Alter Pieces: an artist book by Carol Barbour

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Alter Pieces

Carol Barbour



Alter Pieces is an artist book that includes paintings, sculptures, an essay, and poem – all of which examine the intersection of history and art.

Alter Piece #1, Spire



Alter Piece #2, Volcano

Alter Piece #3, Potentiality



Alter Piece #4, Three Eggs

Alter Piece #5, Cameo



Alter Piece #6, Heart

Alter Piece #7, Trimester


Alter Piece #8, Familia



St. Catherine

Mary Magdalene and St. John



St. Francis

Man of Sorrows (after Conegliano)


Genealogy Tree #1


Genealogy Tree #2



Two-headed Woman

Madonna and Child



Mother Protector (after Raphael)

Annunciation (after Messina)


Birth of the Child



Female Centaur

The Watcher





Head in her Hands




Page Reference 9 A lter piece #1, Spire oil, wood, fabric, beads and plaster 23 x 9", 58 x 23 cm, 2015 Private Collection 10 A lter piece #2, Volcano oil, wood, wire, fabric, beads and plaster 25 x 11", 63 x 28 cm, 2015 11 A lter piece #3, Potentiality oil, wood, wire, string and plaster 22 x 13", 56 x 33 cm, 2016 12 A lter piece #4, Three Eggs oil, wood, and plaster 21.5 x 22", 55 x 56 cm, 2017 13 A lter piece #5, Cameo oil, wood and plaster 27 x 13", 69 x 33 cm, 2018 14 A lter piece #6, Heart oil, wood, fabric and plaster 26.5 x 24", 67 x 61 cm, 2018


15 A lter piece #7, Trimester oil, wood and plaster 23 x 24", 58 x 61 cm, 2018 17 A lter piece #8, Familia oil, wood and plaster 37 x 34", 94 x 86 cm, 2018 18 S t. Catherine oil on wood with plaster and gild 25 x 10.5, 64 x 27 cm, 2016 19 M ary Magdalene and St. John oil on wood with plaster, wire and gild, 27 x 13", 69 x 33 cm, 2016 20 S t. Francis oil on wood with gild 14" X 31", 36 x 79, 2002 21 M an of Sorrows (after Conegliano) 26 x 20", 41 x 51 cm, 2003 oil on canvas 23 G enealogy Tree #1 oil on canvas 32 x 48", 81 x 122 cm, 2009

25 G enealogy Tree #2 oil on canvas 36 x 48", 91 x 122 cm, 2010 26 Two-headed Woman oil on wood 24 x 10.5", 61 x 27 cm, 2014 27 Madonna and Child oil on canvas 40 x 26", 102 x 66 cm, 2014 28 M other Protector (after Raphael) oil on canvas 20 x 24", 51 x 61 cm, 2004 29 A nnunciation (after Messina) oil on canvas 16 x 24", 41 x 61 cm, 2003 31 B irth of the Child oil on wood 24.5 x 31", 62 x 79 cm, 2016

32 F emale Centaur oil on wood and plaster 39 x 10", 100 x 25, 2018 33 The Watcher oil on canvas 36 x 60", 91 x 152 cm, 1996/2018 35 C radled oil on canvas 24 x 30", 62 x 76 cm, 2011 36 H ead in her Hands oil wood, 11.25 x 8.25", 29 x 21 cm, 2016. Private Collection 37 B irth oil on wood 11 x 8.5", 28 x 21.5 cm, 2014




nspired in part by Italian and Northern European altarpieces from the Medieval and Renaissance periods, this body of work reconfigures the divine “other” as an aesthetic manifestation

of the unknown. Figuration emerges from a chaos of optional symbols, patterns and motifs; the resulting representation is an illusion, a mirror for contemplation. Artists such as Fra Angelico and Pietro Lorenzetti believed that painting was a form of prayer, which required discipline and divine approval. Although the aim of this body of work is rather speculative and indeterminate, the process is informed by my epistemic orientation as a female artist and historian. Thus, in addressing the altarpiece as a subject of enquiry, I arrived at the term “alter piece”, which is a reference to the altern, from the Latin alternus, meaning the other, or the interchangeable. The smaller alter pieces (pp 9-15) can be easily picked up and

carried in one’s arms, not unlike the portable altars and painted panels that were used for private worship. The intimate scale, shape and details of these painted sculptures recall the reliquary, a religious object that contained a fragment from the body of a saint. Carolyn Walker Bynum has argued that reliquaries from the Medieval


period were conceived and venerated as physical embodiments of the miraculous Holy Spirit.1 While gazing at such objects, the Medieval devotees could imagine the missing body, and recall the events that led to the saint’s martyrdom. Figurative depictions of joy, sorrow, suffering and awe were meant to arouse sentient memory through metaphor and mimesis. Thus, a complex and layered process would be revealed to the devotee in stages as they recalled personal incidents in correspondence to the theological representations. In the museum context of present day, the reliquary is more broadly categorized as a cultural artifact. For the faithful it may function as a spiritual metaphor as it was originally intended, however, even the skeptical viewer can appreciate the social and cultural networks that informed its production. Martin Luther proposed that in order for a devotee to commune with the divine, the most expeditious route was through reading the scriptures. Images of saints were considered specious and misleading whereas the “Word” of God was elevated to the extreme. In some cases, this preference for the word initiated the creation of textual altarpieces made entirely of Biblical excerpts. For the reformers, religious sculptures, reliquaries and paintings were dismissed as mere simulations, recalling Plato’s repudiation of mimesis. Private worship, and specifically reading the scriptures, was encouraged for it enabled individuals to access divine knowledge. With the proliferation of printed religious texts in vernacular languages, the traditional role of the priest as mediatrix to the divine was called into question.


In this essay I focus on the role of art history as it pertains to a body of work, which I call “Alter Pieces.” My first encounter with an altarpiece was a reproduction in a library book. My family attended a Presbyterian church where few images were shown, apart from a simple cross and a pendant emblazoned with a burning bush. As a myopic child, I took great pleasure in examining engravings in an old family Bible. While studying at the Ontario College of Art in Toronto, I lived in the neighbourhood of Queen West with an Italian family. I became fascinated by the religious images on the walls depicting flaming hearts, crucifixions, crowns of thorns and drops of blood on white satin gowns. I made my first altarpiece that same year. It was inspired by a front yard fence located down the street from where I lived. The fence contained colourful shards from broken dishes and bottles, that were fused in cement. I adapted the mosaic technique to plaster and built a six foot square structure that was filled with many loaves of bread. A statuette of Mary was hung from one of the pinnacles, and at the base was the body of a dead fish. The sculpture titled Sacristy was exhibited at Gallery 76, the student gallery at the art college in 1980.2 I continued to be fascinated by religious figurative sculptures and paintings such as Giovanni Bellini’s San Giobbe Altarpiece. Such works seemed to function as invocations, asking the viewer to witness a sacred conversation or sacra conversazione as it is known in the literature. Bellini’s contemplative figures suggest that each one is engaged in a silent discussion, one that transcends time and space.3 In viewing such an altarpiece, an interchange occurs between the work of art as the object of the viewer’s gaze and the viewer as


the subject of the divine spirit who presumably oversees and guides the terms of engagement. Iconoclasm also reveals contradictory impulses as Joseph Leo Koerner has argued. When the altarpieces and paintings were destroyed or removed during the Reformation, the “power” of these absent works increased dramatically, especially in the hearts and minds of the faithful. Therefore the removal of images served to re-instate their presence in social memory.4 Objects that are violently erased leave a stain, a shadow that emerges from the void. Evidence of this enigma can be found in the contemporary destruction of cultural heritage and the subsequent restitution efforts at archeological sites in Syria and Iraq. Historically speaking, oral accounts and legends arise when saints are martyred, though documentation is often scarce when it comes to the destruction of altars. If we consider Koerner’s paradox that the Crucifixion is a crossing over from what is known to be “truth” and what remains inscrutable, then the act of iconoclasm may be interpreted as a protest against institutional power and those who presume to know.5 While viewing the Crucifixion, one grapples with the contradiction of horror and beauty, and the recognition that suffering is part of the human condition. In the years following the destruction of altars in the regions of Northern Europe and England, the sculptures were rendered mute, though lived on in the empty niches. There have been numerous waves of iconoclasm throughout history, but the question remains. Why do people destroy altars and make profane that which is sacred to others?6 It would seem that the violence is due to the belief that such objects are manifestations of power, albeit symbolic.


It is conceivable that for some of the iconoclasts of the sixteenth century, the altar may have signified everything that was missing from their lives including but not limited to education, wealth, and privilege. Even so the altars would have functioned as spiritual and aesthetic beacons, which provided much needed nourishment in times of plague and war. France invaded Italy and stole great quantities of art. During the French Revolution and the unification of Italy, many of the collections previously housed in convents, monasteries and palaces were destroyed, and or stolen. Museum captions list the name of the artist, the patrons, and if possible, the various people and institutions that acted as custodians over time, though the names of those individuals who risked their lives to protect an altar, painting or reliquary are generally unknown. Integral to the altar’s role as an instrument of worship is the conceptualization of the missing body, and the sacrifice of life. How do we mourn the loss of a beloved person? What can be achieved by prayer and memorials? Could the desecration of altars be an expression of frustration against the divine for refusing to answer one’s prayers? Is the encounter with loss so unbearable that new altars are hastily resurrected in order to annihilate the persistence of death? By filling the void with copious designs in a kind of horror vacui, the missing body is resurrected, literally enshrined in a container; encased in a shroud of dynamic folds, of interlacing vines and fruits. Thus “power” is embodied at the intersection of being and nonbeing, of semblance and disintegration. When faced with mortality, we may run in the opposite direction, incited by terror and a surge of adrenaline. Thus, to contemplate the possibility of an afterlife is to engage


in a perpetual mystery, an investigation into the potentiality of life itself. As scholars have duly noted, early pagan rituals of human and animal sacrifice were adapted to the Christological context. In one sense, the sacrifice of Christ and his resurrection denotes the extraction of the spirit from the mortal body. When Christ appears before Mary Magdalene in the guise of a gardener three days after his crucifixion, he says “Noli me tangere�, or touch me not, and then explains that he is no longer of this world. The body has become transfigured through metaphor, carried on high so to speak from earthly absence to ethereal omnipotence. Therefore, the body and spirit are re-constructed via symbolization, representing being and nonbeing simultaneously. The viewer and the work of art share in the co-construction of matter and spirit through dialogue and metaphorical language. In my paintings depicting various saints such as St. Catherine (p 18),7 Mary Magdalene and St. John (p 19),8 and St. Francis (p 20), the figures appear victorious, as if sacrifice had been avoided. The painted surfaces are enriched and activated by luminous colour, gild, and fine details. Featuring familiar symbols of Christianity such as the lamb, the halo, and the hair shirt, these works evoke the sentiment associated with devotion and unconditional love. Christ is represented in the painting titled Man of Sorrows (p 21) wearing the crown of thorns. No doubt he suffers from the agony of wearing such a crown, yet his expression is triumphant, evidence of his divinity and capacity to overcome the transience of pain.


In the sculpted alter pieces (pp 9-16), the body has become absorbed by the plaster; the spirit is sublimated and hovers somewhere between abstraction and figuration. In order to create these works, I began with an armature or wood panel, and then developed the structure intuitively with a combination of addition and subtraction. In terms of materials, the foundation consists of wood, trim, and fabric. Built from wire, paper and plaster, the sculptures were refined by hand through sculpting, carving and sanding. Painting was usually done with brushes and tools, though also with rags, and pouring. If the results proved less than satisfactory, I would destroy the work with a small hammer in a gesture that recalls the iconoclastic vandals of the Reformation. I would take aim and smash the body, and by doing so experience a profound sense of release and possibly omnipotence. The structure that survives is informed by an embodied knowledge of how elements and parts interact to become a cohesive whole. Thus, in working without a plan, the process was guided by an intuitive understanding of organic transformation within the body. Matter grows and dies in a continuous cycle; it consequently takes shape and inhabits form in relation to gravity and other invisible forces. The iconography of the Tree of Jesse is referenced in Genealogy #1, Genealogy #2 and The Watcher (pp 23, 25, 33) where human heads are shown hanging from contorted trees.9 Images of the Tree of Jesse date from as early as the eleventh century; a prime example is the ceiling painting of St. Michael’s Cathedral at Hildesheim where the ancestry of Abraham, King David and Christ is shown emerging from a trunk located in the chest of Jesse. The Biblical source is Isaiah 11:2.


“And there shall come forth a rod out of the root of Jesse, and a flower shall rise up out of his root.” The image brings to mind the process of transubstantiation, and the continuity of lineage, however in my interpretation of the Tree of Jesse, the ancestry is more ambiguous, socially and culturally diverse and even sexual. One figure is shown upside-down in a pose related to vomiting; another appears to have two heads, while several others have pastel-coloured skin tones. The branches may hold the fruit, but eventually they will be picked, or ripen and then fall to the earth. Each seed is unique, and the results are due to multiple factors, conditions and events. Thus the human heads resemble peculiar fruits, bursting from the stem of a bonsai tree that has been pruned excessively over time. In this tree of humanity, the heads are dependent on the sap, however they lack full bodies and will not reach maturity. Suspended in a kind of postlapsarian nightmare, the humans have become puppets–some of whom watch patiently while others protest and perform “rituals of rebellion.”10 Identity is shaped in relation to a complex network of social and cultural values and customs. While working on these paintings, I was reminded of that awkward question “Do I know you?” When mistaken for someone else, one is suddenly reminded of chance and interchangeability. Although such a question may produce a defensive response, it can also be pleasant to muse for a moment, at least long enough to explore the possibility of being someone else. Each life is unique and complex. To know oneself is an ongoing project with no end in sight. The journey is encumbered with obstacles, disguises, patterns, delusions and feints, though the rewards of


self-analysis are immeasurable. While developing the genealogical paintings I was also preparing an exhibition on the iconography of the circus, which was informed in part by Mikhail Bakhtin’s theory of the carnival as a playground for the expression of repressed desire.11 In a world turned upside down, the authorial voice is displaced. Historically the circus offered refuge for so-called “freaks� and disenfranchised persons who were alienated from their natal communities. With Genealogy #1 and Genealogy #2, I interpret the family structure as a paradox, which attempts to self-govern by replicating external templates. When behavior is regulated according to an ideal form, the children will learn how to manifest the expectation through performance, though broadly speaking the framework will prove inflexible, and the branches too brittle to hold. Like a bonsai tree, the new growth is trimmed, and the progeny are sacrificed for a model that is intended to survive. For those who are unable to conform, such a demand is tantamount to disaster. The circus is also referenced in the painting titled Two-headed Woman (p 26), in which two female heads are attached to one torso. The painting was inspired by a nineteenth-century advertisement that was used to promote a sideshow act. In my version, the women display reflection and dismay; they may desire independence, though they are conjoined and share a central body. As the pointed feet indicate, the two-headed woman is not of this earth, but rather an angel in the process of ascension. One has to wonder though if heaven will let them in?


In the case of the sculpted alter piece titled Familia (p 17), the motif of the Tree of Jesse is adapted to an architectural setting. Their bodies and heads are connected through a complex network of branches and bones. The figures appear contemplative for the most part since their eyes are closed and the gaze averted. In this piece, I have attempted to show the intersubjectivity of relationships by creating an organic structure that connects the figures to one another. The painted sculpture is constructed through a process of agglomeration, not unlike the development of a Medieval town where urban design is often happenstance, though empirical. As a whole, the altar is a protective container for its inhabitants, resembling an architectural façade or grotto. The figures embedded within the structure represent a family, an indelible group that is united in a sacra conversazione, yet divisible into discreet parts. Maternal love is evoked in the paintings Madonna and Child (p 27)12 and Mother Protector (p 28). Historically, annunciation scenes generally depict the angel Gabriel who visits Mary with a bouquet of lilies, though in a bold move, the artist Antonio da Messina portrayed the Virgin alone. Her inward gaze conveys acceptance and even familiarity with a divine, yet invisible presence.13 In my copy of Messina’s Annunciation (p 29), Mary’s expression is contemplative, however her mouth is slightly upturned, indicating a hint of pleasurable excitement, of expectation. The painted alter piece titled Birth of the Child (p 31) is based on Pietro Lorenzetti’s Birth of the Virgin.14 In this piece, I wanted to show Mary’s genitalia since here on earth, the female organ is the site of


birth, though one that is seldom represented in Renaissance art. Gigantic in proportion to the other figures, she dominates the scene, and points to her vagina, rather than heavenward, thereby establishing a point of reckoning where the mother is situated at the helm. The son of God is thin, rather than chubby, which is realistic considering how destitute Mary and Joseph would have been at the time. Jesus wants her attention, but she is tired, possibly suffering from postpartum depression. She seems more interested in taking credit for delivering the son of God. Conception is an invisible process at least to the naked eye, so could one surmise that the divine birth was not miraculous, but rather microscopic? But I jest. Among the attendants is a female scholar with a book in hand, a visual reminder that many historical works by women remain anonymous. Next to the maid on the right is a representation of Flora, the pagan goddess of flowers or spring. Scholars have argued that the inclusion of Flora, and other nymphs in religious paintings, alerts viewers to the pagan sources of Christianity. Just as the sacrifice of Christ was an adaptation of a pagan ritual, mythological figures of the past reappear centuries later in paintings and sculptures as reincarnations. Summoned to witness the proceedings, they preside and condone the turn of events, thereby offering validation and assistance in the construction of meaning.15 The revival of antiquity in the Renaissance is pervasive, though the unruly character of satyrs and fauns is often controlled. They are deemed secondary figures, banished to the border regions of pictorial programs in some cases, or allowed to cavort on furniture,


pedestals and columns. In my painting of a Female Centaur (p 32), she is bare-breasted, proud of the fact that she is part-animal and part-human. Clothing serves no purpose since she is free of social inhibitions; her nudity is heroic, unashamed and natural, though as the following poem explains, life as a female centaur is not without its challenges.

Female Centaur16 A lost body of work created by a centaur, a female one. She was taught by Chiron to read the classics and live according to her internal volition. Painting and poetry, drawing and sculpture on wood, skin and water. She was called to court. A group of people gathered around the king’s throne, offering opinions, and defamations. Envy and Sloth witnessed the accusation of an artist, and declared her a fraud, or a victim of calumny? An allegory, a fable, retold by Alberti, though in this instance true. Hail sister Centaurus who carries a book in one hand, a crown in the other. Half-human, half-horse, her story begs the question: Why are there no famous female centaurs?17


The painting The Watcher (p 33) also makes use of the genealogical tree as a compositional element. Based on an earlier painting that was reworked, it features elongated vegetables, stylized branches and two heads. The older male figure on the left is keeping an eye on the sleeping child on the right. They are linked, though separate; one is awake and the other asleep. Is their relationship binding, or unravelling? Is the sleeping child aware of being watched? Another related painting is titled Cradled (p 35), which features a disembodied female head. Resting on an ornamental chalice that recalls a satellite dish, she contemplates her life, though in so doing, launches a jettison of tears. The tilt of the satellite dish makes it possible for her to tune in to certain frequencies even though her body is absent. In the background is an abstract geometric shape that refers to Cubism, fractal geometry and the netherworld region between sleep and wakefulness. The painting is both a portrait and a still-life; the head is elongated and robbed of its body and essential organs, though she prevails and presumably survives. She can withstand decapitation and the shame of being exposed, of being seen and heard for she is safe in the satellite dish, which balances on a base decorated with jewels. Eventually her tears will subsist, and quite possibly her body will grow back. In the painting titled Head in her Hands (p 36), the figure does not talk to the proverbial skull, but rather appears to have a conversation with her severed head.18 Clearly this is a metaphorical separation, though why is the head bald? Is she a cancer survivor, an infant or someone who is free of gender?19 The correct answer may be all


of these, or alternatively none of them. In a poem titled “Headless Woman” that was written in correspondence to the painting, I write that the figure is “Divided from, tucked into./A part of the whole,/ yet severed from the body//that gave her life.” Misalignment is also evoked in the seventh stanza: “Not a saint, rather a deletion,/she makes up conversations,/paints emblems for the perplexed.”20 Finally, I conclude with the painting titled Birth (p 37), which shows a classical sculpture as it pushes its way through a vagina. Could this be a representation of the birth of Western Civilization? It is a parody, though not entirely, for we know that being born is difficult and dying can be harder still. The enigma of being and nonbeing informs daily existence. Camus argued that our sole responsibility is to breathe, and in doing so apply ourselves to the paradoxical mission of pushing a humungous rock to the top of the mountain only to see it tumble back down.21 Nothing can be attained without effort, and timing and determination are seldom enough. If the unknown can be perceived with any degree of certainty, it surely exists in the realm of twilight between sleep and wakefulness, between representation and eternity.22




1 Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval religion (New York: Zone Books, 1991). Bynum’s discussion on the reliquary as a sentient container of the spirit is useful in terms of understanding why the iconoclasts’ sought to destroy such precious objects.

depicted with the spiked wheel. When sentenced to death by torture on the spiked wheel, divine intervention caused it to shatter into pieces.

2 A special thanks is owed to John Scott who curated the show.

9 In part, these paintings are reminiscent of Jacques Callot’s famous print La pendaison (The Hanging) from the series Les grandes misères de la guerre, 1633.

3 The San Giobbe Altarpiece was painted ca. 1485, and is located at the Accademia, Venice. 4 Joseph Leo Koerner, “The icon as iconoclash,” in Iconoclash, ed. Bruno LaTour, Peter Weibel (Karlsruhe and Cambridge, MA: Center for Art and Media; The MIT Press, 2002). 164-213. Koerner’s contribution to the exhibition Iconoclash included a wide array of images in support of the thesis that the impetus behind iconoclasm is the contradictory desire to destroy and rebuild images. 5 Koerner, 195. 6 For more information see, Hans Belting, Likeness and presence: a history of the image before the era of art, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994). 7 Saint Catherine of Alexandria is often


8 Mary Magdalene and St. John are often shown together in historical religious art, united in their love of Christ.

10 The term is used widely in anthropological research and pertains to the observation that conflict is unavoidable in a stratified society. 11 The exhibition The Circus Comes to Town was held at the TD Gallery, Toronto Reference Library, 2008. 12 This painting is inspired in part by the Virgin of the Dry Tree, Oil on panel, ca. 1465, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. 13 The painting by Messina was done in 1476, and is housed at Palazzo Abatellis, Palermo. A copy by the artist’s uncle is at the Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice.

14 Lorenzetti’s painting portrays St. Anna after she gives birth to Mary, the mother of Jesus. Joachim, Anna’s husband is shown in the background. The triptych was created ca. 1335-1342 and is housed at the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Siena. In my version the figures have been altered, though the geometry of the ceiling and the architectural elements in the top portion are quite similar to the original. 15 For more on this subject, see Alexander Nagel, The Controversy of Renaissance art, (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 2011); Nagel and Christopher S. Wood, Anachronic Renaissance, (New York: Zone Books, 2010). 16 The poem was written in response to the painting.

19 This painting was published on the cover of my poetry collection Infrangible (Toronto; Buffalo: Guernica Editions, 2018). 20 Barbour, Infrangible (Toronto; Buffalo: Guernica Editions). 21 Albert Camus wrote on the necessity of breath in his work The Myth of Sisyphus and other essays, trans. Justin O’Brien (New York: Vintage Books, 1955) 22 For a brilliant exploration on representing eternity, see the short story “Aleph” by Jorge Luis Borges in the collection, The Aleph and other stories, 1933-1969, together with commentaries and an autobiographical essay, ed. and trans. Norman Thomas di Giovanni in collaboration with the author (New York: Dutton, 1970).

17 The last line is an overt reference to Linda Nochlin’s essay titled “Why have there been no great women artists?” in Art News, Jan. 1971. 18 For more on the trope of disembodied female heads, see Iris Murdoch, A severed head: a novel (London: Chatto & Windus, 1961)


An exhibition titled Do I Know You? Alter Pieces, Paintings and Heads was held at Artscape Wychwood Barns Gallery, Toronto, 2018, and featured works from 2008-2018. An earlier exhibition at Yorkville Library titled Ritratto included paintings from 2002-2003.


ABOUT THE ARTIST A visual artist, poet and art historian, Carol Barbour is a graduate of the Ontario College of Art and the University of Toronto (MA, History of Art). Her paintings, sculptures and artist books have been exhibited at galleries, libraries and books fairs in Canada, USA, and Europe. Artist books are collected by The British Library, Banff Centre, Artexte, The Woman’s Art Library at Goldsmiths, The Museum of Modern Art (Franklin Furnace Archive) and the National Gallery of Canada (Art Metropole Collection), and others. Her research on the iconography of emblems has been delivered at conferences sponsored by the Renaissance Society of America, The International Society of Emblem Studies, Biblyon, The International Congress of Medieval Studies, and the Sixteenth Century Society.


Copyright © 2019 Carol Barbour Toronto, Canada

ISBN: 978-1-9990199-0-7 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or means, without the prior written consent of the artist/author.

ARTIST/AUTHOR Carol Barbour DESIGN AND LAYOUT Mary Traill COVER PAINTING Carol Barbour PHOTOGRAPHY Carol Barbour, Cheryl O’Brien, Brian Piitz and Marilyn Nazar, Peter Yu PRINTING Digitalwon Imaging Inc.