Art History – Paula Kuitenbrouwer

in Dutch: Lebuïnus put

Visiting Lebuïnus Church’s Well in the Netherlands

It is six o’clock. My husband and I leave the comfort of our warm bed for an hour of meditation after which we skip breakfast and head for Central Station on our bare feet. Having done penance and being in a spiritually heightened state before our pilgrimage to the Church of St. Lebuïnus is a good thing. That is, ideally. Nobody needs to know that we sleep till 8, after which we enjoy breakfast, a comfortable 1st class journey, and a coffee -with cake- near the main church of Deventer, a Hanseatic League city at the Dutch river IJssel.

I am eager to visit a well and my husband is perfectly fine with a nice day out for whatever reasons. Recently, I read Katherine May’s Enchantment in which she and a friend visit Black Prince Well in the village of Harbledown (UK). Reading her reflections on visiting a well made me question how many sacred springs and wells I have visited in my life. I can list a few abroad, mainly in the UK like Bath, Winchester, one near Hadrian’s Wall, and few in Italy, Germany and Austria. In the Netherlands, my home country, I have visited Springendal since my early youth. ‘Springendal’ loosely translates as valley of springs, which shows there are a few natural springs.

I like to visit a well again and do it right, although, like Katherine May, I have no idea what right is. Katharine May mentions that ‘You are in fact the one who fills the well’ because we seem to have forgotten the rules of engagement. Should I use the water to draw a small cross on my forehead? Should I sense the well giving me energy? At Geology and History class we learn how springs and wells are formed and how vital these were from prehistoric times till the time of tap water. But spiritually, we seem to have forgotten what to do near a well. Or perhaps not.

The evening before we plan our visit, I Google the well. I can’t find information when and how it came into existence. Is it man made and later Christianized? It looks like it. There are no records of any wonders that happened after drinking its water. Pilgrimages in the 13-14^th century took place to venerate the remains of Saint Lebuïnus, not because of the well.

We arrive at a large church that -far back in time- most likely started as a wooden hut placed near or over a well. This is the church of Lebuïnus, who was an 8th century Anglo-Saxon missionary. Lebuïnus (Lebuin, Lebwin or Liafwin) was an apostle of the Frisians and patron of Deventer but born in England. In between Lebuïnus’s preaching the Gospel in the vicinity of Deventer and dying there in c. 775, there is a lot of building, church burning, fleeing to Germany, and returning to Deventer. If you think erecting a church as a straightforward job, you think wrong.

The colossal church we visit today was completed in 1525. We walk around the church and find it a delight. The sun shines and the sand-coloured stones give it a soft feel. The interior of the church enhances this impression with its friendly pastel palette of off-white, soft peach pink, and Naples’ sand yellow. It is what some would describe as the inside of a human body, that of flesh. We enjoy its wonderful frescoes. They have the same peach-creamy hues which are very appealing. No bright Medieval blue, red, and yellow, but pastel coloured Bible scenes and lots of botanical decorations.

It is time to enter the 11^th century crypt and to see what I came for, the well. We are used to dark and gloomy crypts, but this one is different. Similar to the church, the crypt has whitewashed walls and is full of soft light. Open apertures filter the light from the church windows which give this crypt a luminous feel despite its strong Romanesque pillars.

There is no reference that this is a sacred well, no information. Later, a volunteering church lady tells me that it is connected to the river IJssel, which runs nearby. The well itself is a hole in the ground in the centre of the crypt. An ugly metal grid is placed over the well, it is the kind of grid you use for brushing off mud from your shoes. This cheap modern grill allows you to see the well and to offer coins but it speaks volumes in frugality.

Today there is no water in the well. Looking through the grid is still pretty because of its stone walls and the layer of donated coins. In my imagination, I picture how the well looks like with water covering the coins. On my way out of the church I ask the same church lady if the water has permanently receded. Absolutely not, but since the Dutch allow the river to overflow and take up more room, there is less flooding in the crypt. This, the lady says, is a good thing because with the water also comes muddy residue. The lady goes on saying that the crypt has been a safe house for nuns during times of religious battles, as well as a bunker for those seeking safety during WWII bombardments. Nowhere in her story do I sense a reverence for the water well.

Deventer’s Lebuïnus Church close to the river IJssel

We sit down in the crypt and so does an older man. He closes his eyes and goes into prayer. A few tourists enter but they -respectfully- keep their voices down. There is a prayer book, an altar and two burning candles with the Α and Ω symbols. The crypt is a welcoming place. But that cheap grid leaves an impression that this well is not important. At home, it takes me half an hour to find its name, ‘Lebuïnus put’, meaning Lebuïnus’s well, despite that it most likely dates to the Bronze and Iron Age. Archeological findings confirm Deventer as a very old river side settlement.

Early Christianity had to allow pagan elements, like this well, to bind folks to Christianity. Should the church crack down too hard on pagan traditions, this would estrange those who still held ancestral beliefs. Gradually pagan elements were neglected and ‘deliberately’ forgotten. Perhaps this well will suffer this fate too. That said, it might have been Christianized by Lebuïnus but even that isn’t mentioned in the church.

Winchester Cathedral does it better. It tells the amazing history of its well and its hero. This cathedral lies on a hill and is situated over its well. Diver William Walker (1869–1918) saves Winchester’s church from imminent danger of collapse as it starts to sink slowly into the ground. Walker shores up the walls by putting concrete underneath them. He works six hours a day—in complete darkness, because the sediment suspended in the water was impenetrable to light. He is commemorated with a small statute whilst inside Winchester cathedral many holy men lie in their large and richly elaborate graves. I will never forget this disproportionate honour. Imagine William Walker having been a woman; her statute would be as small as a pinhead. That said, Winchester’s well is part of its historical narrative contrary to Lebuïnus’s well that is missing an information board. For many it will just be a hole in the ground, safely ‘sealed’ with a grid.

William Walker, more at Winchester Cathedral website.

We visit Lebuïnus’s well on a day when it is dry. If healing properties are connected to water, one has a problem. But if beneficial qualities are related to a place, rather than to water, then the absence of water is no problem. The water level in the IJssel River is high. The church lady expects the water to rise in the well during the day. I would have loved to see that because looking at coins feels like looking into an old treasure chest.

That said, the coins tell a story of how we behave near a sacred well. We haven’t collectively forgotten how we interact with holy places. We trust the well with our wishes and because we understand reciprocity, we offer a coin. And why do we offer a coin? We have no idea but offering something metal goes as far back as the Iron Age.

Archeologists believe that during the Iron Age anything metal that had lost its form and gained a new shape by the fires of a blacksmith testifies of having a soul. Perhaps this was because on a chemical level metallurgy wasn’t understood and the processes like welding or metalworking looked magical. Sometimes an Iron Age sword of shield was not even utilized but offered to gods who resided in lakes. These offerings took place in western Europe, and we still do this; we offer coins to wells and fountains.

The Witham Shield is **an Iron Age decorative bronze shield dating from about the 4th century BC**. The shield was discovered in the River Witham, England in 1826. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witham_Shield

We sit near the well and are invited to trust our prayer to the crypt prayer’s book. We offer a coin, a kind gesture to the well itself, because it isn’t about the money, it is about offering a metallic object that we -far back in time- regarded as having a soul. Our offer is not a lifeless object, no object of monetary value, but a spiritually valuable object. We have learned from our ancestors that there is something beneficial about interacting with sacred springs. It allows and perhaps invites our prayers and welcomes our offerings. More than any other thing, except perhaps for a cave or a tree, we share intimate thoughts and feelings with a well, especially on an emotional or spiritual level. We are in communion with it.

I leave a prayer in the crypt’s prayer book. I do not feel comfortable with sending a wish list up to the saints above for myself but for someone else I am happy to pray. Our financial donation is done via a digital payment system at the exit but not before I look for a postcard. There is no postcard of the crypt or the well. It is a good thing I had knowledge of the well before visiting the church because I might have overlooked it.

Lebuïnius’s well has survived under the immense weight of our shifting religious preferences. However, it now seems overlooked. What we need to do is offering coins and interacting with it. And above all, it should have a less industrial grid. Otherwise, perhaps it might be forgotten as the geological, historical, and perhaps spiritual reason why this massive church was built on the banks of the river IJssel.

It is my wish that next time we will visit Lebuïnus’s well it will be decorated with an exquisite and artistic grid, like that of Glastonbury’s Chalice Well.

Paula Kuitenbrouwer, Drs. M.A.

I invite you to enjoy this website that is full of art, art-musings, reflections, diary entries, literature, art-history, and more. I am Paula Kuitenbrouwer freehand-drawing & commission artist. Art is often seen as a luxury but when it comes to joyful, sad, or memorable events in our lives, we are in need for art. Please, feel free discussing commissioned art with me. I was taught drawing and painting by Spanish-Dutch artist Charito Crahay and Dutch artist Johan Kolman. I have an M.A. in Philosophy and enjoyed a few courses at Oxford Department for Continuing Education. Currently, I live with my husband in the Netherlands. Our daughter studies abroad. My portfolio is at Instagram and my shop at Etsy.

The Soul: Painting the Unpaintable

On an altarpiece owned by the Catharijneconvent Museum in the Netherlands, we see Mary and Gabriel; an Annunciation, of course. But the Annunciation is shown in so many paintings that it requires us to make an extra effort to see how remarkable this painting is.

Let us talk you through it. This is a Flemish altarpiece dating from the late Middle Ages. The painting is about an episode in the Bible, yet it has subtle emotions. If it had been a Renaissance piece, the emotions would be expressed in full; Mary’s body wouldn’t be so poorly executed. The late Medieval characteristic of this painting is that it is richly decorated. It has sumptuous features, such as Gabriel’s clothing, the floor tiles and wallpaper. Mary and Gabriel blend in almost too much, especially Mary with her plain clothing against the heavily decorated background.

Then there is another lovely feature you shouldn’t miss. Gabriel, Mary and the two angels look alike. The most obvious explanation would be that the painter used his or her family as models: his sister or mother as Mary, his brother as Gabriel and his cousins as angels. Another explanation is more theological and much deeper: Mary, the angels and Gabriel were deliberately made to look alike, pale and delicate countenances surrounded by ginger hair, because the painter wanted to stress that Mary, Gabriel and the angels all are very close to God: that they resemble each other, thus also resembling God.

This is a plausible explanation, because the painter has given the theology of the story much thought. Although you might think that this painting was a show of architectonic and texture-drawing skills there is something many will miss while observing this altarpiece.

The painter was philosophical about how to paint God, incarnation or the soul before birth. Have a look at the golden beam of light that descends from the position between the two angels. The fact that the beam comes from above and is positioned between the angels, shows it is a holy sign. At the end of the beam we see the white dove, representing the Holy Spirit. The dove looks like an ocean-diving pelican, aiming to catch a big fish. Here we should remember that, for medieval Europe, the pelican, renowned for its love of its young, symbolized Christ himself. Mary is in a blissful meditative stage of prayer, open to the message of Gabriel when the dove of the Holy Spirit descends on her.

Nothing new, you might think, but notice the tiny figure that follows after the white dove has entered Mary’s mind. There is a small figure, a small, naked boy: Jesus, diving into Mary as the Holy Spirit does, which shows that Mary is soon to be pregnant with a holy child. Mary’s highest point, while reading her book, is her head: Jesus entering her head instead of her chest or lap shows that Jesus comes from ‘above’. With Joseph nowhere to be seen, the painting focuses on the spiritual aspect of a soul descending into a woman.

From this 15^th century religious painting, let’s now move on to The Burial of Count Orgaz by El Greco, painted in 1568.

The painting shows the miracle that is said to have happened during the burial of Count Orgaz: two saints descend from heaven to place the body of Count Orgaz in his tomb. While the painting shows Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine in full glory, tenderly putting Count Orgaz in his resting place in the lower part of the painting, halfway across the canvas an angel carries the soul of the count to Christ, who is positioned high up in the painting, gesturing by his open arms a welcoming sign. Between the earthy world in which Count Orgaz is laid to rest, and the heavenly world, hangs a whitish translucent veil. Its folds show there are angels hiding in it and, due to its uneven distribution, it creates numerous spaces or ‘heavens’. Dante wrote about many hells; this painting hints at many heavens. Between Mary and St. John the Baptist is a very narrow opening to which the angel with curly hair carefully pushes the soul of Count Orgaz.

El Greco makes this soul-carrying angel a midwife in reverse, holding the soul of Count Orgaz with its vague, baby-like features, while it makes its ascent through the opening. Mary, in heaven, has one hand ready to support Count Orgaz’s soul, while St. John de Baptist is already communicating the arrival to Jesus.

We now have seen two paintings in which the soul is shown as a child’s physique. Why have the painters done that? Aren’t there full-grown, adult souls? The arriving soul and the departing soul are shown as a young child because a child is a symbol of innocence because it is without (sinful and full-grown) flesh, without actions it has performed as a responsible adult. When we see a beautiful baby or young child, we say; ‘what an angel’ and we may say that again of a shrunken, wise and kind grandparent. Obviously, to be an earthly angel one has to be either a new arrival from heaven or an almost-departing soul. One has to have that ethereal quality, with little flesh on the bone and an excess of lovingness and delicacy.

The soul in modern paintings is often the spiritual doppelganger of a person. The soul has the same size and form as the person from whom it departs. Paintings of outside body experiences show a shadowy twin figure hovering over a sleeping person. There is nothing exciting about this way of depicting of a soul. These modern souls are cheap replicas. They hold no philosophy, no symbolism or imagination. How different is the Flemish altarpiece of the Annunciation, or El Greco with a burial and an ascent to heaven in one painting, showing not only a dense social scene with many of Toledo’s notables, but also this curious soul, demonstrating theology, philosophy and creative imagination.

To paint a soul challenges a painter to think about what a soul is. It is the psyche of the Greek philosophers: pure consciousness? How would you paint pure consciousness? Is it the thymos, a person’s vitality, spirit or energy? How to express vitality with the help of paint and a brush? It certainly isn’t a person’s eidolon, the empty shadow that goes down to Hades, bereft of all vitality and awareness. The eidolon is the soul minus what makes us human. And what we see in these two paintings – the soul about to enter into life in the Flemish altarpiece and the departing soul of El Greco – are clearly human souls. In fact, what we see is something extraordinary: at attempt to paint the unpaintable.

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Gerwyn Moseley & Paula Kuitenbrouwer

Paula Kuitenbrouwer lives with her husband and daughter in the Netherlands. Her art teachers were Charito Crahay, a Spanish-Dutch artist, and the Dutch artist Johan Kolman. Paula holds an MA degree in Philosophy (University of Utrecht & Amsterdam) and is owner of mindfuldrawing.com. Her pen and pencils are always fighting for her attention nevertheless they are best friends; she likes her art to be brainy and her essays to be artistic.

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