BBC Radio 4 2016-05-18

BBC Radio 4 2016-05-18

Good morning. Robots are increasingly a part of our everyday lives, so it’s no wonder that the London Science Museum is planning a major exhibit of automatons next year. What is surprising is that one of the star attractions is a medieval clockwork monk built for a purpose we don’t often associate with robots: prayer.

The origins of the so-called robofriar lie in the 16th century – an exotic age of religious fervour – and is an example of the sometimes bizarre things that people will do in service of their god.

In 1562, Don Carlos – the heir to the throne of Spain – fell down a flight of stairs and into a coma. King Philip II was desperate to save his only son. He even dug up the body of a saintly friar who had died a century before, and laid out his mouldering skeleton on the patient’s bed. Philip made a pact with God: spare this boy’s life and I will build you a miracle.

Don Carlos recovered. He told his father that during his coma he had been comforted by an apparition: a friar carrying a small wooden cross. So Philip commissioned Juanelo Turriano, a clockmaker, to construct a prayer machine modelled on the vision.

Turriano’s robofriar stands at 15 inches tall and is made of wood and iron. Wind it up and it skates around in a slow circle – its right arm beating its chest, its mouth moving in silent prayer. Its left arm raises and lowers a rosary, the machine’s eyes following the movement. Occasionally it lifts the beads to its lips and kisses them.

Philip’s bald headed miracle is terrifying to look at. But even if the robofriar is ugly on the outside, Turriano’s internal clockwork was elaborately, beautifully carved. Why did he bother to render something that was invisible to human eyes so exquisite? Some experts speculate it was because Turriano only intended the workings to be viewed by God.

Nowadays we often think of art as a public performance – we generally create things in order that they be seen. The robofriar belongs to a different ethic.

It represents art not for popular consumption but art as a private act of worship. For a lot of people, one of the greatest gifts of faith is this very personal relationship with God in which they do what they do quietly, without seeking to trouble others. The robofriar’s unexpected internal splendour turns out not only to be a great metaphor for a life of prayer – but also a reminder that wonderful things done privately – be they the creation of art or just a kind act – always have intrinsic value.