Last winter I copied one folio by hand on a table that smelled of smoke, gum, and iron ink. The first lesson was not reverence; it was pressure. A page built from brown skin, black rule, and mineral color asks the reader to enter through a gate, not skim past a feed.
Borders are arguments before they are ornaments
The saint’s round eyes do not model depth, and the gold refuses to behave like light. That flatness is the point. In a culture trained to trust glassy gradients, an outlined field of orpiment can feel stern: every decision is declared, no shadow is allowed to soften it.
The border does not decorate the text; it decides how close the reader may stand.