Albrecht Dürer was born in 1471 to a successful family, the head of whom was a goldsmith. When he was 15, Dürer began studying with Michael Wolgemut, a German printmaker. It was under his tutelage that Dürer shaped into a Northern Renaissance master. By the age of 30, Dürer had already begun work on or completed some of his most famed works (The Apocalypse, Passion Cycle, and Life of the Virgin).

Dürer had the fortune of living through the exciting first decade of the Protestant Reformation. The Reformation “officially” began in 1517 when Martin Luther, by then a professor and prolific writer, challenged the officials of Whittenberg Abbey to a debate by famously publicly posting his 95 Theses.  With this, and other writings, Luther and his rapidly growing supporters caused quite a stir in Renaissance Europe. Luther was eventually kidnapped and held captive at Wartberg Castle. (Actually, held safely at the castle by a princely protector; however, the circumstances are more complicated than I lead on in these small sentences. Such are the essentials.) News spread that the great professor had died, and when Dürer found out about this sad death, he exclaimed: “O God, to think of what he might be able to write for us in another ten or twenty years!”¹

Durer, Christ as the Man of Sorrows, 1493

Let us briefly turn our attention to the Man of Sorrows motif, which Dürer used at least twice in his career. The Man of Sorrows is a sacred iconographical motif that was especially popular in Northern Europe. It is based on 13th century Byzantine icons, Imago Pietatis (Christ of Pity), which depict Christ with the wounds of the Crucifixion, half-naked, with a downcast expression. The textual basis for the Man of Sorrows comes from Isaiah 53:3. It is quoted below in the broader context of Isaiah 53:1-5 in the Douay Rheims translation (the first completed Catholic English Bible, dating to 1582. The version below is from 1899.)

As you can tell by the text, the Man of Sorrows is a harrowing account of mankind’s rejection of Christ, who forsook him during his Passion (suffering ) and failed to heed him based on his countenance, which was not appealing or mighty. The conclusion is that Christ suffered for mankind’s sin, and by this, he healed them. This is a very intimate, saddening text for a Catholic (or newly Protestant) believer. When seeing the Man of Sorrows in a devotional artwork before them, pious viewers are called to remember this text from Isaiah and that they personally participate in this rejection of Christ through their sins. The hope offered to them is that by the wounds of the Crucifixion, which are always prominently displayed in the motif, the faithful are healed of their iniquity.

Dürer, Self Portrait at 28 wearing a fur collar, 1500.

I wonder why a famed Catholic artist, whose sympathies to the Protestant movement became more than just sympathies by the time of his death², would draw himself as The Man of Sorrows - sacred iconography based on sacred text -  as he did in 1522? Could his drawing be attributed to a study for a later painting of the same subject, as one might do before he begins painting? Not in this case. Dürer did indeed paint The Man of Sorrows - but years earlier, in 1493-4. The theme was a popular devotional item, so it is understandable that at some point in his career, Dürer would end up painting it. What is unusual about Dürer’s work for this time is the number of self-portraits he created. The earliest one we have to date was done when he was just 13, with silverpoint. He continued to paint himself throughout his career. He is an easily recognizable figure, with long, curly locks and an oft intense gaze.

Durer, Self Portrait as the Man of Sorrows, c. 1493

To the left is Dürer’s Self Portrait as the Man of Sorrows. Many aspects of this self-portrait seem rather ‘normal,’ and it isn’t immediately recognizable as the Man of Sorrows motif. The face is quite obviously Dürer’s: we see his curly hair, his gaze, his unique nose and defined lips. I personally don’t think Dürer’s expression is one of pain or sorrow, as it would be in the Man of Sorrows theme - rather, he seems inwardly preoccupied with something irritating. Dürer was close to the end of his life (he died in 1528) and here, it seems he drew his own sagging body.

Appearances aside, the fascinating part of the image, for me, lies in its inception. It is no doubt unusual (to put it mildly) to depict oneself as Christ, as a deity, as the suffering Savior of mankind. It’s one thing to relate to Christ’s sufferings personally by placing oneself alongside the Crucifixion, Descent from the Cross, or Entombment, as so many artists before and since have done for themselves and/or their patrons. It’s another thing entirely to represent oneself as Christ. I don’t have a solution to this puzzling drawing, only questions. Even if this drawing was a study for Dürer’s Christ as the Man of Sorrows, and one or both of these works are dated wrong, it is still a startling representation. Did anyone see the drawing? How did they react? Why did Dürer choose to draw himself as Christ, especially as a believer? Was the act of drawing it a personal act of devotion for Dürer?

Dürer, Self Portrait as the Man of Sorrows (detail), 1522.

I certainly don’t know the answers to any of these questions and I am by no means a Dürer scholar. The five year old in me who asks “Why? Why? Why?” all the time wants answers, though. If you happen to have a theory, feel free to share it!

Sources: I always put sources in the Entry Bibliography page. They are at the end of this essay because I want to give readers some immediate sources to refer to.

¹ Martin Marty, Martin Luther: A Life. 2004.
² Craig Harbison, Dürer and the Reformation: The Problem of the Re-dating of the St. Philip Engraving, Art Bulletin, Vol. 5 No. 3, 1976.

Tags: Art, Art History, Artistic Intention, Catholic, Iconography, Man of Sorrows, Martin Luther, Sacred Art

Manet, In the Conservatory, 1879.

The man.

I am transfixed by the man’s gaze and gently extended finger, ever so slightly reaching toward the woman as he holds his cigar – leading me to the woman’s hand, to her presence in the work. Their hands are tenuously close. There is a cautious hint of perhaps fading intimacy; she does not meet his gaze… She seems so absent and he seems so tender, interested, careful.

 

The couple's hands.

What transpired between these two? They are possibly a married couple, as indicated by their rings. She sits still and stiff, with one hand resting on her parasol and the other on the fence on which the man leans. Perhaps she is tired from the heat of the conservatory and their stroll. She seems more preoccupied, absorbed in an enigma, than anything else.

The woman.

A romantic Impressionist would  paint the couple gazing at each other, or at least paint a blushing woman with downcast eyes. Manet, though, is not an artist of blushing women – he is an artist of confident and confrontational women. And yet this woman seems to me to be neither. She looks off in the distance to nothing, not acknowledging the man – her husband? – who physically leans toward her and psychologically penetrates her space with his gaze.

 

What do you think Manet is conveying with this piece?

Images from the Google Art Project.

Tags: Art, Art History, Experience, Impressionism, The Gaze

Note: I wrote the following essay excerpt for UCLA’s 19th Century European Art course. It was written against the backdrop of life change, excitement, death, and grief. The class was my first at UCLA, and the course’s professor was the legendary Albert Boime, a specialist in art of revolution, propaganda, social change, and regime. Unfortunately, he passed away before the end of the quarter. I strove to learn all I could from him while he was alive. His reputation preceded him, and I can only imagine what his courses were like twenty years prior. I was excited about this paper (though what I post here is a mere excerpt and I have edited it for grammar), as it was the first I turned in at UCLA, and yet turning it in was marked by an unusual sorrowfulness. The Massacre at Chios has long been one of my favorite paintings, and a recent post by a blog I frequent brought the painting, and thus this essay excerpt, back into my mind. Note that at the time of writing, I didn’t have access to high-resolution photos of the work, so figures who I talk about below that appear dead may not, in detail views, seem dead. Hence, my views have changed, but the following is what I previously believed to be true about the work.

Delacroix, Massacre at Chios, 1824, 164"x139"

In 1821 the Greek War of Independence (the Greeks against their conquerors, the Turks of the Ottoman Empire) became a focus of European thinkers. These thinkers attempted to remedy the relationship between the ancient Greece that was so beloved in their culture with the current Greece that was oppressed by a greater empire. How was this possible? Where were the Greek heroes of old? One commentator noted “we find only a people enslaved” who have lost their ancient energy and might. As thinkers discussed this conflict in their circles, the ruling elite grew suspicious of the Greeks and supported the Ottomans. Perhaps this is because they saw nothing powerful in the Greeks.

The elites’ attitudes would change after the events of January 1822 when the Turkish sultan sent a 10,000 strong army to the island of Chios to enslave its inhabitants. The Greeks resisted to the best of their ability but were overtaken. The 1824 Salon painting by Delacroix depicts the aftermath of this invasion, called The Massacre at Chios. Delacroix uses a sickly looking palette of vomit-greens and browns with wild brush work. This method and coloring is propaganda in and of itself, meant to convey that this event was indeed sickening and chaotic and thus deserving of sympathies (which it was successful in obtaining). His brushwork blends together the ocean in the background with the brownish-green sky and the actual ground in the foreground. The environment looks more like a desert wasteland than a Greek island on the Aegean. Just as it is difficult to distinguish boundaries between the sea, sky, and ground, Delacroix makes it difficult to differentiate between the Greeks and the Turks. Two figures, on the right and left (in shadow), are easily identifiable as Turks due to their dress (turbans and robes) and their weapons. Apart from these, the central figures are somewhat similar in appearance: most are scarcely clothed, look fearful, sorrowful, indignant, or even dead.

There is no central figure in the painting—no one that can be identified as a hero. Instead, there is just an empty space, both above and at the center of the work. The figures in the foreground cling to each other in family groups, left desolate after their relatives were killed. A mother lays lifeless underneath the Turk’s horse, her baby attempting to suckle at her breast. Several children at the left are gathered around a red-hatted man—sexual slaves? Is the man a Turk? Next to this ambiguous figure, in the shadows, is an armed Turk. In front of him, a young couple is slumped over, the woman obviously dead, with their jewels and weapons sprawled out in front of them.

The Haughty Turk, detail, The Massacre at Chios

The scene seems less chaotic than it should be for an event boasting 10,000 enemy soldiers with an island rallying together against them; dead bodies strewn across the ground; mothers and children looking for each other, perhaps only to find the other dead. The only sign of any sort of violent movement comes from the twisting female captive on the right and the woman with her hands raised above her head, directly underneath the Turk on his horse as if about to be struck or perhaps begging for mercy. The Turk holds his elbows up on the reigns of his horse, looking down at the woman with a haughty expression. He doesn’t appear menacing—he doesn’t even look like a killer—just more like an indignant official. His sword is almost hidden, but it is there: he is guilty of killing and he should invoke fear. He looks human, however, albeit distant and unaffected by the scene in front of him. Perhaps he has sympathy for the broken Greek families before him—just as the elite of France should, in Delacroix’s view—even though they seem to disgust him.

The work is rich with symbolism and many aspects of it can be studied, especially the overtly erotic treatment of the twisting figures of the enslaved female Greek captives taken by the Turks. One of the females is only a girl: Delacroix may have included this to indicate that the dominance of the Turks over the Greeks was a violation of innocence. The poor, war-ravished Greeks are weak in body and strong in spirit. The enslaved, bound, nude woman to the right still struggles to preserve her dignity.

The figures in the foreground are removed from the violence: there are a number of Turks in the center background painted rather small in scale, perhaps in battle. Why are the foreground figures removed from the center of action? What is Delacroix trying to focus the viewer on through his use of the foreground space? — The loss of family, the violation of women, the violation of a poor and broken people and country? I think yes to all of these questions. These lost things are things that any member of society from any rank should feel sympathy for, as they are universal in that everyone has a family, most people perceive the violation of women as a disgusting act, and, back in France, the French working class are in the thick of poverty.

[...] Delacroix displayed his critiques of the world around him with appropriate levels of macabre realism, subtle technical devices, and downright fabrications—all to get his point across. He spared no expense in the creation of his work, nor did he count the cost of its frankness. He  tuned out the voices of critics and vividly displayed the haunting horrors of current events.

Fin.

Additional discussion and source of images can be found here.

Tags: Art, Art History, French Art, Propaganda, Violence, War

I ran into this parade after I had lunch at Riviore in the Piazza della Signoria. It was captivating, and I followed the parade until they dispersed near the Duomo. One of my biggest interests is popular belief in Catholicism and Protestantism alike, as they were in the 16-18th centuries, so seeing this joyous display by a modern evangelical Florentine church was such a wonderful experience. To see how Protestant (historically, “Evangelical”) belief has trickled into a dominantly Catholic country is hugely fascinating for me. I followed them for so long that eventually, someone in the parade came over to me, handed me a card, and started speaking to me in Italian, telling me where their church was and the service hours. (Curiously, although I know the church parading is definitely an Italian one, in retrospect I am fairly certain that the songs are being sung in Spanish.)

I’ve never witnessed a saint’s feast day procession in the flesh, and I don’t know when I will get the opportunity to. Seeing this parade was introduction enough for me – to just see the exuberance of the people, their joy, their excited and untiring singing and dancing. Shop owners came out of their shops, shouting “Gloria a Dio!” and clapping. The community got involved, I imagine in a similar way to how the community would be involved during a 16th or 17th century procession. The schism of old between Catholics and Protestants didn’t display itself openly: questions of theology and doctrine weren’t on public display, God was. And that was enough to unify, invite, welcome, and move the community.

Another video featuring the parade dancers and a larger sense of the community’s excitement:

Tags: Catholic, Church, Florence, History, Italy, Parade, Protestants