Got Medieval

A[n intermittently updated] tonic for the slipshod use of medieval European history in the media and pop culture.

Lion-O Forever (Mmm... Marginalia)  

This week's edition of Mmm... Marginalia is found in The Hague MS MMW10 A14, a now incomplete missal made in the Netherlands in the 14th century. And here it is:

Why have these lions stuck their heads into a basket and a potted plant? Usually, when I ask such questions, they're less than rhetorical and just the setup for some lame joke. But this time there actually is a reason why these lions are acting weird, instead of just "it's a joke." And it's pretty much for the same reason Johnny Depp now has a tattoo reading "Wino Forever".*

Once they balanced on their noses the coats of arms of the original commissioner of the manuscript, Arnold of Oreye, who was the Lord of Rummen and Baron of Quaerbecke--which was all well and good until the Oreye family sold the manuscript. The new owner was not so keen on having someone else's coat of arms in the margins of his missal, so he called in an expert to rectify the problem.

Usually, the new owners would just have the old coat of arms scratched off, or painted over with their own coat of arms. But for whatever reason, this new owner hired an illuminator with a whimsical streak, and the result was two lions now demonstrating that curiosity is a problem for great cats as well as small.

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*Sure, it seemed like a good idea at the time to get "Winona Forever" tattooed on his bicep, but once she was out of the picture, some adjustments had to be made.**
**Actually, I have an alternate theory that Johnny Depp meant to communicate his continued undying love for the first two syllables of Winona's name. Presumably, the last syllable was the cheating one.

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Awesome Old [Medieval] Folklore  

So that I don't sound like a broken record,* this is the last plug I'll put in for the good folks over at Satisfactory Comics for a while.** Isaac whipped up a tee-shirt version of a recent Doodle Penance that you should all go buy right now. Mine is en route as we speak you read.

I am deeply jealous of those with the ability to draw stuff. My drawn stuff looks very unstufflike. Thus, all I can offer is this picture from the Aberdeen Bestiary of the awesome old folklore that inspired the shirt:


According to both Pliny the Elder and Isidore of Seville--medieval Europe's favorite sources for animal anecdotes--bear cubs are born as eyeless unformed lumps of flesh that have to be licked into shape by the mama bear. For Isidorian naturalists, a beast's Latin name tells you something important about it, and thus because their mothers have to use their ore (mouths) to make cubs into bears, bears are called orsus AKA ursus AKA bears. Learning is fun, right gang?

Click on the image of the Satisfactory shirt below to be whisked away by the magic of the internets to the place where you may procure this special bounty:


Or, if that link doesn't work, click here.

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*A broken record broken in such a way that it repeatedly plugs a friends' comics-based blog.
**But--note to my other readers--the Satisfactory boys know well that the way to my heart is free stuff. 1/2 of them spotted me a cool Abecedarium at Kalamazoo! So what are the rest of you waiting on?

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Medieval Video Game Watch  


Video game magazine writing is a cushy job that I desperately desire. You get to spend your time writing sentences like this one I came across in last month's issue of Game Informer:

The game begins as Dante returns from years of war to finally marry his fiance Beatrice, only to find her murdered (one of the many understandable departures from the source material).
The game in question is Electronic Arts' upcoming Dante's Inferno, due out next year. If I had been writing the article, though, it probably would have read more like this:
The game begins as Dante returns from years of war to finally marry his fiance Beatrice, only to find her murdered (in one of many instances where the game designers understandably got confused and thought they were supposed to be making a game version of Ridley Scott's 2000 film Gladiator).
But, hey, writers are allowed their own idiosyncrasies.* The previewer continues:
As Lucifer drags her soul to hell, Dante jumps in after them to begin his journey. Before entering the first ring of hell, Dante learns the ropes in a battle with Death in which he ends up stealing the Grim Reaper's scythe.
That sentence, too, needs a parenthetical '(one of the many understandable departures from the source material)'--as does every other in the article--but I guess the previewer had a word limit. Personally, I don't understand why they didn't just choose another protagonist. They could still call it Dante's Inferno without actually including Dante, since it's clearly set in a punchier and slicier version of Dante's hell. Just have the player control Shmante, Dante's younger, more attractive cousin and leave it at that.

Actually, come to think of it a bit more, Dante is the perfect protagonist for a combo-driven beat'em up game. Just take everything he wrote super literally. Like this bit from La Vita Nuova:
There appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I discerned the figure of a Lord of terrible aspect to such as should gaze upon him [...] Speaking he said many things, among the which I could understand but few; and of these, this: "I am thy Lord". In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a crimson cloth; upon whom looking very attentively [...] And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burning in flames, and he said to me "Behold thy heart". But when he had remained with me a little while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her that slept; after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hand; and she ate as one fearing.
And that's from his autobiography, even. Magical demons appearing in puffs of red smoke, redolent chicks eating burning hearts--Kratos ain't got nothing on that.

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*Mine, for instance, involve forcing readers to repeatedly come down to the post's lower margin.**
**Often to no purpose!***
***But you knew that already.

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You're Not Helping (Mmm... Marginalia)  

This week's marginal image is found in the bas-de-page* of the Bodleian Library's MS Douce 5. Incidentally, if someone comes up to you at a cocktail party** and asks you what your favorite fourteenth-century Flemish Psalter is, you'll look all smart and refined if you reply, "Why, Bodl. Lib. MS Douce 5 of course." Extra points if you can pronounce the periods at the end of the abbreviation.

Where was I? Ah, yes. This week's image:

You've heard of the phrase, "kicking a man when he's down"? The medieval equivalent, clearly, was, "poking an ape's butt when he's accidentally stuck his head into a dragon's mouth". At least among medieval rabbits.

The best part, for me, is the dragon's reaction shot. "Do you mind?" he's clearly saying, "I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

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*I could have said "bottom of the page," but if I had, then what would I footnote?
**It should be noted that I got to like two cocktail parties a year, but for some reason they still remain my go-to context for oddball conversations.

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Arianna Huffington is Good at History  

For reasons I really don't understand, Congress recently invited a bunch of famous people to testify before them regarding the New Media Revolution. There, Arianna Huffington, whose eponymous Post operates by giving celebrities with nothing to say a forum in which to not say it at great length, but primarily by stealing linking repackaging stealing content from other sites, explained said revolution thusly:

"I was not around when the printing press was invented; but if I were around I would imagine that the people dealing with stone tablets would be making a similar argument. Saying, you know, if you just left us alone and just forgot about that printing press, who could really charge you for that."
I like how she needs to clarify that she was not personally present for the invention of the printing press, regardless of what her detractors might claim. No, she wasn't there, thank you very much, but through the power of imagination she can transport herself there, and whilst there look down her Greek nose at the foolish fifteenth-century stone-tablet lobby.

Now, I'll grant you that if I were in front of Congress* I'd probably babble incoherently, too. It's clearly too much to ask of someone who knows they're going to be testifying to work out their metaphors about technological backwardsness ahead of time. But if I were writing a book, like, say, the Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging,** I wouldn't have much excuse for writing something like this:
You see, printed books themselves were once a rather revolutionary idea. Six hundred years ago, if people wanted to share ideas, they had few options. We could shout our complains from the barn rafters. Maybe a few chickens would hear us. We could scrawl our musings and post them in the town square--but soon the elements would take their toll. Documents were preserved, of course--medieval monks specializing in hand-copying important texts--but to justify years of a monk's time, these documents had to be privileged indeed. Few normal people could spare five years to hand-write their stories.

Then, in mid-fifteenth century Germany, printer Johannes Gutenberg happened upon a discovery.
I also love the idea Gutenberg just "happened" upon the printing press--like, one day he was throwing some coffee grounds onto the compost heap and there it was beneath a half-eaten omelet.

I'm glad Congress called in an expert like Arianna for this one and not, say, a scholar of media history or anything. I'm so glad that I whipped up this little graphical timeline above to preserve her wisdom for the ages.

All kidding aside, though she probably doesn't realize it, the printing press is in one way a very good analogue for the Huffington Post, just in England rather than Germany. Take William Caxton, England's first printer. Like Arianna Huffington, he was not responsible for the invention of the technology he used. He just copied what the German Gutenberg had already pioneered. And if you look at the list of texts Caxton printed, almost all of them were the fifteenth-century equivalent of public domain texts--The Canterbury Tales, the Confessio Amantis, Aesop's Fables, The Consolation of Philosophy, etc.--i.e., Caxton rarely had to actually pay the writers whose works he printed and sold.

If you copy the technology pioneered by others and populate it with content you don't have to pay for, it's easy to make money, whether in the fifteenth or the twenty-first century!

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*Which I can be, through the power of my imagination. I'm there now, and Angelina Jolie is there, and she's French kissing Dan Brown for some reason. Bad imagination, bad!
**In her defense, it should be noted that Arianna Huffington didn't write that chapter. The 'editors' of the Huffington Post, of which she is one, did. She did, however, put her picture and name on the cover of the book containing that chapter.

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Kalamazoo by the Numbers  

  • # of papers attended: 15 1/2
  • # of papers delivered: 1
  • # of marginal illuminations used during the paper: 41
  • # of those which were pooping, peeing, or otherwise engaged in nastiness: 4 (less than 10%!)
  • # of images of Super Mario used during the paper: 2
  • # of people who came up to me after my paper to say they like my blog: 6
  • # of people who came up to me after my paper to say, 'Hey, you're from the Internet!': 1
  • # of people who told me that my they will not read my blog with their children in the room: 1
  • # of medieval bloggers I met at the medieval blogger meetup: 8
  • # of medieval bloggers I should have introduced myself to but was too lazy and/or socially maladjusted to: 17
  • # of different ways my name was spelled by people affiliated with K-Zoo in some official capacity: 5
  • # of times Scott Nokes mispronounced my name while introducing me to people at the blogger meetup: 3
  • # of people who recognized me as the Got Medieval GuyTM (excluding paper and meetup): 9
  • threadcount of the sheets provided for conference participants who lodged in the dorms: 7
  • # of centimeters I held my laptop out the dorm window in order to snag a wireless signal: 10
  • # of times I arranged to grab coffee with a conference participant: 5
  • # of those coffee meetings that took place on Friday: 5
  • % of my blood, by volume, that had been replaced by caffeine as of Friday at 5:00: 22 1/9
  • # of times I found myself telling people how boring John Lydgate is: 8
  • # of times I found myself telling people how awesome Doodle Penance is: 4
  • # of discussions of Malory's narrative technique I had with conference participants: 1
  • # of times I was chided by tenured faculty for not having read Harry Potter volumes 5-7: 2
  • # of arguments I had with conference participants over which Disney Princess would win in a catfight: 3
  • # of people who tried to cheap out and go with Mulan: 2
  • # of people I spotted wearing drunken monkey shirts from my CafePress store: 1
  • # of $ made by my CafePress store during Kalamazoo: $0.00

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This Post Carries Swine Flu (Mmm... Misericords)  

This blog has featured a lot of filled-in blank spaces over the last year, almost all of the manuscript variety. So, to switch it up, this week's Mmm... Marginalia is going to concern a different sort of decorated hidden spot--the space beneath a medieval parishioner's ass.*

Medieval Christians went to church a little bit less often than your modern Baptist, which is to say quite a lot. And during long parts of the service, as well as during some private devotional time, they were expected to stand. But because medieval Christians were nothing if not practical, they cheated and installed little shelves to discreetly sit upon when they were supposed to be standing. We call these shelves "misericords", or "mercy chairs."

Just as the medieval manuscript maker didn't like letting all that blank space around the text go to waste, the medieval church architect didn't like leaving all those discreet ass-shelves bare. So they decorated their misericords with little images--often as bizarre, sacrilegious, and/or scatalogical as those you've seen in manuscripts. In fact, they're often the same pictures, just carved instead of painted.

Now, this blog as been accused of having a simian fetish, so to break with the monkey-based monotony, today I'll concern myself with a thoroughly respectable subject: pigs.

There were basically two sorts of pigs that the savvy medieval church-goer wanted under his or her slightly elevated derriere. Some chose to go with the bloody but practical "Pig Being Slaughtered*". This little piggy comes from Ripple Church in England:

Be sure to note the pig on the left screaming in horror.

Those more squeamish about the source of their bacon might instead opt to rest their weary churched-out hind quarters on pig option #2: pigs playing musical instruments. Here are but a few of many. The first is a pig playing an organ (both pig and organ now housed at Paris's Museum of the Middle Ages):


Pigs make awesome organists, naturally, but their true love remains the bagpipes, as shown here, in a misericord from Ripon Cathedral:

Dance, my piglets, dance!

Sadly, there really is very little call for piggy bagpipe soloists,** so many times the misericord's porcine piper is forced to make ends meet by giving lessons, even to that ungrateful marginal scene stealer, the monkey***:


Apparently, however, pigs make poor bagpipe instructors, as evidenced by this monkey's technique:


Experts agree that the first step in playing the bagpipe is being able to distinguish a bagpipe from a dog.****

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*One of these cropped up in a medieval calendar a few months ago, if you'll recall.
**Basically just your occasional Renn Faire.
***Oh, yeah, I was supposed to be not talking about monkeys this week. I always get that confused with talking about monkeys. My bad.
****OK, OK, that's actually a bear in the picture, not a pig, and rather than giving lessons he's dancing. Both carvings appear at the same place, Beverly Minister Cathedral. That particular carver's bears look a lot like his pigs, though. Comparative anatomy, it wasn't his strong suit.

NOTE: Mmm... Marginalia has been running consistently half a week behind, I know, and some weeks there's been no marginalia at all. I'm really falling down on the job. This post was originally meant to run the week of Kalamazoo, but finishing my paper for K-Zoo got in the way. After a week of running on my blog's front page, I'll probably move it back to the K-Zoo week for purposes of historical inaccuracy.

FURTHER NOTE: See, I told you I'd do it.

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Welcome to May  


According to medieval calendars, May is the time for hawking, because apparently medieval calendar makers really only had ten good ideas for monthly chores and got desperate there at the end. A whole month for hawking? I challenge you to stay interested in the sport past May 7th or so.

Important medieval dates in May include:

  • May 1, 1328 -- The Treaty of Edinburgh-Northampton is signed. The Scots buy their independence for £20,000.
  • May 4, 1256 -- The pope officially recognizes the Augustinian order of monks.
  • May 5, 1260 -- Kublai Khan becomes the ruler of the Mongol Empire and starts measuring the drapes for his stately pleasure dome.
  • May 7, 1429 -- Joan of Arc goes all Rambo, pulls an arrow out of her shoulder, returns to the battlefield, and leads the final charge that ends the Siege of Orleans. The Hundred Years War, she is finished.
  • May 11, 1310 -- The French make a fire using fifty-four Knights Templar.
  • May 15, 1252 -- Innocent IV issues the bull Ad extirpanda, authorizing torture against "murderers of the soul" and "robbers of God's sacraments".* IE, those wacky heretics.
  • May 18, 1152 -- Eleanor of Aquitaine takes this man, [the future] Henry II of England, as her lawful wedded husband.
  • May 18, 1268 -- The Crusader State of Antioch falls to the Baibars.
  • May 22, 1377 -- Gregory XI denounces the Wycliffites, everyone's second favorite pre-Reformation proto-Protestant movement. (In the lead for the four-hundredth year running: the Lollards! Better luck next year, Wycliffites.)
  • May 25, 1085 -- Alfonso VI of Castile kicks the Moors out of Toledo, giving rise to the phrase "Holy Toledo". Nine-hundred years later, some clever wag uses it to tweak the gullible at the Urban Dictionary.
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*For the record, waterboarding would have been permissible under the bull, but only if you had overwhelming evidence of guilt and you only got one shot at it. In theory, anyway.

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