I find the west façade of Rouen Cathedral to be one of the most astonishing and spectacular architectural achievements ever built over the centuries. It is striking enough that, right in the middle of the 15th century, such exquisite lace-like work was created using stone, but what is truly surprising and unique is that these stone lace patterns are layered on top of one another two or even three times. The result is marvellous, thanks to the sense of transparency it creates, and especially because of the interplay of light and shadow that occurs when the sun’s rays pass through these stone carvings, creating a unique atmosphere of moments that can never be repeated.

Claude Monet was captivated by this spectacle and, between 1892 and 1894, painted no fewer than 31 pictures of this façade, capturing the changes in light that occurred at different times of day. He worked on the street and from rooms in the house opposite the cathedral. Each painting is different, as the cathedral’s stone also changes colour with the light in the various environmental conditions that occur throughout the year. “Every day I discover something I hadn’t seen the day before… In the end, I’m trying to do the impossible,” he said.

Joaquín González-Miranda

Abbot Suger (1081–1151) is regarded as the founder of the Gothic style. Between 1135 and 1144, he renovated the church of the Abbey of Saint-Denis, near Paris; there he put his architectural principles into practice, which were linked to a theological approach, making Saint-Denis the first church in the Gothic style. The new style spread rapidly throughout France and across Europe.

In his treatise ‘De Administratione’, he writes: ‘In my view, objects, especially those used for the administration of the Holy Eucharist, must always be appropriate... And to preserve the Blood of Christ with reverence and complete devotion, I believe that vessels made of gold and precious stones, or whatever is most valuable that can be found in creation, should be used.’ This is physically reflected in the chalice that the abbot used at Saint-Denis.

Saint-Denis is regarded as the first church to be built in the Gothic style. Abbot Suger pioneered this new style by transforming the former Carolingian church, where Saint Denis, the first Bishop of Paris, and many of the kings of France were buried. The large numbers of people flocking to certain ceremonies at the Benedictine abbey made it necessary to enlarge the church; furthermore, the abbot also wished to give greater prominence to the relics of Saint Denis. Suger’s main contribution was to bring together a set of architectural solutions – which had previously been used in isolation – and to imbue them with the stylistic unity and spiritual significance that define the Gothic style. The work was carried out between 1135 and 1144.

Pointed arches and ribbed vaults had already been used in Durham Cathedral (1093–1133). There are also pointed arches in the Cathedral of Saint Étienne in Sens (1135–1164), where we can even see a rose window on the façade. In Byzantium, the initial technique for stained-glass windows had been developed by replacing the stone in mosaics with pieces of glass; subsequently, these pieces were assembled with lead, thus creating the first freestanding stained-glass windows. By the 10th century, stained-glass windows had already been installed—in Reims in 905, and in some Romanesque churches. Suger drew on these technical solutions to imbue them with theological significance: the theology of light.

Suger conceives of the church as a reflection of the heavenly Jerusalem. Drawing inspiration from Rev 21:11–18, he seeks to ensure that the glory of God shines forth from the building; and ‘its splendour is like a most precious gem, of jasper, clear as crystal; its walls were like crystal, a city of pure gold’. For this reason, the stained-glass windows are like precious stones, which shine as the sunlight passes through them and, by analogy, evoke the light of Christ. During the consecration ceremony for the foundations of Saint-Denis, precious stones and gems were set into the walls whilst the choir sang “lapides preciosi omnes muri tui”. The presence of physical light manifests divine beauty—which is Christ himself—and the entire building is imbued with his beauty. Suger wrote: ‘The whole sanctuary is imbued with a most beautiful and continuous light, which enters through the most sacred windows.’ Light was more than a mere symbol of Christ—the true light that enlightens every man (John 1:9); it was also an essential element of the concept of beauty in the Gothic cathedral.

The façade of Saint-Denis evokes the gates of a Roman city. And the entrance to the church is conceived as the passage through the gates of heaven: a gateway separating the realm of men from access to the Kingdom of God. The sculptures on the tympanum above the entrance door depict the Last Judgement, with Christ seated as the divine Judge alongside his apostles, and on either side of him are the wise and the foolish virgins of the Gospel. Above the entrance door is a large inscription inviting visitors to marvel and realise that the door leads to the true light, where Christ is the true door. It reads as follows: ‘All who seek to honour these doors, let them not marvel at the gold and the expense, but at the craftsmanship of the work. Noble work is brilliant, but, being nobly brilliant, the work should illuminate minds, enabling them to journey through the lights to the true light, where Christ is the true gate. The golden gate illustrates how deeply immersed we are in these things. The deaf mind is raised to the truth through material things, and is resurrected from its former immersion when it beholds the light’. Suger encourages us to use the mind’s contemplative capacity to transcend from material realities to heavenly ones.

Suger’s project took place in three stages. In the first (1135–37), the western façade—that is, the main façade—was constructed, featuring two towers, the three doors and the rose window that illuminates the upper chapels. In the second phase (1137–40), the church’s three naves were constructed, with their ribbed vaults; and the body of Saint Dionysius, which had lain in the crypt, was raised to the centre of the transept, adorned with jewels and reliquaries of gold and silver. And in the third, and most important, phase (1140–44), the chancel was built, featuring a double ambulatory and nine radial chapels. It is here that the first two large windows with leaded stained-glass panes appear, illuminating the altar area. The church remains an abbey church and was declared a cathedral in 1966. It is 108 metres long and its vaults are 29 metres high. The transept is illuminated by two rose windows over 12 metres in diameter, which served as a model for Notre-Dame de Paris. Around 1844, a fire, caused by a lightning strike, destroyed the north tower of the main façade. With one tower missing, the façade has become asymmetrical.

In addition to Saint Denis, 28 kings, 20 queens and numerous important figures from France are buried here. The royal tombs were desecrated in 1793 and the remains were buried in a mound. In 1805, Napoleon Bonaparte ordered a restoration of the royal necropolis, which was subsequently completed by Louis XVIII in 1816.

This fresco by Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Simone Cassai, better known as Masaccio, is one of the most important works of the Italian Renaissance, as its introduction of linear perspective marked the beginning of one of the new pictorial characteristics of the Renaissance. Painted in 1428, it measures 680 x 475 cm and is situated on a side wall of the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella in Florence.

In the 1420s, Florence was a city made wealthy by trade, where an intellectual elite—including Coluccio Salutati and Leonardo Bruni—advocated for the centrality of man in the cosmos and a taste for classical antiquity. Masaccio joined this movement, acting as the artistic catalyst for the innovations already evident in sculpture and architecture. He was a close friend of Brunelleschi, and in this fresco he applied the principles of perspective developed by his friend. By placing thevanishing point of the painting at the viewer’s eye level, he succeeds in emphasising the realism of the work. Vasari comments: ‘What is truly beautiful, apart from the figures, is a barrel vault drawn in perspective, divided into squares filled with rosettes, which diminish and shrink so skilfully that it seems as though the wall has been pierced.’

The fresco features two clearly distinct areas, arranged vertically. In the upper section is the Holy Trinity. It is framed by a chapel inspired by Roman triumphal arches, with a barrel vault divided into coffers and supported by Ionic columns, which are in turn flanked by pilasters supporting an entablature. There is no longer any landscape; the setting of the scene is exclusively architectural, and the figures are arranged on various steps. Masaccio depicts Jesus crucified at the centre of the composition; behind him, God the Father stands, supporting the Cross, and the Holy Spirit, in the form of a dove, between them. The Virgin Mary and Saint John stand on either side of Jesus Christ; and on a lower step, at the sides of the composition, the patrons are depicted on their knees, as is customary.

In the lower section, a point of disruption is introduced – in the composition, though not in the content, as will be explained later. Masaccio depicts an altar on which lies a skeleton, as in an open tomb. It appears that this skeleton is intended to represent Adam. Above this figure is the inscription: ‘Io fu’ già quel che voi siete, e quel ch’io son voi ancora sarete’, which can be translated as: ‘I was once what you are; what I am, you too shall be’. This is where the connection between the two parts of the fresco lies, for it is not merely a reminder of the transience of human life – memento mori – but, above all, of the relationship between Adam’s sin, which is passed on to the whole human race, and the Redemption from sin, accomplished by Jesus Christ on the Cross, which atones for guilt, restores friendship between God and man, and also overcomes death, as St Paul tells the Corinthians: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’

Masaccio’s painting is sober and realistic. The composition of the upper section – to which the viewer’s attention is drawn, as the lower section is grey in colour and less visually detailed – is pyramidal, and the figures display a serene demeanour. The Virgin looks towards the viewer and, with her hand, points us towards Christ, drawing us into the scene, whilst St John and the donors remain absorbed in an attitude of adoration. All of this serves to focus attention on the Trinity.

The tabernacle at San Salvador Cathedral (El Salvador, Central America) is a magnificent piece of goldsmith’s work, notable for its size – 2.5 metres in height – the beauty of its design and the quality of its craftsmanship. It is probably one of the ten finest pieces of goldsmith’s work produced throughout the 20th century. This assertion is based on its grandeur, the quality of its elegant and refined design, and the difficulty posed by its execution: it features highly complex joints between mouldings and the meeting points of curved surfaces, which were executed with delicacy and perfection. It was a challenge to realise the magnificent design by the architect Joaquín Lorda Iñarra, and the work carried out by Talleres de Arte Moreno, in Granada, between 1997 and 2000, proved spectacular.

The tabernacle has a square plan with chamfered corners and a turret-like design, blending elements from several Spanish and Italian Baroque architects: Alonso Cano, Filippo Juvarra, Carlo Fontana and Churriguera. It comprises a plinth, a central body and an upper finial. At the base there is a laurel wreath, held in place by braids, from which garlands of flowers hang. The design of the laurel wreath with braids can be seen on the lectern in Granada Cathedral, designed by Alonso Cano. The plinth upon which the tabernacle rises is a complex surface with a double inverted curvature; it features four cherub heads. The original design of this surface is the invention of Carlo Fontana. The lower guideline is a circle parallel to the laurel wreath, whilst the upper guideline consists of four circular segments with the opposite curvature; in other words, the guideline transitions from concave to convex and the curved generatrix gradually alters its curvature. The junctions of these surfaces are resolved by means of four bands that coincide with the chamfered corners. Joaquín Lorda made a contribution by ensuring that these bands terminate at the crown’s braids, thus linking the designs of Carlo Fontana and Alonso Cano. The solution is very slender and elegant; it almost seems natural; yet on closer inspection, its enormous complexity becomes apparent. In order to execute it correctly, the goldsmith’s workshop first produced a plaster model, and once this had been approved by Joaquín, they began shaping the silver sheet. The cherubs spreading out across this surface appear to support the weight of the tabernacle. The result is marvellous.

The reliefs on the central body reproduce engravings from a missal used for the evangelisation of the Americas. During the 16th century, only two types of missal were used in the evangelisation of the New World; these were produced at the El Escorial printing press, and we selected scenes from one of them. Consuelo de la Cuadra modelled some bas-reliefs in plasticine in Madrid, and the goldsmith cast them to be set into the tabernacle. The scenes are dedicated to the Three Persons of the Trinity; they depict: the glory of heaven, with the Holy Trinity surrounded by angels and saints – Saint Lawrence appears in the foreground – the Nativity of the Lord and Pentecost. On the rear panel is the door of the tabernacle; it features the symbol of God – a triangle amidst clouds – a pelican and the inscription: ‘Here is Jesus Christ, God, the Son of Mary’. Engraved on the inside of the door is the text of the Pange Lingua, in Spanish, and the entire interior of the tabernacle is filled with angels in an attitude of adoration and stars. Various inscriptions can also be seen on the central body; at the top, within the round medallions, is engraved: ‘Glory to God the Father – Glory to God the Son – Glory to God the Holy Spirit – Glory to God’; and at the bottom, next to the plinth: ‘We praise You – Lord – We bless You – Lord – We adore You – Lord – We give You thanks – Lord’.

The mouldings above the medallions reveal a design feature characteristic of Churriguera: the semicircular arch extends downwards, becoming a pointed arch. Whilst this appears to be a natural progression, the intersection of the decorative mouldings is complex and executed with great perfection. It should be borne in mind that in goldsmithing, the mouldings must be soldered together; and applying heat with the blowtorch causes deformation. A skilled goldsmith manages to avoid such distortions so that the mitre joints are perfectly finished. The tabernacle is crowned by a small roof, formed of various curved surfaces with a scale-like finish, culminating in a plinth that enshrines the image of the Risen Christ, situated atop the globe, and specifically over the country of El Salvador.

The tabernacle stands freestanding, inside a gilded wooden and mirrored shrine, upon a marble plinth. The tabernacle’s shrine was also designed by Joaquín Lorda, in my studio, and was constructed in El Salvador.

On 13 February 1965, Mark Rothko signed a contract with Dominique and John de Menil to create the paintings for a university chapel in Houston; a place dedicated to contemplation, meditation, prayer and silence. The aim was to reconcile contemporary art with the absolute, the sublime and the sacred. Thus the Rothko Chapel was born, a building with an octagonal floor plan, inscribed within a Greek cross. Entry to the octagon is through two very simple doors, which mark the boundary between the mundane and the sacred. Inside, it features fourteen panels in shades of purple, brown and an endless black – practically monochrome – seeking to make us witnesses to a presence that lies, as in that divine darkness, beyond light itself. Entering the chapel in Houston is like being immersed in a unique atmosphere, where everything seems to be the work of the divine: the order manifested there is a materialised work of the spirit.

In the apse triptych, the central panel is purple, slightly lighter in colour than those surrounding it. The side triptychs, to the east and west, are an almost complete black, appearing to be framed in a dark reddish colour. Indeed, black and red are the colours of the southern panel—the narrowest mural—which is flanked on either side by two further panels, in which the same purple as that of the central element of the northern triptych stands out. The dialogue between each element resembles that dance which the Latvian painter perceived in the writings of the Church’s early great theologians. Seemingly impossible links are established between them, yet an immaterial connectivity can be perceived.

The apse serves as a focal point around which the entire chapel is centred, as if within a harmonious tempo. One experiences a flow of the spirit moving from one side to the other, from black to purple, from purple to black, as in a mirror, as in the sensation that something is happening. This work of art is an almost liturgical gesture, like a kind of ensemble, a call, which allows us to leave the external world behind and propels our soul towards the interior of each panel. We are no longer spectators, but inhabit the canvas. Rothko needed great courage to paint pictures as black as night. That is precisely where his greatness lies. His painting is a mystical act, because it takes us directly towards the horizon; and in that chapel we are able to gaze towards infinity.

Part of the secret lies in the way he works with the primer. Modifying the traditional technique, he applies layers of hot rabbit-skin glue mixed with the diluted pigment itself to the canvas. The result is that the brushstrokes disappear. The colour appears to be suspended in the translucent glue. If further layers of paint – diluted in turpentine – are applied subtly over this base, the final effect is that the brushstrokes become completely blurred, and, rather than a mass of colour, what we have is a sort of chromatic breath. If the pigment is black, what we obtain is the visibility of the spirit.

That black is much more than a pigment; it is a lived experience. These canvases are works that are chromatically alive, where black attains an inexhaustible power. We owe to Rothko the transcendental and transcendent quality of a painting that reminds us, even today, that all human life may be at the mercy of an imminent epiphany, one that will have no end.

Cf. Ricardo Piñero, Bellezas inacabadas, Ediciones Rialp 2025, pp. 78–94