You’re right to focus on the angles, because the tapestry’s frame is the lens through which the viewer’s eye is guided. In Agincourt, the high, narrow perspective pulls the eye straight up to the sky, making the sky look like a battlefield canvas, almost like a cinematic overhead shot. That verticality compresses the battlefield and makes the English archers seem heroic, almost isolated from the chaos below. If the tapestry had a wider, lower angle—like a ground‑level view—the focus would shift to the mud, the mud‑slicked faces, and the sheer chaos, turning the narrative into a gritty, visceral war rather than a noble clash. The composition’s diagonal lines, from the arched archers to the twisted bodies of the French, also steer the narrative flow, creating a rhythm that feels almost choreographed. So, when you change a single line of the frame, you’re essentially rewriting the story’s emotional beats.

Exactly, it’s like a chessboard—each line a move that places a piece where the eye stops. The frame is the king, and the angle is the crown, so when the tapestry tilts, the whole narrative shifts its focus. Next time I’ll be watching the angles like a live game.