Welcome to Agincourt, Iowa

[From the Community Collection, a public trust in Agincourt, Iowa]

CAILLIBOTTE, Mari Oanez [born 1931]

Rooftops in Red and Blue

ca1950

oil on canvas panel / 26.9cm x 36.1cm (10.6 inches x 14.2 inches)

The family of Mari(e) Caillibotte were natives of Saint-Brieuc, a coastal town in the French province of Brittany. Marie came to the U.S. early in World War II for temporary refuge from the impending arrival of German forces; her family were involved in the growing French underground and feared for their minor children. The connection to Agincourt, Iowa was not through the Catholic church, as we might imagine, but a humanist organization connected with her parents and The Why, a group of “Freethinkers” active in our community. On her return to France at the conclusion of the war, Marie sent this painting to her host family the Anhausers, Ernest and Estelle, who subsequently gave the painting to the Community Collection, along with a cluster of the letters exchanged between these two families in the years following.

The subject of her painting is unspecified, though presumably urban, perhaps from unfamiliar images experiences during her travel to and from the U.S. The color palette of red, white and blue, may relate to the common colors of the American flag and the French tri-color. When Marie married (in about 1955, we believe), she named her first child, a daughter, Estelle.

A PARABLE [for Mr Johnson]

Not too long ago nor very far away there were two churches. To the harried eye, they may have appeared quite different. Other than their common date and purpose, one of them seems more than simple, unadorned; stripped of ornament that might otherwise entice the eye. The sort of building which gains its dignity through the avoidance of sham or pretense in favor of honest and forthright economy. The other church gains its appropriateness for Divine Service through the conscious choice of style, one distinguished by the artful recognition of function and constructional necessity. This example is more easily placed in the spectrum of style; the other less so, achieving that aspect through subtraction, rather than addition. But step within either church and be surprised.

Like the architecture of Early Christianity, the exteriors are secular, of this world, while their interiors afford us a glimpse of reward for the life well lived. Such is the first example. The second comes as greater surprise and a different reward, less readily explained. The differences between them are a small matter; their similarities, another thing altogether.

The likeness of these two churches reveals a common origin — for it is a single source, derived from the 15th century church of Ste Cecile at Albi, in central France, a building shaped, like so many others of its era, by the genius of Gothic engineering, but additionally by the religious unrest of its particular place in time: the Albigensian Heresy, when God’s “mighty fortress” had become both spiritual and physical defense. Here the famously “flying” external buttress had become the weakest link in the otherwise structural rationality and soundness of the mature Gothic style. The builders of Albi had foreseen this need and, with a few other churches of southern France and northeastern Spain (Catalunya), turned these vulnerabilities inward on the lofty walls they support; removed them from the advance of catapult or siege machine. The nineteenth century exercised its heresies in other ways, so the Albigensian ploy served other ends.

In dense urban areas of industrializing Europe and Britain and the overabundance of excess emigrant population in North America, church sites were expensive and therefore tight; they could ill afford the dramatic outward splay of buttresses and the waste of valuable space and useful volume. The Albi experiment was applied this way in Victorian Britain, but less so in North America. Where and whenever it was, however — as at our examples in Chattanooga and Kansas City — it served both economy and the expression of spiritual power. How or why our architect William Halsey Wood chose this pattern is unclear. He did it just twice, so far as is known, one of few American architects to do so.

POSTSCRIPT

Good architecture is the product of multiple contributions to design and construction. So, here we cannot ignore the role of client: the Reverends Henry Jardine and G. W. Dumbell (whose name I imagine was pronounced “DUM-ble”, as in Dumbledore).

Father Dumbell was an emigrant from the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea. His origins are neither less nor more unusual than other 19th century Anglican clergy, though, and local lore has it that those slightly “Georgian” features of his church at Chattanooga have their origin in a ruined fortification near his birthplace, though images of that source are not convincing. Seeking more information on the Dumbell family, however, provides a far simpler explanation: the churchyard site of the Dumbell Family mausoleum is adjacent to Braddan Kirk, outside the capital city of Douglas. Old Braddan Kirk is preserved as a cemetery chapel just south of the newer church, whose bell tower almost certainly inspired its reference in Chattanooga.

The story of Father Jardine, Halsey Wood’s client in the early stages of the project at Kansas City, is far more than a nostalgic case of homesickness. Jardine’s churchmanship was, like Dumbell’s, a match for the Anglo-Catholicism of his architect, though it had more often come to be an issue with both his bishop and parishioners, in ways Wood may never have experienced. Jardine’s situation at Kansas City quickly devolved into defrocking, legal recrimination, imprisonment, and ultimately suicide. The good father’s ashes are interred beneath the high altar of the church he inspired and some claim his spirit resides there today.

Every building tells a story — of its imagining, its endurance, its demise and its progeny. And each of these stories is worthwhile, though some are more disturbing than routine.

[From the Community Collection, a public trust in Agincourt, Iowa]

HOWEY, Robert Leslie (1900–1981)

“After the Gale”

woodcut

Look at the very fine print in the lower right corner: Künstlerpresse Worpswede.

It’s happened before. It’s happening now and undoubtedly will again. And again. That’s just how I roll.

A chance encounter with the rural community of Worpswede in Lower Saxony (between Bremen and Hamburg), has drawn me into another of the many rabbit holes that consume too much time. What I really mean, of course, is how happy I am to jump into those holes again and again.

The word itself piqued my curiosity and a quick internet search confirmed my suspicion that this was the tip of an interesting opportunity for an Agincourt connection.

“Notgeld is a form of emergency currency created by small cities, towns, and municipalities under German control during the period following the First World War. In the context of post-war currency shortages, these cities supplemented what the government was unable to provide. The notes include a wide range of imagery that represent local identities, traditions, and cultures. Notgeld are often colorful and heavily illustrated, depicting landscapes, cityscapes, historic monuments, people, and local folklore/mythology.” — The Smithsonian

A good many communities during the Great Depression printed their own scrip for local use only. Here in the U.S., it was more often than not the general store or “provisioner” who did this. Which, of course, pleads the question of what this might say about Agincourt during that stressful period. I doubt that regional graphic design would have tended toward the “Expressionism” used at Worpswede but it could have been just as colorful and festive. Not being a graphic designer in any sense, this will nag me until I find an answer.

A PARABLE (for a friend)

Not too long ago nor very far away, there are two churches. To the hasty eye, they may seem dissimilar. Other than their common date and purpose, one of them appears more than simple, unadorned; stripped of ornament. The sort of building which gains dignity through avoidance of sham or pretense. The other achieves its appropriateness for Divine Service through the conscious minimization of “style”, distinguished by the artful recognition of functional and constructional necessity. This one is more easily positioned in the spectrum of style; the other, less so, achieving its “style” through subtraction, minimizing all but the essential.

Step within each church, however, and be surprised. Like the architecture of Early Christianity, the exteriors are secular, of this world, while the interiors afford us of ultimate reward for the life well lived. Such is the first example. The second is a greater surprise, unexpected, and a different sort of reward, less readily explained. the difference(s) between them are one small matter; their similarities, another thing altogether.

Their likeness may reveal a common origin: they are, in fact, the simultaneous products of one mind, a single imagination. Their design — for they derive from a single historical source — comes from the 15th century church of Ste. Cecile at Albi in central France, a building shaped, like most of its era, by the genius of Gothic engineering, but additionally by the religious unrest of its particular place and time: the age of Albigensian Heresy, when God’s “mighty fortress” served both spiritual and physical defense. Here the external “flying” buttress would have become its weakest link in the otherwise structural cohesion of Gothic style. The architects of Albi had foreseen tis need and, with a few other churches of southern France and northern Spain (Catalunya), turned these vulnerabilities on the lofty walls they support; removed them from catapult and siege machine; maintained stability by withdrawing this weakest element.

The 19th century exercised its heresies in other ways; this Albigensian ploy served other ends. In dense urban areas of industrializing Europe and to serve the overabundance of Europe’s immigrant population in urbanizing America, church sites were tight, expense trumping expanse. They could ill afford the outward display of the buttress and its waste of useful volume. The Albi experiment was applied this way in Victorian Britain but less often in North America. In our examples at Chattanooga and Kansas City, the internal effect served economy as well as the reinforcement of spiritual power.

How or why our architect William Halsey Wood chose this path isn’t known. He did it only twice, so far as is known, just one of few American architects to do so.

CODA

Good architecture is the product of collaboration those multiple contributors to the process of design and construction. And here we cannot ignore the role of client: the Reverends Henry Jardine and G. W. Dumbell (which I prefer to pronounce “DUM-ble”). Father Dumbell was an emigrant from the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea. His origins are neither more nor less unusual than other 19th century Anglican clergy and local tradition has it that the slightly Georgian features of his church at Chattanooga — and unlikely turn of events at that point in American architectural history — had their origin in a ruinous fortification near his birthplace, though images of that source aren’t especially convincing. Seeking more information on the family, however, revealed a far simpler explanation: the churchyard site of the Dumbell family mausoleum is adjacent to Braddan Kirk, the family parish. Old Braddan Kirk, preserved as a cemetery chapel to the south, includes a bell tower almost certainly the inspiration for its reference at Chattanooga.

The story of Father Jardine, Wood’s client in early stages of the project at Kansas City, is attributable to a motive far more than nostalgia or homesickness. Jardine’s churchmanship was a match for his architect’s Anglo-Catholicism, though the priest’s had become an issue with both his bishop and his parishioners. Jardine’s situation at Kansas City had devolved into legal recriminations, defrocking, and imprisonment and ultimately to suicide. His ashes are interred beneath the high altar and local lore has his spirit residing in the church today. That factor could not have been a conscious influence on Wood but there is an uncanny expression in the church Jardine began.

Every building tells a story: of its imagining, its endurance, or demise. Regardless, each of these stories has meaning, though some are routine, merely ordinary, while others are can disturb.

A Commission

This Arts & Crafts frame was designed by British architect C.F.A. Voysey. Would that we owned it! Because it would have set me back a pretty penny…or is that pence?

Now and then, the Agincourt Project actually commissions new contributions to its material culture. In this case, we happen to own four similar (but not nearly as fine) copper frames from the A&C period—two small round frames and two oval—which happen to be empty. So, since I tend to dislike the word “empty”, we asked our friend Paul Bhajjan to imagine the art that will fill them.

The idea of a theme was discussed, something to hold them together (and, frankly, make a bigger impression should they be exhibited). Perhaps “The Four Seasons” or the four Gospels. Though, at the moment, I’m leaning toward “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse”.

Stay tuned.

I’m never certain whether this should be one word or two.

This trade publication of 1915 will be useful in carrying the NITC terminal in downtown Agincourt to completion. It is filled with drawings which would be essential for any architect of the time to properly detail this simple two-story commercial building at the corner of Broad and Louisa.

It’s high time I finished this building. Happily, I’m getting some help from an old friend.

[From the Community Collection, a public trust in Agincourt, Iowa]

BHAJJAN, Paul (born 1995)

“The Glorification of the Royal Hungarian Saints”

oil on panel /

2023

Paul Bhajjan is a young artist working in Fargo-Moorhead and attending art school at Minnesota State University Moorhead. Paul is a realist painter heavily invested in the Baroque era of painting. This painting was an anonymous gift to the Community Collection.

Among Bhajjan’s inspirations is the Austrian painter Franz Anton Maulbertsch who painted the subject of Paul’s study. The original Maulbertsch painting of 1772-1773 is at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC.

It’s appropriate that this is the first post of the New Year.