Review By Fran Watson

A 13th Century processional cross

Even Alice would have considered The Flagg Collection at the Taft Museum of Art as a fitting venue for her Wonderland adventures. This Renaissance Treasury of European objects seems fresh from the card court in the famous children's story. Pick up a guide by the door of the Garden Gallery as you enter. This is one time when you won't know the art without a scorecard. The actual histories of these things equal -- or surpass -- their artistic attributes.

When these strange objects were commissioned and collected by wealthy families and individuals, technology was valued as an indication of the owner's awareness of scientific advances. The more complex the mechanism, the more intelligent the proud owner would appear to his guests. And clocks, the ultimate mechanisms of the Renaissance, were chosen as the premier site for movable kitsch, including the eyes of a camel-cum-clock, its wagging tail (no longer in existence) and an attached intermittent music box.

Far from beautiful, such a plethora of features rather overburdens this particular item, but it does look technical, the ultimate name of the game. In order to qualify for membership in the clock-makers guild, the hopeful applicant had to build a tower clock which would be judged by members. The tower could be simple or completely over-the-top with classical ornamentation, gilt, carving and inlays. Cupids seemed to be the ornament of the day, clinging to pillars or any other improbable surface, along with religious embellishments. Chimes or other audible notations of passing time were apparently a prerequisite and, in spite of the camel, this collection runs largely to architectural designs.

As an example, Ludwig Hyrschottel, made his fame with the guild of Augsburg by inventing a whole slew of dials showing the zodiac, the quarter-hours, two dials marking the traditional hours and a couple of dials which did nothing, but looked very official. In addition to these, there were an alarm device, planetary movements and calendars for determining Easter each year. The whole tower is about 2 feet tall and would have been mounted on a turntable in order to access the whole menu.

Clocks seemed to lead logically to intricate locks, and the lock boxes, while not quite so elaborate, are beautifully designed yet mechanical enough to fill the technical requirements. Of special interest here is a decorated gold box protected by a rare combination lock with a column of numbered parts nearly as long as the box is tall.

Milady's overnight jewelry cases, bigger than a breadbox, full of secret drawers, locks, mini-cabinets and artistic decorations are equipped with handles for transport. Although they could probably be shoved into an overhead compartment, they hardly fit today's travel standards.

Religious objects are predictably the most carefully wrought. Moving parts lost their importance here, but design, on display in the last room of the exhibit, is prime. If ever a lesson in the value of simplicity was obvious, this room all but shouts, "Vive la difference!"

A 13th-century processional cross, as modern in its conception as tomorrow, faces the entrance to the room, blowing away a lot of the "curious" elements with its stark grace. The crucified figure makes its statement in a clean curve, while the incised designs are held to a minimum on the far corners of the cross. Semi-precious stones are grasped by irregular settings, matching the gentle purity of the cross in their lack of pretense. Like fine art today, the tracks of the master's hands are visible, lending a rare personality to the piece.

This room features mostly religious art with amazing skill and realism for the time. If things were going to be done well, it would be those commissioned pieces for the church, the foremost patron of the arts in the 15th century. Of special note: a limestone kneeling angel, and (once again on the curious side) a "wild man" game board. A legendary cave dweller, the "wild man," was an emblem of primeval strength, free lifestyle and "erotic exploits," a fitting symbol for chess players so addicted to the game that this portable means, with chess board on the bottom, would be considered important enough to accompany the owner on his journeys.

Most gratifying of all are the links between the Flagg collection and the Taft's own collection of decorative arts. Take that trip upstairs to follow the parallels illustrated in the handbook for A Renaissance Treasury.

E-mail Fran Watson

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