The North Wall of Brand’s Parish Church: Challenges of Interpretation

The church of Mary’s Assumption into Heaven in Brand, Vorarlberg has a significant set of frescoes dating to the early 16^th century. The church was under construction for nearly 30 years, and consecrated in 1507. I have written about the South wall of the Parish church HERE. The frescoes of the North Wall are the focus of today's post.

As before, there are pairs of images which combine biblical scenes with saints and others, each image framed in a brick-reddish painted frame.

LEFT (Obscured Image and Noli me tangere)

The North wall has had more fading than its South wall counterparts, especially the left-hand pair of images.

Brand (Vorarlberg) frescoes: a haloed figure (above), and the Noli me tangere (below)

The church brochure identifies this pair as “a faded figure” above and the Risen Christ with Mary Magdalene below. 

About all we can tell about the faded figure of the top panel is that it was located centrally in the image and had a halo. However, the curious sweeping patterns behind the figure, combined with the upward gesture of the right arm, and the context of a church dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary incline me toward an identification of this damaged image as a likely annunciation scene. 

Compare the Brand fresco image with the Hallstatt Altar from Upper Austria by Lienhart Astl. Astl positions Gabriel above Mary, gives generous space for his wings, raises his arm in a two-finger blessing, and has a swirl of cape to enhance the angel's body. (Note, however, that I've flipped the image manually to put the angel to the left; the Hallstatt altar can be seen in full glory with its original orientation.) 

So too, the Louvre relief from the early 16th century, stemming from Tyrol, includes a pointing finger, sweeping wings, a superior position for Gabriel, a swirl of cape. These are common cliches in images of the time, which is what remains of the Brand fresco seems to my eye to align with the Annunciation most closely.

More of the lower panel has been preserved, but there's still substantial damage. The Risen Christ has a cross in the background, and we have glimpses of the faces of the protagonists, but the years of plaster have obscured the details of this pair of images. Given the context, this is the Noli me tangere, though the brochure doesn’t explicitly make that claim.

RIGHT (Christ Emergent and Four Saints)

The other surviving fresco pair on the North Wall, although clearer, is equally hard to interpret. The church pamphlet (Fragments, p. 6) identifies THIS top image as an Annunciation – something we would absolutely expect in a church devoted to the Blessed Virgin. Unfortunately, this designation doesn’t seem to match the visible attributes that survive. I think that the image is better read in a Christological context  – and not just because I think that the previous image was an Annunciation scene!

Brand (Vorarlberg) Fresco: Christ emerging from the tomb, with angel

There is clearly an angel, but situated on the right, rather than the left, of the “main figure.” The angel is pulling aside a cloth from a rectangular object – the empty tomb? – signaling the role of revelation or discovery.

The main figure has a dramatic pose with right arm up-flung, unlike Mary who is typically reading or occupied in a garden. Moreover, this standing figure holds a banner and, if I’m not mistaken, sports a short beard. He is cloaked and hooded, with an outsized halo. He faces away from the angel, looking not at the viewer but rather to a spot over the viewer’s left shoulder.

Given the angel’s action, we are likely seeing Christ’s triumphant emergence from the tomb, though why this comes after and not before the image of Christ with the Magdalene is an interesting, but for me unanswerable, question. The presence of a tomb scene, coupled with the Harrowing of Hell on the opposite wall and the Noli me tangere nearby to this image provide a firm Crucifixion-to-Resurrection grounding for the church's imagery.

Below, we find another assortment of saints with halos, evenly spaced.

Brand (Vorarlberg) fresco: Four male saints

The left figure is gesturing to the group with his left hand; the next is wrapped closely in his cloak, the third holds a short sword and wears knee-length britches, and the last is pivoted to look at the group, his hand signaling something extraordinary, his forefinger and little finger both point up; his thumb and the other two fingers are tucked in. The back of his hand is toward us.

That left figure might – might – be St Denis, who was prone to rhetorical gestures. He’s holding something in his cupped hand; it could be a shrunken rendition of his severed head, but that is a stretch interpretation based on knowing the story and seeing the cupped hand around an object.

The wrapped figure might be St Giles, a figure known for reserve and suffering. The sword-holder is most likely Achatius, a martyred Roman military figure

The last figure with the hand gesture is likely performing an apotropaic gesture, one designed to avert evil or bad luck; St Vitus with his protection against seizures and demonic possession seems the most likely candidate.

The Fourteen Emergency Saints: A Program Disrupted?

Given that the South wall started with the three women of the “Nothelfer” saints, Margaretha, Barbara and Katharina, and given the presence of Erasmus and other Nothelfer on the South wall, we can then read each pair of panels as including 3 or 4 of the so-called “Vierzehn Nothelfern,” the fourteen Saints in times of need, though only ten of the fourteen are represented here, highlighted in blue if they're extant, and purple if not:

• South Wall Left:  Margaretha, Barbara and Katharina (below: Anna and Mary)
• South Wall Middle:  Erasmus, Eustace, Cyriacus (below: Mary Immaculata)
• South Wall Right: Harrowing of Hell (below: 4 Men without halos – patrons?)
• North Wall Left: Obscured figure (below: Christ and Magdalene)
• North Wall Right: Christ emerging from the tomb (below: Denis, Giles, Achatius, Vitus)
• Presumed missing panel of the remaining four of the 14 Nothelfer: Blaise, Christopher, George, Pantaleon

To put that another way, we have:

• 2 images of Mary (as child with her mother and as Immaculata). We lack other scenes such as the Annunciation, Visitation, Mary and John at the foot of the Cross, or Pietà.
• 3 images of Christ post-Crucifixion: the Harrowing of Hell, the Noli me Tangere, and Christ emerging from the tomb.
• 3 images that seem to include 10 of the 14 Nothelfer
• 1 image of a group of men without halos 

There are a few oddities I’d like to comment on here. 

First, the idea of the Noli me tangere occurring before the emergence from the tomb is at best strange; our images seem to be out of order. 

Second, the style of that North Wall Christ emergent is out of keeping with the rest of the program. While it may be an artifact of restoration, the scene is almost chiaroscuro in its rendition. 

Third, the conflict of identification – annunciation or Christ emerging from the tomb – is a signal that this particular image is problematic in some way. Expectations are here thwarted. 

And fourth, though I’m not an art historian, and didn’t have a formal measure of tint and tone to hand when I visited the church, the colors of the Christ emergent tend toward the green rather than the coppery backgrounds of the other parts of the program.

What it might mean 

My hypothesis is that the last set of North Wall images might in fact have been over-painted. If the Christ emergent had actually been a panel with the four missing Emergency Saints, the program would be complete. Then, the order of Nothelfer up top and Christological/Mariological below would be disrupted only for the patrons.

HYPOTHESIS: The North Wall Right might originally have been: Blaise, Christopher, George, Pantaleon [later over-painted by Christ emerging from the tomb] (below: Denis, Giles, Achatius, Vitus)

In that case, the intended program might have looked something like this: 

This provides us with a Marian presence appropriate to a Marian church on both sides of the nave. It also completes the full program of the 14 Nothelfer by including all 14 of the 14 expected saints-in-times-of-need.

Moreover, the significantly popular Christopher and George, missing from our current cycle, would be part of the important and complete cycle of emergency saints. After all, they appear frequently without their companions – more so than Blaise and Pantaleon; their omission from the set is indeed a puzzle to be solved.

This isn't the only possible solution, of course. It is possible that the missing four saints were on a panel which has been lost through the adaptations of the church over time. A back wall or front wall placement would no longer be part of our preserved legacy as the church has been adapted to its modern usage.

Whatever has happened with the almost-but-not-quite coherent program of the Brand church, it is clear that the frescoes of this out-of-the-way alpine church have much to tell us about worship in the period immediately prior to the Reformation.

CONCLUSION

The North wall of the Brand church is more heavily damaged than its South wall counterpart, but in some ways that makes it feel even more intimate – as though we’re glimpsing devotional patterns that were deeply local and possibly improvised. There’s less visual clarity, but maybe that opens a different kind of space: one for private reflection or a more personal encounter.

The Nothelfer panel, in particular, suggests concern for daily protection, healing, and perhaps a kind of communal spiritual insurance policy. It's messier, less polished, but still rich with meaning. And what we make of the so-active angel and its triumphant counterpart figure, well, it has certainly kept me pondering through many-an-hour.

I keep thinking of Carolyn Walker Bynum’s work on how medieval Christians engaged with materiality not as distraction but as a conduit to the divine. These frescoes might have operated that way too, drawing attention to the import of sacred signs (with Vitus’s gesture) and the nearness of sacred power. Even in partial ruin, the frescoes pull you in, and ask you, like the Magdalene, not to touch, but to witness.

WORK CITED

[Anonymous]. Parish Church “Our Lady of the Assumption” Brand: Fragments from the Church History Chronicles of Brand / Vorarlberg. [Undated Church Pamphlet.]

Bynum, Carolyn Walker. Christian Materiality: An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe. New York: Zone Books, 2011.

Cyrus, Cynthia. "The 1507 South Wall Frescoes of Brand’s Parish Church (Vorarlberg)" [Blog Post]. Silences and Sounds, June 6, 2025, https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2025/06/the-1507-south-wall-frescoes-of-brands.html.

The 1507 South Wall Frescoes of Brand’s Parish Church (Vorarlberg)

Walk into the Parish church of Brand in Brandnertal, Vorarlberg, Austria, and you’ll notice several things.

The first is that the church is a curious mix of Gothic and modern, redesigned in modern times to adapt to the needs and size of a large and growing local congregation. The two sections are distinct, the warm wood tones of the modern addition from the 1960s contrasting with the largely white-plaster walls of the Gothic section, known to have been consecrated by the Auxiliary Bishop of Chur, Stephan Tschuggli in 1507 (Fragments, p. 4). 

Brand (Vorarlberg) Parish Church, Exterior

 

Second, as an active church, the Church of the Assumption of Mary (Mariä Himmelfahrt) houses an array of Catholic devotional items. Modern flowers and candles are paired with early modern statuary; two sets of rosary beads and a few polished pieces of pink quartz sit before another mother-and-child with not one but two apples. And, of course, fliers and announcements for upcoming programs are readily available near the entryway.

But to a medievalist, the most striking feature of the Brand church would definitely be its Swiss-influenced frescoes, rediscovered in 1942 by restorer and painter Toni Kirchmayr (Fragments, p. 8). Today’s post focuses on the South wall, where six maroon-framed images remind us that churches of the early sixteenth century were colorful, highly-illustrated places.

LEFT (3 Holy women plus Anna Selbdritt with donors)

Brand (Vorarlberg): Fresco featuring 3 Holy Virgins (above) and Anna as mother of Mary (below)

As the photo shows, the first pair of images of the South wall – the set to the left – focus on women. On top, the three Holy Virgins, St Margaretha with her cross (though her trampled dragon is now obscured by the centuries underneath plaster), as well as St Barbara and St Katharina appear.

Below, we find Anna as mother, coiffed in an oversized headdress and holding the young Mary. They are adored by two donors, identified with coats of arms. We catch the left-hand donor in a moment of prayerful contemplation, hands together and held at a 45-degree angle upwards with a rosary draped and dangling, a message of devotional intent from a mere decade before the reformation.

Brand (Vorarlberg): Donor with rosary and coat of arms

MIDDLE (Three Male Saints and the Immaculata)

The panel of women are matched in the middle pillar by an image of three male saints, this time with banderoles, though lamentably the text is not preserved and the saints have not heretofore been identified; I offer a tentative identification below. 

Brand (Vorarlberg) Fresco: Three male saints (above), and the Immaculata (below)

These three men are all bearded and haloed. Figure 1 holds something at waist height. It appears to be mechanical, since his thumb is pressing a lever and there is some kind of gear and screw configuration. This is likely the windlass of St Erasmus, a gruesome reminder of the torture he faced.

Brand (Vorarlberg): Erasmus with his windlass

If Erasmus is present, and grouped with both the Holy Virgins of the previous panel and male companions here, it seems likely that this complex is part of an elaborate depiction of the 14 Holy Helpers, the Nothelfer, whose veneration was widespread at the time. Using that framework, we can try to identify the other two men posed with Erasmus.

Figure 2 has two layers of cloth over head and shoulders and is wrapped in his cloak; he is more subdued in his movements; his arm seems to hang down, for it is lower than that of our putative Erasmus. He has a grey beard but with a darker mustache, perhaps to evoke his long-suffering life, showing both age and remembered strength. This could be St Eustace, often depicted as one of the more passive of the Nothelfer.

Figure 3 is bareheaded with abundant hair, and holds his left hand palm up with pointer and middle finger curled upwards. Given the gesture, this could well be St Cyriacus, who  was an exorcist.

At the bottom right-hand edge, a much smaller figure peeks up at the three saints, emerging from the frame. Given its size and location, this is likely a donor image.

Below these male saints appear in the panel above another image of Mary, identified as the Immaculata (Fragments, p. 6), though many of the details have been lost.  

Brand (Vorarlberg): Mary Immaculata

She is depicted as a young pregnant woman set against a sunburst of wavy rays, and she stands on something, though, like Margaretha, we can only guess at whether or not it was a crushed dragon. (It seems more likely that they are rocks.)

Like the donor of the previous set of images, Mary’s hands are waist-high and upright, raised in prayer, but unlike the donor, whose palms touched, Mary intentionally steeples her fingertips to create a triangular space above her swelling abdomen. The triangle can be read as an allusion to the Trinity, and we are invited to see Mary as the “Vas spirituale,” the spiritual vessel, bearer of Christ the redeemer. (I have written on Dominican prayer gestures in a previous post, though that discussion was more about posture than hand gesture.)

This interpretation of Mary's role as a vessel of grace is reinforced by other elements of the fresco. Mary’s gaze is drawn to a serpent, the representation of her purity a stark contrast with the evil of sin.

Likewise, in the upper left corner, we see an angel holding a chalice and a crown. The chalice is closer to Mary than is the crown. That is, this is not a depiction of the crown on offer but rather one in which the promise of a crown is glimpsed. Why? The pregnant Mary is only mid-way through her difficult journey, not yet serving as Regina Caeli (Queen of Heaven) but rather preparing herself to be the receptacle of grace.

The other corner may once have held a second angel but that image is, alas, effaced.

RIGHT (Harrowing of Hell and Four Men)

The panel on the right changes up the thematic content. This time, there are four male figures in the lower image, and above we see the Harrowing of Hell, with the released souls emerging from their graves. 

Brand (Vorarlberg): The Harrowing of Hell (above), and four male figures (below)

The bodies emerging from the graves in the upper panel are the holy dead; they have halos and are naked or, like the right-most figure, are in simple shifts. The central figure of the group, however, is in a dark fur-lined coat and is assisting the others over the tomb edge. Above, a majestic haloed figure stands. Banderoles, both for the heavenly figure(s) and for those emerging from the grave would have helped contemporaries interpret the story.

The four men in the lower image are less easily identified. Of the four, two wear hats (of different sorts) and two do not. At least three of the four men have beards; the right-most figure might be clean-shaven. One of the men looks at us and seems to be smiling; the other three look outside of our scene and have more serious expressions. None have halos, though the four do stand against a lighter bit of sky – a cloud, or the glow of sunrise both come to mind.

Could these be patrons, gazing (mostly) on the Immaculata of the previous panel? Or are they patriarchs, without halos? And why is there space running along the left-hand edge – are they by a shore, perhaps? Or was there meant to be a fifth figure? Why was the order inverted – why are these men not in the upper panel like the saints of the other sets? Was the artist ensuring that we read them as secular figures? The image leaves more questions than answers.

SUMMARY

On this Southern wall of the Brand church, we have two images of Mary – to whom the church is dedicated, of course – and one of Christ’s freeing of souls from limbo. We also have six saints –  three women and three men – plus an additional panel of four men. And we have the two adoring patrons of the first pair of images, actively pursuing devotional prayer as a model for the congregants who gathered in this space. 

Such images were meant to activate the church's space. They called the viewer to remember particular biblical stories, they reminded the viewer of the presence and support to be had from the saints, and they modeled the practices and postures of prayer, as we saw with the donor and rosary. They served, in other words, as a distinctive testament to pre-Reformation faith in the Walser areas of Alpine Vorarlberg.

To me, the south wall’s frescoes are a kind of devotional anchor for the parish – rooted, orderly, and densely populated with saints and familiar sacred moments. Our donor figures here are both observers and participants, integrated into the sacred story. It's almost as if they are inviting parishioners to imagine themselves there, too. 

I’m also struck by the sense of continuity that these images suggest. The saints act as intercessors, protectors, and models, and are placed alongside Marian devotion and Christological scenes in a way that feels almost liturgical.  

Eamon Duffy reminds us in The Stripping of the Altars that late medieval English parish churches were “full of presence,” filled with images, rites, and smells that made the divine tangible. The same clearly applies here in late medieval Vorarlberg. This wall’s carefully choreographed figures were likely central to local rhythms of prayer and memory – not just passive decoration, but a kind of visual litany embedded in the painted plaster that made the church so resplendent.

WORKS CITED:

[Anonymous]. Parish Church “Our Lady of the Assumption” Brand: Fragments from the Church History Chronicles of Brand / Vorarlberg. [Undated Church Pamphlet.] Cited as "Fragments."

Cyrus, Cynthia. "Dominican Prayer Gestures" [blog post], Silences and Sounds, 3/29/25 https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2025/03/dominican-prayer-gestures-32925.html.

Duffy, Eamon. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England, 1400-1580. New Haven: Yale UP, 1992/R2022.

Note: The photos – taken by the author in July 28, 2025 with an iPhone 12 (!) – have been adjusted to bring out image details. The author is happy to provide untouched originals if needed. Photos and text are CC BY-SA: You are free to share and adapt this material, provided appropriate credit is given; any derivative works must be distributed under the same license.

Kin, Cash, and Convent: Providing for Nieces (and Nephews) in 1613 Bludenz

Excerpts of AT-VLA, BludenzStadtA, Charter 10255 of 1613

In Counter-reformation Bludenz in 1613, widow Catharina Zürcherin*, a citizen of the town, prepared her legacy with a special eye toward her female kin. Childless herself, and without the guidance of her late husband (Anton Marks of Braz), she gave all her funds to her siblings’ children.

The family was doing well. The male Zürcher siblings and cousins – Hans, Georg, Dietrich, Gabriel, Adam and Sebastian – had recently been elevated by Emperor Maximillian to the hereditary nobility just a few years before (1610 April 5, Innsbruck, AT-StaAB Urkunde 741). In the document, the emperor names the brothers and cousins alike for “in consideration of their services to the House of Austria.” But, of course, none of the females of the house were named. Such gendered recognition (and gendered absence) was common practice at the time.

So back to Catharina: As she makes her will, she chooses to recognize the children (of both genders) of her sister Anna Zürcherin by both husbands, and those of her brother Mathias Zürcher. As for the third sibling, Gabriel Zürcher, well, Catharina wrote in a special provision for his daughter, her niece, Elsbeth Zürcherin.

For Elsbeth, Catharina set aside 200 Rhenish guilders, and explicitly intended these funds to be used as a convent dowry. This would give Elsbeth access as a choir-sister to an elite Catholic institution of her choice. Given the location, Catharina probably had in mind Elsbeth’s joining St Peter’s in Bludenz, the Dominican women’s convent at the edge of town, though other nearby options included the Clares at Valduna in Rankweil, the Franciscan Tertiaries at Thalbach in Bregenz, or the recently founded Capuchin convent of St Anna’s, also in Bregenz.

Catharina has clearly thought about the situation, for while she is generous, that generosity is conditional. She stipulates that if Elsbeth decided not to enter a convent, the money would come to her only after Catharina’s own death.

If, however, Elsbeth were to predecease her such that the money might revert to her brother Gabriel, well, sorry, then that special legacy would be revoked, and the money be divided evenly.

In these provisions, Catharina is doing several things. She’s supporting the next generation of her natal family. She’s promoting the Catholic faith. She’s making possible a conventual lifestyle for a favored relative. And, given the conditions on her gifts, it seems she just might be thumbing her nose at her brother.

One wonders if niece Elsbeth felt a calling that went unsupported by her father. If so, Auntie Katharina may have been defying male expectations by stepping in here to be sure a favored niece was able to find her way into a religious life.

Either way, it’s clear that one determined woman could shape the lives – and privileges – of the next generation.

One afterwards to this story: while Elsbeth Zürcherin’s future is unknown to us, it seems likely that she was related to the Maria Magdalena Zürcherin of Bludenz, daughter of Adam  Zürcher and Elisabeth Leu – perhaps a cousin or a second cousin of our Elsbeth? – who took up the monastic calling at Thalbach in Bregenz about fifteen years later, in 1627, and took orders there under the name Maria Victoria (Fußenegger, 140). 

NOTES

I honor the early modern Austrian practice of naming women by their patronymics with the feminine “-in” ending. Women of the day did not typically adopt their husband’s surname.

* The name Catharina Zürcherin can also be rendered Katharina Zücherin. Spelling of the period is notoriously inconsistent, and the handwriting itself challenging to read. However, outside of the two documents cited here, the family surname spelled with the interior “R” – Zürcherin – is preferred (102 documents to 2, according to monasterium.net!), and I have adopted it here.

WORKS CITED

Documents, accessed through monasterium.net:

• Bregenz, Stadtarchiv, Urkunde 741 (5. Apr 1610, Innsbruck)

• Vorarlberger Landesarchiv - Bludenz, Stadtarchiv Charter 10255 (6. Nov 1613)

Secondary Literature:

• Fußenegger, Gerold. “Bregenz am Bodensee: Terziarinnenkloster Thalbach.” Alemannia Franciscana antiqua 9 (1963): 93-140.

Why illustrate a prayerbook?

Woodcuts from Vorarlberger Landesbibliothek Handschrift 17

So there she was, my scribe. She’d put all this effort into copying out all those individual prayers. In a manuscript of more than 300 folios, that’s a lot of writing time. And then, before binding the manuscript, she – or one of her sisters? Or the binder himself? -- ran through the visual images available and plopped in two woodcuts, one an image of Mary with child (derived, as it happens, from a plague image), and one a Mary as Mother of the Seven Swords.

I’ve written about both prayerbook images (Cyrus, 2020), but have been thinking more about their purpose, and found it helpful to put the Thalbach tradition of using devotional images into dialog with a non-Western practice of the same period.

To do so, I’ve read Jahnabi Barooah Chanchani’s “Text, Image and Devotion,” (2018), looking at a Sanskrit devotional fragment, “two illustrated folios from a dispersed late 15th-century manuscript of the Bālagopālastuti (BGS) in the collection of the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam.” I was drawn to the use of color in her fragments – so much more fun than mere woodcuts – but I was also drawn to her argument, which I put in dialog with my own material below.

In both cases, text and image work in tandem not to narrate a story literally, but to prompt affective and imaginative engagement. Each pulls its weight in its own way; and bundled together – literally! – word and illustration open up multiple pathways to the divine.

1) Chanchani tells us that in Sanskrit realms, looking at images “was a vital component of the devotional praxis…. The verses and paintings complement each other in helping a devotee envision” their target divine figure.

The same is true for the sisters at Thalbach – or for those at any of a host of women’s houses in late-medieval German lands. For Chanchani’s text, the reader cogitates on Kṛṣṇa,in the Thalbach prayerbook, it’s the suffering Mary of the Seven Swords. In both cases, the role of reader presumably toggles with that of viewer. Each act of engagement informs those that follow, so that meaning is additive across the multiple media being consumed.

2) Chanchani’s manuscript fragments are part of an illustrated “picture-book of songs,” drawing on familiar texts. Nevertheless, as she points out, the paintings don’t directly illustrate the verses. In the images of the first folio, for example, no flute appears, and the extra women of the songs are missing.

Likewise, in the Thalbach prayerbook, Mary’s suffering is represented as a totality; all seven swords piercing her at once, whereas other rendition of Mary’s sorrows become composites, with rondels to narrate the details of her individual sorrows, as Carol Schuler articulates. In the prayers that follow, we instead dwell on details of Mary’s losses. The images in both cases are weirdly both summative – here is a divine personage in the midst of activities – and reductive, in that we are faced with a reduced single-moment capture of that experience.

3) Chanchani explicates that darśan, the process of exchanging gazes with divinity, is at the heart of Hindu devotional practice. Seeing, as she articulates it, is a form of knowing.

For sisters in a monastic environment, the same could very often be true. Jeffrey Hamburger in particular has explored the ways in which images serve as vehicles of inspiration. “Images,” as he establishes, can “serve not as props, but as the principal protagonists” in ceremonies, for instance.(Hamburger, 429). Images could spark visions and other personalized experiences of the divine; many instances can be found among the Nonnenvitae in convent chronicles. Given their status as launching-points for individuated faith experiences, Hamburger argues, images called out for control, duly provided through regulation and admonitions over the later medieval period.

And yet, sisters continued to incorporate images into their worship practices, saying particular prayers at specific altars, gazing on their precious pages in the choir stalls. The two devotional pictures found during archaeological excavation at Wienhausen (Appuhn) are a case in point; worship and gaze are intertwined as practice.

4) Why? Why intermingle imagery and text? I think here Chanchani’s observations are apt. As she explains, reading and looking are (both) imaginative acts. They invite readers to hold multiple aspects of the God-reference in mind. For Chanchani’s text, it is Kṛṣṇa; for the Thalbach sisters it is Mary, apostrophized in multiple metaphors as a signal of the complexity inherent to the divine

Illustrating a prayerbook, then, is not a matter of ornament – instead, it’s about amplification. Just as Chanchani’s manuscript invites the devotee into a multisensory encounter with Kṛṣṇa, so too do the Thalbach images summon a similarly layered engagement with Mary -- not to explain the prayers, but to deepen the contemplative practice surrounding them. Read, look, think, intuit: the praxis of devotional reading is more, so much more, than just working through the words.

In other words, in both Hindu and Christian-monastic tradition image and text operate not merely in service to each another, but work instead through a process of dynamic tension, for each pushes the devotee toward a more expansive and imaginative apprehension of the divine.

WORKS CITED

Appuhn, Horst. Der Fund im Nonnenchor. Kloster Wienhausen, Bd 4. [Wienhausen]: Kloster Wienhausen, 1973.

Chanchani, Jahnabi Barooah. “Text, Image and Devotion in a 15th Century Western Indian Manuscript.” Aziatische Kunst 48/1 (2018): 42–53. Academia link.

Cyrus, Cynthia J. “Printed Images in a Thalbach Manuscript Prayer‑book of the Sixteenth Century.” Journal of the Early Book Society 23 (2020): 173–82.

Hamburger, Jeffrey. The Visual and the Visionary. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998.

Schuler, Carol M. “The Seven Sorrows of the Virgin: Popular Culture and Cultic Imagery in Pre-Reformation Europe.” Simiolus: Netherlands Quarterly for the History of Art 21 (1992):5–28.