Art: Much in Little

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For centuries, the French city of Limoges was split wide open. The Château was ruled by the viscount, the Cité dominated by the bishop, and both camps were rent by war, pestilence, and famine. Yet even in the time of its greatest troubles, Limoges kept producing enamelwork that was the envy of Christendom.

Last week in the bishop's palace (now a municipal museum), some of Limoges' ancient pride was reassembled. In these enamels of the 12th, 13th and 14th Centuries, the intricate colored plaques, chalices and crucifixes recalled Byzantine mosaics and Gothic stained glass. But the enamels had one element those two mediums lacked—a quality of much-in-little. That quality, which appealed strongly to the medieval mind, had made Limoges enamels sought after by men of the Chateaux and men of the Church.

There were reliquaries designed to look like tiny cathedrals, and a portrait plaque made for the tomb of Geoffrey Plantagenet (Count of Anjou and father of England's Henry II), in which the Count glares at death over a shoulder-high shield. Many of the enamels had been intended for use in the Mass and, like the Mass itself, were laden with symbolic meanings. Among the best pieces on show was a crozier from Cluny representing Aaron's rod. It was crozier, blossoming bough, and serpent, all in one. The pure, bright colors, applied to the gold and copper that abounded in the region of Limoges, lay in frozen lakes between the ridges of metal and islanded gems.

To Limoges last week went art lovers and scholars from all parts of France. No one could tell them the names of the old craftsmen who had made the enamels. Working with a more than personal pride, they had turned out their work unsigned.