Saponay. Bibliothèque nationale de France,
département Estampes et photographie, 4-VE-374 (14). Étienne Moreau-
Nélaton, Recueil. Monuments du département de l’Aisne détruits ou
endommagés pendant la guerre de 1914–1918 Roucy à Sermoise 140
Figures  ix

9.5 Parish church of Saint-Laurent in Chavonne before World War One.

Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie,
4-VE-378 (4). Étienne Moreau-Nélaton, Recueil. Patrimoine architectural
du département de l’Aisne: Arrondissement de Soissons. Bucy-le-Long à
Chavonne 141
9.6 Parish church of Saint-Laurent in Chavonne after World War One.
Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie,
4-VE-374 (4). Étienne Moreau-Nélaton Recueil, Monuments du département
de l’Aisne détruits ou endommagés pendant la guerre de 1914–1918: Charèves à
Chéry-Chartreuve 142
9.7 Pages from Robert Rouet’s 4th album of photographs and ephemera showing
among other things the destroyed Cluniac priory of Binson 143
9.8 Nave, parish church of Saint-Pierre in Crugny. Estève, Georges
(1890–1975) 144
9.9 Choir, parish church of Saint-Pierre in Crugny. Estève, Georges
(1890–1975) 145
9.10 Crossing, parish church of Saint-Martin in Lagery. Estève, Georges
(1890–1975) 146
9.11 Tessellation showing the stylistic characteristics of medieval parish
churches 147
9.12 Monastic church of Saint-Yved in Braine 148
9.13 Parish church of Notre-Dame in Vailly-sur-Aisne. Apse and Transept. Estève,
Georges (1890–1975) 148
10.1 LiDAR Model of Reims Cathedral 153
10.2 Geometric analysis of vault deformation and change in angles 154
10.3 Geometric analysis of Reims’s elevation 158
10.4 Reims Cathedral, chevet flying buttresses & pinnacles 160
10.5 Diagram of Reims’s choir cross-section with flyers and tas-de-charge 161
10.6 Villard de Honnecourt, Folio 32v, Drawing of choir buttresses at Reims 165
10.7 Villard de Honnecourt, Folio 31v, Drawing of nave elevation at Reims 168
10.8 South Transept, Reims Cathedral 172
11.1 West façade, Reims Cathedral 175
11.2 View from southwest, Reims Cathedral 176
11.3 West façade, north portal, local saints on the right jamb, Reims
Cathedral 176
11.4 Saint John the Apostle from the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris (c.1248), Paris, Musée
de Cluny, Musée national du Moyen Âge 178
11.5 West façade, north portal, unknown saint, right jamb (1250–1260), Reims
Cathedral 179
11.6 Reverse of the west façade, saint John the Baptist accompanied by two
prophets, Reims Cathedral 183
x Figures

11.7 West façade, frame of the north portal, angels and prophets, Reims Cathedral
11.8 North façade of the transept, Paris, Notre-Dame Cathedral 184
11.9 Portal of the south transept, tympanum, saint Stephen’s legend, Paris, Notre-
Dame Cathedral 187
11.10 West façade, northwest buttress, relief representing the finding of the Cross,
Reims Cathedral 188
12.1 Clermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, choir terrace drawings 194
12.2 Clermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame (a) terrace drawings above
chapel of Saint-Bonnet; (b) terrace drawings of arcs and unfinished openwork
flyer above chapel of Saint-Austremoine (bays N-14–12) 197
12.3 Clermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame (a) finished version of openwork
flyer (bays N12–10); (b) nave flyer, bay 7 as built 198
12.4 Clermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, flying buttresses, choir, north
side 199
12.5 Limoges Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, terrace drawings 200
12.6 Clermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, photogrammetric model of
choir flyer with arc of terrace drawing 204
12.7 A quadrant arch (after Viollet-le-Duc, Dictionnaire, I, 64.) and an over-
extended arch 205
12.8 Segments of a quadrant at the top and the Clermont-Ferrand arcs represented
at the lower right 206
13.1 Choir Vault at Wells Cathedral, photograph (above) and orthophoto plan from
3D mesh model (below) 213
13.2 Ottery St Mary, photographs of Lady Chapel (top left), choir (bottom left) and
nave vaults (top right), orthophoto plans of choir and nave from 3D mesh
model (bottom right) 214
13.3 Plans and tables of measurement for the vaults at Wells Cathedral and Ottery
St Mary, using intrados lines traced in Rhinoceros 3D 223
13.4 Starcut variations (top), plans and proportions of the southwest choir aisle at
Wells Cathedral (upper middle) and stage-by-stage diagrams of grid system
(lower middle) and starcut design processes (bottom) 224
13.5 Stage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for vault plan
At Wells Cathedral and Ottery St Mary 226
13.6 Diagrams of measurements (top) and geometrical methods (bottom) used for
setting out rib curvatures 228
13.7 Stage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for rib
Curvatures at Ottery St Mary 231
13.8 Stage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for rib
Curvatures at Wells Cathedral 233
14.1 Santa Maria Novella, Florence. View of the nave vaults from below 239
Figures  xi

14.2 Santa Maria Novella (1279–1355) The church is laid out on a north/south axis,
with the choir to the north 240
14.3 Hypothetical original plan for Santa Maria Novella. The seven-bay nave is to
have open timber roofing, except for the two bays above the choir screen,
intended to be vaulted. This plan also includes projected sexpartite vaults in
each arm of the transept, never erected 242
14.4 Rivolta d’Adda, Santa Maria and San Sigismondo, (before c.1130). View of nave
interior 244
14.5 Santa Maria Novella, 3D model of clerestory showing transverse walls above
the vaults. Also included are details of buttresses under aisle roof in Bays 2
and 5 247
14.6 Santa Maria Novella in the late 19th c. The Upper Cemetery with its 1302 door
is visible on the right flank of the nave 248
14.7 Santa Maria Novella, Nave interior towards façade 249
14.8 Santa Maria Novella View along the east aisle wall showing the family tombs
of the Upper Cemetery along the base and the buttresses rising above
them 250
15.1 Reconstruction of the choir of Notre-Dame, mid 14th century 254
15.2 Fabric accounts, Paris, Archives nationales LL 270 fol. 2r 255
15.3 Pentecost, Book of hours, Paris, c.1420 257
15.4 Notre-Dame, choir, southeast side 259
15.5 Sainte-Chapelle, “oratoire de Saint Louis” 260
15.6 Israël Silvestre, view of the Hotel-Dieu of Paris, c. 1650 261
15.7 Narbonne Cathedral, choir 262
15.8 Notre-Dame, choir 263
16.1 Paris, Notre-Dame, view from the southeast 268
16.2 Bourges, Saint-Étienne, view from the southeast 269
16.3 Paris, Notre-Dame, view of the interior facing east 272
16.4 Larchant, Saint-Mathurin, view of the interior facing east 273
16.5 Paris, Notre-Dame, west front 274
16.6 Troyes, Saint-Pierre Saint-Paul, west front 275
16.7 Limbourg Brothers, The Meeting of the Magi, from Les Très Riches Heures du
Duc de Berry, ca. 1416 Chantilly, Bibliothèque du château, MS 65, fol. 51v 278
16.8 Jean Fouquet, Lamentation, from Hours of Étienne Chevalier, ca. 1452–1460
Chantilly, Bibliothèque du château, MS 71, fol. 19r 280
16.9 Jean Froissart, Chroniques, 15th century 282
16.10 Grandes Chroniques de France, 15th century 284
Notes on Contributors

Sheila Bonde
is Christopher Chan and Michelle Ma Professor of History of Art and Professor
of Archaeology at Brown University. Together with Clark Maines, she has pub-
lished extensively on the Abbey of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes in Soissons, and on
monastic architecture more generally. She collaborated with Robert Mark in
the Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution project.

Robert Bork
is Professor of Art History at the University of Iowa and former president of
AVISTA. His research principally concerns the history of Gothic architectur-
al design, especially from a geometrical perspective. He earned his Ph.D. at
Princeton under the supervision of Robert Mark, and his current work de-
pends heavily on laser scan data collected by Andrew Tallon.

Lindsay S. Cook
is Assistant Teaching Professor of Architectural History in the Department
of Art History at Penn State University. Her current research focuses on No-
tre-Dame of Paris, medievalism in African American architecture, and the dig-
ital humanities. She studied with Andrew Tallon as an undergraduate at Vassar
College and subsequently contributed to the Mapping Gothic France project.

Michael T. Davis
is Professor of Art History Emeritus at Mount Holyoke College. He has pub-
lished widely on the history of French Gothic architecture, with a particular
emphasis on the cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand and related churches in south-
ern France. He collaborated with Robert Mark in the Architectural Technology
up to the Scientific Revolution project.

James Hillson
is currently a Teaching Associate in the Department of History of Art at Cam-
bridge and an Honorary Research Associate in the Liverpool School of Archi-
tecture. From 2019–2021, he was a postdoctoral researcher on the Tracing the
Past: English Medieval Vaults project developed by Alexandrina Buchanan and
Nicholas Webb, which applies geometrical analysis techniques to laser-scans
of Gothic vaults. He has also published on monuments such as Reims Cathe-
dral and Saint Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster.
Notes on Contributors  xiii

Kyle Killian
is Assistant Professor and Director of Museum and Cultural Heritage Studies
at Florida State University. His scholarship considers Gothic France, Byzantine
Cyprus, and Native North America. He is currently developing a monograph on
the monastery of Orbais and its relationship to religious, political, ecological,
and economic landscapes.

Peter Kurmann
is Professor Emeritus of Medieval Art History at the University of Fribourg,
Switzerland. His research considers Gothic architecture and sculpture from
France and Switzerland to Germany and Central Europe. He has written and
edited many books, including a monograph on the façade of Reims Cathedral.

Clark Maines
is Professor of Art History Emeritus at Wesleyan University. Together with Sheila
Bonde, he has published extensively on the Abbey of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes in
Soissons, and on monastic architecture more generally. He collaborated with
Robert Mark in the Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution project.

Ethan Mark
son of Robert Mark, is Associate Professor of Modern Japanese and Asian His-
tory in the Japanese and Asian Studies programs at Leiden University.

Stephen Murray
is Lisa and Bernard Selz Professor of Medieval Art History Emeritus in the De-
partment of Art History and Archaeology at Columbia University. His many
publications on French Gothic architecture include monographs on the cathe-
drals of Amiens, Beauvais, and Troyes. He served as graduate mentor to An-
drew Tallon, with whom he led the Mapping Gothic France project.

Sergio Sanabria
is Associate Professor of Architecture and Interior Design at Miami University.
His publications emphasize the technical and geometrical aspects of Gothic
construction, both in 13th-century France and in 16th-century Spain. Robert
Mark was one of his principal graduate mentors at Princeton University.

Dany Sandron
is Professor of Medieval Art History at the University of Paris. He has edited
and published many books on French Gothic art and architecture, including
xiv Notes on Contributors

monographs on the cathedrals of Soissons and Paris. His survey history of No-
tre-Dame in Paris was written in collaboration with Andrew Tallon.

Ellen Shortell
is Professor Emerita of the History of Art at the Massachusetts College of Art.
She has held officer positions in both AVISTA and the Corpus Vitrearum Me-
dii Aevi, while publishing on the history of French Gothic architecture and
stained glass, especially at the collegiate church of Saint-Quentin.

Elizabeth B. Smith
is Associate Professor of Art History Emerita at Penn State University. Her re-
cent research explores Italian Gothic architecture, with a particular emphasis
on the Florentine church of Santa Maria Novella; she is the author of Building
Santa Maria Novella: Materials, Tradition and Invention in Late Medieval Flor-
ence. She previously collaborated with Robert Mark in the Architectural Tech-
nology up to the Scientific Revolution project.

Rebecca Smith
is Assistant Professor of Art History at Wake Technical Community College.
She completed her dissertation on Reims Cathedral at the University of Iowa
under Robert Bork’s supervision, after studying with Elizabeth B. Smith and
Stefaan Van Liefferinge.

Arnaud Timbert
is Professor to Medieval Art History at the University of Picardy Jules Verne. He
has written and edited many books on French Gothic architecture, including
its post-medieval reception, often emphasizing technical and archaeological
approaches. Several of these studies were undertaken in collaboration with
Andrew Tallon.

Stefaan Van Liefferinge

is Associate Research Scholar and Director of the Media Center in the Depart-
ment of Art History and Archaeology at Columbia University. His research em-
phasizes the application of high-technology approaches to the study of Gothic
architecture, while his work at the Media Center builds on the contributions of
Stephen Murray and Andrew Tallon.

Nancy Wu
is Senior Managing Educator Emerita at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She
launched the AVISTA book series by editing an anthology of essays on Gothic
architectural geometry. Her own publications include a catalog of the medi-
eval collections at the Cloisters, and many essays related to Reims Cathedral.
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction
Robert Bork

The linked careers of Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon contributed greatly to
the analysis of Gothic architecture. Each of them brought high technology to
bear on the study of Gothic buildings in a new and powerful way. Mark, who
taught for decades in the engineering and architecture programs of Princeton
University, began in the late 1960s to apply photoelastic stress modeling to the
study of Gothic structure, and by 1980 he had begun to explore the application
of finite-element computer modeling to the subject, as well. Mark’s work thus
gave scholars unprecedented insight into the behavior of Gothic buildings,
helping along the way to clarify many questions about their historical devel-
opment. Another of his major contributions was to help launch the career of
Andrew Tallon, who studied with Mark while still a Princeton undergraduate
music major. Tallon wrote his senior thesis on medieval architectural acoustics
before going on to graduate work at Columbia University, where he and his
mentor Stephen Murray pioneered the laser scanning of Gothic churches. The
precision of these laser surveys allowed Tallon to observe minute deformation
in the buildings in question, from which he could make valuable inferences
about their structural behavior and constructional history. This approach,
which he called “spatial archaeology,” thus complemented Mark’s approach to
structural modeling. During his career at Vassar College, Tallon also worked
with Murray to develop the Mapping Gothic France website, which includes
some laser scan data along with copious visual documentation of hundreds of
buildings, and which has become a great resource for scholars and students in
the field.
Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon remained fast friends ever since they met,
sharing mutual admiration along with their love of Gothic architecture. They
also shared the challenges of failing health, since Andrew was diagnosed with
an aggressive brain cancer at the tragically young age of 45, even as Robert’s
vigor was declining in his late 80s. Figure 1.1 shows them together, still happy
in each other’s company even in this challenging period. Andrew passed away
on November 16, 2018, and Robert followed on March 29, 2019. Those of us who
knew them miss them both greatly, but their legacies endure not only in their
publications and professional contributions, but also in our memories, and in
the careers of the students and colleagues that their work continues to inspire.

© Robert Bork, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_002

2 Bork

Figure 1.1 A
 ndrew Tallon and Robert Mark together in June 2017
photo by Marie Tallon

Robert and Andrew achieved unusually widespread recognition partly

because their innovative high-tech approaches made Gothic architecture visi-
ble in fresh and striking ways. Robert’s photoelastic method produced colorful
images representing the patterns of force inside models of Gothic structures.
The left half of Figure 1.2, for example, shows the cross-section of a model of
Bourges Cathedral’s choir, whose structural elegance he greatly admired.

Figure 1.2 B
 ourges Cathedral; photoelastic cross-section or choir model by Robert Mark at
left, laser-scanned longitudinal section of choir by Andrew Tallon at right
Introduction 3

Figure 1.3 Sens Cathedral; ANSYS finite-element model by Robert Mark, 1986

With his long training in the photoelastic technique, Robert could read
these patterns like a contour map of stress in the original building, but few oth-
ers could do so, and it was surely the beauty and novelty the imagery that first
attracted attention to his work, which was featured in Life magazine already
in 1969. By the 1980s, Robert had begun to explore the application of finite-
element computer modeling to the study of Gothic structure, producing images
that were more readily legible. Figure 1.3, for instance, shows a cross-sectional
model of Sens Cathedral, in which the red shading on the lower surface of the
main vault indicates the development of tension in a structure otherwise dom-
inated by the blue shades indicating compression.
The laser-scan images that Andrew began to produce two decades later
were equally compelling, although in a very different way. The right half of
Figure 1.2, for instance, shows a longitudinal section through the Bourges
choir, revealing the precise spatial relationship between interior and exterior
features, almost like a medical x-ray. Figure 1.4, meanwhile, shows a portion of
Sens Cathedral in a dramatic three-dimensional view, as if it were a partially
assembled model. Andrew’s scans were even more stunning when seen in
motion, through dynamic interaction on the computer screen. The charisma
of such images surely contributed to the visibility that Robert and Andrew
achieved; their work reached national television audiences through NOVA pro-
grams on PBS that aired in 1988 and 2010, respectively.
Although Robert and Andrew certainly enjoyed producing striking images,
both focused principally on rigorous architectural analysis. Robert, for example,
used both photoelastic and finite-element modeling to clarify the distribution
of forces in Gothic vaults; this pattern, as illustrated in Figure 1.5, resembles the
patterns that he had previously seen in modern thin-shell concrete structures.
4 Bork

Figure 1.4 Sens Cathedral; laser-scanned 3D model by Andrew Tallon, 2011

Figure 1.5
Quadripartite vaulting; finite element model mesh
above, and force trajectories, below, by Robert Mark

Robert discerned and valued such broad analogies because he saw the history
of architecture through the lens of engineering theory. He consistently empha-
sized structural analysis, even as his interests ranged chronologically from
Antiquity to the twentieth century, with Roman domes and modern skyscrap-
ers receiving his attention alongside Gothic cathedrals.
Introduction 5

Figure 1.6 N
 otre-Dame Cathedral, Paris; laser-scanned cross-section of
choir with equilateral triangle superposed by Andrew Tallon

Andrew, by contrast, was more rigorously empirical, and he remained more

consistently focused on French Gothic architecture, which he explored with a
wider range of methods. He used his highly precise laser scan data, for exam-
ple, not only to investigate structural behavior based on “spatial archaeology,”
but also to investigate questions of geometry and proportion; Figure 1.6 shows
his application of an equilateral triangle to the cross-section of Notre-Dame
in Paris. Andrew also undertook careful archival and archaeological research
to support his architectural analyses, and he continued to engage throughout
his career with the questions of acoustics and vocal performance that had
inspired his undergraduate thesis. Both Robert and Andrew, therefore, con-
tributed in multiple ways to the analytical discussion of architectural history.
The present volume aims to explain and honor the impact that Robert and
Andrew had on the study of Gothic architecture, and on the community of
their fellow scholars in the field. To that end, the book has been organized with
three complementary sections. The first section after this introduction will
include brief obituaries for each of them, as published in the newsletter of the
International Center for Medieval Art; Robert’s was prepared by his son Ethan,
and Andrew’s was prepared by his graduate mentor Stephen Murray. These are
followed by reflective essays on their respective careers, with Robert’s written
by his former student Rob Bork, and Andrew’s written by his French colleague
6 Bork

and collaborator Arnaud Timbert. The second section of the book provides a
transcript of the roundtable discussion about Robert and Andrew that took
place within a session held in their honor at the International Congress on
Medieval Studies in 2021; the principal panelists for that discussion are Rob
Bork, Sergio Sanabria, Ellen Shortell, Elizabeth Smith, and Nancy Wu, with
supplementary comments also being made by Lindsay Cook, Paula Gerson,
and Elizabeth Sears. This conversational record provides a wide variety of inti-
mate and insightful perspectives not only on the professional contributions
that Robert and Andrew made, but also on their remarkable personal quali-
ties. The third and final section of the book includes a series of research essays
deriving from presentations at the immediately following congress sessions,
which were all inspired in some important respect by Robert and Andrew.
The research essays in this volume have been arranged into broadly chrono-
logical order, in a narrative arc that both starts and ends in Paris. The first essay,
by Rob Bork, considers the geometry of four Parisian churches from the dawn
of the Gothic era: Saint-Martin-des-Champs, Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain-des-
Prés, and the cathedral of Notre-Dame. This discussion demonstrates that all
four buildings had cross-sections based in important respects on the equilateral
triangle, which suggests that the now-vanished choir of Abbot Suger’s Saint-De-
nis may have been somewhat lower than most scholars have previously imag-
ined. The second essay, by Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines, begins somewhat
later in the twelfth century, providing an archaeological perspective on the
construction of Alcobaça Abbey in Portugal. This analysis shows that the abbey
was built in a series of linked structural units that were defined in functional
rather than formal terms. The next essay, by Kyle Killian, similarly engages
with questions of functional and formal categorization, through consideration
of parish church construction around 1200 in the northern French territory
between Reims and Soissons. Killian here explores the planning processes
that led builders in this milieu to juxtapose building components that would
today be seen as Romanesque and Gothic, accepting formal disjunction while
retaining useful or meaningful structures from previous building campaigns.
The two following essays both consider the history of Reims Cathedral. Rebecca
Smith uses a laser survey of the building to confirm Henri Deneux’s observation
that the curvature of the high choir vaults was adjusted in the course of con-
struction, a conclusion that helps to make comprehensible otherwise puzzling
aspects of the cathedral’s depiction by the thirteenth-century draftsman Vil-
lard de Honnecourt. Peter Kurmann then revisits the documentary and formal
evidence related to the construction of the cathedral’s west façade, reaffirming
and strengthening his dating of this spectacular structure to the second half
of the thirteenth century. The next essay, by Michael Davis and Stefaan Van
Introduction 7

Liefferinge, uses photogrammetric and geometric analysis to compare the built

flying buttresses of Clermont-Ferrand Cathedral with those drawn onto the ter-
race roof of its chapels, illustrating the great economy of means that the build-
ers employed in recording their designs in this fashion. The following essay, by
James Hillson with Alexandrina Buchanan and Nicholas Webb, delves even
deeper into geometry, demonstrating through meticulous examination of laser
survey data that the superficially rather similar ­fourteenth-century choir vaults
of Wells Cathedral and the church of Ottery Saint Mary were generated through
subtly different geometrical strategies, which suggests that their conception
should be attributed to different designers. Moving from England to Italy, but
remaining with the theme of vaulting, Elizabeth Smith then considers the
structural performance of the nave vaults of Santa Maria Novella in Florence,
which are able to stand with only minimal lateral buttressing because of their
strikingly domical profile, and their construction within boxlike masonry cells
inspired by Lombard prototypes. Returning to Paris, Dany Sandron uses care-
ful analysis of surviving fabric accounts to provide an intimate perspective on
the history of Notre-Dame’s workshop in the fourteenth century, a period when
the cathedral’s structure, stained glass, and liturgical furnishings were all trans-
formed in important respects. In closing, Lindsay Cook explores the reception
history of Notre-Dame’s image, moving from consideration of the twelfth-cen-
tury builders who emulated elements of its design at parish churches in the sur-
rounding region, to consideration of the late medieval illuminators who came
to treat the cathedral’s towered façade as a powerful visual symbol for the city
of Paris itself.
No single volume of essays and reflections, however lovingly crafted, can
fully convey the impact that Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon had on the study
of Gothic architecture. This book has nevertheless been assembled in the
hope that it can serve as a lasting gesture of appreciation from colleagues who
esteemed them highly, while also making their inspiring contributions more
comprehensible and accessible to readers who may not have had the good for-
tune to meet Robert and Andrew themselves.
 CHAPTER 2

Robert Mark: In Memoriam

Ethan Mark

Robert Mark, world-renowned pioneer in the application of civil engineering

techniques to the structural analysis of Gothic and other historic buildings and
emeritus professor of civil engineering and architecture at Princeton Univer-
sity, died at his home in Manhattan on Friday March 29th, 2019. He was 88
(Figure 2.1).
Several years into Mark’s teaching career in the mid-1960s, impromptu ques-
tions from students following a course in medieval architecture precipitated
a game-changing career turn towards the investigation of historic structures.
From then on, Mark made an international name for his use of photoelas-
tic modeling techniques in the analysis of historic buildings, yielding multi-­
colored stress patterns never before revealed or understood by earlier scholars
(Figure 2.2) The technique radically changed the general understanding of
medieval building technology, as his many publications, often with the leading
architectural historians of the day, attest.

Figure 2.1 R
 obert Mark
photo by Carol Grissom

© REthan Mark, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_003

Robert Mark: In Memoriam 9

Figure 2.2
Amiens Cathedral; photoelastic patterns in
model of nave, by Robert Mark

As natural and successful as his combining of engineering and architectural

history turned out to be, the move was unique and bold. As USC professor and
former Princeton colleague Carolyn Malone recalls, “it took a broad leap of
the imagination and an adventurous spirit to think of using small scale epoxy
models of sections of Gothic churches to simulate the forces in the building
resulting from the load of their own weight and wind pressure.” In his later
career, in cutting-edge research spanning from the Pantheon to the Hagia
Sophia to 20th century skyscrapers, Mark also helped to pioneer the introduc-
tion of finite-element computer modeling to the study of historic buildings.
In retrospect Mark’s unique marriage of engineering and architectural his-
tory appeared fated, as his intellectual passions had long extended far beyond
hard science into humanities areas such as art, history, and music. He later
credited his lifelong love of the arts in part to his older sister Beverly, who had
given him a membership to the Museum of Modern Art when he was in high
school; his first wife Janet Harvey, whom he married in 1955, was also an accom-
plished classical musician. As he recalled in 1982, “During my college years I
went to an interview for an engineering job carrying under my arm Sabartés’
Picasso with its bright colored jacket. The interview was unsuccessful. Later, as
I waited for an elevator in the corridor, one of the engineers, apparently feeling
sympathetic, emerged from his office to give advice: ‘Young man, never bring a
book like that when you look for a job in engineering.’”
Robert Mark was born on July 3, 1930, in the Bronx, New York, and grew up
on City Island. A childhood surrounded by the sea nurtured a love of sailing
and racing that in turn inspired an interest in boat-building, leading to the
set-up of a home machine shop and a trajectory through the Bronx High School
10 Mark

of Science to City College, where he received a professional degree in civil engi-

neering in 1952; his knowledge of machining would prove an asset throughout
his career. Upon graduation he worked for five years as a stress analyst and
project engineer, designing reactor containment vessels and components for
the first generation of nuclear-powered navy submarines with Combustion
Engineering, Inc. In 1957 he took up work at the Princeton University Plasma
Physics Lab, eventually establishing the Stress Analysis Laboratory at the For-
restal Research Center. From 1962 he began research and teaching courses in
structural design, model analysis and experimental solid mechanics in the
Princeton University Department of Civil Engineering, while establishing and
directing the Photomechanics and Structural Model Laboratory.
In the early 1970s he began to collaborate with leading architectural histo-
rians throughout the U.S. and beyond, from initial work with Professors Fran-
çois Bucher and Alan Borg of Princeton and Robert Branner of Columbia to
the chairing of a series of Sloan Foundation- and National Endowment of the
Humanities-sponsored summer institutes for architectural historians at Princ-
eton from 1985–88. These institutes, colleague Leonard Van Gulick (Lafayette
College) recalls, “profoundly affected the professional lives of the architectural
historians and research engineers who were fortunate enough to participate.”
Along the way Mark pioneered and co-taught courses and curricula in engi-
neering for architecture and liberal arts students with architectural and art
historians including Danny Ćurčić, Carolyn Malone, and many others, and he
founded Princeton’s Inter-departmental Program in Engineering and Architec-
ture, which he led from 1981–1990. His many students included art historians
(the late Andrew Tallon of Vassar College and Robert Bork of the University
of Iowa) and architects (Tod Williams/Tod Williams Billie Tsien; and Andrés
Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk, formerly of Arquitectonica, now DPZ). He
also worked alongside such notable architectural figures as Michael Graves
and Peter Eisenman. Funding sources for his prolific research included the
National Science Foundation and National Endowment for the Humanities;
Mellon, Ford, Rockefeller and Guggenheim Foundations. Consulting clients
over the years meanwhile included Grumman (for whom he worked on hor-
izontal stabilizers for the F-14 fighter), American Olean Tile, Exxon Research
and Engineering Co., RCA Laboratories, and the Tile Council of America, and
Washington National Cathedral. Such activities would continue well into his
80s—long beyond his retirement from Princeton and his move back to his
Manhattan hometown in 1997.
In pioneering such a scholarly path less-travelled, Mark took inspiration
from daring, innovative historical predecessors such as the 17th century’s Sir
Christopher Wren, whose dome design of London’s Saint Paul’s cathedral
Robert Mark: In Memoriam 11

he saw as a model wedding of the functional and the aesthetic. On the same
score, he identified above all with the 19th-century architect Eugène Viollet-
le-Duc, who restored many of France’s prominent medieval landmarks while
initiating a discussion on the proper relationship of form and function that
inspired a great generation of 19th–century architects—whose timeless les-
sons, Mark often lamented, were not as well remembered in the 20th and 21st
centuries. Even if perhaps now rendered technically obsolete by the poten-
tials of computer modeling, in their harmonious straddling of the realms of
aesthetics and science alike, the vivid colors of Mark’s inimitable cathedral
cross-sections, once viewed, occupy an indelible space in our consciousness.
So too Mark’s imprint—as scholar, as father, as grandfather, as colleague and
friend—will surely stand the test of time.
Robert Mark’s publications included Experiments in Gothic Structure (1982,
republished 2014), Light, Wind, and Structure: The Mystery of The Master Build-
ers (1990, winner of the American Institute of Architects International Publica-
tion Award), Hagia Sophia: From the Age of Justinian to the Present (with Ahmet
S. Çakmak, 1992), and Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution
(1993). Numerous articles were published both in scientific and art-historical
journals including Scientific American, American Scientist, the Journal of the
Society of Architectural Historians, and Art Bulletin. His work reached a wide
audience through dedicated episodes of the television series NOVA (PBS) and
The Nature of Things (CBC) and mass-media profiles including Life magazine,
The New York Times, Der Spiegel, Discover, and Popular Mechanics.
He is survived by his three sons Christopher, Peter, and Ethan; daughters
in-law Mary and Gonda; grandchildren Justine, Nicholas, Nathaniel, Yana and
Ardjano; and companion of many years Carol Grissom.
 CHAPTER 3

Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral

Stephen Murray

On November 16, 2018 we lost the brightest of the rising young stars of Gothic
architectural scholarship. Andrew Tallon, having worked with Anne Prache
at the University of Paris/Sorbonne and Robert Mark at Princeton University,
was extraordinarily well prepared to undertake his passionate Gothic quest
(Figure 3.1).
His publications, which started to appear soon after his graduation from
Columbia University, include a spectacular monograph on Notre-Dame of
Paris, written in collaboration with Dany Sandron. The reader is led to under-
stand the complexities of this most enigmatic cathedral through a series of
stunning virtual reality renderings showing the constructional sequence in a
way never seen before. In multiple articles published in journals such as the
Society of Architectural Historians as well as more specialized local colloquia,
Andrew Tallon leads us to new levels of understanding of the role of sound,
acoustics, design and dynamic structural behavior in Gothic—work that

Figure 3.1 A
 ndrew Tallon
photo from Vassar College

© Stephen Murray, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_004

Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral 13

should have culminated in a grand new book.1 Essential to his mission was his
role as an inspired teacher and mentor of students at Vassar College.
I look back at my more-than-two decades of association and collaboration
with Andrew with enormous affection and admiration: may I share some
recollections….?2

1 The Cathedral at the Threshold between Heaven and Earth

In the early 1990s, at the dawn of the technological revolution that would
transform the way we do Art History, I began to look for new ways to pres-
ent Amiens cathedral to the students of the Columbia Core Curriculum. The
project was driven by the Augustinian vibration between the Material and the
Heavenly Cities. Working with Rory O’Neill and Eden Muir in the Columbia
School of Architecture Digital Design Lab, and Maurice Luker in the Media
Center for Art History, we created visionary images of the cathedral not only
as a timeless entity, an image of Heaven, but also caught up in the process of
becoming and decaying. We aimed to provide users an unforgettable experi-
ence, allowing them to grasp essential concepts through images and allegories
rather than conventional rhetorical explanations. But we struggled over the
question of what the viewer should hear? Enter Andrew Tallon. The solution to
our problem was created by an extraordinary young man who was, at that time,
working with his colleague, Adam Wolfensohn, having founded an innovative
sound studio called Red Ramona, located in the old meat-packing district of
downtown Manhattan. Andrew Tallon (he was Andy in those days and sported
cool-looking red-framed eye glasses and hip hairdos) came up to Columbia
and we found ourselves almost immediately sharing ideas about sacred space,
sound and animation. Combining synthesized music with melodic passages
which he himself played on a variety of instruments, Andrew created an
extraordinary soundtrack that somehow conveys sacred space and projects the
viewer into another world. Our prize-winning production, The Amiens Trilogy
is still widely in use in classrooms.

1 For a list of publications see http://pages.vassar.edu/antallon/selected-publications/.

2 These are recollections shared with Andrew during our last conversation in September. On
the wall was Eugène Burnand’s famous image of the Disciples.
14 Murray

2 The New Media as a Platform for Scholarly Collaboration

In the late 1990s Andrew began to consider building upon his previous studies
at Princeton and the Sorbonne to pursue a doctoral degree in Art History. I,
of course, did my very best to persuade him that there was only one possible
option—Columbia University. I was absolutely delighted when he accepted
our offer—he gained enormously from working with colleagues like Susan
Boynton and Robin Middleton. We had reached a new stage of experimenta-
tion in the Media Center for Art History. Having created a number of successful
animations for use in “Art Humanities” (part of the Columbia Core Curricu-
lum) we began to work under a Mellon grant on the problem pulling the entire
curriculum together in a website that would embody high-resolution digital
images and animations of each of the components of the course. When this
proved impossible at Columbia, we looked further afield to create a great
collaborative web-borne course on Medieval Architecture—the first course
taught digitally in my Department.
Andrew joined us on the eve of our departure for a two-week brainstorming
workshop in Granada, Spain in Summer 2000. Our team included Dale Kin-
ney, Robert Ousterhout, Jerrilyn Dodds, Roger Stalley, Michael Davis, Linda
Neagley, Pamela Jerome and Barry Bergdoll. Maurice Luker and Robert Car-
lucci headed the Media Team; Andrew and Stefaan van Liefferinge joined us
as interns. We had free access to the Alhambra where Andrew roamed with
his video camera, creating some marvelous features for use in our new course.
My son Finnian’s experience working with Andrew in Granada and beyond
set him on his path to a career as a Hollywood film editor. The new Medieval
Architecture course website that resulted from the Granada workshop proved
an extraordinary asset.

3 The Image not Made by Human Hands

At the same time, in the 1990s, an exciting new tool became ­available—the
laser scanner. The Cyra Company, based in Oakland, California (later taken
over by Leica), had developed a scanner which projected laser pulses at an
object or building, measuring the amount of time they took to reach a solid
surface and thereby calibrating the distance. When linked to a laptop com-
puter the device creates three-dimensional ‘cloud point” images: with multi-
ple scans an entire spatial framework of a complex building can be grasped.
The cloud point data can be sliced horizontally or vertically to give highly
accurate plans and sections. Professor Peter Allen of the Columbia School
Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral 15

Figure 3.2 Beauvais Cathedral, laser scan model by Andrew Tallon, 2013

of Engineering had acquired a Cyrax scanner, and in 2001 we deployed the

instrument in an attempt to gain a fuller understanding of Beauvais Cathe-
dral, which had recently come through a period of structural distress and rad-
ical intervention. Andrew worked with us during an unforgettable few days
when we had free access to the entire cathedral. The three-dimensional images
created through scanning are compelling—even without interpretation they
powerfully induce the sense of having finally understood the entire cathedral
(Figure 3.2). Because such images do not involve the laborious task of measur-
ing by hand and promise “scientific” accuracy, they seem almost miraculous—
an image not made by human hands (achieropoetos).
For my generation of humanistically-trained scholars, the cloud point
technology was daunting. Andrew, however, belonging to the new genera-
tion, combined an excellent traditional education with what I can only call
a genius for digital hardware. He never saw a piece of digital equipment that
he could not operate—and in the most remote and precarious perches to be
found in any church. Within a short time, he was able to deploy the scanner
himself and to manipulate the resultant data. The illusion of the effortlessly-
produced magic image is, of course, just that: in order to produce his stunning
laser-generated images of Bourges, Chartres, Notre-Dame of Paris, Sens,
Noyon, S-Leu d’Esserent etc, Andrew and his helpers had not only to deploy
the scanner at multiple points at pavement level, but also to laboriously insert
it in the hidden spaces—gallery, triforium passage and between roofs and
vaults. And then to process the massive amount of cloud point data.
16 Murray

4 Mapping Medieval Architecture

The laser scanner facilitated the spatial exploration of individual buildings

(Andrew liked to call it l’archéologie spatiale)—but what about the compre-
hension of multiple look-alike buildings, spread over time and space? Our
Mapping enterprise began with six unforgettable summer programs (2002–
2007) conducted in the château of Bostz in the Bourbonnais with Prince
Charles-Henri de Lobkowicz as our gracious host. With Andrew as my partner
(he was still engaged in course work and then his dissertation at Columbia) we
recruited teams of students (mostly undergraduates) with whom we worked
on gathering images, measurements and archaeological data from the scores
of small churches from the eleventh and twelfth centuries that dot the Bour-
bonnais countryside. It took both ingenuity and heft in order to transform the
château of Bostz into a teaching/research laboratory each summer. I remem-
ber scrubbing showers on my hands and knees and lugging tables and chairs
over from the town hall. Andrew would set up the media lab, ingeniously rig-
ging up the spaces for wifi and helping the students with their data gathering
and processing. I have vivid memories of a particular ­evening—it was June
21 2002–and I had been up in Beauvais with the team of laser scanners and
returned late to find nobody at home. I found that Andrew had rigged up an
outdoor cinema for the students behind our château with our portable projec-
tor and a bedsheet—they were enjoying a Monty Python movie….
Peter Allen and his team of laser scanners joined us for a while and Rory
O’Neill devised an extraordinary tool for spatial analysis. John Ochsendorf
from MIT also participated in the summer program and Andrew formed a
working relationship with him that would later result in valuable structural
analysis of the various types of early Gothic flying buttresses.
And it was at Souvigny, in the Bourbonnais, that Andrew met the love of his
life, Marie….
The mapping enterprise led to greater things. Intrigued by our website
Don Waters of the Mellon foundation encouraged us to go on to the map-
ping the great cathedrals of France: www.mappinggothic.org. The project
was conceived in the kitchen of our château in a conversation with Rory
O’Neill. Andrew was about to graduate from Columbia with his PhD and
begin his teaching career at Vassar College and I was able to write him into
the grant as co-principal. With the help of Nicole Griggs and the staff of the
Columbia Art History Department and Media Center as well as the support
of the Art History Department of Vassar College, Andrew and I organized
four summer programs (2008–2011) based in a series of maisons de gîte
spread across France. Each day we would set out in our two vans, our team
Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral 17

equipped to undertake a variety of tasks. With James Conlon, then director

of the Media Center, we had researched the availability of medium/large
format digital cameras best suited to our task. Andrew was the sole opera-
tor of the camera, which coupled a 39 megapixel digital back with a Cambo
Wide DS mount fitted with a Schneider Kreuznach 35mm lens. He made
the task look effortless, dancing fearlessly around the upper reaches of the
cathedral with his camera, gathering the most stunning images. Yet this
is a heavy piece of equipment, quite clumsy in its view-finder and focus-
ing. With his instinct for finding just the right view and with his endless
patience in image processing Andrew created some of the most beautiful
cathedral images I have ever seen. While Andrew was at work with the big
camera I operated a Nikon D3 camera with a perspective-correction lens,
concentrating upon sequences of images that would convey the experience
of moving through the building. Rory O’Neill and Nicole Griggs worked
with a hand-held laser measuring instrument producing data that Rory
later turned into comparative sections. Telephotography was done by Jor-
dan Love and Zach Stewart. And Andrew recruited talented undergradu-
ate students from Vassar to do the panoramic photography: Lindsay Cook,
Sofia Gans, Ani Kodzhabasheva, Jess Lentner, Kappy Mintie, and Alexandra
Thom, all of whom went on to pursue advanced degrees in art history or
architecture.
It was in the last sessions that we deployed the laser scanner, now oper-
ated by Andrew helped by Nicole Griggs and others. The churches scanned
included Notre-Dame of Paris, S-Denis, Chartres, Noyon, Sens, S-Martin-des
Champs and S-Quiriace of Provins. And in the very last session (2011) Andrew
also deployed the gigapan rig with a robotic arm gathering extraordinary
high-resolution images of the tympana at Conques and Moissac.

5 Andrew Tallon: Singing with the Cathedral

Andrew and I spent a total of ten unforgettable summers together in France

and one in Spain, engaged in fruitful conversations, experiments, data-gather-
ing and lots of plain hard labor in our attempts to comprehend sacred space.
I think that one of the most important things I learned from Andrew was his
awareness of the sounds of the cathedral. The church is as much an instrument
as are the voices of the cantors—the space, in no uncertain terms, sings along….
For Andrew the cathedral is not just an inert thing to be studied as an
archaeologist—it is a vital part of a coherent belief system. The cathedral is,
after all, the most powerful mechanism transforming sensation and affect into
18 Murray

religious conviction. The recognition of miraculous transformation induced by

cathedral space and resonance leads to the comprehension of the Easter Story
and the ultimate resurrection of the body. In witnessing Andrew’s life and
career, I have sometimes been reminded of Kenneth Conant, whose passion
for his beloved Cluny led all the way to religious conviction and conversion.3
Conant’s architectural studies were a passage to becoming an Orthodox monk:
he found that the best way to convey to his students the affect of Romanesque
architectural space was to throw back his head and sing plainsong to them.
Andrew also sang—both for his students and for the cathedral.
Andrew pursued his enterprise all the way, just as the cathedral builders had
intended.
3 Peter Fergusson, Gesta, 24/1, 1985, 87–88.
 CHAPTER 4

Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight

Robert Bork

Robert Mark brought a truly unique perspective to the study of historic archi-
tecture, making particularly valuable contributions to the study of Gothic
cathedrals. Born in New York in 1930 when the Empire State Building was
under construction, Robert trained as an engineer while cherishing passions
for both music and the visual arts. After completing his degree at New York’s
City College in 1952, he participated actively in the remarkable technologi-
cal flowering seen in the United States after the Second World War, helping
to design reactor containment vessels for the earliest nuclear submarines. In
1957 he began to work for the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory, performing
structural analysis of designs for stellarators, fusion reactor prototypes of a sort
first proposed at the Laboratory. On the strength of this work, he was hired in
1962 by Princeton University’s Department of Civil Engineering, with which he
remained affiliated until his retirement more than three decades later.
Most of Robert’s research throughout the 1960s and 1970s involved the use
of photoelastic modeling, a technique originally developed for the analysis
of aircraft structures. This procedure begins with the creation in epoxy plas-
tic of a small-scale model representing the structure in question. The model is
then heated into a rubbery state, and scaled loadings are applied to it, creating
stresses and associated patterns of strain throughout its fabric. When the model
is slowly cooled, these strain patterns are locked into the material, in a process
called stress freezing. As Robert remarked in one early publication, this process
“is analogous to deforming a tar-filled sponge at elevated temperature and then
lowering the temperature to allow the tar to harden, fixing the deformation
within the sponge.”1 Then, when polarized light is shone through the model,
the strain deformations in the material affect the polarization of the light to a
greater or lesser extent, so that when the model is seen through another polar-
izing filter, interference patterns will be revealed (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). These

1 The quote is from Robert Mark and Ronald S. Jonash. “Wind Loading on Gothic Structure.”
Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 29 (1970): 222–30, at 226. For Robert’s most
frequently cited description of the photoelastic method, see Robert Mark, Experiments in
Gothic Structure (Cambridge, MA, 1982), pp. 18–33.

© Robert Bork, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_005

20 Bork

Figure 4.1
Robert Mark in his office, with photoelastic
model of Amiens nave

Figure 4.2 Robert Mark’s polariscope equipment at Princeton

patterns are essentially contour maps of strain within the model, from which
stress levels within the original structure can be deduced by scaling theory.
Any assessment of Robert’s contribution to the study of architectural his-
tory must consider the advantages and limitations of this modeling technique,
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 21

both on its own terms and in comparison to other alternative approaches. The
greatest advantage of the photoelastic method is that it gives information about
stress levels at every point in a structure, so that dangerous stress concentrations
can be identified and understood in their context. As subsequent discussion will
show, some significant alternative methods of structural analysis provide no
such mapping of stresses. The greatest limitation of the photoelastic method,
though, is that it treats the whole structure as if it were a single uniform and con-
tinuous piece of material. This assumption would seem to limit its applicability
to architecture, since buildings are typically made of many small pieces, often
with different mechanical properties. A wall made of stones with no mortar
between them, for instance, is very strong in compression, because the stones
themselves are strong, but it will have absolutely no strength in tension, because
the stones are not bonded to each other in any way. Mortared walls will typi-
cally exhibit a contrast of this type, also, because most mortars are fairly weak
in tension. Even a wall made of solid concrete will have many irregularities and
inhomogeneities that might seem to render photoelastic modeling inapplicable.
Robert’s crucial finding, based on experiments conducted in the 1960s, is that
photoelastic modeling actually could serve as a useful tool for the analysis of
masonry structures. The reason for this is fairly simple, although many subtle-
ties arise in practice: basically, since unreinforced masonry is weak in tension,
a masonry structure will have complete integrity only if its components are all
compressed together, in which case it will behave essentially like a single con-
tinuous piece of material. In places where the interference patterns in the mod-
els indicate the presence of tension, the models can be sliced to represent the
localized cracking that would occur in the full-scale structure, and the heating,
loading, and observation process can be repeated. By working in this way, Robert
found that photoelastic modeling could effectively predict the performance not
only of metal components like those in Princeton’s planned stellarator, but also of
concrete structures, from heavy reactor containment vessels to thin-shell domes.2
Robert might have gone on to a successful but relatively straightforward
career in engineering if several of his students in the middle 1960s had not also
been enrolled in a class on Gothic architecture taught by François Bucher. Stu-
dents Thomas Rauch and Richard Alan Prentke, in particular, played key roles
in connecting the two professors, before going on to collaborate with Robert in
publishing early articles on Gothic structure.3 Although Bucher left Princeton

2 Robert Mark, “Photomechanical Model Analysis of Concrete Structures,” in Models for

Concrete Structures (Detroit, 1970), pp. 187–214.
3 Thomas M. Rausch and Robert Mark, “Model Study of Buttressing the Piers in Chartres
Cathedral,” Gesta 6 (1967): 21–24. Robert Mark and Richard Alan Prentke, “Model Analysis of
22 Bork

for Florida in 1970, Robert was able to enjoy fruitful discussions about Gothic
architecture first with Columbia University’s Robert Branner, who died tragically
young in 1973, and then with Carolyn Malone, whose time at Princeton in the late
1970s deepened Robert’s engagement with the work of her mentor Jean Bony.
Inspired by these connections, Robert undertook a series of pioneering struc-
tural analyses of Gothic churches using the photoelastic modeling technique.
The originality of Robert’s work emerges most clearly through comparison
with the work of his predecessors and contemporaries in the field. Robert drew
particular inspiration from the career of Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc,
who had contributed greatly to the restoration and analysis of French Gothic
buildings in the nineteenth century. Precisely because both men believed in
rational technical progress, however, Robert felt that he could honor Viollet-
le-Duc’s legacy by correcting and refining some of his interpretations, taking
advantage of tools and techniques that had emerged only in the twentieth
century.4 Viollet obviously had a well-informed understanding of Gothic design
and building practice, but his published structural analyses tended to be qual-
itative and intuitive rather than quantitative and rooted in engineering theory,
as Robert’s work would be. One significant figure whose career fell in between
theirs was Pol Abraham, who sought early in the twentieth century to challenge
many of Viollet-le-Duc’s arguments about the rationalism of Gothic structure.5
So, while Viollet had argued that the ribs of Gothic vaults were structurally func-
tional, Abraham denied this, even though he believed that the stresses in a vault
would collect along the groin line, following trajectories like those described
by a ball rolling down the vault surface. Abraham also denied the functional
usefulness of the pinnacles seen on the exterior buttress uprights of Reims and
Amiens Cathedrals, observing that their outboard placement would make the
buttresses less stable than they would have been otherwise. Much of Robert’s
early work on Gothic architecture would involve revisiting these arguments.
Jacques Heyman deserves recognition as the figure most closely compara-
ble to Robert, in terms of bringing modern engineering theory to bear on the
study of Gothic structure, but these two contemporaries approached the mate-
rial in dramatically different ways.6 Because historic buildings are so difficult
to analyze rigorously, both men had to make many simplifying assumptions.

Gothic Structure,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 27, no. 1 (1968): 44–48.
4 Robert Mark, “Gothic Cathedrals and Structural Rationalism,” in Proceedings of the New York
Academy of Sciences 33 (1971): 617–24. Robert Mark, “Robert Willis, Viollet-le-Duc, and the
Structural Approach to Gothic Architecture,” Architectura 7 (1977): 52–64.
5 Pol Abraham, Viollet-le-Duc et le Rationalisme médiéval (Paris, 1934).
6 Jacques Heyman, “The Stone Skeleton,” in International Journal of Solids and Structures 2
(April 1966): 249–279. Jacques Heyman, The Stone Skeleton: Structural Engineering of Masonry
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 23

Heyman, realizing that the stress levels in medieval masonry would typically
be far less than the compressive strength of stone, but greater than the ten-
sile strength of mortar, chose to treat Gothic buildings in essence as piles of
infinitely strong stones, between which cracks might appear. Heyman dis-
missed the possibility of the stones slipping, but he recognized that they could
rotate with respect to each other, forming hinges. To determine where hinges
might form, Heyman used the well-established idea of the thrust line, in which
the forces vectors acting in a structure are summed up as they are applied, so
as to create a single theoretical line of force passing through it. When this line
moves out of the middle third of the structural element, it begins to experi-
ence tension on the opposite side, and when the line moves to the edge of the
element, a hinge forms. Collapse theoretically ensues if, and only if, enough
hinges form to convert the structure into a mobile mechanism. A structure will
accordingly remain stable for a given loading condition so long as a safe thrust
line can be found through the structure. This “safe theorem” was a fundamen-
tal result for Heyman, who was more concerned with questions of stability
than he was with the distribution of forces in the structure.7
Robert, by contrast, was very interested in force distribution patterns. His
goal was a kind of literal insight, by which he could see the stresses within
structures. To get information of this sort, which Heyman’s style of analysis
would not provide, Robert had to assume that the structure in question was
essentially continuous, rather than being made of separate blocks. This is a big
and seemingly implausible assumption in the context of historic masonry con-
struction, and it is one for which Robert’s work has sometimes been faulted.8

Architecture (Cambridge, 1995). Jacques Heyman, Arches, Vaults and Buttresses (Aldershot,
1996).
7 Sergio Sanabria, “Perils of Certitude in the Structural Analysis of Historic Masonry Buildings,”
Annals of Science, 57 (2000): 447–53.
8 Santiago Huerta comments, for example, that “As it is impossible to know the internal and
external compatibility conditions, which, besides, change with time, the classical elas-
tic approach is nonsensical.” See “The Debate about the Structural Behaviour of Gothic
Vaults: From Viollet-le-Duc to Heyman,” in Proceedings of the Third International Congress
on Construction History, Cottbus, May 2009, pp. 837–844, here at 842. Even Andrew Tallon,
who owed so much to Robert’s example, distanced himself from Robert’s modeling enter-
prise, which he dismissed as “exciting but ultimately capricious” (“passionante mais fina-
lement capricieux”). See “La Structure de la cathédrale de Chartres,” in Chartres: Construire
et restaurer la cathédrale, ed. Arnaud Timbert (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses Universitaires du
Septentrion, 2014), pp. 239–257, here at 252. Andrew was concerned not only by the simpli-
fying assumptions inherent to Robert’s method, but also by the fact that Robert’s models
were imprecise, sometimes omitting structurally relevant building elements such as the wall
buttresses above the aisles of Chartres. This difference of perspective, however, never com-
promised their enduring friendship.
24 Bork

As noted previously, though, Robert’s experiments in the 1960s had shown that
photoelastic modeling based on this assumption could successfully capture the
behavior of modern concrete structures, and his subsequent research would
show that such modeling could effectively describe ancient and medieval
structures, as well. Although Robert’s work in this domain was based on rad-
ical simplifying assumptions, examination of the buildings in question often
revealed precisely the signs of stress that his modeling had predicted, including
most notably mortar cracking in areas subject to localized tensile stress.
A brief rehearsal of Robert’s early modeling results helps to demonstrate
the fruitfulness of his approach, and the value of his insights. In a short article
written with Thomas Rauch and using a very schematic model of the Chartres
nave cross-section, Robert showed in 1967 that photoelastic modeling could
plausibly describe the action of flying buttresses in reducing bending and asso-
ciated tension in Gothic churches with heavy vaulting.9 In an article written
with Richard Alan Prentke in the following year, Robert contradicted Pol Abra-
ham by showing that the placement of pinnacles on the outer edges of the but-
tress uprights at Amiens was actually useful in eliminating tensile stresses that
would emerge in this area on the leeward side of the building.10 In another arti-
cle published in 1968, Robert reported that modeling of Saint-Ouen in Rouen
predicted the existence of tensile stresses in the triforium wall, likely because
only a single flying buttress was used per side.11 When he visited Rouen a year
later, he found evidence of localized cracking in this zone, providing valuable
evidence for the validity of his approach.12 Robert then published articles on
wind loading and on structural rationalism, noting that Gothic builders could
have arrived at sophisticated solutions such as the Amiens pinnacle place-
ment by observing cracking in the first completed bays of the cathedral, which
would serve effectively as full-scale models for the rest.13 Such learning by
doing allowed Gothic design to progress very rapidly in the century between
1150 and 1250. As Robert observed in a series of articles comparing Chartres and
Bourges, however, the more structurally efficient solutions were not always the
most popular or influential.14 Bourges, with its steeply sloped flying buttresses,

9 Rauch and Mark. “Model Study of Buttressing the Piers in Chartres Cathedral.”
10 Mark and Prentke, “Model Analysis of Gothic Structure.”
11 Robert Mark, “The Church of St. Ouen, Rouen—A Reexamination of Gothic Structure,”
American Scientist 56 (1968): 390–99.
12 Mark and Jonash, “Wind Loading on Gothic Structure,” p. 229.
13 Mark, “Gothic Cathedrals and Structural Rationalism.” Mark and Jonash, “Wind Loading
on Gothic Structure.”
14 Robert Mark, “The Structural Analysis of Gothic Cathedrals: Chartres vs. Bourges,” Scien-
tific American 227 (1972): 90–101. Alan Borg and Robert Mark, “Chartres Cathedral: A Rein-
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 25

achieved the same interior height as Chartres with a far lighter structure, but
its efficient buttress format had few sequels in France until the late Gothic
period. Already in the early phase of his engagement with Gothic architecture,
therefore, Robert’s modeling exercises were giving him valuable perspectives
not only on the performance of individual buildings, but also on the larger
developmental patterns of medieval architectural history.
In analyzing the partial collapse of Beauvais Cathedral, Robert offered a fresh
perspective on an event that has figured prominently in the scholarly narra-
tives of Gothic architecture more generally.15 Since its choir, completed in 1272,
ranks as the tallest church vessel in Europe, its failure just a dozen years later
has often been seen as marking the end of the boldest phase of Gothic struc-
tural experimentation. This idea, though, can be interpreted in more or less
negative ways. With its extreme height and slender proportions, the cathedral
can be read as an expression of hubristic folly, and its failure can be seen as
the natural or inevitable consequence of such overreach. Even in this judg-
mental framing, however, the question of exactly what failed would remain.
In a more positive framework, the cathedral can be seen as magnificent and
nearly perfect, with its success undercut only by some small but deadly flaw.
Viollet-le-Duc adopted the more positive view, and he argued that the subtle
flaw involved the exceptionally slender free-standing shafts that supposedly
braced the large stones engaged in the wall at the heads of the flying buttress-
es.16 These shafts, he believed, broke when they were compressed by the slow
shrinkage of masonry joints in the adjacent wall piers. A century later Heyman
accepted the same basic theory of the failure, whose occurrence twelve years
after the choir’s completion awkwardly contradicts his “safe theorem” that a
stable masonry building should remain stable.17 Robert, by contrast, showed
that masonry shrinkage was unlikely to have broken the shafts, and he con-
cluded from his photoelastic modeling of the choir that the crucial problem

terpretation of its Structure,” The Art Bulletin 55 (1973): 367–72. Robert Mark and Maury
Wolfe, “Gothic Cathedral Buttressing: The Experiment at Bourges and Its Influence,” Jour-
nal of the Society of Architectural Historians 33 (1974): 17–26.
15 Maury I. Wolfe and Robert Mark. “The Collapse of the Vaults of Beauvais Cathedral in
1284,” Speculum 51 (1976): 462–76. It should be noted that Robert’s model of Beauvais
omits the thin wall linking the outer buttress and arcade pier in the eastern bay that it
notionally depicts.
16 Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture française du XIe
au XVIe siècle, 4 (Paris, 1858–68) “Construction,” pp. 177–80.
17 Jacques Heyman, “Beauvais Cathedral,” Transactions of the Newcomen Society 40 (1967):
15–35. Sanabria calls attention to the problems of Heyman’s “safe theorem” in this case in
his helpful review “Perils of Certitude.”
26 Bork

Figure 4.3 Beauvais Cathedral, photoelastic model of choir section

instead arose at the base of the slender intermediate buttresses, which would
have experienced tensile cracking under wind loading (Figure 4.3).
Initially small cracks could have become dangerous to the structure espe-
cially through the penetration of water and its expansion into ice in cold
weather; the resulting local degradation of the masonry would have been diffi-
cult for maintenance workers to detect because low roofs blocked visual access
to this zone.18 Stephen Murray has demonstrated that the failure at Beauvais
first arose in the middle bay of the choir rather than in the eastern bay that

18 Supporting this hypothesis, research in recent decades has demonstrated that the action
of ice in fracturing stone at sustained cold temperatures can be even greater than that
caused by freeze-thaw cycles. See, for instance, Joseph Walter and Bernard Hallet, “A The-
oretical Model of the Fracture of Rock During Freezing,” Geological Society of America
Bulletin 96 (1985): 336–346.
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 27

Robert sought to model, but Robert’s theory of the collapse mechanism still
remains compelling in this context.19
Robert’s work significantly advanced the state of the art in the structural
analysis of vaulting, as well. In the early twentieth century, Pol Abraham had
treated simple quadripartite vaults essentially like side-by-side arches, arguing
that the forces within them followed the same trajectory as rolling balls on the
vault surface.20 Heyman embraced the same basic model of vault action, but
he concluded, unlike Abraham, that this pattern of forces would create enough
stress along the groins to make diagonal ribs structurally necessary.21 Robert’s
photoelastic modeling, by contrast, suggested that the vault webbing would
act as a continuous shell rather than as a series of arches, and that there would
thus be no such unique stress concentration along the groin, meaning that the
diagonal rib would be structurally superfluous.22 This important result agreed
with the observed fact that many Gothic vaults survive even after their ribs
have broken off, as was seen in many buildings damaged in the world wars.
This did not mean that ribs were functionally superfluous, though, since they
could prove useful in construction by acting as permanent centering. The use
of ribs can thus be seen as highly rational, if not exactly in the structural sense
that Viollet-le-Duc had imagined.
Robert’s vault analyses were particularly innovative because they involved
not just photoelastic modeling, but also some of the earliest application of
finite-element computer modeling to the study of historic structures (Figure
1.5). Such modeling should be seen as a close digital analog for photoelastic
modeling, since both techniques treat the structures in question as essentially

19 Stephen Murray, Beauvais Cathedral: Architecture of Transcendence (Princeton, 1991), pp.

112–20. The distinctions between the various bays of Beauvais Cathedral complicate anal-
ysis of its structure. Robert based his photoelastic model on the cross-section separating
the straight bays from the chevet, but the model does not include the low chapel walls
joining the intermediate piers to the outer buttresses at ground level. In this respect his
model more closely resembles the middle bay where Stephen Murray located the failure,
where, however, the outer spans are wider than in the model. These variations in the
geometry of the cathedral’s fairly robust substructure are unlikely to have affected the
failure mechanism that Robert identified, involving the slender intermediate uprights of
the superstructure. In any case, Robert agreed with Stephen, based on their conversations
in 1975, that the central bay was the likely site of the failure. See Mark, Experiments in
Gothic Structure, p. 75.
20 Abraham, Viollet-le-Duc et le Rationalisme médiéval, p. 14.
21 Jacques Heyman, “On Rubber Vaults of the Middle Ages and Other Matters,” Gazette des
Beaux Arts 71 (1968): 177–88; and Heyman, Equilibrium in Shell Structures (Oxford, 1977),
pp. 126–7.
22 Robert Mark, John F. Abel, and Kevin O’Neill, “Photoelastic and Finite-Element Analysis
of a Quadripartite Vault, Experimental Mechanics 13 (1973): 322–9.
28 Bork

continuous masses that have well-defined mechanical properties. Even the

processes of dealing with local tension are analogous: in both cases, the mod-
eling is repeated after the model has been slit in the area where tension first
arose, whether that slitting is accomplished by physical cutting or by the digi-
tal decoupling of adjacent elements. In view of these similarities, it is gratify-
ing but not surprising that Robert’s early computer models of Gothic vaulting
agreed closely with his photoelastic models. Finite-element models, though,
have several distinct advantages over photoelastic models. First, they are more
legible, since stresses can be read directly from them, without need for the
subtle technique of counting interference fringes, a technique necessary for
reading photoelastic models that few scholars other than Robert truly mas-
tered (Figure 1.3). Second, digital models can be readily altered to incorporate
different material properties in different places, which uniform plastic mod-
els cannot be. Finally, digital models of three-dimensional structures can be
used repeatedly, since they do not need to be cut into cross-sectional slices
for observation in a polariscope, as photoelastic models must be. Robert thus
found the digital finite-element approach particularly useful for modeling the
complex structure of sexpartite vaults.23 His analysis showed that sexpartite
vaults were somewhat lighter than a pair of quadripartite bays covering an
equivalent area, but that they behaved in a qualitatively similar way, in that
the forces were distributed throughout the webbing in both cases.
After achieving all of these fundamental results in a frenetically busy decade
between 1967 and 1977, Robert shifted gears somewhat, broadening the scope
of his research beyond the earlier phases of French Gothic, and undertaking
increasingly ambitious projects to share his work with the public. On the for-
mer front, he undertook structural analyses of Palma Cathedral in Spain, and
of the crossing tower of Wells Cathedral in England, while also publishing
on German late Gothic design techniques in collaboration with Lon Shelby,
a crucial expert in that field.24 He then bundled these new studies together
with those described previously, thus creating the core text of his first book,
Experiments in Gothic Structure, which appeared in 1982. The beautiful and

23 Kirk D. Alexander, Robert Mark, and John F. Abel, “The Structural Behavior of Medieval
Ribbed Vaulting,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 36 (1977): 241–51. See
also Mark, Experiments in Gothic Structure, pp. 106–15.
24 For Wells, see Mark “Robert Willis, Viollet-le-Duc, and the Structural Approach to Gothic
Architecture.” For Palma, see Robert Mark, “Structural Experimentation in Gothic Archi-
tecture: Large-scale Experimentation Brought Gothic Cathedrals to a Level of Technical
Elegance Unsurpassed until the Last Century,” American Scientist 66 (1978): 542–50. For
German design techniques, see Lon R. Shelby and Robert Mark, “Late Gothic structural
design in the ‘instructions’ of Lorenz Lechler,” Architectura 9 (1979): 113–31.
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 29

intriguing images from Robert’s photoelastic models had already attracted

attention early in his career—indeed, they were featured in Life magazine
already in 196925—and his publication in journals such as American Scientist
and Scientific American had brought his work to broad audiences far beyond
the specialized world of Gothic architectural scholarship, but the publication
of Experiments nevertheless represented a new phase in his rise to promi-
nence. The book became a bestseller, by academic standards, and it attracted
the attention of many students and colleagues who would eventually number
among his friends and collaborators. Starting in 1985, Robert thus began to
offer NEH-sponsored seminars for scholars interested in learning more about
his approach.
During the years around and just after the publication of Experiments,
Robert continued to pursue a diverse research program with a Gothic core.
He expanded the chronological span of his work both back to Antiquity and
forward to the seventeenth century, investigating both the Roman Pantheon
and the buildings of Christopher Wren. He used finite-element modeling to
study the structure of the Pantheon, demonstrating that its vertically cracked
dome behaved essentially like a series of arches leaning together, rather than
like a monolithic “pot lid.”26 In studying Wren’s Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Robert
observed a sharp distinction between the heavy and rather clumsy structure
of the main vessel, and the clever lightweight structure of the multi-shelled
dome, in which he appreciated Wren’s willingness to solve problems pragmat-
ically, without being constrained by notions of “structural honesty.”27 On the
Gothic front, he expanded his analysis of sexpartite vaults, showing that they
were abandoned around 1200 because their longitudinal thrust made it diffi-
cult to construct large clerestories, and he began to collaborate with Bill Clark
in studying Notre-Dame in Paris.28 Robert and Bill believed that the nave of
Notre-Dame was the first Gothic structure to have flying buttresses; although
this conclusion no longer seems tenable, their work usefully called attention

25 Life (19 Sept. 1969), pp. 95–98, and Life International (24 Nov. 1969), pp. 47–50.
26 Robert Mark and Paul Hutchinson, “On the Structure of the Roman Pantheon,” The Art
Bulletin 68 (1986): 24–34. Robert Mark, “Reinterpreting Ancient Roman Structure,” Amer-
ican Scientist 75 (1987): 142–50.
27 Harold Darn and Robert Mark, “The Architecture of Christopher Wren,” Scientific Ameri-
can 245 (1981): 160–75.
28 William Taylor and Robert Mark, “The Technology of Transition: Sexpartite to Quadri-
partite Vaulting in High Gothic Architecture,” The Art Bulletin 64 (1982): 579–87. Clark,
William W., and Robert Mark, “The First Flying Buttresses: A New Reconstruction of the
Nave of Notre-Dame de Paris,” The Art Bulletin 66 (1984): 47–65. Robert Mark and William
W. Clark, “Gothic Structural Experimentation,” Scientific American 251 (1984): 176–85.
30 Bork

to the need for fresh thinking about the history and structure of this crucial
monument.29 In 1984 Robert began to serve as a structural consultant for the
National Cathedral in Washington DC, and by the late 1980s he had become
involved in further collaborative projects, looking at the structure of the West-
minster Hall’s wooden roof and at the foundations of Amiens Cathedral.30
In 1988, Robert shared his views on architectural history with a large audi-
ence through PBS broadcast of the NOVA episode Mystery of the Master Build-
ers. In this project Robert began by celebrating the fruitful dialog between
architectural design and large-scale structural experimentation seen in the
Roman and Gothic traditions, and in Wren’s design for the dome of Saint
Paul’s, before going on to bemoan what he saw as a decoupling of architec-
ture from engineering in the late twentieth century. This might seem to be a
surprising position, since the construction of modern building types such as
skyscrapers depends on the deployment of engineering expertise beyond the
dreams of premodern designers; Robert, however, was speaking principally
about a decoupling from engineering in the rhetoric of a certain strain of mod-
ern and postmodern architectural culture, which was prominent in his own
professional environment at Princeton, where the School of Architecture was
quite separate from the School of Engineering.31 On this basis, Robert felt par-
ticularly strongly that his study of historic structures could offer some salutary
lessons for the practice of contemporary architecture. He recapitulated these
arguments in his 1990 book Light, Wind, and Structure, which discussed many
of the same examples featured on the NOVA episode.32

29 For a crucial contribution to the debate about Notre-Dame’s buttresses, see Stephen Mur-
ray, “Notre-Dame of Paris and the Anticipation of Gothic” Art Bulletin 80, no. 2 (1998),
229–253. For further thoughts on this issue, see my essay in this volume.
30 Robert provided a report on differential settlement and cracking around Washington
Cathedral’s west façade already in January of 1984, and he was advising on repairs of the
cathedral’s apse buttresses in August of 1985. I am grateful to architect Marc Fetterman,
who has remained closely engaged with the cathedral and its community since that
time, for providing me with these specifics. On the later collaborative projects, see Lynn
Courtenay and Robert Mark, “The Westminster Hall Roof: A Historiographic and Struc-
tural Study,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 46 (1987): 374–93; Yun Sheng
Huang, Robert Mark, and Avery M. Wellman, “Westminster Hall’s Hammer-Beam Roof:
A Technological Reconstruction,” APT Bulletin: The Journal of Preservation Technology 20
(1988): 8–16; and Sheila Bonde, Clark Maines, and Robert Mark, “Archaeology and Engi-
neering: The Foundations of Amiens Cathedral,” Kunstchronik 42 (1989): 341–8.
31 Robert himself, however, bridged this gap: he moved from having an appointment in the
Engineering program to having a joint appointment in Engineering and Architecture, and
he maintained his main office at the Architecture School for the latter part of his career.
32 Robert Mark, Light, Wind, and Structure: Mystery of the Master Builders (Cambridge, MA,
1990).
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 31

Figure 4.4 Hagia Sophia, finite-element model by Robert Mark and Ahmet Çakmak

Around the same time, Robert was engaging in three new collaborative
projects, each of which involved a different broadening of his professional
agenda. First, he and Princeton engineering professor Ahmet Çakmak led a
team studying the history and structure of Hagia Sophia, whose construction
in the sixth century was one of the greatest achievements of the Roman archi-
tectural tradition, broadly construed. Their work involved the organization of
a multi-disciplinary conference on the church, whose proceedings were pub-
lished in 1992, and extensive computer modeling of its structural behavior,
which took into account the many distortions introduced into its fabric both
during and after its initial construction.
This project aimed to provide information not only about the building’s per-
formance under static loading, but also its dynamic performance under earth-
quake load, a crucial topic given the seismic activity typical of its region (Figure
4.4).33 Robert’s second major initiative at this time was to lead a collaborative
group writing a history of architectural technology from Antiquity to the

33 Robert Mark and Ahmet S. Çakmak, eds., Hagia Sophia from the Age of Justinian to the
Present (New York, 1992). See also Robert Mark and Ahmet S. Çakmak, “Mechanical Tests
of Material from the Hagia Sophia Dome,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 48 (1994): 277–78.
32 Bork

Figure 4.5 J oe Alonso and Robert Mark together

at Washington Cathedral

Scientific Revolution, which appeared in 1993.34 Its successive chapters fol-

lowed a spatial rather than chronological sequence, starting from the foun-
dations and moving up through the walls, vaults, and roofs. Finally, Robert
undertook further work as a consulting engineer for the National Cathedral
in Washington DC; he would continue in that role for decades, long after his
retirement from Princeton in 1996, developing a close friendship with the
cathedral’s supervising Master Mason, Joe Alonso (Figure 4.5).35
Over the course of this remarkable career, Robert contributed greatly to the
study of architectural history, and he inspired generations of students and col-
leagues, including Andrew Tallon and many of the contributors to the present

34 Robert Mark, ed., Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution: The Art and
Structure of Large-Scale Buildings, (Cambridge, MA, 1993). This volume included con-
tributions from Sheila Bonde, Lynn Courtenay, Michael Davis, Peter Fergusson, Joel
Herschman, Clark Maines, Rowland Richards, Jr., Elwin Robison, Elizabeth Smith, and
Leonard Van Gulick.
35 One fruit of that work was my own first co-authored article, Robert O. Bork, Richard A.
Livingston, and Robert Mark, “Restoration of a Crossing Pinnacle at Washington National
Cathedral,” APT Bulletin: The Journal of Preservation Technology 26 (1995): 5–9.
Robert Mark’s Career: Patterns of Insight 33

volume.36 Robert’s achievements, though, were too singular to be easily imi-

tated. Few art historians have his deep knowledge of structural engineering,
and few engineers have his keen curiosity about the design and performance
of premodern structures. Even among this fairly small group, few have the
equipment to reproduce his photoelastic experiments, or the expertise to read-
ily interpret the striking interference patterns that they produced. In recent
decades, most structural analyses have involved either finite-element com-
puter modeling, a method that Robert helped to pioneer, or the study of thrust
lines, a method that owes more to Heyman’s example.37 These two approaches
start from different premises, and each depends for its success on the critical
judgment of the analyst, who must ensure that the assumptions built into the
model match reality to a useful extent. In principle, however, these methods
can provide complementary perspectives on the structural performance of
historic buildings, which can be too complex to understand without the help
of such analytical tools. It is hardly surprising that Robert, with his love of
visual beauty and his yearning for literal insight, was drawn to the photoelastic
approach. And, while Robert surely would have been happy if his work with
that method had given rise to more direct sequels, he welcomed the technical
progress that has facilitated the development of more sophisticated computer
models in recent decades.
Robert saw all these technical methods as means to the larger end of under-
standing not only individual structures, but also the history of architecture
more generally. In both respects, Robert was outstandingly successful. His
analyses have usefully clarified the behavior of great buildings from the Pan-
theon and Hagia Sophia to many Gothic cathedrals. More importantly still, he

36 Robert’s later contributions were highly diverse. These include: Robert Mark and David
P. Billington, “Structural Imperative and the Origin of New Form,” Technology and Cul-
ture 30 (1989): 300–329; Robert Mark, “Architecture and Evolution,” American Scientist 84
(1996): 383–89; Robert Bork, Robert Mark, and Stephen Murray, “The Openwork Flying
Buttresses of Amiens Cathedral: ‘Postmodern Gothic’ and the Limits of Structural Ratio-
nalism,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 56 (1997): 478–93. The fact that
these three publications emerged from dialog with an engineer (Billington), an art histo-
rian (Murray), and an evolutionary biologist (Stephen Jay Gould) attests to the richness
and interdisciplinarity of Robert’s intellectual life.
37 For a useful survey, see Pere Roca, Miguel Cervera, Giuseppe Gariup, and Luca Pela, “Struc-
tural Analysis of Masonry Historical Constructions: Classical and Advanced Approaches,”
Archives of Computational Methods in Engineering 17 (2010): 299–325. For this team’s
assessment of Palma Cathedral in Mallorca, a building that Robert studied using the
photoelastic method, see Pere Roca, Miguel Cervera, Luca Pelà, Roberto Clemente, and
Michele Chiumenti, “Continuum FE models for the analysis of Mallorca Cathedral,” Engi-
neering Structures 46 (2013) 653–70.
34 Bork

showed how the observation of localized cracking allowed premodern build-

ers to refine their designs, thus shedding new light on their achievements, and
on the truly amazing sequence of structural advances seen in the Gothic era,
especially. He clearly recognized, though, that these builders differed from
modern engineers in terms of both method and mindset, and that their work
must be understood within the larger context of economic and social history.
He also recognized that his own trajectory reflected not only his unusual com-
bination of skills and interests, but also the very particular circumstances of
his era, which was so marked by excitement about the power of modern sci-
ence and technology. His career was unique, but it can certainly inspire and
inform those of us who seek insight into the buildings he loved.
 CHAPTER 5

From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon: Writing

the History of Medieval Architecture between
France and America
Arnaud Timbert

The scholarly understanding of medieval architecture has been repeatedly

renewed by American researchers since the beginning of the 20th century.
Both those who employed archaeological and documentary methods, such
as Charles Seymour (1912–1977), Sumner McKnight Crosby (1909–1982), Ken-
neth John Conant (1894–1984), Robert Branner (1927–1973), Harry Bober
(1915–1988), and those who employed new technologies, such as Robert Mark
(1930–2019), Harry Titus, and Stephen Murray, have contributed significantly
to illuminating the history of this architecture.1 Since the beginning of the 21st
century, it has been the Americans’ use of approaches involving digital tools
and the cognitive sciences that has particularly shaped engagement with these
monuments. Thanks to his work alongside Stephen Murray, first as a student
and then as a colleague, Andrew Tallon played a sufficiently major role in this
process to lastingly affect the perspective of French scholars.

1 Another View of Medieval Architecture: Stephen Murray

If the medieval architectural history establishment has in recent years

embraced the digital era, and if questions of production and creation are now
being treated without reception being neglected, it is largely thanks to the work
of Professor Stephen Murray (Figure 5.1).
Born a British citizen, he earned his undergraduate degree at Oxford
between 1964 and 1967, years during which Marxist ideas were becoming
significant. This helped to orient his research toward economic questions

1 Robert Bork, William W. Clark, Abby McGehee (ed), New Approaches to Medieval Architecture,
AVISTA Studies in the History of Medieval Technology, Science and Art (Farnham and
Burlington, 2011), pp. 1–7. It is also important to recall the contributions of Canadian schol-
ars. See Stéphanie D. Daussy (ed.), L’Architecture flamboyante en France. Autour de Roland
Sanfaçon (Villeneuve-d’Ascq, 2020).

© Arnaud Timbert, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_006

36 Timbert

Figure 5.1
Stephen Murray

involving construction and workshop practice. Then, at the Courtauld Insti-

tute between 1967 and 1969, he wrote a master’s thesis on Troyes Cathedral,
followed by a dissertation that he completed in 1973 and published in modified
form in 1987.2 This early research served as the foundation for all that followed.
With his monograph on the cathedral of Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul in Troyes,
Murray brought new attention to Flamboyant architecture, using both docu-
mentary and archaeological methods. In considering both words and stones,
he raised novel questions about the cultural and social origins of the men who
conceived the monument—the patrons and designers—and of those who
built it—the artists and artisans. The historian of medieval architecture thus
emerges, above all, as someone who considers the people associated with the
building.
While teaching at Indiana University from 1970 to 1985 and then at Harvard
in 1983 and 1985, Murray pursued his research on French Gothic architecture
by preparing a monograph on the cathedral of Saint-Pierre in Beauvais.3 Here
he went beyond questions of workshop practice to offer a broader history. He

2 Stephen Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral: The Late Gothic Campaigns (Bloomington, 1987).
3 Stephen Murray, Beauvais Cathedral: Architecture of Transcendence (Princeton, 1989).
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 37

explored the theological, spiritual, and sacred factors that contributed to shap-
ing the forms of the monument as a dynamic means for achieving transcen-
dence. From this process resulted a monograph that appeared atypical and
foreign in the landscape of established French scholarship, since it incorpo-
rated an approach that was at once iconological and liturgical.
It was, however, the cathedral of Notre-Dame in Amiens that attracted the
greatest share of Murray’s attention and reflection. He came to the city for the
first time in 1969, and in the years since he has never ceased to contemplate the
cathedral, deciphering its campaigns of construction, investigating the per-
sonalities of its architects, exploring related archives, and more broadly inter-
rogating the material phenomenon commonly but improperly called “Gothic.”
In 1996 he presented a synthesis of this work, in which he proposed a precise
definition for the cathedral’s campaigns of construction and an analysis of the
artistic personalities behind each of them.4
In order to gain a more intimate perspective on the monument as a researcher,
and in order to better communicate his knowledge as a teacher, Murray began
to apply new technologies to Amiens.
In 1986, after being hired by Columbia University, Stephen Murray focused
his attention on the medieval component of the Art Humanities class of the
Columbia Core Curriculum, which he dedicated to Amiens Cathedral. This is
a course with an audience of 1,000 students. Very soon he noted that slides did
not permit an adequate communication of the architecture, of its spatial vol-
umes, and of its lighting. How can one explain Amiens Cathedral to American
students? How can one get them to understand something that must be lived
and experienced? To address this challenge, Murray began a collaboration
with Eden Muir and Rory O’Neill, computer experts at the Columbia School
of Architecture Design Lab, launching a multimedia study program for the
Art Humanities class in 1994. Simultaneously he created the Media Center for
Art History, which offered thousands of digitized images for the use of art his-
tory students. At the end of the 20th century, slides continued to reign both in
France and in the US, and computers were still absent from classrooms. From
its very inception, therefore, the Media Center for Art History undertook origi-
nal projects that offered novel tools for visualization. One of these key projects
involved creating a 3D model of Amiens Cathedral. This reconstruction, pre-
sented in an animated film, illustrated the planning, the construction phases,
and the stability problems of monument, thus facilitating the teaching of its

4 Stephen Murray, Notre-Dame, Cathedral of Amiens: The Power of Change in Gothic (Cambridge,
1996). See also Notre-Dame of Amiens: Life of the Gothic Cathedral (New York, 2020).
38 Timbert

Figure 5.2 Amiens Cathedral, computer model from Stephen Murray’s Amiens Trilogy, 1996

history and the comprehension of its architecture; this was the first time that a
digital model of a Gothic cathedral became visible on-line (Figure 5.2).5
This attempt to enhance teaching and research in art history was not with-
out its difficulties. In the US at the start of the 2000s, some people refused to
adopt new technologies in the humanities. After several years of uncertainty,
the Media Center nevertheless became firmly established and again launched
pioneering projects. The use of a laser scanner to create a 3D model of Beau-
vais Cathedral illustrates this well. This work, undertaken in collaboration
with Professor Peter Allen of the Columbia School of Engineering, produced
what is probably the first 3D scan of a Gothic cathedral. This project fostered
enhanced understanding of the monument’s structure, equilibrium, and sta-
bility problems.6
Other technologies of representation were also explored, such as the pan-
oramic images created on the initiative of the Media Center’s Maurice Luker,
which permitted viewers to effectively walk through the depicted churches.
Since then, such projects have multiplied, and the current widespread use of

5 http://projects.mcah.columbia.edu/amiens-arthum/production-artisans.
6 Stephen Murray, “Back to Beauvais (2009)”, in Robert Bork, William W. Clark, Abby McGehee
(ed), New Approaches to Medieval Architecture, AVISTA Studies in the History of Medieval
Technology, Science and Art (Farnham and Burlington, 2011), pp. 44–60.
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 39

digital technologies in teaching and research clearly shows that Stephen Mur-
ray, in launching such work a quarter-century ago, was a true visionary.
In 2007, Murray took another step forward. With the support of Don Waters
of the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, he launched Mapping Gothic France.7
The main objectives of this project were to photograph the Gothic monuments
of France, to scan the most important of them, and to offer panoramic views
of them. These images are integrated with a multimedia database, including
plans, maps, and commentary, thus addressing Henri Lefebvre’s goal of estab-
lishing a link between architectural space, geopolitical space, and the social
space that results from the interaction of multiple agents: designers, builders,
and users.8
Andrew Tallon was involved in every step of these pedagogical innovations,
which were made possible by both technical and epistemological revolutions,
and he quickly became their promoter.9 While working on his dissertation
under the direction of Stephen Murray, he encountered at Beauvais the Cyrax
laser scanner operated by the Peter Allen team. The scanner had been devel-
oped by Cyra Technologies in Oakland, California, which was acquired by Leica
in 2001.10 He adopted it with dexterity in pursuing his work on the abutment of
early Gothic monuments in northern France. Before long he thus deployed the
scanner at the cathedrals of Paris, Chartres, and Bourges, as well as the priory
of Saint-Leu d’Esserent, before going on to scan other monuments such as the
abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés (Figure 5.3).11
In only a few years he was thus able to resolve a number of critical ques-
tions that had troubled the scholarly community, confirming that the original
design of Notre-Dame in Paris included flying buttresses; the upper flyers of
the nave at Chartres postdate the lower ones, and the piers of the hemicycle at
Bourges stand perfectly over those of the crypt.12 Moreover, while the chevet
at Saint-Leu-d’Esserent was equipped with flying buttresses only a posteriori,

7 www.mappinggothic.org.
8 Henri Lefebvre, La production de l’espace (Paris, 1974).
9 Andrew Tallon, “Teaching Medieval Architecture in the Information Age”, International
Medieval Society News, April 2015, pp. 10–12.
10 Andrew Tallon, Experiments in Early Gothic Structure: the Flying Buttress, doctoral the-
sis, dir. Stephen Murray, Columbia University, 2007.
11 For the publications related to this research, see: https://pages.vassar.edu/antallon
/selected-publications.
12 He thus confirmed the conclusions presented by Stephen Murray, “Notre-Dame of Paris
and the Anticipation of Gothic,” Art Bulletin 80 (1998): 229–253. See Andrew Tallon,
“Archéologie spatiale: le bâtiment gothique relevé (et révélé) par laser,” in Architecture et
sculpture gothiques : renouvellement des méthodes et des regards, ed. A. Timbert, S. Daussy
ed., (Rennes, 2011), pp. 63–75.
40 Timbert

Figure 5.3
Andrew Tallon, with Leica laser
scanner in the nave of Notre-Dame,
Paris

those of the chevet at Saint-Germain-des-Prés were contemporary with its

construction, confirming previous hypotheses.13
Based on this success, which came just as Tallon was finishing his doc-
toral research and about to begin his teaching career at Vassar College, Mur-
ray named him co-director of the Mapping Gothic France project. With the
aid of James Conlon, then director of the Media Center for Art History, they
organized four campaigns of photographic surveying in France (2008–2011).
For this work, Tallon coupled a 39-megapixel camera with a Cambo Wide DS
mount equipped with a 35-mm Schneider Kreuznach objective lens. With this
extremely precise equipment, he produced high-resolution images that form a
valuable corpus for studying the monuments (Figure 5.4).
While leading this broad survey, he also trained Vassar undergraduates in
panoramic photography.14 It was during these latter campaigns that Andrew
Tallon, with notable assistance from Nicole Griggs, scanned monuments
including the abbey of Saint-Denis, the priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs,

13 For publications related to this research, see https://pages.vassar.edu/antallon/select�-

ed-publications.
14 Lindsay Cook, Sofia Gans, Ani Kodzhabasheva, Jess Lentner, Kappy Mintie, and Alexan-
dra Thom.
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 41

Figure 5.4 S aint-Denis Abbey, photo by Andrew Tallon as seen in Mapping

Gothic France

and the collegiate church of Saint-Quiriace in Provins. Building on his thesis,

he collaborated with Dany Sandron in writing a book on Notre-Dame in Paris,
a volume that was illustrated, thanks to the laser scanner, with full-color 3D
reconstructions.15 Informed by his early experiences with Stephen Murray at
Amiens, Andrew Tallon as his worthy understudy thus offered a reconstruction
of the cathedral that was at once exact and highly pedagogical.
Thus, Stephen Murray and Andrew Tallon put the study of Gothic structures
on a truly new empirical footing, while grounding academic teaching in the
digital age.
The impact of the laser scanner goes further, however. By providing exact
measurements of Amiens Cathedral, it has permitted the verification of its
Biblical prototypes. Murray has actually proved that the cathedral was built,
at least in part, on the dimensions that the angel offered in the vision of Saint
John. In Chapter 21 of the book of the Apocalypse, the angel measures the
heavenly Jerusalem with a golden staff and affirms that it has a width of 144
cubits, a length of 144 cubits, and a height of 144 cubits. At Amiens, meanwhile,
the height is 144 Roman feet. In the same way, the fact that the crossing bay
measures 50 feet recalls the 50-cubit size of Noah’s ark. What Stephen Murray
reveals here is essential: the cathedral of Amiens, like Noah’s Ark, is a vehicle
of salvation. Furthermore, in reproducing the dimensions of Paradise, it offers
a space that locates the worshipper’s body, in a real sense, in heaven.16

15 Dany Sandron and Andrew Tallon, Notre-Dame de Paris (Paris, 2013).

16 Stephen Murray, Notre-Dame of Amiens. Life of the Gothic Cathedral, (New York, 2020), pp.
235–240.
42 Timbert

This conclusion should not be surprising. Stephen Murray, the son of a

pastor, understood very early and from experience that the goal of a church
is, above all, to prepare the faithful for the afterlife. Churches are thus multi-­
sensorial spaces that use well-articulated sequences of colors, scents, rhythms,
and objects, some of them glowing and some of them resounding audibly, to
place the worshipper in state of experiencing the ineffable, the unspeakable,
and sometimes the invisible: the sacrifice of Christ on the altar.
Among the five senses, Murray paid special attention to hearing and, in
particular, to the sound of the words that would be read, spoken, and sung
from daybreak to nightfall, the words spoken by the priest and taken up by the
angels and the saints in the heavens so that the cathedral would overflow with
the word of God.
He thus dedicated a book to his father, “who preached many a memorable
sermon.” In this volume, A Gothic Sermon, Murray seeks to understand and
explain the relationship between verbal culture and visual culture.17 He dis-
cusses a sermon that could have been preached at Amiens Cathedral when the
placement of sculpted images on its façade was being completed. He under-
scores the parallels between the rhetorical tools used in the text and the modes
of composition applied in the sculpture program. This correlation leads him to
an enhanced appreciation for the use of images with words, and for the inter-
active quality of Gothic art.
This insight, like the previous, was born in part through his collaboration
with Andrew Tallon.
In exploring strategies for teaching medieval architecture to American stu-
dents, Stephen Murray sought to present Amiens Cathedral in the most realistic
possible way. Besides developing the 3D reconstruction described previously,
he addressed the question of acoustics: how to make the cathedral heard. The
solution to this question was offered by Tallon, who worked early on with film-
maker Adam Wolfensohn, with whom he had founded a sound studio named
Red Ramona. Tallon was not yet Murray’s student, and this was the occasion
of their first meeting. From the start, the desire to communicate the reality of
liturgical space through sound defined their shared objective. Combining syn-
thesized music with melodic passages that he interpreted himself, Tallon cap-
tured in the various spaces of a church the sound emanating from its sanctuary.
He thus reconstructed the propagation, the intensity, and the range of sound
produced in and reproduced by “Gothic space.” This work was incorporated
into a CD-ROM on Murray’s Amiens Cathedral project. For Tallon, the church as

17 Stephen Murray, A Gothic Sermon: Making a Contract with the Mother of God, Saint Mary
of Amiens (Berkeley, 2004).
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 43

a receptacle and possible amplifier of sound was perceived as an instrument in

the same sense as the voices of monks and canons: the space sings. The church
was not, therefore, an inert or fixed architectural and archaeological object.
Instead, he saw it as one of the principal elements in the acoustic performance
of faith. His many articles on this subject attest to this.18

2 Meeting Andrew Tallon

In France, the blending of these two approaches, one traditional and method-
ical, the other open to the reception of digital tools and more broadly to new
technologies, was facilitated by Anne Prache (1931–2009).19 She, coming from
the lineage of Louis Grodecki (1910–1982), was always concerned with a diver-
sified analysis of medieval architecture.20
In her seminars and in the visits to the monuments where she guided her
students, Anne Prache evoked the techniques used by American research-
ers, in particular Robert Mark, to evaluate the nature of their materials and
their mechanical properties.21 She also raised questions relating to the resto-
ration of monuments. On occasion, she discussed the activities of engineers
at the Laboratoire de recherche des Monuments historiques and the contri-
butions of dendrochronology at its beginnings. As such, she was one of the
first to take a decisive material look at monuments and to initiate work in
the then-emerging field of building archeology.22 Anne Prache also spoke of
sounds, lights, and scents, and made it clear that a sacred monument was more
than just an arrangement of materials, and more than the fruit of a formal
or stylistic conception; rather, it was site developed to sharpen the emotions
favoring reception of the divine. In the early 1990s she used to cite authors like

18 See, in particular, Andrew Tallon, “Acoustics at the intersection of architecture and music:
the caveau phonocamptique of Noyon Cathedral,” Journal of the Society of Architectural
Historians 75 (2016): 263–280; “L’espace acoustique de l’abbatiale de Saint-Germain-
des-Prés,” Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Mille ans d’une abbaye à Paris, eds. Roland Recht and
Michel Zink, (Paris, 2015), pp. 135–48.
19 Dany Sandron, “Hommage à Anne Prache,” Bulletin monumental, 167 (2009): 323–24.
20 Arnaud Timbert, “Étudier l’architecture médiévale en France au tournant des XXe et XXIe
siècles. Approche historiographique, propos méthodologique,” International Research
Center for Late Antiquity and Middle Ages de Zagreb, Croatia, May 21–26, 2018, Hortus
Artium medievalium, vol. 25/1, 2019, p. 129–136.
21 https://www.princeton.edu/news/2019/04/11/robert-mark-who-brought-modern
-engineering-study-historic-buildings-dies-88.
22 Nicolas Reveyron, La cathédrale de Lyon et sa place dans l’histoire de l’art (1170–1245), doc-
toral thesis, Université de Paris IV-Sorbonne, dir. A. Prache, 1992.
44 Timbert

Richard Krautheimer and Herbert L. Kessler: sources that her American stu-
dent, Andrew Tallon, already knew well. Tallon himself, thanks to his closeness
with Robert Mark, was already aware of the need for a history of architecture
backed by new technologies.
Production and reception were at the heart of Anne Prache’s teaching. She
also encouraged in her audience an idea fostered by Louis Grodecki starting in
1948, namely that of a rapprochement between French and American medi-
evalists.23 Anne Prache was directly involved in these transatlantic relations,
first by translating Robert Branner’s book on Bourges Cathedral, and then by
being herself invited, as Grodecki’s successor, to strengthen the links he had
forged with French Americans such as Jean Bony (1908–1995), professor at
Berkeley, and Philippe Verdier (1912–1993), professor at Yale, Johns Hopkins,
Harvard, and the University of Montreal.24 More broadly, she reinforced the
Sorbonne’s connections with Americans including, among many others, Wil-
liam W. Clark, Stephen Murray and Roland Sanfaçon. Prache’s students, with
their Grodeckian heritage, therefore already had a foothold in America.
For this reason, it is perhaps unsurprising that my first encounter with
America was through Stephen Murray and Andrew Tallon, in 2006.
At that time, I was very interested in the questions about buttressing to
which Anne Prache had sensitized us. From the outset, moreover, the laser
scans made by these two American researchers at Amiens Cathedral seemed
essential to me for tackling some of our questions about the structures of medi-
eval monuments, allowing us to get beyond the empirical approaches that had
prevailed in the field. What Murray and Tallon brought to us in explaining the
structural history of Amiens Cathedral based on the millions of points of their
laser scanner was a dramatic paradigm shift (Figure 5.5). For the first time, I
no longer sought to understand a church with my own eye alone; instead,
I approached architecture indirectly, through a complex tool.

23 I have mentioned Sumner McKnight Crosby and Robert Branner at the start of this essay.
Without Grodecki, the former would not have been able to undertake his research at
Saint-Denis, while the second could not have published the French version of his monog-
raphy on Bourges Cathedral with Jean Tardy; without Grodecki, moreover, Harvey Stahl
would not have been able to study the windows of the Sainte-Chapelle, and Wayne
Craven would not have been able to pursue his research on Auxerre… this list could be
expanded. In return, without his multiple invitations to Yale, Princeton, Harvard et New
York, Grodecki could not have reassembled the membra disjecta of French stained-glass
windows from the 12th and 13th centuries, notably those of Saint-Denis. Arnaud Timbert,
dir., Louis Grodecki, correspondance choisie (1933–1982), Paris, inha, coll. « Inédits – Corres-
pondances », 2020, pp. 11–54.
24 Robert Branner, La cathédrale de Bourges (Bourges, 1962).
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 45

Figure 5.5 A
 miens Cathedral, successive phases of laser-scan model development,
by Andrew Tallon

I thus found myself in the same situation as Marie-Madeleine Gauthier

(1920–1998) who, at Princeton in 1964, was disturbed by the use of a computer
in the laboratory of Meyer Schapiro (1904–1996).25 Studying an image on a
screen, a material image that has become virtual, could be disconcerting for
those who, because of their proximity to the works, are viscerally attached to
their materiality.
An identical astonishment can be read in a letter of 23 March 1981 from
Louis Grodecki concerning the photogrammetric surveys carried out during
the 1970s by Sumner McKnight Crosby in Saint-Denis: “What Sumner wrote
there on the photogrammetry of the facade and the fore-nave of Saint-Denis
gives new and valuable information about modes of design and construction
in 12th-century architecture. This has never been my method (...) However, we
must recognize the usefulness of these methods.”26
We must indeed recognize the usefulness of these methods and admit that,
from generation to generation, the Americans have confronted us with the lim-
its of our own.
Andrew Tallon and I immediately became associated in various surveys
involving the interpretation of laser scans carried out as part of research

25 Arnaud Timbert, ed., op. cit., (2020): 935.

26 Arnaud Timbert, ed., op. cit., (2020): 1449.
46 Timbert

initiated at the cathedrals of Noyon and Chartres, and the abbey churches of
Pontigny and Vézelay.27 The same later took place with the cathedral of Paris,
which was scanned in December, 2010.28
Various conclusions resulted from this work. In particular, we seem to have
proved that there were no flying buttresses in the original design of the Noyon
nave or in the Pontigny chevet. We were not simply proposing another look at
medieval structures, but noting that a reconsideration our assumptions was
truly necessary. Until then, Gothic monuments could not be conceived with-
out the envelope of flying buttresses that our studies ultimately revealed as
visually polluting and constraining to the path of light.29 In sum, by allowing
ourselves to consider Noyon Cathedral and related monuments without this
external framework, we arrived at a new structural and formal interpretation
of Gothic architecture in its first phase: an architecture that was more horizon-
tal than vertical, being built as a series of layers, and consequently consistent
with the volumes and outlines of previous monuments.30 The laser scan that
Tallon made of Sens cathedral in turn made it possible to prove the absence of
flying buttresses there, at least in the initial design, thus leading us to recon-
sider the visual culture and historicist value of 12th-century architecture.31
If, as Marc Bloch said, “the tool does not do the research,” it remains true
that the use of laser scanners initiated by Stephen Murray and extended by
Andrew Tallon has changed the manner in which we see, perceive, and inter-
pret Gothic architecture.32 The laser scan subsequently undertaken at Amiens
Cathedral by El Mustapha Mouaddib in order to achieve a better understand-
ing of the south transept’s stability, those made by Sarah Prod’hon to clarify
the structural performance of Tours Cathedral, and those effected at the cathe-
dral of Paris in the course of its restoration, among many others, are projects

27 For the publications related to this research, see: https://pages.vassar.edu/antallon

/selected-publications
28 Les cathédrales dévoilées, 90-minute documentary made by Gary Glassman and Christine
Le Goff, production Telfrance, arte-France. Diffusion, April 23, 2011, arte. Our interpre-
tations, however, were not always identical. See also Tallon, Experiments in Early Gothic
Structure, pp. 27–35.
29 Arnaud Timbert, “Entre adoption et rejet: l’arc-boutant dans l’architecture des années
1130–1150,” Aedificare – Revue internationale d’histoire de la construction 7 (2020): 77–95.
30 Arnaud Timbert, Stéphanie D. Daussy, “Accumuler le temps et bâtir la mémoire. La
cathédrale Notre-Dame de Noyon comme empreinte de la cathédrale du Haut Moyen
Âge ?” Material and Action in European Cathedrals (9th–13th centuries), Proceedings of the
international colloquium held in Gerona, Nov. 10–12, 2012, dir. G. Boto-Valera, C. García de
Castro Valdés, British Archaeological Reports, International Séries 2853, 2017, p. 85–99.
31 For this research, see: https://pages.vassar.edu/antallon/selected-publications
32 Marc Bloch, Apologie pour l’histoire ou Métier d’historien (Paris, 1993, (1949)), p. 81.
From Stephen Murray to Andrew Tallon 47

that never would have seen the light of day without the pioneering work of
these two American researchers. While their first projects were received by the
French scientific community with the same perplexity that Robert de Lasteyrie
a century earlier received the innovative proposals of Henry Goodyear, it is
clear that they have forced French research to embrace the transition into the
digital age.33

3 Coda

The formal approach, on the one hand, and then the archaeological, structural
and material approach, on the other hand, cannot be the only methods in our
field. It is also necessary to learn to perceive medieval monuments through
the gazes and bodies of those who imagined, realized, and lived with them, in
order to better understand the impact of the sacred building on the elabora-
tion and reception of the liturgical drama: in locis competentibus, the time has
come for recourse to cognitive science.
As soon as the senses perceive space (position) and inhabit it (movement),
the investigation that neurosciences call somesthesia begins to participate,
consciously or unconsciously, in the historian’s interpretation. To move
through a building of course involves seeing it, but also touching it, smelling
it, and hearing it. Somesthetic investigation, which considers the body’s tactile
perception through sensory receptors in an anthropological approach to per-
ception, may bear new fruits. While sight is culturally favored by architectural
historians, the fact remains that the other four senses are necessary for a full
investigation.
New technologies, anthropology, and neuroscience can thus greatly enrich
a novel approach to the reception and multi-sensory use of spaces, especially
when they are sacred. These methods will play a crucial role in the future, help-
ing to create a history of architecture founded on a solid trilogy of production,
creation, reception.
It is this type of analysis approaching architecture in a total way that I wanted
to develop with Andrew Tallon. This is why he was invited in December 2013 as
a researcher within the framework of the IRHIS laboratory of the University of
Lille to work at the Imaginarium in Tourcoing, which brought together histori-
ans, art historians, computer engineers, psychologists and neurologists.34 Later

33 Andrew Tallon, “An Architecture of Perfection,” Journal of the Society of Architectural His-
torians 73 (2013), pp. 530–554.
34 (UMR-CNRS 8529).
48 Timbert

there was also talk of naming Tallon as Chair in the History of Medieval Art
at the University of Lille. These projects, unfortunately, were not carried out
before his untimely death. Our interaction, like those of so many other Amer-
ican and European researchers, nevertheless demonstrates a desire to com-
bine approaches in order to achieve a more refined understanding of medieval
architecture, one that reassesses the place of the body in scholarly analysis.35

Acknowledgements

This essay derives from the corresponding talk given at the colloquium orga-
nized by Nathalie Le Luel and Isabelle Marchesin, Looking across the Atlantic.
Circulations d’idées entre la France et l’Amérique du Nord en art médiéval,
held at INHA in Paris from June 12–13, 2019.
35 Arnaud Timbert, “L’Architecture et ses historiens, ” Être historien de l’architecture dans la
France des XXe et XXIe siècles. Des Ego-histoires et des Vies, ed. Arnaud Timbert, (Zagreb,
2020), pp. 21–44.
 CHAPTER 6

Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon: A

Roundtable Discussion

Robert Bork, Sergio Sanabria, Ellen Shortell, Elizabeth Smith and

Nancy Wu
With comments from Lindsay Cook, Paula Gerson, and Elizabeth Sears

Robert Bork
Greetings one and all. I’m Rob Bork, and it’s my pleasure to welcome you
to the first of four sessions honoring the memory of two great historians of
medieval architecture, Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon. These sessions are
sponsored by AVISTA, The Association Villard de Honnecourt for the Interdis-
ciplinary Study of Medieval Technology, Science, and Art, a group that Rob-
ert introduced to me many years ago when I was his graduate student, and
one to which Andrew contributed significantly, also. As many of you surely
know, Robert and Andrew gravitated to AVISTA because they each helped
to bring advanced tools and methods to the study of medieval architecture.
More specifically, Robert pioneered the scientific analysis of Gothic struc-
ture, first using photoelastic modeling techniques, and then using finite
element computer modeling later in his career. Andrew, for his part, pio-
neered the surveying of Gothic buildings with laser scanners, and together
with his graduate mentor Stephen Murray he also developed the copiously
illustrated Mapping Gothic France website, which helps to make these build-
ings accessible to a worldwide audience. Both Robert and Andrew produced
remarkable and previously unseen images of Gothic buildings, and both of
them enjoyed greater visibility than most of us may ever achieve, appearing,
for example, on PBS TV specials. Their two careers are linked in multiple
ways, since undergraduate study with Robert helped to inspire Andrew’s
interest in Gothic architecture, and since they remained close in the follow-
ing years. More poignantly, their deaths are also linked, since Andrew was
diagnosed with an aggressive form of brain cancer at the tragically young
age of 45, just as Robert’s health began to decline in his late 80s. Andrew
succumbed on November 16 of 2018, and Robert followed on March 29, 2019.
As many of us who knew them have observed, they at least were spared see-
ing the fire at Notre-Dame in Paris, a building that they both loved. In the
aftermath of their passings, I felt a desire and a duty to honor their legacies

© Robert Bork, Sergio Sanabria, Ellen Shortell, Elizabeth Smith and Nancy Wu, 2023
doi:10.1163/9789004529335_007
50 Bork ET AL.

by organizing these sessions in their memory, which would have taken place
at Kalamazoo last year, had the pandemic not intervened. Although I am
sorry that we cannot gather in person, I am delighted and truly moved to
have recruited such a great group of speakers for this occasion. For this first
session, which will have a roundtable format, I’ll be joined by four friends
with complementary perspectives, each of whom I’ll briefly introduce now.
– Sergio Sanabria, Professor of Architecture at Miami University in Ohio,
earned his PhD at Princeton. He has published crucial articles on Spanish
late Gothic, and he also led a series of summer workshops at Metz Cathedral,
one of which helped to attract me into the field--for better or for worse.
– Ellen Shortell, Professor Emerita from the Massachusetts College of Art,
has published extensively on medieval and later stained glass, and on
the collegiate church of Saint-Quentin, the subject of her dissertation at
Columbia. I should note that she rejects the attribution of its design to
our organization’s namesake, Villard de Honnecourt.
– Elizabeth Bradford Smith, Professor of Art History Emerita from Penn
State, earned her PhD at the NYU Institute of Fine Arts. She has published
principally on Italian Gothic, especially and most recently on Santa Maria
Novella in Florence and its vaulting.
– Our final panelist is Nancy Wu, who recently retired from the Metropoli-
tan Museum of Art, and who has contributed significantly to the study of
Reims Cathedral, building on work begun in her Columbia dissertation.
In the present context, I also want to salute Nancy’s role in helping to
launch the AVISTA book series, which was long published by Ashgate,
and which has now found a new home with Brill.

I really am thrilled to have Sergio, Elizabeth, Ellen, and Nancy on board for
today’s roundtable, which we propose to handle in four thematic chunks.
We’ll discuss how we got to know Robert, how we got to know Andrew, and
how we see the complementarity of their contributions, before finally offer-
ing personal perspectives on their legacies. If all goes well, we should have
time for a few minutes of Q&A with input from the floor after each of these
short discussions. Because I want to make sure that we have time for lively
exchange, we should turn without further ado to our first topic, namely
early encounters with Robert, in roughly chronological order. So, Sergio, you
have the virtual floor.
Sergio Sanabria
Thank you. I first met Robert, or first heard about Robert, when he pub-
lished his article in Scientific American on Chartres and Bourges. When I got
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 51

Figure 6.1 R
 obert Mark, seen with model of Chartres Cathedral nave
in polariscope

to Princeton, I was hoping that Princeton would still have something of its
grand collection of important medievalists, but that had disappeared. They
had all either retired or died, and it was Robert whom I had to deal with, so
I decided to go and meet him. I was in the department of Art and Archaeol-
ogy, and he was in Architecture and Civil Engineering (Figure 6.1).
So, I went and visited him in his Civil Engineering office, and introduced
myself, and explained that I had degrees in architecture and mathematics
and philosophy, and art history and he didn’t care very much about any
of those except mathematics. All of a sudden, he was panicked about me.
He decided that since I had a degree in mathematics, I was a force to be
contended with. I did not explain to him that my interest in mathematics
involved logic and abstract algebra, and had nothing to do with analysis,
which is what he thought I probably would know extremely well and thus,
that I could challenge him in whatever he was doing. That was very propi-
tious because, over the years, and it did not take that long, he took a very
parental interest in me. So, I truly felt very much loved by Robert Mark, not
only in the years I was at Princeton, the four years I spent there. For a long
time thereafter, we continued to find extraordinary odd and strange places
where we met for all sorts of strange and inexplicable reasons.
Robert Bork
And I think that both you and Elizabeth were involved in his workshops in
the 80s, so Elizabeth, do you want to say anything about that experience
that you shared?
Elizabeth Smith
Yes, it was terrific. I mean it was just what I wanted to do. I had been teach-
ing Gothic architecture here. Not long after I got to Penn State, it was on the
52 Bork ET AL.

books, so I said okay, I’ll teach it. I had lived in France, and I somehow found
Robert’s book Experiments. I don’t remember how I found it, but I was using
it as a textbook for the students, and lo and behold, Robert came to lecture
at Penn State. I think he somehow wangled an invitation, because his oldest
son was doing a PhD program here in engineering, and Robert thought, well
if I give a lecture then they’ll put me up at the Nittany Lion Inn, and that’ll
be that. So, he came, and I was not invited to the fancy dinner with him,
even though he was an honored speaker and I was teaching Gothic archi-
tecture. So, I came up to him afterwards, and I said look, I’d really like to talk
to you about your book. I’m teaching it, you know. And he said, well, meet
me for breakfast tomorrow morning, I’m having breakfast with my son. So
that was the beginning of what I would call a beautiful friendship, and ever
after we were close friends. And I did his 1986 NEH summer seminar, which
was just extraordinary. I mean, we loved all the people we met. We bonded,
and Robert gave wonderful lectures, always just off the cuff but organized.
He was very, very good at that, and I appreciated from the beginning his
extraordinary way of approaching a problem and making it simple and
understandable, breaking it down into something that was so logical and so
straightforward. I thought it was brilliant, and I thought it was something I
could try to communicate to students, and that I could use in my own work.
So, I got a lot out of that.
Robert Bork
And, for my part, too, Robert’s, Experiments in Gothic Structure played a
key role, as you can see from my well-thumbed copy. I came across this
when it first came out, when I was just starting high school. I was abso-
lutely blown away by it, because I had already developed a love for Gothic
architecture while living in France with my parents, but I thought about it
as being something separate from science. The fact that Robert was able
to put together modern scientifically informed analysis with this archi-
tecture was a revelation to me, so in due course, I wrote him fan mail.
To my astonishment he actually wrote back with bibliographical sugges-
tions, when I was still early in high school, and I thought, any Princeton
professor who takes time to answer his fan mail is an okay guy by me.
Later on, when I was in college, he came and gave a lecture, and I got to
meet him briefly in person. I asked him about flying buttress design for
the Gothic models I was building, and he was lovely and encouraging of
my interest in this material. So, when I was studying physics in college,
and having a hard time getting a summer internship, I asked my mom
what I should do about this problem. She said, well, what would you do if
you really could just do anything and write your own ticket? I said, well,
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 53

I guess I would work for Robert Mark. She said, well, why don’t you write
to him and see if he can do anything for you? So, I did, and then I spent
the summer after my college graduation working as an assistant for Rob-
ert’s book project Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution,
on which I met Elizabeth and Michael Davis, and many other folks. I had
a wonderful time, and felt introduced to the culture that way. This was
a couple years after I had worked at Metz with Sergio, so I found myself
increasingly drawn into the Gothic circle, which was lovely experience.
Then, after a few years of graduate school in physics, I decided this really
was my calling, and so I came back to Princeton to work with Robert full
time. At that time, I also very briefly met a long-haired Andrew Tallon,
who was just graduating and on his way out the door, but I suspected that
we would meet again, as indeed we did (Figure 6.2). Anyway, those are
some of the stories of getting to know Robert early on. Does anybody from
the panel or from the floor want to add comments about early encounters
with Robert Mark?

Figure 6.2 Andrew Tallon, Princeton graduation photo, 1991

54 Bork ET AL.

Nancy Wu
I would just say that, in the mid to late 80s, when I was studying with Bill
Clark at Queens College, obviously I had heard of Robert Mark. I must have
met him, although I don’t remember the circumstances for that. But what I do
remember was one time, and I think Ellen Shortell was there with me, going
to Bourges Cathedral with Bill Clark. I managed to go out to the triforium
passage, which was scary enough, when we went up to the clerestory level
Bill Clark wanted me to go out to the passage again, and I looked through
the opening, looked at the floor down below, and I said there’s no way I’m
going to go out there. There’s a huge amount of wind up there on the clere-
story level, and there’s no railing of any kind, separating me from the floor
many feet below. So, Bill Clark invoked the name of Robert Mark, saying that
when he had taken Robert to Bourges sometime earlier Robert was equally
petrified, and was not willing to go to places, but Robert recognized--so he
was more courageous than I--that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to
be up there at those places where the general public wouldn’t get. So, I think
most of you probably remember that NOVA film where Robert walks down
the flyers of Bourges alone, along the top side of the flyers (Figure 6.3).

Figure 6.3
Bourges Cathedral, view from roof down
staircase on southeast flying buttress of
choir
photo by Robert Mark
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 55

That was thanks to Bill Clark’s urging, apparently, that Robert was able
to gather the courage to do so. I remain the coward; I never went out to the
clerestory. It’s a very terrifying experience, particularly without any barrier
between yourself and the floor many feet below it. And the wind. Physically,
you can feel the wind hitting your body. I’m glad I did that much, but I still
remember how terrified I was. I would have more communication with Rob-
ert later, which we’ll go into later in the session.
Robert Bork
Does anybody else want to jump in with early Robert Mark encounters?
Sergio Sanabria
Well, I would only add that I often told him that his choice of Gothic, given
how acrophobic he was, was a rather poor choice. So yes, I do remember
him telling me how terrified he was about being on the middle of the flyer
at Bourges, which does have a handrail, by the way. It’s perfectly safe; you
can grab on either side, up to those iron bars, but it’s just that feeling of
complete void all around you. So, he was terrified, and the cameras, the PBS
cameras were down on the bishop’s garden using a super telephoto catching
it for that Nova documentary.
Ellen Shortell
I just want to say that I remember that day at Bourges very well, Nancy. I
have a reputation for being a little bit fearless about climbing out on clere-
story ledges and so forth, but that was the one time that I was afraid, when I
saw a capital that I absolutely had to take a picture of and I sort of eased my
way along the triforium wall. But what I wanted to just add, built on what
Rob was saying, was that Experiments in Gothic Structure was something
that first inspired me as well to study Gothic architecture. I saw him doing
his little film with his plastic buttress models, with little fishing weights
hanging to reflect the load (Figure 6.4). When I took my first Gothic archi-
tecture class from Madeline Caviness at Tufts, and as a child of an engineer,
I think that sort of clicked and put two things together for me that were
particularly inspiring.
Robert Bork
Great, Thank you. Moving on, let’s give some attention to early encounters
with Andrew. As I said, I came back to Princeton to begin graduate study
in 1991. That was precisely when Andrew was graduating from his under-
graduate curriculum at Princeton, where he had mostly been studying
music, but also where he had taken classes with Robert, which had helped
to fire his excitement about Gothic architecture. These clearly stuck in his
head before he went off to Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and then he
would later circle back to this material, working with our mutual friend
56 Bork ET AL.

Figure 6.4 A
 miens Cathedral, photoelastic model being pulled laterally by fishing
weights to simulate wind load
photo by Robert Mark

Stephen Murray at Columbia. So, I think that Andrew and I are brethren
in that respect of getting to work with both Robert and Stephen, which
was a wonderful experience for each of us, even as we pursued slightly
different directions within the field. So that was my first encounter, when
Robert spoke so highly of Andrew as he was heading out the door, and
then I began to sense his re-­entry into the field, as he started working with
Stephen Murray, first on the music for the Amiens trilogy. Knowing music
as he did, and knowing acoustics as he did, Andrew was a great asset for
Stephen on that project, even before he turned to laser scanning and sur-
veying. I must say that Andrew’s facility with technology was really phe-
nomenal, especially with hardware and getting it to work. We can say more
about that later on, but that talent was growing out, I think, of his experi-
ence as a sound engineer. So, do other panelists want to talk about early
Andrew encounters?
Sergio Sanabria
As probably many of you know, I was doing a survey of Metz 12 years,
beginning in 1984 through ‘96. In ‘98 I tried to go back, and I was kicked
out, which, of course, was a big problem because I needed one more
session to complete the survey. But I went to Metz then every summer
with architecture students whom I trained on the spot to do very precise
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 57

measurement, and that brought a variety of folks who also wanted to

learn how to survey buildings. I have no idea why, but Andrew decided
to join us, I think it must have been in ’92. So, at that time, he was, let’s
say he was very much a reserved Ivy league type who treated me with
exceptional respect. Now all my architecture students were ruffians, and
treated me as I expected to be treated, with complete and utter disrespect
and Andrew was always scandalized by all of my students treating me
with that kind of open and apparent disrespect. In fact, they were very
respectful at the level which mattered, but I don’t think he got it, and
so gradually all of the students began to mock him, and I don’t think he
realized that he was being mocked. He was very, very, very serious. And
the one thing that interested him the very most in Gothic at that time
was his discovery that there were resonators at the cathedral of Noyon
(Figure 6.5).
So, I had a lot of arguments and discussions with him about the chap-
ter in Vitruvius about the theaters and the bronze resonators in theaters
which, I insisted, couldn’t possibly really have amplified voice. They
might have amplified music, but couldn’t possibly amplify your voice.
Resonators have a specific frequency, and couldn’t work that way. But
he insisted that, no, no, no, no, they have to work, and Noyon has some.
Well, then he discovered that every time I went to Metz, I took my stu-
dents on a variety of trips, and that everybody in that team had already
been to Noyon. So, he tried to make all of my students understand the
power, the wonderful thing about having to spend time in Noyon. Do you
realize, he said, that this man has taken you to Noyon? But that did not
go very well…

Figure 6.5 Noyon Cathedral, caveau phonocamptique, panoramic photo by Andrew Tallon
58 Bork ET AL.

Robert Bork
I just want to say that I think this little anecdote about Andrew’s serious-
ness really resonated with me because, as I’ve engaged more and more with
Andrew’s work in recent years, and appreciated just how careful he is, I’ve
realized that this desire to be unimpeachably correct really runs through
his work in a strong way. We’ll talk more about his intellectual legacy later
on, but the precision of the scanning is certainly something that mattered
to him a great deal, like the care with which he went to archives and did
his building archaeology. He was not one to generate wild crazy theories
and hang himself out there without a good empirical base, and Sergio’s
story about this care and respect, even perhaps to an inappropriate degree
in that case, really did make me appreciate something deep in the way he
approached scholarship also. In any case, Andrew was at the Sorbonne
when he visited Sergio, and it was soon afterwards, as we mentioned, that
he began to work for Stephen Murray on sound design, becoming involved
with the Amiens trilogy. So, he eventually came back to New York to work
with Stephen at Columbia, and I think that’s where we pick up our narrative
with Ellen and Nancy.
Ellen Shortell
You know, I don’t remember exactly when I met Andrew in person. When
he came to New York, I was already in Boston. I was very busy in the first
years of my job there, but I heard a tremendous amount about him, mostly
from Stephen Murray, about his mastery of digital imaging technology as
well as sound design, and the kind of tools he brought with him already to
graduate school. I must have met him sometime in Stephen’s office, but
I don’t remember the exact moment. It’s just at some point he material-
ized physically in my life. I’ve been kind of filling in some blanks talking
to some other people who knew Andrew at that time as well. I especially
want to mention that Meredith Fluke has been really helpful in trying to
kind of jog my memory about things. Anyway, Andrew came in with that
background, and already was sort of far ahead of a lot of other people in
that program with the things that he brought, especially to the Amiens
project at the beginning. My recollection is that most of our conversations
were about Gothic structure, or about what I was working on in terms of
Saint-Quentin. I have this sense that he often decided himself to direct
the conversation into what he was most interested in, so that a lot of my
memories are that he was interested, especially in what I was doing with
my building, and what kind of thoughts he could offer, what inspiration
that gave him.
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 59

Nancy Wu
I want to say that, just like Ellen, I don’t remember when I first met Andrew,
but since we were both in New York, I’m sure I met him as soon as he arrived
at Columbia. Obviously, he became almost instantly the star student, with
everything that everyone has been talking about. That is Andrew, and I
agree with all of the accolades which he more than deserved. I also had a
background in music, and because of my job at the Cloisters I was able to
revive the Play of Daniel at the Cloisters, and this would have been 2008.
And it was Susan Boynton who alerted me that Andrew actually wrote, I
believe, a term paper for Susan at Columbia on the space of Beauvais at
a time when the play of Daniel was written. I never really got to read that
term paper, but certainly he’s published subsequently what he thought of
the space, and I would say spaces, because he very cleverly wove together
the history of the play from the time it had been performed in the cathe-
dral, to the time it was written down in manuscript form, which would be
a span of time; and during that span of time Beauvais would have turned
from the old building to the one that we know today. Particularly in the part
about the music, the notation, and the performance practice, his writing
rivaled that of a musicologist. I would say the same thing about his article
on the Noyon acoustic vessels; he spoke like an acoustic engineer. He was
so multi-talented in so many ways in everything he did, I will say, but he
remained so modest. I remember sitting next to him at Kalamazoo listen-
ing to other people’s talks, and he would make comments, of course, but
always very professional, very thoughtful, and very insightful. I hate these
words, but I can’t think of better words now. He was just a very, very modest
person, apropos his own brilliance, and that’s something that I will always
remember about Andrew.
Robert Bork
Thanks, Nancy. So, other memories or thoughts, either from the panelists or
from the floor, about early Andrew encounters?
Ellen Shortell
As we’ve been talking about his work with acoustics—I was going to men-
tion this later--he gave a talk at Kalamazoo in the sessions in memory of
Carl Barnes where he talked about the resonators at Noyon, and he brought
with him as a kind of show and tell, basically, a plastic water bottle that
he hummed into and then passed around the room so everyone could
see or hear how the bottle resonated the sound, to demonstrate what he
was talking about. It seemed so simple, but everyone was just blown away
by that.
60 Bork ET AL.

Lindsay Cook
I just wanted to add a thought about Andrew. I first met Andrew in his
first semester of teaching at Vassar, so just as he had graduated from
Columbia. I have to say that I was a pretty hostile audience, at the very
beginning. I was in his first medieval architecture class. I was already a
sophomore and had taken the introductory courses in the department.
And I was a hostile audience because he had replaced someone who had
been there as a visiting person the year before, and she was a Byzantinist
and I adored her, and I was already completely sold on the Middle Ages.
And so I thought, you know, who does this person think he is? But so
quickly, it became clear, and I understood then why they had made this
decision. So many things that Nancy and Ellen said resonate with me as
well, particularly thinking about the really practical experiments that he
would use as demonstrations in the classroom. That brought things to life,
and one that really sticks out to me has to do with domes. The structure
of domes also interested him. This would have been, as you can imagine,
in a medieval architecture class. It would have been toward the beginning
of the semester, and he brought in something that must have been for
steaming vegetables, and he inverted it to show, essentially, that it gets
stronger as you press down. He really never talked down to us. I mean
it was a class of mostly women, and you can imagine that coming from
Columbia and Princeton, that was probably not as much his experience
at either of those places. He really believed that we could do as much as,
ultimately, a lot of us ended up actually doing, and pursuing whether this
specialty or art history in another field. So, it really started from the very
beginning. I remember all of that ended up kind of bearing out in later
experiences with him, but I’ll never forget that first medieval architec-
tural course.
Elizabeth L Sears
I wanted to speak as a non-architectural historian and say that in the years
before he became so prominent through his various demonstrations at
conferences and so on, related to Gothic structure, there was a buzz I had
heard about him. His work at Columbia, and his extraordinary expertise in
these auxiliary fields, were helping him to come to insight within the field
of Gothic architecture. I just wanted to say, I certainly didn’t know him well;
I met him just a very few times. But at one point when I was head of the
publications committee, and he was on it briefly, we met at Libby Park-
er’s. He was at that point beginning to suffer from his ailment, and I just
wanted to say that outside of his architectural work he impressed me so
much as a person of wisdom, thoughtfulness, responsibility, and creativity.
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 61

I was really so moved by the kinds of suggestions he made looking at any

administrative problem. I think he was all that you say as a scholar, but in
other ways as well, a truly fine human being. This is what I came to feel as
I listened to him and had exchanges with him, and this is what I want to
emphasize.
Robert Bork
Thank you so much, and again you’re very on point here. At the same time,
you’re anticipating some things we’re saying about both the intellectual
contribution and the personal qualities, so I think, that we should turn now
to the intellectual contribution that each of these two major figures made,
again starting off with Robert Mark. I think many of us saw Robert’s book
and were blown away, especially by the visual appeal of those photoelas-
tic models that nobody else made. These were really new images, and very
seductive images in a lot of ways. He’d also published these in American
Scientist, for example, and reached a really different audience that way. I
have a background in physics, and so I like to think that I’m a good quanti-
tative rationalist, and yet I have to admit that it is challenging to decipher
these things. In the course of working with Robert in those years in grad-
uate school I came to appreciate that he really was someone with a great
deal of wisdom about modeling: the idea of abstracting somewhat from a
system and trying to test a simpler version of it--whether it be a physical
model, a computer model, just an intellectual model in your head--and that
he really did understand how to frame problems and break things down and
achieve clarity in a way that would be useful and pragmatic. I also want to
emphasize this point because I think that the coherence and perspicacity of
his view of Gothic has sometimes been underestimated by people because
they look at these models and note a lot of ways in which they differ from
actual buildings. They see plastic versus stone and mortar, for example, or
see rather broad assumptions about how the structure of the model relates
to the actual thing, but Robert was very self-conscious about such issues. He
had worked formerly on nuclear reactor design, fighter plane design, and
all sorts of tile testing, so he really understood the necessity of going back
and comparing the result of your intellectual model with the facts on the
ground. He was never saying that these models are the thing itself, but he
was very good about using them to understand the thing itself. He would,
for example, find the stress areas in the plastic models and then go back to
the buildings to check that they were actually performing in similar ways. I
should also note that Robert, unlike most of us, really could read those stress
interference patterns in a way that was not only heuristic, but also quanti-
tative: stress levels were important in the performance of the structures he
62 Bork ET AL.

worked on previously, and he continued to have a degree of real quantita-

tive insight that I frankly do not, and that most of us do not. That led him
towards was an understanding of Gothic architectural process, as he says,
experiments in Gothic structure, involving learning by doing, and refining
and evolving solutions. To me that’s a very beautiful and coherent way of
understanding the process of artistic development, which is not teleologi-
cal or linear or straightforward, but which is informed by structure and by
analysis of the way that the physical world works. So, I think there’s really a
lot more in that legacy than has been widely appreciated in our field, and I
want to make a shout out for that. On this basis, I’m particularly interested
to hear from Sergio and Elizabeth, who are both working in architecture and
with architecture students, to get their thoughts about how his work fits into
this bigger picture.
Sergio Sanabria
Robert was one of three engineers who were quite active in using engi-
neering to determine the behavior of Gothic structure. Besides Robert,
of course, there was Roland Mainstone and Jacques Heyman. So, Roland
Mainstone had a certain brilliant intuitive approach to the structures. He
did not calculate, but he reviewed, and he could sort of visualize and then
feel his way through it. Jacques Heyman, on the other hand, was a calcu-
lator, and he attempted to construct accurate theoretical models using
elasticity theory which he had developed to a great extent. However, the
models that he used were essentially impossible to calculate, because there
are very, very, high degrees of indeterminacy, meaning that the actual load-
ing within inside of a vault is indeterminate. There are literally infinitely
many ways in which a distribution of the loads can be arranged inside a
vault, so the actual analysis of the vault is far, far, far more complex than
ever done in thermodynamic analysis of an automobile engine; this is
orders of magnitude more complicated, and Robert understood that. Rob-
ert really and truly understood that, and his approach was not like that of
Jacques Heyman which again was theoretical, but where the theory was
so complicated that there was no way of computing; even to this day com-
puters cannot do that. So, Robert had a much more pragmatic approach
to things that would get him in ballpark territory, and he understood that
the ballpark had nothing to do with reality. These calculations or experi-
ments simply just got him to a sense of how these sort of things must work.
As Rob just told us, then he would check the building carefully to look at
the cracks. He brought a sort of a sensibility like the master masons had to
have. For example, the problem of joints, understanding that masonry has
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 63

to be in compression. If it is in compression, it works. If it ever opens up,

that is not a disaster, it is just that if a buttress is partially in tension on one
side it will open up and so the load will be concentrated on one edge of
the buttress. The compressive stresses are never terribly serious in masonry.
Masonry is too strong, and the loads are too low to really destroy masonry.
You know, think of Mount Everest, which is 29,000 feet high, and at the
bottom, the stone is not crushed. So, that is not the issue. The issue was,
how does the building behave? Master masons, if there was a hurricane
blowing, would be in the building, and they would be looking at the outer
pier buttresses to see where the joints were opening. This is an insight that
Robert brought. So, then the masons would put loads on top and watch
again until under similar wind loading, there was no longer an opening,
and then they knew how much stone they had to put up there. Then they
would construct something that was aesthetically pleasing, and it would
solve this specific technical problem. That was an observation that he made
about Reims Cathedral and the very curious arrangement of its pinnacles,
whose upper parts stand above voids, housing the statues of the angels.
He measured the actual volume of a pinnacle, which corresponds to the
volume of the void of the niche in which the angel sculpture is placed and
so he concluded, quite brilliantly I thought, that obviously they had already
empirically determined the volume and mass required to keep those outer
pier buttresses stable under wind loads. He confirmed it with his models,
showing that when they decided to erect the pinnacle above, they used no
more stone than was necessary.
Robert Bork
I think it’s very interesting that in some ways, Robert thought more like a
medieval mason than most art historians tend to, even though he was using
high tech tools. I think many people have the preconception that because
he was using photoelastic modeling or computers, that he was decoupled
from medieval practice but, from my point of view, his mindset was actually
very much aligned with how I imagine a medieval builder’s to be.
Elizabeth Smith
I totally agree with you. That’s what I was going to say. I think that Robert’s
book Experiments is also referring to the masons themselves, who basically
were experimenting brilliantly, and in such an absolute logical way, with
the materials that they were given. Without knowing about gravity, they
knew that it was an important major factor, and it was all worked out dar-
ingly but so logically. Robert also was incredibly logical, and it just matched
for me with the way the masons must have thought--designer masons, not
64 Bork ET AL.

the lowly ones, but the ones that came up with these buildings that leap-
frogged over each other, trying always to do something different and new,
and achieving it by absolute understanding of the materials and the logic,
and that’s what I remember. Robert had a gift for expressing everything in
its absolute simple way so that I had no trouble with believing those models,
because I could see the logic of them. I could see the importance of gravity,
and that it’s worth knowing about it and dealing with it: this part needs to be
supported, and if you push this way, the whole thing will fall over. It seems
so essential to have that point of view. I do remember that in traveling with
Robert he focused mainly on large buildings, because these problems seem
to be really inherent to large buildings. They are much more likely to have
a problem with their structure, and he would not pay attention to anything
that wasn’t large. I took him to Venice. He had never been to Venice, but we
had a free place to stay in a friend’s apartment. So, we drove to Venice, and
when we got there, I showed him Saint Mark’s. We walked around it, and
he said, well, aren’t there any other large buildings? I said no, and he said,
let’s go. We left that day and drove, to the Pont du Gard, which of course he
loved. And he walked across the top of the Pont du Gard in the place where
the water used to run.
Robert Bork
Robert definitely knew what he liked and what he approved, and what he
did not.
Elizabeth Smith
Oh yes, and of course the Eiffel Tower and anything by Eiffel. We went to
see the Pont Garabit in the southwest of France. That was also something
he admired: daring structures in metal and iron and, of course, as we all
remember from his video, the skyscrapers of Chicago, for example.
Robert Bork
Actually, I took a class on skyscrapers from Robert, and then that was one
of the first classes that I taught on my own when I was starting my career. I
took students from the University of Connecticut down to Manhattan, and
found that many of them had never been to Manhattan. Robert was just
scandalized, saying that there’s something terribly wrong with those peo-
ple. So, Nancy and Ellen, do you have perspectives on Robert’s intellectual
contribution, on how it fits in with your teaching, or on how your students
have received it?
Ellen Shortell
I think that Sergio and Elizabeth have really said everything that I had
been thinking of. You know I taught mostly art students, so for some of
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 65

them this kind of empirical approach was a bit problematic, but a num-
ber of them were design students and very interested in the kinds of
questions that Robert raised and answered. So, in that sense it sometimes
could very much excite them to look at this architecture in a different
way. A lot of them, at least at a certain point, would describe themselves
as Goths, and had an attitude toward a building that fit with that. They
needed to come back to a sort of reality about what a building was, and
what a Gothic building was about, and so I think that Robert’s kind of
approach did resonate with them in bringing them to another under-
standing of things.
Robert Bork
I think it’s just fascinating to think about how each of our skill sets
and personalities fit or don’t fit into academic or institutional cultures.
Robert was very much aware of being unusual in his synthesizing of
artistic and technical perspectives, and he would often talk about going
to an engineering job interview when he was a young man carrying an
art book under his arm, and the executive who was going to be reviewing
him said, son, you shouldn’t be carrying that around to this office. At
Princeton, similarly, he was between the architecture and engineering
programs for a long time. I think those of us who studied with him or
sympathize with his approach sometimes feel that there’s this tension
between art-historical culture or art-historical discourse on the one
hand, and engineering or scientific discourse on the other hand. Where
do you publish and who is your audience? Again, it’s no coincidence that
these sessions are sponsored by AVISTA, which has this interdisciplinary,
scientifically-informed perspective on visual material culture. These are
his people, this is his culture that looks at both of these things, in that
Villardian way.
Sergio Sanabria
I have a way of approaching this whole thing from a slightly different view-
point. I’ll start with something else, and then get to where I really am going.
You know, when I was at the University of Colorado one of my favorite fac-
ulty was David Hawkins, who was a professor of philosophy, a full professor
in the Department of Philosophy; he was also a full professor in the Depart-
ment of Education, and a full professor in the Department of Physics. He
was very gentle, very elegant, and obviously a very intelligent man. I was
also attracted to Robert Mark precisely because he was a full professor in
the department of civil engineering, as well as a professor in architecture,
which meant that he would not be stuck in any one position or the other. In
66 Bork ET AL.

the many conversations we had, the one thing that he always bragged about
was about the jobs he got from industry, when he was doing this experimen-
tation, photoelastic experimentation on jet engines and on objects that had
broken up, where they were desperate and they needed to get somebody to
explain where the problem was. Remember, this was in the 1960s, when $1
was a real thing, not just some virtual thing that you click that goes ping.
He charged the Department of Defense and industries $150 an hour. At that
time, the top lawyers in the nation earned $150 an hour, and he thought
that was outrageous, but when he tried $250 an hour they paid him, and
they never asked any questions. So at that point he decided to run an exper-
iment, and he doubled his charge to $300 an hour, and he didn’t get any
complaints. From that point on he charged $300 an hour, and so, you know,
he was probably one of the wealthiest professors at Princeton, because who
the hell earned $300 an hour in the 1960s? He was really, really pleased to
tell that story.
Robert Bork
He was also a very good advisor because he explained to me over an Indian
dinner one time, that it’s just as easy to apply for a half-million-dollar grant
as to apply for a $500 grant, so you might as well go for the big ones. That
was good advice. I want to make sure we have time to talk about Andrew’s
intellectual contributions before we return back to personal recollections.
So, I will just say again, Andrew, as we were alluding to before, was serious
and careful and precise, and dedicated to getting things right. Also, he was
very mindful of the possibilities that technology is beginning to open up.
When I was with Sergio in Metz is in 1987, we talked about laser scanning as
something that was theoretically possible and coming to use in the Defense
Department, but it was not a happening thing back then for people like us.
Andrew, thanks partly to Stephen Murray, was in the right place at the right
time, and had the right skill set to really start capitalizing on this to sur-
vey and capture buildings with a precision that had not been done before.
I think he took really deep pleasure in getting these things as right and as
solid as he could, and in making images that were beautiful and unprec-
edented. Now they’re starting to proliferate from many people, but back
when he was starting, it really was revolutionary; and then he used that data
to make analyses of artistic process in conjunction with documentation,
and in conjunction with archaeology. I think it is very interesting to look at
how differently he and Robert approached these things, especially Gothic
structure, because they were both interested in many of the same buildings
for many of the same reasons, while bringing such different sensibilities
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 67

to their work. They respected each other and liked each other, but Robert
really was happy to abstract somewhat, using models and theory to gener-
ate hypotheses and see what stuck, while Andrew was much closer to the
vest about being documentary and not making wild hypotheses, but really
sticking with what the evidence showed in a very precise way. I appreciate
both of their perspectives on that, but they were very different. Instead of
using modeling theory, Andrew was interested in what he was calling spatial
archaeology, using the deflections that are observed in buildings to generate
stories or analyses of how and when the loads got applied to them, without
really using engineering theory, but just more or less common sense ampli-
fied by the high precision of the measurements. Then, of course, another
thing that he did which also related to hardware, was the amazing photog-
raphy and Internet presence achieved by the Mapping Gothic France proj-
ect, which has become a valuable resource for many of us. So, technology
and imagery and making buildings accessible through these tools, ideas that
Stephen Murray was also interested in, clearly animated a lot of his work.
Personally, I just want to say a big thank you to Andrew for being willing to
share his results with the world, and with me. Having the buildings so pre-
cisely documented enables approaches such as geometrical analysis, which
I use, and which can go forward now in a really rigorous way that wasn’t
possible 100 years ago, according to the stereotype of thick lines on badly
drawn plans. So, I’m really grateful to Andrew. I think many of us are build-
ing on the empirical work that he was doing. So I’ll start with the panelists:
thoughts about Andrew’s intellectual contribution in relation to Robert’s or
on its own?
Sergio Sanabria
I was not so terribly familiar with all of his work directly. By the time that he
was doing most of the surveys, I had, as I said, been kicked out for reasons
too complicated to explain from Metz, and I had pretty much abandoned
medieval scholarship, or really all scholarship as a matter of fact. But, there
was a fundamental difference between the kind of surveying that I was try-
ing to do, and the surveying that can be done with the point clouds and
the very, very, expensive theodolites that I could not afford; even nowadays
they’re still horrendously expensive but the costs are coming down so that
now for $100,000 you can get one of those. So, you set it in the middle of a
church, and you move it from location to location, making sure you know
the distance precisely from one station to the next, which is elementary
to do. At that point, you get a complete three-dimensional coverage of the
building, so you can understand its three-dimensional character, and many,
68 Bork ET AL.

many deviations and so on. But the one thing that you don’t have is the fact
that there is no continuity of lines. You cannot determine, for example, when
you have a pier that was originally cut to have a sharp angle, and that sharp
angle has eroded. If you’re measuring by hand, you’re going to construct
those corners. What the point cloud does is, it gives you points all over the
place, and then those points have to be statistically aggregated in order to be
able to get some sort of local configuration which never quite corresponds
to the reality of being there in front of the building. It also, in my opinion,
gives you an illusion of knowing the building, but you don’t really know the
building. To know the building, you have to sit in front of a pier. And if you’re
doing measurements like we had to do in Metz, for you know, a week at a
time on a pier, and we got to know that pier. And that pier will have all kinds
of strange little details. All the piers seem at first to be the same, but are not
quite the same, and those differences can only be comprehended through
that phenomenological approach of being embedded in the place and also
listening to the place. I remember once I was alone in Metz Cathedral at
noon time when the building was closed, and for reasons I don’t know a
German choir was allowed in and they came into the transept and began
to sing Bach. And I think I learned something very important about the
building through that experience. I am one of those wild theorists, so I don’t
have any problem jumping into interpretation. And so, yes, I agree, I think
Andrew was extremely objective. His scholarship, I would call it research,
was extraordinarily objective. I have one really serious objection to his work
at Notre-Dame. Now he photographed that building bay by bay in excruci-
ating detail, and so I went through the whole thing because I needed to find
an image of the west pier of the south transept on its northern side, because
that’s where the last remnant of a 12th century flying buttress is. And every-
thing all around was photographed except that. That is the one spot in the
entire Cathedral of Notre-Dame that he had not photographed.
Lindsay Cook
I want to push back against a little bit of what’s been said so far, to be hon-
est. I mean, my experience, particularly during Mapping Gothic France,
would be basically two months that I spent for hours a day in buildings
with Andrew. I think he so often came to buildings with a hypothesis, and
some of them might have to do with the connection between polyphony
and Gothic structure. I remember him taking those particular hypotheses
and singing in the buildings that we visited. Honestly some of these points
he never ultimately published, perhaps because of this need for evidence
in some cases that was incontrovertible. He was always after that, so maybe
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 69

that did prevent some of this ending up in his scholarship itself, but I would
say that his approach wasn’t just, I’m going to document the building and
then we’ll see what comes of it.
He did frame his approach to these buildings, and some of that was very
phenomenological and had a lot to do with liturgy and music. And I mean
also things like optical theory, so I remember a thought, and this comes
from Viollet-le-Duc. Ellen, you can correct me if I’m wrong, but it had to do
with the use of red and blue together, and the way that those are perceived.
So just to push back a bit on the objective side of Andrew.
Robert Bork
Thank you. Yes, you know we all see through our own filters, and so I think
I’m talking mostly about the parts of Andrew’s scholarship that I’ve gone
back to and tried to use for my own objective data bank, because his work
has been a tremendous resource on that front. So, my own blinders are likely
keeping me from seeing some of his other facets, so thank you very much
for your input.
Ellen Shortell
I certainly understand some where Sergio is coming from. Sergio is one of
the people who taught me to sit in a building and look carefully at all of the
details, and taught me the value of measuring carefully and triangulating.
For me, one of the values of having done that is to have a sense that I was
measuring out the building in a way that was akin to the way master masons
in the Middle Ages might have been able to measure, which is not what you
get with a digital process where you have to kind of back up and understand
how things were put together if you want, for example, to look at the geom-
etry. But at the same time, the amount of information that Andrew was able
to gather with his point clouds is just exponentially beyond what one can
do with more traditional methods, and the amount of information that we
have now because of his work is just such a gift to the field that I really
appreciate. He actually started to look at Saint-Quentin, and he did a point
cloud just of the ground plan. I encouraged him and talked to him about it
because I was so excited to have someone who could get more information
than I was ever able to gather when I was there. I dropped a plumb bob
from the high vault, and I dropped one from the triforium, and that was
about all I could do with the upper levels. So, I was really looking forward to
the possibility that he would go back there, because he was interested very
much in structural deformity, and Saint-Quentin is the most structurally
deformed building that’s still standing as far as I know. The other thought
I had was that, when people who are not working in Gothic architecture
70 Bork ET AL.

look at us measuring things, it sometimes looks like a very positivistic way

of approaching the work, and I just want to say that what can happen here
is to take the actual material that we have and understand how it was put
together. And with the kind of 3D model that Andrew was able to create, we
can begin to take it back, step by step, and understand what happened to it,
which I think is very important. Lastly, I think Andrew understood very, very
well that with any amount of data, you still need interpretation, and the
different kinds of perspectives, as Lindsay was saying, that he could bring to
that interpretation, from understanding acoustics to wondering about the
performances inside of the space, on top of how things had shifted over
time. It’s just an enormous contribution as far as I’m concerned.
Nancy Wu
I just want to reiterate that we all appreciate and are grateful for Andrew’s
incredible ability to collect data from buildings: the point clouds, the laser
scans, and whatnot. But I have had a few conversations with him, and I
know that he was very aware of the danger of being overwhelmed by all this
data and losing your way in your own investigation of the of the structures.
And he practically said one time that the danger of our enterprise is that it’s
so easy just to click a key on the computer and something would happen. In
other words, the overwhelming information data that technology nowadays
can collect, versus the knowledge and the ability that 13th-century archi-
tects had at their disposal is a huge gap. I think he was very aware of that
gap, and very aware of the danger of over-applying or over-­interpreting all
the information that we now have at our disposal. This was a theme that he
and I shared a couple of times in our conversations, so I think he was really
a very intelligent and thoughtful scholar in that sense. We were talking
about the difference between Andrew and Robert, and I will say Robert was
really an engineer by training, and Andrew added a lot more as an histo-
rian. Reading his articles, he goes to the primary sources and he had the
languages. It’s more of an art-historical output that Andrew was able to offer
us. People have been talking about his enormous knowledge of music, of
acoustics and, of course, of optical refinement. I think he really was able to
use the data that he collected, applying them to different disciplines within
the field, not just structure and not just information, not just the hardcore
architectural things. I think his articles are so valuable and so readable pre-
cisely because he was able to apply them to so many different issues that
would be of interest to so many of us. If I may just go back to Robert a little
bit, I worked, as you know, in a museum setting for a long time, and most of
the people I interacted with were not hardcore architectural people. Many
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 71

of them had a hard time understanding Robert Mark’s work. I hope I’m not
saying anything sacrilegious, but I have often used the metaphor of the
medical imaging observation. If you need to get a scan for medical reasons,
the report always comes back at the end with an impression or interpreta-
tion written by the radiologist. I feel that Robert had this wonderful ability
to synthesize his findings, at the very end, with beautiful color illustrations
of the photoelastic images, so actually these two things combined made
his articles made his writings very readable. So, this is the sacrilegious part:
I would actually recommend to people who couldn’t go through the nitty
gritty details that Robert described to look at the pictures, to read a begin-
ning describing the architecture, and to read the end summarizing his find-
ings. I think people reading this way still get a very good gist of what Robert
is trying to convey. Anyway, I just feel that Robert and Andrew were two
scholars who really were able to take very difficult information and deci-
pher it, making things much easier for the rest of us to understand. I think
this is one of their most important contributions to the field.
Robert Bork
I heartily concur. Thank you very much, Nancy. I think we’ve already begun
to get a sense of how warmly we all feel about Robert and Andrew, and how
special their contributions were. They both had incredible minds, and were
able to use those intelligences with unusual tools, and with unusual facility,
to make really individual contributions that have enriched our field a great
deal. They also had wonderful personalities, which were complementary in
many ways.
On the whole question of personal style, Robert had a kind of feistiness
that I appreciated very, very much. He really had a gift for distilling things
down to irreverent aphorisms. He helped me to understand late Gothic, for
example, by distilling down to: “The whole problem, Rob, is the god-damned
Renaissance”, which certainly clarified things for me, and set my targeting
computer usefully for later projects. And again, both of them were multifac-
eted intellectually. Robert also had a strong musical sensibility, for example.
It doesn’t come out in his scholarship the same way, but it was clearly a very
important part of his persona, and of his culture. Both Robert and Andrew
were also generous in many ways with their contributions, sharing them
with the field. I think it’s very special they shared the friendship that they
did over the course of their careers unified by this passion for Gothic archi-
tecture, which they understood with these different and innovative tools. I
just feel very lucky to have known them. I miss them both in our commu-
nity, but I’m really grateful that everybody here has come out to share their
72 Bork ET AL.

thoughts and memories and perspectives on them. So, I will now ask the
panelists if there are other things about their personal reminiscences that
they want to share.
Sergio Sanabria
I have one thing, and I think I would be completely remiss if I did not say that
Robert saw himself as a kind of a follower of his one great hero, ­Viollet-le-Duc.
He worshipped Viollet-le-Duc, and I’m a great admirer of Viollet-le-Duc, so I
was very happy that we shared that interest. But he saw Viollet-le-Duc doing
in the 19th century something very akin to the game that he himself was play-
ing, and so I think his connection to that important 19th-century predecessor
is extremely important and illuminates the nature of his intellectual gestalt,
if you will.
Nancy Wu
I just would like to say a few things about both Robert and Andrew. I actually
got to know Robert much better after he retired. I remember he called me
out of the blue soon after the publication of John James’s The Ark of God.
When the volumes came out he said, let’s talk about this book, so we went
to a Vietnamese restaurant on the upper West Side and we talked about the
approach of the book, and we had a very wonderful conversation. Then I
would continue to see him infrequently because he only attended to hard-
core architecture talks. At the Branner Forum at Columbia more than once
he had to miss the talk, and he asked me to share my notes with him. Then
in 2014 his Experiments book was reprinted in a very contemporary jazzy
design, so he dropped a copy off at my building. So, all I’m trying to say is
that he in retirement continued to pay a lot of attention to Gothic archi-
tecture. He was very selective, and he would show up at the Forum always
with Joel Herschman. I remember that the last time I saw Robert was actu-
ally at the day-long conference that Andrew and I and Rob and Ellen and
some of us put together for Bill Clark during CAA in 2015. I was very happy
to see him. I didn’t think he would go because it was cold in February. He
emailed me afterwards apologizing for not staying through the very end of
the day. He said he had a bad cold, but I was really very happy to see him;
it turned out to be the last time. Andrew at the time was living in Pough-
keepsie, and of the small committee that worked on putting what we call
Bill-fest together, he was the closest to me physically, and he was very help-
ful. He was the one who designed a program with graphics, which was very
helpful. We worked so well together, we decided that we would do a con-
ference for another scholar, so we got together in May of 2015. I remember
that we went to a restaurant behind Columbia’s campus, and Columbia’s
Remembering Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon 73

campus was being readied for commencement. We had a very productive

lunch together talking about the format, and it was going to be tech-heavy,
and nothing would faze Andrew. He said we’ll have multi-screens on the
wall, no problem. To him, there was no problem. Nothing was a problem
in terms of technology. So, I walked away from that lunch meeting feeling
very comforted and reassured that with Andrew as a partner we would do
this conference beautifully. A month later, he was diagnosed. He told me
himself, but Robert also told me. Robert was, as you all know, very affected
by Andrew’s illness. Robert was very kind. He went to the hospital to see
Andrew—Andy, he called him—and Robert then emailed me. This was the
very last email I received from Robert, telling me that Andrew was going
to be discharged the next morning. Robert asked Andrew if he was going
home with a hole in the head, and Andrew had replied very cheerfully with
an affirmative. Andrew despite his own illness was very considerate and
compassionate with other people. I had to go through a very serious surgery
myself in March of 2018, and Andrew emailed me the day before, the day
of, and the day after my surgery. And thinking back, this was just about six
months before he himself passed away. He was a very caring friend and I will
forever remember that.
Robert Bork
Thank you, Nancy. That’s very moving. This whole discussion is actually very
moving. Ellen and Elizabeth, do you have other thoughts that you want to
add quickly?
Elizabeth Smith
I would just like to say that I never met Andy, but I did hear about him a lot
from Robert, all the time. He would say wonderful things about him, and
then talk about him as if I did know him, as if Andy were his nephew or
something, or even his fourth son. I mean he was very, very fond of him, and
I only wish I had met him. And, of course, Robert was like extended family
for me because of him being together with my good friend Carol. So, we
spent a lot of time together over the years, and I would talk to Robert about
my interests, but he was never quite as interested in the Italian problems,
especially since my church wasn’t big enough. But I still would talk to him
about it, and he was always interested, and I do miss them; I mean I miss
Andrew through Robert, and I certainly miss Robert.
Ellen Shortell
One other thing about Andrew that we haven’t mentioned, is that he was
a very spiritual person. He was deeply religious, and for a lot of academics
that’s a little bit of a disconnect, perhaps. Not all of us could entirely relate
74 Bork ET AL.

to that, but when he first told me that about his diagnosis, I was devastated,
and then he talked to me about what a great deepening of his spiritual
understanding it was bringing him. That was very sad in many ways, but
at the same time it says something to me about just how broadly and how
deeply he felt about the things that he knew and the way that he searched
for understanding of things. Of course, his father was a professor of philos-
ophy, who was an expert in a particular Jesuit philosopher, so there’s a long
background in that, but the sadness, for me, was somewhat modified by the
fact that he was seeing this in the way that he saw it.
Robert Bork
Thank you for mentioning that. I know that’s important. Now that our pan-
elists have had their time to weigh in, do other folks from the floor want to
share memories in our final few minutes?
Paula Gerson
I want to reiterate what Elizabeth said about teaching Gothic architecture,
and how absolutely amazing Robert’s contribution was. When I began
teaching, I was introduced to Robert through Bob Branner and Bill Clark.
Once we had those models, you could talk about how the building stands.
It was a completely different way of approaching those buildings than I
had learned as a student, and it made so much sense to my students and
really revolutionized the way many of us in the ’70s were teaching. So, I just
wanted to say how important he was as an educator, certainly for me.
Robert Bork
Great, thank you for adding that. I’m very grateful to all of you who have
participated in this roundtable discussion, which has evoked so many of the
personal and professional contributions that Robert and Andrew made.
 CHAPTER 7

Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic

Choirs (and Their Implications for Understanding
Suger’s Saint-Denis)
Robert Bork

The emergence of the Gothic architectural tradition in the region around Paris
in the middle decades of the 12th century has been well studied from many
different perspectives, from the archaeological and documentary to the struc-
tural and stylistic. Many important questions about the first Gothic building
projects nevertheless remain unresolved, especially since the upper portion of
perhaps the most crucial structure of all, Abbot Suger’s choir at Saint-Denis,
was replaced already in the 13th century. Andrew Tallon literally shed new light
on these questions by laser scanning Parisian churches including Saint-Martin-
des-Champs, Saint-Martin-des-Prés, and the cathedral of Notre-Dame, as well
as Saint-Denis.1 Observing that the flying buttresses of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
had moved slightly outward along with the clerestory wall, for example, he
demonstrated that these flyers had been constructed together with the walls in
the 1150s, rather than being added after the fact.2 Observing the skewed align-
ments of the chevet buttresses at Saint-Denis, conversely, he argued that these
buttresses had not carried flyers until the 13th-century reconstruction of the
upper choir.3 His scans of Notre-Dame, meanwhile, revealed not only the radii
of the concentric circles used to define the choir’s ground plan, but also the
correlation between this ground plan and a large equilateral triangle used to

1 I am deeply grateful to Andrew for granting me permission to use his laser surveys in my
geometrical investigations, and to his widow Marie for giving me her blessing to continue
with this enterprise. Much of his laser scan data can now usefully be accessed through the
Mapping Gothic France website that he developed with Stephen Murray. See https://mcid
.mcah.columbia.edu/art-atlas/mapping-gothic/.
2 Andrew Tallon, “Experiments in early Gothic structure: the flying buttress” (PhD Dissertation,
Columbia University, 2007), pp. 136–38. See also Andrew Tallon, “Sens et contresens,” in 850
ans de la cathédrale de Sens, ed. Jean-Luc Dauphin and Lydwine Saulnier-Pernuit (Sens, 2017,
49–77, here at 69–73.
3 Tallon, “Experiments,” 65–98, esp. 90. Tallon reiterated this basic argument in his talk “The
Superstructure of Suger’s Chevet at Saint-Denis,” delivered on February 10, 2015, at a sympo-
sium in New York in honor of William W. Clark.

© Robert Bork, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_008

76 Bork

define its cross-section.4 Andrew’s tragically premature death sadly deprived

him of the opportunity to follow up systematically on these results.
The present essay seeks to honor Andrew’s legacy, and those of our ­mentors
Robert Mark and Stephen Murray, by demonstrating how the computer-aided
geometrical analysis of Parisian buildings he scanned can reveal previously
unremarked relationships between them, and thus point the way toward
a newly coherent picture of early Gothic architectural development in the
region. In particular, this analysis will demonstrate that the cross-sections
of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Notre-Dame, and the
lower portions of the Saint-Denis choir were all based on the geometry of the
equilateral triangle, which strongly suggests that the same was originally true
of Suger’s upper choir, as well. In all of these buildings, moreover, the triangles
in question relate intimately to the geometries established in the choir ground
plans, which therefore need to be considered first in each short case study
(Figure 7.1).

1 The Plan of Saint-Martin-des-Champs

The choir of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, designed around 1130, has an unusual

plan: it features a wide main vessel, a comparatively narrow double ambulatory
whose outer bays curve to form six small chapels of uneven shape and size, and a
large axial chapel with a trefoil head (Figure 7.1a).5 Only the main vessel and axial
chapel have rib vaults, while the ambulatory and lesser chapels have groin vaults
over a mix of rectangular and triangular bays. Because of its lumpiness and overt
irregularity, this plan has often been compared unfavorably to the seemingly
more disciplined plans of Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame
(Figures 7.1b, 7.1c and 7.1d).6 Although this harsh judgment makes good sense at
first and perhaps even second glance, scrutiny of Saint-Martin’s plan eventually
reveals a surprisingly degree of geometrical order behind the apparent chaos.
The first hint of this order can be seen when one observes that the inner tips
of the four triangular bays of the inner ambulatory seem to lie near the corner

4 Andrew Tallon, “Divining Proportions in the Information Age,” Architectural Histories 2

(2014). DOI: http://doi.org/10.5334/ah.bo.
5 Philippe Plagnieux, “Le chevet de Saint-Martin-Des-Champs à Paris incunable de l’architec-
ture gothique et temple de l’oraison clunisienne,” Bulletin Monumental 167 (2009), 3–39.
6 See, for instance, Jean Bony, French Gothic Architecture of the 12th and 13th Centuries
(California Studies of the History of Art Series, 20) (Berkeley, 1983) pp. 60–62; or Christopher
Wilson, The Gothic Cathedral (London, 1990), p. 31.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 77

Figure 7.1 C
 omparative plans of four Parisian Early Gothic choirs: Saint-Martin-des-Champs,
Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame. Saint-Martin-des-Champs
after Deneux 1913, Saint-Denis after Crosby 1987, Saint-Germain-des-Prés modified
after Plagnieux 2000, and Notre-Dame after Andrew Tallon and Laurence Stefanon
Art Graphique et Patrimoine, 2013

points of a large hexagon filling the main vessel (Figure 7.2a). The wide bay
opening to the eastern chapel corresponds to one facet of the hexagon, while
pairs of smaller rectangular bays correspond to the adjacent facets. From this
perspective, the plan of the choir suggests the plan of a hexagonal rotunda, like
the Templar churches built in both Paris and London a few decades later. Anal-
ogies can also be seen to earlier structures such as Charlemagne’s octagonal
78 Bork

Figure 7.2 P
 aris, Saint-Martin-des-Champs, basic steps of plan geometry
Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid on plan by Deneux

chapel at Aachen, or the half-hexagonal westwork of Essen Cathedral.7 At

Saint-Martin-des-Champs, the regularity of the rotunda format is broken in
three principal ways: first and most obviously, by the chevet corresponding to
only a half-rotunda; second, by the addition of chapels outside the ring of the
inner ambulatory; and finally, by the angular deviations that make the eastern
bay a bit smaller than the pairs of bays flanking it. Despite these deviations

7 Comparison can also be made with the Round Church of Cambridge, dating to the 1130s,
although this example has octagonal symmetry. Another hexagonally symmetrical example
of the type seems to have been the church of Notre-Dame-la-Ronde in Metz, built around
1200, but now completely transformed by its incorporation into the fabric of Metz Cathedral.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 79

from perfect hexagonal symmetry, it seems clear that the core of the plan was
derived at least schematically from a hexagonal figure measuring roughly 14
meters corner to corner, corresponding to the span of the central vessel.
The geometrical logic of the choir plan begins to come into sharper focus
when one considers not only the shape of the interior bays, but also the dis-
tance to the outer walls (Figure 7.2b). On the north side of the church, which is
more regular than the south side, the north exterior wall and the outer faces of
the two buttresses between the three small chapels lie on a circle of diameter
28.76 m, which also sweeps through the keystone of the bay joining the inner
ambulatory to the trefoil head of the axial chapel. This seems like a particularly
provocative relationship because the ribs in that bay do not describe a sim-
ple X; instead, the keystone lies slightly to the east of where such an X would
be centered, suggesting that its placement was chosen for a reason involving
something larger than the bay itself. Furthermore, if one inscribes a hexagon
and a circle within the large circle, one finds that the smaller circle, with diam-
eter 24.90 m, coincides rather closely with the arches separating the inner and
outer aisles, with the relationship again being closer on the north side. Putting
these observations together, it makes sense to imagine that the width of the
main vessel was meant to be half the diameter of the largest circle, or 14.38 m.8
Striking corroboration for these hypotheses comes from consideration of
the choir’s overall length, which measures almost exactly 24.05 m from the
chevet center to the east window of the axial chapel (Figures 7.2c and 7.2d).
This dimension, in turn, is smaller than the 24.90 m diameter of the circle
framing the inner aisles by a factor of .966, which is the cosine of 15 degrees.
This makes excellent sense, because 15 degrees is the angle that one gets when
subdividing a semicircle into 12 slices, precisely as one would do when bisect-
ing the angles in a structure with hexagonal symmetry. 12th-century builders,
of course, had no analytical understanding of trigonometry, but they certainly
knew how to subdivide circles into 12 or 24 slices, as innumerable rose win-
dows and calendar diagrams attest. In the particular case of Saint-Martin-des-
Champs, it seems that a dodecagon was inscribed within the circle of diameter
24.90 m framing the inner aisles, and then a circle of diameter 24.05 m within
that dodecagon. An equilateral triangle circumscribed around that circle will

8 All the other dimensions shown in the graphics depicting Saint-Martin-des-Champs are
derived from this “seed” value of 14.38 m through “perfect” geometrical operations. These
are thus theoretical dimensions, which the irregular masonry fabric of the building matches
closely, as the graphics indicate. Throughout this essay, all of the dimensions will be derived
from a single “seed” value for each building.
80 Bork

have its eastern tip 24.05 m east of the circle’s center, thus locating the eastern
window of the axial chapel.
Close scrutiny of the vault plan based on Andrew Tallon’s scans confirms
the above observations, while also permitting the addition of more telltale
details (Figure 7.3 lower half). The wall shafts separating the trefoil head of the
main chapel from the adjacent bay, for example, lie 6.45 m west of the chapel’s
axial window, aligned with the intersection of 45-degree diagonals tangent to
the orange circle of diameter 24.90 m introduced in Figure 7.2. More impor-
tantly, the glass plane of the axial window in the clerestory really does lie 7.19
m east of the chevet’s geometrical center, which is half the notional 14.38 m
span of the main vessel. Meanwhile, the midpoints of the freestanding piers
separating the inner and outer ambulatories in the axial bay lie 11.62 m to the
east of the chevet’s geometrical center. This distance corresponds to the radius
of a circle inscribed within a decagon inscribed within a slightly larger deca-
gon inscribed within the familiar orange circle of diameter 24.90 m. Although
inelegant when expressed in words, that relationship arises naturally in the
context of any structure with dodecagonal symmetry, and it thus makes good
sense in the context of the overall choir plan, which turns out to have far more
stringent geometrical logic than its rather awkward appearance and irregular
execution would initially suggest.9

2 The Cross-section of Saint-Martin-Champs

On the interior, Saint-Martin-des-Champs presents a two-story elevation, with

an arcade of compound piers and small clerestory windows (Figure 7.3, upper
half). Sloping glacis surfaces visually extend the windows downward into the
space between these main stories, which otherwise appears flat and smooth.
Lurking behind these wall surfaces under the aisle roofs are spur buttresses
meant to meet the thrust of the high vault, which has a domical profile. Given
the substantial width of the main vessel, and the shallowness of the exterior
buttresses at ground level, it is perhaps unsurprising that the church experi-
enced structural problems, requiring significant consolidation work in the 19th
and 20th centuries.10 Because of its width, the main vessel has very squat pro-
portions, further emphasized by the low placement of the clerestory compared
to the high vault keystone.

9 That is, [24.90m x cos2(30°)]/2 = [24.90m x (.966)2]/2 = 24.90m(.933)/2 =24.90m(.4965) =

11.62m.
10 Tallon, “Experiments,” pp. 93–94.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 81

Figure 7.3 P
 aris, Saint-Martin-des-Champs, geometry of plan and section
Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid on laser scan by Andrew Tallon

The heights of elements seen in the choir of Saint-Martin-des-Champs

derive, though a simple and lucid scheme based on the geometry of the equilat-
eral triangle, from dimensions established in its ground plan. The most crucial
of these dimensions is the 11.62 m interval previously mentioned between the
chevet center and the vertical axis through the freestanding piers. The shaded
30-60-90 triangle in Figure 7.3, which corresponds to half of an equilateral tri-
angle, has this dimension as its baseline, and it rises from the ambulatory floor
82 Bork

to a point 20.12 m higher, locating the top of the vault webs at the main choir
keystone.
To build on this provocative result, it helps to consider several other vertical
axes rising up from the ground plan. The rightmost of the red dotted verti-
cal stands 7.19 m to the right of the chevet center, passing through the glass
plane of the axial clerestory window, whose lower sill is at height 14.38 m, cor-
responding to a double square construction within this framework, as the solid
red diagonals show. Moving leftward, the next two dotted verticals stand (7.19
m) /√2 and (7.19 m)/2 away from the chevet axis, respectively, corresponding
to the points in the plan where 45-degree and 30-degree lines from the chevet
center intersect the red circle of radius 7.19 m. Moving further leftward, the
two orange dotted lines are half as far from the chevet axis as the two red ones.
The blue dotted line, finally, is separated from the chevet axis by an interval
equaling the gap between the red circle in the plan and the corner of the blue
hexagon circumscribed around it.
Moving from left to right then, one can read out the intersections of these
vertical axes with the sloping side of the shaded triangle. The first intersec-
tion comes at height 18.19 m, corresponding to height of the exterior cornice
on the clerestory wall.11 The second comes at height 17.02 m, locating the tops
of the windows. The third comes at height 15.72 m, locating the tops of the
colonnettes flanking the windows and the bottom edge of the imposts sup-
porting the window arches. The fourth comes at height 13.90 m, locating the
top edge of the sloping window glacis, and the fifth comes at height 11.32 m,
locating the bottom edge of the glacis and the springing of the main choir
vault. The stunning consistency and precision of these results should leave no
doubt that this “ad Triangulum” system was used to define the cross-section of
Saint-Martin-des-Champs.
Three further details can be added to round out this picture. The height of
the regular arcade piers up to their capitals is (7.19 m)/√2, or 5.08 m, corre-
sponding to the height of a square inscribed between the chevet axis and the
leftmost red dotted line. The same green diagonal crossing this square inter-
sects the sloping side of the shaded triangle at height 7.37 m, locating the tops
of the capitals on the arcade piers framing the passage into the axial chapel.
The 9.11 m height to the prominent horizontal molding on this chapel’s vault,
finally, can be found by “bouncing” the green diagonal off the rightmost red
dotted vertical, and finding the points where it intersects the green line of

11 The cornice cannot be directly seen in Figure 7.3, which is based on laser scan data from
the church interior only, but it can be verified by correlation with Tallon’s scans of the
exterior, also available on the Mapping Gothic France site.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 83

60-degree slope rising from the base of the chevet axis. These results further
confirm that the vertical dimension at Saint-Martin-des-Champs derived quite
precisely from the dimensions defined in the choir’s ideal plan geometry, the
rather irregular layout of the actual choir notwithstanding. As subsequent dis-
cussion will show, broadly analogous design principles guided the construc-
tion of Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame as well.

3 The Plan of the Saint-Denis Choir

The plan of the Saint-Denis choir incorporates many of the same elements
seen at Saint-Martin-des-Champs, but with a drastically different sensibility
(Figures 7.1a and 7.1b). One again there are double aisles, and seven radiat-
ing chapels, but at Saint-Denis they form a nearly regular array, without the
strongly salient axial chapel seen at Saint-Martin. Slender columns replace
the compound piers of Saint-Martin, and the outer aisle is much wider, con-
tributing to a lighter and airier ambience. These features, together with the
consistent use of pointed arches, rib vaults, and large windows, have earned
the Saint-Denis choir its popular reputation as the first recognizably Gothic
structure. The crypt level, by contrast, appears very different, both because
its structure was necessarily heavier, and because its articulation has a much
more stereotypically Romanesque flavor. The precise alignment between the
exterior walls and buttresses of the two levels, though, strongly suggests that
a single stylistically bilingual master planned both. This alignment demon-
strates, at the very least, that the plan of the main level derives from that of the
crypt. This, in turn, implies that geometrical analysis of the crypt can provide
valuable clues about the design of the main choir level.
The geometrical logic of the Saint-Denis crypt can be readily understood
thanks to the work of Richard Nash Gould, who participated in Sumner Cros-
by’s detailed investigations of the abbey, and who thus had access to highly
precise photogrammetric plans of the crypt and its vaults already in the years
around 1970, decades before laser scanning technology came of age.12 Crosby
and Gould both understood that the three eastern chapels of Saint-Denis differ
subtly from the two western pairs, and that their centers lie slightly outboard
of the circle that could be drawn through the centers of the other four. Crosby

12 Richard Nash Gould, “The Crypt Plan at Saint Denis,” 1974. I am grateful to William W.
Clark for bringing this unpublished work to my attention, and to Richard Nash Gould for
allowing me to cite his findings.
84 Bork

Figure 7.4 S aint-Denis Abbey, geometry of crypt plan

Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid on photogram by Richard
Nash Gould

concluded on this basis that the eastern trio had been located using a different
circle, centered eastward of the one used for the western pairs.13

13 Sumner Crosby, “Crypt and Choir Plans at Saint Denis,” Gesta 5 (1966), pp. 4–8.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 85

Gould realized that he could explain the locations and the dimensions of all
the chapels using only a single geometrical center for the whole chevet com-
position (Figure 7.4).
The heavy arches separating the crypt chapels from the ambulatory, which
are shaded blue in Figure 7.4, follow an essentially perfect half-circular plan
that can be used to unambiguously locate this center. Gould’s next crucial
insight was that the geometry of the crypt had been established by the sub-
division of this semicircle into wedges each measuring exactly 27 degrees, an
angle resulting when the 45-degree angle found within bisected squares is sub-
tracted from the 72-degree angle characteristic of pentagons. More specifically,
the rays from the chevet center to the chapel centers are offset from the main
building axis by 0, 1, 2, or 3 times this basic wedge angle; these wedges and
their bisectors are shown in red in Figure 7.4. The four western chapel centers
lie on a circle of diameter 21.61 m.14 A rotated square circumscribed around
this circle has a corner-to-corner width of 30.56 m, coinciding closely but not
perfectly with the span across the main buttresses separating the chevet from
the straight bays.15 The width of the heavy arches between the chapels and the
ambulatory can be established quite readily within this framework. The inner
faces of the arches lie on a semicircle of diameter 18.71 m, corresponding to
the combined width of the two 30-60-90 triangles, shown in green in Figure
7.4, which are inscribed within the semicircle locating the chapel centers. The
outer faces of the arches lie on a semicircle exactly halfway between the other
two, which thus has a diameter of 20.16 m; this makes the arches .72 m thick.
Having located the centers of the four western chapels, Gould realized that
he could determine their size simply by projecting squares outward from each
center until their corners touch; these squares, which are oriented to match the
rays to the chapel centers, are outlined in red in Figure 7.4. The inner spaces of
these chapels correspond to the circles inscribed within these squares, and the
outer wall surfaces of the chapels correspond to the larger circles circumscribed
around the squares, as shown by yellow and orange shading in the figure.
The lower graphic in Figure 7.4 shows how Gould cleverly built on this sys-
tem to locate the three eastern chapels without invoking a supplemental che-
vet center as Crosby had. Gould realized that the squares framing the third and
fifth chapel had corners coinciding with the tips of triangles, shaded green in
the figure, whose short baselines were the radii of their western neighbors, and
whose interior angles measure 72, 72, and 36 degrees. These shaded triangles,

14 This geometrically fundamental dimension will thus be taken as the “seed” value for
Saint-Denis.
15 The slight discrepancies will be considered further below.
86 Bork

in other words, are shaped like those found within a regular pentagonal star.
This finding thus relates intimately to Gould’s original observation about the
27-degree angles to the chapel centers being found by subtracting 45 degrees
from 72 degrees. Last but not least, Gould realized that the center of the axial
chapel could be found by drawing lines with 18-degeee slope up from the cen-
ters of its neighbors, where this angle is just half of the 36-degree angle found
in the tips of the shaded triangles. The sophistication and subtlety of this sys-
tem, which Gould demonstrated rigorously, strongly suggests, among other
things, that precise architectural drawings were already being used by the mid-
dle decades of the 12th century, since the plan geometry of the Saint-Denis
crypt would have been literally inconceivable otherwise.
The lower graphic in Figure 7.4 also shows a number of details that Gould
did not explicitly consider, which will prove relevant for analyzing the main
floor of Suger’s choir.16 Most crucially, it shows that the round piers support-
ing the hemicycle stand on a semicircular strip with external diameter 11.86 m
and interior diameter 10.42 m. The former dimension can readily be found by
projecting diagonals up from the interior of the blue-shaded strip describing
the arched chapel openings, tracing them until they intersect the edges of the
green-shaded 30-60-90 triangles, and then dropping verticals from these inter-
section points down to the baseline of the composition. The 10.42 m can be
found by simply subtracting .72 m from each side of the 11.86 m outer diameter,
since the semicircular strip supporting the hemicycle has the same .72m width
as the strip separating the ambulatory from the chapels. This .72 m dimension
appears to have been used as a module, since the reinforced piers marking the
start of the straight bays are displaced two such modules west of the chevet’s
geometrical center. These centers of these piers, interestingly, lie 10.42 m apart,
aligned with the interior edge of the hemicycle strip rather than its midline.17
These findings will prove essential for analysis of the choir’s main floor, and for
testing hypotheses about the design of its now-missing superstructure. Before

16 These details are discussed more fully in Robert Bork, “Ground Plan Geometries in Suger’s
St-Denis: A Prototype for Altenberg,” in Astrid Lang and Julian Jachmann, eds. Aufmass
und Diskurs (Berlin, 2013), 55–68. The steps in the layout of the plan are also illustrated
in the presentation “Ground Plan Geometries in Suger’s St-Denis,” available at: https://
geometriesofcreation.lib.uiowa.edu/architecture/the-geometry-of-the-choir-plan-in
-sugers-saint-denis/.
17 Finally, it is interesting to note that the eastern corner of the large buttress on the choir’s
north side seems to lie half a module west and half a module north of the corner of the
large governing triangle described previously, as though the triangle’s diagonal side had
been extended slightly; whether this should be understood as an error or as a nuance of
the design remains unclear.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 87

undertaking that analysis, though, it makes sense to consider two related

buildings that survive in something closer to their 12th-century form, namely
Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Notre-Dame.

4 The Plan of Saint-Germain-des-Prés

The choir of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, built between roughly 1145 and 1155, has
often been compared to that of Saint-Denis, since they share several import-
ant features, above and beyond their chronological and geographical prox-
imity. Both buildings feature chevets cleanly divided into an odd number of
nearly identical slices, each terminating in a radiating chapel which two win-
dows (Figures 7.1b and 7.1c). Both choirs employ free-standing columnar sup-
ports, and both measure five bays wide in the straight bays. At Saint-Germain,
though, the outermost bays are treated as chapels separated by walls, instead
of forming a second set of aisles, and the same is true in the turning bays of the
chevet, as well. To the extent that the plan of Saint-Germain-des-Prés resem-
bles the plan of Saint-Denis, therefore, it actually resembles the crypt more
closely than the main level of Suger’s choir.18 Indeed, the wide arches sepa-
rating the ambulatory from the aisles at Saint-Germain are curved to form a
semicircular arc in plan, just like the analogous arches in the Saint-Denis crypt.
Analysis of Andrew Tallon’s laser-scan of Saint-Germain-des-Prés confirms
that its chevet plan was governed by geometrical principles similar to those
seen at Saint-Denis but employed in a slightly different way (Figure 7.5, bottom
half).
At Saint-Germain, the centers of all four surviving medieval chapels lie on
a single circle of diameter 24.01 m, with none of the radial offsets seen in the
three eastern chapels of Saint-Denis. In this respect, the Saint-Germain plan
seems simpler and more consistent. Conversely, though, the five main wedges
of the Saint-Germain chevet differ in angular width from one another, instead
of matching each other’s width as the seven wedges of Saint-Denis do. Even so,
constructions based on perfect decagonal symmetry and consistent 18-degree
angles evidently established the radii of the circles governing the layout of the

18 Plagnieux objects to the choir design being seen as conservative copy of Saint-Denis, and
follows Jacques Henriet in attributing its design to architect of Sens. See Philippe Pla-
gnieux, “L’abbatiale de Saint-Germain-des-Prés et les débuts de l’architecture gothique,”
Bulletin Monumental 158 (2000): 6–87, esp. 71–78. The geometrical analysis presented in
the current study, combined with similar analysis of the Sens choir, strengthens that attri-
bution. See Robert Bork, “A Geometrical Perspective on von Simson’s Gothic Cathedral,” in
Nexus Network Journal, 2022.
88 Bork

Figure 7.5 P
 aris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, geometry of plan and section
Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid on laser scan
by Andrew Tallon

Saint-Germain chevet. To trace this development, it is easiest to start on the

interior and work outwards.19

19 It is possible that the chevet at Saint-Germain-des-Prés was actually laid out in this way,
unlike at Saint-Denis, where the presence of the old crypt would have required Suger’s
builders to begin work on the outer perimeter.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 89

The geometrical center of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés chevet, defined as

the center of the circles used in its construction, lies slightly to the west of the
hemicycle keystone. Construction of the plan seems to have begun by con-
structing a perfect decagon centered on this point, and framed by the axes of
the choir arcades, which are 11.14 m apart.20 By extending a side of this decagon
until it meets the building’s main axis, one finds the long leg of the 18-72-90
triangle shown shaded red in the figure; the hypotenuse of this triangle estab-
lishes the size of a red semicircle with diameter 19.92 m that sweeps just behind
the main colonnettes of the engaged piers. When a line of 36-degree slope is
struck up from the corner of the red triangle to the building axis, the intersec-
tion establishes the size of an orange semicircle with diameter 23.41 m whose
relevance for the plan is not obvious, but whose size would play an import-
ant role in the establishment of the choir cross-section, as subsequent discus-
sion will show. When a tangent to the red circle is drawn perpendicular to the
building axis, meanwhile, its intersection with the red ray framing the shaded
wedge defines the size of a yellow semicircle of diameter 20.94 m, whose rel-
evance is far more obvious: it is the midline of the heavy arches separating
the ambulatory from the chapels. The width of the arches equals the space
between the red and yellow semicircles, i.e. (20.94 m – 19.92 m)/2 = .51 m. The
diameters of the semicircles defining the inner and outer margins of the arch
sequence, which are shown in green and blue, are thus 20.43 m and 21.45 m,
respectively. When a line of 36-degree slope is launched from the intersection
of the green circle and the red ray framing the central chapel wedge, it inter-
sects the main building axis to define the size of a violet semicircle measuring
24.01 m in diameter, which passes through the geometrical center points of all
four surviving medieval chapels. Other details can be added to this picture to
flesh out the geometry of the plan, but these diameters give all the information
necessary to proceed with analysis of the church’s cross section.21

20 This fundamental span has been taken as the “seed” value from which the other dimen-
sions for Saint-Germain derive.
21 The centers of the second and fourth chapels appear to have been located by drawing
horizontal (i.e., north-south) tangents to the original red semicircle extrapolated from the
initial decagon, and finding their intersection with the circle of diameter 24.01 m through
the chapel centers. This wedge between these centers and the chevet center spans 67.9
degrees, slightly less than the 72 degrees that one would expect from perfect decagonal
symmetry. This geometry thus “squeezes” the axial chapel, helping to explain why the
buttress uprights framing it stand somewhat inboard of the red rays defining the per-
fect decagon wedges. Even so, the second and fourth chapels are smaller than the axial
chapel, and the first and fifth chapels are somewhat smaller still. The cumulative effect
of these “distortions” is to pull the buttresses framing the chevet eastward, so that the
angle between the buttresses and the geometrical center of the chevet is only about 165
90 Bork

5 The Cross-section of Saint-Germain-des-Prés

The cross-section of Saint-Germain-des-Prés differs significantly from that of

Saint-Martin-des-Champs. The main vessel is slightly shorter and consider-
ably narrower than at Saint-Martin, and the interior elevation has three sto-
ries rather than just two, with a false triforium between the arcades and the
clerestory windows; these windows were originally somewhat shorter than
they appear today, since their bottom sills were lowered in the 17th century.22
The clerestory walls are braced by flying buttresses that appear to be original,
since their displacement matches that of the walls, as mentioned previously.
The upper part of Figure 7.5 incorporates one of the laser scan images that per-
mitted Andrew Tallon to demonstrate this, along with geometrical overlays to
show the logic of its design, and its relationship to the choir plan.23
Despite the important formal and structural differences between Saint-
Germain-des-Prés and Saint-Martin-des-Champs, both seem to have been
designed with cross-sections based on the geometry of the equilateral trian-
gle. The most fundamental of these triangles, which appears shaded blue in
the figure, sets the height of the main vessel. Since the triangle has a baseline
measuring 21.45 m, corresponding to the span between the exterior surfaces
of the thick arches framing the ambulatory, its height is 18.58 m. The sloping
sides of this blue triangle intersect the vertical axes of the arcade at height
8.94 m, thus locating the base of the false triforium.24 A very slightly smaller
triangle framed by the vertical midlines of the arches between the chapels and
the aisles sets the height of the clerestory wall 18.14 m above the aisle floor. The
blue triangle intersects these same verticals at height .44 m, thus locating the
floor level of the central vessel.

degrees, significantly less than the 180 degrees that perfect decagonal symmetry would
produce. This also means that the centers of the arcade piers at the base of the hemicycle
stand slightly east of the chevet’s geometrical center, which explains why the vault key-
stone located between them is also offset to the east of the chevet center. It is interesting
that the builders of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, Saint-Denis, and Saint-Germain-des-Prés
all succeeded in maintaining a high degree of precision in the establishment of radii for
the circles used in the ground plans, even as they tolerated significant irregularities in the
angular measure around these circles.
22 The triforium is false in the sense that it has no back wall surface. It seems better to call it
a triforium than a gallery, however, since it has no single framing arch. For the modifica-
tions in the 17th century, see Plagnieux, “L’abbatiale de Saint-Germain-des-Prés,” p. 52.
23 Tallon, “Sens et contresens,” pp. 69–73.
24 More specifically, this is the level where the new colonettes are added to the main shaft
bundles, on the top edge of the lip terminating the arcade zone.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 91

The capital heights can readily be found by adding two simple constructions
within the equilateral triangles introduced thus far. First, 45-degree diagonals
launched from the arcade axes at the just-located height of the central vessel
intersect the vertical arch midlines at height 5.35 m, thus locating the tops of
all the capitals in this lower zone of the choir. Second, diagonals struck down-
ward from the keystone of the main vault intersect the arcade axes at height
13.01 m, thus locating the tops of the upper capitals.
To find the remaining points in the elevation, two other equilateral triangles
must be introduced. The widest triangular construction in Figure 7.5, shown in
violet, rises from the verticals 24.01 m apart that framed the circle passing through
the chapel centers in the ground plan. The sloping sides of this outer triangle
intersect the arcade axes at height 11.16 m, the level now marked by the lintel of
the false triforium, which originally corresponded to the base of small arches in
this zone, before the clerestory extension undertaken in the 17th century.
An even more important triangle, shown in orange, evidently governed the
geometry of the flying buttresses. This triangle, framed by the lines 23.41 m
apart that arose early in the analysis of the ground plan, rises to a height of
20.28 m. Its tip coincides with the intersection point of the lines continuing
the upper edges of the flying buttresses, which have 30-degree slope. The slop-
ing sides of the orange triangle stand .98 m outboard from the shaded blue
triangle locating the main vault keystone; this dimension serves as the radius
of the small red circles centered at the top of the arcade level. Verticals from
the outer points on these circles rise to frame the upper walls of the clerestory.
Lines of 30-degree slope struck downward from the main keystone intersect
these verticals at height 14.79 m, the level where the flying buttress intrados
meet the clerestory wall. The centers of these arcs lie on the exterior wall sur-
face at height 10.40 m, the level where the yellow triangle crosses the verticals
rising from the interior points on the small red circles. The horizontal mold-
ings on the buttresses, finally, lie at height 10.64 m, where the sides of the large
orange triangle cross the arcade axes.
The striking coherence of this geometrical scheme demonstrates that the
flying buttresses of Saint-Germain-des-Prés were deeply integrated into the
logic of the choir’s original design, providing independent evidence for the con-
clusion that Andrew Tallon had already reached from examining the deforma-
tion of the completed structure. This is a particularly provocative result in light
of the close geometrical affinities between Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Saint-­
Denis, because it lends credence to the idea that Suger’s choir superstructure
may have incorporated flyers in some fashion, as well. Before going on to explore
that possibility, it will be helpful to consider the great building whose design
drew on all of those considered so far, namely the cathedral of Notre-Dame.
92 Bork

6 The Plan of Notre-Dame

Notre-Dame, begun around 1160, clearly ranks as the largest and most impres-
sive structure built in the Paris region in the twelfth century, and it retains
its ability to awe visitors even today.25 Its choir includes not only the double
aisles of Saint-Denis, but also the deep buttresses of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
Further, although its main vessel does not attain the width of the squat quasi-
rotunda at Saint-Martin-des-Champs, the overall scale of its choir was vastly
greater than any of those discussed previously. Notre-Dame has obviously
attracted a huge amount of scholarly attention over the past two centuries,
for its architectural qualities as well as for its prominent role in Parisian his-
tory. It might seem rather surprising, therefore, that the logic of its design has
remained obscure until recently. Here once again, Andrew Tallon’s campaign
of laser scanning has proven invaluable, finally providing the empirical data
necessary to make rigorous geometrical analysis possible.26 The following
paragraphs will summarize only a few key results of that analysis, which has
been published in more complete form elsewhere.27
Any satisfying explanation of the Notre-Dame’s plan needs to address the
relative radii of the concentric semicircles used in laying out the chevet. As Tal-
lon observed, these measure 6.65 m for the hemicycle, 12.42 m to the interme-
diate column axes, and 18.18 m to the original outer wall, respectively, while the
current outer wall corresponds to a semicircle of radius 23.94 m.28 The center

25 A recent and valuable addition to the vast literature on the cathedral is Dany Sandron
and Andrew Tallon, Notre-Dame Cathedral: Nine Centuries of History, trans. Lindsay Cook
(University Park, PA, 2020).
26 Andrew Tallon certainly deserves credit for pioneering the laser scanning of Notre-Dame,
but other scholars have also scanned the cathedral, both before and after the fire that
badly damaged its fabric in 2019. Livio di Luca and his colleagues associated with the MAP
CNRS Ministère de Culture have developed a digital site for Notre-Dame that integrates
much of this information. See https://www.notre-dame.science/ Also contributing to this
work is the team from Bamberg led by Stephan Albrecht, Stefan Breitling, and Rainer
Drewello, who have recently incorpated scan information about the cathedral’s transepts
into Die Querhausportale der Kathedrale Notre-Dame in Paris: Architektur, Skulptur, Far-
bigkeit (Petersberg, 2021).
27 For an early version of this discussion, see Robert Bork, “The Chevet Plan at Notre-Dame
in Paris: A Geometrical Analysis,” which now appears as a supplement to “Dynamic
Unfolding and the Conventions of Procedure: Geometric Proportioning Strategies in
Gothic Architectural Design,” Architectural Histories, 2 (2014) Supplement 1, DOI: http://
dx.doi.org/10.5334/ah.bq.s1.
For a more complete analysis of the cathedral’s form, see Robert Bork, “The Design Geome-
try of Notre-Dame in Paris,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 81 (2022): 21–41.
28 Sandron and Tallon, Notre-Dame Cathedral, 20.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 93

of these semicircles does not coincide with the eastern end of the rectangular
array of bays; instead, it lies 1.78 m to the east. Even more strangely, the chevet
is not subdivided into equal wedges. Of the five main wedges, the three eastern
ones are equal in size, corresponding to three bays each, while the two western
wedges are smaller, corresponding to just two bays each. Each larger wedge
spans 42.94°, an unusual angle corresponding to no regular subdivision of the
circle. The chevet’s two western wedges are uneven in size, spanning 26.88° on
the south but only 24.24° on the north, measured against perpendiculars to the
cathedral’s main axis.
As the successive graphics in Figure 7.6 show, a fairly simple series of geo-
metrical steps suffices to explain all these features of the plan. The cathedral’s
original designer likely began by drawing a circle on a parchment plan to rep-
resent the hemicycle, and then inscribing a hexagon within it. As built, the
hemicycle radius is 6.65 m, so that the inscribed hexagon would have a center-
to-face radius of 5.76 m, as shown in the upper left of the figure.29 The designer
then used this dimension as a basic module to set the radii of the chevet com-
position, as indicated in the second row of the figure: adding 5.76 m to the 6.65
m hemicycle radius gives the 12.42 m radius to the intermediate column axes,
and adding another such module gives the 18.18 m to the original outer wall;
adding a third one gives the current wall plane of the chapels built between
the original buttresses, 23.94 m out from the chevet center. These theoretically
derived dimensions precisely match the dimensions measured by Tallon.
A great equilateral triangle governs the layout of the choir straight bays. The
sequence of straight bays begins 1.78 m west of the chevet center, as the top
right graphic in Figure 7.6 shows. This interval is twice the .89m gap between
the original hemicycle circle and the facets of the hexagon inscribed within it.
The four eastern choir bays are each 5.76 m long, corresponding to the aisle
width, so that their aisle bays are notionally perfect squares. The westernmost
choir bay is longer, measuring 6.65 m, which equals the hemicycle radius. This
means that its western edge lies 31.48 m west of the chevet center, a dimension
equaling the height of the large equilateral triangle whose base is framed by
the original outer walls.
The elegance of these interlocking relationships suggests that the cathe-
dral’s entire east end was planned as a cohesive whole. Even the initially per-
plexing chevet wedge angles make sense within this framework. Parallel lines
extending the choir arcade axes meet the circle describing the original outer
wall at points that define the 42.94° span of the central wedge. As the bottom

29 One may thus take the 6.65 m radius of the hemicycle as the “seed” value for Notre-Dame.
94 Bork

Figure 7.6 P
 aris, Notre-Dame, geometry of choir plan. Graphic by Robert Bork
overlaid on plan by Andrew Tallon and Laurence Stefanon
Art Graphique et Patrimoine, 2013

graphic in Figure 7.6 shows, however, the chevet is rotated slightly to the north,
measured against both the main building axis and the buttresses at the chevet
base. It seems that the builders accidentally located the southern ray of the
central wedge by finding the intersection of the arcade axis with the tangent to
the 18.18 m circle, instead of the intersection with the circle itself. This caused
the ray to rotate slightly north, as the red radii in that part of the figure show,
but when this mistake is taken into account the results of this layout scheme
match the built fabric with high precision.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 95

7 The Cross-section of Notre-Dame

Notre-Dame dramatically surpasses its local predecessors in height as well as

in overall width. Unlike Saint-Martin-des-Champs, Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
and presumably Saint-Denis, the cathedral incorporates vaulted galleries,
whose inclusion directly above the arcade effectively pushes the clerestory and
high vaults upward. In comparing their main vessels, therefore, Notre-Dame
is not only taller than those earlier churches in absolute terms, but also sig-
nificantly slimmer in proportional terms. Despite these differences, however,
the cathedral shares many important features with its local predecessors. Its
interior walls appear thin and planar, as at Saint-Martin-des-Champs, and its
clerestory walls are braced by flying buttresses, as at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.30
In all these buildings, moreover, a large equilateral triangle derived from the
ground plan governs the proportions of the cross-section.
Andrew Tallon recognized that the vault height of Notre-Dame corresponds
closely to the tip of an equilateral triangle framed by the original exterior walls,
whose inner surfaces stood 18.18 m from the building centerline (Figure 1.6).
This triangle appears shaded in the top half of Figure 7.7, which shows an elab-
orated version of the graphic Tallon first published based on his laser scan of
the choir.31 This triangle, which has a height of 31.48 m, corresponds precisely
to the horizontally oriented version shown governing the choir ground plan in
Figure 7.6. This shaded triangle, however, was not the only one to play a role in
establishing the elevation. A slightly larger triangle, shown in red in Figure 7.7,
rises to a height of 32.25 m, has a baseline .89 m wider than the shaded trian-
gle, spanning the midlines of the original outer walls. A slightly smaller trian-
gle, shown in orange, rises to 30.71 m, with a baseline .89m narrower than the
shaded triangle, spanning between the centers of the shaft bundles protruding
from the walls. The former establishes the height to the main vault keystones,
while the latter establishes the height of the transverse arches. The tops of the
upper capitals, at height 24.50 m, can be found by dropping diagonals from
the apex of the transverse arch until they intersect the inner surfaces of the
clerestory walls; this construction closely resembles the one used to establish
the analogous capitals at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

30 The choir flyers of Notre-Dame were repeatedly rebuilt, but their format seems to closely
recall the originals. See Stephen Murray, “Notre-Dame of Paris and the Anticipation of
Gothic” Art Bulletin 80 (1998), 229–53; Tallon, “Experiments,” pp. 147–181.
31 See Tallon, “Divining Proportions.” The relevant illustration is reproduced in this volume
as Fig. 1.5. A very slightly different version of this illustration appears in Sandron and Tal-
lon, Notre-Dame Cathedral, 21. For discussion of the relationship between these schemes,
see Bork, “The Design Geometry of Notre-Dame,” note 32.
96 Bork

Figure 7.7 P
 aris, Notre-Dame, geometry of choir section
Graphic by Robert Bork overlaid on laser
scan by Andrew Tallon

While the vaults and interior supporting structures of Notre-Dame remained

substantially unaltered since the 12th century, the same cannot be said of the
flying buttresses in the choir, which were rebuilt both in the 14th century and
in the 19th century. Even the appearance of the structure in 1200, moreover,
may have differed subtly from what was originally planned around 1160. There
is good reason to believe, in particular, that the high vaults were originally
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 97

planned to be slightly lower than they were built, so that their main keystones
would have coincided with the tip of the shaded triangle at height 31.48 m. If
so, the planned transverse arches would have reached 29.94 m, and the capitals
23.73 m, as shown in the bottom half of Figure 7.7. In this admittedly hypotheti-
cal reconstruction of the original design, moreover, the main flyers would have
had 30-degree slope like those of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, or like the lower sec-
ondary flyers of Notre-Dame itself.
This short article is not the place to explore all the details of Notre-Dame’s
evolving design, but even this fairly abbreviated discussion suffices to show
that the cathedral resembled Saint-Martin-des-Champs and Saint-Germain-
des-Prés in having a cross-section based on a large equilateral triangle, with
the implementation of this basic scheme differing significantly from case to
case. At Saint-Martin-des-Champs, where the inner aisles are quite narrow
compared to the main vessel, the application of a triangle based on the aisle
width produced a very squat format. At Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where the
triangle base stands just outboard of wider inner aisles, the main vessel has
more svelte proportions, being nearly as tall as at Saint-Martin-des-Champs,
but considerably narrower. At the cathedral, finally, the framing of the govern-
ing triangle by the outer walls of a double-aisled choir produced a main vessel
of unprecedented height, requiring the use of both vaulted galleries and flying
buttresses to assure its structural integrity. With these geometrical examples
in mind, it now becomes possible to consider the design of Suger’s Saint-Denis
choir in context, and from a fresh perspective.

8 The Plan of the Saint-Denis Choir

The plan of the main choir level at Saint-Denis obviously derives quite directly
from the geometrical givens already established in the crypt. As the bottom
portion of Figure 7.8 shows, for example, the centers of the hemicycle col-
umns lie on a semicircle of diameter 11.14 m, halfway between the semicir-
cles of diameter 10.42 m and 11.86 m framing the analogous columns in the
crypt. As in the crypt, moreover, the arcade piers of the straight bays are cen-
tered 10.42 m apart. The free-standing columns between chevet ambulatories,
though, stand slightly inboard of the blue-shaded strip denoting the plan of
the thick chapel entrance arches in the crypt. More specifically, the column
centers stand one half of a strip width, or .36 m, inboard of the shaded strip.
On the main choir level, moreover, the open spaces of the outer choir ambu-
latory replace the more self-contained spaces of the crypt chapels. For these
reasons, the plan of the choir does not seem to express the most fundamental
98 Bork

dimension established in the choir, namely the radius of the circle sweeping
through the centers of the crypt chapels. This crucial dimension, however,
likely did play a role in establishing the choir cross-section.

9 The Cross-section of Saint-Denis

Given what has already been shown about the cross-sections of Saint-Martin-
des-Champs, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame, it seems unsurprising
that geometries based on the equilateral triangle figured prominently in the
cross-section of Saint-Denis. This can be explicitly demonstrated with the sur-
viving structure of the crypt and choir ambulatories. The upper right portion
of Figure 7.8 shows Sumner Crosby’s drawing of the choir’s longitudinal sec-
tion, which was based on careful measurement in these zones, with the super-
structure he postulated shown above. The floor level of the crypt lies 4.82 m
below the main floor of the choir, and the tops of the ambulatory capitals cor-
respondingly lie 4.82 m above that baseline. As the red lines in the figure show,
this 4.82 m interval is nothing more than the height of an equilateral triangle
whose baseline equals the radius of the hemicycle, measured between the che-
vet center and the hemicycle column centers. The column heights of 4.20 m,
similarly, are established by the intersection of the sloping red line with the
violet vertical marking the inner face of the hemicycle.32 The intersection of
this line with the floor level marks the bottom point of another 60-degree line
that intersects the chevet axis at height 9.02 m, thus setting the height of the
arcade zone on the interior and the height of the chapel-crowning cornice on
the exterior. The 7.61 m height to the tips of the arcade arches, finally, can be
found by striking diagonals whose lower points are even with the capital tops

32 Crosby gave the heights of the column bases as .65 m and of the shafts as 3.50 m, for a total
of 4.15 m, .05 m less than the theoretical value of 4.20 m presented here, an agreement
to within roughly 1%. Adding the capitals, which are .52 m high, and the abaci, which are
.28 m high, he arrived at a total of 4.95 m for the full stack, which is .13 m higher than the
theoretical value of 4.82 m presented here. However, since the column abaci are carved
into separate horizontal layers, with the upper half square in plan and the lower half trun-
cated at its corners to match the plan of the capital, it may well be that the conceptually
relevant level was the break between these layers, which lies almost exactly at height 4.82
m. Meanwhile, Crosby gave the diameters of the columns at their bases as .51 m, which
is smaller than the .72 m width of the arches in the crypt by a factor of √2, i.e., .72 m/√2
= .51 m. The columns then taper to a diameter of .46 m near their capitals. The width of
the column bases is .96 m, which is almost exactly the sum of these two values, i.e., (.51 m
+ .46 m) = .97 m. See Sumner McKnight Crosby, The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis: From Its
Beginnings to the Death of Suger, 475–1151, ed. Pamela Z. Blum (New Haven, 1987), 370–371.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 99

on the chevet and hemicycle axes. The surviving portion of Suger’s choir can
thus be seen to have a crisp geometrical order in section as well as in plan.
The nature of the choir’s lost superstructure has, of course, occasioned a
great deal of debate. Crosby’s drawing shows a three-story interior with a key-
stone height of around 20.47 m and a cornice height of around 21.44 m, with
the clerestory zone beginning at height 13.50 m. He also shows the chevet with
small spur buttresses under the eaves, as at Saint-Martin-des-Champs, rather
than with flying buttresses like those at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Andrew Tal-
lon agreed with this conclusion, which he supported with formal, geometrical,
and structural arguments.33 He observed, first of all, that many buildings from
the first half of the 12th century have salient buttresses comparable to those of
Saint-Denis at ground level, even though they never carried flyers. Second, he
noted that the buttress axes of Saint-Denis are oriented somewhat irregularly,
so that they do not all converge on the chevet center, as they presumably would
have if they had been intended to carry an array of convergent flyers. Finally,
and perhaps most persuasively, he used his precise laser scan to demonstrate
that the ambulatory columns of Suger’s chevet had been slightly displaced
outward at their tops, but that the outer buttresses had not; this pattern of
deformation suggests the action of a spur buttress pressing down on the inner
ambulatory vault, rather than of a flying buttress that would carry the load
directly to the outer buttresses.
Based on the preceding geometrical analyses of Saint-Martin-des-Champs,
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame, a reconstruction of the choir super-
structure slightly different than Crosby’s can be proposed, as the upper left
quadrant of Figure 7.8 shows. Since those three Parisian churches all had
cross-sections based on equilateral triangles, and since such geometries are
present in the surviving portions of Suger’s choir, it seems highly likely that
such geometries governed the superstructure, as well. In particular, it is tempt-
ing to imagine that the overall cross-section of Saint-Denis was governed by
the shaded triangle in the figure, whose baseline equals the geometrically fun-
damental radius of the circle locating the chapel centers in the crypt.34
If this triangle of height 18.71 m set the height of the main vault keystone,
then the main vessel would have been almost two meters shorter than Crosby
had proposed. This seems plausible for several reasons. First, it would give a

33 Tallon, “Experiments,” 65–98, esp. 90.

34 The sloping side of this triangle intersects the green vertical of the hemicycle column axis
at height 9.04 m, a nearly negligible 4 cm above the notional 9.02 m height of the arcade
zone, so that a draftsman developing this scheme in a small, scaled drawing could easily
have mistaken them as identical.
100 Bork

Figure 7.8 S aint-Denis Abbey, geometry of choir plan and section, with hypothetical
superstructure alternatives
Graphic by Robert Bork, overlaid on plan and elevation from
Crosby, 1987

main vessel closer in height and in slenderness to Saint-Germain-des-Prés; it

is hard to believe that the designer of the latter, who was clearly familiar with
Saint-Denis, would have allowed his building to be significantly shorter than
Suger’s church, especially since it was wider.35 Conversely, Suger’s designer likely

35 At Saint-Denis the height/width ratio of the main vessel as proposed here would be
18.71/10.42 = 1.80, while in Crosby’s scheme it would be roughly 20.47/10.42 = 1.96. To put
these numbers into context, the corresponding ratios would have been 22.12/14.38 = 1.54
at Saint-Martin-des-Champs, and 18.58/11.14 = 1.67 at Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Greater
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 101

would not have been concerned if his main vessel were slightly “shorter” than
the squat choir of Saint-Martin-des-Champs, especially since the Saint-Denis
choir would often be seen from viewers looking up from the nave and transept,
whose floor lies 2.35 m below the floor of the choir.36 Because these structures
likely had wooden roofs considerably lower than the choir vaults, moreover, the
establishment of clear interior sight lines between Suger’s west block and choir
would not have provided an impetus for elevating the vault height above the
level proposed here.37 It is interesting, finally, that application to Saint-­Denis of
the diagonal-based vault proportioning recipe seen at Germain-des-Prés and
Notre-Dame would yield, from a keystone height of 18.71 m, a clerestory base at
height 13.50, right where Crosby himself thought that it should be.
Even if the main vessel of Saint-Denis was somewhat shorter than Crosby
had proposed, it may well have included flying buttresses, if only in its straight
bays. The surviving buttresses at the lower level of the straight bays, after all,
are far larger and more robust than the slender buttresses between the chapels.
It would have made sense to put flying buttresses on these large buttresses,
because the vault thrust acting on each pier would have been far larger than
in the chevet, where six piers work together to support the hemicycle vault,
permitting the use of spur buttresses of the kind seen at Saint-Martin-des-
Champs. If flying buttresses had been built over the straight bay buttresses,
then the corresponding ambulatory piers presumably would show less out-
ward displacement than their neighbors in chevet. This is precisely the pattern
that Tallon’s measurements of the columns reveal.38 In more straightforwardly
art-­historical terms, meanwhile, it seems significant that the east end of

slenderness was generally achieved in the 12th century only with the inclusion of vaulted
galleries, as at Notre-Dame, which would achieve a ratio of 31.48/13.30 = 2.37.
36 The pre-Gothic nave floor appears to have been even lower; Crosby stated that it was 3.50
m below the choir floor; see The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis, 234. The ground level at the
east end of the building is roughly half a meter higher than at the west, further complicat-
ing comparisons between the floor levels.
37 It is significant in this context that Suger describes the west façade chapel behind the
rose window as “secluded,” which may suggest that it was too tall to look directly into the
spaces of the Carolingian nave. See Elizabeth Pastan, “‘Familiar as the Rose in Spring’:
The Circular Window in the West Façade of Saint-Denis,” Viator 49 (2018): 99–152. The
small round window on the west of façade of Senlis Cathedral was certainly located above
the height of the original 12th-century vaults, further suggesting that the same was also
true of the Saint-Denis façade, which clearly inspired it. On the relationship between the
Saint-Denis choir and west façade, see Robert Bork, “A Geometrical Perspective on von
Simson’s Gothic Cathedral.”
38 The specific values for the southern columns, starting at the east, are: S1, 5.8 cm; S2, 4.5
cm; S3, 7.0 cm; S4, 5.4 cm; S5, none. On the north side, the values are: N1, 5.1 cm; N2, 6.6
cm; N3, 5.4 cm; N4, 4.9 cm; N5, 3.9 cm. See Tallon, “Experiments,” p. 86, note 74.
102 Bork

Saint-Etienne in Caen, whose plan derives from that of Saint-Denis, incorpo-

rates flying buttresses only in the straight bays.39 Finally, since Germain-des-
Prés also derived from Saint-Denis in so many important respects, its inclusion
of flyers suggests that Suger’s church may have had them as well, even if it
lacked the full array seen at the more robustly built Parisian church.
Putting these ideas together with the geometrical analyses outlined previ-
ously, it becomes possible to offer a new reconstruction for the probable appear-
ance of the abutment scheme at Saint-Denis. Any flyers present in the straight
bays would likely have had a slope of 30 degrees, like those of Germain-des-Prés
or the lower set at Notre-Dame. This format would have agreed naturally with
the 30-60-90 geometries manifestly governing the surviving portions of Suger’s
choir. For both structural and geometrical reasons, one imagines that the lines
extrapolated from the top surfaces of these flyers would have intersected the
building axis somewhat above the vault keystone, as at Germain-des-Prés. In
particular, it is tempting to imagine that they might have converged on the
apex of the orange triangle shown in the upper left quadrant of Figure 7.8,
whose sides stand outboard from the shaded blue triangle by the same .72 m
interval that defines not only the width of the thick arches in the crypt, but
also the notional thickness of the walls in the main choir story. The apex of
such a triangle would lie 19.97 m above the choir floor, and the 30-degree line
descending from it would intersect the outer surface of the clerestory wall at
height 16.54 m; it would meet the outer margin of the buttress at height 11.04
m. The intrados of a flying buttress with this upper chord might well have been
described by one perfect quadrant of a circle centered on the outer clerestory
wall surface at height 9.02 m, coincident with the top of the arcade level. If this
circle were tangent to the main building centerline, its uppermost point would
have located the intersection of the flyer head with the clerestory wall at height
14.95 m. Such flyers, jumping over the narrow double-aisles of the straight bays
at Saint-Denis, could well have inspired both the flyers of Germain-des-Prés,
which jump over single aisles, and the huge flyers of Notre-Dame, which jump
over double aisles, and which would lack any plausible precedent if Suger’s
choir had not employed something along these lines. The inclusion of at least
a few flyers in the straight bays of Saint-Denis, finally, would underscore the
dramatic way in which Suger’s choir designer was trying to move beyond the
precedent set by Saint-Martin-des-Champs.

39 On Caen’s links to Saint-Denis, see Lindy Grant, Architecture and Society in Normandy
1120–1270 (New Haven, 2005), 98–102.
Ad Triangulum Geometries in Parisian Early Gothic Choirs 103

10 Conclusion

In sum, therefore, geometrical analysis of these four 12th-century choirs from

the Paris region can offer a fresh and valuable perspective on the early history
of Gothic design. The architects involved in all four projects employed simi-
lar geometrical approaches, governing the cross-sections of their churches by
using large equilateral triangles derived from dimensions established in their
ground plans. Each of these designers, however, applied this basic approach
in his own way, displaying an individualism of geometrical sensibility no less
striking than the individualism of formal expression seen in their buildings.
The geometrical analyses presented here thus shed light both on the work of
specific designers, and on the dynamics of the competitive dialog between
them. By setting the conception of the Saint-Denis choir into its geometri-
cal context, moreover, this discussion has permitted the development of new
hypotheses about the possible appearance of Suger’s vanished upper choir. In
methodological terms, finally, this work attests to the value of high technol-
ogy and digital tools in the study of Gothic architecture, a lesson already well
demonstrated by the pioneering careers of Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon.
 CHAPTER 8

Archaeology and Standing Structure: An

Archaeological Approach to the Relative Building
Chronology of Santa Maria at Alcobaça
Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines

1 Introduction

We first met Robert Mark in 1983 at a medieval archaeology conference held by

the Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies at SUNY Binghamton,
where we gave an early paper on the problem of the differential foundations of
Saint-Jean-des-Vignes. That early paper resonated for Robert, whose work on
Gothic buildings to that point had focused on above-ground structure. Fruitful
discussions at the conference led to a long period of collaboration involving fel-
lowships at Princeton (1986 and 1988–1989) that, in turn, led to a co-­authored
article on the foundations of Amiens Cathedral and book chapters on founda-
tions and walls in the history of western architecture.1 Throughout our collab-
oration with Robert, he was what one always desires in a colleague—helpful,
open to questions and new ideas, as well as someone who possessed a willing-
ness to change his mind when confronted with new evidence—all qualities we
have endeavored to replicate in our interactions with others. We knew Andy
Tallon less well and for a shorter period of time, but our respect for his work
with laser scanning is not less for the fact. Both scholars contributed impor-
tantly to the study of medieval construction, our topic here.
In our paper on Alcobaça, we take an approach similar to the work with
which we first began our collaboration with Robert, namely the archaeology of
standing structure. We focus on masonry structure, on construction planning,
and on building practice during the life of the site. It will look at how buildings
and parts of buildings of Alcobaça relate to each other structurally, how they

1 Sheila Bonde, Clark Maines and Robert Mark, “Archaeology and Engineering: the Foundations
of Amiens Cathedral,” Kunstchronik 42 (1989): 341–48; Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines with
Rowland Richards, Jr., “Soils and Foundations,” and Sheila Bonde, Robert Mark, and Elwin C.
Robison, “Walls and Other Vertical Elements,” in Architectural Technology up to the Scientific
Revolution: the Art and Structure of Large-Scale Buildings, gen. ed. Robert Mark (Cambridge,
MA, 1994), pp. 16–50 and 52–137.

© Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_009

Archaeology and Standing Structure 105

were planned on the complex site that is the monastery, and how those build-
ings were built.
The history of medieval architecture generally, and the history of medieval
monastic architecture in particular, has been the history of individual build-
ings and of their particular chronologies. Book titles such as The 13th-Century
Church at St-Denis or, The Medieval Cloister in England and Wales, resonate for
all medievalists.2 Such histories often make sense from a primarily formalist
point of view. They reflect how buildings are today, rather than how they came
to be. In this study, our approach to construction on large-scale monastic sites
is different.
In brief, the concept we will apply is called by us the linked structural unit.
The idea embodied in this phrase is straightforward. Linked structural units are
buildings or parts of different buildings whose masonry is integrally coursed,
thus allowing us to infer that they were constructed together as part of the same
campaign. On complex sites, such as monasteries where multiple buildings
stood physically adjacent to each other, individual buildings were not built as
discrete entities. For example, rather than constructing the church in a single
campaign, the choir and transept might be built together with all or part of
the adjacent dormitory, with the nave of the church being finished in another,
separate campaign of construction. This approach to medieval construction
requires us to measure and record precisely and to observe carefully. It pushes
us to ask questions about structure. It also allows us to examine the process
of planning and laying out the plans of new buildings on a large site. Finally,
the concept encourages us to investigate the ways in which monastic daily life
could continue on a large-scale, and typically long-term, construction site.
The presence of a linked structural unit was first identified by us at the
Augustinian abbey of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, where the façade block and the
western refectory were begun together, probably about 1220.3 Rather than one
building preceding another, as had been previously argued, we demonstrated
that the two structures share a foundation and ground level wall as a kind
of medieval party wall.4 Evidence for this relationship was revealed through

2 Caroline Astrid Bruzelius, The 13th-Century Church at St-Denis (New Haven, 1985); Martin
Henig and John McNeill, eds., The Medieval Cloister in England and Wales (Journal of the
British Archaeological Association, 159) (Leeds, 2006). Dozens of other similar titles could be
offered; the two works cited here are given merely as representative of the pattern.
3 See Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines, eds., Saint-Jean-des-Vignes in Soissons: Approaches to
its Architecture, Archaeology and History (Bibiotheca Victorina XV) (Turnhout, 2003), pp.
199–214.
4 Eugène Lefèvre-Pontalis, “Abbaye de Saint-Jean-des-Vignes,” Congrès archéologique de
France 78 (1911) (Paris: 1912), 348–58, at 357, argued that the refectory was later in date than
106 Bonde and Maines

observations of breaks in the masonry coursing and by recording the detailed

measurements of each building onto a surveyed plan of the site. This process
was facilitated greatly by the cellar underneath the refectory proper that per-
mitted us to see what amounts to the “foundations” of the refectory, as it were,
without having to excavate them.
The second example of a linked structural unit at Saint-Jean was identified
at the eastern side of the site where the now-destroyed choir and transept were
shown to be built together with the northern half of the dormitory building, at
least up to ground-level, but probably higher. The same approach was used to
identify the linked parts of church and dormitory, but here excavation was neces-
sary to reveal the discontinuities in the masonry coursing. As in the façade block
and refectory at the west, the two structures share a common wall, that is, the
southern terminal wall of the transept is the nothern terminal wall of the dormi-
tory block. The interruption of masonry courses came, not at that terminal wall,
but further south in the foundations of the dormitory’s chapter room.
For Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, the medieval and early modern textual tradition
actually supports the physical and measured evidence for these two linked
structural units. An early modern Latin chronicle, written in 1619 by a canon
and claustral prior of the abbey named Pierre Legris, recorded an inscription
on the now lost tomb of Abbot Raoul de Chézy (ca. 1200–1234/1235) that iden-
tified him as the builder of the part of the church in which he was buried,
that is, the choir.5 Legris also attributed both church portions of the two linked
structural units to that abbot:

[O]ur great Basilica is built, its anterior part and its oriental [part], with
its transverse structure … began to be built [and] are truly seen to be
perfected under abbot Raoul.… The other part that one calls the nave …
was left incomplete [and] was truly terminated by the vaults and the roof
under the abbot lord Caillet (1462–1482).6

the façade block. Bernard Ancien, Soissons, Ancienne Abbaye Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, 4th ed.
(Soissons, n.d.), pp. 21 and 26, argued the reverse.
5 Pierre Legris, Chronicon Abbatialis Canoniae S. Joannis apud Vineas Suessionens (Paris, 1619),
p. 128: “Hac loca purgavit, renovans simul aedificavit rugituq[ue]; suo claustrumq[ue];
domusque tremebat, Ergo sub hac tumbo, Leo, Serpens atque Columba conditur &c.” (“He puri-
fied these places, renewing, at the same time he built; his cloister; [and] the house rumbled
and trembled; therefore under this tomb[slab] the lion, the serpent and dove are buried.”).
6 Legris, Chronicon, p. 80, … “magna nostra Basilica a fundamentis erecta est, pars cuius anterior
et orientalis cum eisdem transversa structura…aedificari coepit, perfici vero visa et sub Abbate
Radulpho…Altera pars quae navis dicitur…inchoata est absoluta vero suis fornicibus et tectis
sub Abbate Domino Caillet an[no] 1482”.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 107

Legris’ Chronicon takes the form of a medieval chronicle, rather than an

early modern “narrative history,” and we may assume that he saw his writing
as part of the textual and physical renewal of the abbey following its sack by
the Huguenots in 1567. Legris probably had access to older texts attributing the
linked structural units to Abbot Raoul, since Legris himself would have had no
way to observe them.
It is worth recalling that other monastic churches were also begun in the east
and the west at more or less the same time. Abbot Peter of Celles (r. 1162–†1181)
began rebuilding the huge eleventh-century Benedictine church of Saint-Rémi
in Reims at the east and west ends before the interior of his Romanesque nave
and transepts were “refaced” with Gothic masonry to tie the two ends of the
church together in a stylistic whole.7 Beginning construction at the east and
west ends of a new church on sites with a history of religious occupation was
a common practice. Doing so allowed a pre-existing church to remain stand-
ing for continuity of the cult until enough of the new church had been built
to accommodate the transfer of services. Such rebuilding programs were often
part of larger construction projects involving rebuilding not only the church,
but also the cloister and claustral ranges. Medieval builders’ understanding of
the structural relationship between the church and its adjacent claustral ranges
led directly to the practice of building in linked structural units.
At Saint-Rémi, the dormitory (eastern) claustral range directly abuts the
terminal wall of the north transept as we saw at Saint-Jean-des-Vignes.8 The
history of this wall is complex on both its church and dormitory sides.9 The
core of the wall belongs to the eleventh-century church as vestiges reveal and,
like the nave, the wall was raised and received a refacing in the twelfth century.
Remains of what appears to be a now-blocked doorway survives about one-
third of the way up the transept terminal wall.10

7 On Saint-Rémi, see Anne Prache, Saint-Rémi de Reims, l’oeuvre de Pierre de Celle et sa

place dans l’architecture gothique (Bibliothèque de la Société française d’archéologie 8)
(Paris, 1978) and Reims, la Cathédrale Notre-Dame, Saint-Rémi (Les travaux des mois n° 28)
(La Pierre qui Vire, 1984), pp. 17–24. On the monastic buildings, Nicole Humann, “Les
constructions mauristes à Saint-Rémi de Reims,” Mémoires de la Société d’agriculture,
commerce, sciences et arts du département de la Marne 74 (1959): 34–60.
8 Restored during the 1980’s, the abbey’s claustral ranges now form the Musée Saint-Rémi.
9 On this part of the church, see Prache, Saint-Rémi, 1978, pp. 19–21, 76–82, and Reims, 1984,
pp. 21–23. A collapse of a tower over the dormitory in the early modern period damaged
the wall which was repaired in the late sixteenth century.
10 If this opening led into the adjacent dormitory, it would strongly suggest that the terminal
wall of the north transept was a party wall shared with the dormitory block.
108 Bonde and Maines

From the interior of the cloister, the dormitory range appears to be an

impressive early modern structure. Viewed from the exterior, however, it
becomes clear that the dormitory range remains, at least in part, medieval. The
three Gothic lancets of the chapter room are clearly visible next to a smaller
area (sacristy/treasury?), suggesting that this section of the dormitory belongs
either to the eleventh or twelfth century.11 During the restorations, the chapter
room within the east range was partially excavated and its medieval tile floor
revealed.12 Walls were also stripped revealing medieval arcading.13 Excavation
did not extend to the junction of the eastern claustral range with the terminal
wall of the north transept arm, so nothing can be said with certainty about the
structural relationship of the two buildings. That relationship is nevertheless
implicit because the buildings abut one another. The builders will have had to
consider the relationship of the new church to the adjacent claustral buildings.
From these circumstances, we infer that the probability of a linked structural
unit at Saint-Rémi, dating to the eleventh century, is high.
We may thus take it as a given that linked structural units formed a part of
construction planning and building practice on complex sites like monasteries
as well as many cathedral and at least some collegiate sites. The motivation
for planning and building in this way on a large-scale site is two-fold. First,
it avoids the risk of undermining newly-built, adjacent structures by digging
deep trenches for new foundations next to them. Second, and equally import-
ant, this way of planning and building can permit the liturgical life of the
monastery to go on unimpeded during an extended period of construction.14
If linked structural units are identifiable elsewhere in Europe, as we think they
will be, then the concept should be elevated to a principle of inquiry and its
implications considered for architectural chronology, construction sequence
and daily life on complex sites.
The great Cistercian monastery of Alcobaça makes an ideal case study for
investigating the use of linked structural units. Located just north of Lisbon,
Alcobaça is about as far away from the Île-de-France as it can be and still be
within the boundaries of medieval Europe. If linked structural units can be
shown plausibly to be present there, then this is good evidence that linked

11 Here, as elsewhere, the presence of Gothic windows does not alone date the building. In
this case, the plaster would need to be removed to reveal the type of stonework in order
to date the eastern wall of the dormitory to the eleventh or twelfth century.
12 On the excavations, see Bernard Fouqueray, “Marne, Reims: le Musée Saint-Rémi de
Reims,” Bulletin monumental 140 (1982): 322–24.
13 Marc Bouxin, La salle capitulaire de l’ancienne abbaye royale Saint-Rémi de Reims et son
décor sculpté (Reims, 1998).
14 Bonde and Maines, Saint-Jean, pp. 220–27.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 109

structural units were used commonly in the construction of complex sites like
monasteries.15

2 Method of Study

Our study of Alcobaça’s linked structural units employs the principles of vertical
archaeology, which are well known to, and are widely practiced by, European
medieval archaeologists. First articulated by Harold Taylor and Warwick Rodwell
and initially applied to pre-Conquest churches,16 the method is now standard
in its use throughout Europe.17 Vertical archaeology is the reading of masonry
coursing in extant architecture as a build-up of strata and features, that is, layers
of wall fabric and inserted material, “deposited” over time. This method, how-
ever, has only recently been applied to religious architecture in the Gothic period
and it has never been applied to the Gothic monastery of Alcobaça.18 Doing so
will not only help us understand how Alcobaça was built, but will also elucidate
some principles for the analysis of construction on complex building sites such
as monasteries, cathedrals and some collegiate churches.

3 The Abbey of Alcobaça

As part of the reconquista process, King Afonso Henriques (r.1139–†1185)

founded monasteries in under-populated and under-exploited, formerly

15 One qualifying observation needs to be registered here. Alcobaça was colonized by at

least some monks from Clairvaux. Whether the builders or designers of the abbey were
themselves French remains an open question.
16 Harold Taylor, “The Foundations of Architectural History,” in The Archaeological Study of
Churches (Council of British Archaeology Research Report 13), ed. Peter Addyman and
Richard Morris (London, 1976), pp. 3–9; Warwick Rodwell, The Archaeology of the English
Church, the Study of Historic Churches and Churchyards (London, 1981).
17 See, e.g., Archéologie du Bâti, Pour une harmonisation des méthodes [Actes de la table
ronde, 9 et 10 novembre 2001, Musée archéologique de Saint-Romain-en-Gal (Rhône)],
textes réunis par Isabelle Parron-Kontis et Nicolas Reveyron (Paris, 2005).
18 An earlier version of this study of Alcobaça, “Archaeology and Standing Structure: An
Archaeological Approach to the Relative Building Chronology of the Gothic Church of
Santa Maria at Alcobaça,” was presented at the Cistercian Studies Conference as part of
the International Congress of Medieval Studies, Kalamazoo, MI, May 2007. See also the
remarks in Clark Maines, “Word and Image—Meaning and Function: the Aque Ductus
Relief at Santa Maria de Alcobaça,” Cîteaux: Commentari cistercienses 57 (2006): 5–43, at 12.
110 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.1 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, satellite view of the monastery

Google Earth

Muslim lands.19 Alcobaça was one such foundation, although it lay in an area
contested by al-Mansur for much of the rest of the century.20
The monastery of Santa Maria de Alcobaça is an enormous World Heritage
site poised on a promontory overlooking the town and the rivers Alcoa and

19 On the history of the Estremadura region in the 12th and early 13th centuries, see A.H.
de Oliveira Marques, History of Portugal, I: from Lusitania to Empire (New York, 1972), pp.
35–84, esp. pp. 51–52, 64–65 and 82–84; H.V. Livermore, A New History of Portugal, 2nd ed.
(Cambridge, UK, 1976), pp. 40–72; David Birmingham, A Concise History of Portugal (Cam-
bridge, UK and MA, 1993), pp. 13–33; and Jean-Pierre Leguay, A.H. de Oliveira Marques and
Maria Ângela Beirante, Portugal, Das Invasoes Germânicas à “Reconquista,” coordenção
A.H. de Oliveira Marques (Nova História de Portugal II) (Lisbon, 1993), pp. 254–55. On the
conquest, see De Expugnatione Lyxbonensi—the Conquest of Lisbon, ed. and trans. with an
introduction by Charles Wendell David (Columbia Records of Civilization, Sources and
Studies 24) (New York, 1936). For a Muslim perspective on events, see Charles Picard, Por-
tugal musulman (VIIIe—XIIIe siècle), L’occident d’al-Andalus sous la domination islamique
(Paris, 2000), pp. 113–15. Livermore, in A New History, pp. 62 and 69, speaks of the “hollow
frontier” created by the swift Portuguese advance from Leira/Coimbra, which the Chris-
tians held, south to Lisbon. He saw this territory as largely unoccupied but not uncon-
tested, a condition the king mitigated by creating Cistercian abbeys there.
20 An excellent summary history of the abbey is Thomas L. Amos, The Fundo Alcobaça of
the Biblioteca Nacional, Lisbon, 3 vols. (Collegeville, MN, 1988–1990), I: xiv–xxii and
notes, xxxviii–xliii.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 111

Figure 8.2 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, redrawn plan of the medieval monastery
After Cocheril, Notes sur l’architecture, 1972, Figure 9,
with modifications

Baça (Figure. 8.1). The monastic complex of church, cloisters and associated
structures includes architecture and sculpture dating from the 12th to the 18th
centuries.
The church, the eastern claustral range, the refectory in the northern range
and the adjacent cloister with its lavabo all belong to the 12th to 14th centuries
(Figure 8.2). The medieval kitchen and western end of the northern claustral
range were rebuilt in the early modern period, as was the entire western range.
East of this monastic core are two later cloisters, both dating to the 17th century.21

21 On Alcobaça in the early modern period, see Actas Arte e Arquitectura nas Abadias Cis-
tercienses nos séculos xvi, xvii e xviii, Colóquio, 23–27 Novembro 1994, Mosteiro de Alcobaça
112 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.3 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, interior view looking east

photo W André Luí s 23.IV.2011 via Wikimedia Commons

The church of Santa Maria, 104 meters long, is a multi-vesselled, cruciform

building that continues the plan of the nave east of the crossing in a single bay
choir flanked by aisles to terminate in an apse, ambulatory and nine radially
disposed chapels built within a continuous arc (Figure 8.3). Each transept arm
has an aisle on its western side, but there are chapels on the eastern side, fea-
tures that change the elevation from one side to the other. In cross-section,

(Lisbon, 2000). See also Maria Joao Baptista Neto, “A arquitectura de Santa Maria de Alco-
baça e a discussao em torno das origens do gótico nos finais do século xviii. Uma descriçao
inédita do mosteiro de 1760,” in Cister: Espaços, Territórios, Paisagens: Actas do Colóquio
Internacional, 16–20 Junho 1998, Mosteiro de Alcobaça, 2 vols. (Lisbon, 2000), I: 271–82).
Archaeology and Standing Structure 113

Santa Maria de Alcobaça is a multi-vesselled hall in the nave, though not in the
choir, nor on the east side of the transept. Massive cruciform piers rise directly
to support quadripartite rib vaults. Lighting in the nave is provided indirectly
by tall, narrow, round-headed windows in the side-aisles which rise to essen-
tially the same height as the nave. In the nave, the attached columns of the
piers have been truncated above ground level to accommodate stalls. At the
sixth bay west of the crossing the consoles differ in form and the pier design
is slightly altered, as foliate consoles supporting the pier’s central respond are
replaced in the next six bays by simple chamferred ones (Figure 8.4).
In the two westermost bays of the nave, the console design changes again
as the simple chamfers are replaced by consoles formed by a series of inward

Figure 8.4 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, plan of the church, showing phases and pier forms
after Cocheril, Études, 1966, p. 247
114 Bonde and Maines

tapering roll mouldings.22 The interior elevation of the transept arms follows
the hall configuration of the nave on the western side. The east side of both
transept arms has, however, a three-part elevation consisting of an arcade, sur-
mounted by short, round-headed windows in the spandrel zone, which is set
off from the clearstory windows by a thin horizontal cornice. The elevation of
the choir follows the pattern on the east side of the transept arms, and thus has
a basilican section. The ambulatory envelopping the choir and apse is lower
than the side aisles of the nave, allowing a triforium zone composed of short,
round-headed windows in alternating bays of the sanctuary. The clearstory
above is composed of tall, narrow, round-headed lancets.

4 The State of Research on Construction of the Abbey of Alcobaça

The construction chronology of the great church of Alcobaça, both absolute

and relative, continues to be debated.23 There is general agreement on four
important dates—1153, 1178, 1223, 1252. Charter evidence indicates that the
abbey was formally established in the filiation of Clairvaux in 1153.24 Portu-
guese scholars have consistently located this foundation at the nearby site of
Chiqueda, located north and east of the present site of the monastery, along
the Alcoa river, where the ruins of a church, known as Santa Maria a Velha,
were still extant in the 16th century.25 This church was thus Alcobaça I, to be
followed by Alcobaça II, the church on the actual site today.

22 See dom Maur Cocheril, Études sur le monachisme en Espagne et au Portugal (Paris and
Lisbon, 1966), pl. iv, where the changes are located and the console profiles drawn.
23 For a useful summary, see the important assessment by James D’Emilio, “The Art of the
Cistercians in Galicia and Portugal: a Review Article,” Cîteaux: Commentari cistercienses
58 (2007): 305–27, esp. 311–13.
24 King Afonso Henriques’ foundation charter has been published; see Rui Pinto de Aze-
vedo, Documentos Medievais Portugueses, Documentos Régios, 2 vols. (Lisbon, 1958 and
1962), vol. I, Documentos dos Condes Portugalenses e de D Afonso Henriques A.D. 1095–1185,
tome 1, n° 243, pp. 297–98, which also mentions the filiation of Clairvaux. On the circum-
stances of the abbey’s foundation see recently, Saul António Gomes, “Revisitação a um
velho tema: a fundação do Mosteiro de Alcobaça,” in Cister, Espaços, Territórios, Paisagens,
Actas do Colóquio Internacional, 16–20 Junho 1998, Mosteiro de Alcobaça, ed. José Eduardo
Horta Correia, et. al., 3 vols. (Lisbon, 2000), I: 27–7; and Amos, Fundo Alcobaça, xiv–xxii
and notes, xxxviii–xliii.
25 Ernesto Korrodi, Alcobaça, Estudo Historicó-Archeológico et Artistico da Real Abbadia de
Santa Maria de Alcobaça (Monumentos de Portugal 4) (Porto, 1929), p. 12; Bernardo Villa
Nova, O Mosteiro de Alcobaça, Notícia do que tem digno de ver-se. Notas históricas e outras.
Opiniões várias. Transcrições. Lendas (Lisbon, 1947), pp. 34–35; Artur Nobre de Gusmão, A
Archaeology and Standing Structure 115

Traditionally, beginning of construction on the existing church has been

dated to 1178 based on a carved inscription found in the easternmost bay of
the north side-aisle of the nave, just inside the monk’s door.26 This inscription,
dated to the 17th century, is presumed to copy a medieval original. In 1966,
dom Maur Cocheril published the first of a series of studies that argue for an
Alcobaça II that followed a ‘standard’ Bernardine plan, a type thought to be
best represented by Fontenay.27 In 1967, the supplement to Dimier’s Recueil
de plans appeared and contained a plan of an ‘Alcobaça I’ that followed the
so-called Bernardine plan.28 Cocheril’s 1966 hypothesis was followed by a more
systematically formulated second statement in 1972, and a third in 1989.29
Cocheril’s argument rests on one hypothesis and several pieces of circum-
stantial evidence. The hypothesis claims that difficulties with the armies of
al-Mansur attacked Alcobaça in 1195, massacring the entire community and
damaging Cocheril’s Alcobaça II, begun in 1178. Thomas L. Amos convincingly
rejected this hypothesis on the basis of continuity of scribal styles at the abbey
before and after the purported sack and by a complete absence of any mention
of a massacre in the records of Cistercian General Chapters and necrologies.30

Real Abadia de Alcobça, Estudo histórico-arqueológico (Lisbon, 1946; 2nd ed. 1992), among
the earlier authors.
26 On this inscription, see Mario Jorge Barroca, Epigrafia medieval portuguesa (862–1422), 3
vols. (Porto, 2000), II/1: 417-419, n°157, with earlier bibliography.
27 See Cocheril, Études, pp. 233–53, esp. 241, which shows a “Bernardine plan” of Cocheril’s
Alcobaça II fitted into his plan of the actual church (his Alcobaça III). On the Bernar-
dine plan, see recently, Conrad Rudolph, “Medieval Architectural Theory, the Sacred
Economy, and the Public Presentation of Monastic Architecture: the Classic Cistercian
Plan,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 78 (2019): 259–75, wherein the
author convincingly disassociates the plan from the ideas of Bernard of Clairvaux and
his circle.
28 Anselme Dimier, Supplément, 2 vols. (Grignan and Paris, 1967) to Recueil de plans d’ég-
lises cisterciennes, 2 vols. (Grignan, 1949). Dimier’s Supplément, which contained 360 new
plans, had certainly been underway for some time. We think it likely that Cocheril and
Dimier were in contact with one another, although to whom the idea of a ‘Bernardine’
Alcobaça I should be attributed is not clear.
29 Dom Maur Cocheril, Notes sur l’architecture et le décor dans les abbayes cisterciennes du
Portugal (Fontes Documentais Portuguesas V) (Paris, 1972), pp. 49–88; idem, Alcobaça,
Abadia Cisterciense de Portugal (Lisbon, 1989), pp. 25–28 and 35–56.
30 Amos, Fundo Alcobaça, I: xv–xvii. Amos concludes that, “Whatever disruption of com-
munity life did take place in 1195, it does not seem to have been major, nor did it produce
any lasting effects” (xviii). That Muslims contested territories in the region is not dis-
puted; but, rather than destroying the early stages of new, monumental construction—
itself no easy task—sacking the new abbey’s domain would have been far easier and
could easily have resulted in a slow-down or a temporary halt in the construction process.
See Livermore, A New History, pp. 67–72.
116 Bonde and Maines

As to the circumstantial evidence, Cocheril cites Alcobaça’s close connection

with Saint Bernard and Clairvaux in which filiation the former was established;
what he sees as a normative sequence of construction (a first church or chapel,
a second, larger church and a third even larger one); and his conviction regard-
ing the dominance of Clairvaux II (the Bernardine plan) in France. He further
suggests that the monks of Alcobaça could not have envisioned constructing a
church as large as the present one, that they did not have the resources or the
security to do so, and that the royal patronage they received was insufficient to
such a task. Each step in Cocheril’s argument can be challenged, but it is not
our intention to do so here.
Portuguese scholars beginning with Gusmão in 1992 and including
Rodrigués and Réal, have rejected Cocheril’s arguments, returning to the ear-
lier view that the initial Cistercian establishment was located in Chiqueda
(Santa Maria a Velha) in 1153, and that the monks undertook construction of
the existing church at the present site in 1178.31 Looking at the ensemble of
scholarship on Alcobaça, the controversy surrounding the 1178 inscription
divides into the opinions of scholars who write from a monastic perspective
and those who write from a nationalistic one. It remains essential to under-
score that there is no material evidence to support or reject Cocheril’s posi-
tion, that is, there are no traces in the phasing of the existing church that
could be tied to an earlier church on the site of Alcobaça. Excavation in the
choir and crossing might well resolve the issue, but there are no plans for such
an archaeological campaign.
The remaining two dates are widely accepted as certain. A second com-
memorative inscription, located just outside the monks’ door in the cloister,
has been interpreted to state that the monks occupied the site of the present
monastery only in August of 1223, at which time enough of the house must have
been completed to permit full monastic life on the site.32 While the church is

31 Gusmão, Réal Abadia, 2nd ed., pp. 19–31; Jorge Rodrigues, The Monastery of Alcobaça,
trans. from the Portuguese (London, 2007), p. 11, and especially the critical study by Man-
uel Luis Réal, “A construção cisterciense em Portugal durante a Idade media,” Arte de Cis-
ter em Portugal e Galiza, ed. Jorge Rodrigues and Xosé Carlos Valle Pérez (Lisbon, 1998),
pp. 42–97, at 86.
32 On this inscription, see Barroca, Epigrafia, II/1: 711-17, n° 289, with earlier bibliography. We
assume that at a minimum, the eastern range, which includes the chapter room, monks’
room and other spaces with the dormitory above, as well as the northern range which
includes the kitchen and refectory, must have been complete by that time, but the west-
ern range may have been as well. See Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” 92, who believes the
western range was built first.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 117

presumed to have been complete just before it was consecrated only in 1252,33
the best indicator of the close of major construction may be the production of
the abbey’s customary in 1231.34
Early studies of the great church at Alcobaça, such as Korrodi, Gusmão, and
others, have relied on a combination of historical information and stylistic
opinion to outline the sequence of the building’s construction and to date it.35
Gusmão believed that the church at Alcobaça was incomplete in 1223, suggest-
ing that the sanctuary and transept were finished, but that the nave walls and
the west façade were not.36
Cocheril identified three major phases of construction based principally on
changes in pier forms in the nave and aisles of the church, and on a misun-
derstanding of set-backs in the nave side-aisle walls (see Figure 8.4).37 His first
phase consists of the sanctuary (architectural choir, apse, ambulatory and radial
chapels), the transept, and the first five bays of the nave, plus the extension of
the north side-aisle wall four bays further west. It is true, as we have seen, that
the consoles of the first five bays of the nave are foliate and that those in the
next five bays are simple chamfers. Most scholars (including Cocheril) have
seen the change in console form as reflecting the division between the choir of
the monks and that of the conversi. As such, and in the absence of any other evi-
dence, this change bears no necessary relationship to construction phases. The
thickness of the walls is reduced, and the attached pier design is changed, in the
ninth bay of the north side-aisle (WixNi).38 In this bay, however, the masonry

33 Cocheril, Études sur le monachisme en Espagne (see above, n. 22), p. 236, shows convinc-
ingly, on the basis of early modern texts and the regnal dates of the two bishops present,
that the consecration took place in 1252 rather than in 1222 as had been thought.
34 Lisbon, Biblioteca Nacional, Ms. Fundo Alcobaça, CXLII/187. On the manuscript, see
Amos, Fundo Alcobaça, II: 71–73 and Chrysogonus Waddell, Cistercian Lay Brothers,
Twelfth-Century Usages with Related Texts (Cîteaux: Commentarii cistercienses, Studia et
Documenta X) (Brecht, BE, 2000), p. 48.
35 Korrodi, Alcobaça (see above, n. 25); Aarão de Lacerda, História da Arte em Portugal
(Porto, 1942), I: 337–54; Gusmão, Réal Abadia (see above, n. 25); M.-A. Lage Pablo da Trin-
idade Ferreira, Mosteiro de Santa Maria de Alcobaça, roteiro, 2nd ed. (Lisbon, 1987).
36 Gusmão, Réal Abadia, p. 49. See also the remarks in Réal, “Construção cisterciense” (see
above, n. 31), pp. 85–86.
37 Cocheril Études sur le monachisme (see above, n. 22), as visualized in a schematic plan,
pl. IV, p. 247.
38 The bay numbering system we use is adapted from that developed by Richard
Hamann-Maclean, “System einer topographischen Orientierung in Bauwerken,” in his
Stilwandel und Persönlichkeit (Stuttgart, 1988), pp. 229–60. Numbering begins at the cross-
ing and procedes in the four cardinal directions. In this case WvSi refers to the southern
side-aisle of the fifth bay of the nave west of the crossing. WixNi refers to the northern
side-aisle of the ninth bay of the nave.
118 Bonde and Maines

courses run uninterrupted. There is no break in the coursing. The thickness of

the wall is also reduced, and the attached pier design is changed, in the fifth
bay of the south side-aisle (WvSi). In this case, however, there is a major break
in the wall courses in that bay. As we will see below, however, that break is sep-
arate from the change in wall thickness and has another explanation entirely.
From this evidence, we may reasonably infer that changes in wall thickness and
pier design have no necessary relationship to building campaigns. As we will
see below, interruptions in the masonry coursing, in contrast, almost always do.
The remaining two construction phases of Cocheril’s argument correspond
to the changes in the form of consoles on the piers of the nave.39 Phase 2
includes the part of the nave corresponding to the sick brothers and conversi
choirs as well as the side-aisle walls, thus bringing the nave almost to comple-
tion. Phase 3 includes the remaining two bays and the porch. For each of these
three phases, Cocheril assigns a different master.
From the beginning of modern scholarship on the abbey, authors have recog-
nized the relationship between the plan of the church known as Clairvaux III,
thought to have been begun in 1174 and the plan of the present church of Alco-
baça.40 The buildings are essentially the same size and, effectively, have identical
plans. Most scholars also recognize, sometimes reluctantly, that Clairvaux III had
a basilican section while Alcobaça is, in its nave, a huge three-vesselled hall, mak-
ing the spatial experience of its interior quite different than that of Clairvaux III.
Alcobaça was, of course, founded in the filiation of Clairvaux, so it should
come as no surprise that Cocheril assigns to a certain Maître de Clairvaux the
plans of both abbeys. To a Maître d’Alcobaça he assigns the design of the eleva-
tion and, evidently, the construction of his phase 1. Cocheril’s Maître des Piliers
is given credit for erecting the choirs of the sick and the conversi, and to the
Maître du Porche, he assigns completion of the building.
The assignment of masters, for which there is no documentary support,
corresponds to the formal changes Cocheril identified in the building. As we
will argue below, these changes relate to functional divisions within the church
and can easily have been part of the original design from the beginning of con-
struction in 1178. These formal divisions have, individually or collectively, no
necessary relationship to phases of construction. Further, Cocheril’s studies do
not take account of all the “discontinuities” in masonry coursing, and particu-
larly not in relation to the continuities in wall coursing. Finally, his approach

39 Cocheril, Notes (see above, n. 20), pp. 57–58, elaborating Cocheril, Études sur le mona-
chisme, pp. 239–47.
40 Korrodi, Alcobaça, p. 13. On Clairvaux, see the section ‘Architecture et archéologie’ in
Clairvaux, l’aventure cistercienne, dir. Arnaud Baudin, Nicolas Dohrmann and Laurent
Veyssière (Paris, 2015), pp. 225–61.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 119

does not attempt to relate the construction of the church to the adjacent claus-
tral ranges as the builders themselves would have had to do.
Virgolino Jorge argues that there were three major phases of construction,
essentially on the basis of Cocheril’s observations, and saw the plan of Alco-
baça as an inverted copy of Clairvaux III.41 Jorge also proposes that the use of
the ad quadratum system is the proportional basis for the plan and elevation
not only of the church, but the entire medieval monastery and identifies the
old pied du roi as the unit of measure used. While the plans of the two mon-
asteries do resemble each other closely, it is important to recall that Clairvaux
III was a basilican building so that the spatial experience of the two interiors
would have been very different.
Manuel Luis Réal’s critical study of recent research on Cistercian houses in
Portugal, pays close attention to Alcobaça.42 Réal follows earlier scholarship in
accepting 1178 as the beginning of construction at Alcobaça, 1223 as the date the
monks occupied their site, and 1252 as the date the church was consecrated.43
Like Gusmão, he rejects Cocheril’s and Dimier’s hypothesis of an Alcobaça I and
goes to some length to show that shifting a church site within the immediate
region of the initial settlement is quite common in Cistercian monasticisim.44
Like others before him, Réal accepts the abbey’s relationship to Clairvaux III.45
Réal accepts Jorge’s study on the use of ad quadratum at Alcobaça, though he
does not relate it directly to his own discussion of construction phases.
Concerning the construction of Alcobaça, Réal sees, as did Cocheril, a first
phase that began with the sanctuary and transept and was interrupted at the
end of the fourth bay of the nave, although, he adds, the north side-aisle wall
was continued in this phase for a further five bays.46 It is in his prolongation of
construction five more bays of the north side-aisle wall that his argument

41 Virgolino Ferreira Jorge, “Measurement and Number in the Cistercian Church of Alco-
baça,” Arte Medievale, 2nd ser., 8 (1994): 113–19. His notion of inversion is derived from the
differing sides of the church on which the claustral ranges were built—Clairvaux on the
south and Alcobaça on the north.
42 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense” (see above, n. 31), pp. 42–97, esp. pp. 85–93.
43 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” pp. 85–86.
44 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” pp. 86, and 55–58. In this, Réal acknowledges the work of
A. de Almeida Fernandes, Espaços de história: séculos xii e xiii (Porto, 1970).
45 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” p. 72.
46 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” p. 89, “A obra teria ficado interrompida ao fim do quatro
tramo das naves, se bem que o muro norte, do lado do claustro estivesse já construido.”
One note of caution is necessary here. Cocheril counts as his first bay of the nave, the bay
that corresponds to the western aisle of the transept (see Fig. 8.4), whereas Réal begins
counting from the next bay which he sees as the nave proper. There is no difference in
their use of the change in pier forms to mark the interruption of construction.
120 Bonde and Maines

differs from Cocheril’s. No clear reason is given by Réal regarding why he

thought construction stopped two bays before the actual break at the conversi
portal, as we will discuss below. He does, however, suggest that this part of
the building was the work of a mestre de Clairvaux, and that the interruption
occurred because of the regional crisis at the end of the 12th century. This cri-
sis is linked to the massacre that Cocheril claimed to have happened, during
which his hypothetical Alcobaça I was severely damaged.47
Réal sees the next construction phase as the work of a Portuguese mestre de
Alcobaça whose work he believed to include the continuation of the nave to the
end of the cloister (but not to the actual break in construction, as we will see
below) and the vaulting of the nave and aisles to the end of the lay brothers’choir.48
The remaining two bays Réal sees as the work of a third master mason.
Jorge Rodrigues, following Gusmão and other Portuguese scholars, believes
that the monks occupied the site of Santa Maria a Velha from about the time
of King Afonso Henriques’ foundation charter in 1153 and that construction
on the present church began in 1178.49 He notes common agreement among
scholars that contruction proceded from east to west and that the building’s
plan depends on the plan of Clairvaux III.50 Rodrigues’ discussion of archi-
tectural phases follows the same three phases spelled out by earlier scholars,
though he offers an important caution:

While the differing styles of these columns, and particularly of their

corbels, seem to support the hypothesis that they were built at different
times, they also serve to underline how architecture and decoration was
[sic] used in Cistercian monasteries to reinforce the distinction between
monks and lay brothers.51

While he accepts a consecration date of 1252 and seems to accept the date as
representing the end of construction, he nevertheless suggests that the church
may have been complete only as far as Cocheril’s and Réal’s first phase, leaving
the rest of the nave and the façade to be finished later. He presents no evidence
for this, other than to suggest that consecration could have occurred when
mass could be celebrated with the monks in their choir. Finally, he summa-
rizes scholarship on the church as consisting of two different perspectives on

47 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” p. 89.

48 Réal, “Construcão cisterciense,” pp. 89–90.
49 Rodrigues, Alcobaça (see above, n. 31), p. 11.
50 Rodrigues, Alcobaça, pp. 42–44 and 49–50.
51 Rodrigues, Alcobaça, p. 50.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 121

construction phases—Gusmão’s and Cocheril’s—suggesting that resolution of

the differences will occur “only through archaeological analysis of the methods
employed and a study of the stonemasons’ marks or initials”—something that
is already underway.52
The state of research on the construction of the great church of Alcobaça
can thus be summarized. Scholarship has identified, with subtle variations,
three major phases that are not construction phases, but rather stages of for-
mal change. These, however, can as easily be explained as design changes
intended to represent different functional areas within the church.53 These
formal changes bear no necessary relationship to construction phases.
A reassessment of construction phases at Alcobaça using the techniques
of vertical archaeology, applied in the light of the concept of linked structural
units can address precisely those issues that previous scholars of Alcobaça
have not. Such a study provides a different set of construction phases (though
not necessarily a different historical chronology) and relates the construc-
tion of the church to the setting out and erection of the adjacent cloister and
claustral buildings. Finally, Alcobaça is a privileged site for this type of analysis
because its builders had access to an extraordinary quarry that provided long,
thick beds of limestone that could be cut into long running courses, and this
allows us to draw reasonable inferences about the construction of foundations
without having to excavate them.

5 A Buildings Archaeology Approach to Alcobaça

A campaign of fieldwork at Alcobaça allowed us to identify three major, essen-

tially floor to ceiling breaks in the masonry coursing within the church alone
(Figure 8.5).
The first two of these occur: (1) in the fifth bay west of the crossing in the
south side aisle of the nave (WvSi); and, (2) above the center of the lay brothers’
door in the twelfth bay of the north side-aisle of the nave (WxiiNi). Further,
reading the stratigraphy of the inside of the exterior wall of the entire church
east of these two points up to the level of the string-course below the side-aisle

52 Rodrigues, Alcobaça, p. 25. Preliminary results of the survey of masons’ marks reveal a
unity of marks in the eastern portions of the church. See Rodrigo de la Torre Martín-
Romo, “Aproximación a los constructores de Alcobaça a través de sus marcas de cantería,”
in Actas. Congreso Internacional sobre San Bernardo e o Cister in Galicia e Portugal, 2 vols.
(Ourense, 1992), II: 835–42; D’Emilio, “Art of the Cistercians” (see above, n. 23), p. 312
and n. 27.
53 Rodrigues, Alcobaça, pp. 49–50.
122 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.5 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, reconstructed medieval plan, with

arrows showing location of construction breaks identified by
interruptions in the integrity of masonry courses
after Cocheril, Figure 9, Notes sur l’architecture, 1972

windows yielded no interruptions in the masonry courses, making this part of

the building one giant campaign. As was noted earlier, this first phase includes
the thinning of the side-aisle walls only on the north side of the church.
In each case, the chronological priority of the masonry on one side of the
break, as opposed to the other, can be determined by examining the place-
ment of adjustments in the coursing. On one side of the break, the coursing
is adjusted by notching the blocks to fit over or under a pre-existing course on
the other side of it. In other words, the direction and relative order of construc-
tion can be established by analyzing the configuration of the break.
The interruption of masonry courses in the fifth bay of the south side-aisle
is easy to see and extends from the floor to just below the sill course beneath
the window (Figure 8.6a).
Archaeology and Standing Structure 123

Figure 8.6 ( a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction break in the 5th bay of the south nave
side-aisle (WvSi). (b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction break at the 12th bay
of the north nave side-aisle (WxiiNi). (c) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, construction
break above the portal of the west façade (WFCP)

This break occurs about 0.40 m to the east of the change in wall thickness and
design, and is thus structurally independent of it. The direction that construc-
tion proceded is also evident. All of the “adjusted” blocks, those that are not rect-
angular but are notched to fit above or below a pre-existing course, occur on the
west side of the break. A number of masonry “plugs” also appear in this break.
These are smaller, square blocks that are inserted to fill gaps left where courses of
different size meet. Together the notched blocks and the masonry plugs demon-
strate that construction proceeded from east to west in this part of the church.
The sill courses at the base of the wall and the next six courses above them
extend slightly beyond the line of the break to the point where the wall is
reduced in thickness. This decision makes good constructional sense in terms
of stablility by allowing the wall courses of the newer phase to sit on a base
that is anchored in the older phase. It is important to observe that the champ-
ferred course of the sill does not align with, and is lower than, the same course
west of where the wall is reduced in thickness. The sixth course above the floor
seems to be a “take-up” course after which the two segments of wall are pieced
together.
Why this first construction campaign was interrupted in the fifth bay on
the south side of the church is easily explained by the arrival of the mon-
astery’s aqueduct two bays to the west (WviiSi) (Figures 8.7a and 8.7b).
Evidently, the church was well underway before construction of the aque-
duct, three kilometers long, reached the church.54 It was thus necessary to

54 On the water management system at Alcobaça, see most recently Virgolino Ferreira
Jorge, Caminhos da Água no Mosteiro de Alcobaça (Alcobaça, 2019), available at https://
www.researchgate.net/publication/350278567_Caminhos_da_Agua_no_Mosteiro_de
_Alcobaca_Water_Paths_at_Alcobaca_Monastery. See also Jorge, “Captage, adduction,
124 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.7 ( a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, water reservoir in seventh bay of the south side-aisle
of the church (WxSi) (b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, redrawn plan of the medieval
monastery showing hydraulics
After Jorge, “Captage, adduction,” 1996, with modifications

halt construction on this side of the church because a reservoir was to be

built into the wall to augment pressure to power the lavabo fountain in the
cloister.
No such need existed on the north side where construction proceeded with-
out interruption beyond the fifth bay all the way to the conversi portal in the
12th bay.55 All that needed to be done on the north side was to make provision
for a pipe to pass through the side-aisle wall, which could be done in one of two
ways. Either a pipe could be fitted into the wall as it was being built, or a hole
could be broken through that wall once work on the aqueduct had advanced to
the church. At Alcobaça, the thickness of the side-aisle wall was reduced (only

d­ istribution et évacuation de l’eau dans l’abbaye cistercienne d’Alcobaça (Estramadura,

Portugal), in L’hydraulique monastique, milieux, réseaux, usages (Rencontres à Royau-
mont), dir. Léon Pressouyre and Paul Benoit (Grâne, 1996), pp. 221–33. A similar situation
occurred at Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, where construction on the dorter halted to wait for
construction of the sewer that ran beneath the building to be finished. See Bonde and
Maines, Saint-Jean, pp. 192–95, 266–72.
55 Whether a hole for the pipe was broken through after the wall was built, as occurred
between the kitchen and the south cloister alley at Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, or whether, at
Alcobaça, provision was made by laying a stone pipe into the foundations at the time they
were constructed, can only be answered by excavation.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 125

in bay WviiNi) on the cloister side by the presence of a deep niche, evidently
to facilitate passing a pipe through the wall. Stone pipes still exist at Alcobaça,
both outside the church on the south and in the upper galleries of the cloister.
They are of sufficient length to pass through the reduced thickness of the side
aisle wall in the bay where the aqueduct passes. It would have been a simple
process to build one into the wall in anticipation of the “arrival” of water pipes
from the other side of the nave.56 It should also be pointed out that, while the
arrival of the aqueduct explains the “halt” in construction on the south side
of the church, it has no necessary bearing at all on the change in wall design.
That there is no clearstory wall in the nave of Santa Maria, taken together
with the height of the nave arcade piers means that there is no nave wall per
se, and thus little possibility of tracing equivalent breaks in construction cam-
paigns in a high nave wall (Figures 8.5 and 8.8). Further, for structural reasons,
it would be highly unlikely to find a masonry break within one of the nave
piers, and we have found none.
Our relative construction chronology for the central vessel of the nave is
thus necessarily conjectural and is based upon several considerations. These
include: the phases in the side-aisle walls; the changes in pier design as these
relate to function; and the likelihood that the vaulting of the nave did not lag
far behind the construction of the piers which had to be in place to vault the
side-aisles.
Thus we infer that the first five nave bays, corresponding to Cocheril’s first
phase, were probably built at essentially the same time as the side-aisle walls
because they represent the presumed western limit of the monk’s choir and
because their presence was needed to vault the side-aisles which, in turn, had to
be vaulted in order to vault the nave itself (see Figure 8.4). We presume, but do
not know, that the building was vaulted by travées—that is, two side-aisle bays
and one nave bay—rather than bay by bay within each vessel because, in the
absence of a nave wall to anchor the scaffolding, the latter would have to wrap
around the piers to be stable. This in turn suggests that vaulting a travée, at the
same time would be both a material economy and a temporal one. Phase 1, as we
define it, also includes seven more bays of the north side-aisle wall, which could
not, at the time of its construction have been vaulted with the first five bays.
The second major interruption in the coursing of the church extends through
eight courses in the wall immediately above the lay brothers’ portal in the 12th
bay of the north side-aisle (see Figures 8.5 and 8.6b). The disposition of notched

56 On this aspect of the water system, see Clark Maines, “Word and Image—Meaning and
Function: the Aque Ductus Relief from Santa Maria de Alcobaça,” Cîteaux: Commentarii
cistercienses 57 (2006): 32–33.
126 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.8 S anta Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of the church, construction
phase 1
Bonde/Maines, rendered in Rhino by Mohadeseh Sardari Salari

blocks and masonry plugs indicates that the coursing on the west side was in
place and that masonry on the east side was adjusted to it. Masonry above the
portal opening was probably erected on wooden shoring. It seems to us likely
that the conversi portal itself was added after the wall above it was built, and
probably after the scaffolding for the vaults had been struck. Inserting the por-
tal après coup, as it were, would insure that its decorative elements would not
be damaged by work on the wall and the vault above it. Above the break, the
coursing is integral across the width of the portal, allowing us to infer that the
upper part of the wall in this bay was built as one. These masonry relationships
allow us to infer while the church may have been begun in the east, work from
the west end arrived at the laybrothers’ portal before work arrived from the east.
The third major break in the coursing of the church occurs above the central
portal of the west façade (see Figure 8.6c). This break includes the first four
courses above the apex of the portal, but since the courses behind and beside
the embrasures do not match across the opening, it effectively includes the full
height of the portal as well. The two notched blocks on the south side of the
break indicate clearly that courses on this side were adjusted to fit those on the
north that were already in place. Above the break, the coursing runs integrally
across the width of the portal, allowing us to infer that the upper part of the
wall was built in a single phase.
The presence and location of these two breaks allows us identify two more
major phases of construction within the church itself. One of these includes
Archaeology and Standing Structure 127

the north side-aisle wall from the 12th bay (WxiiNi) to the center of the west
façade (phase 2); the other includes the south side-aisle wall from the fifth bay
(WvSi) to the center of the west façade (phase 3). We believe that the remain-
ing nave piers, from the sixth bay to the 13th, were constructed with phases 2
and 3, rather than in pairs arranged across the nave, although other interpre-
tations are possible.57
It is time, now, to return our attention to the concept of the linked structural
unit because it is this concept that explains the disproportionately large size of
phase 1 as well as the smaller and unequal sizes of phases 2 and 3.
Examination of the relationship of masonry coursing in the north transept
terminal wall allows us to state that the terminal wall is shared in common
with the dormitory building at both the ground level and the first floor. As
evidence of this on the ground level, we observed courses continuing with-
out interruption through the embrasures of the monks’ door opening into the
sacristy/treasury. In the east cloister alley, however, the relationship of phase
1 (here the north transept arm) to the exterior (western) wall of the dormitory
building is more complicated because the cloister circulation level is 0.38 m
lower than the current floor in the church,58 and because the curving vous-
soirs of the upper parts of the monks’ portal preclude continuity of coursing
for the full height of the arch. The result is that only three course(s) could be
traced from the north side-aisle wall through the east embrasure of the monks’
door and onto the west wall of the dormitory. These are the fourth, fifth and
sixth courses above the floor of the eastern cloister alley.59 These courses can
be traced for varying lengths along the west wall of the dormitory building.
Although there are gaps in the coursing created by the sacristy portal and the
openings in the west wall of the chapter room, the height of course four is

57 The remaining nave piers might have constituted a third campaign and have been erected
only after the side-aisle walls were complete (phases 2 and 3). Or, the nave piers from the
sixth nave pier on the north side through the 12th on that side may have been erected with
phase 1 and the remaining piers with phases 2 and 3 respectively. The problem we con-
front here is that no criteria for determining order of construction exist, save for style, and
the decorative details do not show sufficient stylistic differences to pursue an argument
one way or the other. Cocheril’s phasing of the nave (Études, p. 247) is based on changes
in pier design which we are inclined to see as functional differences rather than chrono-
logically significant stylistic ones.
58 We suspect that the present floor dates to the early modern period rather than the 13th
century because of the way in which the stairs leading through the monks’ door extend
into the north side-aisle of the church rather than ending closer to the inside of the side-
aisle wall; but we are not certain.
59 These courses correspond to the second and third, the fourth and the fifth courses above
the floor on the inside of the church.
128 Bonde and Maines

consistent from the inside of the church to north of the chapter room portal.
At this point, following the courses becomes problematic because the circu-
lation level of the alley and, we assume, the natural rock below begin to slope
downward toward the north. We also assume that this shift in levels marks a
break in construction campaigns with the rest of the dormitory ground floor
(day stairs, monks’ room) belonging to a different phase of construction along
with the buildings on the north side of the cloister, but we have not pursued
this question.
On the eastern exterior of the dormitory building, early modern alterations
have been added to its outer wall, making it much harder to follow the cours-
ing. Taking account of the alterations to, and enlargement of, the exterior but-
tresses, coursing appears to be consistent in size and position, and very likely
was integral, at least as far as the chapter room.60
At the first floor level, the night stairs begin their descent into the church
about 1.50 m from the south terminal wall of the dormitory. In the stairs open-
ing, we were able to observe courses in each embrasure continuing without
interruption through the opening and across the interior of the wall of the
north transept which was thus shared with the dormitory.61 On the west side,
the courses running across the terminal wall continue without interruption
along the entire west side of the dormitory to be interrupted on the opposite
(north) terminal wall by the insertion of later (?) large windows.62
This evidence makes clear that the upper parts of the transept terminal wall
belonging phase 1 and the first floor of the dormitory were built together as
part of the same construction campaign, probably overlaying phase 1 of the
ground level of the dormitory building and another, as yet unidentified phase,
that likely included the rest of the dormitory on the ground level, and the
buildings of the north range (See Figure 8.8). This in turn suggests more than
one stage in phase 1 as it was built upward. No break in the coursing could be
seen to confirm this, and none probably ever existed since it would make sense

60 Only a complete measured survey of the east wall would permit us to be more certain
and to determine how far toward the north the courses were integral. We should not be
surprised were the eastern wall to extend further north as part of the phase 1 campaign
since we have seen the same circumstance in the side-aisle walls of the church.
61 One course only on the east side; two courses on the west side. The number is limited
because of the way the stairs cut through the floor of the dormitory and because of the
small number of courses between the floor and the beginning of the arch that crowns the
opening.
62 The presence of early modern (?) plaster on the walls on the east side of the dormitory
makes it impossible to follow the key course on this wall.
Archaeology and Standing Structure 129

to stop construction at a consistent height across the two buildings before con-
tinuing upward.
Returning to the ground level, phase 1 on the north side of the church con-
tinues westward to the conversi portal and, passing behind the east embrasure,
comes to a halt at what would have been in the early 13th century the wall sep-
arating the conversi alley from the monks’ cloister. Today the conversi portal
opens into the Sala dos Reis and the rest of the early modern western range,
that replaced both the lay brothers’ alley and their range. It is only through
looking at the masonry of the exterior of this same wall (that is, the church
exterior wall in the south gallery of the cloister), that we can understand the
western limits of phase 1. At the monks’ door, masonry from the church inte-
rior passes through the portal’s west embrasure to continue in the exterior of
the same wall.63 Here, as on the east side of the portal, courses three, four and
five in the church become courses four, five and six in the cloister because of
the change in floor levels between the two structures. These courses can be fol-
lowed the full length of the south gallery to the angle where they turn north to
begin the closure wall of the lay brothers’ alley. Only a few blocks of the medie-
val wall remain there, and the juncture with the early modern coursing is clear.
Within the church, phase 2 extends from the break in the coursing above
the lay brothers’ portal to an equivalent point above the central portal of the
west façade, making phase 2 a very short construction phase (Figure 8.9a).
Given the early modern transformation of the west façade and porch as well as
the construction of the Sala dos Reis in the 18th century, extension of this phase
to the west into a medieval porch and north into the western claustral range can-
not be demonstrated. Nevertheless, on the basis of the extension of phase 1 into
the eastern claustral range, we are inclined to think that phase 2 constituted a
second linked structural unit and included all or much of the lay brothers’ range64
and the original porch as well. Given the plastering of the exterior walls of the
Sala dos Reis, it is impossible to tell how much, if any, of the masonry from the

63 In this portal, as well as in the lay brothers’ portal, we work from the premise that the
decorative parts of the portal have been added after the wall and the vaults above were
completed. This makes good sense since it avoids damaging the decoration (capitals,
bases, etc.) during construction. Doing so would require only that the opening be shored
with stout timbers until the scaffolding had been struck and the masonry of the portal
proper could be inserted. This sequence of construction accounts for both the continuity
of coursing between the inner and outer sides of the north side-aisle wall and the discon-
tinuities of coursing resulting from the insertion of the portal.
64 Replacement of the lay brothers’ range of course makes it impossible to know how far
toward the end of the range the integral coursing might have continued. We believe it
may have extended to a junction with the north range, but cannot demonstrate it.
130 Bonde and Maines

Figure 8.9 ( a) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of the church, construction
phase 2 (b) Santa Maria d’Alcobaça, axonometric projection of the church,
construction phase 3
BOTH: Bonde/Maines, rendered in Rhino by Mohadeseh Sardari
Salari

earlier conversi building was reused in that later structure. Only stripping of the
plastering of the western range exterior or excavation under the floor of the Sala
dos Reis and the porch might provide definitive information.65
Phase 3 within the church represents, the final “stapling” together of the
church (Figure 8.9b). It extended from the break in the fifth bay of the south
side-aisle of the nave (WvSi) around to the middle of the west façade where,
as we have seen, there is another significant interruption in the coursing. No

65 Excavations to better understand the relationship between the north and west claustral
ranges at their junction has been carried out. See Ana Nunes, “Intervenção arque-
ológica na Ala Norte do Mosteiro de Alcobaça, Contributos para o conhecimento de
funcionalidade do espaço antes do seculo xvi,” in Cister: Espaços, Territórios, II: 517-26
(see above, n. 21).
Archaeology and Standing Structure 131

monastic buildings ever existed on the south side of the church, so that no
linked structural unit was necessary in this phase of building, other than the
remaining half of the original porch.

6 Conclusions

As a general principle, an archaeological approach to the Gothic church of

Alcobaça and adjacent buildings allows us to assert that construction phases
on a complex monumental site need to be looked for and identified in three
dimensions rather than two. Put differently, consideration of the construction
of any monastic church, as well as many cathedrals and at least some collegiate
churches, should be seen in the context of the linked structural unit consisting
not only of parts of the church, but also parts, or the whole, of the claustral
buildings to which the churches are attached.
To be fully understood, linked structural units need to include study of the
foundations of the monastic church and adjoining claustral ranges. On some
sites, as much as half the masonry employed may be used in the foundations66
and, at least well into the 13th century when engravings of plans became more
common, a building’s foundations formed the first expression of its plan. In
most cases, however, archaeological excavation of a monastery’s foundations
is not a practical possibility. On the other hand, a monastic site with access to
a vast and high-quality quarry, such as Alcobaça had, can be approached from
the perspective of linked structural units even in the absence of excavation.
Linked structural units were a constructional approach for medieval build-
ers engaged in planning and erecting a church and its claustral ranges, pre-
cisely because the church and two of those ranges were connected. Planning
the layout of the core buildings of any monastery also needed to take account
of the community’s water management system, the conduits of which typically
extended into the cloister and kitchen as well as the sewers for rainwater runoff
and the latrines. Linked structural units can also be a powerful analytic tool
for archaeologists and architectural historians because they take account of
potential problems resulting from erecting large-scale structures in immedi-
ate physical proximity to one another. Finally, and perhaps most importantly,
linked structural units reflect a planning and building practice that takes
account of how monks would actually live, work, and worship within the walls
of their monasteries.

66 Sheila Bonde, Maines and Mark, “Archaeology and Engineering (see above, n.1), 341–48.
 CHAPTER 9

Between Reims and Soissons: Gothic Space and

Place in a Medieval Landscape

Kyle Killian

In different ways both Andrew Tallon and Robert Mark focused our attention
on the intersection between technology and our understanding of specific
Gothic buildings. Andrew Tallon argued for using laser scanners to map the
existing wall surfaces of a building as a basis from which to infer medieval
design principles. It was his argument that minute variations in the existing
structure could provide clues to the design concerns of medieval builders. Key
to this conception has been a medieval idea of perfection centered around ver-
ticality.1 Robert Mark, on the other hand, introduced modeling from structural
engineering practices in order to ascertain the structural parameters within
which the largest Gothic cathedrals operate. His models were aimed at under-
standing the structural demands of Gothic design by locating the most acute
sites of stress in the buildings.2
Whether mapping the structural behavior of great Gothic churches or
mapping the surfaces of buildings as they appear to us today, both scholars
exploited the potential of scientific and digital modes of representation to
illuminate the processes that animated Gothic cathedral designs. Whether
by reference to a shared understanding of structural behavior or to a shared
understanding of perfection in design, they both elucidated many contours
of Gothic as an ideal form. Following their lead with regard to the potential of
technological innovation outside the discipline of art history, I want to address
a sample of parish churches that lie between the dioceses of Reims and Sois-
sons as visualized through a Geographical Information System. My purpose in
doing so, however, is somewhat different. I am not primarily focused on Gothic
as a design problem, nor do I aim to encompass a specific building. The value

1 See, for example, Andrew Tallon, “An Architecture of Perfection,” Journal of the Society of
Architectural Historians 72 (2013): 530–54, where he addresses issues of precision in measure-
ment but does not address accuracy. For a brief introduction to facets of accuracy including
temporality and resolution that still need to be addressed see Gary Hunter, “Accuracy,” in
Encyclopedia of Geographic Information Science, ed. Karen K. Kemp (London, 2008), pp. 2–3.
2 See primarily Robert Mark, Experiments in Gothic Structure (Cambridge, MA, 1982). He pre-
sented his basic ideas in a variety of contexts and publications over many years.

© Kyle Killian, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_010

Between Reims and Soissons 133

in a spatialized approach, encoded by my choice of media, is to redirect atten-

tion toward how Gothic visual language, such as pointed arches, rib vaults, and
crocket capitals, operates in a matrix of adjacent buildings.
The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians from December 2005
began with a series of short essays that discussed the relationship between
architectural history and what might be called the “spatial turn.”3 One thread
that emerged in those discussions was the desire to generate meaningful
discussion of the built environment in terms other than the causal, quasi-­
evolutionary history of architectural forms. All of these essays sought to do so
through recourse to interdisciplinary perspectives, notably borrowing from spe-
cific lines of thought in humanist geography. If Gothic has a meaning beyond a
specific formal category, then that meaning lies, in part, in how it reverberated
through the lived experience of architecture in a densely occupied medieval
landscape.4 I take this focus on what might be called the everyday as one direc-
tion indicated by Paul Binski in his essay on “The Heroic Age of Gothic and the
Metaphors of Modernism.” While that essay focused on a critique of the high
or heroic rhetorical mode of expression, and how we should deal with it, he
was also clear that there was a complex and dialectical relationship between
the high and the low.5 If high and low are mutually constituting, then under-
standing Gothic cathedrals requires understanding the use of Gothic forms in
the small parish churches that blanketed the landscape. A specifically spatial
perspective offers one method of situating the impact of Gothic forms in a
landscape that can encompass both cathedral and parish church.

3 For an introduction to the concept of a spatial turn from interdisciplinary perspectives

see Barney Warf and Santa Arias, eds., The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives
(London 2009). For a discussion of the spatial turn in medieval studies see Meredith Cohen,
Fanny Madeline, and Dominique Iogna-Prat “Introduction,” in Space in the Medieval West:
Places, Territories, and Imagined Geographies (London 2016), pp. 1–16, and Gerald Guest,
“Space,” Studies in Iconography 33 (2012): 219–30.
4 Richard Krautheimer, in “Introduction to an ‘Iconography of Mediaeval Architecture,” Journal
of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 5 (1942): 9–10, used this metaphor, which he takes
from Johannes Scotus Erigena, to discuss how meaning could be conveyed through archi-
tecture in the absence of a memetic referent. Paul Crossley, in “Medieval Architecture and
Meaning: The Limits of Iconography,” The Burlington Magazine 130 (1988): 116–17, elaborates
on this idea. While they were both talking about visual forms in specific buildings, it also
provides a useful description of landscapes where the built environment is more dispersed.
5 Paul Binski, “The Heroic Age of Gothic and the Metaphors of Modernism,” Gesta 52 (2013):
3–4.
134 Killian

1 Space and Place

The ubiquity of the parish church is an essential component of the role that
the small and the quotidian played with respect to the heroic of the Gothic
cathedral. Mapping then becomes an important first step in conceptualizing
the experiential power inherent in diffuse iterations of architectural state-
ments made visible to us in the medieval parish church. The idea of mapping
inherent in both Andrew Tallon’s and Robert Mark’s methodological practices
point us to spatial as opposed to historical modes of understanding the com-
plex architectural forms of the later Middle Ages.6 In that light, I want to bring
the question of spatiality into the foreground. Edward Soja explained spatiality
as the intersection of physical, mental, and social space.7 The medieval parish
church is of course one object that might be of art-historical interest, but it is
also a nexus of relationships, memories, and physical forms which together
create an enduring place in the medieval landscape.
The geographer Yi Fu Tuan might describe the image of Gothic as a design
problem as a description of Gothic space – its intellectualized and ana-
lyzed space. Such mental constructions are indispensable for our ability to
understand complex buildings like Gothic churches. Tuan emphasizes this
idealized form in part, however, to draw attention to the significance of the
dialectic that exists between such mental constructs and the lived experience
of architectural place. In his formulation, space describes abstractions used
to model the complexities of landscape, while place engages with a situated
experience of an environment. Space and place operate together to create a
spatialized social experience.8 Tuan was discussing landscapes in all of their

6 Edward W. Soja, in Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory
(London, 1989), discusses in detail the significance of the distinction between historical and
spatial analytical perspectives.
7 Edward Soja and Costis Hadjimichalis, “Between Geographical Materialism and Spatial
Fetishism.” Antipode 17 (1985): 60–61.
8 Yi-Fu Tuan, Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis, 1977). The contrast
of place and space is present in a variety of heterogeneous approaches that are often incom-
mensurate with one another. For example, John Lewis, “Medieval Perception of Space and
Place in the Architecture of Gothic Churches,” South African Journal of Art History 22.1 (2007):
73–90, presents place as a mental matrix in which the forms of architectural space should be
situated. This parallels Andrew Tallon’s primary argument in “An Architecture of Perfection.”
In contrast, Tuan here is arguing for a dialectic between the experience of place and the
cognition of space. Henri Lefebvre presents a more elaborate formulation of this basic idea
in The Social Production of Space (London, 1991) where he uses three terms (conceived, per-
ceived and lived) to articulate the dialectical experience of space. For both authors (and
many others), space, its production, and reproduction are social acts or processes, not a
reflection of history or society.
Between Reims and Soissons 135

complexity. Thinking specifically about architectural space, Amos Rapoport

offered yet another way to think about idealized space as a schematic against
which we bounce both our experience of the world and our desire for it. In
the process we modify our behavior and at the same time modify the sche-
matic, in order to make it more useful with respect to our experiences of
architecture.9 This formulation comes close to Stephen Murray’s concern for
how a Gothic building is contracted into the mind of the builder or patron
and expanded back into the world to become a specific instance of a specific
Gothic building.10 I am arguing here that issues of place, proximity, and the
situated landscapes of architectural experience are a key part of addressing
that concern.

2 Representing the Buildings

To make this point, I have chosen a collection of parish churches as a spe-

cific subset of the medieval built environment. These churches lie between
two major monuments, the cathedrals of Reims and Soissons (Figure 9.1).
These two cathedral churches also represent major moments in the narrative
of Gothic architecture. I have set the limits of my study with respect to the
major river valleys between Reims and Soissons. The Aisne and Ailette define
the boundary to the north, while the Marne indicates the southern limit of this
study area. Between the two the Vesle River marks a corridor that effectively
connects the two episcopal centers.
These geological boundaries define the study area in particular ways that
necessarily preclude a full view from other frames of reference. For example,
this delineation transgresses administrative boundaries. While most of the
churches lie within either the diocese of Reims or Soissons, an important num-
ber along the north lie in the diocese of Laon. Similarly, these parishes belong
administratively to two different departments, the Aisne and the Marne. As
most scholarly and almost all archival materials are organized according to
either diocese or department boundaries, there are particular challenges in
collating documents that have been differentially encoded and recorded by
the institutions that have been responsible for them.

9 Amos Rapoport, The Meaning of the Built Environment: A Nonverbal Communication

Approach (Tucson, 1990).
10 Stephen Murray, “Slippages of Meaning and Form,” in Mark Turner, ed., The Artful Mind:
Cognitive Science and the Riddle of Human Creativity (New York, 2006), pp. 189–207.
 136

Figure 9.1 M
 edieval parishes between the cities of Reims and Soissons
© Kyle Killian
Killian
Between Reims and Soissons 137

I have also limited this discussion to parish churches as one category of

architectural experience, leaving aside complex monastic, castle, and village
landscapes in which those parish churches also take part.11 I justify this in part
by a desire to find a place for a large and diffuse body of evidence for medieval
architectural experience. As Marcia Kupfer has pointed out, the study of par-
ish churches as the normative form of architectural experience in the Middle
Ages is still limited by the number of detailed studies that center these smaller
buildings.12 Therefore, this study represents only one facet of medieval interac-
tion with the built environment.
Within that area, I have compiled a set of characteristics tied to specific
geographical locations where medieval habitation can be documented. I con-
verted the points that mark these locations into irregular polygons whose sides
are determined by all the points that are closer to a specific point than to any
other point13 (Figure 9.2). This representation has two specific advantages. The
first is legibility. With so few points (in statistical terms, at any rate) it is diffi-
cult to make sense of a collection of dots, no matter how brightly colored. In
contrast, a mosaic created by these polygons gives a clear sense of the textures
of place I want to convey.14 The second advantage relates to the difficulty of
adapting a technology designed for high numbers and high precision to the
inherent fuzziness of historical information.
Even if we had medieval evidence for the demarcation of all the localities
in this small area, the means for accurately defining place for medieval pur-
poses does not always, or even often, line up with the precision demanded by
a Cartesian coordinate system.15 The polygons here at least have the advantage

11 I will be expanding to this study to include the built environment more comprehensively,
including important information about monastic and castle construction as well as vil-
lage landscapes.
12 Marcia Kupfer, “Symbolic Cartography in a Medieval Parish: From Spatialized Body to
Painted Church at Saint-Aignan-Sur-Cher,” Speculum 75 (2000): 615. While she does not
elaborate on this point that she makes forcefully at the beginning of this article, her artic-
ulation of the problem remains salient.
13 These are simple Theissen polygons, sometimes called Voronoi polygons or Voronoi tes-
sellation in their more complex forms where data points are weighted to reflect specific
local conditions.
14 Representing the physical reality of the past has always been a problem, though not
always a well-recognized problem. I justify discussion of my representational choices
with the recognition that such representations are not neutral. See Sheila Bonde and
Stephen Houston, “Re-Presenting Archaeology,” in Re-Presenting the Past: Archaeology
through Text and Image (Oxford, 2013): 1–8.
15 For theoretical and practical perspectives on this problem, see Alexander von Lünen and
Charles Travis, eds., History and GIS: Epistemologies, Considerations and Reflections (Dor-
drecht, 2013).
138 Killian

Figure 9.2 M
 edieval parishes showing medieval architectural survival
© Kyle Killian

of highlighting proximity and density as experienced by human movement

through the landscape.
In those places shaded blue, something specific is known about medieval
parish churches. As the figure shows, we actually have at least some informa-
tion about the medieval parish churches in many proximate places between
the cathedral cities of Reims and Soissons. The connections here, in terms of
movement through space, are quite dense. That information, of course, is vari-
able. The variability and variety of evidence for medieval building has signif-
icant consequences for the types of inferences we can make. While much of
this material is problematic for use in constructing detailed chronologies from
stylistic comparisons, it is useful for establishing the contours of the medieval
architectural landscape.
In some cases, medieval buildings such as the parish church of Rosnay sur-
vive for us to see16 (Figure 9.3). The medieval fabric of its three-aisled nave,
transept with a crossing tower, and polygonal apse appears to be largely intact.
Although renovations and routine maintenance are always necessary for any
building, Rosnay is a basically intact medieval church.17

16 Françoise Neu, “L’Église de Rosnay,” Congrès Archéologique de France 135 (1977): 236–64.
17 Eugène Lefèvre-Pontalis, L’Architecture religieuse dans l’ancien diocèse de Soissons au XIe
et XIIe siècle (Paris, 1894), p. 6.
Between Reims and Soissons 139

Figure 9.3 P
 arish church of Notre-Dame in Rosnay
Photo by Kyle Killian

Surface appearance can be complicated, however. In another example, the

church of Saint-Mard has a cross-shaped plan with a three-aisled nave, tran-
sept, and three apsidal chapels that look similar to Rosnay.18 On the interior,
it features pointed arches, complex moldings and foliate capitals, all charac-
teristic of the Gothic visual vocabulary. Yet Étienne Moreau-Nélaton states
that while the church was initially built in the 13th century, it was completely
restored at the end of the 19th century, so that only the south portal remains
of the medieval fabric.19 The restoration was clearly designed to preserve the
medieval building. Yet the fact remains that it is largely a 19th-century struc-
ture. This makes detailed stylistic comparisons dangerous. The restorations
also removed physical evidence that would confirm or preclude remnants of
different moments of construction integrated into the pre-19th-century fabric.
Others, like the parish church of Saponay, do survive, but restoration and
renovation require care in examination of their fabric. Images from after World
War One document the damage suffered by the church20 (Figure 9.4). While
much of the building, particularly its core masonry, appears to be intact, sig-
nificant restorations were required to consolidate the building after the war. At

18 Étienne Moreau-Nélaton, Les églises de chez nous: arrondissement de Soissons (Paris, 1914),
vol. 3, pp. 95–100.
19 Étienne Moreau-Nélaton, Les églises de chez nous: arrondissement de Château-Thierry
(Paris, 1913), Vol. 3, pp. 243–64.
20 Bibliothèque nationale de France, département des Estampes et de la photographie,
4-VE-374 (14) fol. 32–46.
140 Killian

Figure 9.4 P
 arish church Notre-Dame in Saponay. Bibliothèque nationale de France,
département Estampes et photographie, 4-VE-374 (14). Étienne Moreau-Nélaton,
Recueil. Monuments du département de l’Aisne détruits ou endommagés pendant la
guerre de 1914–1918: Roucy à Sermoise
Source gallica.bnf.fr/BnF

Saponay, a square straight bay surmounted by a tower separates a three aisled

nave from a polygonal apse.21 The interior of the church features physical
remains of several building styles, including figural capitals that are stylisti-
cally Romanesque reused in Gothic wall articulation. The form and the com-
plex palimpsest of architectural elements makes Saponay a complex case. The
restorations make it difficult to use those elements as chronological indicators.
Some churches, however, have undergone more substantial changes. For
example, rib vaults cover the choir at the parish church of Chavonne while

21 Moreau-Nélaton, Les églises de chez nous: arrondissement de Soissons vol. 3, pp. 95–100.
Between Reims and Soissons 141

Figure 9.5 P
 arish church of Saint-Laurent in Chavonne before World War One. Bibliothèque
nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie, 4-VE-378 (4).
Étienne Moreau-Nélaton, Recueil. Patrimoine architectural du département de
l’Aisne: Arrondissement de Soissons. Bucy-le-Long à Chavonne
Source gallica.bnf.fr/BnF

the nave had a wooden roof.22 The plan of Chavonne was highly irregular,
with several moments of construction integrated into the church. The nave
was dis-axial relative to the five-faceted polygonal choir. Two asymmetric cha-
pels project from the juncture of nave and choir, creating an irregular crossing.
Decoratively, these disparate spaces utilized a range of forms from thick-
leafed acanthus capitals to slender crocket capitals, and from simple cham-
fered moldings around semicircular arches to complex multi-torus moldings
articulating sharply pointed arches. Some of the nave arcade was supported
by slender cylindrical columns, and some by thick rectangular piers, while the
crossing and tower were supported by massive compound piers (Figure 9.5).
Yet the church was completely destroyed during World War One (Figure 9.6).
These images are part of a collection of images compiled by Étienne
Moreau-Nélaton.23 Between 1907 and 1913, he gathered together photographs

22 Moreau-Nélaton, Les églises de chez nous: arrondissement de Soissons, vol. 1, 269–76.

23 For the career of Étienne Moreau-Nélaton both as an art historian and as an early heritage
preservationist, see Michela Passini, “Étienne Moreau-Nélaton (1859–1927), historien de
l’art,” Histoire de l’art 65 (2009): 153–64.
142 Killian

Figure 9.6 P
 arish church of Saint-Laurent in Chavonne after World War One. Bibliothèque
nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie, 4-VE-374 (4).
Étienne Moreau-Nélaton Recueil, Monuments du département de l’Aisne détruits
ou endommagés pendant la guerre de 1914–1918: Charèves à Chéry-Chartreuve
Source gallica.bnf.fr/BnF

and postcards organized by commune documenting the architectural patri-

mony of the Aisne.24 Between the 1914 and 1919, Moreau-Nélaton gathered a
new set of photographs for the express purpose of documenting the ravages of
war on the architectural patrimony of the Aisne and Marne.25 In some cases,
early photographs are the only record we have of churches that had stood since
the Middle Ages. Yet the images curated by Moreau-Nélaton and the field work

24 Bibliothèque nationale de France, département des Estampes et de la photographie,

4-VE-377 (1–53). These collections were presumably the basis for his multi-volume publi-
cations on church architecture in the diocese of Soissons, Moreau-Nélaton Les églises de
chez nous de Soissons.
25 Bibliothèque nationale de France, département des Estampes et de la photographie,
4-VE-374 (1–17). There is also one volume for the Marne, Bibliothèque nationale de France,
département des Estampes et de la photographie, 4-VE-380 (1).
Between Reims and Soissons 143

Figure 9.7 P
 ages from Robert Rouet’s 4th album of photographs and ephemera Showing
among other things the destroyed Cluniac priory of Binson
Archives de la Marne, Fonds Robert Rouet, 71 Fi 4

he did prior to World War One allow us to say something concrete about a
medieval monument that no longer exist as buildings in the landscape.26
Some of Moreau-Nélaton’s material comes from collections of soldiers such as
Robert Rouet.27 In his collection, images showing the ruined remains of both the
priory church of Binson and the parish church of Châtillon-sur-Marne can be
seen amongst other images documenting his view of the war (Figure 9.7). Rouet
was not, of course, primarily documenting architecture. Most of the albums doc-
ument his view of life in a war zone. Thus, on the page facing that which records
the partially destroyed churches, one sees pictures of family and colleagues.
By contrast, Étienne Moreau-Nélaton was interested in recording churches,
primarily because he believed they embodied the regional culture that had
been so damaged by the war.28 Thus his images and discussion of the churches
emphasize their integrity more than their ruptures. And this points to another
important characteristic of this body of material: it is not a random sample,
and it is not a representative sample. Rather, we have evidence compiled from
the perspectives of particular social actors whose primary goals only partially
coincide with our own.

3 Varietas

The categories of Romanesque and Gothic organize almost all the scholarly
material on these medieval buildings. There are, of course, longstanding

26 The church that stands on the site today is a modern construction.

27 Archives de la Marne, Fonds Robert Rouet, 71 Fi. 4.
28 Passini, “Étienne Moreau-Nélaton,” pp. 160–61.
144 Killian

Figure 9.8 N
 ave, parish church of Saint-Pierre in Crugny. Estève, Georges (1890–1975)
© Ministère de la Culture (France), Médiathèque du Patrimoine
et de la Photographie, diffusion RMN-GP

debates about the definitions of both of these categories. Here I use the terms
to describe groups of visual features that regularly occur together.29 The par-
ish church at Crugny displays both sets of visual characteristics.30 The Roman-
esque nave displays round arches set on rectangular piers (Figure 9.8).
Except for a simple molding on the short edges of the piers at the point
where the arches spring, there is very little sculptural decoration. I refrain
from describing it as austere, because there were likely decorations in some
media other than stone that adorned these walls. The arches form a contin-
uous arcade without bay divisions, while narrow windows placed high in the
wall light the interior. By contrast, composite piers deeply sculpted by colon-
nettes that support pointed arches and ribbed vaults delineate the bays of the
crossing and transept arm (Figure 9.9). Here the windows are wider and lower,

29 Eric Fernie has argued for the value of retaining stylistic categories under this rubric of
regularly recurring visual combinations. See, e.g., “Medieval Modernism and the origins of
Gothic,” in Reading Gothic Architecture, ed. Matthew Reeve (Turnhout, 2008), pp. 11–23.
30 Hubert Collin, “L’Église de Crugny.” Congrès Archéologique de France. Société Française
d’Archéologie / Congrès Archéologique de France (1980): 225–35.
Between Reims and Soissons 145

Figure 9.9 C
 hoir, parish church of Saint-Pierre in Crugny. Estève, Georges
(1890–1975)
© Ministère de la Culture (France), Médiathèque
du Patrimoine et de la Photographie, diffusion RMN-GP

coming almost to ground level. Foliate capitals and molded bases articulate
horizontal divisions on a largely vertical visual vocabulary.
For many of these churches we probably need a third term to describe a set
of visual characteristics that are a blend rather than a juxtaposition of the first
two. At Lagery, the conception of the nave walls closely resembles the nave at
Crugny, except at Lagery pointed arches reduce the mass of the wall consider-
ably31 (Figure 9.10).

31 For Lagery, see Jean-Pierre Ravaux, “L’église Saint-Martin de Lagery,” Mémoires de la Société
d’Agriculture, Commerce, Sciences et Arts du Département de la Marne 99 (1984): 121–43.
146 Killian

Figure 9.10 C
 rossing, parish church of Saint-Martin in Lagery. Estève, Georges (1890–1975)
© Ministère de la Culture (France), Médiathèque du Patrimoine
et de la Photographie, diffusion RMN-GP

While there are not clearly articulated bays, the slender piers separated
from those arches by a deeply carved molding suggests the possibility of bay
divisions. In the 13th century, the inhabitants of Lagery renovated the choir,
and opted for a more clearly gothic set of forms. Colonnettes articulate the
piers, and complex moldings mark the transverse arches and rib vaults, as at
Crugny’s crossing. This set of forms are often described as transitional between
Romanesque and Gothic. However, Eugène Lefèvre-Pontalis observed many
years ago that there was significant variability and overlap between these
three general stylistic groups.32 While the forms exemplified by the nave of
Lagery seem to have coalesced in the second half of the 12th century, they soon
became part of the visual repertoire of church architecture in this region.
Mapping these sets of visual characteristics onto the landscapes, it becomes
apparent that very few buildings in this landscape are either entirely Gothic
(represented in Blue) or entirely Romanesque (represented in Red) (Figure 9.11).

32 Eugène Lefèvre-Pontalis, “Nouvelles remarques sur la transition,” Bulletin monumental 76

(1912): 556–61.
Between Reims and Soissons 147

Figure 9.11 T
 essellation showing the stylistic characteristics of medieval parish churches
© Kyle Killian

Only 48 out of the 185 buildings about which we know something of their
medieval features are arguably either entirely Romanesque or entirely Gothic.
I say arguably because in every case either ambiguity or lack of survival raises
questions. The other 138 parish churches (represented in gold) are something
of a mixture of visual forms. None have the unity of Gothic forms on display at
the abbey of Saint-Yved in Braine, to take a local example (Figure 9.12).
In one sense, this heterogeneity is chronological. Parts of an existing build-
ing are replaced (either from need or desire) and the architectural form then
current might be used. This does not explain the widespread replication of
medieval forms in the early modern era, and presupposes that similar uses of
a clearly visible past were not deployed in the Middle Ages. More significant
for my purposes here is that when a Gothic choir was built onto a Romanesque
nave, as occurs frequently here as elsewhere in northern France, the older
building is not simply neglected in favor of the new. Those naves were main-
tained and cared for even as they were physically integrated with new addi-
tions. Nor was this careful integration of old and new restricted to older naves
and newer choirs. Older crossing towers, for example were routinely retained.
Gothic apses and transept arms were often added to east ends, frequently at
different times. At Vailly-sur-Aisne a Romanesque apse was carefully reinte-
grated into the gothic fabric of a monumental transept (Figure 9. 13).
We can, of course, explain this in terms of local conditions deprived
of resources and expertise. Except then we might expect a great deal more
148 Killian

Figure 9.12 M
 onastic church of Saint-Yved in Braine
Photo by Kyle Killian

Figure 9.13 P
 arish church of Notre-Dame in Vailly-sur-Aisne. Apse and
Transept. Estève, Georges (1890–1975)
© Ministère de la Culture (France), Médiathèque
du Patrimoine et de la Photographie, diffusion RMN-GP

preservation – making do – and a lot less expansion and addition. Approaching

these buildings from a spatial perspective highlights the regularity with which
these parish churches display irregularity – mixing of designs and forms. There
is a clear pattern of retaining and reframing existing elements of the church.
Between Reims and Soissons 149

That Gothic forms were chosen for some parts of these churches indicates
that the schema of a great Gothic church, whether at Reims or Soissons, or
even one of the important monasteries in the area, was the operative architec-
tural space against which expectations about how a medieval church building
should look were compared. That schema, however, had to operate in relation
to the demands of place that altered expectations, producing buildings that
appear to us as admixtures with none of the rational clarity that appears as a
hallmark of Gothic church design of either great cathedral. Of course, neither
Reims nor Soissons are themselves entirely homogeneous in either style or
construction history. Yet both buildings deploy Gothic visual idioms through-
out, even if the south transept of Soissons cathedral differs in elevation and
concept from the choir and the north transept. In part this must be related
to the scale of the buildings, because the structural and foundational require-
ments of a gothic great church largely superseded what went before. Small par-
ish churches have more structural flexibility when it comes to retaining older
elements. Yet it is not simply a matter of scale. In Soissons, for example, the
builders of the abbey church of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes enshrined the founda-
tions of the apse and the south nave wall of the original church in the foun-
dations of the new Gothic edifice.33 In a more visible example, the wall, main
arcade, and vaults in the nave of the abbey church of Saint-Remi in Reims were
modified several times in relation to new building in the chevet and transept.34
This heterogeneity appears as a physical correlate to the quality of varietas
that Mary Carruthers has persuasively argued represents a positive aesthetic
and moral value for medieval viewers.35 She was discussing the shape of medi-
eval aesthetic responses and demonstrating ways that the perception of beauty
in the Middle Ages was an active engagement with a complex and multifac-
eted world. The stylistic choices and juxtapositions that we see in these parish
churches were more than changing fashions; they were visual demarcation of
the world that had purpose beyond a passive aesthetic appreciation. Instead
of a failure to realize the ideal Gothic design, I would argue that the Gothic
schema was doing particular work in these parish churches. The maintenance
of the old alongside the new was an architectural manifestation of history. I do
not mean history in the sense of chronology and a visual reflection of an his-
torical moment. I mean history as a material component of the link between

33 Sheila Bonde and Clark Maines. Saint-Jean-Des-Vignes in Soissons: Approaches to Its Archi-
tecture, Archeology and History (Turnhout, 2003), pp. 152–153
34 Jean-Pierre Ravaux, “L’église Saint-Rémi de Reims au XIe siècle,” Bulletin archéologique du
Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques 8 (1975): 51–98.
35 Mary Carruthers, The Experience of Beauty in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 2013), pp. 135–64.
150 Killian

a particular place and its past, however conceived. Robert Ousterhout argued
persuasively for the primacy of sanctity over design in architectural choices
that resulted in the complex forms of the Holy Sepulcher.36 There, history was
an important authority underpinning the sanctity of a major site and monu-
ment, and thus was often prioritized over aesthetic unity and even over practi-
cal and structural concerns.
In an often-cited moment in the rise of towns in northern France, Louis
VII agreed in 1137 to the formation of a commune made up of the villages of
Vailly, Conde (sur Aisne), Celles (sur Aisne), Chavonne, Pargny and Filain.37
(all located on the northwestern portion of this study area). This is just one
of several examples, and the pace of such changes only increased into the
13th century. Significant changes in the basic structures of social organization
require a means to articulate just how individuals and groups make up a cohe-
sive social entity.
As Benedict Anderson reminded us, a necessary component of reproduc-
ing a social construct such as a state was a means to present and re-present a
shared history – whether fictional or not.38 Similarly, I would argue, one use to
which the builders and users of these parish churches put Gothic space was to
present and re-present a shared history as a material component of the places
where they lived. In that context the juxtaposition of Romanesque and Gothic
forms created a helpful framework by embodying both the stability of the past
and innovation for the future.
Significant reorganizations of the landscape were intertwined with signif-
icant changes in social relationships. The ability to embrace such changes in
one area of life with confidence requires a certain confidence in the stabil-
ity of other parts of life. Anthony Giddens described this cultural situation on
the line between the old and new as a need for ontological security.39 Jane
Grenville has adapted this idea specifically to the built environment, arguing

36 Robert Ousterhout, “Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of
the Holy Sepulchre,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62 (2003): 4–23.
37 Louis Carolus-Barré, “La commune de Condé et Celles-sur-Aisne des origines à la suppres-
sion de la commune fédérative de Vailly (avant 1137–13 juin 1323),” Bibliothèque de l’École
des chartes 113 (1955): 75–110.
38 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
Nationalism (London, 2016). Anderson was, of course, discussing modern nation states.
The basic insight about shared history has been applied to a variety of historical contexts
and institutional scales. For recent applications of this fundamental idea in medieval con-
texts see Andrzej Pleszczyński, Joanna Aleksandra Sobiesiak, Michał Tomaszek, and Prze-
mysław Tyszka, eds., Imagined Communities: Constructing Collective Identities in Medieval
Europe (Leiden, 2018), and Wojtek Jezierski and Lars Hermanson, eds., Imagined Commu-
nities on the Baltic Rim: From the Eleventh to Fifteenth Centuries (Amsterdam, 2016).
Between Reims and Soissons 151

in the context of policy and planning for architectural heritage, that preserva-
tion decisions have been driven as much by the historically specific psycho-
logical needs of maintaining this balance between the known past and the
unknown future as by the disciplinary concerns of archaeologists and plan-
ning professionals.40
This argument applies as well to the historical context of parish churches
between Reims and Soissons. The re-use and retention of older building ele-
ments such as a nave or apse could provide a literal connection to the past, even
as these communities were employing new and perhaps unfamiliar Gothic
forms. These churches are palimpsests not discrete chronological moments
jumbled together.41 Various moments in these churches’ history coexist, par-
tially erased, often modified, but also always visible. The extensive heterogene-
ity of built forms in these parish churches makes change seem traditional by
consistently juxtaposing stylistic patterns as part of an established past. It also
makes the past seem new and forward-looking. The synthesis of old and new
continued to resonate with these communities in search of both vitality and
tradition as they adapted to changing social and material conditions. Different
stylistic regimes operated in tension, informing both architectural choices and
the medieval viewer’s subsequent experiences of those choices.
39 Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age
(Stanford, 1991).
40 Jane Grenville, “Conservation as Psychology: Ontological Security and the Built Environ-
ment,” International Journal of Heritage Studies 13 (2007): 447–61.
41 On the significance of understanding sites such as these as palimpsests, see Azra
Akšamija, Clark Maines, and Phillip B Wagoner, “Palimpsests: Buildings, Sites, Time,”
in Azra Akšamija, Clark Maines, and Phillip B. Wagoner, eds., Monuments and Sites as
Palimpsests (Turnhout, 2017), pp. 9–24.
 CHAPTER 10

Revisiting the Reims High Vaults

Rebecca Smith

As the coronation church of France, Reims Cathedral is one of the world’s most
recognizable churches, and much beloved by non-academics and scholars
alike. As such, it holds a prominent and permanent position in architectural
history, and its structure is one of the best studied monuments from Gothic
France.1 Given its significance in French history and culture, it is not surpris-
ing that the building’s structure and design has been well documented, mea-
sured, thoroughly analyzed, and reproduced in drawings, models, laser-scans,
in-depth excavations, simulations, and more since its construction—there
is even a 1:1 scale Minecraft model. The unfortunate damage dealt in World
War I gave a glimpse inside the walls and “guts” of the building as repair work
proceeded, highlighting the practical aspects of its construction history and
exposing previously unknown alterations and changes to the design.
However, these earlier studies relied on traditional surveying data which gave
a crucial insight into the structure but limits a detailed, macro-­understanding
of how the building comes together holistically. Towards the beginning of my
studies on Reims, similarly, I relied on hand measurements taken on numerous
trips as well as limited data sets produced by small point-by-point lasers such
as the Leica S910. From these surveys, I was able to determine a new ground
plan of Reims Cathedral, which served as the basis for my dissertation. How-
ever, while the small lasers allowed me to both confirm my hand-measured
survey and more confidently unite the data from the interior and exterior of
the building, they did not allow me to fully assess the superstructure, espe-
cially areas that curved sinuously like the high vaults, or the wall structure.
These zones required an accurate cross-section, which is afforded by a com-
prehensive LiDAR scan, completed in 2018 (Figure 10.1).2

1 Noteworthy recent contributions to the literature on the cathedral include Alain Villes, La
cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims: chronologie et campagne de travaux. Bilan des recherches
antérieures à 2000 et propositions nouvelles (Joué-lès-Tours, 2009), and Patrick Demouy, ed.
La Cathédrale de Reims (Paris, 2017).
2 The LiDAR team responsible for scanning Reims Cathedral in 2018 consisted of Robert Bork,
Adam Skibbe, and Michelle Wienhold from the University of Iowa, Pierre Hallot from the
University of Liège, and me. We also completed a similar scan of Metz Cathedral. I would like

© Rebecca Smith, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_011

Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 153

Figure 10.1 L iDAR Model of Reims Cathedral

scan produced by Adam Skibbe, Pierre Hallot, Robert
Bork, Rebecca Smith, Michelle Wienhold, 2018

The resulting scan of Reims allows scholars to re-assess the building on

both a micro- and macro-level of detail, from the specific curvature of a single
voussoir or springing to the relationship between components and entire sto-
ries. With this in mind, I was eager to answer some of the remaining questions
that required a precise model of the vaults and their relationship to the flying
buttresses. I was especially interested in investigating whether the high vaults
were originally intended to be lower, a widely accepted theory about the build-
ing’s history but one that until now scholars have been unable to confirm with
concrete data or further assess.
Henri Deneux first argued that the high vaults were redesigned at some point
and were originally intended to be lower.3 While overseeing the restoration of
the cathedral following damage from World War I, Deneux conducted exten-
sive excavations on the building and analyzed the structure in depth. After

to express my immense gratitude towards the wonderful staff at both sites who permitted
us to scan and have access throughout the buildings, and to the French Ministry of Culture.
3 Henri Deneux, “Des modifications apportée à la Cathédrale de Reims au cours de sa con-
struction du XIIIe au XVe siècle,” Bulletin Monumental 106 (1948): 126–28.
154 Smith

Figure 10.2 G
 eometric analysis of vault deformation and change in angles
graphic created by Robert Bork, 2021

studying the high vaults in the choir and south transept, Deneux noted that
the angle in the tas-de-charge did not match the curvature of the vault above
the springing and hypothesized that the vaults were re-configured to produce
a higher profile mid-construction. However, his observations could not be con-
firmed or analyzed further without an accurate model of the building.
By examining the cross-section from the LiDAR scan, the vaulting change is
visibly clear and can be analyzed more rigorously. Figure 10.2 shows the west-
ernmost choir bay, located just next to the crossing looking towards the east,
with two sets of circles mapping out the curves of the vault profile. Their geom-
etry highlights the distortion between the bottom and the top of the vault cur-
vature, as shown in the blue and red systems.
The blue system traces the curve of the vault from the bottom upwards
using three points located on both the north and south side of the vault as a
control. On the north side, the angle of the arc drawn through and above the
tas-de-charge actually bows back slightly before curving inward in an effort to
go higher. The northern side of the arc slopes at an almost perfectly vertical
angle, with a tangent measuring 92.8 degrees just above the molding at the
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 155

bottom point shown in blue.4 On the south side of the arch, the stones progress
a bit more smoothly, at a slightly more pronounced angle measuring at a slope
of 89.4 degrees above the molding. The middle tangents measure 84.5 degrees
on the north and 84.8 on the south, and the top blue tangents measure 76.9
degrees on the north and 78.9 on the south. In other words, the angle on the
north side changes by 92.8 – 76.9 = 15.9 degrees within the tas-de-charge, and
the south angle changes by only 89.4 – 78.9 = 10.5 degrees in this zone, showing
that the north arc has a tighter curve.The upper halves of the blue system thus
diverge widely: on the north side, the blue arc shifts away from the wall about
a third of the way up, while on the south side the arc follows the constructed
vault almost perfectly.
The top half of the vault, analyzed using the red system, does not match the
angles at the bottom, especially on the north side, indicating that while con-
structing the high vaults the architects changed the angle to produce a taller
vault height and overall elevation. The red system traces the vault from the
point downwards, also using three points to correlate north vs south. At the
topmost point set, the tangents measure 53.2 and 56.8 degrees to the vertical
on the north and south sides respectively. The middle tangents measure 44.8
degrees on the north and 46.1 on the south, and the lowest red tangents mea-
sure 38.2 degrees on the north, 37.5 on the south. The corresponding arcs at
the bottom can be projected and fall well outside of the constructed ribs. As
the red lines demonstrate, the arch would have needed to be both wider and
taller to construct these angles smoothly. Since the stones progress smoothly
through much of the upper vault, the shift must have taken place in the bot-
tom third, likely just as the arches start to fully tilt inward directly above the
blue lines. On the north side, the projected arc hits far beyond the middle of
the crossing pier, while the south side touches the backside of the capital at
the bottom of the tas-de-charge. On the south side, the blue and red systems
align much more closely with each other. Therefore, the change in vault design
must have taken place after the construction of the northern tas-de-charge but
before the construction of the southern tas-de-charge and the rest of the vault.
In terms of constructing a different vault profile, the practicalities of
altering the angle are surprisingly straightforward. Insights into vault con-
struction practices using the tas-de-charge can be found in two 16th-century

4 It is not possible to accurately determine the exact height of the original vault or calculate
what the angle at the top of the original point would have been by tracing the wall using this
method. However, we can measure along the curve at matching points to the horizontals or
verticals shown to compare a specific point on each side of the vault to highlight discrepan-
cies between north vs south.
156 Smith

architectural descriptions by Enrique Egas (1532) and Rodrigo Gil de Hon-

tañon (c. 1540), both of whom describe similar processes for constructing a
vault en tas-de-charge used in the 16th-century campaigns at the cathedral in
Segovia.5 Following the construction of the wall piers up to the height of the
tas-de-charge, a platform would have been erected just above it. This both pro-
vides some necessary structural support during construction and reduces the
amount of wood necessary for the vault centering, making it efficient and eco-
nomical.6 Then, the bosses would be located and set into place using pillars,
and the centering for the ribs would be constructed around the bosses before
finally adding the webbing, filling the vault in.
Although these two documents were written three hundred years after the
construction of Reims, the process described could easily relate to a simpler
version used at Reims, and closely resembles the building process described
by Auguste Choisy and John Fitchen when discussing High Gothic practices
in France and at Reims in particular.7 Vaults were typically constructed one
bay at a time at the very end of the building campaign after the placement of
the flyers and the roof, using the same centering that could be moved along
following the building progress.8 The ribs’ centering is placed just above the
tas-de-charge and the ribs are constructed, followed by the placement of the
keystone, and finally the webbing is filled in.
The primary difference between the process described by Egas and de Hon-
tañon and the standard building sequence explained by Gothic structuralists
like Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, Choisy, or Fitchen, is the moment when
the keystone or boss is located. Following the 16th-century process utilized at
Segovia, the keystone is located and raised on a pole first, followed by centering,
ribs, and webbing. For the 16th century, this makes perfect sense given the com-
plexities of late Gothic vaults and the numerous bosses and smaller ribs such
as liernes or tiercerons. In comparison, for a French High Gothic structure with
a single keystone at the center, traditionally locating the keystone first seems

5 Santiago Huerta and Antonio Ruiz, “Some Notes on Gothic Building Processes: The
Expertises of Segovia Cathedral,” in The Second International Congress on Construction
History (March 2006), 1623–27: oa.http://oa.upm.es/580/1/Huerta_2006_01.pdfupm.es/580/1
/Huerta_2006_01.pdf. See also Krisztina Feher, “Tas de-charge, An Essential Part of Gothic
Vault,” Periodica Polytechnica Architecture 52 (2021): 24–25.
6 Feher, “Tas-de-charge,” 24–25.
7 John Fitchen, The Construction of Gothic Cathedrals: A Study of Medieval Vault Erection
(Chicago, 1961), pp. 123–25; Auguste Choisy, Histoire de l’architecture (Paris, 1899; repr BnF
Gallica), pp. 337–39, https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6417116t.texteImage.
8 Robert Mark, Light, Wind, Structure (Cambridge, Mass, 1990), pp. 116; and Fitchen,
Construction of Gothic Cathedrals, pp. 138–40.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 157

unnecessary. However, the vault centers are crucial to the geometric design of
the building, which governs the layout and proportions of the entire church
and which the builders must have kept in mind while redesigning the vaults.
Locating the keystones first also forces the masons to conform to the building’s
centerline and helps ensure the north and south sides were even, useful in a
redesigned vault that would not match the tas-de-charge below the platform.
In looking at Figure 10.2, this also explains why despite the differences at the
bottom of the vault, the north and south sides meet perfectly at the center
point, helping ensure the integrity of the final vault.
After making the decision to raise the vault height, locating the keystones
first would also be essential to ensure that the building maintained the cen-
terline and adhered to the overall scheme of the entire cathedral’s geomet-
ric design. In my dissertation, I argued that Reims Cathedral was designed
following a single, uniform plan conceived by the cathedral’s first architect,
likely Jean d’Orbais, with limited alterations to the design introduced by the
subsequent architects.9 One such modification more significant than the oth-
ers, which are relatively minor and more aesthetic in nature, is the elevated
height of the high vaults. However, the cathedral largely adheres to the vision
of Reims’s first architect and the uniform plan in terms of the building’s overall
layout, bay widths and lengths, and the proportions of the main zones such as
the length of the nave, etc.
The unfolding geometry that encompasses the uniform plan dictated
Reims’s layout on the horizontal and vertical planes, including the height and
width of the vaulting. Thorough analysis of the elevation geometry unveils the
specific design and the process for determining the lower, intended height of
the vaults as well as how the architects modified the plan for a higher vault
as demonstrated by Robert Bork.10 Bork argued that the elevation of Reims
is determined by an octagon (Figure 10.3), whose sides derive indirectly

9 Rebecca Smith, “Measuring the Past: The Geometry of Reims Cathedral,” Iowa Research
Online (10.17077/etd.bmovloh7) 2018, https://ir.uiowa.edu/etd/6289/. The research in
my dissertation and the plan it introduces are based on hand-measured surveys of the
building at ground level and at the level just above the base molding, as well as data sets
produced by a small point-by-point laser. The LiDAR scan data, however, also supports
the overall dimensions of the plan and does not, thus, contradict the primary arguments
made in the dissertation.
10 Robert Bork, “Changing Geometries in the Reims North Transept,” in New Studies on the
North Transept of Reims Cathedral: Construction, Chronology, and Visual Programs, c.1211–
1241, ed. Jennifer Feltman (New York, 2016), pp. 65–83.
158 Smith

Figure 10.3 G
 eometric analysis of Reims’s elevation
graphic created by Robert Bork, 2013

from a great square around the crossing first discovered by Nancy Wu.11 The
­octagonally-based geometric scheme dictating the proportions of the eleva-
tion marks every significant point in the cross-section and elevation, including
the height of the arcade capitals, the floor of the triforium, the profiles of the
wall responds, sizing of the capitals and beyond.
Despite the geometric analysis locating minute details with precision, the
top of the octagon, reaching 35.36 m, does not match anything in the extant
building. It does come quite close to the height of the projected curve coming

11 Nancy Wu first analyzed the geometry of Reims’s crossing and choir in her doctoral
dissertation, “Uncovering the Hidden Codes: The Geometry of the East End of Reims
Cathedral” (Columbia University, 1996). She further refined her discussion and presented
a more synthesized explanation of the geometry in Nancy Wu, “The Hand of the Mind:
The Ground Plan of Reims Cathedral as a Case Study,” in Ad Quadratum: The Practical
Application of Geometry in Medieval Architecture, ed. by Nancy Wu (Burlington, VT, 2002),
pp. 149–68.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 159

from the tas-de-charge of the north side in Figure 10.2, however, suggesting that
the octagon’s height at 35.36 m reflects the original, intended lower height of
the vaults. Bork further argued that the extant, higher vaults can be explained
by circumscribing the core octagon and that the constructed vault height was
always an important figure, likely marking the thickness of the vault shell.
In a 2021 talk presented at the digital symposium held by the University of
Liverpool research group “Tracing the Past: Medieval Vaults” Bork suggested
that the vault change resulted from competition with Amiens Cathedral. Fol-
lowing their decision to heighten the vault, the Reims builders also chose to
re-design the roof to exceed the roof height of Amiens Cathedral, under con-
struction at the same time. The tip of the roof at Amiens Cathedral reaches
56 m. With a higher vault and corresponding taller roof, the total height of
Reims Cathedral roof surpasses it, measuring over 57 m.12 This makes a lot of
good sense as Reims would likely feel the need to outdo competing cathedrals
as was typical of the 13th-century construction race. Reims also had greater
stakes as the coronation church of France and would need to at least match if
not exceed the proportions, innovations, and elaborateness of ornamentation
of its neighbors.13
The height and the proportions of Reims’s roof must have been calculated
at the same time as the re-designed vaults. The roof probably would have been
erected before the high vaults were begun. The roof offered protection for the
vaults from the elements while they were finished and acted as a stabilizing
agent, introducing the necessary weight coming down onto the walls as com-
pressive loads. Finally, the roof offered a platform upon which workers could

12 The original roof of Reims Cathedral was destroyed in a fire in 1481, and its late medieval
replacement was destroyed in World War I. The height of the current roof nevertheless
appears to match the original, whose height can be inferred from the size of the roof’s ter-
minal gable on the west façade. As fig. 3 shows, its 57-m height can be found by unfolding
the half-diagonal of the square framing the main octagon, creating a Golden Section ratio:
57.22/35.36 = 1.618.
13 Many scholars, including Peter Kurmann, Donna Sadler, Barbara Abou-El Haj, Meredith
Parsons Lillich, just to name a few, have written about the Reims’s role as the coronation
church and the impact it had on its decoration, a subject which repeatedly appears in the
sculpture and glass programs throughout the church. Nina Rowe has also made a convinc-
ing argument that at the turn of the 13th century, the canons at Reims were particularly
concerned to keep its status when other cathedrals, including Chartres and Sens, made
a bid for the honor of crowning the French kings. Rowe stipulated that this crisis in part
spurred the decision to rebuild Reims in the High Gothic church we know today. Thus,
it makes sense that throughout construction, the Reims canons would consider the role
of the coronation spectacle, particularly since kingship is featured prominently in the
decorative programs added later; and chose to raise the vault height to make the church
more spectacular. For more information, see Nina Rowe, The Jew, The Cathedral, and the
Medieval City: Synagoga et Ecclesia in the Thirteenth Century (New York, 2001), pp. 89–116.
160 Smith

Figure 10.4 R
 eims Cathedral, chevet flying buttresses & pinnacles
photo by G. Garitan, from Wikimedia Commons

place the lifting devices needed to raise the stones for the vaults themselves.
Given that the roof would have preceded the vault construction and was likely
conceived at the same time as the higher vaults, it also seems likely that the
design for the buttresses would have been re-assessed at that point. The but-
tresses would need to be constructed before the roof to support its weight and
to help stabilize the building against the wind during construction.
The change in vault height and the ensuing need to reconsider their struc-
tural capabilities could explain the stylistic differences present in the flying
buttresses and pinnacles on the chevet.14 Reims’s chevet (Figure 10.4) features
two flyer sets, both double stacked.
Crocketed pinnacles cap both the inner and outer upright piers. However,
the pinnacles and flyers on each set differ stylistically and could suggest they
were designed at different times: the older intended to buttress the originally
designed lower vaults, and the newer, more elaborate style modified to support
the extant higher vaults. The inner flyers meet the clerestory wall at a sharper
angle, around 40 degrees, while the slope of the outer flyers is gentler, around
30 degrees. The top, inner flyer pitches the sharpest as it would have been the
most critical in supporting a taller roof. The angular difference between the
sets of flying buttresses is unusual, as most maintain the same angle to create
a strong, unified support-as exemplified in the upper buttresses at Bourges or
at Tours. As a result of the differing angles, the buttresses do not align, again

14 I explore the connections between the design of the chevet flying buttresses, pinnacles,
and the change in vault height in chapter three of my dissertation. See, Smith, “Measuring
the Past,” 138–42.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 161

Figure 10.5 D
 iagram of Reims’s choir cross-section with flyers and tas-de-charge
graphic by Henri Deneux, 1943

breaking a unified prop, as shown in Deneux’s rendering of their cross-section

(Figure 10.5).
Deneux’s illustration particularly interesting because of the relationship it
shows between the flyers and the tas-de-charge. In the Reims choir, the lower
flyer arcs meet the wall at the top course of the tas-de-charge. In most other
High Gothic structures, by contrast, the flyer arc meets the bottom of the tas-
de-charge, as at Chartres, Soissons, and the nave of Amiens. The unconven-
tionally high placement of the Reims choir flyers was likely decided upon as
part of the same change of plan that increased the vault pitch and total height
of the clerestory wall. Further evidence for rethinking the buttress scheme
comes not only from the contrasting flyer slopes, but also from the fact that
162 Smith

stones of the choir flyers are not coursed into the wall. Nevertheless, the idea
established in the Reims choir of having the flyer arc align with the top of the
tas-de-charge would later be echoed in many structures where the flyers do
course into the wall, as in the choirs of Amiens and Beauvais, and in the nave of
Reims itself. Indeed, this format became fairly standard in later French Gothic
construction, as Deneux notes.15
The style of Reims’s chevet pinnacles and uprights also distinguish the two
sets into two separate, distinct aesthetics. The inner, pyramidal pinnacle is only
slightly larger than the squared base it rests upon, while the outer pinnacle is
substantially larger than its base and is octagonal in shape. The inner upright
is much simpler than the exterior upright which features blind tracery, and a
statue aedicule. The inner pier and pinnacle are older in style: simpler in terms
of its decoration and massing.16 Comparatively, the exterior set reflect the new,
more ornate decoration seen on the transept façade and anticipate the fully
developed textural style of the Rayonnant.17 Perhaps these stylistic differences
can be attributed to visibility, since an observer would only be able to see the
outer, more ornate pinnacle easily; however, that does not account for the mas-
sive size difference between the exterior pier upright and the pinnacle.
The size difference could be attributed to the masons’ worry about the
change in vault height and felt more vertical compression coming down onto
the pier upright was needed to support a taller vault. A larger and heavier
pinnacle surmounting the outer flyer would alter the thrust into a more com-
pressive stress than a tensile one, making it more suitable for a taller vault
profile. The exterior pinnacle also sits on the outside edge of the pier, contrib-
uting to the structural stability, requisite for a higher vault, particularly if the
lower flyer was designed for a lower vault. Robert Mark’s structural analysis
of Reims’s nave pinnacles demonstrates how their design contributes to the
building’s integrity.18 Mark’s analyses of Reims’s pinnacles indicated that with-
out the pinnacles, small cracks could have developed from the weight of the
statue aedicule, while the pinnacles’ weight would reduce the risk of frac-
tures developing under live loads over time. The correct sizing of the pinna-
cles was equally critical since if they were too big, the weight would become

15 Henri Deneux, “De la construction en tas de charge et du point de butée des arcs-boutants
au Moyen Âge,” Bulletin Monumental 102 (1944): 247–56.
16 For example, the pinnacles on Laon Cathedral’s west façade, decorating the second story
aediculae, are similar.
17 A good comparison for the style of the exterior pinnacles are the pinnacles on the nave at
Amiens and a precedent could be the pinnacles found on the south transept of Chartres,
which also features an octagonally-shaped crocketed pinnacle.
18 Mark, Light, Wind, and Structure, pp. 120–23.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 163

disproportionate, leading to trouble; however, the architect must have been

aware of the risk to some degree since Reims’s pinnacles are hollowed with
piercings, keeping the mass in equilibrium.19
In terms of the difference in flying buttress angles, it is possible that the
masons could have assumed a higher vault height might require a wider and
taller flyer. Following this line of thinking, the masons would have positioned
the outer flyer stepped up from the inner set to assist in supporting the taller
vault, thinking that the flatter slope of the outer flyer would help distribute the
thrust away to the uprights. Ironically, Robert Mark proved using stress analy-
sis testing that a sharper-sloped flyer supports tall vaults more efficiently and
capably.20 Thus, at Reims the steeper inner flyers would have been more effec-
tive structurally.22 However, if we take a look at the history of flying buttresses
on taller buildings, most famously at Beauvais, which encountered structural
problems due to a flawed buttressing system, it becomes clear that medieval
builders did not always fully understand the engineering involved.
Scholars have also disagreed about the relationship between flying buttress
placement and structural integrity. For example, Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-
le-Duc argued that the various components involved—the flyer, the tas-de-
charge, and the formeret and transverse arches and ribs—must ideally meet
at a single stone or at minimum the same course, to avoid oblique compres-
sion or cracking the capital.21 Likewise, Jacques Heyman remarked that when
lower flyers met the top course of the tas-de-charge, perfect equilibrium was
achieved. Ironically, however, he made this point while investigating the 1284
vault collapse of Beauvais Cathedral.22 Robert Mark’s early photo-elastic mod-
els enabled him to analyze the structural integrity of Beauvais’s choir vaults
and flyers from a different perspective, showing why this local alignement of
components was insufficient to insure the cathedral’s stability. Mark’s analysis
of Beauvais revealed that critical points of stress were located at the top and
bottom of the choir’s slender intermediate uprights. Mark observed that these
stress points could easily be pushed beyond their capability under an intense

19 Mark noted that the perfected balance between placement, mass, and loading of the
exterior pinnacles may have been accidental at Reims but is clearly intentional when
repeated at Amiens. See, Mark, Light, Wind, and Structure, pp. 123–25.
20 Robert Mark, Experiments in Gothic Structure (Cambridge, MA, 1989), pp. 41–45.
21 Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, Dictionnaire Raisonné de l’architecture française du XIe
au XVIe Siècles (E-Book: Project Gutenberg, 1854; repr. Project Gutenberg), http://www
.gutenberg.org/files/30781.
22 See Jacques Heyman, The Stone Skeleton: Structural Engineering of Masonry Architecture
(Cambridge, UK, 1997), pp. 13, and 111–18; Mark, Experiments, pp. 63–70; and Feher, “Tas-
de-charge,” 23.
164 Smith

windstorm, causing cracking.23 The Beauvais buttress format, with the tall
uprights and shallowly pitched flyers, took the Reims choir format to literally
new heights. Mark recognized that the format pioneered at Bourges, with its
short uprights and steeper flyers, was safer and more efficient. He showed, how-
ever, that the repairs made to Beauvais showed that its builders had achieved
a good understanding of the cathedral’s weaknesses. The choice to reconstruct
the choir vaults using a sexpartite system rather than rebuilding the same typi-
cal quadripartite vaults, for example, reflected the architects’ understanding of
the engineering and that the structure of the sexpartite vault would lessen the
load on the buttresses.24 During Beauvais’s vault reconstruction, the architects
also rebuilt several buttresses, modifying and amplifying the design and size,
again underscoring their acknowledgement of the relationship between the
vaults, flyers, and the angle of the springing.
Beauvais’s ill-fated choir vaults and the choices made to prevent future dam-
age demonstrate medieval masons’ incredible knowledge and experience in
designing and, when necessary, redesigning the flying buttresses to accommo-
date problems in the structure. Thus, it is reasonable to assume that following
a change in the vault height and thus the angles, the masons at Reims would
have been wary of the potential impact on the flying buttresses and could have
altered them accordingly.
Equally, the masons must have known that the buttresses also play an essen-
tial role throughout the building process.25 The flying buttresses stabilized
the walls as they were erected to the height of the tas-de-charge and would
have to be completed before the roof to support its weight and wind loads,
not to mention the weight of the tools, lifting devices, and workers as they
finished the building. Thus, the flying buttresses would have already been fully
designed and their construction would have begun long before the high vaults
were started. Any alteration to the vaults would have an immediate impact
and required modifications to the buttresses before construction on the roof
or vaults continued. The centering used for the flying buttresses would remain
throughout the building campaign, only removed after the high vaults were
completed. Thus, adjusting the buttresses between constructing the inner and
outer sets, or between lower and higher flyers, would have been relatively easy
without significant risk to the wall or roof.26

23 Mark, Experiments, p. 71.

24 Mark, Light, Wind, & Structure, p. 133.
25 Huerta and Ruiz, “Some Notes,” 1619–1622; and Fitchen, Construction of Gothic Cathedrals,
pp. 27, and 77–79.
26 Huerta and Ruiz, “Some Notes,” 1627, and 1629–30.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 165

Figure 10.6 V
 illard de Honnecourt, Folio 32v, Drawing of Choir
Buttresses at Reims
Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale
de France (BnF)

One valuable primary source provides some insight into the construction and
design of Reims’s chevet flyers. The portfolio of Villard de Honnecourt contains
multiple drawings of the cathedral mid-construction, including a cross-section
view of the chevet flying buttresses and clerestory wall (Figure 10.6).27
In Villard’s drawing, folio 32v, he depicts the flying buttresses in profile along
with a cut-away view of the wall. He also includes the start of the vault up to
the height of the tas-de-charge, where the ribs abruptly stop. The drawing is
extremely detailed, using careful lines to capture moldings along the upper
arches of the flying buttresses and the nuanced details in the ribs. However,

27 For further discussion on the relationship between Villard de Honnecourt’s drawings of

Reims and the vault change, see Smith, “Measuring the Past,” 142–43, and 125–33.
166 Smith

Villard’s drawing of the flyers has also received extensive criticism since it does
not accurately reflect what was constructed.28 There are numerous discrep-
ancies between the constructed flyers and Villard’s sketch, most especially in
the depiction of the pinnacles and the addition of non-existent piercings and
passages in the pier uprights.
Villard’s drawing of Reims’s chevet buttresses resembles a modern cross-­
section, visualizing the interior and exterior simultaneously and their rela-
tionship through the wall. The transverse view and the careful nature of some
aspects of Villard’s drawing imply that he may have seen some kind of archi-
tectural drawing or plan in addition to observing the building in situ.29 Like
most of Villard’s architectural drawings, some details are simply too accurate
to be coincidental. Villard draws the bottom arch of the exterior, lower flying
buttress so that it meets the springing, albeit exaggerated, of the inner flyer. As
mentioned earlier, the lower flying buttresses do meet at the same horizontal
course of the pier between the sets. Villard draws the flying buttresses at a rel-
atively steep angle, around 40 degrees, mirroring the constructed angle of the
inner upper flyers.
At the same time, Villard renders aspects of the drawing with structural
impossibilities or features that do not reflect the constructed chevet at all. For
example, Villard draws the flying buttresses with the same slope throughout,
creating a single unified prop, whereas the actual outer flying buttresses step
up from the inner set. Villard places the inner, lower buttress lower than the
actual one, so that its top comes into the wall below the pier molding and well
below the tas-de-charge. He does not depict any centering, which would have
been kept in place until the high vaults were completed. Numerous scholars,
including Carl Barnes, Bill Clark, and Robert Branner, have all argued that Vil-
lard’s flying buttresses could not possibly support the weight of the vaulting or
roof with the extensive piercings and passages he includes, and thus that the
drawing could not reflect a completely realistic design for the cathedral.30

28 Some of the criticism has gone as far as to argue that it is not a drawing of Reims at all
and may feature the flying buttresses from Cambrai, now lost. See William Clark, “Reims
Cathedral in the Portfolio of Villard de Honnecourt,” in Villard’s Legacy: Studies in Medi-
eval Technology, Science, and Art in Memory of Jean Gimpel, ed. Marie Therese Zenner
(Burlington, VT, 2004), p. 87; and Robert Branner, “Villard de Honnecourt, Reims, and the
Origin of Gothic Architectural Drawing,” Gazette des Beaux Arts 6 (1963): 138.
29 He also drew the flyers set to be too tall, adding to the awkward proportions. Carl Barnes,
The Portfolio of Villard de Honnecourt (Burlington, VT, 2009), pp. 209–10.
30 Barnes, The Portfolio, 209–10; Francois Bucher, Architector: The Lodge Books and Sketch-
books of Medieval Architects (New York, 1979), p. 172; Clark, “Villard,” 27–29; and Branner,
“Drawing,” 137.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 167

Villard’s drawing of the chevet includes only a partial and sketchy depiction
the roof. Most of the drawing is completed using heavy, thick black lines, nod-
ding to Villard’s confidence in his portrayal. To augment the “finished” quality,
Villard adds copious details, noting every base, capital decoration, and facet-
-even where they are not present in the building. However, the roof is drawn
much more simply and with far fewer details. The lines used seem more hes-
itant and in places unfinished, in sharp contrast to the rest of the drawing.
Where the roof comes down to the top of the wall, one sees a single crocket,
and two rectangles that could depict pieces of timber framing. The hesitancy
and unfinished quality of Villard’s roof could represent its active construction
and that Villard recognized the changes before his eyes as the roof was erected.
The dichotomies present in Villard’s drawing of the chevet make it difficult
to determine at what point in the construction it was rendered or what exactly
Villard saw. Further complicating the issue, Bill Clark argued that Villard often
exercised creative license in his drawings, combining accurate observational
details with fantastical aspects of his own imagination.31 In doing so, he could
record his experiences and memories and alter them, suiting his tastes and
interests.
Villard drew other parts of Reims mid-construction and paid special atten-
tion to the structure of the high vaults, as shown in folio 31v depicting the nave
elevation (Figure 10.7).
As many scholars have noted, in Villard’s depiction of the nave interior ele-
vation he carefully captures specific details of the stories up to the height of
the tas-de-charge but does not include any vaulting.32 Critically, the propor-
tions notably match the dimensions of the great octagon in Bork’s geomet-
ric analysis of Reims’s elevation before the vault change, where the triforium
floor is halfway between the ground and the vaults.33 In Bork’s analysis, the
great octagon marks the original lower vault height at 35.36 m and the trifo-
rium floor bisects it at 17.68 m. Villard’s arcade makes up exactly half of the
total height he draws for elevation.34 Similarly precise proportions are found
in the dimensions of Villard’s sketched clerestory, again signaling he likely had
the opportunity to inspect the architectural drawings associated with Reims.35

31 Clark, “Villard,” 25–33.

32 Huerta and Ruiz, “Some Notes,” 1620–1621; and Feher, “Tas-de-charge,” 24–25.
33 Bork, “Changing Geometries,” 75–77.
34 By measuring the relative heights in the facsimile of Villard’s portfolio, we can calculate
the percentages and proportions of Villard’s nave drawing. The height of the arcade from
the ground to the triforium floor is 11.5 cm, half of the total height of the sketch at 23 cm.
35 The proportions of Villard’s clerestory are equally precise to the geometric scheme, mea-
sured in the facsimile where the clerestory bottom to the sketched ground is 15.5 cm or
168 Smith

Figure 10.7 V
 illard de Honnecourt, Folio 31v, Drawing of Nave
Elevation at Reims
Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale
de France (BnF)

Villard’s depiction of the nave exterior on the left side of folio 31v is also a
combination of detailed, accurate observation amplified with personal modi-
fications. Villard did not depict any flyers on the outside of the nave, perhaps
because they had not been constructed yet. However, the easternmost flyers in

67.3 percent of the sketched height of the drawing to the top of the tas-de-charge (15.5
cm/23.0 cm) vs 22.86 m from the ground and 64.6 percent of the height in the great octa-
gon (22.86/35.36 m). James Ackerman also argued that Villard must have used architec-
tural drawing since his sketches do not include any preparatory marks like gridlines or
pinholes, which are common in other architectural drawings by Villard. See James Acker-
man, “Villard de Honnecourt’s Drawings of Reims Cathedral: Study in Architectural Rep-
resentation,” Artibus et Historiae 35 (1997): 42–43.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 169

the nave and those on the transept share stylistic similarities with those on the
chevet, making it likely that they were at least designed if not constructed in
the same campaign.
There are slight differences between the flyers on the eastern nave, transept,
and choir straight bays, sparking debate amongst scholars over the order of
construction and how it relates to the vault change. Peter Kurmann argued
that the redesign of the flyers occurred first in the transept and secondly in the
choir, citing that the altered high vaults were found in both the choir and the
south transept.36 He also noted that the Reims choir buttresses are connected
by openwork arcades whose subdivision into pairs closely recalls the pattern
seen in the Rayonnant triforium of Saint-Denis. As a result, Kurmann concluded
that the chevet flyers must have been constructed after 1231, and thus after the
Reims transept had been remodeled. In contrast, Richard Hamann-MacLean
compared the chevet buttresses to those depicted in Villard’s drawing and pos-
ited that the choir buttresses must have been altered first before those in the
transept and eastern nave.37 In both cases, the buttresses were transformed in
response to the change in the vault height and the need to support a sharper
vault profile. The high vaults in the transept and choir were likely finished c.
1240 since the clergy was able to celebrate the Nativity Feast for the first time
in the crossing in September of 1241.38
If Kurmann’s post-1231 dating of the transept buttresses is correct, then it
seems likely that the decision to alter the vault height occurred in the late-
1220s, since the wall piers must have already been constructed to the height of
the tas-de-charge in the choir, given that the curvature shifts above that point.
Although the timeline is tight, the choir buttresses could have been tweaked
and modified just before if not concurrently with those in the transept, per-
haps using two teams of workers accounting for the subtle stylistic differences.
Using this hypothetical timeline, the buttresses, higher roof, and steeper vaults
would have been re-designed and erected between c. 1230 and 1240.
Kurmann’s dating as well as his comparison of the Reims openwork arcades
with the glazed triforium of Saint-Denis also speaks to another aspect of the
motivation behind the shift. As mentioned earlier, Robert Bork pointed to
Amiens, into its second decade of construction in the 1230s, as a major source

36 Peter Kurmann, La Façade de la Cathédrale de Reims: Architecture (Paris, 1987), pp. 64–66.
37 Richard Hamann-Mac Lean, “Zur Baugeschichte der Kathedrale von Reims, Bildwelt und
Stilbildung,” in Gedenkschrift Ernst Gall, ed. Margarete Kuhn and Louis Grodecki (Munich,
1965), pp. 219, and 227–29.
38 Jean-Pierre Ravaux, “Le texte de 1241 et son importance dans la chronologie de la
Cathédrale de Reims,” in Nouveaux Regards sur la Cathédrale de Reims: Actes du Colloque
International des 1er et 2 Octobre 2004, ed. Bruno Decrock and Patrick Demouy (Langres,
2008), pp. 63–66.
170 Smith

of competition for Reims. Simultaneously, Saint-Denis was undergoing its

own major renovations: upgrading the nave, transept, and upper choir in the
Rayonnant style. As the royal burial church, Saint-Denis would have been
a prime rival for Reims. Perhaps the shift in vault height was conceived to
modernize the cathedral, making it more competitive with Saint-Denis and
worthy of its status as the coronation church. The defining characteristics of
the Rayonnant style are the size and delicate nature of the glazing, something
exemplified perfectly in the remodeled portions of Saint-Denis. For Reims,
the critical effect of raising the vault height is that it produces a taller clere-
story. This helps to compensate for the fact that it has a dark triforium, unlike
the glazed version introduced at Saint-Denis and later incorporated into the
Amiens choir.
Reims, of course, had its own distinguished history of experimenting with
window designs, as one of the earliest buildings to use bar tracery throughout
the structure.39 It thus makes sense that the cathedral’s builders would want
to showcase the new windows and maximize their size. The extant windows
reflect a simple bar tracery design of a six-lobed rosette surmounting two lan-
cets with glazed spandrels around each junction. The same design shows up
throughout the cathedral in the nave arcade, transept, and clerestory-- even
the radiating chapels have a similar albeit smaller version. The uniformity of
the window design in some places had problematic results, such as where the
window is too small and the masons added extra stonework to fill the bay or
where the window was too big and had to be cut in half.
The window sizing anomalies stem from the varying bay widths present in
Reims’s transept and choir, which do not work well with the standardized for-
mat used for the tracery. Reims’s transept unfolds from a square crossing and
features two bays on each side. The smaller, inner bays bordering the cross-
ing contain four arches in the triforium, while the outside bays have six with
a large column dividing them into two series of three arches. Likewise, the
straight bays of the choir demonstrate a similar unevenness: the easternmost
bay just in front of the ambulatory has a notional width of only 5.32 m, com-
pared to 7.53 m for the intermediate choir straight bay bordering the crossing
and the transept.40 Due to the differing sizes in both the transept and choir
straight bays, the standard windows featured throughout Reims do not always
fit, which could indicate the church was planned with a different window lay-
out from the start.

39 James Hillson, “Villard de Honnecourt and Bar Tracery: Reims Cathedral and the Process
of Stylistic Transmission, ca. 1210–40,” Gesta 59 (2020): 169–202.
40 Bork, “Changing Geometries,” 70–74.
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 171

Clues to an alternate window layout exist in the cathedral’s transept beyond

the varied bay widths. Simple lancet windows, like those in the twelfth-­century
ambulatory of Saint-Denis would easily accommodate differing bay sizes.41
The uneven bay distribution would lend itself to using multiple lancets along-
side one another in the wider bays whereas single lancets would decorate the
narrowest.42 The order of the increasing bay widths also work well for this: the
easternmost choir bay is the narrowest and would fit one lancet, the larger
straight bay bordering the crossing could easily fit two, visually ascending to
the terminal wall where the glazing could be maximized in the number and
scale of the lancets. Reims’s south transept terminal wall (Figure 10.8) exem-
plifies this proposed layout with a series of three lancets, three rosettes in the
triforium, building to the grand rose.
The north transept façade holds remnants of this design in the series of
three rosettes located just under the rose and the tips of three points, presum-
ably belonging to lancet windows, peek out behind the portals on the north
transept.
Similar layouts can be found in two of Reims’s major influencers: Laon and
Soissons Cathedrals. At Laon, the unusual square east end terminates in a
series of three lancets under a larger rose window, remarkably like the design
of Reims’s south transept façade. The rounded, south transept arm at Soissons
uses multiple lancet windows to glaze each bay; and in the smallest bay just
before the crossing, a single lancet decorates the clerestory. The other windows
in Soissons, in the nave, chevet, and north transept, closely resemble Reims’s
bar tracery windows with a similar six-lobed rosette over two lancets, further
implicating a close relationship between the two sites.43 In the city of Reims,
the abbey of Saint-Remi had also incorporated sets of simple lancet windows
in the west façade of its church and in the chapter house.
Implementing bar tracery after the start of construction could have spurred
the redesign of the north transept façade to highlight and enlarge the windows
and move towards the more textural and delicate style of the Rayonnant. A
higher vault allowed the transept rose window frames to include glazed points,
where the height of the window matches the final height of the constructed
vaults and further transforms the wall surface to glass. The masons viewed

41 The other likely alternate would be to use plate glass style tracery, something like Char-
tres’s window design.
42 For more discussion about the possible implementation of a multiple lancet system as
the original window layout used for Reims in conjunction with the varying lengths of the
transept and choir bays, see Smith, “Measuring the Past,” 135–36.
43 Although the designs of both Soissons and Reims’s windows are almost identical, the win-
dows at Soissons have less glazing and are constructed using plate tracery.
172 Smith

Figure 10.8 S outh Transept, Reims Cathedral

photo by Robert Bork, 2018

tracery as essential to the decoration; and as construction in the cathedral pro-

gressed, it became increasingly lace-like and complex with additional pierc-
ings. Openwork and blind tracery ornamentation is present along most of the
superstructure, creating open screens hiding the roof passages or adorning the
walls between windows. This development reached its culmination in the fully
Rayonnant west façade, where thin tracery covers the entire surface.
These choices—the shift for a higher vault and roof, the differences in the
aesthetics and angles of the flyers, and the change from lancet windows to
bar tracery—were probably made jointly by the same architect, presumably
Revisiting the Reims High Vaults 173

the second. The second architect does not seem to have diverged significantly
from the design of the uniform plan implemented at the start of construction,
since the proportions of the building conform to the overall geometric scheme.
For example, the uneven bay distribution throughout the choir and transept
was not altered to better suit bar tracery windows.
The second architect may also be responsible for choosing a tas-de-charge
style springing and placing the bottom flyers in line with its top course. A key
feature of the tas-de-charge is that it allows for a larger and thinner clerestory
as the springing transitions out of the pier directly and smoothly.44 They also
significantly reduce the span of the vault due to corbelled horizontal courses,
which reduces the vault thrust and pinpoints the thrusts more directly onto
the pier where it meets the flyer. Furthermore, the specific design of the Reims
tas-de-charge also shows up in the choirs of Amiens and Beauvais, and in many
later buildings begun after the middle of the 13th century.
Henri Deneux estimated that the difference between the intended, lower
vaults and the constructed extant vaults would be around 1.7 m. Although a
visitor to the cathedral cannot see from the ground the subtle shift in the vault
curvature that Deneux observed, the cascading effects and changes fostered by
the re-design are numerous and far-reaching. The new LiDAR scan permits a
more precise examination of the changing vault format and its consequences,
on which this discussion offers only preliminary analysis and thoughts. The
information gleaned from studying the western choir vault also suggests that
more assessment on the chevet vaults and the vault redesign, as well as the
vaults in the other portions of the church, is needed. It is also clear that new
technologies enable scholars today to confirm, re-assess, and build upon the
great work of past scholars. We can always learn more, even for a monument
as thoroughly studied as Reims Cathedral.
44 Fitchen, Construction of Gothic Cathedrals, pp. 75–78; and Feher, “Tas-de-charge,” 22–23.
 CHAPTER 11

Reims Reconsidered: New Arguments for Dating

the West Façade of the Cathedral

Peter Kurmann

“Questions of dating are questions of comprehension,” as Robert Suckale once

said. The dating of the west façade of Reims Cathedral (Figures 11.1 and 11.2),
and of most of the sculpture that goes with it, offers an outstanding example of
this idea. The debate centers on the interpretation of two documents from the
middle of the 13th century.1 These mention houses that stood in the way of the
cathedral’s extension.2 Their demolition was required before the construction
of the present west façade could get underway. Unfortunately the documents
do not say anything precise about the point in time when these events took
place. This is most regrettable, because it bears on the meaning of the archi-
tecture and sculpture of Reims Cathedral for the whole history of Gothic art.
If the west portals of Reims date to the first third of the 13th century, then
the invention of the elegant variation of the High Gothic sculptural style that
Robert Branner called the “large fold style” because of its treatment of drap-
ery (Figure 11.3), would have taken place not only in Paris but also in Reims.3
Indeed, if the façade and its sculpture date from the middle of the century,
though, then the carvers from Reims would have learned their new mode of
expression from Paris.
I will divide my comments into three sections. First, I want to once again
consider the most debated written sources. These are two 13th-century docu-
ments discovered by Jean-Pierre Ravaux that have led me to re-date the western
façade of Reims. Second, I will take a brief look at the historical and economic
context of the two charters in the city of Reims. Third, I will recapitulate some

1 The author thanks sincerely Robert Bork for having translated and edited this text originally
written in German. Reims, Archives municipales, fonds de l’Hôtel-Dieu, B 55 (3e liasse, no 12
and 13) and the cartulary D 1, fol. 127v and 131; Jean-Pierre Ravaux, “Les campagnes de con-
structions de la cathédrale de Reims au XIIIe siècle,” Bulletin monumental 135 (1979): 7–66;
Peter Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims: Architecture et sculpture des portails.
Étude archéologique et stylistique, vol. 1: texte (Lausanne, 1987), pp. 22–24.
2 For the text of the document see Ravaux, “Les campagnes de constructions”, p. 61, n. 44.
3 Robert Branner, Manuscript Painting in Paris During the Reign of Saint Louis: A Study of Styles
(Berkeley, 1977), pp. 97–98.

© Peter Kurmann, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_012

Reims Reconsidered 175

Figure 11.1 W
 est façade, Reims Cathedral
photo by Peter Kurmann, 1978

formally based arguments that seem to make probable a start of work on the
Reims façade in the 1250s.
Let us begin with two documents from 8 April 1252. They are certified copies
of contracts from the year 1230. In other words, we are dealing in each case
with a so-called “vidimus” (called an “Inspeximus” in the English royal chan-
cery). A vidimus is a document in which the vidimizing person or institution
certifies the correct transcription of the original text of a document.4 In the

4 For the definition of the vidimus see Arthur Giry, Manuel de Diplomatique (Paris, 1984), pp.
20–26; Bernd Schneidmüller, “Vidimus,” in Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte,
eds. Adalbert Erler, Ekkehard Kaufmann and Dieter Werkmüller, vol. V: Straftheorie – Zycha
(Berlin, 1998), col. 907–09.
176 Kurmann

Figure 11.2 V
 iew from southwest, Reims Cathedral
photo by Peter Kurmann, 1978

Figure 11.3 W
 est façade, north portal, local saints on the right jamb, Reims
Cathedral
photo by Brigitte Kurmann-Schwarz, 2021
Reims Reconsidered 177

case from Reims considered here, the original documents from 1230 are lost,
but because both copies reproduce the complete text of the original charter,
the agreements in question are fully recorded. What do they concern? These
documents present rental contracts that the cathedral chapter made in June
of 1230, in the name of the hospital it controls, the Hôtel-Dieu in Reims, as the
owner of two of the three houses that stood on the plaza in front of the cathe-
dral (in paraviso Remensi ecclesie).5 The house that stood next to the cathedral
was rented to a couple named Huetus and Rosa, while the house that stood
next to the abbey of Saint-Denis—the abbey that stood approximately 100
meters west of the cathedral until it was destroyed in the French Revolution—
was rented to a couple named Pynardus and Elisabeth. It is thus clear that
the row of houses ran in an East-West direction in front of the former cathe-
dral’s façade that Archbishop Samson had erected in the 12th century, in the
area where the first nave bays now stand.6 The houses thus stood in the place
now occupied by the present Gothic façade. In both cases the contracts were
chronologically open-ended and could be transferred to the renters’ legal suc-
cessors (eorum successoribus). The yearly rent amounted to the modest sum
of 55 sous (solidi). The following phrase, however, is more important: it states
that the renters are bound (tenebuntur) to undertaking value-­enhancing reno-
vation work (in meliorationem ejusdem domuncule) costing up to 20 pounds
in the first year of the rental agreement (i.e., in 1230). The document goes on to
say, however, that if in the course of time (processu temporis) the houses have
to be demolished because of the extension of the cathedral (propter accre-
mentum fabrice Remensis ecclesie), then the cathedral chapter stands ready
to pay back this sum, but no more (et nichil amplius). From the fact that these
contracts made in 1230 were being recopied in 1252, I drew the conclusion that
the rental agreements were being extended a few more years, which seemed to
support my style-based dating of the first façade campaign to the era shortly
after 1250 (Figures 11.4 and 11.5).7

5 Ravaux, “Les campagnes de constructions,” pp. 11–12.

6 For the cathedral of archbishop Samson, see Hans Reinhardt, La cathédrale de Reims: son
histoire, son architecture, sa sculpture, ses vitraux (Paris, 1963), pp. 55–60; Robert Neiss and
William Berry, “La cathédrale du XIIe siècle,” in Patrick Demouy, ed., Reims: La cathédrale
(Saint-Léger-Vauban, 2000), pp. 57–60; Patrick Demouy, Genèse d’une cathedrals: les
archevêques de Reims et leur Église au XIe et XIIe siècles (Langres, 2005), pp. 130–41; Alain
Villes, La cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims: chronologie et campagnes de travaux. Bilan des
recherches antérieures à 2000 et propositions nouvelles (Joué-lès-Tours, 2009), pp. 82–83, fig.
58, 171–74, 177–84.
7 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 130–59.
178 Kurmann

Figure 11.4
Saint John the Apostle from the
Sainte-Chapelle in Paris (c.1248), Paris, Musée
de Cluny, Musée national du Moyen Âge
photo Réunion des Musées nationaux

Although many renowned Gothic scholars have followed this re-dating of

the west façade of Reims Cathedral,8 it has been doubted by others.9
Why would the 22-year old documents have been certified in 1252? There
are several possible explanations. On the one hand, the contracts could have
been copied because the cathedral chapter was looking for new renters, and
wanted to tempt them to sign contracts by assuring them that the terms of
the agreement would not be changed.10 On the other hand, the chapter could
have used the documents from 1230 as evidence in a legal action that
could have arisen because former tenants might have demanded excessive

8 Dieter Kimpel and Robert Suckale, Die gotische Architektur in Frankreich, 1130–1270
(München, 1985), pp. 421–22; Willibald Sauerländer, Le siècle des cathedrals, 1140–1260
(Paris, 1989), pp. 168–75, 216–22, 266–69; Paul Williamson, Gothic Sculpture 1140–1300
(New Haven, 1995), pp. 156–60; Villes, La cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims, pp. 499–504;
Robert Suckale, “Réflexions sur la sculpture Parisienne à l’époque de Saint Louis et de
Philippe le Bel,” Revue de l’art 128 (2000): 33–48, see especially 34–36; Bruno Decrock, “Le
grand massif de la façade,” in Patick Demouy, ed., Reims. La cathédrale (Saint-Léger_Vau-
ban, 2000, pp. 237–315, especially 305–07; Yves Gallet, “Le style rayonnant en France,” in
Philippe Plagnieux, ed., L’art du Moyen Âge en France (Paris, 2010), pp. 335–36.
9 Jacques Bousquet, “Compte-rendu Kurmann,” Revue historique 567 (1988): 262–66; Damien
Berné, “Les sources de la construction de la cathédrale de Reims,” in Patrick Demouy, ed.,
La cathédrale de Reims (Paris, 2017), pp. 73–80, especially pp. 79–80; Jean Wirth, La sculp-
ture de la cathédrale de Reims et sa place dans l’art du XIIIe siècle (Geneva, 2017), pp. 69–118.
10 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 22–23.
Reims Reconsidered 179

Figure 11.5 W
 est façade, north portal, unknown saint, right jamb
(1250–1260), Reims Cathedral
photo by Peter Kurmann, 1978

reimbursement for the repairs and improvements that they had made to their
subsequently demolished houses.11 The certified contracts could have served
the chapter members as evidence to defend against such excessive demands.
The collections of the Reims archives document no such legal action. But let
us nevertheless admit the possibility that a legal proceeding was ongoing in
April 1252, with work on the new Gothic façade already underway, and the old
houses already demolished. This scenario could be supported by the fact that
the cathedral chapter had the two vidimus documents issued by an import-
ant person, namely by Ottobonus, the nephew of the Pope and Archdeacon
of Reims. This fact bears on the general question of what purpose a vidimus

11 Benoît-Michel Tock, “Actes confirmatifs et vidimus dans le Nord de la France jusqu’à la fin
du XIIIe siècle,” in Werner Maleczek (ed.), Urkunden und ihre Erforschung. Zum Gedenken
an Heinrich Appelt (Wien, 2014), pp. 227–46, especially p. 246.
180 Kurmann

served in the first place. According to Benoît-Michel Tock, the only specialist
who has dealt with this matter in the recent past, one of the purposes of a vid-
imus is to place the legal act it contains under the protection of an authority,
and thus increase its importance.12
Certainly, the lease of the houses was, in itself, far less important for the
cathedral chapter than the fact that the buildings hindered the further con-
struction of the cathedral. In this respect, the vidimized documents relate
closely to the new construction of the cathedral. Their certification in 1252
seemingly indicates that around this time the building process had either
already been restarted or had entered a decisive phase of replanning. At this
date, as in 1230, there was a direct connection between the building process
and the legal act recorded by the charters. Even with this explanation of the
vidimus, though, the dating of the façade still remains unresolved, because the
exact point at which the houses were demolished remains unclear.
To achieve a better understanding of the two contracts, we must consider
the social and economic context in Reims between 1230 and 1250. The local
situation during the period in question has been carefully studied by Pierre
Desportes, so that we can briefly summarize his relevant explanations here.13
The two houses were rented to private citizens; the rent was called “census.” In
fact, however, this was a kind of purchase contract, because the chapter gives
up all its property rights to the tenants, who pay not a single lump sum, but
rather the census, year after year (in perpetuum), creating a kind of hidden
annuity for the owner. Such contracts were commonplace in the real estate
market between circa 1170 and 1250, not only in Reims, but also in Paris and
the other great cities of northern France. They were signs of the economic
gains that the region experienced in the period. In Reims the housing stock
increased by roughly 50% in the 12th and 13th centuries, in an unparalleled
building boom that created a great number of new houses. The financing of
a house through a rent payment that was effectively an annuity had the great
advantage that it was not prohibited by the church’s ban on simony, because a
tangible asset was being loaned rather than money. On top of that, the owners
could make the tenants responsible for the maintenance of the property. For
great capitalists like the Reims textile merchants this investment strategy paid
too little, but it was tempting for religious institutions and aristocrats who pre-
ferred secure returns in a time of growth to the greater risks that came with
the prospect of greater rewards. The high point of this development came in
Reims between 1230 and 1250, precisely in the time when our contracts were

12 Ibid.
13 Pierre Desportes, Reims et les Rémois aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles (Paris, 1979), pp. 116–25.
Reims Reconsidered 181

made. The Reims Cathedral chapter seems to have been a fair business partner,
because it made the tenant aware from the beginning that at some point (pro-
cessu temporis) the houses would have to make way for the cathedral. Hence
the insertion of the clause explaining that, when the time came, the 20 pounds
that the tenants would have invested would be paid back. In 1230, the chapter
quite clearly did not expect this to happen any time soon. The 20-pound sum
in question that the tenants would invest was quite substantial.14 Indeed, 20
pounds seems like a lot of money, when one considers that in Reims, each
house that one could purchase for residential or business purposes generally
cost between 10 and 65 pounds.15 A property on the cathedral plaza natu-
rally had a privileged site. What could one buy with 20 pounds in northern
France around 1230? A warhorse (cheval de bataille) would cost between
8 and 20 pounds.16 20 pounds was the salary for 400 days of service from a
­crossbow-armed footman, or 80 days from a crossbow-armed horseman.17 In
Lent of 1234, 20 pounds would buy 16,000 herrings.18 In 1235, two third of one
hectare of vineyard land in Champagne cost 20 pounds.19 20 pounds was fully
40% of the price for a city gate erected in Bourges in 1234.20 That year, too, the
royal treasury acquired a diamond and a ruby that together cost 16 pounds.21 A
breviary would cost 14 pounds in Paris, and a falcon that the Duke of Burgundy
acquired cost 10 pounds.22 Highly qualified tradesmen such as masons and

14 I thank historian Patrick Demouy for the following references with regard to the value of
20 pounds in the first half of the 13th century.
15 See the following entries in the chartulary of Saint-Nicaise in Reims: Jeannine Cossé-
Durlin, ed., Cartulaire de Saint-Nicaise de Reims (Documents, études et répertoires pupliés
par l’Institut de recherches et d’histoire des textes 59) (Paris, 1991), pp. 393–94 (half a
house costs 35 pounds), 395 (the abbey of Saint-Nicaise buys the house of Aveline for 20
pounds), 410 (two houses sold for 20 pounds), 441 (30 pounds have the value of 20 years
rent of a house). Patrick Demouy also shared additional information with the author from
unpublished sources. The purchase prices, rents and maintenance work are all similar to
the indications from the 1252 vidimus.
16 Joseph-Daniel Guigniaut et Natalis de Wailly, eds. Recueil des Historeins des Gaules et de la
France 21 (Paris, 1855), p. 222 (comptes de la Maison du Roi 1231: cost of horses lost in the
war against the Count of Brittany).
17 Ibid., p. 223 (comptes de la Maison du Roi 1231).
18 Ibid., p. 234 (comptes de la Maison du Roi 1234).
19 Cossé-Durlin, Cartulaire de Saint-Nicaise, p. 351.
20 Joseph-Daniel Guigniaut et Natalis de Wailly, Recueil des Historiens des Gaules et de la
France 22 (Paris, 1865), p. 570 (comptes des bailliages des prévôtés 1234).
21 Guigniaut et de Wailly, Recueil des Historiens 21, p. 232 (comptes de la maison du Roi 1234).
22 Ibid., p. 230, 232.
182 Kurmann

carpenters participating in the construction of Reims’s Saint-Nicaise abbey in

the 1230s had to work 200 days to earn 20 pounds.23
As we see, 20 pounds was a significant sum, so that one may well ask why
the tenants would have invested so much in the houses in front of the cathe-
dral. Much more than a few small repairs must have been involved. Perhaps the
houses were even partially rebuilt. Such work would make no sense if it was
meant to last only a few years. It certainly seems that in 1230 all of the partici-
pants in the contract understood from the start that the houses would one day
have to make way for the cathedral, but that this would take place far in the
future. The scenario of a legal proceeding may have motivated the certifica-
tion of the documents, and it is also possible that the houses had been demol-
ished by that time. But what does that really reveal about the dating of the west
façade? The idea that the houses were already demolished around 1240, stands
in tension with the considerable investment that the tenants had put into the
houses ten years earlier. It seems quite unlikely that the first opportunity for a
lawsuit would have come only in 1252, 22 years after the original issuing of the
document in 1230. Even in the Middle Ages, the mills of justice did not grind so
slowly. If a legal action took place only in 1252, this must have been not long after
the demolition of the houses and the beginning of work on the Gothic façade.
I am certainly prepared to set the start of work on the façade back a few
years earlier than this, but what would that change for the dating of the sculp-
ture? In principle, some of it (the flat reliefs of the revers of the west façade,
Figure 11.6) could have been prepared long before construction began, as it was
evidently the case in Reims with regard to some of the jamb statues, a fact long
accepted by scholars on the basis of stylistic arguments.24
In addition, a look at the famous full-scale incised drawings on the back
wall of the triforium in the south transept teaches us that intensive planning
for the west portals was already underway in the 1230s, at the latest around
1240.25 Thus, on the incised drawings in the transept, the layout of the reliefs
for the interior west wall does not correspond to the executed design. This
supports the assumption that the façade planning process took a long time,

23 Charles Givelet, L’église et l’abbaye de Saint-Nicaise de Reims. Notice historique et

archéologique, depuis leurs origines jusqu’à leurs destruction avec de nombreuses illustra-
tions (Reims, 1897), p. 347.
24 Willibald Sauerländer, La sculpture gothique en France, 1140–1270 (Paris, 1972), pp. 153–66;
Williamson, Gothic Sculpture, pp. 63–65, 145; Pierre-Yves Le Pogam and Sophie Jugie, La
sculpture gothique, 1140–1430 (Paris, 2020), pp. 208–09, 231–34.
25 Robert Branner, “The North Transept and the First West Façade of Reims Cathedral,”
Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 24 (1961): 220–41; Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de
Reims, pp. 102–14; Villes, La cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims, pp. 429–74.
Reims Reconsidered 183

Figure 11.6 R
 everse of the west façade, saint John the Baptist accompanied by two prophets,
Reims Cathedral
photo by Brigitte Kurmann-Schwarz, 2021

unfolding in multiple phases (“Reims I” and “Reims II”). On the site itself, there
were problems with measuring at the level of the foundations. At socle level,
therefore, the axis of the buttress at the northwest corner of the façade block
deviates 2–3° from that of the corresponding buttress on the south side.26 At
the higher levels, the axis deviation was corrected.27 Could it be that during
the construction of the foundation pits the famous three houses were still in
the way, so that a measurement error occurred? This could also indicate that
the construction of the façade was carried out in several stages. Since even
the construction of the façade’s foundations probably took a long time, the
actual “start of construction” for above-ground work would have been delayed
accordingly. All of these considerations allow us to hypothetically place the
beginning of the work on the Gothic façade itself in the period around 1250/55.
Some of the figures on the frames of the west portals (Figure 11.7), which are
carved into individual blocks, stylistically belong to the 1240s, which in turn

26 This deviation was first observed without exact measuring; see Kurmann, La façade de
la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 118–20; Villes, La cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims, pp. 443–
56. This measurement based on a laser scan of the cathedral was communicated to the
author by letter from Robert Bork, for which we are sincerely grateful.
27 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 118–20.
184 Kurmann

Figure 11.7
West façade, frame of the north portal,
angels and prophets, Reims Cathedral
photo by Brigitte Kurmann-
Schwarz, 2021

allows the conclusion that some parts of the sculptural decoration of the west
façade had been worked out for some time before their installation.28
All of these factors deserve consideration, but they do not suffice to deter-
mine the exact starting point of the façade’s construction.
The close relationship between the Reims west façade and the transept
frontals of Notre-Dame in Paris, however, gives us a chronological fixed point.29
In Reims the architectural motif of the gable-crowned blind arcades was
adopted, but not in form of a flat screen standing in front of the portal wall,
as in Paris (Figures 11.2 and 11.8); instead, it was combined with the format of a
deep sheltered porch, as one finds in Laon and Amiens.30 This synthesis of two

28 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 188–92.

29 Peter Kurmann, “Die Pariser Komponenten in der Architektur und Skulptur der West-
fassade von Notre-Dame zu Reims,” Münchner Jahrbuch der bildenden Kunst 35 (1984):
41–82; Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 288–89; Stephan Albrecht, Stefan
Breitling, and Rainer Drewello, eds., Die Querhausportale der Kathedrale Notre-Dame in
Paris: Architektur, Skulptur, Farbigkeit (Schriften des Instituts für Archäologische Wissen-
schaften, Denkmalwissenschaften und Kunstgeschichte 4) (Petersberg, 2021) (with earlier
bibliography).
30 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 115–17, 130–52.
Reims Reconsidered 185

Figure 11.8 N
 orth façade of the transept, Paris, Notre-Dame Cathedral
photo by Peter Kurmann, 1980s

fundamentally distinct architectural visions (flat membrane versus spacious

porch) shows that Reims did not influence Paris, but that the form transfer
went in the opposite direction. This was already known to previous research;
what has been overlooked, however, is the total unity of the two Parisian tran-
sept façades, both conceptually and materially. As meticulous archaeological
research by Stephan Albrecht and his team has shown, the transept façades of
Notre-Dame were built not one after the other, but simultaneously.31 This work
depended on a master plan that took into account the constraints and irregu-
larities of the 12th-century cathedral with regard to both façades. Indeed, the

31 Albrecht et al., Die Querhausportale, pp. 8–63.

186 Kurmann

differences between the north façade, which was always considered older by
previous research, and the south façade, which was accordingly described as
younger,32 exist only in terms of architectural details and portal sculpture. The
façades were therefore built together in the same decade, and designed by one
and the same master builder. An absolute chronological point of reference is
the famous inscription on the base of the south portal, which records the date
of the beginning of construction, 12 February 1258 (n. st.), and tells the observer
that the façades are the work of the magister operis Jean de Chelles.33 Since the
inscription is on the socle of the south portal, previous scholarship has always
referred it to the north transept arm and attributed it to Jean de Chelles.34
Allegedly, the designer of the south transept arm in this interpretation would
have been Pierre de Montreuil, but this cannot be proven by the documentary
sources. Instead, the original designer of both transept façades must have been
Jean de Chelles, who is not mentioned anywhere else.35 Perhaps he also inter-
vened in planning the formal details for at least one of them. The portal zone
of the west façade in Reims resembles the south transept façade in Paris more
closely than the north one, as has been shown elsewhere by detailed compar-
isons between them.36
Sculptural considerations also suggest that the point of stylistic depar-
ture for the Reims workshop should be sought in Paris. The elegance of bod-
ies and draperies, the expressiveness of facial features, and the liveliness of
gesture are all characteristics of Parisian sculpture from the second third

32 Dieter Kimpel, Die Querhausarme von Notre-Dame zu Paris und ihre Skulpturen (Bonn,
1971); Kimpel and Suckale, Die gotische Architektur in Frankreich, pp. 410–21; Gallet, “Le
style rayonnant en France”, pp. 332–35.
33 Stephan Albrecht, Rainer Drewello, and Ruth Tenschert, “Die mittelalterliche Bauinschrift
am Südquerhausportal von Notre-Dame in Paris,” in Albrecht et al. Die Querhausportale,
pp. 64–77.
34 The text reads: “+ ANNO . DNI . M . CC LVII . MENSE FEBRVARIO . IDUS SECUNDO [H]
OC . FVIT . INCEPTUM CRISTI . GENIT CIS HONORE KALLENSI LATHOMO . VIVENTE .
JOHANNE.MAGISTRO .” With the demonstrative pronoun “hoc,” the inscription gives us
an indirect indication of the authorship of the building. The pronoun refers not only to
the base of the south portal, but to the entire transept. Although the inscription cites Feb-
ruary of 1257, this would now be called February of 1258, since the new year in medieval
Paris was counted only beginning from Easter, not from January 1.
35 The text leaves open whether the date of the inscription refers to the start of work on the
foundation or to the laying of the cornerstone. It only states that the construction was
started during the lifetime of Jean de Chelles and thus identifies him as the architect of
both transept façades.
36 Kurmann, “Die Pariser Komponenten,” pp. 41–82; see also Kimpel and Suckale, Die
gotische Architektur in Frankreich, pp. 421–22.
Reims Reconsidered 187

Figure 11.9 P
 ortal of the south transept, tympanum, saint Stephen’s legend, Paris,
Notre-Dame Cathedral
PHOTO PETER KURMANN, 1978

of the 13th century, and of the Reims portal sculpture, as well.37 Two sculp-
tural programs from the capital city exercised a particularly strong influence
on the carvers in Reims: the apostle cycle from the Sainte-Chapelle (Fig-
ure 11.4),38 and the tympanum showing the legend of Saint Stephen, from
the south transept façade of Notre-Dame (Figure 11.9).39 The Reims figure
group shows many direct formal borrowings from both of these Parisian
cycles.40 However, one must always keep in mind that the Reims sculptures
are much more monumental than their Parisian models. This is especially
true for the jamb statues of the Reims west portals, which are about three
meters high. Nevertheless, the famous smiling angel of Reims, for example,

37 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 279–83; Peter Kurmann and Brigitte
Kurmann-Schwarz, “La sculpture: le triomphe de l’église de Reims,” in Mgr Thierry Jordan,
ed., Reims (La Grâce d’une cathédrale 2) (Strasbourg, 2010), pp. 175–228.
38 Sauerländer, La sculpture gothique, pp. 150–51; Sauerländer, Le siècle des cathédrales, p.
256; Williamson, Gothic Sculpture, pp. 147–49; Pierre-Yves Le Pogam, “La Sainte-Chapelle:
architecture et décor,” in Saint Louis, catalogue of the exhibition in the Conciergerie
(Paris, 2014), pp. 101–09; Le Pogam, La sculpture gothique, pp. 227–30.
39 Albrecht et al., Die Querhausportale.
40 Kurmann, Die Pariser Komponenten, pp. 41–82.
188 Kurmann

Figure 11.10 W
 est façade, northwest buttress, relief representing the finding of the
Cross, Reims Cathedral
photo by Peter Kurmann, 1978

is scarcely conceivable without the precedent set by the Saint John in the
Sainte-Chapelle (Figure 11.4), and the sculptor of the Saint Joseph in the mid-
dle portal of the coronation church took inspiration from one of the apostles
in the royal palace chapel.41 It is impossible to reverse this argument, pro-
posing that the Parisian apostles were made under the influence of Remois
sculpture. Against this idea stands the fact that the Parisian portal of Saint
Stephen features individual head types, drapery motifs, and gestures that
appear in Reims in completely different iconographical and compositional
contexts. There are such strong affinities between the Saint Stephen’s portal
sculptures and certain heads from the relief showing the finding of the cross
in Reims (Figure 11.10), that Stephan Albrecht views them as products of the
same workshop.42
For the dating of the beginning of the construction of the western façade
of Reims, these considerations about the sculpture have far-reaching con-
sequences. The most decisive evidence for a late dating of the Reims façade
comes not from the charters of 1230, which were vidimated in 1252, but rather

41 Kurmann, “Die Pariser Komponenten,” pp. 69–72; Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de

Reims, pp. 282–83.
42 Albrecht et al., Die Querhausportale, p. 53.
Reims Reconsidered 189

from the chronological fixed point of 1258 (n. st.) given by the inscription on
the Saint Stephen’s portal in Paris. Such Parisian prototypes are clearly trace-
able only sporadically and in the lower portions of the sculpted décor on the
Reims façade, since the local carvers soon developed their own inventions.43
On this basis one can conclude that the sculptors in Reims had access to Pari-
sian prototypes (perhaps in the form of drawings, or perhaps even in the form
of small three-dimensional models), which were used as springboards, so to
speak, for more original formal experiments.
In Paris, the planning for the transept façades and the associated foundation
work evidently took place before the fixed date of 1258 (n. st.) given by the
inscription, likely accompanied by the preparation of sculptures and stained-
glass windows that would later be set into the rising masonry. This work prob-
ably took about a decade, so that the actual start of the transept façade project
must be set around 1250. In Reims, the corresponding preparatory work may
have taken somewhat longer given the gigantic dimensions of the façade,
so that the construction of the façade itself can hardly be placed before the
1250s, as I have always supposed. After the completion of the Saint Stephen’s
portal in Paris, which was probably finished shortly after 1258 (n. st.), some of
the talented sculptors involved with it apparently went looking for new work,
and found themselves drawn to the prestigious façade construction project in
Reims. Considering the huge workload at Reims, the number of sculptors on
that construction site must have been considerably larger than at Notre-Dame
in Paris, a circumstance that probably accelerated the creation of the Reims
façade sculpture as a whole.
Considering the prerogatives that the Reims archbishopric claimed for itself,
it seems far from obvious that the architectural and sculptural workshops of
the coronation church would embrace the modern Parisian style, especially
since they had formerly aimed to create something really “Reims-specific” of
their own. Thanks to the legend of the holy oil, which was sent directly from
Heaven to Remois Bishop Remigius for the baptism and unction of Frankish
King Clovis, Reims had become a second Rome: the analogy to Pope Sylvester
and Emperor Constantine was clear.44 It was probably this construction of a
sacred link to Rome that inspired the first Remois sculpture atelier to produce
masterworks of the so-called classicizing style. Antiquity in Reims stood for
Rome. That was the case already in the building’s oldest sculptures, namely the

43 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 289–90.

44 Francis Oppenheimer, The Legend of the Ste. Ampoule (London, 1953); Jacques Le Goff,
“Reims: ville du sacre,” in Le Goff, Héros du Moyen Âge, le saint et le roi (Paris, 2004), pp.
988–1104; Patrick Demouy, Le Sacre du Roi (Strasbourg, 2016).
190 Kurmann

cycle of figures of Christ and eleven angels that were added before 1221 to the
buttresses of the choir chapels.45 With their pronounced physicality and their
classical beauty, some of these angels rival the best works of Roman antiq-
uity. In the portal dedicated to Saints Nicasius and Remigius from the north
transept portal, which is about ten years younger (c.1230), the classicizing style
manifests itself with unrivaled opulence. Here the sculptors could not carve
enough Roman-style hair locks and draperies. Admittedly the proportions of
the figures do not correspond to those of antique statues, but wide-shouldered
as they are, they manifest a very strong physical presence, which appeals to the
eyes of the viewer.46 Evidently the cathedral canons here wished to emphasize
the physical existence of the saints, while making visible their historical role as
the founders of the Remois church. These figures resemble those in the shrines
and other vasa sacra from the area of the Rhine, Meuse, and Moselle that were
made in a classicizing style to further the cult of saints.47
In light of this religio-political reception of antiquity, it seems hardly sur-
prising that the harder manner of figural representation coming from Paris
and Amiens established itself only slowly in Reims. Already in the sculpture
cycles of the upper choir and transepts, dating from around 1235 to 1240, it
nevertheless began to infiltrate itself.48 The classicizing manner, as it had
existed on the transept, belonged to the past, and it would be represented here
by only a few more royal figures and by Ecclessia and Synagoga on the south
transept façade.49 The High Gothic taste for ample draperies asserts itself in
most of the king statues on the transept, but even the famous statue known as
Philip Augustus shows reminiscences of the classicizing style.50 These include
the broad and deep waving folds that put the mass of the robe into motion.
Thanks to their expressive faces with eyes gazing far into the distance, this and
the other kingly figures have a pathos corresponding to their role as figures
from the distant past. The famous so-called “masks” and caryatids under the

45 Sauerländer, La sculpture gothique en France, pp. 162–63; Patrick Demouy, ed., Reims: la
cathédrale, pp. 217–18; Patrick Demouy, “L’Église de Reims au Moyen Âge, in Jordan, Reims,
pp. 13–23; Bruno Boerner, “La sculpture: les portails de la façade nord”, in Jordan,
Reims, pp. 161–73.
46 Kurmann, Kurmann-Schwarz, “La sculpture”, pp. 202–05.
47 Willibald Sauerländer, “Antiqui et Moderni at Reims,” Gesta 42 (2003): 19–37.
48 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 163–85; see also Peter Kurmann,
“Nachwirkungen der Amienser Skulptur in den Bildhauerwerkstätten der Kathedrale von
Reims,” in Friedrich Moebius and Ernst Schubert (eds.), Skulptur des Mittelalters (Weimar,
1987), pp. 121–83.
49 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, p. 173.
50 Kurmann, La façade de la cathédrale de Reims, pp. 171–72.
Reims Reconsidered 191

cornices of the upper transept and choir show an equally intense preoccu-
pation with human physiognomy.51 Every variant may be seen here, from the
“Roman” character of the head to caricatures and vulgar grimaces. The figures
in the archivolts over the two roses on the transept, with their vitality and their
often exaggerated facial expressions, also belong to the realm of this “physiog-
nomic laboratory,” as the area of the masks can be called.
That the Reims sculptors achieved remarkable things is certainly no acci-
dent. The driving force behind it was the will of the patrons to always produce
something extraordinary, unexpected, and unique. After Roman antiquity had
played its role as a mandatory model, it was felt that contemporary modernity
should not be fully neglected, but an unconditional acceptance of Parisian and
Amienois High Gothic was not initially desired. The working climate in the
Reims transept was thus very favorable to innovation, and it led to the creation
of some of the most original works of the European Middle Ages.
Had that changed by the middle of the 13th century? Had the Reims work-
shop and its sculptural atelier subjugated itself fully to the Parisian High
Gothic mode? In consideration of masterworks such as the Remois Joseph, the
answer must surely be “no.” On the contrary, as the architecture of the façade
and its giant portals already shows—since these are the highest figural portals
of the Middle Ages—the Reims chapter was even then filled with the ambition
to proclaim itself as the most important religious institution in France. How
small and miniaturistic the Rayonnant architecture of Paris appears in com-
parison to the powerful massing of Reims! As for the art of the sculptor, while
there was indeed borrowing from the refinement of the new Parisian style,
the incomparable richness and unprecedented diversity of the Reims façade
program leaves all its rivals in the shade. In the final phase of the cathedral’s
construction, therefore, the architects and sculptors of Reims finally won the
competition, using a formal vocabulary inspired by Paris to create a work of
unique size and beauty, one fully worthy of the religious and political preten-
sions of its patrons.
51 Dagmar Schmengler, Die Masken von Reims. Zur Genese negativer Ausdrucksformen
zwischen Tradition und Innovation (Kunstwissenschaftliche Studien 187) (Munich, 2016).
 CHAPTER 12

Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of

Clermont-Ferrand

Michael T. Davis and Stefaan Van Liefferinge

Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon chased the invisible forces acting on medi-
eval buildings. Photoelastic and finite element models captured patterns of
compression and tension caused by weight and wind; laser scans documented
with precision the deformations of stone structures. Their work revealed
unsuspected facets of builders’ inventiveness and skill from the structural role
of pinnacles set atop the uprights of the Amiens nave buttresses to the “per-
fect” stability of Chartres and Bourges. Flying buttresses figured prominently
among their investigations. Were they included in Suger’s choir at Saint-Denis?
Was the 12th-century chevet of Notre-Dame in Paris designed with or without
flying buttresses? How do the strikingly different systems of the cathedrals of
Chartres and Bourges compare in terms of design and performance?1
In spite of their uncanny ability to chronicle the active life of stone over
centuries, the stories told by Mark and Tallon only begin once those stones had
been cut and mortared into place. Likewise, contemporary medieval exper-
tises report the dangers of faulty designs, while close observation and archae-
ological analysis of standing structures reveal later interventions or point to

1 Among Robert Mark’s studies of flying buttresses, see Experiments in Gothic Structure
(Cambridge, MA, 1982), especially chapters 3 and 4 on the cathedrals of Chartres, Bourges,
and Amiens; Light, Wind, and Structure: The Mystery of the Master Builders (Cambridge,
MA, 1990), chapter 4, “Structural Experimentation in High Gothic Architecture,” pp. 90–135;
that include conclusions first presented in articles published in the Journal of the Society
of Architectural Historians and Scientific American; and with William W. Clark, “The First
Flying Buttresses: A New Reconstruction of the Nave of Notre-Dame de Paris,” Art Bulletin
67 (1984), pp. 47–65. Stephen Murray, “Notre-Dame of Paris and the Anticipation of Gothic,”
Art Bulletin 80 (1998), pp. 229–53, offers a compelling argument for the inclusion and form
of flying buttresses in the 12th-century choir design. Andrew Tallon’s Columbia University
Ph.D. dissertation “Experiments in Early Gothic Structure: the flying buttress,” was followed
by “An Architecture of Perfection,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 73 (2013):
pp. 530–54; and “Rethinking Medieval Structure,” New Approaches to Medieval Architecture,
ed. Robert Bork, William Clark, and Abby McGehee (Farnham, 2011), pp. 209–17.

© Michael T. Davis and Stefaan Van Liefferinge, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_013

Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 193

causes of catastrophic failure.2 Written accounts that record payments for

making templates and carving stones bring us closer, into the workshop and
the process of fabrication.3 But how did master masons approach the design
of their structures, specifically the flying buttresses that made possible build-
ings of dramatic height illuminated by windows that all but replaced solid
wall surfaces? Despite their complexity as inclined arched struts linking outer
and inner walls, coordinated with the high vaults, the main roof, and, in many
cases, part of the water evacuation system, there are few graphic records con-
nected to their conception and construction.
This essay focuses on the representations of flyer designs on the choir ter-
races of the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand (Figure 12.1).4 Rediscovered in 1844
by the architect Aimond Mallay and conserved during restoration work in
1849, the full-scale drawings of the choir were highlighted by Robert Branner
who remarked, “Probably … the most prodigious group of all [i.e., of full-scale
drawings] … is at Clermont-Ferrand, where the entire terrace is covered with
engraved designs … [including] the archivolts and gable of the north transept
portal and two sets of flyers for the nave buttresses, one of which seems to
have been rejected. The calculation of thrust and abutment, the geometrical

2 A 1316 expertise at Chartres Cathedral that recommended attention to the flyers was published
by Victor Mortet, “L’Expertise de la cathédrale de Chartres en 1316,” Congrès archéologique
67 (1900), pp. 314–15; and discussed by Alan Borg and Robert Mark, “Chartres Cathedral: A
Reinterpretation of its Structure,” Art Bulletin 55 (1973), pp. 367–71. An English translation of
the expertise was published by Teresa G. Frisch, Gothic Art 1140–c.1450 (Englewood Cliffs, NJ,
1971), pp. 59–61. The choir of Amiens Cathedral offers one example of the prolonged head-
aches resulting from a deficient flyer design, for which see Stephen Murray, Notre-Dame,
Cathedral of Amiens: The Power of Change in Gothic (Cambridge,UK, 1996), pp. 71–74 and 164;
and more recently, Murray, Notre-Dame of Amiens: Life of the Gothic Cathedral (New York,
2021), pp. 93–98, 285–86. The partial collapse of the choir of Beauvais Cathedral in 1284 has
been studied by Mark, Experiments, pp. 70–77, and Light, Wind, and Structure, pp. 128–35;
and Murray, Beauvais Cathedral: Architecture of Transcendence (Princeton, 1987), pp. 112–20;
with a summary on the Columbia University Media Center for Art History website: http://
projects.mcah.columbia.edu/medieval-architecture/htm/ms/ma_ms_bc_discuss_collapse
.htm (accessed 13 October 2021).
3 For an informative series of documents of the construction of Troyes Cathedral that includes
numerous entries relating to the flying buttresses, see Stephen Murray, Building Troyes
Cathedral: The Late Gothic Campaigns (Bloomington, IN, 1987), Appendix B, pp. 116–98.
4 This is the first installment of our collaborative study of the drawings of the Clermont-
Ferrand choir and nave terraces. We thank Rémi Fromont, architect of the Monuments
Historiques; Anne Embs and Jean-Pierre Crémier of the DRAC Auvergne-Rhone-Alpes for
facilitating access to the terraces in 2018; Dominique Costa for visual and verbal information
on the Limoges flyers; and Philippe Hertel, Françoise Amigues, and Fabienne Tuset for gen-
erously providing sections of Narbonne Cathedral.
194 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Figure 12.1 C
 lermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, choir terrace drawings
Graphic by Michael Davis and Kevin Wilson

procedures employed in laying out the design and the assemblage of stones
can all be determined from this set of drawings.”5
Does the information supplied by the Clermont-Ferrand drawings, comple-
mented by examples at Saint-Etienne, Limoges and Saint-Just-Saint-Pasteur,
Narbonne, intersect with the behavior of great church structures revealed by
Robert Mark and Andrew Tallon through their use of modeling and scanning?

5 See A.G. Mallay, Bulletin archéologique (1844–45), pp. 149–50, for the first mention of the ter-
race drawings and the request for funds to conserve the drawings (Paris, Archives nationales
F19 7682, report of May 11, 1849): “L’architecte (Mallay) demande en outre une allocation de
200 f. pour faire retracer au ciseau les épures qui couvrent une partie des terrasses des bas
côtés afin de conserver religieusement cette trace des 1ers travaux.” Robert Branner, “Villard
de Honnecourt, Reims, and the Origin of Gothic Architectural Drawing,” Gazette des Beaux
Arts sér. 6, 61 (1963): 129–46, esp. 134 and fig. 4.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 195

What did master masons in the later 13th and 14th centuries attempt to calcu-
late by engraving parts of their buildings on stone surfaces?
Flying buttresses figure among the earliest architectural drawings of the 13th
century, a version of those at Reims Cathedral appearing on folio 32v of Vil-
lard de Honnecourt’s portfolio. He also mentions on folio 14v that his now-lost
drawings of Cambrai Cathedral include “li maniere des arc boteres.” Villard has
been roundly excoriated for misplacing the Reims flyers: his inner lower rank
abuts the clerestory wall at the high capital level whereas in the built structure
the arches are placed well above, at the springing of the vault.6 A few decades
later, the draftsman of façade project B of the Reims palimpsest rendered a
flyer with a cusped intrados supporting the main vessel. Unlike Villard, he set
the flyer higher against the clerestory wall.7 This points to a surprising aspect
of Gothic architectural practice: there seems to have been no “rule” for the
placement of flyers. At the cathedrals of Chartres, Soissons, the Amiens nave,
and Clermont-Ferrand, the lower arch of the system abuts the clerestory at the
level of the high capitals–like Villard’s Reims drawing–while at Bourges, Reims,
Beauvais, the Amiens choir, Narbonne, and the Troyes nave, the flyer hits the
wall at the “shoulder” of the vault above the capitals. The one thing that seems
to have been agreed upon was the placement of the upper flyer at the top of the
wall.8 It is remarkable that Renaud de Cormont, master mason of Amiens, set
his openwork flyer too high around the choir in contrast (opposition?) to his
father’s work in the cathedral nave.9 The same mistake was made in the nave
of Troyes Cathedral. In 1362, Pierre Faisant, called in to look at “the new work
of Master Jehan de Torvoie,” reported that “it seems to him that there is no fault
except that the flying buttresses are placed too high, that is to say the upper
flying buttresses, and it is necessary to demolish the said work to the height of
the pinnacles.”10 This was done, but part of the nave collapsed anyway in 1389.

6 Carl F. Barnes, Jr. The Portfolio of Villard de Honnecourt (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale MS
fr.19093): A new critical edition and color facsimile (Farnham, 2009), pp. 209–10, with col-
lected criticism of the Reims buttress drawing; and pp. 91–94 for Cambrai.
7 Stephen Murray, “The Gothic Façade Drawings of the Reims Palimpsest,” Gesta 17 (1978): pp.
51–55; also Robert Bork, The Geometry of Creation: Architectural Drawing and the Dynamics of
Gothic Design (Farnham, 2011), pp. 42–53, who concentrates on the geometry of the design.
8 Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, “Arc-boutant,” Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture
française du XIe au XVI siècle, 10 vols (Paris, 1855–68): I, pp. 60–83. Writing about Gothic
structure, Andrew Tallon, in “Architecture of Perfection,” p. 536, cogently captured the
fluid state of affairs in the design stage: “The aesthetic– and spiritual–potential [of Gothic
buildings] was as dazzling as the structural consequences were impossible to calculate.”
9 Murray, in Notre-Dame, Cathedral of Amiens, suggested a Daedalus-Icarus rivalry between
father and son.
10 Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral, pp. 30–32, 121.
196 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Flyers remain a rare subject even in later parchment drawings: one of the
few is a section of Prague Cathedral, likely drawn by Peter Parler after 1352
and now in the Kupferstichkabinett der Akademie der bildenden Künste in
Vienna.11 Parchment drawings, however, are “office work”; a different kind of
drawing was practiced on site where full-scale designs were incised into trac-
ing floors, pavements, and onto walls. Yet, the drawings at Clermont-Ferrand,
Limoges, and Narbonne are the only surviving examples of flyers. Perhaps this
simply suggests that drawings at the scale of flying buttresses were performed
on the transient plaster floors of temporary tracing houses.12
At Clermont-Ferrand, Limoges, and Narbonne, the chapels and aisles of the
choir were covered by a paved terrace that was utilized as a “design studio” during
construction.13 These cathedrals have also been connected, once collectively
attributed to a master mason named Jean Deschamps, credited with beginning
the choir at Clermont-Ferrand in 1248 and mentioned as “premier maistre” of
Narbonne in 1286.14 Might we look for a common workshop practice that was

11 Drawing number 16.821. Bork, Geometry of Creation, pp. 205–09.

12 As documented at Troyes Cathedral and discussed below. Consult Murray, Building Troyes
Cathedral, pp. 138, 142, 153, 161, 165, and 180–81 for the making of plaster floors and use of
the tracing chamber. The Troyes tracing chamber was long located above the vaults of the
chapel of Dreux de la Marche to the south of the nave and the old west bell tower, then
replaced in 1506–07.
13 A useful compilation of engraved drawings, including bibliography for each example, is
provided by Wolfgang Schöller, “Ritzzeichnungen: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Architek-
turzeichnung im Mittelalter,” Architectura 19 (1989): 36–61; and Rose Harris Adamson,
“Stonemasons’ Drawings on Building Fabric: Diversity, Form, and Function,” Archaeological
Journal 171 (2014): 258–88. For the Clermont-Ferrand drawings, Florence Claval, “Les Épures
de la cathédrale de Clermont-Ferrand,” Bulletin archéologique du Comité des Travaux His-
toriques et Scientifiques nouv.sér, 20–21 (1988), pp. 185–224; and Michael T. Davis, “On the
Drawing Board: Plans of the Clermont Terrace,” Ad Quadratum: The Practical Application
of Geometry in Medieval Architecture ed. Nancy Y Wu (Aldershot, 2002), pp. 183–204. For
the Limoges terrace drawings, Félix de Verneilh, “Construction des monuments ogivaux.
Épures de la cathédrale de Limoges,” Annales archéologiques 6 (1847): 139–44. The Narbonne
flyer design is mentioned by Christian Freigang, Imitare ecclesias nobiles: Die Kathedralen
von Narbonne, Toulouse und Rodez und die nordfranzösiche Rayonnantgotik im Languedoc
(Worms, 1992), p. 101 and ill. 8; also Schöller, “Ritzzeichnungen,” p. 55.
14 Viollet-le-Duc, “Arc-boutant, Dictionnaire, I:74, opined that the three cathedrals “sont
l’oeuvre d’un seul homme, ou au moins d’une école particulière.” He also saw their but-
tressing systems following the same “fixed rules” of construction despite the variations in
the level at which the flyers abut the clerestory wall. Freigang, Imitare ecclesias nobiles,
pp. 191–202 and 288–96, addresses the attributions of the cathedrals of Clermont-Ferrand,
Limoges, Narbonne, Toulouse, and Rodez to a mason or masons named Jean Deschamps.
See also, idem, “Jean Deschamps et le midi,” Bulletin monumental 149 (1991): 265–98. Also
Michael T. Davis, “Le choeur de la cathédrale de Limoges: Tradition rayonnante et inno-
vation dans le carrière de Jean Des Champs, Bulletin archéologique du Comité des Travaux
Historiques et Scientifique, nouv. sér, 22 (1989): 51–114, esp.110–15.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 197

Figure 12.2 C
 lermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame (a) terrace drawings above chapel
of Saint-Bonnet; (b) terrace drawings of arcs and unfinished openwork flyer
above chapel of Saint-Austremoine (bays N-14-12)
photo by Davis, 1990

concerned with the representations of flying buttresses and data they would pro-
vide to guide construction? Although there are similarities between some of the
drawings, as we shall see, they were executed in different techniques to commu-
nicate specific information and played varied roles in the construction process.
In fact, Clermont-Ferrand contains two distinct sets of drawings that relate to the
cathedral’s flyers. The first consists of five curving lines incised above two radiating
chapels that, we propose, set out the arches of the choir flyers (Figure 12.2). They
have either been passed over in silence or dismissed as unrelated to the building’s
fabric.15 The second group shows two versions of an openwork design that was
installed in the nave (Figures 12.2b and 12.3). These are the drawings that attracted
Robert Branner’s attention. Although they were drawn later than the arcs, because
they are graphically more comprehensible and relate more directly to the strat-
egies of representation used at Limoges and Narbonne, we examine them first.

1 The Openwork Flyers

Two flyer drawings, each depicting an openwork arcade, are positioned on the
north side of the choir terrace between bays 10 and 14 (Figures 12.1, 12.2, and
12.3). The design in bays 10–12 is more complete and in its original state likely

15 Schöller, “Ritzzeichnungen,” 49–50 does not mention these arcs in his list of the terrace
drawings, while Claval, “Les Épures,” p. 196, considered the possibility that these arcs fig-
ured in the preparation of templates (“gabarits”), but rejected this explanation because
she found no arcs with these dimensions in the construction (“aucun arc de cette dimen-
sion n’apparaît dans la construction”).
198 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Figure 12.3 C
 lermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame (a) finished version of openwork
flyer (bays N12-10); (b) nave flyer, bay 7 as built
photos by Davis, 1990

presented a fully conceived and detailed design (Figure 12.3a). Its mate to the
east appears to have been left unfinished: was it inaccurate and amended in
the second version, or did the overlap with the north transept portal drawing
create a confusion of multiple graphic layers that prompted a new rendering
when a clean area of the terrace became available? (Figure 12.2).16
The 45-degree incline and the three cusped arches of the openwork designs
identify them as drawings for the nave flyers that spring from the west towers
of the transept (Figure 12.3b). Dealing with a completely new set of forms as
well as the shorter span of the tower flyers, the builders drew out this pattern

16 Claval, “Les Épures,” pp. 217–19, asserts that there are significant dimensional differences
between the two flyer drawings, especially in the height of the lancets, those of bays 10–12,
elongated by 30–40 cm. Measurements taken and rechecked by Michael Davis in 1983,
1984, and 2010 suggest that the discrepancy is on the order of 10 cm. Claval also suggested
that the drawings do not accurately correspond to the eastern nave flyers as built. To the
contrary, a photogrammetric check between the drawing and the openwork flyer reveals
that dimensional differences are negligible. The drawing of bays 10–12 is today in perilous
condition and overgrown by moss. A protocol for the conservation of the terrace drawings
is being developed by the Monuments Historiques.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 199

Figure 12.4 C
 lermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame,
flying buttresses, choir, north side
photo by Davis, 2010

in detail to ensure that its components were accurately cut. Rather than the
choir’s two-level arrangement of simple sinewy arches, the inner lower flyers
of the nave were reconceived as muscular arched walls disguised by the brittle
arcades above (compare Figures 3b and 4).
By adopting an arcaded flyer that complements the window tracery, the
architect of the Clermont-Ferrand nave transformed the exterior into a lin-
ear cage. Beginning around 1240, similar effects of “shimmering diaphanous
structure” were explored in the openwork systems of the cathedral choirs of
Troyes, Amiens, and Auxerre, as well as the collegiate church of Saint-Quen-
tin.17 But Clermont-Ferrand emphasizes the rectilinear lines of the flyer: rather

17 The quoted words are from Robert Bork, Robert Mark, and Stephen Murray, “The Open-
work Flying Buttresses of Amiens Cathedral: ‘Postmodern Gothic’ and the Limits of Struc-
tural Rationalism,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 56 (1997): 478–93, at p.
492. John Fitchen, The Construction of Gothic Cathedrals: A Study of Medieval Vault Erection
200 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Figure 12.5 L imoges Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, terrace drawings

redrawn by Davis after Félix de Verneilh, “Construction des
monuments ogivaux. Épures de la cathédrale de Limoges”
Annales archéologiques 6 (1847)

than rising from the curving extrados of an arch, the arcade is crisply framed
between straight copings in an arrangement also found in the Auxerre nave,
planned for the Limoges Cathedral choir, and one that persisted into the
16th-century at Saint-Merri, Paris. Note that the flyer arch is missing. Rather
than working out the “thrust and abutment,” of the new design, the terrace
drawings render the decorative components that supported a gutter.
As a rule, the Clermont-Ferrand terrace drawings are positioned as close to
their intended spot of installation as possible, a strategy that facilitated their
accurate layout. In addition, they offered an opportunity to evaluate the appear-
ance of the proposed design–window tracery, portal archivolts and gable, an
openwork flyer–prior to fabrication.18 When these flyers were incised into the

(Oxford, UK, 1961), p. 78, pointed to constructional advantages behind the development
of openwork flyers such as a reduction in centering needed and the elimination of inward
pressure from the upper flyer on the clerestory wall. See also Maile Hutterer, Framing the
Church: The Social and Artistic Power of Buttresses in French Gothic Architecture (Univer-
sity Park, PA, 2019), pp. 20–29, for the structural problems of openwork designs.
18 Davis, “On the Drawing Board,” pp. 188–92, for the apparent rejection of two Clermont-Fer-
rand terrace drawings of window tracery patterns intended for the western choir chapels
and clerestory bays.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 201

choir pavement, the nave terrace evidently had not yet been laid, however, the
master mason astutely used the existing masonry of the eastern transept towers
to develop his drawings. Look at their alignment (Figures 12.1 and 12.3a). They are
positioned in relation to the tower salient (N10), which further reveals their sub-
tle and complex efficiency. Close inspection of the more complete edition reveals
that the view begins with the section of the tower salient, then shifts 90 degrees
to a profile view of the arcade that includes masonry joints then shifts again to a
frontal view to show the junction of the lower strut and the clerestory wall.
A similar openwork flyer was cut into the north choir terrace at Limoges
Cathedral, although different issues appear to be in play (Figure. 12.5). These
drawings disappeared during restoration in 1847–48, but were recorded and
published by Félix de Verneilh. In the angle between the north arm of the tran-
sept and the western choir bay, two and one-half arches, shown in elevation
and framed by diagonal struts, rise at 45 degrees and overlap with a group of
four arcs. Verneilh identified three of the arcs that converge on a common
endpoint as the apse ribs and the fourth arc as the transverse rib of the main
vessel of the choir.19 This may not be a high-level calculation, but the Limoges
draftsman appears to be working out the coordination of flyer and vault that
includes the profile of the cornice (“entablement”) of the clerestory wall. Once
again, the massive arch that does the structural work is omitted.
The construction of the upper levels of the Limoges choir, launched around
1300 and carried on through the first half of the 14th century, halted prema-
turely. A low, provisional tile roof covered the choir and Verneilh remarked that
the openwork flyers of the terrace had not been built: “these arcades do not
exist anywhere, notably around the choir.”20 Nevertheless by 1330, Bernard Gui
described the cathedral choir as “finished”(“absolvere”) and the erased terrace
flyer must have been drawn during the first quarter of the century. Whether
intentionally or not, the Limoges terrace drawings archived the cathedral’s
original design that was finally realized in the restoration campaigns carried
out between 1842 and 1852.21

19 Verneilh, “Épures de la cathédrale de Limoges,” p. 141. No masonry joints are included in

Verneilh’s drawings.
20 Ibid., “Aussi ces galeries n’existent-elles point partout, notamment au rond-point. Or, pour
terminer l’église, comme on y est décidé, la première chose à faire est de les établir.” For
the building campaigns of the Limoges choir see Davis, “Le choeur de la cathédrale de
Limoges,” pp. 51–114 and 109–10 for the upper levels of the choir. More recently, Yves Gal-
let, “Limoges, cathédrale Saint-Étienne. Le chevet rayonnant et le problème du gothique
méridional,” Congrès archéologique 172 (2014): 57–76.
21 Thierry Soulard, “Les campagnes de restauration 1842–1852,” in L’achèvement de la
cathédrale de Limoges au XIXe siècle (Limoges, 1988), pp. 36–43. The construction of the
202 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

The importance of the archival function of these full-scale and fully con-
ceived drawings should not be underestimated. Burials in nave chapels at
Clermont-Ferrand, recorded in 1297 and 1301, suggest that the three eastern
bays must have been taken in hand during the 1280s and early 1290s. Window
tracery of the nave chapels and clerestory as well as the openwork flyers belong
to a wholesale revision of the cathedral’s formal vocabulary by a new master
mason and workshop.22 We can imagine that the openwork flyers were incised
into the choir terrace during this building phase in anticipation of work that
would focus on the upper levels of the western half of the cathedral. Documen-
tary silence falls over construction until 1334–35 when accounts register pur-
chases for 3,700 roof tiles and stone for towers signalling the final touches on
the eastern half of the nave whose completion awaited the arrival of Viollet-le-
Duc five centuries later.23 Several decades may have elapsed between concep-
tion and installation. A lithic set of instructions offered a means to avoid the
chaos that roiled the Siena Cathedral workshop in 1297 when records for the
placement of carved stones had been lost, plans forgotten, and models could
not be found.24 Documenting the intricate openwork flyer ensured the smooth
continuation of construction according to plan.

2 Arcs

A few years before the openwork flyers were drawn, a draftsman incised arcs
on the terraces of Clermont-Ferrand’s choir (Figures 12.1 and 12.2). One set of
two arcs is located above the chapel, dedicated to Saint-Bonnet, on the south-
east side of the chevet (Figure 12.2a); a second pair and an additional single arc

openwork flyers is not mentioned in the narrative of the restorations.

22 For the nave of the cathedral, see Michael T. Davis, “The Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand:
History of its Construction, 1248–1512,” Ph.D. dissertation, Ann Arbor, University of Michi-
gan, 1979, pp. 396–479, pp. 398–403, and 544–46 for documentation of foundations in the
nave chapels.
23 Archives Départementales du Puy-de-Dôme, Clermont-Ferrand, series 3G, armoire 18, sac
B, cote 25 for the 1334–35 fabric account. The relevant expenses are: “Item pro 3700 de
teule pro cath(edrali)a cohoperienda … 43 s., 6 d., ob;” and “Item pro lapidibus menuitis
emptis pro cumulando turres … 33 s.”
24 Carla Pietramellara, Il Duomo di Siena: Evoluzione della forma dalle origini alla fine del
Trecento (Florence, 1980), p. 61: “Et etiam quia (stones) non fracti non cognoscuntur per
magistros in quo loco dicti operis debeant operari tantum temporis est quod conci fuer-
unt ita quod concimen ipsorum lapidum perditum est.” See Michael Ayrton, Giovanni
Pisano, Sculptor (New York, 1969), pp. 88–89, for an English summary of the investigation
launched by the commune of Siena in May 1297.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 203

were incised above the chapel dedicated to Saint-Austremoine on the north-

east (Figure 12.2b). Likely, their location reflects the sequence of work prog-
ress and the availability of drawing surfaces. Archeological evidence suggests
that the Saint–Bonnet chapel was completed first with the Saint-Austremoine
chapel following soon after.25 In 1263, the dean of the cathedral chapter, Guil-
laume de Cebazat elected his burial site and endowed a chaplaincy and priest
to celebrate services at the altar of the axial chapel, dedicated to John the Bap-
tist, in the “new building.” This full complement of memorial and devotional
provisions indicates that the ambulatory and its chapels were functional and
finished. Because the Gothic choir was boxed in by streets, the bishop’s palace,
and the Romanesque cathedral, space was at a premium; the terraces could
be conveniently pressed into service to draw out large-scale elements of the
building.
In his brief description of the drawings on the terraces of Clermont-Ferrand,
Robert Branner did not mention these five large arcs.26 Their function was not
as apparent as that of the two arrays of full-scale arcs on the Limoges Cathedral
choir terrace, which Félix de Verneilh identified as setting out ribs for the apse
and crossing vaults.27 In contrast to the arcs at Limoges, those at Clermont are
independent from the openwork flyer designs, making it unlikely that the mas-
ter mason used these five curves to coordinate flyers and rib vaults. Study of
these arcs reveal that their dimensions and geometry are similar to the arches
of the choir flyers and played a role in their construction.
The choir of Clermont-Ferrand anticipated two ranks of flyers: one abut-
ting at the clerestory wall just above the high vault capitals of the interior and
the upper placed at the top of the wall (Figure 12.4). At both levels, the flyers
were constructed by placing beveled voussoirs to compose an arc. A straight
coping on top rises at a slope of 30 degrees. Comparing the drawings with the
flyers required surveying both. A Total Station recorded the dimensions and

25 For an outline of the construction of the Clermont-Ferrand choir, Michael T. Davis, “The
Choir of the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand: The Beginnings of Construction and the
Work of Jean Deschamps,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 40 (1981):
181–202; also Davis, “Guidelines: the Bishop’s Garden, a Mason’s Drawings, and the Con-
struction of Notre-Dame Cathedral of Clermont,” Patrons and Professionals in the Middle
Ages (Harlaxton Medieval Studies vol. XXII), ed. P. Binski and E.A. New (Donington, 2012):
pp. 167–81.
26 Branner, “The Origin of Gothic Architectural Drawing,” pp. 134 and 144, note 21. A prom-
ised detailed study of the Clermont drawings was never realized. Thanks to the late Carl
F. Barnes, Jr., for sharing photographs taken of the choir terrace drawings during a trip
to Clermont-Ferrand with Robert Branner and to the late Shirley Praeger Branner who
generously allowed Michael Davis to consult Branner’s notes on the drawings.
27 Verneilh, “Épures de la cathédrale de Limoges,” pp. 139–44.
204 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Figure 12.6 C
 lermont-Ferrand, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, photogrammetric model
of choir flyer with arc of terrace drawing
Graphic by Van Liefferinge

curvature of the line drawings; calibrated photogrammetric models provided

information on the geometry of the lower-level of flyers. The survey showed
that one of the arcs above the Saint-Austremoine chapel is a segment of a cir-
cle with radius 4.48m, the same radius as the arches of the lower flyers (Figure
12.6).28
It seems likely that the masons used this drawing as a pattern for the design
and production of the arches of the lower flyers. Rather than picturing the fly-
ers in elevation as in the openwork arcades at Clermont-Ferrand and Limoges
or the flyer etched into the terrace of the Narbonne choir, these large arcs, ren-
dered as simple lines, served to systematize the production of the curved flyer
voussoirs.
At the moment the arcs were drawn, the builders had vaulted the chapels,
laid the pavement of the terrace above, finished the lower parts of the uprights
seated above the massive wedge-shaped buttresses below, and begun work on
the triforium wall. Questions about the shape and length of the flyers, their
slope, and the angle at which their heads would meet the clerestory wall
became more pressing. The master mason had to decide what type of flyers

28 We compared the arcs with photogrammetric models of south side flyers S12–S13.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 205

Figure 12.7 A
 quadrant arch (after Viollet-le-Duc, Dictionnaire, I, 64.) and an over-extended arch
Graphic by Van Liefferinge

he wanted to build. To facilitate these decisions, a draftsman prepared life-size

line drawings that set out the curvatures for the arches of the flyers.
The draftsman drew four of the arcs in two pairs of intersecting curves. This
may seem a coincidence. However, the analysis of these drawings suggests
that this was a purposeful choice by the builders of the cathedral, a technique
intended to streamline the production of voussoirs with the right curvature for
the projected flyers.
The cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand was built at a time when the construc-
tion techniques of Gothic architecture had been mastered. The master mason
must have been aware of a variety of possibilities when designing the flyers.
Since the first experiments in Gothic, builders had explored a range of solu-
tions to counter the high vaults’ outwards thrusts. The earliest type of flyers
were usually arches describing a quarter circle and were relatively easy to plan
and build (Figure 12.7).29
However, such quadrant arches provided little flexibility during the building
process because the span of the flyer fixed the radius of the circle segment
formed by the flyer’s arch. Each of its voussoirs thus had to be cut to match
the curvature of this circle segment. Extending the flyers with precut vous-
soirs over a distance greater than initially planned would result in arches that
abutted the clerestory on a downward trajectory, resulting in a destabilizing
push on the clerestory wall and transverse arches (Figure 12.7, right). More-
over, quadrant arches produced a rather poorly designed structure. Their pro-
nounced curvature concentrated forces in the middle of the arch and required
arches built of heavy masonry.30 Quadrant arches were soon abandoned for
flyers built following a design that was more flexible and structurally efficient.

29 Viollet-le-Duc,” Arc-boutant,” Dictionnaire, I: 67.

30 Viollet-le-Duc,” Arc-boutant,” Dictionnaire, I: 64, 67.
206 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

Figure 12.8 S egments of a quadrant at the top and the Clermont-Ferrand arcs
represented at the lower right
Graphic by Van Liefferinge

In what could be called a “second generation” of flyers, builders designed

flyer arches corresponding to circle segments smaller than a quadrant. The
consequence was that the curvature of the flyers’ voussoirs became less pro-
nounced. The profile of these new flyers distributed the forces more evenly
over their length instead of concentrating them in the middle. The two top
images in Figure 12.8 offer a geometric representation of arches that are seg-
ments of a quadrant.
This figure illustrates how, depending on the flyers’ slope, these arches can
be viewed as segments that correspond to a section close to the base or close
to the apex of the quadrant. A steep flyer corresponds to a section close to the
base; a more horizontal flyer to one close to the apex.31 Accordingly, in com-
parison to quadrant arches, this new type of arch provided the master mason

31 The result of a steep flyer is discussed by Viollet-le-Duc,”Arc-boutant,” Dictionnaire, I: 67:

“Dès lors les arcs-boutants furent cintrés sur une portion de cercle dont le centre était
placé en dedans des piles des nefs.”
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 207

the freedom to decide the slope of the flyers.32 The two top images in figure 8
also illustrate how working with segments smaller than a quadrant provided
leeway to add voussoirs during the construction if needed. The new generation
of flyers hence adopted a more flexible design than quadrant arches. However,
this flexibility had its limits: the arc segment formed by the flyer’s voussoirs
could never be larger than a quadrant.
The Narbonne choir terrace drawing exactly illustrates this combination of
constraint and choice that developed in flyer design, its steeply rising arch set-
tled neatly into a quadrant boundary.33 This drawing consists of two parallel
arcs framed by perpendicular lines that define the limits of the quadrant, and
a third line indicating the slope of the flyer. The Narbonne drawing shows how
at the request of the master mason a draftsman represented the profile of the
flyers’ voussoirs by a pair of concentric arcs. His schema contained all the infor-
mation needed to estimate the length of the flyers and cut the curved voussoirs.
A few decades earlier, the master mason at Clermont faced similar design
questions. He instructed a draftsman to create more compact drawings that
provided only the information necessary for the production of voussoirs. To
achieve this, instead of tracing long perpendicular lines marking the quad-
rant, the draftsman shifted the smaller arc along a line bisecting it (Figure 12.8,
bottom).34 The crescent-shaped diagram kept all the geometric information
needed to cut templates for the voussoirs. The points of intersection of the arcs
indicated the limits of the quadrant and thus the maximal length of the fly-
ers. In comparison to Narbonne, the drawings at Clermont took up less space,
required engraving fewer lines in the hard volcanic stone, and, likely, necessi-
tated the use of only one, unidentified, type of drawing device that served to
incise the arcs on a large scale.
Now, the actual production of the voussoirs for the flyers could start. How
the builders exactly proceeded is impossible to reconstruct, but what follows
offers a plausible scenario for the role played by the drawings in the building
process. Using the intersecting arcs that represented the curves of the intrados

32 At Clermont-Ferrand, the master mason opted for flyers with a moderate slope.
33 Viollet-le-Duc, “Arc-boutant,” Dictionnaire, I: 74–76 and fig. 65 for the Narbonne flyers;
Freigang, Imitare ecclesias nobiles, ill. 8, for a photograph of the Narbonne drawing.
Thanks to Professor Vivian Paul, Texas A&M University, emerita, for sharing her drawings
and photographs of, and thoughts on, the Narbonne flyer.
34 The shift corresponded to the diagonal of a square with sides equal to the projected thick-
ness of voussoirs. The construction works as well in the opposite direction, by shifting the
larger circle.
208 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

and extrados, the builders could prepare templates for cutting the voussoirs.35
Because the maximum span of the future flyers could be derived from the
drawings, it was possible to estimate the number of voussoirs needed to build
the arches and thus assess the cost of their construction. A similar interaction
of full-scale drawing and templates emerges in the Troyes Cathedral construc-
tion accounts. In 1485, Jehançon Garnache, the master mason, was paid “to
have plaster heated to make a drawing surface on the vault of the chapel of
Dreux to make the drawings of all of the masonry necessary for the pillars (that
is the flying buttresses) of the said nave.” The “pillars” were erected during the
next two years followed by a delivery in 1487–88 of 303 ½ quarterons of stone
“for making the flying buttresses.” In September 1492, Garnache made “tem-
plates to make flying buttresses and begin to cut the quarreaux (stones) of the
said flying buttresses.”36 Finally, when the cut voussoirs were hauled up on the
terrace, they could be assembled in a “dry run.”37 This would avoid the wasted
effort of lifting a poorly or wrongly cut voussoir into its final position. The
drawings might also have guided preparation of the scaffolding and wooden
form work that would be used during the construction of the stone arches of
the flyers. Clearly, the drawings played an important role in the construction
of the cathedral –planning the flyers and their scaffolding, preparation of tem-
plates, and verification of fabrication were efficiently condensed into a single
place.38

35 The voussoirs might have been cut—or at least roughed out—at the quarry or they may
have been cut on site, possibly on the terrace itself. Gervase of Canterbury writes that Wil-
liam of Sens, “delivered molds for the shaping of stones to the sculptors who were assem-
bled.” Frisch, Gothic Art, (see above, n. 2, p. 2), p. 17. At Troyes in October 1496, Jehançon
Garnache and Colas Savetier were paid for drawing “the tracery of the said 2 windows [of
the nave] and to make all the false templates to take to the quarry in Tonnerre in order to
cut out the stones of the said windows.” Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral, pp. 170–71.
36 Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral, pp. 161, 163, 167. Whether these stones were destined
for the uprights or the arches of the flyers is not specified. In this case, note that stone
cutting appears to have been done at the cathedral construction site.
37 In regard to a drawing of concentric arches on folio 20r in the portfolio of Villard de Hon-
necourt, see Barnes, Portfolio, p. 132, who surmised that “arches were sometimes laid out
on the ground to check for fit and size before being erected.” He follows Roland Bech-
mann, Villard de Honnecourt et la pensée technique au XIIIe siècle et sa communication
(Paris, 1991), p. 185, who asserts that “le tracé sur le sol des arcs en vraie grandeur et le
montage ‘à blanc’ pour vérifier la conformité des pierres livrées avec le projet, avant de les
mettre en oeuvre prenait beaucoup de place sur l’aire de travail.”
38 In 1485, Jehançon Garnache, master mason of Troyes Cathedral, was paid “for making
the drawings for raising the form work to make the arches of the [clerestory] windows”
(“faire les traits pour lever le mosle a faire les ars des verrieres”). See Murray, Building
Troyes Cathedral, p. 161, no. 3. That drawings played multiple roles is also seen at Troyes in
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 209

That the drawings provided the limits for the span of the flyers must have
proved particularly useful for the master mason of Clermont-Ferrand Cathe-
dral, a building with flyers of a variable length. Irregularities in the ground plan
that resulted from fitting the Gothic choir around the Romanesque fabric were
translated into the upper levels of the building producing straight bay flyers
whose span was slightly shorter than those of the hemicycle: 4.44 m between
the uprights and the polygonal apse wall at the east and then decreasing incre-
mentally to 3.61 m at bay division 11. To decrease the span of the flyers while
work progressed westwards, the builders simply reduced the number of vous-
soirs: the flyer arches to the east are built from 16 ashlars; the masons reduced
this to 12 blocks per arch for the flyers to the west.39
After the construction of the Saint-Austremoine chapel on the north side
of the chevet, a new surface became available for additional drawings. On
the pavement above this chapel, the draftsman drew a large solitary curve
along the segment of a circle with a radius 4.48 m. This new drawing was not
intended to determine the maximum span of the flyers; that information was
already provided by the Saint-Bonnet chapel drawing. This new arc served to
confirm the accuracy of the stone cutting. The builders could fit the voussoir
ashlars along its curve to see if the assemblage would work before lifting up
the stones into their final location. For this task, the curve of the future flyers’
arches sufficed. The reason for drawing this duplicate arc points to practical
considerations. As construction progressed westwards, flyers were built at
locations increasingly further from the Saint-Bonnet pattern. By providing a
drawing of a second arc with the same curvature, the master mason spared
the builders the labor of moving stones back and forth across the terrace. By
performing dry-runs simultaneously using either of the drawings, the pace of
construction could increase.
Finally, the draftsman added a set of intersecting arcs above the Saint-­
Austremoine chapel (Figures 12.1 and 12.2b). The larger one repeats the
Saint-Bonnet chapel arc that outlines the curves of the lower flyer extrados
and upper flyer, while the smaller arc is consistent with the shorter span of the
flyer that springs from the eastern transept towers to the clerestory wall.

the payment of 1497–98 to the masons Jehançon Garnache and Colas Savetier, “and to 2
glaziers … to drink together because they have been a long time in looking at the drawings
[“traictz”] of the windows in order to take from [the drawings] the measurements for the
window.” Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral, p. 172, no. 2. Obviously the masons who cut
the pieces and built the window and the glaziers who designed the stained glass referred
to a common set of drawings.
39 Flyers S15-S12 and N15-N12. The numbers mentioned do not include the springing course
and some voussoirs that are larger seem to result from restorations.
210 Davis and VAN Liefferinge

3 Conclusion

The drawings of flying buttresses on the choir terrace of the cathedral of Cler-
mont-Ferrand document two distinct graphic strategies used by 13th- and
14th-century architects. In both cases, they represent fully developed ideas
embedded into the process of construction itself; they are not the “napkin
sketches” of a preliminary stage of design nor are they explorations of theory
through drawing.40 Efficiently and with sophistication, they guided the fabri-
cation of key components of the building. Each set of drawings–arcs incised
above the radiating chapels of the chevet, openwork flyers on the north side of
the choir terrace– offers more information than first meets the eye. With terse
lines, the arcs offered a flexible and multi-use pattern that could determine
the span and shape of the choir flyers, construct the form work, generate tem-
plates to cut voussoirs, and verify the accuracy of the masonry before installa-
tion.41 Governed by what appears to be a “law of the quadrant,” they illustrate
one technique that builders invented to avoid constructing flyers that exerted
destabilizing pressure on the clerestory wall, yet one that allowed leeway in
their slope and placement. They bear witness to an awareness of structural
behavior, especially perhaps during construction itself before the flyer, wall,

40 Preliminary designs can be seen in a Soissons Cathedral sketch for a rose window, for which
see Wolfgang Schöller, “Eine mittelalterliche Architekturzeichnung im südlichen Querhau-
sarm der Kathedrale von Soissons, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 43 (1980), pp. 196–202.
Adamson. “Stonemasons’ Drawings,” p. 268, mentions four drawings that represent the
development stages of the “Bishop’s Eye” window of the Lincoln Cathedral south transept.
For a discussion of the evolving role of drawing in design practice, see Ann C. Huppert,
“Envisioning New St. Peter’s: Perspectival Drawings and the Process of Design, Journal of
the Society of Architectural Historians 68 (2009), pp. 158–177 and Pari Riahi, Ars et Ingenium:
The Embodiment of Imagination in Francesco di Giorgio Martini’s Drawings (London: Rout-
ledge, 2015) for drawing as a medium of theoretical exegesis. Christoph Liutpold Frommel,
“Reflections on the Early Architectural Drawings,” The Renaissance from Brunelleschi to
Michelangelo: The Representation of Architecture, ed. Henry A. Millon and Vittorio Magnago
Lampugnani (Milan, 1994), pp. 101–20, cogently traces the stages of development of “the
new architectural drawing” from 13th-century France to 16th-century Italy.
41 “Verify in field” (VIF) offers an interesting contemporary application of the interaction
between drawing and construction. As Eric Höweler, principal of Höweler + Yoon, Boston,
MA, writes, “VIF is a notational convention employed on architectural drawings indicat-
ing that the information on the drawings is incomplete, and further field measurement
and verification are necessary…. It may also refer to a process of feedback, where infor-
mation and expertise are fed back into the design process in ways that inflect the original
design.” The 2015 Sean Collier Memorial on the MIT campus in Cambridge, MA composed
of blocks of granite that form a five-way vault was constructed using this process.. See Eric
Höweler, “Verify in Field: Verification and Materiality in Contemporary Design Workflow,”
Exactitude, A Collection of Essays, ed. Pari Riahi, Laure Katsaros, and Michael T. Davis
(Amherst, MA, 2022), pp. 51–71.
Drawing Flyers at the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand 211

vault, and roof had yet to be locked into a stable whole and the building was
at its most vulnerable.42 However, these arcs are not an attempt to calculate
loads, thrusts and forces acting in the structure, an endeavor that architects
began to explore only in the 16th century.43
The later drawings of openwork flyers on the Clermont-Ferrand terrace
adopt a more pictorial approach resembling Villard’s elevation of the Reims
Cathedral flyers and terrace drawings at Limoges and Narbonne. Here, the
clearly rendered tracery arcade, framed by straight diagonal struts, can be
identified as the pattern for the unique pair of flyers of the eastern bay of the
nave that spring from the transept towers. Attentive observation reveals that
the draftsman combined both sectional and elevation views along with a map
of masonry joints to convey a maximum amount of information necessary for
the fabrication of the openwork flyer. In this case, the drawing would be sup-
plemented by templates to turn two-dimensional lines into three-dimensional
masonry. The thick arch of the flyer and the openwork tracery’s coordination
with the high capitals and vaults are omitted; the rising fabric of the nave clere-
story wall would complete the drawing.
Finally, the Clermont-Ferrand drawings lead beyond themselves to high-
light the inventive variety of flyer design. Rather than converging on formulaic
homogeneity, builders created myriad harmonies of structure and decoration
that assured the integrity of the building, transformed its exterior into an extra-
terrestrial cage, broadcast messages of power, and re-engineered the social and
commercial boundaries of the church in its urban environment.44 The arcs and
openwork arcades on the terrace materialize the master mason’s command of
varied graphic modes that addressed specific construction tasks, assuming dif-
ferent forms from project to project. Primary documents of thought and labor,
they inscribe the different design paths that led to an architecture of perfection.

42 Mark, “Light, Wind, Structure,” pp. 115–18, pointed to similar advantages during construc-
tion behind the adoption of quadripartite vaults over sexpartite vaults by High Gothic
builders. Whether or not Suger’s choir Saint-Denis included flying buttresses, the abbot’s
hair-raising account of arches and the roof of the upper structure “miserably trembling”
in gale force winds exactly captures the precarious moment “when the work … with its
capitals and upper arches–vaulted independently–were not yet held together by the bulk
of the severies…” Abbot Suger, On the Abbey Church of St.-Denis and its Art Treasures, ed.
Erwin Panofsky, 2nd ed. Gerda Soergel-Panofsky (Princeton, 1979), pp. 108–09.
43 Sergio Luis Sanabria, “The Mechanization of Design in the 16th Century: The Structural
Formulae of Rodrigo Gil de Hontañón,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians
41 (1982), pp. 281–93. Sanabria writes (p. 283) that Rodrigo’s unfinished treatise on archi-
tecture “describes a nearly mechanical design process for church architecture guided by
strictly predetermined routes, but with many free choices along the way.”
44 See Hutterer, Framing the Church, for a consideration of the power of buttresses beyond
their structural role.
 CHAPTER 13

Tracing the Past: A Digital Analysis of the Choir

Vaults at Wells Cathedral and Ottery Saint Mary

James Hillson with Alexandrina Buchanan and Nicholas Webb

The subjects of this article are the vaults of two buildings located in the south-
west of England, both dating from the early 14th century. One of these is the
choir at Wells Cathedral in Somerset, which is renowned for its unusual form
of lierne vaulting (Figure 13.1).1 Positioned atop the slender responds of an
intensely decorated yet variable elevation characterised by a central band of
canopied compartments, the choir vault consists of six rectangular bays fea-
turing a grid-like structure of crossing ribs, dividing its surface into a regular
pattern of eight distinctive crosses centered on cusped quadrilaterals. When
viewed in plan, these quadrilaterals are square in profile, but within the
three-dimensional context of the vault they are distorted by their projection
onto the curvatures of the ribs, the outer set forming a series of curvilinear kite
shapes as the viewer moves around the building.2
While the extraordinary design of such a vault has few contemporary paral-
lels, it has often drawn direct comparison to the choir of the church of Ottery
St Mary in Devon (Figure 13.2).3

1 Linzee S. Colchester, and John H. Harvey, “Wells Cathedral,” Archaeological Journal 131 (1974):
200–14; Peter Draper, “The Sequence and Dating of the Decorated work at Wells,” in Medieval
Art and Architecture at Wells and Glastonbury, ed. Nicola Coldstream and Peter Draper (Leeds,
1981), pp. 18–29; Paul Crossley, “Wells, The West Country, and Central European Late Gothic,”
in Coldstream and Draper, Wells and Glastonbury, pp. 81–109; Harvey, “The Building of Wells
Cathedral, II: 1307–1508,” in Wells Cathedral: A History, ed. Linzee S. Colchester (Shepton
Mallet, 1982), pp. 76–101; Christopher Wilson, The Gothic Cathedral. The Architecture of the
Great Church 1130–1530 (London, 1992; London, 2000), pp. 199–204; Crossley, “Peter Parler
and England. A Problem Revisited,” Wallraf-Richartz Jahrbuch, 64 (2003): 53–82; Tim Ayers,
The Medieval Stained Glass of Wells Cathedral (Oxford, 2004); Wilson, “Why did Peter Parler
Come to England?” in Architecture, Liturgy and Identity. Liber Amicorum Paul Crossley, ed.
Zoë Opačić and Achim Timmerman (Turnhout, 2011), pp. 89–109.
2 A 3D model of the choir vault at Wells Cathedral can be found on the project website. See
Alexandrina Buchanan, James Hillson and Nicholas Webb, “Wells,” Tracing the Past: Medieval
Vaults, 02 September 2021, https://www.tracingthepast.org.uk/2021/04/08/wells_site_by_site/.
3 Nikolaus Pevsner, The Buildings of England: South Devon (Harmondsworth, 1952), p. 220; Jean
Bony, The English Decorated Style: Gothic Architecture Transformed 1250–1350 (Oxford, 1979),
p. 51; Harvey, “Building,” pp. 86–87. The role of the vaults at Wells Cathedral and Ottery St

© James Hillson with Alexandrina Buchanan and Nicholas Webb, 2023

doi:10.1163/9789004529335_014
Tracing the Past 213

Figure 13.1 C
 hoir Vault at Wells Cathedral, photograph (above) and
orthophoto plan from 3D mesh model (below)
photograph and render by James Hillson

Located around 13 miles to the east of Exeter, the vault features a similar
pattern of crossing liernes, with the central portion of its surface being divided
into four crosses centered on a comparable set of cusped forms.4 The ostensive

Mary in the development of later medieval continental architecture is also an extensive topic
of discussion within the discipline. See Karl H. Clausen, Deutsche Gewölbe der Spätgotik
(Berlin, 1958), pp. 67–68; Pevsner, “Review of K. H. Clausen, Deutsche Gewölbe der Spätgotik,
Berlin, 1958,” in Art Bulletin 41 (1959), pp. 333–36; Henning Bock, “Der Beginn spätgotischer
Architektur in Prag (Peter Parler) und die Beziehungen zu England,” Wallraf-Richartz Jahrbuch
23 (1961): 191–210; Crossley, “Wells,” pp. 81–109; Wilson, “Gothic Cathedral,” pp. 227–32; Crossley,
“Peter Parler,” pp. 64–68; Wilson, “Peter Parler,” pp. 89–109; Jakub Adamski, “The Influence of
13th and 14th century English Architecture in the Southern Baltic Region and Poland,” Modus.
Prace z historii sztuki 15 (2015), pp. 41–68. A further microarchitectural parallel has been noted
in Paul Binski, “An Early Miniature Copy of the Choir Vaults of Wells Cathedral at Irnham,
Lincolnshire,” Journal of the British Archaeological Association 169 (2016), pp. 59–70.
4 3D models of the vaults at Ottery St Mary can be found on the project website. See Alexandrina
Buchanan, James Hillson and Nicholas Webb, “Ottery,” Tracing the Past: Medieval Vaults, 02
September 2021, https://www.tracingthepast.org.uk/2021/04/08/ottery_site_by_site/.
214 Hillson ET AL.

Figure 13.2 O
 ttery St Mary, photographs of Lady Chapel (top left), choir (bottom left)
and nave vaults (top right), orthophoto plans of choir and nave from 3D
mesh model (bottom right)
photographs by JR Peterson, orthophotos by James Hillson

stylistic similarities between the two vaults have led many scholars to attribute
them to the same designer, who, unusually in the study of medieval architec-
ture, can be given a name: William Joy.5 First documented as master of the
fabric at Wells on 28th July 1329, Joy has traditionally been considered respon-
sible for a number of architectural works within the cathedral, including the
completion of the choir.6 By 1346–47, Joy had also been appointed master of
the work at Exeter Cathedral, where he completed a variety of projects during
the episcopate of John Grandisson (1327–69).7 As Bishop Grandisson was also

5 John H. Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects. A Biographical Dictionary down to 1550, 2nd ed.
(Gloucester, 1984), pp. 164–65; Harvey, “Building,” pp. 86–87. Other works attributed to Joy are
discussed in Richard K. Morris, “European Prodigy or Regional Eccentric? The Rebuilding of
St Augustine’s Abbey Church, Bristol,” in Almost the Richest City. Bristol in the Middle Ages, ed.
Laurence Keen (Leeds, 1997), pp. 41–56.
6 Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects, pp. 164–65. William H. B. Bird, ed. Calendar of the MSS
of the Dean and Chapter of Wells, 1 (London, 1907), pp. 220, 222; Wells Cathedral Library and
Archives, Liber Albus I (Reg. I), fol. 179, 181.
7 Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects, p. 164; Audrey M. Erskine, The Accounts of the Fabric of
Exeter Cathedral, 1279–1353, 2 vols (Torquay, 1981–83), 2: xxi, 264.
Tracing the Past 215

responsible for the rebuilding of Ottery St Mary, it is therefore highly plausible

that the same master mason could have been at work on both sites. Such an
attribution is further reinforced by their sculpted bosses, both sets of which
feature a distinctive pattern of split foliage which exposes the intrados line of
the ribs, as well as a number of common features in the moulding profiles of
the ribs and other architectural details in the surrounding building.8 Yet despite
the extensive circumstantial evidence for such a joint attribution, there is one
key aspect of the vaults which has not been addressed by scholars: their under-
lying geometry. While there are no surviving drawings or other records relating
to the design process of either vault, there nonetheless remains the material
evidence of the buildings themselves. Since as early as the 19th century, it has
been understood that, by taking detailed measurements of the plans and cur-
vatures of a vault’s ribs, it is possible to develop meaningful interpretations of
the geometrical methods through which they might have been devised.9 With
the advent of digital technologies such as laser scanning and photogrammetry,
such surveys can be produced far more quickly and accurately than through
traditional analogue methods, enabling researchers to conduct more detailed
analyzes of the form and geometry of medieval vaulting than ever before.10
Consequently, this development has the potential to enable scholars to adopt a
far more nuanced approach to stylistic comparison, moving beyond the visual
consonances between associated works of architecture by considering the geo-
metrical principles through which they may have been devised.
Based on a series of laser scanning surveys conducted as part of the Tracing
the Past: English Medieval Vaults project at the University of Liverpool,11 this
article represents a test case for how digital technologies can be used to

8 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral, p. 230; Crossley, “Peter Parler,” p. 68.

9 Robert J. Willis, “On the Construction of the Vaults of the Middle Ages,” Transactions of the
Royal Institute of British Architects 1 (1982): 1–69.
10 Nicholas Webb and Alexandrina Buchanan, “Tracing the past: A digital analysis of Wells
cathedral choir aisle vaults,” Digital Applications in Archaeology and Cultural Heritage 4
(2017): 19–27; Rocío Maira Vidal, “The Evolution of the Knowledge of Geometry in Early
Gothic Construction: The Development of the Sexpartite Vault in Europe,” Conservation,
Analysis and Restoration 11 (2017): 1005–25; Manuel Maissen, “Vaults on the water: A sys-
tematic analysis of vault construction in the Wasserkirche Zurich,” in Proceedings of the
Seventh International Congress on Construction History (7ICCH), Lisbon, Portugal, 12–16
July 2021: History of Construction Cultures, ed. João. Mascarenhas-Mateus et al., 2 (Leiden,
2021), pp. 349–55.
11 For a detailed summary of the project and its aims, see Alexandrina Buchanan, James
Hillson and Nicholas Webb, Digital Analysis of Vaults in English Medieval Architecture
(Abingdon and New York, 2021), pp. 1–7; Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, “Tracing the Past:
English Medieval Vaults,” 02 September 2021, https://www.tracingthepast.org.uk/.
216 Hillson ET AL.

challenge conventional methods of stylistic comparison between vault designs.

Focusing on the choirs at Wells and Ottery St Mary, it investigates whether
or not the stylistic similarities which architectural historians have identified
between the two vaults have any fundamental basis in the geometrical prac-
tices of their designers, both in the terms of their plans and the curvatures
of their individual ribs. By considering the visual appearance of the vaults as
the result of a design process rather than an assemblage of formal elements,
it proposes a new digital methodology for the comparative stylistic analysis of
medieval vaulting, with far wider implications for the study of design methods
during the later Middle Ages.

1 Chronology

Though the choir vaults at Wells and Ottery St Mary have both been dated to
the early 14th century by architectural historians, there is a distinct absence
of concrete evidence regarding their relative chronology or attribution. While
there are a number of surviving documents relating to both sites, there are
none which relate directly to the design or construction of the vaults. There are
no equivalents of the extensive fabric accounts which survive at Exeter Cathe-
dral, nor are there any chronicles detailing the construction process.12 Instead,
the conventional dating and attribution of the works at both buildings has
been developed through a process of supposition and inference, reflecting the
intertwined institutional histories and careers of three sites and two master
masons.
The reconstruction of the choir at Wells was part of a far more extensive
rebuilding of the east end of the cathedral, beginning with the addition of a
new Lady Chapel to the east of the retrochoir. While the exact timing of the
works has been debated, the general consensus among architectural historians
is that the Lady Chapel was built from 1323–26, probably under the direction
of master Thomas of Witney.13 Between 1329 and 1330 a series of chantries
were founded in the chapels flanking the east end, suggesting that they were
already completed by this stage, and it is probable that the retrochoir dated
from around the same period.14 However, the dating of the choir itself is less

12 Erskine, Accounts.
13 The current consensus regarding the chronology of the Lady Chapel at Wells was origi-
nally proposed in Draper, “Sequence,” pp. 18–29. Draper’s argument was opposed in Har-
vey, “Building,” pp. 76–79.
14 Draper, “Sequence,” p. 23.
Tracing the Past 217

straightforward. In 1333 the executors of the will of Dean John de Godelegh

were given quittance for debts relating to works on the fabric including the
“demolition of the church” (“demolicionis ecclesie”), which could conceivably
be related to the removal of the pre-existing 12th-century choir.15 While John
de Godelegh could have contracted this debt at any point during his incum-
bency as dean, it is nonetheless probable that it represents a comparatively
recent contribution to the fabric, dating from before his death in 1332.16 Taken
together, this would give an approximate date range of 1326–33 for the start of
the new works in the choir.
Construction of the choir at Wells appears to have been slow. In 1333 a com-
plaint was registered with King Edward III by the cathedral chapter, estimat-
ing that there were at least three years of work remaining, and in 1337 a new
tax was raised on the canons to expedite the building of the church.17 While
the first three eastern bays feature a largely uniform design characterized by a
central layer of canopied rectangular panels and continuous Purbeck marble
responds, close examination of the remaining bays reveals a number of differ-
ences in elevation, including a change in level for the transition between the
clerestory and triforium below. Despite this difference, the springing points for
the vault ribs remain consistent throughout the choir, and there are no notice-
able changes in the design of the vaulting from bay to bay. This suggests that
the vault at least may have been completed in a uniform campaign, conven-
tionally dated to c.1340.18 With a vault design that has no exact precedents, it is
impossible to define a starting or ending date without external documentary

15 Colchester and Harvey, “Wells,” p. 208; Draper, “Sequence,” p. 23–24. Wells Cathedral
Library and Archives, Charter 240 (Cal. II, 600); Thomas S. Holmes, ed., The Register of
Ralph of Shrewsbury, Bishop of Bath and Wells 1329–1363 (Somerset Record Society IX),
(London, 1896), p. 150.
16 For the death of John de Godelegh see Bird, Calendar, pp. 231, 232. John de Godelegh
appears to have been active as dean from as early as 1305 and appears to have been closely
involved in the funding of the fabric at Wells.
17 Wells Cathedral Library and Archives, Liber Albus I (Reg. I), fol. 192, 200; Bird, Calendar,
pp. 231–32, 238–39. See Colchester and Harvey, “Wells,” p. 208; Harvey, “Building,” p. 85;
Ayers, Medieval Stained Glass, pp. 286–87.
18 According to John Harvey and Linzee Colchester, the date of completion for the choir
could be established by the heraldry in the glazing of the east window, which supposedly
predate the adoption of the arms of France by Edward III in 1340 (Linzee S. Colchester,
Stained Glass in Wells Cathedral [Wells, 1973], p. 14, n. 48); Colchester and Harvey, “Wells,”
208–09. This assumption has been overturned by Tim Ayers, who proposes that a broader
date range of c.1335–45 would be more appropriate (Ayers, Medieval Stained Glass, 339). It
is likely that the roof and vault were installed before the glazing of the east window.
218 Hillson ET AL.

or material evidence, and its construction could just as comfortably be placed

anywhere between the mid-1330s and late 1340s.
At first glance, the chronology of the church at Ottery St Mary appears more
secure. Within the existing literature it is generally ascribed the rather precise
date range of 1337–42, based on an interpretation of the documentary evi-
dence relating to its refoundation as a collegiate institution.19 In 1335 Bishop
John Grandisson purchased the manor and advowson of the church from the
chapter of Rouen Cathedral, with the intent of establishing a college of secular
canons close to his manor at Bishop’s Court.20 In 1337 he secured a licence
for the college’s foundation from King Edward III, and it is widely assumed
that construction began around or shortly after this date.21 The new works
included the rebuilding of the central vessel of the choir and the entirety of
the nave, the revaulting of the choir aisles and transept and the addition of
a new Lady Chapel at the east end, with only the north and south walls of
the choir aisles and the transept towers from the preceding church being pre-
served.22 The terminus ante quem of 1342 is derived from an undated letter
written to Pope Benedict XII regarding the confirmation of the college stat-
utes, which refers directly to the ‘little church’ (‘ecclesiola’) which “has been
built” (“est constructa”) in reverence of the Virgin and Edward the Confessor.23
As Benedict XII died in April 1342, it is therefore assumed that the church was
in an advanced state of completion before his death. The argument is further
supported by the heraldic evidence of the sculpted bosses and former painted
decoration of the church interior, which exhibit a range of coats of arms relat-
ing to the Grandisson family and their associated kinsmen. If the accounts of

19 John N. Dalton, The Collegiate Church of Ottery St Mary (Cambridge, 1917), pp. vi, 11–73;
Pevsner, Buildings of England, pp. 218–23.
20 Dalton, Collegiate Church, p. 12.
21 Calendar of the Patent Rolls: Edward III A.D. 1334–38 (London, 1895), 569. London, The
National Archives, C 66/191, m. 4.
22 The earliest recorded church at Ottery St Mary was consecrated by Bishop Bronescombe
in 1259, though it is probable that there was a preceding Norman church. Dalton, Colle-
giate Church, p. 11.
23 “Beatitudinis vestre pedibus humiliter mente prostratus sequitor vester, ecclesieque Exonien-
sis indignus Minister, Johannes, pro Confirmacione Collegii Sancte Marie de Otery gracia-
rum refero possibles, licet tanto beneficio impares, acciones; devotis, prout audeo, precibus
supplicando quatinus, ob honorem ipsius gloriose Virginis et beati Regis et Confessoris
Christi Edwardi, in quorum reverencia ibidem jam Ecclesiola, inter omnes regni istius juxta
statum suum venustior, est constructa, precipere dignemini predictum negocium feliciter
expediri, et devote locum visitantibus in festis et octavis ejusdem benedicte Virginis et matris
Dei, ac confessoris sui predicti, ad vestrorum cumulum meritorum Indulgencias concedere
speciales.” Dalton, Collegiate Church, pp. 117–18.
Tracing the Past 219

their 19th-century restorers are to be believed, the painted shields which once
adorned the top of the reredos at the east end of the choir included the arms
of William Montacute, 1st Earl of Salisbury and husband of Katherine Gran-
disson, who died in 1344. Consequently, it is assumed that the reredos must
have dated before 1345.24 Such a deduction could also be applied to the vaults
throughout the church, which were filled with bosses bearing the Montacute
arms.
However, the 1337–42 dating for the vaults at Ottery is far more tenuous than
is often claimed. The letter to Benedict XII is undated and may well have been
written as early as the summer of 1338, when the first version of the college
ordinances were drafted and submitted to the pope.25 As it is improbable that
the works at Ottery were completed within the span of a single year, such a
date would either suggest that construction began significantly earlier than
is often assumed, or, more likely, that Grandisson’s statement regarding the
‘little church’ is an unreliable indicator of its state of completion. Even the
dating implied by the heraldry is insecure, as many of the arms within the
church were retrospective, with the reredos including the arms of the bishop’s
deceased father, mother and uncle as well as the Courtenay and Northwode
families.26 Instead, the only firm indicator of a date of completion are the
tombs of the Bishop’s brother, Otho Grandisson, and his wife Beatrice, both of
whom died in 1359 and were buried with effigies in the second bay of the nave.27
Consequently, the works at Ottery St Mary could have been accomplished at
any point between the late 1330s and early 1350s, with both the design and
construction of its diverse vaults potentially being far more widely distributed
than has traditionally been assumed by architectural historians.
Even after such revisions, the field of dates for the choirs at Wells and Ottery
would still coincide neatly with what is known about the career of William Joy.
The first record of his appointment as master of the fabric at Wells on 28th July
1329 indicates that he had already been serving in this capacity for some time,
although there is some evidence to suggest that the previous master, Thomas
of Witney, was still active in 1323 and remained a resident in Wells until as late
as 1327.28 Consequently, a starting date of 1326–33 for the choir at Wells would
place it firmly within the range of possibility for his activity on site. Though it is
not known when Joy ceased to work at Wells, at Exeter he may have remained

24 Dalton, Collegiate Church, pp. 57–62; Pevsner, Buildings of England, p. 219.

25 Dalton, Collegiate Church, pp. 117–18.
26 Dalton, Collegiate Church, pp. 51–53, 63, 72.
27 Dalton, Collegiate Church, pp. 37–46.
28 Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects, p. 340.
220 Hillson ET AL.

active until as late as September 1352, by which date the works were under
the direction of master Richard Farleigh.29 An Exeter connection is further
reinforced by the investigations of Nikolaus Pevsner, who observed a degree of
stylistic similarity between the figurative boss sculptures in the choir at Ottery
and the nave at Exeter, the latter probably dating from c.1328–42.30 However,
it is generally assumed that the nave vault was executed by Thomas of Witney,
who had been in charge of the site from as early as 1316 and was still receiving
his quarterly stipend in 1342.31 Yet even if some masons were shared between
the two sites, this does not mean that their vaults were the product of the same
designer, and an attribution to Joy cannot therefore be discarded on this basis
alone.
Whatever their attribution, the uncertainties surrounding the dating of the
choir vaults at Ottery and Wells render any potential stylistic interrelationship
between the sites highly ambiguous. There is no reliable method of establish-
ing a relative design and construction sequence for the two vaults, nor can
their authorship be conclusively demonstrated through documentary history
or conventional stylistic analysis. Consequently, the only way in which they
can meaningfully be compared is in terms of the similarities and differences
between their designs, something which can be accomplished through the
detailed surveying of the material fabric at both sites.

2 Digital Analysis

Based at the University of Liverpool, Tracing the Past: English Medieval Vaults
is an ongoing research project which uses digital technologies to analyze the
design and construction of vaulting in medieval England. Focusing on 14 case
study sites across the United Kingdom, the project’s principal method of inves-
tigation is a series of digital surveys conducted using a terrestrial laser scanner.
In April 2016, a survey was conducted of the church at Ottery St Mary using a
Faro Focus X330 Laser Scanner, including the vaults of the Lady Chapel, choir,
transept and nave.32 While an earlier survey had been made at Wells in April

29 Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects, p. 164; Erskine, Accounts, 2: pp. xxi, 290. The last
definite evidence of William Joy being alive and working was in 1347 and due to a subse-
quent gap in accounts, it is impossible to identify when he ceased to be active.
30 Nikolaus Pevsner, “A Note on the Art of the Exeter Carvers,” in Medieval Carvings in Exeter,
by Charles J. P. Cave (London, 1953), pp. 30–31.
31 Harvey, English Mediaeval Architects, pp. 339–41; Erskine, Accounts, 1:73, 2:270.
32 This survey of the church at Ottery St Mary was funded by an Interdisciplinary Network
Fund from the University of Liverpool. All of our laser scanning data is available for any
Tracing the Past 221

2015, this had not included the vault of the choir, and so a second survey was
conducted in October 2019, using a Faro S 150 Laser Scanner.33 The technique
involves taking a series of scans at multiple locations in the building, with the
scanner automatically measuring the distances between it and every solid sur-
face the laser hits, creating individual points in space. This process is repeated
hundreds of thousands of times, recording a cloud of points within a three-­
dimensional sphere. Once the survey was completed, the data from each scan
was processed and aligned within Faro’s proprietary software, resulting in a set
of detailed point clouds and mesh models for each bay of vaulting at both sites.
While such 3D models are useful for visualising a vault’s three-dimensional
form, it is not at present possible to extract the geometry of the vaults from
them directly. Consequently, the intrados lines of the vault ribs at Wells and
Ottery were retraced using Rhinoceros, an advanced 3D modelling program.
This is a two-stage process. The first is to section the vault, converting each
rib intrados into lines of points arranged in three dimensions. The second is
to convert these points into a wireframe model of best fit arcs, allowing the
curvature of each rib to be measured and analyzed geometrically. Individual
measurements can be tabulated and compared across the whole sample, with
basic statistical techniques being used to divide the ribs into groups. When the
groups have been identified, it is then possible to use the data to develop a set
of theories regarding how the plan and curvatures of the vault were originally
devised.
Once a design hypothesis has been established, it can then be modelled in
three dimensions and tested by superimposing the resulting lines and curves
onto the wireframe and mesh models directly. If the two wireframes do not
match, then the hypothesis can be adjusted in response and a new test model
produced, the process of trial and error repeating until the closest possible
match between hypothesis and reality has been achieved. While the end result
is not necessarily an accurate representation of the original design processes
behind medieval vaults, it is nonetheless a plausible one and provides a good
starting point for further research. Through applying this approach to the
choirs at Wells and Ottery, it is therefore possible to propose detailed design
processes for each of the vaults, both in terms of setting out of their plans and
defining the curvatures of their individual ribs.

non-commercial purpose at the Archaeology Data Service (https://archaeologydataser�-

vice.ac.uk/), as well as a selection of point clouds and mesh models.
33 The first survey of Wells Cathedral was funded by a Paul Mellon Center Grant, but the
second formed part of a far larger Early Career Researcher Grant funded by the Arts and
Humanities Research Council (AHRC).
222 Hillson ET AL.

3 Plans

The first step in designing any vault was to establish the dimensions of the
bay plan. At Wells Cathedral, the choir bays are highly regular, with an average
length of 10.17 m for the transverse (east and west) and 5.22 m for the longitudi-
nal (north and south) sides. While this would give an average breadth to length
ratio of 1.95:1, the bay plans within the choir are slightly skewed, making it pos-
sible that the original intended ratio was 2:1 (Figure 13.3). At Ottery, however, the
choir bays are significantly smaller, averaging 5.88 m for the transverse (east and
west) and 3.34 m for the longitudinal (north and south) sides. The resulting bays
do not appear to correspond closely to any known medieval proportional sys-
tem, and were likely determined by the dimensions of the preceding church.34
Once the bay plan had been defined, the next stage would presumably have
been to set out the vault plan, specifically the pattern of the ribs.35 Such a pro-
cess would normally be conducted on a flat surface at a 1:1 scale, as exemplified
by the tracing floor above the north porch of the nave at Wells, which incor-
porates a design for the vault of the nearby 15th-century cloister.36 There are
a variety of different methods which medieval designers could have used to
set out their vault patterns, but the principal one which we have found within
English vaulting is a geometrical figure called the starcut. First formally iden-
tified by the Danish engineer Tons Brunés and named by the scholar Malcolm
Stewart, the starcut is a method for dividing up a rectangular plan into any the-
oretical set of modular proportions.37 It is constructed by drawing lines con-
necting the corners of a rectangular bay to the midpoints of its sides (Figure
13.4). By drawing further lines through the points of intersection generated by
this figure, a designer could impose a number of proportional systems on the

34 The proportions which we tried included, but were not limited to 1:ϕ, 1:√2, 1:√3, 1:√4 and
1:√5. The closest match we found was 1:√3, but the results were not precise enough to be
considered conclusive (Alexandrina Buchanan, James Hillson and Nicholas Webb, “Ottery,”
Tracing the Past: Medieval Vaults, 02 September 2021, https://www.tracingthepast.org.
uk/2021/04/08/vault_design_ottery/). For more details of our methods for analysing medie�-
val proportions, see Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis (see above, n. 11) 91–94.
35 For a detailed discussion of our methods for analysing vault plans, see Buchanan, Hillson
and Webb, Digital Analysis, 83–24.
36 Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 87–91; Nicholas Webb, James Hillson,
John Robert Peterson, Alexandrina Buchanan and Sarah Duffy, “Documentation and
analysis of a medieval tracing floor using photogrammetry, reflectance transformation
imaging and laser scanning,” in eCAADe 2020 conference proceedings (Anthropologic –
Architecture and Fabrication in the cognitive age), ed. Liss C. Werner and Dietmar Köring,
2 vols (Brussels and Berlin, 2021), 2: 209–18.
37 Tons Brunés, The Secrets of Ancient Geometry (Copenhagen, 1967); Malcolm Stewart, Pat-
terns of Eternity: Sacred Geometry and the Starcut Diagram (Stourbridge, 2009).
Tracing the Past 223

Figure 13.3 P
 lans and tables of measurement for the vaults at Wells Cathedral and Ottery
St Mary, using intrados lines traced in Rhinoceros 3D
drawing by James Hillson

vault’s plan. Each new line produces a different set of points of intersection
which can be used to generate further sets of lines and points, allowing the
vault’s geometry to be developed in an iterative, ad hoc manner.38 An example
of how the starcut may have been used can be seen in the southwest choir aisle
at Wells, where the vault plan was set out using a combination of halves, thirds
and sixths.39 It would certainly have been possible to design the vault using
a modular grid system of regular vertical and horizontal divisions, organised
perhaps with the aid of one of the other geometrical techniques available to

38 This approach invites comparison with the “dynamic unfolding” of medieval vault-
ing described in Robert Bork, The Geometry of Creation: Architectural Drawing and the
Dynamics of Gothic Design (Farnham, 2011); and Bork, “Dynamic Unfolding and the
Conventions of Procedure: Geometric Proportioning Strategies in Gothic Architectural
Design,” Architectural Histories 2 (2014).
39 For a full discussion of the southwest choir aisle at Wells Cathedral see Buchanan, Hillson
and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 94–103.
224 Hillson ET AL.

Figure 13.4 S tarcut variations (top), plans and proportions of the southwest choir
aisle at Wells Cathedral (upper middle) and stage-by-stage diagrams
of grid system (lower middle) and starcut design processes (bottom)
drawings by James Hillson

medieval masons such as the van der Graaf canon (Figure 13.4).40 However,
such a method would require the proportions used to be the specific aim
rather than an incidental aspect of the geometrical design process, something

40 For the van der Graaf canon see J. A. van der Graaf, “Nieuwe berekening voor de vorm-
geving,” in Tété: Technisch Tijdschrift voor de Grafische Industrie (Amsterdam, 1946); Jan
Tschischold, The Form of the Book: Essays on the Morality of Good Design (Dublin, 1992).
For a discussion of its potential application to vault design see Buchanan, Hillson and
Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 98–101.
Tracing the Past 225

that does not appear to have been the case for many of the vault designs at
Wells, which often cannot readily be explained by modular proportional sys-
tems. Instead, the closest matches which we have found involve two specific
variations on the starcut: the inner circle starcut and the outer circle starcut.41
In both cases the starcut was altered by using a circle to modifying the posi-
tions of the midpoints of the bay sides - an inner circle spanning the length or
width of the bay or an outer circle passing through its corners (Figure 13.4). The
resulting proportions are difficult to explain without the use of this particular
geometrical figure, reinforcing the case that the regular starcut was also in use
during this period. However, this does not mean that the possibility of a grid
system should be discounted entirely, a point which is aptly demonstrated by
the high vault of the choir at Wells. The plan of the Wells choir vault is divided
into a grid of eight diagonal crosses, providing a framework within which the
remaining ribs could be set out (Stages 1–6 on Figure 13.5). The points of inter-
section between these crosses give the centers for the vault’s cusped squares,
the boundaries of which could be defined using a variety of different geometri-
cal methods. After trying several possibilities, we found that the closest match
involved using a partial outer circle starcut, identifying the corners of the
cusped squares using the points of intersection between the transverse lines of
the starcut figure and a set of diagonal lines within the established vault grid
(Stages 7–8 on Figure 13.5). The dimensions could then be transferred radially
from square to square using a compass, allowing the remaining geometry of
the plan to be laid out quickly and efficiently (Stages 9–10 on Figure 13.5).
By contrast, the process for setting out the choir vault plan at Ottery St Mary
appears to have been strikingly different (Figure 13.5). The tiercerons on its
north and south sides do not correspond to a neat proportional grid, nor are
their angles continuous with the crossed liernes at the center of the vault. By
extending the lines of the traced data using Rhinoceros, it is possible to see
that the geometry of the tiercerons converges on a point inside the borders
of the bay plan. This makes it unlikely that the position of the tiercerons was
determined using the starcut directly, requiring us to consider alternative
approaches for designing their layout. A common method of defining the end
point of tiercerons was to use a horizontal line drawn parallel to the longitu-
dinal axis of the vault, its position established using the intersection points
generated by a starcut. While this method does not work well with the regular
or outer circle starcuts at Ottery, it does produce a good result when used with

41 Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 103–08.

226 Hillson ET AL.

Figure 13.5 S tage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for

vault planAt Wells Cathedral and Ottery St Mary
drawings by James Hillson

the inner circle starcut, suggesting that this may have been the method used by
the vault’s designers (Stages 1–4 on Figure 13.5).
Once the inner circle starcut and tiercerons were in place, the next phase for
the choir vault at Ottery was to draw an inner grid of diagonal crosses, analo-
gous to those at Wells, but entirely different in their placement and proportions
(Stage 5 on Figure 13.5). As at Wells, these crosses provided the centers for a set
Tracing the Past 227

of cusped quadrilaterals, representing a continuation of a far wider contempo-

rary trend towards incorporating features from blind and open tracery into vault
designs.42 Yet whereas the quadrilateral figures at Wells have straight edges when
viewed in plan, at Ottery they are curvilinear. Though it is not entirely clear how
the latter were set out by their designers, as their forms have proven difficult
to analyze geometrically, close examination reveals that the east and west sides
consist of a single arc, but the north and south sides are formed by two distinct
arcs connected by a short straight line. It is possible that these were set out using
a series of repeated circles of the same radius, a plausible process for which can
tentatively be proposed (Stages 7–8 on Figure 13.5). However, when our current
hypothesis was modelled, the results were significantly smaller than the scanned
data, suggesting that the actual method used has yet to be identified.
While both the choir vault plans at Wells and Ottery appear to have made use
of a combination between a circle starcut and a diagonal grid system, the appli-
cation of these shared principles in both cases is radically different. Whereas the
diagonal grid at Wells is dominant and the starcut subordinate, the priority is
entirely reversed at Ottery, with the starcut taking the lead over the central grid.
In this respect the choir at Wells Cathedral has far more in common with the
vault plans of the Lady Chapel or nave at Ottery St Mary, both of which rely exclu-
sively on a diagonal grid for setting out their pattern (Figure 13.5). In addition,
the type of starcut employed at both sites is very different, with an outer circle
starcut being used at Wells and an inner circle starcut at Ottery. Though both
methods rely on the fundamental principle of expanding the dimensions of the
starcut beyond the confines of the bay, the results are extremely different propor-
tionally. By extending the starcut along the vault’s transverse axis, the designer at
Wells was able to expand the profile of the cusped quadrilaterals. In contrast, by
extending the starcut along the vault’s longitudinal axis, the designer was able to
compress the transverse dimensions of the inner set of quadrilaterals at Ottery.
Despite the use of similar principles at both sites, the application of these meth-
ods to their specific designs appears to have been entirely reversed, suggesting a
radically different conception process for the two vault plans.

4 Curves

Once the two-dimensional plan of a vault had been set out, the next step was to
define the curvatures of the individual ribs. Though such a process did represent

42 Wilson, Gothic Cathedral, p. 202; Crossley, “Peter Parler,” pp. 63–68.

228 Hillson ET AL.

Figure 13.6 D
 iagrams of measurements (top) and geometrical methods (bottom) used for
setting out rib curvatures
drawings by James Hillson

a complex three-dimensional problem for the vault’s designers, in practice

it was accomplished solely using two-dimensional geometry. Each rib was in
effect treated as a single line or curve situated on a two-dimensional plane, with
the defining geometry probably being worked out on the same flat space as the
vault’s plan. This can be seen clearly on the plaster surface of the tracing floor at
Wells, where the curvature of the wall rib for the cloister vault has been set out
along with its accompanying window on the north side of the plan.
For the overwhelming majority of ribs in medieval vaulting, the geometry
was determined by a common set of variables which could be fixed by the
designers (Figure 13.6).43 Each rib has a springing point (O), usually positioned
at the level of the impost (i), and a notional apex or end point (xa, ya). The lat-
ter usually represents a combination of the rib’s apex height (ya) and span (xa),
the latter invariably set by the dimensions and geometrical layout of the vault’s
plan. Though some ribs were set out as straight lines, the majority were defined
as curves, possessing at least one radius (r) and center (h, k). Within the design
of any single rib, the value of each of these variables is mutually interdepen-
dent, a principle which can be demonstrated mathematically. By fixing sev-
eral of these elements in advance, designers were therefore able to establish a
framework within which the remaining variables could be derived, selecting

43 Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 125–31.

Tracing the Past 229

an appropriate geometrical method for filling in the extant elements of the

vault’s design.
There are two general categories of methods which we have identified in
English medieval vaults: chord methods and fixed radius methods.44 Chord
methods revolve around drawing a line or chord from the springing point to
a second point along the rib’s curvature. A perpendicular bisector is drawn
through the middle of the chord and the center of the arc is defined by marking
the point of intersection between the bisector and another defined element.
The simplest variation on this is the single chord method, which involves draw-
ing a chord from the springing to a defined apex (Figure 13.6). The center (h,
k) is identified as the point of intersection between the perpendicular bisector
of this chord and the impost level of the vault (i), representing the horizontal
level defined by its capitals. Alternatively, the designer might attempt to con-
struct the rib as a segmental arc, defining its center by the point of intersection
between the same bisector and a vertical line descending from the apex of the
vault (Figure 13.6). Another approach was to use the two chord method. This
involves defining an additional point along the curvature of the rib, often with
reference to other ribs within the vault (Figure 13.6). Two separate chords are
then constructed and the center (h, k) is defined by identifying the point of
intersection between their perpendicular bisectors. In each case, the location
of the center enables the radius of the vault to be defined, providing all of the
elements necessary for completing the ribs.
Fixed radius methods differ in that they involve transferring a defined
radius across multiple ribs. The most common example of this is the three cir-
cles method, which begins by drawing two circles of a fixed radius centered on
the defined springing point (O) and apex (xa, ya) of the rib (Figure 13.6). The
lower point of intersection between these two circles is then used to define
the center (h, k) of a third circle with the same radius, which represents the
curvature of the rib. In this case, it is the magnitude of the radius which allows
the location of the center to be defined, with the span (xa), apex height (ya)
and springing point all being determined in advance. This means that the cen-
ter is seldom at the level of the impost (i), its distance above or below varying
depending upon the span, apex height and the magnitude of the radius.

44 A full study of all the chord and fixed radius methods identified in this article can be
found in Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 134–53. See also Buchanan,
Hillson and Webb, “Tracing the Past: Medieval Vaults – Designing – Ribs,” Tracing the
Past: Medieval Vaults, 02 September 2021, https://www.tracingthepast.org.uk/2021/04/09
/designing_ribs/.
230 Hillson ET AL.

By analyzing the measurements derived from our mesh models, it is there-

fore possible to suggest which geometrical method could have been used for
setting out each individual rib. The measurements which we typically take
consist of the apex height (ya), the radius (r) and the vertical position of the
center relative to the impost (k), with a positive value above and a negative
value below. Together, these provide all of the information necessary for differ-
entiating between the core set of geometrical methods which we have identi-
fied, though other supplementary measurements are occasionally required for
investigating some of the more specialised techniques.
The choir vault at Ottery St Mary appears to be the more straightforward
of the two sites. When studying the measurements from the laser scan data, it
quickly became apparent that the apex height of the vault was similar through-
out the choir, the central line of bosses being positioned along a horizontal
longitudinal ridge with an average height of 3.39 m above the impost. This
height appears to have been set by the apex of the church’s east or west win-
dow, both of which consist of five lights arranged within a pointed arch. The
springing points of the ribs are uniformly located at the level of the impost,
represented by the abaci of the respond capitals, and their spans are given by
the plan described above. A further fixed element was provided by the apex
height of the clerestory on the north and south sides, which is markedly lower
than that of the east and west windows.
In the longitudinal wall ribs, the average height of the center (ha, ka) was
measured at 0.03 m above the impost (i), extremely close to impost level. This
suggests that the chord method may have been used (Stage 1 on Figure 13.7),
with the position of the center being fixed by the level of the impost and the
apex height (ya) of 2.91 m being given by the adjoining clerestory. When test-
ing this hypothesis using Rhinoceros, the result was an arc with a radius (ra)
of 3.50 m, a close match for the average recorded radius of 3.49 m. A similar
method appears to have been used for the transverse ribs (Stage 2 on Figure
13.7), though the measured apex height (yb) is taller at 3.39 m, the position of
the center (hb, kb) averages slightly higher at 0.11 m and the resulting radius
(rb) is smaller at 3.37 m. If the rib is modelled in Rhinoceros, the resulting cur-
vature does deviate slightly from that of the traced rib, producing a radius of
3.43 m, but such a variation is well within our usual tolerance for differences in
recorded radius measurements (±0.10 m).45 The difference in the height of the
center could be the result of minor fluctuations within the built fabric, perhaps
relating to the interruption of the transverse ribs by the crossed liernes, which

45 For our usual ranges of error in assessing similarity between measurements, see Buchanan,
Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp. 76–81.
Tracing the Past 231

Figure 13.7 S tage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for rib
Curvatures at Ottery St Mary
drawings by James Hillson

leave an open gap between the terminal boss and notional apex. However, it
is also possible that the level was adjusted slightly by the vault’s designers, a
technique which was used extensively in the nave at Exeter Cathedral.46
For the tiercerons, however, the setting out process is far less clear. The
vertical position of the center (kc) is significantly higher than the level of the
impost, at an average height of 0.30 m. Their average apex height (yc) of 2.96
m is markedly higher than that of the interrupted transverse (2.87 m) and lon-
gitudinal ribs (2.91 m), though it is closest to the latter, and the average radius
(rc) of 2.74 m is not repeated anywhere else within the vaults at Ottery St Mary.
Consequently, it is unlikely that a fixed radius method would have been used,

46 Nicholas Webb and Alexandrina Buchanan, “Digitally aided analysis of medieval vaults
in an English cathedral, using generative design tools,” International Journal of Architec-
tural Computing 17 (2019), pp. 241–259; Buchanan, Hillson and Webb, Digital Analysis, pp.
134–41.
232 Hillson ET AL.

and while it is possible that a two chord method was employed, there are no
indications that the traced intrados line was intended to match the curvature
of another rib. Instead, the closest match which we could find was a variation
on the segmental arc method whereby the apex height (yc) and span (xc) were
derived using lines projected from the curvature of the transverse rib, specif-
ically using the position of the outer edges of the cusped figures at the vault’s
center (Stage 3 on Figure 13.7). While this does result in a fairly decent approx-
imation of the rib’s geometry when modelled within Rhinoceros, whether or
not such a convoluted method was used by the vault’s designer is open to inter-
pretation. The remaining liernes of the vault are even more difficult to analyze,
as the shortness of the ribs and the nature of their curvature makes it virtually
impossible to quantify their geometry reliably using our existing methods.
Consequently, we have to leave the means unidentified for now, though future
work may of course enable us to take them into account.
On first inspection, the setting out of the ribs in the choir at Wells seems
fairly similar. The apex height of the transverse ribs (ya) appears to have been
fixed by the level of the east window, with an average height of 6.97 m along
the longitudinal ridge. However, the height of the clerestory on the north and
south sides is significantly lower, resulting in an average apex height (yh) of 5.19
m for the longitudinal wall ribs. As for the choir at Ottery, the transverse ribs
were probably constructed using the chord method (Stage 1 of Figure 13.8), with
an average radius (ra) of 7.01 m. However, the springing point of the ribs (O)
was not fixed at impost level, but slightly higher at approximately 0.20–0.25 m
above the capitals below, a process which is conventionally known as stilting.
It was this new impost level that appears to have been used to provide the line
of intersection for the perpendicular of the chord, though the average height of
the center suggests that it may have been positioned slightly higher (average
0.30 m). The same method was also apparently used for the longitudinal ribs,
but the springing points of the arch (O) were stilted even higher, reflecting the
form of the clerestory behind (Stage 2 on Figure 13.8). Despite this, the designers
appear to have retained the impost level of the transverse arches for positioning
their centers, with an average distance to impost of 0.23 m. The use of stilting
for wall ribs was a common approach to vault design during this period, and
was widely reproduced throughout our case study sites. However, the use of
stilting within the other ribs of the vault was far less widespread and can there-
fore be considered an idiosyncratic feature of the vaulting in the choir at Wells.
Unlike most other contemporary vault designs, the main diagonals at Wells
do not converge on the center of the vault, but instead on the apexes of the
transverse ribs. Each diagonal was split into three sections by the inclusion
of the cusped quadrilaterals at the center of every cross, with each section
Tracing the Past 233

Figure 13.8 S tage-by-stage diagrams of hypothesized setting out processes for rib
curvatures at Wells Cathedral
drawings by James Hillson

being defined using a distinct geometrical method. For each section the apex
heights (yb, yc, yd) appear to have been defined by the transverse rib, using the
same method of projection that was employed in the two chord method (Stage
3 of Figure 13.8). The lower curve was constructed using the chord method,
adjusted using the same stilting method that had been employed for the trans-
verse arches (Stage 4 of Figure 13.8), while the upper curve was laid out using
a variation of the two chord method, with the third point along the rib’s cir-
cumference being provided by a projection from the transverse ribs (Stage 4 of
Figure 13.8). The middle section, however, is set back from the ribs around it,
with a different style of moulding and a unique curvature. However, its short
234 Hillson ET AL.

length and inaccessible position within the confines of the outer quadrilater-
als means that it is effectively impossible to analyze geometrically.
Where the vault becomes more complex is in defining the curvatures of the
outer quadrilaterals. These appear to have been set out using a variation on
the two chord method, with the intention of maintaining continuous tunnels
along the transverse axis. The apex height of the lower diagonal (yd) and a third
point along its circumference (ye) are projected orthogonally, producing the
spans xe, xf and xg (Stage 6 on Figure 13.8). The resulting points are then used
to construct an arc using the two chord method, which is continued upwards
until it intersects with the apex height of the final lierne yg (Stage 7 on Figure
13.8). The result is an arc which approximates the projected curvature of the
diagonal ribs, giving the effect of a continuous tunnel when viewed orthogo-
nally. Once the principal ribs had been set out, the remaining ribs could then
be filled in, either using a straight line from point to point or another method
which we have yet to identify (Stages 8–11 on Figure 13.8).
While there are therefore some similarities in the geometries between the
two choir vaults and their ribs, these are not in themselves sufficient to support
a common attribution. Both vaults appear to have made use of chord methods
to define the transverse ribs and longitudinal wall ribs, but this was a com-
mon practice for medieval designers, not something specific to the vaults at
Wells or Ottery. Though it is possible that some kind of adjustment was made
to the height of the center for some ribs at both sites, this was not applied
consistently across the two buildings, and the ribs at Ottery show no sign of
the stilting in use for the choir vault at Wells. In addition, the curvatures of the
vault were radically different, with the transverse arches at Wells having a far
steeper pointed profile than those at Ottery.47 Although both designs may have
adopted creative approaches to projection in setting out some of their ribs,
most notably in the tiercerons at Ottery and the diagonals and quadrilaterals
at Wells, the specific methods were entirely different in each case, making it
difficult to establish a common methodology across the two sites.
Such disparities in design method are further complicated through compar-
ison with the other vaults at Ottery St Mary. Unfortunately, the measurements
extracted from the Lady Chapel are not at present sufficiently reliable for
detailed geometrical analysis of the rib curvatures. However, the results for the
nave vaulting are far more promising, allowing a detailed design hypothesis to
be proposed. Although the longitudinal wall ribs do appear to have been set
out using a conventional chord method (Stage 1 on Figure 13.7), this does not

47 For detailed orthophoto sections of the choirs at Wells and Ottery, see our project website
(https://www.tracingthepast.org.uk).
Tracing the Past 235

seem to have been the case for the transverse ribs. Instead, the position of the
center (hb, kb) is significantly below the level of the impost, averaging -0.55 m.
One possibility is that a fixed radius technique was used, the most plausible of
which being the three circles method. By far the simplest approach would have
been to transfer the established radius from the transverse ribs in the choir, but
this does not seem to have been adopted by the vault’s designers. Instead, the
closest approximation for the recorded radius (average 4.21 m) is that of the
nave vault diagonals (average 4.36 m), suggesting that these could conceivably
have been the ribs for which the radius (rb) was initially generated.
Despite the use of a similar grid system in setting out the plan to that of
the choir at Wells, the diagonals in the nave at Ottery were not divided into
separate sections, but were instead treated as a single, continuous curvature.
In this they were not dissimilar to the uppermost sections of the diagonals
at Wells, where the curvature defined using the two chord method follows a
continuous arc extending over the inner set of quadrilaterals, but differed in
the application of this approach to the full span of the diagonal rib. Something
close to the arrangement in the choir at Wells can be seen in the Lady Chapel at
Ottery, where the diagonals appear to be divided into at least two distinct cur-
vatures – a lower, possibly multicentered arc for the tiercerons and an upper
arc for the crossing liernes. However, the irregularities in the measurements
derived from the Lady Chapel make it difficult to ascertain how this might
have been set out. The diagonals in the nave at Ottery appear to have been set
out using the segmental arc method (Stage 2 on Figure 13.7), resulting in an
apex height (yb) averaging 2.84 m for the tiercerons – markedly lower than the
2.90 m average height for the longitudinal wall ribs (ya). The result is a slight
downwards incline in the transverse ridges extending from the clerestory win-
dows, a feature which is reversed in the choir vaults of Wells and Ottery. Once
the diagonals had been set out, the radius (rb) could then be transferred to the
transverse ribs using the three circles method (Stage 3 of Figure 13.7) and the
remaining liernes and ridge rib filled in as required.
When comparing the processes for setting out the ribs at Wells and Ottery St
Mary, it quickly becomes apparent that the geometrical methods involved were
quite different. Although both sites did share a use of the chord method in their
longitudinal and transverse arches, these cannot be considered an idiosyncratic
feature of their designer, as the same techniques had been a commonplace of
vault design for centuries at this point. In the choir at Wells there appears to
have been a marked preference for using variations on the two chord method,
a technique which was not employed in the vaults at Ottery. This points to a far
more fundamental difference in the three-dimensional geometry of the vault-
ing of the two sites. At Wells the designer attempted to ensure continuity of
236 Hillson ET AL.

curvature within the transverse and longitudinal tunnels of the vault, whether
in using two chord method to project the curvature of the transverse ribs onto
the upper sections of the diagonals or in continuing the apparent curvature
of the lower diagonals into the outer edges of the quadrilaterals. By contrast,
the vaults at Ottery St Mary represent a fundamental rejection of this princi-
ple, instead making extensive use of segmental arcs to form the diagonals and
tiercerons. Furthermore, the use of the three circles method in the nave vault
at Ottery is a significant departure from the vaults at Wells, which during this
period demonstrate an apparent reticence to employ fixed radius techniques.
Though fixed radius methods were certainly used in the southwest bays of the
choir aisles at Wells, this particular section of the vaulting is a significant depar-
ture from the surrounding bays and may well be later addition to the structure,
possibly even dating to the period after 1365 when the works were under the
direction of a new master, William Wynford.48 Whatever their supposed visual
similarities, both the geometrical methods and three-dimensional conception
of the vaults at Wells and Ottery St Mary were radically different, each one being
the result of a distinct set of design techniques.

5 Attribution

While there are some points of similarity between the geometries of the two
vaults, the overwhelming majority of the processes involved in their design
were fundamentally different. Though both sites do employ a combination of
grid systems and circle starcuts for setting out their vault plans, the same meth-
ods could be found across many examples of vaulting from the same period,
and the aims and priorities of their application in either case were effectively
reversed. When setting out their curvatures, there was little that the two designs
had in common beyond the basic use of chord methods to define transverse
and wall ribs – a widespread practice for medieval vault designers. Yet while the
above comparison of the design processes for the choirs at Wells and Ottery St
Mary does little to support the attribution of either vault to William Joy, it also
does nothing to preclude it. It need not necessarily be supposed that a designer
would employ identical methods for two architectural works, especially when
considering the particular demands of their distinct sites. As the above discus-
sion of the plans and apex heights of the vaults have demonstrated, the two
buildings were vastly different in scale and proportion, and a designer could

48 Colchester and Harvey, “Wells,” p. 91.

Tracing the Past 237

not therefore be expected to adopt the same geometrical solutions to three-­

dimensional problems in both spaces. Indeed, the sheer amount of variation
within the vaults at Ottery St Mary itself make a compelling case for multiplicity
of design process, as the similarities in their mouldings and decorative details
make a strong argument for their attribution to the same designer.
By looking beyond the specific techniques employed at Wells and Ottery and
considering their geometry in a more general sense, it is possible to identify a
surprising degree of similarity in their design processes. Whatever the differ-
ences in their particular application might be, the plans at Wells and Ottery
were both developed using the same geometrical toolbox, sharing a common
methodology of dividing boundaries using grids and modulating their propor-
tions using a system of circular starcuts. In setting out the curvatures of the ribs,
both sets of designs are highly experimental, testing out new geometrical tech-
niques which do not appear to have been used in any of our other case studies.
Both the nave at Ottery and choir at Wells appear to play with the possibilities
of projection, reflecting a shared interest in developing convoluted geometri-
cal solutions to complex spatial problems. This is further evidenced by a looser
attitude towards the positioning of springing points and impost levels, as the
designer/s appear to have been comfortable adjusting the heights of centers to
modulate the curvatures of the ribs. Within these similarities there are certainly
grounds for arguing a joint attribution, specifically to a designer who avoided
simple solutions to problems and embraced the possibilities of geometrical
experimentation by adopting unique approaches to each project. Such an indi-
vidual could have been William Joy, though any identification cannot be con-
clusive and must account for the extensive differences between the two sites.
Whatever the identity of the designer/s of the vaults at Wells and Ottery St
Mary might be, the digital techniques described within this article represent a
powerful addition to the analytical tools available for conducting stylistic com-
parisons within medieval architecture. Through enabling a more quantitative
approach to studying the geometrical methods employed by medieval masons,
technologies such as laser scanning and digital tracing provide a more accurate
and detailed means of differentiating between the design practices employed
at individual sites. While the results for Wells and Ottery may present us with
more questions than answers regarding their stylistic interrelationship, in so
doing they only reflect the complexity of the design processes themselves.
Through enabling us to study the creative processes which could have been
used by masons, such techniques have the potential to transform our under-
standing of architectural exchange during the Middle Ages, inviting a more
nuanced approach to assessing the visual, spatial and geometrical similarities
between medieval vaults.
 CHAPTER 14

“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves”: The

Nave Vaults of Santa Maria Novella in Florence

Elizabeth B. Smith

Much of my research in recent years has centered on the late medieval Domin-
ican church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence, with a primary focus on the
evolution of its design and the construction of the nave and its vaults.1 (Figures
14.1 and 14.2)
This paper examines the four large and remarkable domical vaults that
dominate the nave, taking as a starting point the fascinating and unusually
technical description of these vaults by the 15th-century Dominican Giovanni
Caroli, a friar in the convent of Santa Maria Novella. Although Caroli was nei-
ther an architect nor a mason, but a learned friar, his description of the vaults,
included in his biography of the Blessed Johannes Salernitani, displays an
unusual understanding of their structure:

1 The present article forms part of my broader book-length study of the church of Santa
Maria Novella, now nearing completion, which gives special attention to the design
and construction of the nave. My on-site research, carried out in collaboration with Tom
Boothby, Architectural Engineering, Pennsylvania State University; and Luigia Binda, Milan
Polytechnic; with permission from the Opera of Santa Maria Novella and the Commune of
Florence, has been supported by grants from The Kress Foundation, The World Monuments
Fund, The Graham Foundation, and The Pennsylvania State University. Preliminary results
have appeared in Elizabeth B. Smith, “Santa Maria Novella and the Problem of Historicism/
Modernism/Eclecticism in Italian Gothic Architecture,” in Medioevo: I Convegni di Parma 6:
Il Tempo degli Antichi, ed. A. C. Quintavalle (Parma, 2006), pp. 621–30; Smith, “Santa Maria
Novella e lo sviluppo di un sistema gotico fiorentino,” in Arnolfo di Cambio e la sua epoca:
Costruire, scolpire, dipingere, decorare, ed. Vittorio Franchetti Pardo (Rome 2006), pp. 289–98;
Ece Erdogmus, Tom Boothby, and Elizabeth B. Smith, “Structural Appraisal of the Florentine
Gothic Construction System,” Journal of Architectural Engineering 13 (2007), pp. 9–17;
Smith, “City Planning in the Florentine Commune: Santa Maria Novella, its Piazza and its
Neighborhood” in Construir la ciudad en la Edad Media (Nájera. VI Encuentros Internacionales
del Medievo), eds. B. Arízaga Bolumburu and J .A. Solórzano Telechea (Logroño, 2010), pp.
477–96; Smith, “The Vaults of Santa Maria Novella and the Creation of Florentine Gothic,” in
Against Gravity, eds. Robert Ousterhout/ Renata Holod and L. Haselberger, http://www.sas
.upenn.edu/ancient/publications.htm; and Smith, “The Vault Builders of Santa Maria Novella
and their Impact on its Design” in Architettura medievale: il Trecento; modelli, tecniche, mate-
riali, eds. Carlo Tosco and Silvia Beltramo, University of Turin, forthcoming.

© Elizabeth B. Smith, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_015

“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 239

Figure 14.1 S anta Maria Novella, Florence. View of the nave vaults
from below
Photo by Ece Erdogmus

Indeed, the church was built with that manner of vaults they call ‘quin-
tum acutum.’ That is the most stable kind, so that even if you nearly cut
down the columns, they would still remain very strong by virtue of their
own structure. And they stand without tie rods or other such visible sup-
ports but by their very own selves: the builders made them outstanding,
and most firm, so that it [the church] might endure through the ages.2

2 “Constructa est autem, eo testudinis genere quod, quintum acutum appellant. Quod ita firmis-
simum est ut etiam si pene columpnas incideres, in se ipsis manerent firmissime. Neque vero
cathenis aut aliis huiusmodi apparentibus firmamentis consistit, sed in semetipsam illam arti-
fices erigentes, egregium ac firmissimum reddidere templum, per omnia secula duraturum,”
Johannes Caroli, Vite non nullorum fratrum beate Marie Novelle, Florence, Archive of Santa
Maria Novella, I.A.4. Caroli refers to the form of the vaults of Santa Maria Novella as “quinto
acuto” (acute fifth), a term used to indicate a pointed profile.
240 Smith

Figure 14.2 S anta Maria Novella (1279–1355) The church is laid out on a
north/south axis, with the choir to the north
Photo by Ece Erdogmus

In fact, the daring vaults of Santa Maria Novella have stood the test of time,
rising over the nave for nearly 700 years.3 Caroli’s description of these vaults,

3 Useful publications on Santa Maria Novella include J. Wood Brown, The Dominican Church
of Santa Maria Novella at Florence: a Historical, Architectural, and Artistic Study (Edinburgh,
1902); Walter Paatz, Werden und Wesen der Trecento Architektur in Toscana (Burg, 1937);
Stefano Orlandi, Necrologio di S. Maria Novella (Florence, 1955); Marcia B. Hall, “The Ponte
in Santa Maria Novella: The Problem of the Rood Screen in Italy,” Journal of the Warburg
and Courtauld Institutes 37 (1974), pp. 157–173; Kathleen Giles Arthur, “The Strozzi Chapel:
Notes on the Building History of Santa Maria Novella,” Art Bulletin 65 (1983): 367–86; Roberto
Lunardi, “Santa Maria Novella e la Croce di Giotto” in Giotto: la Croce di Santa Maria Novella,
eds. Marco Ciatti and Max Siedel (Florence, 2001), pp. 159–76; Gabriella Villetti, “Descrizione
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 241

which approaches the technical, is intriguing. What does he mean when he

remarks that quintum acutem vaults are “the most stable kind”, or that they
are “very strong by virtue of their own structure”, and that they do not require
cathenis (tie-rods), but “stand … by their very own selves?”4 Is Caroli’s assess-
ment simply an overstatement by a friar who was proud of his own church?
These are the questions I would like briefly to explore in this essay, in homage
to my dear friend and mentor Robert Mark, keeping in mind his deep under-
standing of the essential requirements and potential threats inherent in all
large-scale vaulted structures.
Laid out on a north/south axis, the six-bay, completely vaulted nave we
see today was not part of the church originally planned by the 13th-century
Dominicans. (Figure 14.3)
The original design, reflecting French Cistercian prototypes, foresaw a nave
of seven rectangular bays, divided by a choir screen into two sections: an
upper church for the friars and a lower church for the lay public. Details in the
elevation of the first two bays next to the transept suggest that ribbed vaults
with even-level crowns of the type common in Gothic France were projected
for these bays, while the five bays in the lower nave were to be covered with
timber roofing, as dictated by the Dominican Constitutions of 1228/35.5 After
1300, when the Dominicans rescinded their ban on vaulting the lay areas of
their churches, the friars of Santa Maria Novella turned their attention to an

delle fasi costruttive e dell’assetto architettonico interno della chiesa di S. Maria Novella,”
in Gabriella Villetti, Studi sull’edilizio degli ordini mendicanti (Rome, 2003), pp. 149–65;
Giuseppe Rocchi Coopmans de Yoldi, S. Maria del Fiore e le chiese fiorentine del Duecento e
del Trecento nella città delle fabbriche arnolfiane (Florence, 2004); Maria Teresa Bartoli, Santa
Maria Novella a Firenze: algoritmi della scolastica per l’architettura (Florence, 2009); Frithjof
Schwartz, “Il bel cimitero”: Santa Maria Novella in Florenz 1279–1348; Grabmäler, Architektur
und Gesellschaft (Berlin, 2009); Valerio Ascani, “Architettura gotica,” in “Visibile parlare”: le
arti nella Toscana medievale, ed. M. Collareta (Florence, 2013), pp. 267–96; Fulvio Cervini,
“‘Non racchiude l’indefinito gotico’: l’orizzonte internazionale di una novella architettura,”
in Santa Maria Novella: la basilica e il convento, ed. Andrea De Marchi (Florence, 2015), vol.
1, pp. 37–85.
4 On the widespread use of tie-rods in the Gothic structures of central and northern Italy
during the 13th and 14th centuries, see Elizabeth B. Smith, “Ars mechanica: Struttura got-
ica in Italia,” in Il Gotico Europeo in Italia, eds. Valentino Pace and Martina Bagnoli (Naples,
1994), pp. 57–70; republished in English as “‘Ars mechanica’: Gothic Structure in Italy” in The
Engineering of Medieval Cathedrals (Studies in the history of civil engineering 1), ed. Lynn T.
Courtenay (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 219–33.
5 On the Dominican Constitutions and their impact on Dominican architecture, see Richard
Sundt, “Mediocres domus et humiles habeant fratres nostri”: Dominican Legislation on
Architecture and Architectural Decoration in the 13th Century,” Journal of the Society of
Architectural Historians 46 (1987), pp. 394–407.
242 Smith

Figure 14.3 H
 ypothetical original plan for Santa Maria Novella. The seven bay nave is to have
open timber roofing, except for the two bays above the choir screen, intended to
be vaulted. This plan also includes projected sexpartite vaults in each arm of the
transept, never erected
Plan by Valerio Dario

ambitious project: erecting vaults over the entire nave. But to do so, they were
forced to look outside the city of Florence.
Before 1279, when work began on Santa Maria Novella, Florence was still
an architectural backwater; the simple idea of vaulting was in itself a depar-
ture from local practices.6 The Dominicans of Santa Maria Novella were thus
obliged to look beyond the local workforce. Their default source for builders in
this case was the Dominican network, which could provide trained lay brother
masons.7 When they were ready to raise vaults over the first two nave bays, the
Dominicans might have turned to their mother house, San Domenico in Bolo-
gna. Here, masons had erected a series of domical brick vaults in the Lombard

6 For an overview of Florentine ecclesiastical architecture before Santa Maria Novella, see
Walter Horn, “Romanesque Churches in Florence: A Study in their Chronology and Stylistic
Development,” Art Bulletin 25 (1943): 112–31; on Tuscany, see Mario Salmi, L’Architettura
romanica in Toscana (Milan, 1928); Fabio Redi, Edilizia medievale in Toscana (Florence, 1989);
on Florence, see Sara Rinaldi, Aldo Favini, and Alessandro Naldi, Firenze romanica: le più
antiche chiese romaniche della città e dei suoi dintorni (Florence, 2005).
7 On the Dominican practice of sending lay brother artists and artisans from one convent to
another, see Gérard Meerssemann, “L’architecture dominicaine au xiiiè siècle: législation et
pratique,” Archivum Fratrum Predicatorum 16 (1946): 136–90, esp. pp. 174ff. Some artisans,
however, were not brothers, as pointed out by Meerssemann (p. 137), where he also reviews
the duties of the Superintendent, or praefectus operam, of a convent, outlined ca. 1255 by the
Dominican Humbert of Romans. These included finding capable artisans and lodging them
in the convent, explaining to the artisans—presumably not all lay brothers—that they must
eat and sleep in the same way as the Dominican brothers.
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 243

tradition over square bays in the transept and first bays of the nave.8 The dif-
ferences in the type of vaults must not have been a deterrent. In any case, since
they were eager to complete their church, the Dominicans of Santa Maria
Novella engaged, perhaps inadvertently, vault masons trained in the construc-
tion of domical vaults in the Lombard tradition. As a result, all of the vaults
over the nave and aisles of Santa Maria Novella would be constructed using
both a technique and a material that were neither Florentine nor consistent
with the original model.9
In the region of Lombardy, masons had been erecting square domical
ribbed vaults since the early twelfth century.10 Brick was the prevalent build-
ing material throughout the clay-rich Po Valley, and Lombard masons gener-
ally used this material. In their churches, they raised square domelike vaults
over arcades in which the heavy piers supporting the high vaults alternate with
lighter intermediate supports, so that each nave bay is flanked on both sides
by two small, square bays in the aisles. Such an arrangement can be seen, for
instance, at SS Maria and Sigismondo in Rivolta d’Adda (Figure 14.4).11

8 In San Domenico, one of the original Lombard ribbed vaults survives in the left arm of the
transept, sandwiched between the roof and the Baroque ceiling below, hidden from view
but accessible from above. On the vaults of San Domenico, see Venturino Alce, Il Convento
di San Domenico in Bologna nel secolo XII (Bologna, 1973), esp. pp. 137–39, where he dates
the entire construction of San Domenico to the years between 1228 and 1238. See also
Caroline Bruzelius, Preaching, Building, and Burying: Friars and the Medieval City (New
Haven, 2014), pp. 54–57, 69–72.
9 Roberto Parenti and Juan Antonio Quiros Castillo, “La produzione dei mattoni della Tos-
cana medievale (XII–XVI secolo): un tentativo di sintesi,” in La brique antique et médiévale
(Rome, 2000): 219–35. The authors divide Tuscan cities into two groups, one using a great
deal of brick from the 13th century on (Pisa, Lucca, Siena), and the other using mainly
stone, with brick relegated to a minor role (Florence, Pistoia, Prato and Arezzo). They
further suggest (p. 226) that the use of brick in certain cities near the via Francigena may
be linked to the arrival of Emilio-Padovan masters. See also Marco Frati “De Bonis lapidus
conciis”: le costruzione di Firenze ai tempi di Arnolfo di Cambio; strumenti, tecniche e mae-
stranze nei cantieri fra xiii e xiv secolo (Florence, 2006), pp. 70–74, 98–100, on the use of
bricks in construction in late medieval Florence.
10 Arthur Kingsley Porter, in Lombard Architecture (New Haven, 1915–1917), vol. I, pp. 109–26,
notes the basic characteristics of the Lombard ribbed groin vault and attempts to explain
the construction process. John Fitchen, in The Construction of Gothic Cathedrals (Chi-
cago, 1961), while focusing primarily on French Gothic vaulting, also includes an attempt
to summarize basic Lombard vault construction. See esp. Ch. 4, “Gothic Formwork,” pp.
86–122, and Ch. 5, “Gothic Centering,” pp. 123–74.
11 On Rivolta d’Adda, see Jane Elliott McKinney, “The Church of S. Maria and S. Sigismondo
in Rivolta d’Adda and the Double-Bay System in Northern Italy in the Late Eleventh and
Early Twelfth Centuries,” (Ph.D. Diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1985), 2 vols.
244 Smith

Figure 14.4 R
 ivolta d’Adda, Santa Maria and San Sigismondo, (before c.1130).
View of nave interior
photo from Wikimedia Commons

Here, the view toward the altar is punctuated by heavy arches that span the
width of the nave, creating a series of interconnected, domed spaces. Viewed
from above, the vaults have a striking appearance. Each individual vault, sepa-
rated from its neighboring vaults by a transverse wall, curves upwards towards
its keystone, creating a dome-like form.
Unlike the adaptable, highly flexible even-level-crown vault, domical
Lombard vaults, like domes, are almost invariably raised over a square base.
Once the nave arcade was in place, as the clerestory walls were being erected,
masons would build walls rising from the transverse arches that span the nave,
dividing one bay from the next. These transverse walls, partially keyed into the
clerestory walls, formed a sort of masonry box, sometimes rising up to the level
of the roof. Of primary importance to the Lombard masons, these walls served
two essential purposes during construction: providing a base for the scaffold-
ing and containing the considerable longitudinal thrust exerted by the square
domical vaults down the length of the nave. The transverse walls became less
essential once the last bricks were set in place and the vaulting was complete,
at which time each vault became a quasi-independent dome-like structure.12

12 See Robert Mark, Experiments in Gothic Structure (Boston, 1982), Ch. 8, “Gothic Ribbed
Vaulting: The High Vaults of the Cathedrals of Cologne and Bourges,” for a comparison of
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 245

Each bay, then, and each vault, constituted a separate structure and a separate
and independent job for the masons.13 In contrast to the flying buttresses of
Gothic France, lateral support for Lombard domical vaults was provided by
buttressing walls sloping outward from the clerestory wall to the outer aisle
wall. These sloping buttressing walls are often hidden under the aisle roof, or
they might be visible above the aisle roof, as at Rivolta d’Adda, thus allowing
direct light into the nave.
Arriving at Santa Maria Novella in the early 14th century, the vaulters were
faced with a partially constructed church. The two rectangular bays of the upper
nave were complete except for the vaulting, and the outer walls of the lower
nave had been erected up to a certain height in the local stone, pietra forte by
locally trained masons following local building traditions.14 As we see it today,
the former ecclesia laicorum, or lower church, is not divided into five rectan-
gular timber-roofed bays as in the original model of the 1270s, but instead con-
sists of four square bays over which rise four soaring domical vaults.15 As I have
argued elsewhere, the key to this startling mid-stream change of design can
paradoxically be found in the vaults over the two rectangular bays of the upper
nave, the ecclesia fratrum. Here, instead of the even-level-crown vaults envi-
sioned in the original model and prepared for in the elevation of these bays,
we find two domical brick vaults, each compressed into a rectangular format.
The vault masons, trained in the Lombard tradition where vaults were raised
over square bays, were now forced to adapt their techniques to the pre-extant
rectangular format of these two bays. Moreover, a further disruption to their
traditional working methods is signaled by the absence of a transverse wall
between the vaults. The stability of these vaults was not in question, as they

the rectangular-based quadripartite ribbed vault and the square-based sexpartite vault;
see esp. n. 16, p. 117, regarding the greater thrusts associated with the square-based vault
as a potential reason for the more general adoption in Gothic architecture of the rectan-
gular-based quadripartite vault.
13 Fitchen, Construction, p. 99. Such heavy transverse walls between each of the bays were
not part of the construction process in a typical French Gothic structure.
14 It is likely that the east aisle wall, facing the city center, was built nearly up to, but not yet
including, the aisle windows. Among Giorgio Vasari’s alterations to Santa Maria Novella,
begun in 1565, was the replacement of the Gothic lancet windows in the aisles with rect-
angular windows. Cf. Hall, “The Ponte in Santa Maria Novella.” The subsequent “regothi-
cization” campaign of 1857–1861 changed the aisle windows back to lancets, still in place
today. On the 19th-century restorations, see the report, “L’interno della Chiesa di S. Maria
Novella dopo i restauri fatti nel 1861” (Florence, 1861).
15 Each of these four bays varies slightly in dimensions from the others. All, however,
approximate a square plan. The differences in dimension among the bays will be dis-
cussed below.
246 Smith

are solidly abutted by the transept wall on the north, and also on the south by
the wall erected in 1301 to close off the two bays of the upper church, making
them available for use by the friars. Nevertheless, the builders must have feared
that to complete the nave by erecting five compressed domical vaults over the
projected rectangular bays might endanger the stability of the whole.16 I have
suggested elsewhere that it was these issues—difficulty of construction and
potential instability—that spurred the vaulters to insist on redesigning the
plan for the nave. The obvious importance to these builders of their traditional
constructional methods, their strong belief that these methods were essential
to the stability of the structure, and their consequent insistence on maintain-
ing them, would definitively alter the design of Santa Maria Novella.
The original design for Santa Maria Novella most likely projected a total
nave length of ca. 125 braccia divided into seven rectangular bays, each 18 brac-
cia deep and 25 braccia wide. After construction of the two rectangular bays in
the upper nave, the remaining length of the nave below the ponte measured
approximately 90 braccia. In theory, then, in the new plan the lower nave could
have been divided into four square bays, each with a length of approximately
22.5 braccia; undoubtedly, both the builders and the Dominicans would have
preferred such a straightforward solution. Instead, the nave as we see it today
is divided into four ‘squarish’ bays measuring respectively from the ponte
towards the façade, ca. 22, 24, 23, and 22 braccia in length. Each of the nave
vaults, then, also has these approximate dimensions.
Like the domical vaults of Lombardy, the nave vaults of Santa Maria Novella
are built of brick, each brick measuring approximately 30x14x6 cm. The bricks
are laid in an alternating pattern to form the webbing of the vaults, with one
row of vertical bricks flanked by two rows of horizontal bricks. Each vault is
composed of four segments, the bricks joining over the ribs in a herringbone
pattern. On average, each vault has a thickness measuring 0.33 m (approxi-
mately ½ a Florentine braccio).
Separating each vault from its neighbor is a high transverse wall, also follow-
ing Lombard vaulting practice. The transverse walls, rising from the transverse
arches that span the nave, are not of brick, however, but of the local Florentine
stone, and thus identical in both materials and thickness to the clerestory walls
(approx. 67 cm) (Figure 14.5).
These transverse walls were raised together with, and partially keyed into,
the clerestory walls, creating the traditional Lombard masonry box described

16 Their doubts about the suitability of the rectangular base for their vaults has been borne
out by structural analysis. See. Erdogmus, Boothby, and Smith, pp. 14–17, “The stress anal-
ysis results point out that the square plan works better for domical vaults.”
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 247

Figure 14.5
Santa Maria Novella, 3D model of
clerestory showing transverse walls above
the vaults. Also included are details of
buttresses under aisle roof in Bays 2 and 5
Graphic from Politecnico di
Milano

earlier.17 Thus, the vaulters and the local masons, while employing different
building materials, evidently collaborated at Santa Maria Novella in the con-
struction of the nave clerestory and its vaults. In the corners of most of the
bays, diagonally placed wooden tie beams, sometimes visible just above the
rubble surcharge, strengthen the bond between the transverse walls and the
clerestory walls, and may additionally have served as supports for the masons
during vault construction.18
What did the vaulters encounter in the already partially constructed lower
nave, and how did they deal with it? As mentioned earlier, the decision to vault
the nave was taken after completion of the lower portions of the façade wall
and of the outer aisle walls of the nave (Figure 14.6).
This lack of preparation for vaulting is visible in the aisle walls and in the
lower portion of the façade. Thus, on the inner façade wall, there is a clear

17 This is true of every bay, with the exception of the fourth bay from the transept.
18 Diagonal tie beams are still present in all but one of the nave bays; although a few are
missing, their original presence is indicated by gaps in the masonry of the clerestory walls.
248 Smith

Figure 14.6 S anta Maria Novella in the late 19th c. The Upper Cemetery with its 1302
door is visible on the right flank of the nave
Foto Alinari

disconnect between the engaged columns—terminating the nave arcade—and

the high vaults that rise above them19 (Figure 14.7). A similar lack of preparation
for vaulting can be observed on the exterior of the east aisle wall (Figure 14.8).
Here, the masonry appears to carry through from bay to bay, indicating a
continuous construction campaign. The buttresses separating the bays, how-
ever, do not rise from the ground but rather begin above the row of 23 large
family tombs known as avelli.20 Moreover, these buttresses are not keyed
into the fabric of the wall but appear instead to have been built against the
pre-existing wall, indicating that the east aisle wall was first erected without
buttresses.21 Flanking the nave on the west is the one of the convent’s clois-
ters, the Chiostro Verde. Because of the slope of the site, the Chiostro Verde
lies 2.25 meters below the floor of the nave, so that the uneven coursework of

19 See Frati, De bonis lapidus, on Florentine building materials during this period.
20 On the tombs in and around Santa Maria Novella, see Schwartz, Il bel cimitero.
21 See Schwartz, Il bel cimitero, p. 407, plan 7, for a section of the buttress between the
fourth and fifth bay, showing the relative placement of the avelli and the buttresses (N. B.:
Schwartz numbers the bays proceeding from the façade, thus referring to the position of
this buttress as between the 2nd and 3rd bay).
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 249

Figure 14.7 S anta Maria Novella, Nave interior towards façade

Photo by Elizabeth B. Smith

the foundations of the lower nave is partially visible from the cloister walk.22
Above the cloister roof, however, the masonry of the west aisle wall displays
even coursing throughout, although the buttresses, like those along the east
aisle, are not keyed into the wall. As is clear from this brief review, the lack of
pre-existing bay divisions on the aisle walls made it possible for the builders
and the Dominicans to redesign the lower nave, changing it from five bays to
four. On the other hand, the vault masons would be obliged to erect the high
vaults of the nave without the benefit of the customary abutment for vaulting
in the outer perimeter walls.

22 The foundation wall is now visible subsequent to the early 21st-century removal from the
cloister lunettes of the Old Testament fresco cycle (1432–1436) by Paolo Uccello.
250 Smith

Figure 14.8 S anta Maria Novella View along the east aisle wall showing
the family tombs of the Upper Cemetery along the base and
the buttresses rising above them
Photo by Elizabeth B. Smith

As outlined earlier, vault builders following the Lombard tradition usually

provided lateral support for their high vaults by a sequence of buttresses above
the aisles. The crypto-buttresses of Santa Maria Novella, however, although
partially keyed into the clerestory walls, could not be keyed into the pre-­
existing outer aisle walls.23 Today, in fact, nearly all of the sloping spur walls are

23 The only crypto-buttresses to be firmly keyed into the aisle walls are between the second
and third bays of the nave, where, in 1301, the first two bays of the new church were closed
off from the construction site in the lower nave.
“And They Stand...by Their Very Own Selves” 251

separated from the outer aisle walls by gaps ranging from 6.5 to 11.5 cm.24 These
sloping walls, therefore, do not transfer outward thrust from the high vaults
down to the aisle walls. Moreover, as noted earlier, the wall buttresses along
both east and west aisles are not keyed into the walls, and those along the east
aisle do not even extend down to the ground. Consequently, neither the wall
buttresses nor the sloping buttresses serve to counteract any outward thrust
of the vaults, and are useful only in adding stabilizing weight to the structure.
This lack of lateral buttressing along the aisles would normally indicate
a highly compromised structural system. The vault builders of Santa Maria
Novella, however, despite having arrived late on the scene, and despite hav-
ing been unable to buttress their vaults in the traditional manner, overcame
these obstacles by erecting a series of remarkably stable vaults. Their vaults,
which cannot rely significantly on lateral buttressing, are in fact nearly self-­
supporting within their square Lombard “box”.
Although the builders had succeeded in persuading the Dominican Super-
intendent and his building committee to change the bays of the lower nave
from rectangular to square, they did not insist on the traditional Lombard plan
in which each square nave bay is flanked by two small square bays in the aisles.
They were thereby left with one narrow rectangular aisle bay flanking each
bay of the central nave. Thus, they had to extend each aisle vault to match
the depth of each nave bay, paradoxically adopting the rectangular form they
had rejected for the high vaults.25 Although the rectangular format of the aisle
vaults was potentially problematic, the builders must have had full confidence
in the quasi-independent stability of the four enormous domical vaults that
they would raise over the nave. Thus, we return full circle to Giovanni Caroli
and his praise of the remarkable stability of the nave vaults of Santa Maria
Novella:

Indeed, the church was built with that manner of vaults they call ‘quin-
tum acutum’. That is the most stable kind, so that even if you nearly cut
down the columns they would still remain very strong by virtue of their

24 The only exception is between the third and fourth bay, where the east aisle wall and the
crypto-buttress are contiguous but not keyed into each other.
25 See Erdogmus, Boothby, and Smith for an analysis of structural differences between the
Lombard system used at Santa Maria Novella and the French Gothic system. Examin-
ing vault behavior in both the rectangular and square bays at Santa Maria Novella, the
authors (p. 16) contrast it with the particular effectiveness of the traditional Lombard
system, in which each square nave bay is flanked by two smaller square bays in the side
aisles. The unsuitability of the rectangular format for the domical vault is borne out in the
significant cracking in the webbing of the aisle vaults, as noted in the 2007 report for the
World Monuments Fund.
252 Smith

own structure. And they stand without tie rods or other such visible sup-
ports but by their very own selves: the builders made them outstanding,
and most firm, so that it [the church] might endure through the ages.

The lack of interlocking masonry between the high vaults and the aisle walls
is one of a number of structural “disconnects” that, taken together, lead us to
conclude that the vault builders, upon their arrival at Santa Maria Novella,
were confronted with a uniquely complex situation. Because the outer enve-
lope of the church was well underway following the original model before the
decision was taken to erect vaults over the lower nave, the vaulters were forced
to enact a sort of retrofit, an architectural compromise. Working in a Floren-
tine context, raising Lombard vaults over a half-completed church based on a
French model, the vaulters responded by erecting the daring series of magnifi-
cent, nearly self-supporting vaults that we see in the church today. When com-
plete, by about 1350, the nave of Santa Maria Novella, with its soaring domical
vaults, would set a new standard in Florence and beyond, serving immediately
upon completion as a model for the nave of the enormous new cathedral of
Florence, Santa Maria del Fiore.26
26 On the structure of the nave of Florence Cathedral, see Giuseppe Rocchi Coopmans de
Yoldi, S. Maria del Fiore: il corpo basilicale; rilievi, documenti, indagini strumentali, inter-
pretazione (Milan, 1988), pp. 44–72. Many scholars have noted the link between the nave
of Santa Maria Novella and the nave of Florence Cathedral. See, for example, Corrado
Bozzoni, “Centoventi anni di studi sull’architettura degli ordini mendicanti” in Arnolfo di
Cambio e la sua epoca: costruire, scolpire, dipingere, decorare; Atti del Convegno internazi-
onali di Studi, Firenze-Colle di al d’Elsa, ed. Vittorio Franchetti Pardo (Florence, 2006), pp.
47–54, esp. p. 51.
 CHAPTER 15

Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame: The Workshop of

the Cathedral in the Fourteenth Century According
to the Fabric Accounts
Dany Sandron

The workshop of Notre-Dame remained fully active during most of the 14th
century (Figure 15.1).1
The oldest known accounts of the fabric (1333–1340 and 1361–1397), thanks
to the copies made in the 18th century by Canon Pierre Sarazin and preserved
in the Archives nationales, give us information on the functioning of the fab-
rique and the actions carried out by the successive master builders and their
teams in close relationship with the cathedral chapter.2 The chapter delegated
two canons each year as magistri fabricae to control this institution, which was
in charge of managing the construction, maintenance and restoration of the
cathedral and, more broadly, of the buildings and property dependent on the
chapter, concentrated on the eastern part of the Ile de la Cité (Figure 15.2).
The accounts were rendered every year on the eve of St. John the Baptist’s
day, i.e., June 23. Despite their terseness, they provide valuable insight into the
restoration, maintenance, and ornamentation of the cathedral in the last two
thirds of the fourteenth century.
Some of the repair work was discussed by Michael Davis in an important
article published in 1998 which analyzed, among other things, the repairs of
supports in the first bays of the choir, of the upper parts of the south arm of the
transept, and of the buttresses in the choir.3
As a preliminary to the complete edition of these accounts that I have
undertaken and that will be published next year in the Sources d’Histoire Pari-
sienne, I would like to return to what these sources tell us about the history
of the cathedral during a period that has long been neglected, even though it

1 Dany Sandron and Andrew Tallon, Notre Dame Cathedral. Nine Centuries of History
(Philadelphia, 2020); Dany Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris. Histoire et Archéologie d’une
cathédrale (XIIe–XIVe siècles) (Paris, 2021).
2 Paris, Archives nationales, LL 270 (Cathedral chapter’s archives).
3 Michael T. Davis, “Splendor and Peril: The Cathedral of Paris, 1290–1350,” The Art Bulletin 80
(1998): 34–66.

© Dany Sandron, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_016

254 Sandron

Figure 15.1 R
 econstruction of the choir of Notre-Dame, mid 14th century
Graphic by Andrew Tallon, Dany Sandron, and
Laurence Stefanon

witnessed the implementation of decisive changes in the configuration of the

monument.4
Thanks to these accounts, we can measure the opulence of the fabric of
Notre-Dame. Revenues came from a variety of sources.5 The alms paid by the
faithful into specific trunks in the cathedral constituted by far the main source
of income (542 pounds out of 1252 pounds of income in 1333). Other incomes
were obtained from the clergy during the diocesan assemblies - the synods -
which were held in the cathedral twice a year. The right to a cope (“droit de
chape”) was paid by each new canon who received from the fabric a ceremo-
nial garment when he took office. It could reach the sum of 15 florins.6

4 Collection directed by Audrey Nassieu-Maupas, Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes in Paris.
5 Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp. 45–48.
6 Since exchange rates fluctuated very strongly in the fourteenth century, a florin could be
worth from 9 to 24 sous, where a pound equals 20 sous.
Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame 255

Figure 15.2 Fabric accounts, Paris, Archives nationales LL 270 fol. 2r

The various properties of the fabric also constituted a source of income

from the selling of agricultural products.
Last but not least, revenues were linked to the organization of ceremonies
in the cathedral: enthronement of ecclesiastical dignitaries, funerals of bish-
ops and canons, or ceremonies in honor of kings and the high aristocracy.
Comparisons with other fabrics are instructive. Thus, for the year 1333, when
we have precise information for the three cathedral fabrics of Paris, Troyes and
Noyon, we observe that the one in Paris, with 1250 pounds of income, had
almost four times as much revenue as the one in Troyes (324 pounds), and
more than five times as much as the one in Noyon (220 pounds).7
The accounts provide information on the different materials used: stone,
wood, metal, glass, in particular.

7 Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris, p. 55.

256 Sandron

Thus, for the supply of stone, to give just one example, the quarries of Gen-
tilly, Saint-Marcel, Vitry (1334–1335), and Ivry (1362–1363 and 1363–1364) in the
immediate vicinity of Paris are mentioned, as well as the more distant quarry of
Saint-Leu d’Esserent (Sanctus Lupus de Serans), in the valley of the Oise (1336–
1337), of which this is the earliest attested mention concerning the building of
Notre-Dame. The stones were transported by river and in the case of the stones
of Saint-Leu, unloaded at the port of the Tournelle of Saint-­Germain des Prés,
according to the accounts.8
The accounts mention a great diversity of works. Spectacular large-scale
operations concern the structure of the building, in particular its buttressing
system, and repairs to the roof and the spire, and the belfry of the north tower.
Furnishings are often mentioned with the building of temporary installa-
tions (“chapelles ardentes”/funerary chapels with specific lighting)9 or altars
installed in the transept on the occasion of princely visits, or the installation
of hangings for the great religious feasts in particular, as illustrated here by this
illumination of a book of hours to the use of Paris from the beginning of the
15th century (Figure 15.3), where one can observe the occlusion by hangings of
the great arcades of the cathedral choir, of which this is the oldest preserved
representation of the interior.10
The accounts also mention many restorations of pieces of furniture, stalls,
the eucharistic suspension in front of the main altar, various reliquaries, or the
painting of the cherubs on top of the rood screen, for example.
We find in the accounts the names of well-known artists who are not always
busy with large-scale work, but who can be called upon for occasional resto-
ration tasks. The promiscuity of various activities favored exchanges from one
field to another at a time of great versatility of the participants. In addition to
architects such as the famous Raymond du Temple (master of the works from
1359 to 1404), who was mentioned earlier on the Notre-Dame site as a sculptor
of pinnacles, we can mention the case of painters hired to finish the sculptural
work with polychromy.
This does not exclude the use of the best specialists to work with a particu-
lar material or for prestigious commissions, as can be seen in the field of gold-
smithwork, the largest chapter of expenditure, in connection with the fitting
out of the cathedral’s sanctuary, which was undergoing a complete metamor-
phosis in the 14th century.

8 AN LL 270, fol. 4v.; Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris, p. 74.

9 Catherine Vincent, Fiat Lux. Lumière et luminaires dans la vie religieuse en Occident du
XIIIe siècle au début du XVIe siècle (Paris, 2004).
10 Pentecost, Spitz Hours, Paris, c.1420, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, ms. 57, fol. 187v.
Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame 257

Figure 15.3 P
 entecost, Book of hours, Paris, c.1420
Getty Museum, Los Angeles

Thus, under the direction of Raymond du Temple, the painter Jean d’Orléans
renewed the five angels around the main altar in 1371. He was at that time the
king’s painter, and also worked for the dukes of Berry and Burgundy. He was
the son of Girard d’Orléans, whom he had succeeded in 1361 in this function.
Having made a substantial donation of 20 florins to the cathedral fabric, Girard
had undoubtedly worked for this monument to which he must have been par-
ticularly attached. Thus, like the office of master of works (magister operis)
held by the holders of similar offices in the service of the king, the work of the
painter reveals the accumulation of the highest offices where responsibilities
at Notre-Dame are entrusted to the holders of identical offices in the service of
258 Sandron

the king. Jean d’Orléans is at the head of the list of 25 names of painters and 5
image cutters established in 1391 on the occasion of a reform of the profession.11
Most of the contributors have, of course, remained anonymous. However,
there is sporadic mention of the names of craftsmen such as Hugo anglicus
(Hugues the Englishman) who was paid 4 pounds in 1335 to carve four large
stones from Gentilly. We find him the following year for other sculpture works.

To Hugues the Englishman for 4 large stones of Gentilly 4 pounds (1335–1336)

for 4 stones of franc duorum pedum in latitudine 25 pennies (1336–1337)

Even if isolated, this name testifies to the diversity of origin of the workforce in
the workshop, as is attested elsewhere, for example on the better documented
building of Orvieto cathedral, begun several decades earlier.
By far the most expensive operation was the focus of the cathedral’s liturgi-
cal choir: a new gilded silver altarpiece for the high altar commissioned to the
goldsmith Jean de Montpellier.12 The work probably began in 1333. In that year,
the preliminary step of supplying a wooden panel (tabula lignea) to support
the silver elements is detailed, with the acquisition of oak wood (marennum)
which occupied the carpenters for six weeks before being transported to the
Parisian residence of Jean de Montpellier. From then on, the accounts mention
the sums spent on the purchase of precious metal (silver) and the payment of
labor. Over seven years, the factory bought more than 550 marcs of silver (that
is to say, more than 125 kg) at a price of more than 1780 pounds, and the gold-
smith received in salary the sum of 621 pounds 2 pennies. These sums clearly
exceeded the expenses related to the masonry repairs.
I would like to conclude with the Opus novum (new work), an expression
used several times in the accounts to designate the work related to the new
roofing of the chapels, ambulatory and tribunes of the chevet, mentioned in
the accounts between 1361 and 1368 with a cost specified only for the first year
of £ 26113 (Figure 15.4).

Expensa pro formulis novis et coopertura tabularum propter opus novum

factum ad caput ecclesie super capillas 261 £
fol. 9r

11 Philippe Henwood, “Jean d’Orléans peintre des rois Jean le Bon, Charles V et Charles VI
(1361–1407),” Gazette des Beaux-Arts 95 (1980):137–40; Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp.
69–70.
12 Dany Sandron, “L’autre métamorphose de Notre-Dame de Paris : la réfection du décor
d’orfèvrerie du sanctuaire (vers 1260–1340),” in Setkávání: studie o středověkém umění
věnované Kláře Benešovské, ed. Jan Chlibec and Zoë Opacic (Prague, 2015), pp. 378–386.
13 Paris, Archives nationales, LL 270, fol. 9r.
Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame 259

Figure 15.4 N
 otre-Dame, choir, southeast side
photo by Andrew Tallon, 2012

Expenses for the new templates and the covering in stone slabs associ-
ated with the new work made on the church’s chevet above the chapels:
261 pounds
fol. 9r

This heavy operation led to the demolition of the former roofs with frameworks:

Item (1364–1365) Johanni Gilberti pro descendendo merrenum desuper

capellis ad caput ecclesie existentibus pro cooperiendo dictas capellas de
lapidibus pro 6 dictis 30 s.
fol. 11r

Likewise to Jean Gilbert for bringing down the wood above the chapels
of the church’s chevet in order to cover the chapels with stone, for 6 of
these 30 sous
fol. 11r

It radically transformed the appearance of the chevet, whose bays were

now even more emphasized, which accentuated the lightness of the
construction.
This operation was apparently the last major modification of the choir,
which had undergone transformations since the end of the 13th century with
260 Sandron

Figure 15.5 S ainte-Chapelle, “oratoire de Saint Louis”

photo by Dany Sandron

the construction of a new enclosure completed in 1351,14 the installation of a

new altarpiece in the 1330s, before the late fourteenth-century renovation of
the shrine of the Virgin, which housed most of the cathedral’s main relics and
was displayed at the back of the apse.15
From an architectural point of view, it is interesting to note that the trans-
formation of the roofs of the chevet of the cathedral constitutes the first
experience of this type in the work of the architect Raymond du Temple. He
reproduced this formula in later monuments (Figure 15.5) such as the royal
oratory built on the southern flank of the Sainte-Chapelle16 and very close

14 Dorothy Gillerman, “The Clôture of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame: Problems of Recon-

struction,” Gesta 14 (1975): 41–61; Davis, “Splendor and Peril.”
15 Sandron, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp. 122–123 and 126–129.
16 Dany Sandron, “La Culture des architectes de la fin du Moyen Âge. A propos de Raymond
du Temple à la Sainte-Chapelle de Vincennes,” Comptes rendus de l’Académie des inscrip-
tions et belles-lettres (2006) : 1255–79.
Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame 261

Figure 15.6 I sraël Silvestre, view of the Hotel-Dieu of Paris, c.1650

Paris, Musée Carnavalet, G 366

to Notre-Dame (Figure 15.6) the Saint-Christophe chapel of the Hôtel-Dieu

(1384), whose terrace was accessible, as evidenced by the representations of
the building before its destruction.17
This type of roofing, rare in the buildings of northern France because of an
unfavorable climate, may reflect contacts with southern architecture, such as
the cathedral of Narbonne (Figure 15.7), whose chapels and ambulatory are
covered with stone terraces18.
The intensification of exchanges with the southern regions of the kingdom,
favored by the establishment of the Papacy in Avignon, which became a lead-
ing artistic center in the 14th century, may have facilitated these borrowings,
suggested by canons with itinerant careers or by the travels of architects, fol-
lowing the example of Mathieu d’Arras, architect of Prague Cathedral, who
met Charles of Luxembourg, the future emperor Charles IV, in Avignon.19

17 Ibid.
18 Christian Freigang, Imitare Ecclesias Nobiles. Die Kathedralen von narbonne, Toulouse und
Rodez und die nordfranzösische Rayonnantgotik im Languedoc (Worms, 1992).
19 Freigang, op. cit., p. 300.
262 Sandron

Figure 15.7 N
 arbonne Cathedral, choir
Wikimedia

The case already mentioned of the silversmith Jean de Montpellier, author

of the altarpiece of the main altar, who undoubtedly originated in Languedoc,
brings us back to the southern regions20 (Figure 15.8).
The choir of Notre-Dame thus was radically transformed in the fourteenth
century, both inside and outside. A new enclosure isolated the sanctuary and
the liturgical choir. New stained glass adorned mostly with grisailles in the
high windows and in the tribunes of the chevet emphasized the choir with a
clearer light.21 The most sacred point of the cathedral where the high altar and
the principal reliquaries were concentrated, was thus strikingly enhanced.
I remember not without emotion the exchanges Andrew and I had on these
questions of atmosphere. They guided the modeling work based on the scans

20 Jean Thuile, Histoire de l’Orfèvrerie du Languedoc, t. 3, M à Z. Généralités de Montpellier

et de Toulouse : Répertoire des orfèvres depuis le Moyen Âge jusqu’au début du XIXe siècle
(Paris, 1969), p. 106.
21 Jean Lafond in Marcel Aubert, Louis Grodecki, Jean Lafond, Jean Verrier, Les Vitraux de
Notre-Dame et de la Sainte-Chapelle de Paris, CVMA France vol. 1 (Paris, 1959), pp. 15–16
and 335–36; Henry Kraus, “Notre-Dame’s Vanished Medieval Stained Glass,” Gazette des
Beaux-Arts 68 (1966) : 131–48 ; Françoise Gatouillat, “Les vitraux anciens,” Notre-Dame de
Paris, Mgr Vingt-Trois dir. (Strasbourg, 2012), p. 61.
Notre-Dame after Notre-Dame 263

Figure 15.8 N
 otre-Dame, choir
photo by Andrew Tallon, 2012

that Andrew had done, and that remain of capital importance for the knowl-
edge of the monument. As the restoration of the cathedral begins, we are more
than ever indebted to this pioneer for having shown us the way.
 CHAPTER 16

The Image of Notre-Dame: Architectural and

Artistic Responses to the Cathedral of Paris

Lindsay S. Cook

Notre-Dame of Paris inspired medieval architects and artists more than many
medieval buildings, and for a particularly long period of time. Between the
12th and 16th centuries, medieval buildings, from rival cathedrals to village
churches, and paintings, from illuminated chronicles to private devotional
books, represented—and thus prompted viewers to remember—Notre-
Dame.1 This essay addresses the formation of the “image” of Notre-Dame of
Paris—that is, the visual shorthand medieval architects and artists developed
over time to refer to or stand for the cathedral in new works of art or archi-
tecture. As the cathedral was built and dramatically retrofitted from the mid-
12th to the mid-14th century, the architectural shorthand for Notre-Dame was
likewise in flux. From the 15th century onward, however, the image of Notre-
Dame became more fixed, tending to include one or both of its west towers,
and often also the timber-frame spire above the crossing. The west towers were
built before 1245, and the spire was added to the building in the mid-13th cen-
tury.2 The fact that the features late-medieval architects and artists ultimately
settled on are most visible—and arguably best viewed—from a distance sug-
gests that it was through embodied experience of the building within its urban
context that medieval architects and artists distilled the cathedral’s complex
architecture down to a limited number of distinctive features.

1 Architectural Responses to Notre-Dame

If we solely wished to reconstruct the “period eye,” in understanding how a

medieval cleric or mason might have described the act of responding to the
architecture of Notre-Dame of Paris and other buildings, there is evidence to

1 On the connections between representation and memory, see Stephen Perkinson, “Rethinking
the Origins of Portraiture,” Gesta 46 (2007): 135.
2 Dany Sandron and Andrew Tallon, Notre Dame Cathedral: Nine Centuries of History, trans.
Lindsay Cook (University Park, 2020), pp. 88–97.

© Lindsay S. Cook, 2023 | doi:10.1163/9789004529335_017

The Image of Notre-Dame 265

suggest that the Latin “ad modum” and the Middle French “parfaire” were two
of the historically appropriate terms used to describe technical similarities
and, by extension, visual likeness in the Middle Ages.3
The term “ad modum” was used in a 17th-century entry in the capitular regis-
ters of Notre-Dame of Paris to describe how the roof of the tower of the church
Saint-Mathurin of Larchant should be reconstructed. The document speci-
fied that it should be rebuilt “ad modum turrium ecclesiae Parisiense”—that
is, like the towers of Notre-Dame of Paris, apparently referring to their general
shape and technical characteristics.4 The textual record at Notre-Dame is not
as robust in describing architectural likeness in the 12th and 13th centuries as
it is in the late-medieval and early-modern periods. However, Caroline Bruze-
lius’s illuminating research on Angevin Sicily makes it clear that the phrase
“ad modum” was already in use in the thirteenth century, when it was used
to communicate the desire to apply ornament associated with France, if not
necessarily a specific model building, in a new context.5 Since we know the
formula was in use from the 13th to the 17th century, it seems fair to imagine
that it was one way medieval clerics and administrators articulated a desire for
technical or visual similarities across place and time.
From the point of view of medieval masons and artists, the practice could
go by a different name. The eloquent representation of master mason Jehan
Ravy on the Notre-Dame choir screen called the enterprise “perfection.” A
votive inscription on the north side of the eastern part of the clôture—no
longer extant but preserved in an early-modern drawing made for Roger de
Gaignières read, “This is Master Jehan Ravy, who was mason of Notre-Dame
of Paris for 25 years and began these new sculpted narratives. Pray for him ◇
and Master Jehan le Boutelier, his nephew, perfected them in the year 1351.”6
In this context, the Middle French verb parfaire means to complete something

3 Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy (Oxford, 1972).

4 Archives nationales de France (AN) LL//332, fol. 169v. [Conclusum est apicem dictae turris
ruinae proximum omnio destruendum et tollendum, dictamque turrim cooperiendam ad
modum turrium eccl. Paris. Asbque ullo apice].
5 Caroline Bruzelius, “‘ad modum franciae’: Charles of Anjou and Gothic Architecture in the
Kingdom of Sicily,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 50 (December 1991): 402–420.
6 Gaignières, 4658, Cabinet des Estampes, Bibliothèque nationale de France. [“cest maistre
Jehan Ravi qui fu masso’ de nostre dame de paris par lespace de xxv ans et com’enca ces
Nouvelles hystoyres p’er pour lame de luy ◇ et maistre Jeha’ le Boutelier son neveu qui les
a parfaits en lan mil ccc li”]. The Latin version of the term appears in the quatrain on the
frame of the Ghent altarpiece attributing the painting to Hubert and Jan van Eyck. See
Marc H. Smith, Susan Frances Jones, and Anne-Sophie Augustyniak, “The Quatrain: A New
Reconstruction,” in The Ghent Altarpiece: Research and Conservation of the Exterior, ed. Bart
Fransen and Cyriel Stroo (Turnhout, 2020), pp. 377–80.
266 Cook

by means of development, which is quite close to the definition of the modern

English verb “to perfect.”7 Each master mason worked within the parameters
of a received set of circumstances and was bound to respect them, without
necessarily being hemmed in by them. The practice was, above all, optimistic,
and it was simultaneously retrospective and forward-looking.
And yet, reconstructing the period eye is not the sole aim of this essay. Among
its goals is to select, with the benefit of hindsight, an apt modern term for the
medieval architectural practice of forging likeness between two buildings. Of
course, medieval architectural likeness took many forms and bore a variety of
connotations. It is, therefore, worth summarizing the analytical frameworks avail-
able to modern scholars to understand the connections, and to select an appro-
priate intellectual paradigm for architectural responses to the cathedral of Paris.
In his monograph published in 1920 under the title Notre-Dame de Paris:
sa place dans l’histoire de l’architecture du XIIe au XIVe siècle, the architectural
historian Marcel Aubert argued that, just as Notre-Dame itself was modeled
after Romanesque churches, the 12th-century abbey church of Saint-Denis, the
cathedrals of Noyon, Senlis, and Laon, and the collegiate church of Mantes, the
cathedral of Paris went on to exert what he conceived of as an “influence”—
both positive and negative—on architecture of the 12th through 14th centuries.8
“Taken as a whole,” Aubert wrote, “the influence of Notre-Dame was, above
all, negative.” Aubert cited what he perceived to be the cathedral’s faults—­
particularly its dimly-lit interior and spacious tribunes—as irremediable prob-
lems, imperfect Romanesque holdovers that builders emulated at their own
peril. Ultimately, for Aubert, Notre-Dame’s greatest flaw was that it was insuffi-
ciently Gothic.9 Evident in Aubert’s assessment is his preference for Gothic over

7 In modern French, “parfaire” means “mener quelque chose à son complet développement,”
Larousse dictionnaires de français <larousse.fr/dictionnaires/francais/parfaire>. The primary
definition of “to perfect” in modern English is “to bring to final form,” and the secondary
definition is “to make perfect: improve, refine,” Merriam-Webster English Dictionary <mer-
riam-webster.com/dictionary/perfect>. In Middle French, the term is defined as both “to
perfect” and “to finish completely” in Frédéric Godefroy, Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue
française, et de tous ses dialects du IXe au XVe siècle 5 (Paris, 1882–1902), pp. 762–64.
8 Marcel Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris: sa place dans l’histoire de l’architecture du XIIe au XIVe
siècle (Paris, 1920), pp. 177, 180.
9 The scholarly prejudice against the Romanesque is treated in Janet Marquardt, Zodiaque:
Making Medieval Modern, 1951–2001 (University Park, 2015), p. 22. As I mentioned in my review
of Marquardt’s study in Peregrinations: Journal of Medieval Art and Architecture 5 (2016):
206–213, Romanesque monuments were at the core of the Commission des Monuments his-
toriques from its inception; however, Marquardt was absolutely right that historians of Gothic
architecture have been dismissive of Romanesque architecture. Aubert’s description of parts
of Notre-Dame as “cette disposition fâcheuse léguée par l’art roman” exemplifies this point
of view. On the historiography of the reception of Notre-Dame of Paris, see Stephen Murray,
“Notre-Dame of Paris and the Anticipation of Gothic,” The Art Bulletin 80 (1998): 229–53.
The Image of Notre-Dame 267

Romanesque architecture, a prejudice that pervades much early-20th-century

French scholarship about medieval architecture, as Janet Marquardt cogently
explored in her book about the Zodiaque book series, which had regarded
Romanesque architecture and monumental sculpture more favorably.10
In Aubert’s view, it was on great churches, specifically, that Notre-Dame
exerted a negative “influence.”11 For example, he held that the cathedrals of
Bourges and Meaux were the worse for using Notre-Dame of Paris as a mod-
el.12 The title of Robert Branner’s Bourges monograph, which first appeared in
a French-language edition entitled La cathédrale de Bourges et sa place dans
l’architecture gothique, consciously paraphrased the title of Aubert’s Notre-
Dame book. And yet, among the aims of Branner’s monograph was to consider
Bourges on its own terms, not simply in relation to the cathedral of Paris. In
the book’s introduction, Branner wrote that Henri Focillon had “insisted on
the unique character of the work of art despite its historical genealogy, thereby
decisively absolving Bourges from the criticism of too close a relationship with
the Cathedral of Paris.”13 And later on, he went on to add, “Although histori-
ans of art have often appreciated the beauty of St.-Étienne of Bourges, they
have been at a loss to explain its relationship to contemporary architecture,
and they have variously classed it as a provincial daughter of the Cathedral of
Paris.”14 In his landmark study, Branner attempted to extricate Bourges from a
tangled web. Nevertheless, not even he countered Aubert’s fundamental claim
that the massing of the cathedrals of Bourges and Paris resemble one another,
as, indeed, they do (Figures 16.1 and 16.2).
In a curious shift in tone, Aubert claimed, conversely, that Notre-Dame’s
“influence” on parish and collegiate churches near Paris was decidedly pos-
itive.15 He wrote, “Notre-Dame served as a model for the small churches in
the Paris region, which copied this or that detail of its plan or construction.”16
Aubert identified numerous churches throughout the Île-de-France inspired
by aspects of the cathedral, including its plan, the vaulting system of its main
vessel, its double ambulatory, its line of columns, and the oculi and rose

10 Marquardt, Zodiaque, p. 22.

11 For a definition of the category, see Christopher Wilson, The Gothic Cathedral: The Archi-
tecture of the Great Church 1130–1530 (London, 1990), pp. 7–12.
12 Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp. 182–84.
13 Robert Branner, The Cathedral of Bourges and Its Place in Gothic Architecture (Cambridge,
MA, 1989), pp. 2, 4.
14 Branner, The Cathedral of Bourges, p. 161.
15 Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, p. 187.
16 Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp. 187–88. [“Notre-Dame a servi de modèle aux petites églises
de la région parisienne, qui ont copié tel ou tel détail de son plan et de sa construction.”].
268 Cook

Figure 16.1 P
 aris, Notre-Dame, view from the southeast
Photo by Andrew Tallon. Image Courtesy of the
Mapping Gothic Project, Media Center for Art History.
© The Trustees of Columbia University, 2011

windows of its choir and nave tribunes.17 He noted two details, in particular,
which “above all struck the architects of the Paris region”: namely, the colum-
nar piers of the arcade, and the oculi of the inner walls and rose windows of
the outer walls of the choir tribunes.18
Closely related to Aubert’s “influence” paradigm is Michel Lheure’s argument
that the architecture of Notre-Dame “radiated” throughout the surrounding

17 Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, pp. 187–93.

18 Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, 191.
The Image of Notre-Dame 269

Figure 16.2 B
 ourges, Saint-Étienne, view from the southeast
Photo by Stephen Murray. Image Courtesy of the Mapping
Gothic Project, Media Center for Art History. © The Trustees
of Columbia University, 2011

region, suffusing the Île-de-France with its “cathedral influence.”19 While he

was right to establish Notre-Dame as a key model, the “influence” paradigm
ascribes a kind of agency to the inanimate stones of the building and does not
attend sufficiently to the mode of transmission from “center” to “periphery.”
In their survey of Gothic architecture in France, Dieter Kimpel and Robert
Suckale argued pointedly that architectural connections between the cathe-
dral of Paris and smaller sacred edifices were intended to manifest the hierar-
chical relationship between them, borrowing from the monastic context to call
the former the “mater ecclesia” of the latter.20 This is the modern-day equiva-
lent of Viollet-le-Duc’s rationalist claim that the churches that resembled the
cathedral did so due to a quasi-familial relationship between them, analogous
to the relationship between the “mother church” and “daughter houses” of a
monastic community.21

19 Michel Lheure, Le Rayonnement de Notre-Dame de Paris dans ses paroisses (Paris, 2010),
pp. 57–190, 211–21.
20 Dieter Kimpel and Robert Suckale, Die gotische Architektur in Frankreich 1130–1270
(Munich, 1985), p. 162.
21 Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, “Eglise,” in Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture
française du XIe au XVIe siècle, 5 (Paris, 1861), p. 162. [“Les églises abbatiales des clunisiens
avaient fait école, c’est-à-dire que les paroisses qui en dépendaient imitaient, autant que
270 Cook

My own fieldwork and research have led me to frame the architectural con-
nections forged between the cathedral and other sacred edifices not in terms
of “influence” (as Aubert did), nor as a kind of outward “radiation” (as Lheure
did), nor, indeed, as akin to impressions made from the seal matrix of the
“mater ecclesia” (as Kimpel and Suckale did), but rather in terms of “architec-
tural citation.” An architectural citation is distinguishable from a copy, repro-
duction, or forgery. Embedded in the concept is the active, creative initiative of
human beings choosing to refer to parts of one edifice in the design of another.
It is the product of a process that implies the conscious, motivated use of a
specific measurement or formal arrangement from a prototype in a new set-
ting, resulting in a novel design.22 Hans-Joachim Kunst used the cathedral of
Reims as a case study to demonstrate how architectural citation worked in the
context of a single 13th-century cathedral.23 He claimed that master masons
Jean-le-Loup, Gaucher de Reims, and Bernard de Soissons “cited” the design
of Jean d’Orbais, the first master mason, by using the latter’s basic schema,
making adjustments to it, and introducing innovative features. Within Kunst’s
framework, citation provides the backdrop for recognizing innovation. Simi-
larly, Wolfgang Augustyn and Ulrich Söding have situated citation as a “partial
match.”24 Indeed, numerous architectural historians have made productive
use of the paradigm, most of them writing in the German or French language.25

possible, et dans des proportions plus modestes, ces monuments types. Il en fut de même
pour les cathédrales lorsqu’on les rebâtit à la fin du XIIe siècle et au commencement
du XIIIe ; elles servirent de modèles pour les paroisses qui s’élevaient dans le diocèse. Il
ne faudrait pas croire cependant que ces petits monuments fussent des réductions des
grands ; l’imitation se bornait sagement à adopter les méthodes de construire, les disposi-
tions de détail, l’ornementation et certains caractères iconographiques des vastes églises
abbatiales ou des cathédrales.”].
22 Remei Capdevila-Werning, “Can Buildings Quote?” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Crit-
icism 69 (2011): 115–24. For an extended discussion of several possible theoretical frame-
works, see Lindsay S. Cook, “Architectural Citation of Notre-Dame of Paris in the Land of
the Paris Cathedral Chapter,” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 2018), 8–13.
23 Hans-Joachim Kunst, “Freiheit und Zitat in der Architektur des 13. Jahrhunderts: die Kath-
edrale von Reims,” in Bauwerk und Bildwerk im Hochmittelalter (1981), pp. 87–102.
24 Augustyn and Söding, “Original – Kopie – Zitat. Versuch einer begrifflichen Annäherung,”
in Original – Kopie – Zitat. Kunstwerke des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit: Wege der
Aneignung – Formen der Überlieferung (Passau, 2010), pp. 1–13.
25 See, for example, Wolfgang Schenkluhn and Peter van Stiepelen, “Architektur als Zitat:
Die Trierer Liebfrauenkirche in Marburg,” in 700 Jahre Elisabethkirche in Marburg, 1: Die
Elisabethkirche—Architektur in der Geschichte, ed. Hans-Joachim Kunst (Marburg, 1983),
pp. 15–30; Maryse Bideault and Claudine Lautier, Île-de-France gothique (Paris, 1987);
Dany Sandron, Picardie gothique: autour de Laon et Soissons (Paris, 2001); Arnaud Timbert,
“Existe-t-il une signification politique de l’architecture gothique au XIIe siècle? L’exemple
The Image of Notre-Dame 271

While it was not the period term for the practice, architectural citation comes
closest to capturing the spirit of the medieval masonic practice that Jehan
le Boutelier called “perfection,” and thus it is the interpretive lens through
which I have opted to interpret buildings that resemble Notre-Dame of Paris.
Of course, a building, being an inanimate object, cannot actually “cite” any-
thing on its own; it requires the medium of human beings, who, through their
embodied experience of one building, use their minds and hands to respond
by creating a second edifice that resembles the first.
While Aubert and more recent scholars, such as Jacques Henriet, Dieter
Kimpel and Robert Suckale, and Michel Lheure focused largely on visual con-
nections between the cathedral and other churches, my own research has
revealed that some of the connections run much deeper. For example, it is not
simply that the articulation of the 12th- and 14th-century work at the parish
and pilgrimage church Saint-Mathurin of Larchant resembles Notre-Dame
of Paris, as Aubert himself, Jacques Henriet, Caroline Bruzelius, and Michael
Davis, among others, have noted (Figures 16.3 and 16.4).26 My own measure-
ments of Saint-Mathurin suggest that its designers were intimately familiar
with the geometry of the Notre-Dame choir, and even must have known that
its internal width amounted to 35 royal feet.27

des chevets de Saint-Denis et de Saint-Germain-des-Prés,” Les Cahiers de l’Histoire de l’Art

5 (2007): 13–25; Isabelle Isnard, “Un cas d’utilisation de modèle architectural vers 1300 en
Champagne: l’exemple des collégiales Saint-Urbain de Troyes et Saint-Pierre-aux-Liens
de Mussy-sur-Seine,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte (2010): 19–40; Christian Freigang,
“Sakrale Potenz und historische Authentizität: ‘Zitat’ heiliger Bauten,” in Architektur als
Zitat (Regensburg, 2014): pp. 99–118; Matthias Müller, “Vergegenwärtigung und Übersch-
reibung. Das Architekturzitat als bildhafte Evokation und Transformation sakraler Orte
und die Bedeutung des ‘Eigenzitats’ für die historische Identität des Kirchengebäudes,” in
Architektur als Zitat (Regensburg, 2014), pp. 33–58.
26 Jacques Henriet, “Le chœur de Saint-Mathurin de Larchant et Notre-Dame de Paris,” in À
l’aube de l’architecture gothique (Besançon, 2005), pp. 283–300; Henriet, “La chapelle de
la Vierge de Saint-Mathurin de Larchant, une œuvre de Pierre de Chelles?” Bulletin mon-
umental 136 (1978): 35–47; Caroline Bruzelius, “The Construction of Notre-Dame in Paris,”
The Art Bulletin 69 (1987): 561; Michael Davis, “Splendor and Peril: The Cathedral of Paris,
1290–1350,” The Art Bulletin 80 (1998): 38.
27 I initially extrapolated the measurement of the Notre-Dame choir from Stefaan van Lief-
feringe’s survey of the choir presented in “The Choir of Notre-Dame of Paris: An Inquiry
into Twelfth-Century Mathematics and Early-Gothic Architecture,” (PhD diss., Columbia
University, 2006), and have since confirmed the width of the central vessel using Andrew
Tallon’s 2010 laser survey of the cathedral. While the vault of the Notre-Dame sanctuary
rests on piers, walls support the vaults of Saint-Mathurin. The width between the walls in
Larchant ranges from 11 meters (immediately west of the apse) to 11.38 meters (between
the first and second bays west of the crossing). In his monograph, Marcel Aubert had pro-
vided the figure of 12 meters for the width of the choir. Aubert, Notre-Dame de Paris, 35.
272 Cook

Figure 16.3 P
 aris, Notre-Dame, view of the interior facing east
Photo by Stephen Murray. Image Courtesy of
the Mapping Gothic Project, Media Center for Art
History. © The Trustees of Columbia University, 2011

As Notre-Dame was built and retrofitted from the mid-12th to the mid-
14th century, architectural citations of the cathedral varied widely, inspired
by its massing (e.g., Bourges Cathedral), its dimensions (e.g., Saint-Mathurin
of Larchant), its columnar piers (e.g., Saint-Denys of Arcueil), its oculi (e.g.,
Saint-Hermeland of Bagneux), its lateral chapels (e.g. Rouen Cathedral), its
clerestory windows (e.g., Saint-Séverin of Paris), or its south transept rose
window (e.g., Amiens Cathedral). However, once the building was “finished,”
designers of other edifices frequently focused their attention on one particu-
larly prominent feature: the colossal west towers.
The practice of architectural citation continued in the 15th and 16th centu-
ries, when precious archival evidence sheds light on how the process worked.
The Image of Notre-Dame 273

Figure 16.4 L archant, Saint-Mathurin, view of the interior facing east

Photo by Stephen Murray. Image Courtesy of
the Mapping Gothic Project, Media Center for
Art History. © The Trustees of Columbia University, 2011

A 1455 entry in a fabric account from Troyes Cathedral, edited and translated
by Stephen Murray in his 1987 monograph Building Troyes Cathedral, indi-
cates that the builders sought the advice of Bleuet, master mason of Reims
Cathedral, who indicated that it would be best to visit the cathedrals of Reims,
Amiens, and Paris in person before settling on a design.28 As Étienne Hamon
has discussed, the Troyes cathedral chapter went on to visit Paris for this very
purpose the following year, in 1456, and again in 1489 (Figure 16.5).29 While

28 Stephen Murray, Building Troyes Cathedral (Bloomington, 1987), pp. 7, 101.

29 Étienne Hamon, “The Contribution of Medieval Images of Notre-Dame to its Restoration,”
trans. Jake Gaines, The Notre-Dame Translation Project, ed. Lindsay Cook (2021): <https://
274 Cook

Figure 16.5 P
 aris, Notre-Dame, west front
Photo by Andrew Tallon. Image Courtesy of
the Mapping Gothic Project, Media Center for
Art History. © The Trustees of Columbia University, 2011

the north tower did not get underway for another fifty years, under the master
mason Martin Chambiges, it is worth noting that the idea to draw inspiration
from Notre-Dame of Paris, among other cathedrals, had been percolating on
the building site for quite some time (Figure 16.6). Similarly, between 1524 and
1528, the Bourges cathedral chapter decided to base its north tower on the tow-
ers of Notre-Dame.30
While the cathedral of Paris was built from the mid-12th to the mid-14th
century, many aspects of the cathedral—from its silhouette, to its geometry

uploads.strikinglycdn.com/files/68dd180d-9950-49b3-9023-9fdcf28de0c4/5.%20Notre
-Dame_Translation_Project-History.pdf?id=3386226>.
30 Hamon, “The Contribution of Medieval Images of Notre-Dame.”
The Image of Notre-Dame 275

Figure 16.6 T
 royes, Saint-Pierre Saint-Paul, west front
Photo by Stephen Murray. Image Courtesy of
the Mapping Gothic Project, Media Center for
Art History. © The Trustees of Columbia University, 2011

and measurements, to the proportion of its nave piers, to the articulation of

its crossing piers, to the tracery of its great rose windows—served as sources
of inspiration to the builders of other edifices, from cathedrals to village
churches. However, in the late Middle Ages, after the cathedral of Paris was
“finished,” it was, above all, the cathedral’s square-planned, flat-topped twin
towers that became a perennial source of architectural inspiration, prized as
both technological and artistic feats worthy of careful study.31

31 While Viollet-le-Duc believed that massive stone spires had been planned at Notre-Dame,
the archaeological evidence is unconvincing. See Robert Bork, Great Spires: Skyscrapers of
276 Cook

2 Artistic Responses to Notre-Dame: Architectural Portraits

Medieval builders were not the only ones to internalize the image of Notre-
Dame. Late-medieval painters likewise deployed the image of the cathedral
in multiple ways. A depiction of the version of the edifice that took shape in
the first half of the 14th century appears in numerous 15th-century manuscript
illuminations and one well-known panel painting.32 The representations of
Notre-Dame are literal enough that they have been reproduced repeatedly in
publications about the cathedral of Paris, largely for their purported documen-
tary or archaeological value.
Indeed, specific, readily recognizable features of Notre-Dame began to
make their way into artistic renderings of the city of Paris in the early 15th
century, later than the 14th-century date when “physiognomic elements”
began to appear in some French courtly portraits, as Stephen Perkinson has
demonstrated, becoming a way—although, as Perkinson stresses, not the only
way—of depicting a human being.33 Similar to the trajectory of portraiture
conventions, there was not a tidy transition from schematic approximation
to mimetic likeness in the realm of “architectural portraits,”34 but rather a

the New Jerusalem (Cologne, 2003), pp. 100–103.

32 On representations of medieval Paris, see Philippe Lorentz and Dany Sandron, Atlas de
Paris au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2006), p. 9.
33 Perkinson, “Rethinking the Origins of Portraiture,” p. 146.
34 Erwin Panofsky employed the term in Early Netherlandish Painting 1 (New York, 1971), p.
413. For an extended discussion of the architectural portraits in the Très Riches Heures,
see Millard Meiss, French Painting in the Time of Jean de Berry: The Limbourgs and Their
Contemporaries 1 (New York, 1974), pp. 201–06; Stephen Perkinson, “Likeness, Loyalty, and
the Life of the Court Artist: Portraiture in the Calendar Scenes of the Très Riches Heures,”
Quaerendo 38 (2008): 152–55. On the extent to which architectural portraits could differ
from the actual structures represented, see Francesco Benelli, The Architecture in Giotto’s
Paintings (Cambridge, UK, 2012), p. 71. Earlier Italian artists, including Cimabue, Giotto,
Simone Martini, and Lorenzetti, included architectural portraits in some of their works
of the 13th and 14th centuries. On the architectural portraits of Cimabue and Giotto, see
Benelli, Architecture in Giotto’s Paintings, pp. 12–13; on those of Simone Martini and Loren-
zetti, see Boudewijn Bakker, “Conquering the Horizon: The Limbourg Brothers and the
Painted Landscape,” in Rob Dückers, Pieter Roelofs, et al., The Limbourg Brothers: Nijme-
gen Masters at the French Court, 1400–1416 (Nijmegen, 2005), p. 200. On the kinds of Italian
painting the Limbourgs likely saw, see Victor M. Schmidt, “The Limbourgs and Italian
Art,” in Dückers and Roelofs, The Limbourg Brothers: Nijmegen Masters, p. 188. For a polit-
ical interpretation of the use of architectural portraiture in works by the Limbourgs and
especially Jean Fouquet, see Erik Inglis, “Nation-Building: The Most Excellent Buildings
of France,” in Jean Fouquet and the Invention of France: Art and Nation After the Hundred
Years War (New Haven, 2011), pp. 141–203.
The Image of Notre-Dame 277

situation in which some contexts—but not all—apparently demanded the

incorporation of a building’s distinctive features.
And yet, insufficient attention has been paid to the contexts in which archi-
tectural portraits of Notre-Dame appeared and the extent to which they might
inform our understanding of the connotations and functions of the cathedral
in the 15th century. A brief survey reveals that the “image” of Notre-Dame
presented in paintings intended for sacred contexts is often of an apotropaic
cathedral, one that amplifies the power of God and the saints, or even spon-
taneously and miraculously wards off demons.35 The apotropaic power of the
cathedral is evident in Saint Genevieve on fol. 254r of John Rylands Library
Latin 164, a book of hours; Jean Fouquet’s The Right Hand of God Protecting the
Faithful against the Demons and Saint Vrain, Bishop of Cavaillon, Healing the
Possessed, both from the Hours of Étienne Chevalier; and the Master of Saint
Giles’s altarpiece panel Episodes from the Life of a Bishop-Saint. These examples
raise the possibility that the sacred power of the cathedral was among the rea-
sons artists and patrons chose to include Notre-Dame in 15th-century sacred
paintings.
Moreover, the inclusion of Notre-Dame in some illuminated devotional
manuscripts stakes a claim for a temporality and setting for the image that
initially appears at odds with the subject matter. For example, the Meeting of
the Magi and the Adoration of the Magi, two full-page illuminations, appear
opposite one another in an opening of the Très Riches Heures of Duke Jean
de Berry (Figure 16.7). In the first scene, on the verso, the Magi converge at
a crossroads marked by a montjoie, one of several microarchitectural monu-
ments, or crosses, commemorating the path of Louis IX’s funeral procession
to Saint-Denis. Established in the 13th century, the crosses remained standing
for several centuries.36 In the background of the image is a cityscape, punctu-
ated by architectural portraits of Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle, both
depicted frontally from a perch west of the Ile de la Cité. In fact, the view of
Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle captured in the Meeting of the Magi was
accessible from the Hôtel de Nesle, the Duke of Berry’s Parisian residence.37
Therefore, it seems likely that the architectural portrait of Notre-Dame in the

35 I address this subset of portraits of Notre-Dame in more depth in a forthcoming book

about architectural and artistic responses to Notre-Dame.
36 Joan Evans, “A Prototype of the Eleanor Crosses,” The Burlington Magazine 91 (1949): 99.
Françoise Autrand, “Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, un éloge de la paix,” Bulletin
de la Société nationale des Antiquaires de France, 2000 (2004): 177. Lorentz and Sandron,
Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge, p. 102.
37 In the calendar cycle in the Très Riches Heures, June features a representation of the royal
palace from a similar vantage point, as Patricia Stirnemann has shown. Stirnemann, “The
278 Cook

Figure 16.7 L imbourg Brothers, The Meeting of the Magi, from Les Très
Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, ca. 1416. Chantilly, Bibliothèque
du château, MS 65, fol. 51v
Photo by René-Gabriel Ojéda. © RMN-Grand Palais/
Art Resource, NY

Très Riches Heures was based on a drawing made on the grounds of the Hôtel
de Nesle.38
As Millard Meiss pointed out in his foundational study of the Très Riches
Heures, “the connection of the Sainte-Chapelle, Notre-Dame, and the city of

King of Illuminated Manuscripts: The Très Riches Heures,” in Dückers and Roelofs, The
Limbourg Brothers: Nijmegen Masters, p. 114.
38 Similarly, Meiss made the case that the portrait of the château of Saumur in the calendar was
based on a drawing made on site. Meiss, French Painting in the Time of Jean de Berry, p. 202.
The Image of Notre-Dame 279

Paris with the Meeting of the Magi is not so obvious.”39 While Meiss framed
it as a “symbolic reenactment, in which one king has taken the form of Con-
stantine and Paris is Jerusalem,”40 there remains room for a more robust inter-
pretation of the role Notre-Dame plays in shaping the shifting temporalities
of the scene—in other words, of distorting the “time of the image.”41 Contrary
to the architectural likenesses of castles and palaces in the calendar cycle at
the beginning of the Très Riches Heures, the portrait of Notre-Dame appears
in a biblical context rather than a contemporary scene. The biblical narra-
tive establishes that the Magi’s paths converged in Jerusalem, and thus, in the
Meeting of the Magi, Notre-Dame apparently stands in for a prominent sacred
edifice in Jerusalem. Similarly, a detailed representation of the west front of
Bourges Cathedral appears in the Presentation of the Virgin on fol. 137r of the
Très Riches Heures. Flanked by Joachim and Anne, Mary ascends the steps that
lead to the central portal of the cathedral, its doors yawning open. Bourges
Cathedral substitutes for—or even, in a sense, becomes—the Temple in Jeru-
salem. In both the Meeting of the Magi and the Presentation of the Virgin, con-
temporary sacred edifices acted as portals to a flow of sacred time.42
Morevoer, one of the three folios depicting Notre-Dame in the Hours of Éti-
enne Chevalier features, from background to extreme foreground, a fragment of
the Paris skyline, dominated by the chevet of Notre-Dame, the Lamentation,
and, finally, Christ’s tomb, surrounded by and littered with Instruments of the
Passion (Figure 16.8). Should we interpret this image as projecting the contem-
porary cathedral onto the past? Should we see it as making biblical events pres-
ent to make them more tangible for the viewer? (The image of Notre-Dame
does, after all, frequently appear in devotional manuscripts.) Should we view
it as negating the iterative quality of Notre-Dame, which modern architec-
tural historians understandably stress, and instead promoting an image of the
cathedral that is, if not entirely timeless, then at least stretching all the way
back to the time of Christ?43 In other words, has Notre-Dame been relocated
to Jerusalem, or has the Lamentation been reimagined on the Left Bank?44 If
the latter, then this is not exactly an example of Paris as the “new,” heavenly

39 Meiss, French Painting in the Time of Jean de Berry, p. 205.

40 Ibid. See also Inglis, Jean Fouquet, p. 162.
41 Keith Moxey, Visual Time: The Image in History (Durham, NC, 2013), pp. 1–8.
42 On time as a “flow,” see Matthew Champion, The Fullness of Time: Temporalities of the
Fifteenth-Century Low Countries (Chicago, 2017), p. 177.
43 Jessica Maier has shown that, by the 16th century, city portraits made in Italy transported
the subject to a “timeless realm.” Maier, “A ‘True Likeness’: The Renaissance City Portrait,”
Renaissance Quarterly 65 (2012): 713.
44 Cf. Inglis, Jean Fouquet, p. 183.
280 Cook

Figure 16.8 J ean Fouquet, Lamentation, from Hours of Étienne Chevalier,

ca. 1452–1460. Chantilly, Bibliothèque du château, MS 71, fol. 19r
Photo by René-Gabriel Ojéda. © RMN-Grand Palais/
Art Resource, NY

Jerusalem,45 but rather of contemporary Paris standing in for the “old,” earthly
Jerusalem, with Notre-Dame as the Temple, providing a bridge to the visionary
world the manuscript creates.
There are notable compositional similarities between the Lamentation in
the Hours of Étienne Chevalier and The Three Marys of ca.1425–1435 attributed

45 Millard Meiss interpreted the city as “a ‘new’ Jerusalem.” Meiss, French Painting in the
Time of Jean de Berry, p. 156.
The Image of Notre-Dame 281

to Hubert van Eyck or Jan van Eyck, now in Rotterdam.46 In the altarpiece,
the Dome of the Rock, the contemporary building on the site of the Temple
in Jerusalem, appears in the background of the scene, which depicts the three
Marys discovering Christ’s empty tomb, thought to have taken place on the site
where the Church of the Holy Sepulcher now stands. By placing Notre-Dame of
Paris in The Lamentation in a similar position to the Dome of the Rock in The
Three Marys, Fouquet transforms the cathedral itself into the Temple, similar
to the way Bourges Cathedral stands in for the Temple in the Très Riches Heu-
res.47 Both manuscript illuminations exemplify that medieval cathedrals were
deemed worthy substitutes for the Temple in Jerusalem,48 a premise made
manifest by the clergy through the liturgy.49
In the same period, the image of Notre-Dame was likewise deployed
as a kind of shorthand for Paris, as illuminations in manuscript copies of
Froissart’s Chroniques make clear. For example, the miniature on fol. 317v
of BnF Français 2645 depicts the encounter between two noble parties
during the Hundred Years War (Figure 16.9). The text at the top of the fac-
ing page describes Paris as “head and also the most authentic city in all the
kingdom of France.”50 In the narrative moment the illuminator chose to
highlight, the Dukes of Berry and Burgundy recommend that Louis d’An-
jou enter Paris as king of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, titles, the text goes
on to clarify, he did not actually possess at the time. The scene appears to
take place immediately outside the Porte Saint-Martin, a city gate accessi-
ble via the rue Saint-Jacques, a street explicitly mentioned in this section
of the text.51
Fol. 3r of Harley 4379, another copy of Froissart’s Chroniques, features a rep-
resentation of Notre-Dame from a different angle. The upper reaches of the
cathedral’s west front, including its towers and spire, are shown frontally in

46 Erwin Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting: Its Origins and Character (Cambridge, MA,
1953), pp. 230–32.
47 In his survey of architectural portraits in French royal manuscripts, Erik Inglis pointed
out that Notre-Dame substitutes for the Temple in Fouquet’s Lamentation. See Inglis, Jean
Fouquet, p. 187.
48 As Francesco Benelli noted in his monograph about the representation of architecture in
Giotto’s paintings, the Temple of Jerusalem was depicted in a variety of ways in the artist’s
oeuvre, and the building often resembled contemporary buildings, with some modifica-
tions. Benelli, Architecture in Giotto’s Paintings, p. 108.
49 See Jane Welch Williams, Bread, Wine, & Money: The Windows of the Trades at Chartres
Cathedral (Chicago, 1993), pp. 143–44.
50 Paris, BnF Français 2645, fol. 318r. [“Si vouloit savoir sil entreroit a Paris, qui est chief et
aussy la plus autenticque ville de tout le royaume de France, en estat comme roy ou sim-
plement en estat comme Loÿs d’Aniou.”].
51 Lorentz and Sandron, Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge, pp. 38, 50.
282 Cook

Figure 16.9 J ean Froissart, Chroniques, 15th century

Courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF)

an illumination depicting the entry of Isabeau of Bavaria, queen consort of

Charles VI, into Paris through a city gate—apparently the Porte du Louvre.52
Both 15th-century copies of Froissart’s chronicle used the image of Notre-Dame

52 Lorentz and Sandron, Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge, p. 39.

The Image of Notre-Dame 283

as a topographic anchor for historical events that had transpired in Paris in

the relatively recent past. While we might be tempted to view the illustrations
in the copies of Froissart’s Chroniques as a contemporary scene, the events
depicted had taken place at least decades before the illuminator painted them.
A 15th-century copy of the Grandes chroniques de France deployed the
image of the cathedral to establish the setting of an event from a deeper past.
The image on fol. 57r of BnF Français 6465 depicts a young Dagobert—at the
time mired in a dispute with his father, the Merovingian king Chlothar II—
taking refuge at the tomb of St. Denis, with 15th-century Notre-Dame anchor-
ing the Parisian cityscape in the background (Figure 16.10).53 The image of the
cathedral in the Grandes chroniques appears at the beginning of the chapter
devoted to Dagobert, and, as is the case of other images in the manuscript, it
is the only one used to illustrate the chapter, and thus it is the sole representa-
tion of the Merovingian ruler. Dagobert is shown not inside the contemporary
abbey church of Saint-Denis, but rather within a simple shrine that appears
to be earlier in date, indicating that the illuminator could both tell the differ-
ence between old buildings and new ones and knew how to represent both.54
In other words, the illuminator could “see through” the contemporary archi-
tecture of Saint-Denis to an earlier iteration of the shrine, and yet also chose
to include a contemporary image of Notre-Dame, suggesting the artist under-
stood the historicity of architecture.55
As we have seen, some images in which portraits of Notre-Dame appear
express multiple temporalities.56 The painters transported various biblical and
historical events to, or staged them in, 15th-century Paris, making the scenes
less remote, and thus more intimate for private devotion. In them, we should
see a “fullness of time rather than an effacement of time,” as Matthew Cham-
pion has convincingly argued for the 15th-century Low Countries.57 The por-
traits of Notre-Dame in the manuscripts discussed above provide a pathway
into the visionary world of the images, “capable of creating their own time,” in
the words of Keith Moxey.58

53 Renee Lynn Goethe, “King Dagobert, The Saint, and Royal Salvation: The Shrine of
Saint-Denis and Propaganda Production (850–1319 C.E.),” (Ph.D. diss., University of Iowa,
2016), pp. 42–45, 111–12, 174.
54 See Champion, The Fullness of Time, pp. 27–30, in which the author explores notions of
the old and the new in relation to an architectural transformation in 15th-century Leuven.
55 Cf. Inglis, Jean Fouquet, p. 147.
56 Champion, The Fullness of Time, pp. 132–72, esp. 164–71.
57 Champion, The Fullness of Time, p. 199.
58 Moxey, Visual Time, p. 1.
284 Cook

Figure 16.10 G
 randes Chroniques de France, 15th century
Courtesy of the Bibliothèque ­n ationale de France (BnF)

And yet, the vision of Paris that the images present is truncated, abbreviated.
In the paintings, Notre-Dame dominates the city, and, through a kind of visual
metonymy, the building becomes shorthand for the whole city.59 However, it is

59 This interpretation reinforces Inglis’s argument that the building embodied the city, but
it stops short of framing the building as a national cathedral. See Inglis, Jean Fouquet, pp.
147, 157, 193.
The Image of Notre-Dame 285

never the building in its entirety that represents the cathedral—and thus, by
extension, the city.60 The constant in all the distant views of the cathedral in
the late-medieval paintings discussed above is the inclusion of one or two of its
west towers, as well as the spire above the crossing.61

3 Seeing and Hearing the West Towers

As demonstrated in the previous sections, the west towers of Notre-Dame elic-

ited responses from both architects and artists. Why the towers? Of course,
their height enabled them to make a striking visual impression on medieval
spectators upon arrival to or departure from the city. And yet, the 14th-­century
encomium written by the scholastic Jean de Jandun suggests that height alone
did not explain the visual impact of the twin towers. For Jandun, Paris was
Paradise.62 The second part of his treatise, the first to address architecture at
length, opens with a discussion of “that most terrible church of the most glo-
rious Virgin Mary, mother of God,” which “deservedly shines out, like the sun
among stars.”63 In evoking the cathedral’s superlative beauty, first and fore-
most, Jandun pointed not only to the height, but also to the width and strength
of the “two towers of such magnificence and perfection”64 (“duas talis mag-
nificentie turres perfectas”), “clothed” (“circumamictas”) in a variety of orna-
ments.65 Thus, it was not only the monumentality of the towers, but also their
artistic expression—their proportions and articulation—that left an impres-
sion on contemporary viewers.
Moreover, the towers related to urban space scenographically, not unlike
the way the Baptistery, Duomo, and Campanile in Florence structured the
space around it, as Marvin Trachtenberg demonstrated in Dominion of the
Eye, his groundbreaking study connecting trecento urbanism to contemporary

60 On this kind of “synecdoche” in medieval architectural portraits, see Inglis, Jean Fouquet,
p. 149; on the process of “distillation” evident in early-modern city portraits, see Maier, “A
‘True Likeness,’” p. 718.
61 Similarly, by the 14th century, the superstructure of the Baptistery in Florence was central
to its image. See Marvin Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye: Urbanism, Art, and Power in
Early Modern Florence (Cambridge, UK, 2008), pp. 44, 46.
62 The text appears in the original Latin and in a modern French translation in Paris et ses
historiens aux XIVe et XVe siècles: documents et écrits originaux, ed. Le Roux de Lincy and
L. L. Tisserand (Paris, 1867), pp. 22–79.
63 Erik Inglis, “Gothic Architecture and a Scholastic: Jean de Jandun’s ‘Tractatus de laudibus
Parisius’ (1323),” Gesta 42 (2003): 67.
64 Inglis, “Gothic Architecture and a Scholastic,” p. 67.
65 Jandun, in Paris et ses historiens, p. 44.
286 Cook

optical theory.66 According to Trachtenberg, in designing the space around the

Campanile, the designers’ “highest priority was not abstract spatial form but
scenography, the scopic display of the monument,”67 accomplished by “[shap-
ing] the view of the building, a public icon, from street level.”68 A structured
relationship between mass and void—and thus viewing distance and angle—
seems likewise to have been established in the case of the mid-13th century
west towers of Notre-Dame.69 In the mid-12th century, the foundations for
the newest iteration of the cathedral were dug on a site significantly to the
east of the earliest iteration of the cathedral.70 In its current configuration,
the distance from the west end of the cathedral to the rue de la Cité is around
140 meters, almost exactly twice the height of the towers (212 royal feet, or 69
meters). It seems likely that the Gothic cathedral was “set back” from the street
to establish an ideal view of the towers from the major artery running along
the north-south axis of the medieval city, which corresponded to the cardo of
ancient Roman Lutetia.71
Furthermore, Trachtenberg showed how, in keeping with shifting pictorial
conventions, there was likewise a shift from frontal, to foreshortened fron-
tal, to oblique views of Florentine monuments.72 In Paris, the placement of
the cathedral in relation to the surrounding space hinged largely on frontal,
planar, distant views—from the major artery running from the Porte Saint-
Jacques to the Porte Saint-Martin along the rues Saint-Jacques, de la Juiverie,
and Saint-Martin.
Yet the towers of Notre-Dame appealed to senses beyond sight. While the
section of Jean de Jandun’s treatise devoted specifically to Notre-Dame focuses
on its visual appearance and the resulting effect on the viewer, elsewhere the
author emphasized the extent to which his judgment of Paris hinged on the
fact that the city appealed not only to sight, but to all the senses, including
hearing.73 Indeed, it is likely that it was more than a coincidence that the most

66 Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye, pp. 27–85, esp. 30–41.

67 Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye, p. 80.
68 Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye, p. 40.
69 Trachtenberg was cognizant of the fact that “concern for the visibility of public works in
all likelihood was no more an invention of the trecento than it was of the Renaissance.”
Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye, p. 33.
70 On the position of Notre-Dame with respect to the site of earlier edifices, see Lorentz and
Sandron, Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge, pp. 116–17.
71 Lorentz and Sandron, Atlas de Paris au Moyen Âge, pp. 16–17. Moreover, as the authors
point out, the Seine itself was the de facto decumanus of the Roman city.
72 Trachtenberg, Dominion of the Eye, p. 100.
73 Jandun, in Paris et ses historiens, p. 22. [“auditui sonorum discrimina”].
The Image of Notre-Dame 287

visible part of the cathedral was also its most audible feature. Thanks to the
many bells they contained, the towers frequently made themselves seen, as it
were, by making themselves heard. As Niall Atkinson argued in his book about
the way sound structured urban space in medieval and early modern Florence,
bells were “arguably the most important urban sounds in the premodern world
since they connected inhabitants to the most intimate aspects of their lives,”
including the religious and commemorative spheres.74 Moreover, as John H.
Arnold and Caroline Goodson have argued for medieval church bells, in gen-
eral, the medieval bells of Notre-Dame would have resounded throughout the
cityscape, calling out to and, in a sense, creating the city’s spiritual community.75
The bells of Notre-Dame were named after saints, thus giving voice to the
holy figures. In fact, according to their statutes, compiled in the early 14th cen-
tury, the lay churchwardens responsible for ringing the cathedral bells differen-
tiated between bells of different sizes by referring to them as the “large saints
and the small [saints] of the tower” (“les gros sains et les petis de la tour”), refer-
ring to the north tower.76 At the time the statutes were recorded, only the north
tower contained bells, and it was not until the 15th century, a period of partic-
ular interest to us here, that the south tower came to contain the largest bells.77
Notre-Dame was both visible and audible throughout much of medieval
Paris, and the sight and sound of the cathedral elicited responses from archi-
tects and artists, who, seeing the way it fit into the cityscape and hearing the
way it fit into the soundscape, collectively forged the “image” of Notre-Dame.
In fact, including one or both towers in a painted representation was a sure-
fire way of capturing a “true likeness” of the cathedral, one that transcended
merely visual traits, since the towers, in addition to being visually arresting,
likewise appealed to the sense of hearing through the many bells the towers
contained.78 Indeed, embedded in the architectural citations and architectural
portraits of the cathedral of Paris discussed above are the architects’ and art-
ists’ embodied experiences of the gates, streets, and squares of medieval Paris.

74 Niall Atkinson, The Noisy Renaissance: Sound, Architecture, and Florentine Urban Life
(University Park, PA, 2016), p. 11.
75 John H. Arnold and Caroline Goodson, “Resounding Community: The History and Mean-
ing of Medieval Church Bells,” Viator 43 (2012): 99–130.
76 AN LL//361.
77 Sandron and Tallon, Notre Dame Cathedral, pp. 88–89.
78 As Jessica Maier pointed out in her article about Italian Renaissance city portraits, “Ptol-
emy’s famous analogy stresses intangible qualities, above and beyond physical qualities,
as key aspects of a true likeness.” Maier, “A ‘True Likeness,’” p. 718. On the extent to which
portraits of individuals in late-medieval France aimed to capture traits beyond the physi-
ognomic, see Perkinson, “Rethinking the Origins of Portraiture,” p. 138.
Index

13th-Century Church at St-Denis, The 105 Avelli (tombs) 248, Fig. 14.8
Abraham, Pol 22, 24, 27 Avignon 261
Achieropoetos 15 AVISTA 49–50, 55
Acoustics 1, 5, 12, 42–43, 56, 59, 70 Baça river 111
Ad Quadratum 119 Bach (J.S.) 68
Ad Triangulum 75, 82 Bagneux, Saint-Hermeland 272
Adoration of the Magi 277 Bar Tracery 170–3
Aillette river 135 Barnes, Carl 59, 166
Aisne river 135 Beauvais Cathedral 15, 16, 25–7, 36, 38–9, 59,
Al-Mansur 110, 115 161, 163–4, 173, 195, Figs. 3.2, 4.3
Alcoa river 110, 114 Benedict XII 218–9
Alcobaça Abbey 6, 104–31, Figs. 8.1–8.9 Bergdoll, Barry 14
Sala dos Reis 129–30 Berkeley (CA) 44
Afonso Henriques, King 109, 114, 120 Bernard of Clairvaux 116
Albrecht, Stephan 92, 120, 184–88 Bernard de Soissons 270
Allen, Peter 14, 16, 38–9 Berry 257, 278
Alonso, Joe 32, Fig. 4.5 Bill-fest 72
Amiens Cathedral 9, 13, 22, 24, 30, 33, 37–8, Binghamton 104
41–6, 58, 104, 131, 158, 163, 169–70, 173, Binski, Paul 133
184, 190, 192–3, 195, 199, 272–3, Figs. 2.2, Binson, priory 143, Fig. 9.7
4.1, 5.2, 5.5, 6.4 Bleuet, master mason 273
Amiens Trilogy 13, 38, 56, 58, Fig. 5.2 Bloch, Marc 46
American Olean Tile 10 Boat-building 9
American Scientist 11, 29, 61 Bober, Harry 35
Amos, Thomas L. 110, 114, 115, 117 Bologna, San Domenico 242
Anderson, Benedict 150 Bonde, Sheila 6, 104
Angevin Sicily 265 Bonnet (Saint) 202
Anne (Saint) 279 Chapel at Clermont 203, 209, Fig. 12.2
Archaeology, Spatial 16, 39, 67 Bony, Jean 22, 44
Archaeology, Vertical 109, 121 Borg, Alan 10
Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Bork, Robert 1–7, 10, 19–34, 49–74, 75–103,
Revolution 11, 31–2, 53 157–9, 167–9
Arcueil, Saint-Denys 272 Boston (MA) 58
Ark of God 72 Bostz, chateau 16
Arnold, John H. 287 Bourbonnais 16
Arquitectonica (firm) 10 Bourges Cathedral 2, 3, 15, 24, 39, 44, 50,
Art Bulletin 11 54–5, 161, 164, 181, 192, 195, 267, 272, 274,
Ashgate 50 279, 281, Figs. 1.2, 6.3, 16.2
Atkinson, Niall 287 Boynton, Susan 14
Aubert, Marcel 262, 266–71 Braine, Saint-Yved 147–8, Fig. 9.12
Augustyne, Wolfgang 270 Branner Forum 72
Austremoine, Saint 203 Branner, Robert 10, 22, 35, 44, 74, 166, 174,
Chapel at Clermont 203–4, 209, Figs. 193, 197, 203, 267
12.1–2 Brick 242–6
Auxerre Cathedral 199–200 Brill 50
290 index

Bronx 9 Branner Forum 72

Brunés, Tons 222 Media Center for Art History 13–4, 16–7,
Bruzelius, Caroline 271 37–8, 40
Buchanan, Alexandrina 7 School of Architecture Design Lab 37
Bucher, François 10, 21 Compression 3, 21, 63, 162–3, 192
Burgundy 181, 257, 281 Computer modeling 1, 3, 9, 11, 27, 31, 33, 49
Buttresses, flying 7, 16, 24–5, 29, 39, 46, 52, Conant, Kenneth 18, 35
68, 75, 90–1, 95–102, 153, 159, 161, 163–6, Concrete 3, 21, 24
192–211, 245, Figs. 6.3, 10.4, 10.6, 12.3–6 Conde 150
Caen, Saint-Etienne 102 Conlon, James 17, 40
Çakmak, Ahmet 11, 31 Conques 17
Cambo mounts 17, 40 Cook, Lindsay 6, 7, 17, 49, 60, 68, 264–286
Cambrai Cathedral 195 Courtauld Institute 36
Carlucci, Robert 14 Courtenay family 219
Caroli, Giovanni 238–41, 251 Cracking 21, 24, 26, 163–4
Carruthers, Mary 149 Crosby, Sumner McKnight 35, 45, 83–5,
Caviness, Madeline 55 98–101
Celles 150 Crugny, Saint-Pierre 144–6, Figs. 9.8, 9.9
Chambiges, Martin 274 Cyrax Scanner 15, 39
Champion, Matthew 283 Dagobert 283
Chapelles ardentes 256 Davis, Michael 6, 14, 53, 192–211, 253, 271
Charles IV 261 Dendrochronology 43
Charles VI 282 Deneux, Henri 6, 153–4, 161–2, 173
Chartres Cathedral 15, 17, 24–5, 39, 46, 50, Department of Defense 66
161, 192, 195, Fig. 6.1 Deschamps, Jean 196
Châtillon-sur-Marne 143 Desportes, Pierre 180
Chavonne, Saint-Laurent 141, Figs. 9.5, 9.6 Devon 212
Chevalier, Etienne 277, 279–80 Dimier, Anselme 115, 119
Chicago 64 Discontinuities in masonry 106, 118
Chiqueda Discover 11
Santa Maria a Velha 114, 116 Dodds, Jerrilyn 14
Chlothar II 283 Domes 4, 21, 60, 244
Choisy, Auguste 156 Dominican Order 238, 241–3, 246, 249, 251
Christ 42, 190, 279 Dominion of the Eye 285
Chronicon of Legris 107 DPZ (architecture firm) 10
Chroniques of Froissart 281–4, Fig. 16.9 Drawings, architectural 86, 151, 165–7, 182, 189
Cistercian Order 108, 108, 115–6, 119–20, 241 Clermont terrace 192–211, Figs. 12.1–3
City Island 9 Limoges terrace 194, 197, 200–4, 211,
Clairvaux 114, 116, 118–20 Fig. 12.5
Clark, William W. (Bill) 29, 44, 54–5, 72, 74, Duany, Andrés 10
166–7 Duke of Burgundy 181
Classicizing style 189–90 Earthquake loads 31
Clermont-Ferrand Cathedral 7, 192–211 Edward III 217–8
Cloisters, The 59 Edward the Confessor 218
Clovis 189 Egas, Enrique 156
Cluny Abbey 18 Eisenmann, Peter 10
Cocheril, Dom Maur 115–20, 125, Elasticity theory 62
Columbia University 1, 10, 12–4, 16, 22, 37–8, Elisabeth (of Reims) 177
50, 56, 58–60, 72 Empire State Building 19
index 291
Engineering 1, 4, 8–10, 15, 19, 21–22, 30–3, 38, Gerson, Paula 6, 49, 74
51–2, 62, 65, 67, 132, 163–4 Giddens, Anthony 150
Episodes from the Life of a Bishop-Saint 277 Gil de Hontañon, Rodrigo 156
Epoxy 9, 19 Gilbert, Jean 259
Exeter 213–4, 216, 220, 231 Girard d’Orleans 257
Experiments in Gothic Structure 11, 28–9, 52, Godelegh, Jean de 217
55, 63, 72 Goodson, Caroline 287
Exxon 10 Goodyear, Henry 47
Faisant, Pierre 195 Gothic Sermon, A 42
Farleigh, Richard 220 Gould, Richard Nash 83–6
Faro scanner 220–21 Granada, Spain 14
Filain 150 Alhambra 14
Finite-element modeling 1, 3, 9, 27–9, 33, Grandes Chroniques de France 283, Fig. 16.10
49, 192, Figs. 1.3, 1.5, 4.4 Grandisson, Beatrice 219
Fitchen, John 156 Grandisson, John 214, 218
Flamboyant Gothic 36 Grandisson, Katherine 219
Florence 238–52 Grandisson, Otho 219
Baptistery 285 Graves, Michael 10
Santa Maria Novella 7, 238–52, Figs. Grenville, Jane 150
14.1–3, 14.5–8 Griggs, Nicole 16, 17, 40
Chiostro Verde 248 Grissom, Carol 11, 73
Santa Maria del Fiore 252, 285 Grodecki, Louis 43–5
Fluke, Meredith 58 Groins 22, 27, 76
Flying Buttresses 7, 16, 24–5, 29, 39, 46, 52, Grumman, F-14 10
68, 75, 90–1, 95–102, 153, 159, 161, 163–6, Guggenheim Foundation 10
192–211, 245, Figs. 6.3, 10.4, 10.6, 12.3–6 Gui, Bernard 201
Focillon, Henri 267 Guillaume de Cebazat 203
Fontenay 115 Gusmão, Artur Nobre de 116–7, 120
Ford Foundation 10 Hagia Sophia, Istanbul 9, 11, 31, Fig. 4.4
Fouquet, Jean 277, 281, Fig. 16.8 Hagia Sophia: From the Age of Justinian to the
Francais 2645 281, Fig. 16.9 Present 11
Francais 6465 283, Fig. 16.10 Hamann-MacLean, Richard 169
French Revolution 177 Hamon, Etienne 273
Froissart, Jean 281, 283, Fig. 16.9 Harley 4379 281
Gans, Sofia 17 Harvard University 36, 44
Garnache, Jehançon 208 Harvey, Janet 9
Gaucher de Reims 270 Hawkins, David 65
Gauthier, Marie-Madeleine 45 Heaven 13, 42, 189
Gentilly 256, 258 Heavenly Jerusalem 41, 279
Geographical Information Systems Henriet, Jacques 271
(GIS) 132 Herschman, Joel 72
Geometry 5–7, 69, 271, 274 Heyman, Jacques 22–3, 25, 27, 33, 62, 163
of Clermont flyers 192–211, Figs. Hillson, James 7, 212–37
12.6–12.8 Hinges in masonry 23
of English vaults 215–237, Figs. 13.3–13.8 Hollywood 14
of Parisian choirs 75–103, Figs. 1.6, Hours of Etienne Chevalier 277, 279,
7.2–7.8 Fig. 16.8
of Reims Cathedral 153–73, Figs. 10.2, Hubert van Eyck 281
10.3 Huetus (of Reims) 177
292 index

Hugo Anglicus 258 Kinney, Dale 14

Ice 24 Kodzhabasheva, Ani 17
ICMA 5 Korrodi, Ernesto 117
Île-de-France 108, 267, 269 Krautheimer, Richard 44
Illuminated manuscripts 7, 264, 274, Kunst, Hans-Joachim 270
277–85, Figs. 15.3, 16.7–10 Kupfer, Marcia 137
Imaginarium 47 Kurmann, Peter 6, 169, 174–191
Indeterminate structures 62 Laboratoire de recherche des Monuments
Indiana University 36 historiques 43
Inspeximus 175 Lafayette College 10
Interference fringes and patterns 19, 21, 28, Lagery 145–6, Fig. 9.10
33, 61 Lamentation 279–81, Fig. 16.8
International Congress on Medieval Languedoc 262
Studies 6, 50, 59 Laon 135, 171, 184, 266
Iron 55, 64 Larchant, Saint Mathurin 265, 271–2,
Isabeau of Bavaria 282 Fig. 16.4
Istanbul, Hagia Sophia 9, 11, 31, Fig. 4.4 “Large fold style” 174
Ivry 256 Laser scanning 1, 3, 5–7, 14–17, 38–41, 44–6,
James, John 72 49, 56, 66, 70, 75, 83, 87, 90, 92, 104, 132,
Jan van Eyck 281 152, 192, 215–37, Figs. 1.2, 1.4, 1.6, 3.2, 5.3,
Jean, Duke of Berry 257, 277, 281 5.5, 7.3–7.7, 10.1–2, 13.1–13.2
Jean de Chelles 186 Lasteyrie, Robert de 47
Jean de Jandun 285 Lefèvre-Pontalis, Eugène 146
Jean de Montpellier 258, 262 Legris, Pierre 106–7
Jean d’Orbais 157, 270 Leica Corporation 14, 39–40, 152, Fig. 5.3
Jean d’Orleans 257–8 Lentner, Jess 17
Jean le Loup 270 Lheure, Michel 268, 270–1
Jehan de Torvoie 195 LiDAR 152–4. See also laser scanning
Jehan le Boutelier 265, 271 Liernes 157, 212–3, 225, 230, 232, 234–6
Jerome, Pamela 14 Life magazine 3, 11, 29
Jerusalem 279–81 Light, Wind, and Structure 11, 30
Holy Sepulcher 281 Limoges, Saint-Etienne 194, 197, 200–4, 211,
Temple 281 Fig. 12.5
Jerusalem, heavenly 41 Limbourg Brothers 278, Fig. 16.7
John (Saint) 188 Linked structural unit 6, 105–9, 121, 127,
John the Baptist 203, Fig. 11.6 129, 131
John Rylands Library 277 Lisbon 108
Johns Hopkins University 44 Lombardy 7, 243–6, 251–2
Joints, in masonry 62–3, 201, 211 London
Jorge, Virgolino 119 Courtauld Institute 36
Journal of the Society of Architectural Saint Paul’s Cathedral 10, 29, 30
Historians 11, 12, 133 Westminster Hall 30
Joy, William 214, 219–20, 236–7 Looking Across the Atlantic 48
Kalamazoo Louis IX 277
International Congress on Medieval Louis d’Anjou 281
Studies 6, 50, 59 Love, Jordan 17
Kessler, Herbert 44 Luel, Le, Nathalie 48
Killian, Kyle 6, 132–151 Luker, Maurice 13–4, 38
Kimpel, Dieter 268–71 Maines, Clark 6, 104–131
index 293
Mainstone, Roland 62 MIT 16
Mallay, Aimond 193 Modeling 1, 3, 8–9, 11, 19–33, 49, 61, 63, 67,
Malone, Carolyn 9–10, 22 132, 194, 262
Manhattan 8, 10, 13, 64 Moissac 17
Mantes 266 Montacute, William 219
Manuscript illuminations 7, 264, 274, Monty Python 16
277–85, Figs. 15.3, 16.7–10 Moreau-Nélaton, Étienne 139, 141–43
Mapping Gothic France 1, 16, 39–40, 49, Moselle, river 190
67–8, Fig. 5.4 Mouaddib, El Mustapha 46
Marchesin, Isabelle 48 Mount Everest 63
Mark, Ardjano 11 Moxey, Keith 283
Mark, Beverly 9 Muir, Eden 13, 37
Mark, Christopher 11 Murray, Finnian 14
Mark, Ethan 5, 8–11 Murray, Stephen 1, 5, 12–18, 26, 35–47, 49,
Mark, Gonda 11 56, 58, 66–7, 76, 135, 273, Fig. 5.1
Mark (née Harvey), Janet 9 Museum of Modern Art 9
Mark, Justine 11 Music 1, 9, 13, 19, 42, 55–9, 69–71
Mark, Mary 11 Mystery of the Master Builders 11, 30
Mark, Nathaniel 11 Naples 281
Mark, Nicholas 11 Narbonne Cathedral 194–7, 204, 207, 211,
Mark, Peter 11 261, Fig. 15.7
Mark, Robert 1–12, 19–35, 43–4, 49–74, 76, National Endowment for the Humanities
103, 104, 132, 163–4, 192, 194, 241, (NEH) 10, 29, 52
Figs. 1.1, 2.1, 4.1, 4.5, 6.1 National Science Foundation 10
Mark, Yana 11 Neagley, Linda 14
Marne river 135, 142–3 New York City
Marquardt, Janet 266 Bronx 9
Marxist scholarship 35 Bronx High School of Science 9
Mary, Virgin 218, 260, 279, 285 City College 10, 19
Masons 62–3, 69, 121, 157, 162–4, 170–1, 181, City Island 9
193–4, 204, 209, 216, 220, 224, 237, Columbia University 1, 10, 12–4, 16, 22,
242–5, 247, 249, 265, 270 37–8, 50, 56, 58–60, 72
Massachusetts College of Art 50 Empire State Building 19
Master of Saint-Giles 277 Manhattan 8, 10, 13, 64
Mathieu d’Arras 260 Metropolitan Museum of Art 50
Meaux 267 Cloisters 59
Medieval Cloister in England and Wales, Museum of Modern Art 9
The 105 NYU 50
Meeting of the Magi 277–9, Fig. 16.7 New York Times 11
Meiss, Millard 278–9 Nicasius (Saint) 189
Mellon Foundation 10, 14, 16, 39 Nikon camera 17
Merovingians 283 Nittany Lion Inn 51
Metropolitan Museum of Art 50 Noah’s Ark 41
Metz Cathedral 50, 53, 56–7, 66–8 Northwode family 219
Meuse, river 190 NOVA 3, 11, 30, 55
Miami University 50 Noyon Cathedral 15, 17, 46, 57–9, 255, 266,
Middleton, Robin 14 Fig. 6.5
Minecraft 152 Nuclear reactors 10, 19, 61
Mintie, Kappy 17 NYU 50
294 index

Oakland 14, 39 Philip Augustus 190

Obituaries 5–18 Photoelastic stress modeling 1–3, 8–9,
Ochsendorf, John 16 19–29, 33, 49, 51, 63, 66, 192, Figs. 1.2,
Oise, river 256 2.2, 4.1, 4.3, 6.4
O’Neill, Rory 13, 16–7, 37 Photogrammetry 7, 45, 83, 204, 215, Fig. 12.6
Optical refinements 69–70, 286 Picasso, Pablo 9
Orvieto Cathedral 258 Pierre de Montreuil 186
Ottery Saint-Mary 7, 212–237, Figs. 13.2–3, Pietra forte 245
13.5, 13.7 Pinnacles 22, 24, 32, 63, 160, 162, 166, 192,
Ottobonus 179 256, Fig. 10.4
Ousterhout, Robert 14, 150 Plater-Zyberk, Elizabeth 10
Oxford University 35 Play of Daniel 59
Palma Cathedral 28 Po Valley 243
Pantheon, Rome 9, 29, 33 Point clouds 14–5, 67–70, 221
Pargny 150 Polariscope 28, 51, Figs. 4.2, 6.1
Paris 6 Polarized light 19
Eiffel Tower 64 Pont Garabit 64
INHA 48 Pont du Gard 64
Hôtel Dieu 275, Fig. 15.6 Pontigny 45
Hôtel de Nesle 277–8 Popular Mechanics 11
Ile de la Cité 253, 277 Poughkeepsie 72
Notre-Dame Cathedral 5–7, 12, 15, 17, Prache, Anne 12, 43–44
29, 39, 41, 49, 68, 75–6, 92–97, 99–102, Prague Cathedral 195, 261
184–9, 192, 253–88, Figs. 1.6, 5.3, 7.1, Prentke, Richard Alan 21, 24
7.6–7, 11.8–9, 15.1, 15.4, 15.8, 16.1, 16.3, Presentation of the Virgin 279
16.5, 16.7–10 Prince Charles-Henri de Lobkowicz 16
Porte du Louvre 282 Princeton University 1, 9, 12
Porte Saint-Jacques 286 Department of Engineering 1, 8, 10, 19,
Porte Saint-Martin 281 30, 51–2
Rue de la Cité 286 Forrestal Research Center 10
Rue de la Juiverie 286 Photomechanics and Structural Model
Rue Saint-Jacques 286 Laboratory 10
Sainte-Chapelle 178, 187–8, 260–1, Plasma Physics Lab 10, 19
277–8, Figs. 11.4, 15.5 Polariscope 51, Figs. 4.2, 6.1
Saint-Germain-des-Prés 6, 39–40, 75–6, School of Architecture 1, 30
83, 87–92, 95, 97–102, 256, Figs. 7.1, 7.5 Stellarator 19, 21
Saint-Martin-des-Champs 6, 40, 75–83, Stress Analysis Lab 10
90, 92, 95, 97–8, 101–2, Figs. 7.1, 7.2, 7.3 Prod’hon, Sarah 46
Saint-Merri 200 Proportion; See geometry
Saint-Séverin 272 Provins, Saint-Quiriace 17, 41
Sorbonne 12, 14, 44, 55, 58 Purbeck Marble 217
Parker, Libby 60 Pynardus 177
Parler, Peter 195 Quadrant arches 205–7, 210, Fig. 12.7
Passion of Christ 279 Quadripartite vaulting 4, 28, 113, 164, Fig. 1.5
PBS 3, 11, 30, 49, 55 Queens College 54
Penn State University 50–2 Quintum acutem 239–41
Pentecost 257, Fig. 15.3 Raoul de Chézy 106
Peter of Celles 107, 150 Rapoport, Amos 135
Pevsner, Nikolaus 220 Rauch, Thomas 21, 24
index 295
Ravaux, Jean-Pierre 174 Saint-Marcel 256
Ravy, Jean 265 Saint-Mard 139
Raymond du Temple 256–7, 260 Saint-Quentin 50, 58–9, 199
Rayonnant 162, 169–72, 191 Saint Vrain, Bishop of Cavaillon 277
RCA Laboratories 10 Salernitani, Johannes 238
Réal, Manuel Luis 119 Samson, Archbishop 177
Reconquista 109 Sanabria, Sergio 6, 50–1, 55–6, 62, 65, 67, 72
Recueil de plans 115, Figs. 9.4–6 Sandron, Dany 7, 12, 41, 253–63
Red Ramona 13, 42 Sanfaçon, Roland 44
Reims 6, 132–51, Fig. 9.1 Saponay 139–40, Fig. 9.4
Cathedral 6, 22, 50, 63, 135, 149, 152–191, Sarazin, Pierre 253
194–5, 211, 270, 273, Figs. 10.1–8, 11.1–5, Schapiro, Meyer 45
11.7, 11.10 Schneider Kreuznach lenses 17, 40
Hôtel Dieu 177 Scientific American 11, 43, 50
Palimpsest 195 Sears, Elizabeth 6, 49, 60–1
Saint-Nicaise 182 Second World War 19
Saint-Rémi 107, 149, 171 Seismic loads 31
Remigius 189 Sens Cathedral 3, 15, 17, 46, Figs. 1.3–4
Renaissance, god-damned 71 Sexpartite vaulting 28–9, 164, Fig. 14.3
Renaud de Cormont 195 Seymour, Charles 35
Resonators 57, 59 Shelby, Lon 42
Rhine, river 190 Shell structures 3, 21, 27
Rhinoceros 221, 225, 230, 232, Fig. 13.3, Shortell, Ellen 6, 49–50, 54–5, 59, 64, 73–4
Ribs 27, 76, 83, 113, 133, 140, 146, 201, 203, 221, Sicily 265, 281
228–33, 235, Figs. 13.6–8 Skyscrapers 4, 9, 30, 64
Right Hand of God Protecting the Sloan Foundation 10
Faithful 277 Smith, Elizabeth 7, 49–54, 238–52
Rivolta d’Adda, SS Maria and Smith, Rebecca 6, 152–73
Sigismondo 243, Fig. 14.4 Söding, Ulrich 270
Rockefeller Foundation 10 Soissons 6, 132–151, Fig. 9.1
Rodrigués, Jorge 120 Cathedral 135, 149, 161, 171, 195
Rodwell, Warwick 109 Abbey of Saint-Jean des Vignes 104, 149
Roger de Gaignières 265 Soja, Edward 134
Romanesque 6, 18, 83, 107, 140, 143–7, 150, Somerset 212
209, 266–7 Somesthetics 47
Rome, Pantheon 9, 29, 33 Sorbonne 12, 14, 44, 55, 58
Rosa (of Reims) 177 Sources d’Histoire Parisienne 253
Rosnay 138–9, Fig. 9.3 Souvigny 16
Rouen Spatial archaeology 1, 5, 16, 67,
Cathedral 218, 272 Spatiality 134
Saint-Ouen 24 Spiegel, Der 11
Rouet, Robert 143 Spirituality 73–4
S-Leu d’Esserent 15, 39, 256 Stability 22, 37–8, 46, 163, 192, 245–6, 251
Sabartés, Jaume 9 Stalley, Roger 14
“Safe theorem” 23, 25 Starcut 222–7, 236, Fig. 13.4
Saint-Denis 6, 17, 40, 45, 75–6, 83–7, 91–2, Stellarator 19, 21
95, 97–103, 105, 169–71, 192, 266, 277, Stephen (Saint) 187
283, Figs. 5.4, 7.1, 7.4, 7.8 Stewart, Malcolm 222
Saint Genevieve 277 Stewart, Zach 17
296 index

Strain 19–20 University of Connecticut 64

Stress 1, 3, 8, 10, 19–24, 27–8, 61, 63, 162–3, University of Iowa 10
Fig. 2.2 University of Lille 47–8
Stress freezing 19 University of Liverpool 158, 215, 220
Structural analysis 3–4, 5, 8, 10, 16, 19–29, University of Montreal 44
49, 52, 62, 162–3 University of Paris 12
Structural Rationalism 22, 24 Sorbonne 12, 14, 44, 55, 58
Submarines 10, 19 USC 9
Suckale, Robert 174, 269 Vailly-sur-Aisne 147, Fig. 9.13
Suger, Abbot 6, 75 Van der Graaf canon 224
SUNY Binghamton 104 Van Eyck, Jan and Hubert 281
Center for Medieval and Early Van Gulick, Leonard 10
Renaissance Studies 104 Van Liefferinge, Stefaan 7, 14, 192–211
Synagoga 190 Vassar College 1, 10, 13, 16–7, 40, 60
Tallon, Andrew 1, 7, 10, 12–18, 35–75, 80, 87, Vaulting
91–5, 99, 101, 103–4, 132, 134, 192, 194, Domes 4, 21, 60, 244
263, Figs. 1.1, 3.1, 5.3, 6.2 Florence, Santa Maria Novella 7, 238–52,
Tallon, Marie 16 Figs. 14.1–2, 14.7
Tas-de-charge 154–8, 163–7, 171, 173, Fig. 10.1 Groins 22, 27, 76
Taylor, Harold 109 Liernes 157, 212–3, 225, 230, 232, 234–6
Tension and tensile stresses 3, 21, 23–4, 26, Ottery Saint Mary 7, 212–37, Figs. 13.2–3,
28, 63, 162, 192 13.5, 13.7
Theodolites 67 Quadripartite 4, 28, 113, 164, Fig. 1.5
Thom, Alexandra 17, 40 Quintum acutem 239–41
Thomas of Witney 216, 219–20 Reims Cathedral 152–74, Figs. 10.2–3,
Three Marys, The 280 10.5–6
Thrust line 23, 33, 80 Ribs 27, 76, 83, 113, 133, 140, 146, 201, 203,
Tie rods 239, 241, 252 221, 228–33, 235, Figs. 13.6–8
Tiercerons 157, 225–6, 231, 234–6 Sexpartite 28–9, 164, Fig. 14.3
Tile Council of America 10 Tiercerons 157, 225–6, 231, 234–6
Timbert, Arnaud 6, 35–48 Webbing 27–8, 156, 246
Titus, Harry 35 Wells Cathedral 7, 28, 212–37, Figs. 13.1,
Tock, Benoît-Michel 180 13.3–5, 13.8
Total Station 203 Venice, Saint Mark’s 64
Tourcoing, Imaginarium 47 Verdier, Philippe 44
Tournelle 256 Verneilh, Félix de 201
Tours Cathedral 46, 161 Vertical archaeology 109, 121
Trachtenberg, Marvin 285–6 Vesle, river 135
Tracing floors 196, 222, 242 Vezelay Abbey 45
Tracing the Past project 158, 212–37 Vidimus 175, 179–80
Très Riches Heures 277–9, Fig. 16.7 Vienna
Triangle, equilateral 5, 6, 75–103, Figs 1.6, Kupferstichkabinett der Akademie der
7.2–7.8 bildenden Künste 195–6
Troyes Cathedral 35, 195, 199, 208, 255, 273, Villard de Honnecourt 6, 49–50, 65, 165–9,
Fig. 16.6 194–5, 211
Tsien, Billie 10 Portfolio 165–9, 194–5, 211, Figs. 10.6–7
Tuan, Yi Fu 134 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène 11, 22, 25, 27, 69, 72,
Tufts University 55 156, 202, 269
University of Colorado 65 Vitruvius 56
index 297
Vitry 256 Wolfensohn, Adam 13, 42
Washington National Cathedral 10, 30, 32 World Heritage 110
Waters, Don 16, 39 World War One 139, 141–3, Fig. 9.6
Webb, Nicholas 7, 212 World War Two 19
Webbing 27–8, 156, 246 Wren, Sir Christopher 10, 29–30
Wells Cathedral 7, 28, 212–37, Figs. 13.1, Wu, Nancy 6, 49–50, 54, 59, 70, 72, 158
13.3–5, 13.8 Wynford, William 236
Williams, Tod 10 Yale University 44
Wind 9, 24, 54–5, 63, 152, 164, 192, Yi Fu Tuan 134
Figs. 4.3, 6.4 Zodiaque 267