Zamora's Medieval Treasures: San Claudio de Olivares

Zamora Cathedral overlooks the Duero. The aceñas (medieval hydraulic
plants) and San Claudio's red brick bell gable are visible below.
All photos in this post 2018 Jessica Knauss. 

San Claudio de Olivares is, as the name indicates, in the Olivares neighborhood of Zamora. Named for the olive grove that must've once graced this area in the shadow of the castle and the cathedral, the tanners and potters lived and worked here in the Middle Ages, outside the city walls, where people wouldn't have to deal with the odors of their trades.

Close up on the aceñas and San Claudio's gable 

San Claudio stands out in the Olivares neighborhood, seen from the city wall 

I didn't expect there to be any medieval architecture in this neighborhood, low as it is and vulnerable to floods. But one day I checked it out to find that Olivares has not one but two of the most astounding of Zamora's hidden medieval treasures. I'll show you only San Claudio in this post and it's still liable to overwhelm your medieval-culture-loving senses.

San Claudio appears to have a Romanesque cathedral bell tower popping
 out of it, but is otherwise missable from the south.  

The first documentary evidence of San Claudio is from 1176, but it was built and decorated during the first half of the twelfth century. "Decorated?" you ask. "There's nothing much to see here."

The plot thickens on the north side. 

On the north side, facing the rocky outcrop and Zamora's hefty cathedral, it's clear that San Claudio's architects were no slouches. Here we have some of the most interesting corbels in the city.

A close look under those characteristic checkerboard eaves reveals that the corbels depict people in typical twelfth-century activities such as harvesting grapes, handfighting, and defecating. (We all do it, but it doesn't usually show up as a decoration on an important building!) A person could look all day and still be finding new surprising details at sundown. And that's not all this open-air museum had to offer.

Although heavily weathered, the entrance archway is one of the most richly decorated in Zamora. The paschal lamb in the innermost arch and probably also the blue paint were placed in the thirteenth century, but the rest was carved by the same masters who made the corbels and the column capitals we'll see in the interior.

The outermost archway has stylized leaves, creating a lacy frill around the edges of the masterpiece. The second arch contains what were once sensitively carved depictions of animals from the medieval bestiary, a sort of field guide to animals of the world and of the imagination. Slightly to the right here, I think I see a human trying to tame a standing ape or a bear as well as a large fishy serpent. Separated by paradisaical leaves and a smaller floral band of blue, the innermost arch is thought to be a calendar of sorts. It shows the emblematic human activity of each month of year, such as warming themselves by the fire, sowing, reaping, hunting with a falcon, and going off to war. The archway in total represents all three levels of life: infernal (animals), terrestrial, and celestial. Having passed under so much symbolism, are you ready for the interior?

The first time I visited San Claudio, I walked in and started snapping away at everything inside such a unique space. I took five or six pictures of the more modern parts of the church before the caretaker approached me to say that I was only allowed to take three photos. (Three? Not zero, one, or two, but three? A holy trinity of photos?) I was left with the impression that I would have to return every week for years, taking three pictures at a time, to get all the shots I wanted. 

Portable altar, c. 1600 

Only a little later, I came into some of my signature Zamoran luck and found out that the priest at San Claudio also teaches religion at the high school where I teach English. (Religion here means Catholicism for Catholics, not the comparative courses I'm used to in the United States.) The priest was flattered I was interested in his special church, and told the caretakers about me.

Flemish paintings on copper, 1600s
Epiphany and St. Peter released from prison 

The next time I showed up at San Claudio, the caretaker tried to tell me again about the three-photo rule, but I gave my name, said the priest was expecting me and that he'd said I could take all the pictures I wanted. I never knew name-dropping was so much fun! 

Medieval geometric painting in a tomb archway 

The caretaker recognized my name from when the priest had told her about me, and from that moment on, we had a grand time, chatting, appreciating art, and taking a million photos. 

The large Baroque (early seventeenth century)
Cristo del Amparo is taken out
in procession during Holy Week. 

Here we're at the right side of the apse, and you can get a sense of one of the things that makes San Claudio's column capitals so special: the unique play of its Asturias-inspired blind arches puts most of them at eye-level! You hardly have to crane your neck at all to see the sculptural wonders. 

What we've all come to see: the twelfth-century
Romanesque apse 

The semicircular arches that face the congregation are harmonious to the eye and figuratively heavenly. Two elaborate capitals, one on each side, await our gaze, and at the same height, two corbels finish the second arch.

The truly deluxe elements here are the double blind archways on each side of the apse. Each side has two regular columns and one double column that finish nice and low so anyone can contemplate the details of their capitals.

And yes, the double columns have double capitals! The images in these capitals have been described as "disconcerting," which is probably why I think they're awesome.

Even in the first capital on the left, at traditional height, we can see there's something unusual going on. Mythic beasts in a Christian church? This may well be an inheritance from Classical tradition. These two griffons face each other and drink from the same cup. In such an attitude, scholars think they represent the guardians of the soul. I haven't found any information (so far) about the curious face above them.

On the side, there's an interesting crouching figure I haven't found an explanation for, either.

The first lower column capital on the left, which we can revel in, eye to eye, also seems a little odd: a lion biting grapevines. He's behaving in an unusual way for a lion because he's metaphorical. Christ is often represented by a lion in these early medieval works, and as we've seen in San Pedro de la Nave, the grapevines refer to Christ's blood, the Eucharist, and redemption for humanity. The lion guards the precious vines in the tight grip of his powerful jaws. No one is taking human redemption away from this lion!

The first double column capital respects the division into two spaces with two themes. On the left side, sirens (birds with female human heads) may represent the temptations of the flesh and pernicious doctrines, but since it shows up in the holiest part of the temple, it's likely to portray the human soul. The curlicues, as well as eliminating empty space, could show that the human soul is making a choice about which spiritual path to follow.

On the front, the siren has a distinctly Byzantine look about her face. Maybe it's the headdress, or perhaps her large eyes with pinpoint pupils. On the right, lions protect all that is sacred.

The lions meet at the corner by their heads and looking at the right side, it becomes clear that the lions are protecting what's sacred from some vicious wolves who bite the lions' tails. Wolves attacking lions? Remember that the lions are Christ, who is also the Lamb, and it makes a little more sense.

Sending our gaze upward, each double column in the center has directly above it a corbel at the end of the central half-circle arch. The characters are very similar, but the one on the left adopts a "thinker" type of pose while the one on the right is concentrating on supporting the arch with what appear to be hands specially adapted for the purpose. This one, or both, may or may not be Atlas.

Coming back down to eye level and following the apse, we find what appears to be a normal column capital with acanthus leaves, especially common in Zamora, where such leaves were as flamboyant as the Cistercian order ever got. But no. Here, too, the leaves have strange bulbs popping out of them, and a comely female figure on this side.

The other side features what appears to be a monkey, also with a bulb. The bulbs are likely the fruit of the tree. Could the woman be Eve? If this is the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, then the monkey represents Satan. Monkeys, as degraded versions of humans, are a typical way to represent the devil.

Across the apse, parallel with the unique Tree of Knowledge, we have a more expected representation of the Tree of Life, with leaves and birds very similar to the Eucharistic iconography of San Pedro de la Nave in the sima.

Farther toward the front, the other eye-level single column capital is also a tamer representation of Paradise. It's just as well, because the double capital on the right side gives us plenty to think about!

On the sides, fantastic creatures defy interpretation. On the right: a winged merman, or a flying dragon with a man's head, with a pointy elfin headdress.

On the left, a mermaid with luxurious locks of hair. 

On the front of this double column, we don't see the division of themes as in the other one. Here the sculptor took advantage of the space to have his enigmatic figures interact with each other. This is the single most surprising sculpture in San Claudio: female and male centaurs aiming a lance and a bow and arrow at each other. The most sophisticated question that comes to mind is "Huh?" Astute observations include that the lady centaur is missing her nose and that the horse parts of both are decorated as if they were outfitted with saddles or war banners.

Some scholars have said that the male centaur is Christ, but I haven't been able to make the connection, myself. With his headdress, beard, and beady eyes, he shares the Byzantine look we saw across the way in the siren.

Maybe the last column capital, the high-up one on the right across from the griffons, which now seem perfectly normal, will pull these images together and send the visitor on her way with a clear head and a settled soul. We start well: on both sides, a majestic eagle spreads its wings. While their pairing makes it unlikely these represent John the Evangelist, eagles are a common sight in medieval Christian churches.

In front, we've returned to mythic themes. A man appears to me to be riding a beast that would not normally permit such activity. Most scholars interpret this finely detailed sculpture as Heracles (or Samson, in church lingo) wrestling with the Nemean lion. Note how his strong hands are forcing the jaws open. Here's one place where the lion is definitely not Christ.

San Claudio de Olivares is outside the city wall, and its artists brought some outré ideas to life. I thank them and the current clerical and lay staff of San Claudio for this unforgettable explosion of truly unique medievalness.

Oviedo: Medieval Paint and Alfonso II's Religio-Political Statement

San Julián de los Prados, Oviedo
All photos in this post 2017 Jessica Knauss 

Oviedo was a hugely important urban center in the early Middle Ages, a focal point for the largely rural Kingdom of Asturias, which was the first area to be "reconquered" after Moorish domination began in 711. I was thrilled to visit it for the first time last November.

San Julián de los Prados is a pre-Romanesque gem of a church one kilometer from Oviedo's urban center. I trudged through the traffic and the rain in the cold of the early morning, suffering with my first cold of the season but determined to make my trip to Oviedo all about the early Middle Ages.

On the side of a highway, nothing much distinguishes San Julián from this side, but if you look closely, you can see the messy-looking but super skilled bricklaying technique and the archway characteristic of the first half of the ninth century, the reign of Alfonso II.

Alfonso II, known as the Chaste, also founded Oviedo Cathedral and was the first to make the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela from here.

On the side closest to the highway, this gorgeous stone jalousie window let in latticed sunlight in a very particular spot we'll glimpse below.

The back of San Julián, with its surprising view back to Oviedo's cathedral tower, is obviously pre-Romanesque, with its three-part window and the smaller, lovely jalousies.

The architects and artists of the ninth century didn't value uniformity. If someone ordered three windows, the craftsmen made each one beautifully different.

They don't let you take pictures inside, but I risked who knows what kind of admonishment or banishment with my silent, flash-free camera because this interior must be seen. They said it had original painting in it, but I was not prepared for the floor-to-ceiling glory of what was inside. Geometric shapes and a celestial cityscape, complete with chambers and bed linens, and color, color, color! They found these paintings underneath layers of lime-and-chalk (later centuries' hygiene methods, they said). My photos aren't exactly professional, but when you're in San Julián, you only have to use a little imagination to place yourself back in the ninth century, in contrast to most other medieval sites, where you have to use all your imagination and still can't picture it.

Here we see the side of the largest part of the church, where the less noble folk would've gathered to hear mass--basically the peanut gallery. It's not the most impressive spot, but it's still an eyeful. 

This is the other side of the large window we see from the outside above. It's to the right side of the main altar. I wish the pictures did it more justice. I stood there dumbfounded, looked and looked, and found myself incapable of taking it all in. Is that the same impression ninth-century worshippers would've had as they stood there smelling incense and listening to Latin speech and song? 

This gallery is to the left side of the main altar. The archway in front separates this area from the main congregation area, and nobles would've had spaces reserved for them here.

See the indentations in the wall above the bench and doorway? That's where the king's box would've been. It's across from the large jalousie window, which is placed exactly so that during mass, the sun shines through it with full brightness. (That's partially why there's less paint surviving on this wall.)

After all the people were settled and ready for mass, Alfonso II would appear on this balcony in his finest robes, embroidered with cloth of gold and decked out in all the jewels of the realm, surrounded by images of the celestial city, and the sun would create a spectacular scene of jaw-dropping splendor.

This was Alfonso II's public service announcement, a proclamation that he was indeed the chosen intermediary between God and the people.

I staggered out of San Julián, overwhelmed with the aliveness of history. I later learned that the three-part window in back is the only hint of a secret chamber destined for who knows what purpose.

This was only the beginning of the mind-blowing experiences for a medievalist in Oviedo.

Segovia's Medieval Treasures: Ayllón

Ayllón with its Martinete tower and Baroque bell gable of Santa María
All photos in this post 2017 Jessica Knauss 

Spanish mornings are long. We got on the tour bus at 8 a.m., having swallowed some churros or other fast breakfast food, and we thoroughly experienced Santa María de la Riaza, which would've been enough medieval art for any other day or week, and then made it to Ayllón, but it was still nowhere near lunchtime.

Ayllón's Plaza Mayor 

Although Ayllón has works of art from most time periods, our tour focused on Romanesque standouts and the Gothic expressions inside them, and we still had our hands overfull.

In fact, Romanesque churches were so abundant in the province of Segovia that—surprise, surprise—people in later time periods didn't value them, care for them, or even bother to keep them in one piece sometimes. The first monument we saw were the ruins of San Nicolás, which was converted into the gate of the municipal cemetery in the nineteenth century by demolishing everything but one doorway.

These fighters are so weathered, I would've misinterpreted them
without the expert guidance of Arteguías. 

They scavenged a few column capitals and placed them according to their own tastes. We took the opportunity to study them at length, identifying heads, angels, and medieval handfighters.

Another case of Romanesque reappropriation was Santa María la Mayor, a mostly Baroque edifice close to the Plaza Mayor with an impressive bell gable.

The lion attacks represent the way the flesh passes on. 

Left: Weighing souls.
Right: An angel holds up a monogram of Christ that has its Alpha and Omega letters transposed. 

On the northern and eastern outer walls of Santa María, restorers placed Romanesque reliefs that probably originated in the church the Baroque builders replaced. The figures include lions pouncing on humans, an angel with a special monogram of Christ, and an instance of weighing souls in judgment. Why did they place those last two so high?

In the gorgeous porticoed Plaza Mayor, the main attraction was the church of San Miguel. It's now used as Ayllón's tourism office, and is a museum of marvels, inside and out. The apse is partially buried under street level, but that put the corbels that much closer to our avid eyes.

Here we see many corbels depicting people at various tasks, including a delightful one with a stoneworker doing some fine detail carving with one of his enormous medieval tools. Note the intricate crosshatching above and the quatrefoil flowers between the corbels.

The southern entrance eroded quite a bit before they put a porch shelter over it. Its geometric decoration has heavy Sorian influence.

Different masonry styles and a mysterious balcony 

I'm really impressed with María Álvarez de Vallejo. She's an avid reader even now! 

Inside, the nave is almost square and may have been built on a previous mosque. The different stones used in Muslim and Christian construction are clearly visible in the bare walls. Highlights include a balcony with mysterious Gothic painting, various Gothic burial niches, and the alabaster tomb of María Álvarez de Vallejo and her husband, Pedro Gutiérrez, secretary and treasurer of the Marquises of Villena, Diego López Pacheco and his second wife, Juana Enríquez. It may have been made by the same artists who completed the alabaster tomb of Fernando and Isabel in the Royal Chapel in Granada. Most of the damage was caused by Napoleonic troops as they came through!

Ayllón is also home to several late Gothic palaces, their facades packed with heraldry symbolism and the Isabelline version of the decorative orbs we saw in Romanesque Santa María de la Riaza.

In another part of town, the Church of San Juan might've suffered the same fate as San Nicolás (or worse) if it hadn't been for the passion and financing of Ayllón's native son, Pedro. He loved the ruined church when he was a boy, and always hoped to own it one day. His dream came true when it was threatened with bulldozing, and he saved it.

He now lives there and presents art exhibits. A gracious and tireless host, I think he would've put us all up for the night if we'd asked. Many parts of the church are in good shape after Pedro's study and guesswork.

The interior courtyard is made up of a well-preserved Romanesque apse and, to the side of it, a Gothic funerary chapel with many elaborate niches and an unusual five-pointed star.

Outside, a ghostly Christ monogram that was obviously and idiosyncratically carved after everything else was in place graces the weathered Romanesque entrance.

A garden trellis is supported by sirens, saints, and serpents in the vivid column capitals.

This cat knows the best spots in photogenic Ayllón. 

After the wonders of San Juan, it was finally time for lunch. We ate a lovely Segovian meal of bean stew, lamb chops, potatoes fried in olive oil, a piquillo pepper, and a millefeuille-type pastry for dessert. I was suffering through my first cold of the season and would gladly have headed back to Madrid to sleep a long siesta in my comfy hotel room, but no, the wonders of the province of Segovia wait for no schoolyard disease. It was time to move on to Maderuelo, which will make up the epic grand finale post, coming soon. For a sneak peek, check out the Arteguías website.