(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
4. Wealth Of The Incas And The Aztec Treasure
When vast and ever increasing wealth pours into the palaces of kings, there are usually stories, not always pleasant stories, concerning the sources of those floods of gold. And behind all the extravagant display of gold and jewels in the English court, behind the growing wealth of Spain and of thte principal cities of Italy, there lies a story of cruelty and loot that reaches across the Atlantic and ties up with the western continent.
In 1492, eighty seven men and one visionary leader set sail in three none too seaworthy ships. A year later the explorers returned, bringing with them, among other things, gold and marvelous tales. Columbus had not succeeded in finding a new route to the East, but he had blazed the trail for the adventurous Spaniards, who were presently to plunder two ancient civilizations—the Aztecs of Mexico and the Incas of Peru.
‘The gold of the Incas!’ Ever since the fifteenth century that phrase has spelled high adventure, fabulous wealth, and a game of hide and seek. Once set in motion a tradition of hidden treasure and the lure of it passes from generation to generation. We still search for the treasure of the Incas. How much of it remains hidden to this day?
It is said a man may well go mad at the sudden acquisition of heaped gold and gems. At all events, in Mexico and Peru the Spanish conquerors came upon such hoarded wealth as seldom falls to the lot of adventurers, and it may be inferred that their joy was not hampered by considerations of justice or mercy.
Among the treasures of the Incas were rich personal ornaments made of precious metals and quantities of emeralds and pearls. Temples were filled with vast amounts of gold and silver and their stucco walls were studded with gems.
All this wealth was treasure trove for the victorious Spaniards, but the appetite for riches grew with what it fed on. There must be more emeralds where these came from....But when the Spaniards questioned them concerning the whereabouts of the emerald mines, the Incas refused to tell. Even when the new masters attempted to extract the information by means of torture their victims remained mute.
So the Spaniards set out to discover for themselves the source of the valuable stones, but with such care had the Indians eliminated all trace of the tunnel-like openings into underground pockets of emeralds, and so quickly did the jungle growth conceal the paths that led to them, that the Spaniards did not succeed in finding a single mine until years later when, in 1555, one of the native mines of Muzo, in Colombia, was discovered quite by accident.
Peru was not only source of the treasure which voyagers brought from the new world across the sea and dispersed among the rich and the royal of Europe. There was also Mexico to provide plunder.
An old record, printed in 1521, which has the distinction of being the first printed account of events in the New World, tells of the marvelous craftsmanship of the goldsmiths of Mexico. Earrings, necklaces of hollow gold beads, armlets of gold are listed; and little figures of fish, ducks and frogs; golden fish-hooks and tiny golden bells are described.
By the time the Spaniards reached Mexico in full force the royal regalia of the Aztecs had been accumulating for generations and had become a mighty treasure.
Cortés and his soldiers marched into Mexico, following as they went the customary practice of ‘persuading’ the natives to join their standard. Before Cortés entered Mexico City, its ruling chief, Montezuma II, warned no doubt by rumors of what might be expected, had taken means to protect the massed store of gold and gems from the looting band, not, however, by force of arms but by strategy. The soldiers were allowed to roam the city in search of valuables, and they did, to be sure, find much gold and other treasure. But unfortunately for Montezuma’s policy there was an ex-carpenter among Cortés men. With the observant eye of the craftsman, he noticed that at a certain place in the plastered wall of a passageway the faint outline of a doorway was still visible under its camouflage layer of plaster. The man reported his suspicions to Cortés—and the fat was in the fire. The plaster was torn off and there indeed was a door underneath it.
We are fortunate in having the report of an eyewitness, Diaz del Castillo, the Spanish soldier-historian, concerning what happened when that hidden door was finally opened. Cortés and some of his captains were the first to enter the secret chamber. Says Diaz:
On entering a narrow and low door, they found a large and spacious room, in the middle of which was a heap of gold, jewels and precious stones as high as a man; so high was it that one was not to be seen on the other side of it....It was the treasure of all the kings. Platters, cups some with feet and some without, all gold....
This treasure of ‘all the kings’ was doomed to a fate so common to plundered jewels. The stones were pried from their settings and the elaborately wrought gold was consigned to the melting pot.
We began to melt it down with the help of natives. The resulting bars measured three fingers of a hand across. Many captains ordered very large golden chains made by the great Montezuma’s goldsmiths.... Cortés, too, ordered many jewels made, and a great service of plate.
Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico speaks of great emeralds of wonderful brilliance which had been carved by the Aztecs into fantastic forms of fishes and flowers.
Avid desire for treasure was not satisfied even by all the conveniently-at-hand collected hoards of Peru and Mexico. Shortly, the Spaniards began to work the emerald mines of Colombia and to gather pearls along the coast of South America. Back to Europe went ships whose cargoes list such items as two chests, each containing ‘one hundred weight of emeralds,’ and pearls in such numbers that they were sold at public auction in Seville—not singly but by the basket.
The rich in all high places of Europe fairly wallowed in jewels.
Jewelers Of Renaissance (continued)
Friday, February 08, 2008
The French Revolution And Its Influence On Art
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
A more subtle example of Goya’s anti-clerical tendency is the little picture in the National Gallery, ‘The Bewitched’, in which, while professing to do no more than paint a stage scene from a popular comedy of the time, the artist shows us a priest frightened by demons in forms of a goat and jackasses.
Like most of the intellectual men in Spain, Goya had at first welcomed the coming of Napoleon, for anything seemed promise a hope of better things than the old regime. But, later, the piteous spectacle of his country in the throes of warfare seemed to rouse the patriot in him, and he began to champion its rights in a series of the most moving paintings and engravings. In 1810 he began to execute a series of engravings entitled ‘The Disasters of War’, which were absolutely a new thing in art. Hitherto artists, with few exceptions, had shown only the imposing side of war, its panoply and splendor, its daring and heroism. Goya was the first artist to make a deliberate and systematic impeachment of Militarism. Not only did he refuse to glorify the old adage that ‘it is sweet and decorous to die for one’s country,’ but he persistently showed all the blood and misery with which military glory was bought. In his engravings of the war he shows the unchaining of the ‘human beast,’ and his prints of the torturing of prisoners and the shooting of deserters are ghastly in their revelation of raging madness and the distortions of death agonies.
In his paintings also Goya told the terrible story of the tragedies which ensued when the Spanish volunteers took up arms against Napoleon’s soldiery. There is no more awful war picture in the world than Goya’s painting of an incident in 1808, in which we see the gleam of the gun-barrels, and poor wretches who have been condemned by court-martial falling forward prone before the musket-fire of the troops. The despair of the condemned, and the cold-blooded energy of the executioners are appalling.
Yet while he lamented the sufferings of the patriots during the Peninsular War, Goya could not rejoice at the restoration of the Bourbons after the fall of Napoleon. For when King Ferdinand returned to Madrid in 1814, Goya saw that all hope of liberalism and freedom of thought had vanished, and that the powers of darkness, which for the time had been scared away, again settled on the land and obscured truth, progress, and enlightenment. The last ‘disaster of the war’ was the resettlement of the Bourbons, who had ‘learnt nothing and forgotten nothing,’ on the throne of Spain, and Goya with his old fearlessness expressed his view of the matter in his engraving ‘The Death of Truth,’ in which he showed thte naked figure of Truth suffering martyrdom at the hands of the priests.
We might expect that this outspoken work would have proved too much even for the most stupid, priest-ridden Court to swallow, but nothing that Goya could do ever brought home to royalty what the artist really thought of them and their government. King Ferdinand confirmed Goya’s appointment as Court Painter, and even persuaded him to paint a portrait of him in the purple mantle of empire, but now the artist himself was too old and too sick at heart to play the hypocrite at Court and paint grandees with his tongue in his cheek. Gradually Goya withdrew from the public life and established himself in a simple country house on the outskirts of Madrid. His wife and son were both dead, since 1791 he had himself been afflicted with deafness, and in this villa the lonely painter lived out his life in company with his art. His last protest against the tendencies of the time were some small paintings of the interiors of prisons and torture-chambers, in which he reminds us that the Inquisition had again raised its head under King Ferdinand. Among his last works were scenes of bull-fights, of the details of which Goya, in his youth, had acquired a professional knowledge. Greatly as all humanitarians must detest this horrid sport, its color and movement appeal to the artistic sense, and the decorative aspect of the scene is the dominant note in Goya’s renderings of this subject.
After nine years of this lonely life Goya seems to have felt himself no longer very secure in Spain. Perhaps he feared that the clerics would in the end perceive his purpose and have their revenge on him. At all events, in 1824 he sought and obtained leave of absence for six weeks to visit the sulphur springs of Plombières in Lorraine on account of his gout. But this appears to have been merely an excuse to get out of Spain, for he never went to Plombières, but after visiting Paris, settled at Bordeaux, where, on April 16, 1828, he died as the result of a stroke of apoplexy. In his last years he was not only stone deaf but half blind, and consequently his creative work in France was small, but one engraving remains to show that the old cynic never swerved from his faith and still had hope for the future. ‘Lux ex tenebris’ is the pregnant title of this work of his old age, and in it he shows us a shaft of light falling on a dark spot of earth (Spain?) and scaring away from it owls, ravens—and priests!
A more subtle example of Goya’s anti-clerical tendency is the little picture in the National Gallery, ‘The Bewitched’, in which, while professing to do no more than paint a stage scene from a popular comedy of the time, the artist shows us a priest frightened by demons in forms of a goat and jackasses.
Like most of the intellectual men in Spain, Goya had at first welcomed the coming of Napoleon, for anything seemed promise a hope of better things than the old regime. But, later, the piteous spectacle of his country in the throes of warfare seemed to rouse the patriot in him, and he began to champion its rights in a series of the most moving paintings and engravings. In 1810 he began to execute a series of engravings entitled ‘The Disasters of War’, which were absolutely a new thing in art. Hitherto artists, with few exceptions, had shown only the imposing side of war, its panoply and splendor, its daring and heroism. Goya was the first artist to make a deliberate and systematic impeachment of Militarism. Not only did he refuse to glorify the old adage that ‘it is sweet and decorous to die for one’s country,’ but he persistently showed all the blood and misery with which military glory was bought. In his engravings of the war he shows the unchaining of the ‘human beast,’ and his prints of the torturing of prisoners and the shooting of deserters are ghastly in their revelation of raging madness and the distortions of death agonies.
In his paintings also Goya told the terrible story of the tragedies which ensued when the Spanish volunteers took up arms against Napoleon’s soldiery. There is no more awful war picture in the world than Goya’s painting of an incident in 1808, in which we see the gleam of the gun-barrels, and poor wretches who have been condemned by court-martial falling forward prone before the musket-fire of the troops. The despair of the condemned, and the cold-blooded energy of the executioners are appalling.
Yet while he lamented the sufferings of the patriots during the Peninsular War, Goya could not rejoice at the restoration of the Bourbons after the fall of Napoleon. For when King Ferdinand returned to Madrid in 1814, Goya saw that all hope of liberalism and freedom of thought had vanished, and that the powers of darkness, which for the time had been scared away, again settled on the land and obscured truth, progress, and enlightenment. The last ‘disaster of the war’ was the resettlement of the Bourbons, who had ‘learnt nothing and forgotten nothing,’ on the throne of Spain, and Goya with his old fearlessness expressed his view of the matter in his engraving ‘The Death of Truth,’ in which he showed thte naked figure of Truth suffering martyrdom at the hands of the priests.
We might expect that this outspoken work would have proved too much even for the most stupid, priest-ridden Court to swallow, but nothing that Goya could do ever brought home to royalty what the artist really thought of them and their government. King Ferdinand confirmed Goya’s appointment as Court Painter, and even persuaded him to paint a portrait of him in the purple mantle of empire, but now the artist himself was too old and too sick at heart to play the hypocrite at Court and paint grandees with his tongue in his cheek. Gradually Goya withdrew from the public life and established himself in a simple country house on the outskirts of Madrid. His wife and son were both dead, since 1791 he had himself been afflicted with deafness, and in this villa the lonely painter lived out his life in company with his art. His last protest against the tendencies of the time were some small paintings of the interiors of prisons and torture-chambers, in which he reminds us that the Inquisition had again raised its head under King Ferdinand. Among his last works were scenes of bull-fights, of the details of which Goya, in his youth, had acquired a professional knowledge. Greatly as all humanitarians must detest this horrid sport, its color and movement appeal to the artistic sense, and the decorative aspect of the scene is the dominant note in Goya’s renderings of this subject.
After nine years of this lonely life Goya seems to have felt himself no longer very secure in Spain. Perhaps he feared that the clerics would in the end perceive his purpose and have their revenge on him. At all events, in 1824 he sought and obtained leave of absence for six weeks to visit the sulphur springs of Plombières in Lorraine on account of his gout. But this appears to have been merely an excuse to get out of Spain, for he never went to Plombières, but after visiting Paris, settled at Bordeaux, where, on April 16, 1828, he died as the result of a stroke of apoplexy. In his last years he was not only stone deaf but half blind, and consequently his creative work in France was small, but one engraving remains to show that the old cynic never swerved from his faith and still had hope for the future. ‘Lux ex tenebris’ is the pregnant title of this work of his old age, and in it he shows us a shaft of light falling on a dark spot of earth (Spain?) and scaring away from it owls, ravens—and priests!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Normal Accidents
Normal Accidents: Living with High-Risk Technologies by Charles Perrow is a fascinating book + it provides unique insight so that we are able to understand high risk systems + the intrepretation of accident analysis and conclusions + the people factor + the amazing thing is, it's happening today + I feel, timely.
Walter Schloss
I found the article on Walter Schloss via Forbes @ http://www.forbes.com/forbes/2008/0211/048.html very interesting + educational + insightful + as Warren Buffet put it rightly, Walter Schloss is a flesh-and-blood refutation of the Efficient Market Theory.
Colored Stone Update
With all the problems associated with Burmese ruby + the possible ban (questionable), Stuller's announcement that they have found a reliable source for rubies (Madagascar) is encouraging + they claim they have the right product (thousands of rubies, 4 kilos of 1.25 mm to 4 mm rounds, possibly larger, along with 4-by-3, 5-by-3, 5-by-4, and 6-by-4 ovals), eye clean, moderately included pinkish, purplish pink, medium to dark red to eye clean and bright red + they say they can guarantee the unheated/totally free of enhancements or treatments (a reference to the proliferation of glass-filled Madagascar ruby) status (not easy) of gemstones.
Useful link:
www.stuller.com
Useful link:
www.stuller.com
Ed Ruscha
Edward Ruscha is an American painter + printmaker + photographer + filmmaker + he achieved recognition for paintings incorporating words and phrases and for his many photographic books, all influenced by the deadpan irreverence of the Pop Art movement + he uses odd mediums (gunpowder, blood, fruit and vegetable juices, axle grease, and grass stains) to draw, print, and paint to create a unique work of art.
Useful links:
www.edruscha.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Ruscha
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/art/visualart/story/0,,2253156,00.html
Useful links:
www.edruscha.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Ruscha
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/art/visualart/story/0,,2253156,00.html
All the Web’s A Stage
Rachel Wolff writes about the new modified performance art, an online world populated by computer-generated beings called 'avatars' via Second Life, a network-based virtual world where anyone with a little tech savvy can download a program and create an 'avatar' whose interactions with other 'avatars' have much of the excitement, discomfort, and unpredictability of real-world encounters + the impact + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=2443
Jewelers Of Renaissance
(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
3. Jewels For Royalty
When Cellini was at the height of his skill, he was sent for by Francis I, who gave him quarters in Paris. The splendor-loving King of France and his court delighted in extravagant display of jewelry, and Rabelais tells of magnificent bejeweled necklaces, brooches, girdle ornaments, pendants, and precious stones worn in profusion by wealthy Parisians. However, it was not to the French court but to the court of England that one must turn to find the most lavish display of personal jewelry; and although the French set the fashions it was the King of England, Henry VIII, who had the greatest purchasing power.
Henry’s fingers were always loaded with rings—he had no less than 234, and 324 brooches, when he died. His necklets were studded with diamonds and pearls, and his gold collars were hung with rich pendants. One collar and pendant worn by the King has been described by an observer as being set with a ‘rough cut diamond the size of the largest walnut I ever saw.’ And as if that were not impressive enough, Henry also wore a second gold collar over his mantle ‘with a pendent St George, entirely of diamonds.’
Accounts of pageants and court entertainments are filled with references to precious stones sewed to the garments of noblemen, who decked themselves immoderately in an extravagant desire to outshine one another.
Henry of England made great pretense of friendship for Francis I, especially when he staged the royal picnic known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold, were guests were so bedizened with jewels that, says Du Bellay, ‘they carried the price of woodland, watermill and pasture on their backs.’
In the robust time of Bluff King Hal the wearing of jewels was not considered effeminate. The male of the species was perhaps more resplendent than the female. From head to toe he glittered with all the gems he could get.
When the modern society page reports a wedding the bride’s costume is usually described at length. No one ever thinks of what the groom wears—but not so in days of yore. When Henry VIII went forth to meet his bride (number three) Anne of Cleves his costume was well worth reporting:
He wore a coat of purple velvet curiously embroidered with gold and lace. The sleeves were cut and lined with gold and clasped with great buttons of diamonds, rubies and Oriental pearls; his sword and girdle set with stones and special emeralds; his cap garnished with stones, but his bonnet was so rich of jewels that few men could value them. Besides all this he wore a colar of such Balais rubies and pearls that few men ever saw the like.
At this point the breathless reporter seems to have become speechles for lack of adjectives. He does not tell of Henry’s nether garments and his shoes, which doubtless shared in glory of gold and gems with the rest of his costume.
Henry was wont to patronize the jewelers of France and Italy, but for a number of years much of his finest jewelry was made from the designs of Hans Holbein, famous Germain painter. The majority of these drawings, belonging to the British Museum, are in pen and ink. Occasionally, however, Holbein added gold and even color to indicate decoration in enamel and precious stones.
If Holbein himself executed the jewelry there is no record of the fact. It is supposed that a goldsmith known as Hans of Antwerp made the jewels after Holbein’s designs. It was not unusual, by the sixteenth century, for one man to design and another to execute a jewel.
Cellini, who, with his own wealth of inventive ability needed no one else to set the pace for him, grumbled over the growing custom.
The draughtsmen who had been employed (by the Pope) were not in the jeweler’s trade and therefore knew nothing about giving their right place to precious stones, and the jewelers on their side had not shown them how; for I ought to say that a jeweler, when he has work with figures must of necessity understand design else he cannot produce anything worth looking at; and so it turned out that all of them had stuck that famous diamond in the middle of the breast of God the Father.
One must sympathize with Cellini’s point of view, yet even the most highly skilled craftsmen may be lacking in creative imagination, therefore it was no longer unusual for a goldsmith to buy models carved in stone or wood, or designs drawn on paper. These he would develop in gold and gemstones. He could even buy a whole pattern-book filled with miscellaneous designs for any sort of jewelry, including an odd and very fashionable gadget in the form of a whistle terminating in a case that held an earpick and a manicure knife.
The practice of using patterns designed by draughtsmen, instead of by the goldsmiths themselves, was followed also in France and Germany; and designs for jewelry were made by the leading artists of the day, Albert Dϋrer, the great German artist, among others. He was no stranger to the jeweler’s craft, for his father was a goldsmith and young Dϋrer had been trained to the trade.
Now of couse all this concentration of art, skill, and fashion turned full force on the making of jewelry produced an enormous amount of it, and necessarily the jeweler must find a market for his wares.
Henry VIII and his court provided the ideal customers, rich, splendor-loving and not too well informed concerning gemstones. England became a focus for foreign gem dealers, some of whom were not above suspicion. Cellini, with unholy glee, one gathers, tells of a merchant who sold the too-trusting Henry jewels of green glass in place of emeralds.
There came a time, however, when Henry grew ‘disinclined to buy, for,’ reports an unsuccessful salesman, ‘he has told me he has no more money, and it has cost him a great deal to make war.’
Nevertheless, shortly before his death the King, evidently unable to resist so powerful a temptation, did purchase a certain gorgeous pendant known as The Brethren.
This pendant differed from the usual type of Renaissance jewel in that its design was austerely simple, relying for beauty on the magnificence of the gemstones rather than on elaboration of setting. The central diamond was a deep pyramid, five-eighths of an inch square at the base; four big pearls adn three rich red spinels, called The Three Brethren, surrounded it.
Even before reaching the hands of Henry this jewel had become famous and gathered unto itself one of those colorful legends, part fact, part fancy, which must always be qualified by the phrase ‘tradition says.’
Tradition, in this case, says that the large diamond in the pendant was one of the earliest to be cut by De Berquem. The pendant was made by order of Charles the Bold, who, as may be inferred from such a title, specialized in military valor. He was almost continually going to war, and according to the custom of the day, he carried his most treasured jewels along with him onto the battle field. Possibly one’s precious stones were insufficiently guarded at home, but more likely it was considered well to have them at hand because of their power as amulets to insure victory and preserve life. For some years the magic of the valuable pendant seemed to work, but in 1475 it broke down. Charles, last Duke of Burgundy, met with defeat past the power of any gem to ward off, and all his treasure—including the pendant—fell into the hands of the victors. After playing a part in so many glorious conquests, The Brethren had rather a dull time of it, merely passing from one purchaser to another until once again the jewel rose to fame by becoming the property of the Magnificent Henry.
Jewelers Of Renaissance (continued)
3. Jewels For Royalty
When Cellini was at the height of his skill, he was sent for by Francis I, who gave him quarters in Paris. The splendor-loving King of France and his court delighted in extravagant display of jewelry, and Rabelais tells of magnificent bejeweled necklaces, brooches, girdle ornaments, pendants, and precious stones worn in profusion by wealthy Parisians. However, it was not to the French court but to the court of England that one must turn to find the most lavish display of personal jewelry; and although the French set the fashions it was the King of England, Henry VIII, who had the greatest purchasing power.
Henry’s fingers were always loaded with rings—he had no less than 234, and 324 brooches, when he died. His necklets were studded with diamonds and pearls, and his gold collars were hung with rich pendants. One collar and pendant worn by the King has been described by an observer as being set with a ‘rough cut diamond the size of the largest walnut I ever saw.’ And as if that were not impressive enough, Henry also wore a second gold collar over his mantle ‘with a pendent St George, entirely of diamonds.’
Accounts of pageants and court entertainments are filled with references to precious stones sewed to the garments of noblemen, who decked themselves immoderately in an extravagant desire to outshine one another.
Henry of England made great pretense of friendship for Francis I, especially when he staged the royal picnic known as the Field of the Cloth of Gold, were guests were so bedizened with jewels that, says Du Bellay, ‘they carried the price of woodland, watermill and pasture on their backs.’
In the robust time of Bluff King Hal the wearing of jewels was not considered effeminate. The male of the species was perhaps more resplendent than the female. From head to toe he glittered with all the gems he could get.
When the modern society page reports a wedding the bride’s costume is usually described at length. No one ever thinks of what the groom wears—but not so in days of yore. When Henry VIII went forth to meet his bride (number three) Anne of Cleves his costume was well worth reporting:
He wore a coat of purple velvet curiously embroidered with gold and lace. The sleeves were cut and lined with gold and clasped with great buttons of diamonds, rubies and Oriental pearls; his sword and girdle set with stones and special emeralds; his cap garnished with stones, but his bonnet was so rich of jewels that few men could value them. Besides all this he wore a colar of such Balais rubies and pearls that few men ever saw the like.
At this point the breathless reporter seems to have become speechles for lack of adjectives. He does not tell of Henry’s nether garments and his shoes, which doubtless shared in glory of gold and gems with the rest of his costume.
Henry was wont to patronize the jewelers of France and Italy, but for a number of years much of his finest jewelry was made from the designs of Hans Holbein, famous Germain painter. The majority of these drawings, belonging to the British Museum, are in pen and ink. Occasionally, however, Holbein added gold and even color to indicate decoration in enamel and precious stones.
If Holbein himself executed the jewelry there is no record of the fact. It is supposed that a goldsmith known as Hans of Antwerp made the jewels after Holbein’s designs. It was not unusual, by the sixteenth century, for one man to design and another to execute a jewel.
Cellini, who, with his own wealth of inventive ability needed no one else to set the pace for him, grumbled over the growing custom.
The draughtsmen who had been employed (by the Pope) were not in the jeweler’s trade and therefore knew nothing about giving their right place to precious stones, and the jewelers on their side had not shown them how; for I ought to say that a jeweler, when he has work with figures must of necessity understand design else he cannot produce anything worth looking at; and so it turned out that all of them had stuck that famous diamond in the middle of the breast of God the Father.
One must sympathize with Cellini’s point of view, yet even the most highly skilled craftsmen may be lacking in creative imagination, therefore it was no longer unusual for a goldsmith to buy models carved in stone or wood, or designs drawn on paper. These he would develop in gold and gemstones. He could even buy a whole pattern-book filled with miscellaneous designs for any sort of jewelry, including an odd and very fashionable gadget in the form of a whistle terminating in a case that held an earpick and a manicure knife.
The practice of using patterns designed by draughtsmen, instead of by the goldsmiths themselves, was followed also in France and Germany; and designs for jewelry were made by the leading artists of the day, Albert Dϋrer, the great German artist, among others. He was no stranger to the jeweler’s craft, for his father was a goldsmith and young Dϋrer had been trained to the trade.
Now of couse all this concentration of art, skill, and fashion turned full force on the making of jewelry produced an enormous amount of it, and necessarily the jeweler must find a market for his wares.
Henry VIII and his court provided the ideal customers, rich, splendor-loving and not too well informed concerning gemstones. England became a focus for foreign gem dealers, some of whom were not above suspicion. Cellini, with unholy glee, one gathers, tells of a merchant who sold the too-trusting Henry jewels of green glass in place of emeralds.
There came a time, however, when Henry grew ‘disinclined to buy, for,’ reports an unsuccessful salesman, ‘he has told me he has no more money, and it has cost him a great deal to make war.’
Nevertheless, shortly before his death the King, evidently unable to resist so powerful a temptation, did purchase a certain gorgeous pendant known as The Brethren.
This pendant differed from the usual type of Renaissance jewel in that its design was austerely simple, relying for beauty on the magnificence of the gemstones rather than on elaboration of setting. The central diamond was a deep pyramid, five-eighths of an inch square at the base; four big pearls adn three rich red spinels, called The Three Brethren, surrounded it.
Even before reaching the hands of Henry this jewel had become famous and gathered unto itself one of those colorful legends, part fact, part fancy, which must always be qualified by the phrase ‘tradition says.’
Tradition, in this case, says that the large diamond in the pendant was one of the earliest to be cut by De Berquem. The pendant was made by order of Charles the Bold, who, as may be inferred from such a title, specialized in military valor. He was almost continually going to war, and according to the custom of the day, he carried his most treasured jewels along with him onto the battle field. Possibly one’s precious stones were insufficiently guarded at home, but more likely it was considered well to have them at hand because of their power as amulets to insure victory and preserve life. For some years the magic of the valuable pendant seemed to work, but in 1475 it broke down. Charles, last Duke of Burgundy, met with defeat past the power of any gem to ward off, and all his treasure—including the pendant—fell into the hands of the victors. After playing a part in so many glorious conquests, The Brethren had rather a dull time of it, merely passing from one purchaser to another until once again the jewel rose to fame by becoming the property of the Magnificent Henry.
Jewelers Of Renaissance (continued)
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