British Library, Harley 4425, f. 140, “Nature forging a baby.” Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Roman de la Rose. Bruges, c.1490-c.1500.
Just in case anyone ever thought that any act of conception, any process of engendering and generation—including that most natural instance of a child’s creation—was ever thought free from artifice . . .
Update—To respond to a comment asking after the place of this image in Roman de la rose, I cracked open my translation and, luckily, found the passages from which this image derives. Here are the details I outlined in my reply:
We find out all about Nature’s baby forge in the lines leading up to her confession, about two-thirds of the way through the Roman. It comes in the context of a discourse on death and the role of nature in preserving species from extinction. There is a whole neoplatonic discussion about the repeated resurrection of a phoenix. The fiery bird represents the “ideal common form that Nature reshapes into individuals” as Death comes along and greedily devours phoenix after phoenix. The phoenix then serves as an allegory for life in general: “All things under the circle of the moon have this very same mode of being, so that if one of them can remain, its species so lives in it that Death can never catch up with it” (15977-16005).
Next, we enter the forge itself, where the allegory of Death, Corruption, Nature, and generation gives way to one of Art and Nature, and the craftsmanship analogy that underpins the Platonic doctrine of forms comes to the fore:
But when Nature, sweet and compassionate, sees that envious Death and Corruption come together to put to destruction whatever they find within her forge, she continues always to hammer and forge and always to renew the individuals by means of new generation. When she can bring to other counsel to her work, she cuts copies in such letters that she gives them true forms in coins of different monies. From these, Art makes her models, but she does not make her forms as true. However, with very attentive care, she kneels before Nature like a truant beggar, poor in knowledge and force, and begs and requests and asks of her. She struggles to follow he so that Nature may wish to teach her how with her ability she may propoerly subsume all creatures in her figures. She also watches how Nature works, for she would like very much to perform such a work, and she imitates her like a monkey. But her sense is so bare and feeble that she cannot make living things, no matter how newborn they seem. (16005-35)
It is particularly interesting to me that the discourses of artifice and life get so trammelled up. The philosophical discussion of technics seems inseparable from one of natality and mortality. . . .
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Not being familiar with the context I found it creepy as hell – I could not help identifying myself with the doll/baby and interpreted raised hammer as threatening gesture. Given a broader familiarity of the context perhaps my impression would be different, but I suspect there would be a kernel of horror nonetheless – mummy issues!
It is certainly an uncanny image, and defamiliarizing. Which is why I find it so delightful! What I love about the cultures of the Middle Ages in general is just how foreign they can be to modern sensibilities.
I guess in the context of a discourse on death, there is a sense of threat surrounding the image, insofar as Nature forges individuals in her tireless race to keep ahead of their extinction. And, ultimately, we are the babies being forged within the context of the allegory, so your identification with the little guy is not at all misplaced. Maybe the violence you and Naomi sense in the image recalls a violence that consists in any act of creation, the processes of conception, gestation, and childbirth included, not to mention their occurrence against the background of an ever-present mortality.
Yes! I remember walking around National Gallery in London and finding the medieval period paintings disquieting in a compelling way.
I find it is challenging at the level of narcissism. I am a relatively young chap and death seems an abstract possibility and I harbour hopes of immortality, likewise I know I was ‘created’ but that offends my sense of causi sui.
What is also striking for me is the absence of masculinity in the painting, which has particular resonance for me distinct from narcissism per say in that I consider myself as suffering from a kind of Oedipal triumphalism in which I feel a sense of guilt for failing to feel a sense of guilt for the absence of masculinity depicted in creation. This probably has a more general relevance as well i.e. the absence of God in the world.
Will.
Don’t worry, you can reestablish your Oedipal guilt when you consider that Nature only creates according to God’s will and can only create mutable models of His immortal Forms.
I’m a bit older, in my early 30s. I’m not at the stage of a mid-life crisis or anything, but some personal circumstances, like my long-standing marriage to a woman with a chronic pain disorder; owning animals; living closely with my wife’s parents, who are in their mid-60s; and the more recent birth of my son; all bring finitude, and, by extension, mortality, much more to the forefront of my thinking. I’ve also been reading a lot of Heidegger, Derrida, and Bernard Stiegler in the past couple of years, so death and the temporality of mortal existence are of academic (as well as ethical) interest to me.
Two thoughts
one: her pose and the child’s position are reminiscent of the Abraham and Isaac sacrifice story, reinforcing the disturbing nature of this picture.
two: What the heck is this doing in the Roman de la Rose? I’ve read it and it doesn’t have anything about forging babies…
Hey, Naomi.
I’ll respond in reverse order:
1. Nature does have a baby forge, and we find out all about in the lines leading up to her confession. It comes in the context of a discourse on death and the role of nature in preserving species from extinction. There is a whole neoplatonic discussion about the repeated resurrection of the phoenix, and the fiery bird as the “ideal common form that Nature reshapes into individuals” as Death comes along and greedily devours phoenix after phoenix. The phoenix is the allegorical model for life in general: “All things under the circle of the moon have this very same mode of being, so that if one of them can remain, its species so lives in it that Death can never catch up with it” (15977-16005).
Next, we enter the forge itself, where the allegory of Death, Corruption, Nature, and generation gives way to one of Art and Nature, and the craftsmanship analogy that underpins the Platonic doctrine of forms comes to the fore:
2. It’s interesting that you see Abraham and Isaac here. There is certainly a palpable sense of vulnerability about the image, with the child in a sort of cruciform pose as Nature poises her hammer for a striking blow. There is also a sense in which Nature acts thus as God’s servant. At one point, she speaks about God making her His “chambermaid”—but at the same time “constable and vicar”—and being allowed to serve in his house as long as she acts according to His will (16768-16785). It may just be me, but I don’t sense any menace in the image, just a serene craftswoman tirelessly hammering out her dollies. I find it quite joyful, actually—though the half-finished bodies on the floor in the bottom-left are a little creepy.
Source:
Guillame de Lorris and Jean de Meun, The Romance of the Rose, 3rd ed., trans. Charles Dahlberg (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995).