Architecturally, the Cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris spanned the age of endurance to the era of transcendence. Begun in 1163 when the sturdy Romanesque style demanded chunky columns and low slung arches, it flowered into the Gothic eventually soaring 115 feet off the ground.
This new building style looked to give the impression of airiness to stone, and in Notre Dame builders developed their finest architectural tool to achieve this effect, the flying buttress.
These slender tendrils of stone formed a cascade of curls around the exterior of the apse, allowing the interior to be given over to windows, filled with a mosaic of colored glass.
Visitors who have fled the crush around the main entrance to the quiet garden in the back have been able to enjoy the privileged view of these dazzling structures, carved to look as delicate as lace. The engineering achievement was best admired from inside however, as the darker nave with its heavy blocks of stone opened into a radiant sanctuary bathed in luminous hues.
In the early days the cathedral was dubbed “the forest” since it took 50 acres of forest to build the enormous roof. Timbers and beams hidden under the high ribbed vaults continued the effect of loftiness in the church. Hidden, until today. The forest fire that ravaged the cathedral of Notre Dame burnt away dense layers of history, good, bad, ugly and beautiful piled up as ashes on the ground.
It took 200 years to build Notre Dame, but its story continued through the centuries. The stone carvers who had defied gravity with their vertical designs, then tamed the stone into myriad shapes and sizes; the portals, densely carved with stories of the Blessed Virgin leading to the Last Judgment, set a new standard in decoration.
To protect the wooden beams from rot, gargoyles and other fanciful creatures grimaced from every eave.
The exterior walls were alive with statues while Biblical kings, carved in stiff relief watched sternly from the façade. Narrowly hemmed in by the two mighty bell towers that housed, in the churches heyday, 10 bells, the largest, Emmanuel, weighing 13 tons, was still ringing after six centuries.
As befitting a church dedicated to the Virgin Mary, three rose windows shined upon the interior. This architectural rosary, made up of thousands of pieces of colored glass lovingly encased in a lead and stone frame, still had original fragments, despite the reformation, revolution, riots and even a sniper in World War II.
The 19th century saw a new era for Notre Dame, this time of resurgence — the revolution had shattered the glass, defaced the sculptures and gutted the church, but in 1861 a new kind of artist, a master restorer, transformed the building again.
Eugene Viollet le Duc lovingly replaced the glass, tracked down the original designs for the façade and rebuilt the spire encircled by the apostles gazing out over Paris. His own portrait, in the guise of St. Thomas, was lost, along with his 11 companions when the spire crashed to the ground last night.
Though much of the artwork had been lost over the centuries through the violence of conflict or the violence of neglect, a few precious objects remain.
Like the splendid 14th-century carved wooden choir with its colorful relief recounting the Life of Christ, many images of Mary, old and new, recounting centuries of national devotion. But today perhaps two works stand out — one an ancient relic: the crown of thorns worn by Christ during His Passion, remembered by Christians this week.
The crown, purchased by St. Louis IX, has been venerated by pilgrims and Parisians alike for 800 years and is considered the greatest treasure of the cathedral.
The second, if saved from the devestation of the church may well become the symbol of this day. Nicholas Coustou’s Pietà was carved in marble in 1723 for the high altar of the cathedral.
While modeled after Michelangelo’s Roman version, Coustou gave the scene more drama, as Jesus’ beautifully carved body slumps on lifeless Mary’s knees about to collapse to the ground.
The Virgin, helpless, lifts her eyes to Heaven imploring help, accompanied by two weeping angels. An apt description of this day, as the magnificent form of this ancient church crumbled to the ground — while the world watched helplessly and surely even the angels in heaven wept.
Elizabeth Lev is an art historian and author of “How Catholic Art Saved the Faith: The Triumph of Beauty and Truth in Counter-Reformation Art.”