In 1622, Pope Gregory XV decided that the Church had triumphed over Protestantism and he began restoring and tightening Rome’s grip on the Church’s rightful and overwhelming influence. (His successor, Urban VIII, continued his work and founded a missionary training college that would send messengers of the faith into the world.) The Church celebrated and reinforced their triumph by canonizing saints, including St. Ignatius and St. Teresa of Avila. The effects of this victory on painting and sculpture were quickly realized in Italy, but Spain lagged behind.  Italy moved away from the solemn edicts about artistic representation put forth by the Council of Trent and toward what we now call the Dynamic Baroque (e.g., the art of Pietro da Cortona and Andrea Pozzo), which was art that instructs and delights the mind, emotions and senses. Spain was concerned with propriety and religious orthodoxy. Spain was also charged with the serious task of converting natives from the New World. Monasteries sprung up and men dedicated themselves to the quiet, solemn life. As we saw in last week’s post, sculpture represented and brought the presence, compassion, and suffering of Christ into Spanish streets and churches. Painting sought to emphasize the way Spaniards should act, emphasized the importance of hope and faith, and offered people an escape from the horrors of death and plague that eventually swept across the nation.

This week we’ll look at paintings by some of Baroque Spain’s greatest artists: Francisco Ribalta, Juesepe de Ribera, Francisco de Zurbaran, Diego Velazquez, and Bartolome Esteban Murillo.

Francisco RIBALTA (c. 1565-1627)
Francisco Ribalta is the oldest of the Spanish Baroque artists. He trained as an artist in Barcelona and eventually moved to Madrid, where he stayed for 17 years.  Ribalta is considered the founder of Spanish Baroque painting. There were no original Caravaggios in Spain, yet Ribalta’s style is extremely Caravaggesque. He may have been influenced by Ribera or may have gone to Italy (there is one year in his life that historians can’t place him in Spain).  Like Caravaggio, Ribalta painting intense devotional scenes.

Ribalta, St. Francis Embracing the Crucified Christ, 1620s.

One such scene is St. Francis Embracing the Crucified Christ, a popular devotional item in Spain that Ribalta painted in the 1620s. Spain has a long, tumultuous history with mysticism, but eventually mysticism became very popular. The ultimate goal of the mystic is union with the divine. Francis was a mystic and ascetic who is seen here contemplating Christ’s suffering. Christ appears to him in a vision and embraces him. At first glance, this painting seems rather calm, but it actually has a lot going on. Christ has placed his Crown of Thorns on Francis’ head, inviting Francis to partake in his sufferings. Angels are moving in with a much softer, gentler crown of flowers to place on Christ’s head. Take a close look at the painting and you’ll notice that Francis’ open mouth is literally on the wound in Christ’s side. This might be a reference to communion – Francis is literally drinking Christ’s blood as the command is in the Gospels. While embracing Christ and kissing his wound, Francis is also trampling a leopard wearing a crown – symbols of pride and vanity, which are spiritual killers. The war against pride and vanity is especially strong in St. Ignatius’ ever popular Spiritual Exercises. Even though the iconography of this painting is a supernatural event, Ribalta depicts it in earthly, physical terms.

Jusepe de RIBERA (1591-1652)
Ribera was caught between two worlds and two artistic styles. He spent most of his life in Italy, where he saw and was influenced by the works of Caravaggio, Correggio, and the dynamic Baroque. Naples was a leading center for Spanish intellectuals and artists – it was captured by Spain in 1240 and they maintained control over it until 1860. Until 1626, when Ribera went to Rome (he had gone to Rome several times previously), his art was strongly influenced by the Caravaggisti. After this trip, his art turned toward the Dynamic Baroque style. With the help of an enormous workshop, Ribera mostly painted mythological scenes and images of the grotesque, such as The Clubfoot Boy.

L: Ribera, Clubfoot Boy, 1642. R: Velazquez, Child of Vallecas, c. 1640.

I read the following excerpt, written by Delphine Fitz Darby in a 1953 issue of the  Art Bulletin, and after reading it, there is nothing that I say that would do justice to the Clubfoot Boy and Ribera’s ability to paint with power and conviction.

Francisco de ZURBARAN (1598-1664)
Zubaran mostly painted religious works. He began his artistic career by training with a sculptor. While he was apprenticed, he painted sculptures. His paintings have a very mature, human, heavy quality to them. He was influenced by Montanes, who he knew, and whose Christo de la Clemencia we saw in the first part of this series. He was also friends with Velazquez, and when Velazquez was trying to to be made a knight, Zurbaran testified on his behalf. Zurbaran finds his niche in monastic painting. Monastery paintings require an artist who is focused and can translate the spiritual into the visual. Zurbaran did this, and he quickly became Seville’s go-to monastery painter. Seville had a growing number of monasteries. To give you an example of the scale, in all Spain under Philip IV (r. 1621), there were 90,000 monks! Like other monastery painters, Zurbaran received commissions to decorate entire buildings. His art served the purpose of inspiring monks to a greater spiritual awareness.  To accomplish such an important feat, Zurbaran and his workshop lived in the monastery they were painting for. In other words, he knew his audience. He knew monasteries’ affinities for quietness and godliness.  They wanted art that speaks openly, clearly, that’s sober & chaste, without complicated aesthetic charm. Art was influenced by the monks’ monastic vows. An example of this quiet, aesthetic but not ostentatious art is Zurbaran’s 1628 St. Serapion.  This piece was part of an enourmous commission: 22 paintings for the cloister of the monastary of the Mercedarians, who take vows of silence. Unfortunately, most of the paintings have been sold off and dispursed into the world. The Mercedarians were founded in 1249 by Spanish King Ferdinand III at the urging of Peter Nolasco. Nolasco becomes a saint a few centuries later in 1628, during the Christian reconquest of Spain. Nolasco and his followers’ purpose was to rescue Christians who had been kidnapped by Muslims and taken to North Africa, held for ransom. Seville was in Muslim hands until this militant religious order took it back in  1248. In triumph, they established a monastery to commemorate the event and dedicated the order to Our Lady of Mercy.
Nolasco’s recent canonization was the impetus for this commission.

Zurbarán, St. Serapion, 1628.

St. Serapion lived in 13th century England, served in the Spanish army, and fought in the Reconquest of Spain. There are various stories about his death, but the one Zurbaran depicted is this: Serapion dies at hands of pirates in Scotland whom he was trying to convert. The pirates tied him to a tree, slit his throat, cut open his stomach, and pulled out his entrails. Gross, right? Yet Zurbaran didn’t depict the gore of the saint’s death. His robes are perfectly in tact and he looks as if he had simply fallen asleep with his hands tied up. Scenes of martyrdom were extremely popular in Spain.  Heroic martyrs who suffer for Catholicism replicate Christ’s suffering. Why not graphically portray that suffering, the way Montanes or Fernandez would in sculpture, especially since Zurbaran trained with sculptors and valued realism? Perhaps because this painting was for a monastery, and monks desired simple, obvious, calm works of art to inspire their devotions. Zurbaran referenced St. Serapion’s violent death in a quiet manner by opening up his robes, a reference to his body being cut open. The peaceful quiet of death … When believers die, they enter into eternity and their souls are at rest, no longer battling the sins and injustices of the world. This particular painting hung in a morgue of sorts where monks would be laid to rest once they died. Instead of putting the sadness and gore of suffering and death on display, Zurbaran displayed what the faithful can aspire to: the afterlife. In this way, St. Serapion acts as a visual assurance of the rewards of suffering for Christ, of martyrdom, and of dedicating oneself to converting others to the Christian faith.

Diego VELAZQUEZ (1599-1660)
Velazquez was the Court Painter to Philip IV. His art was private to the court and courtesans, but he enjoyed great success and fame from Philip’s commissions. The Madrid court had a fascination with the grotesque and kept dwarfs at the court because they were considered to be evil. Velazquez painted a series of grotesque images. He also painted genre scenes, which are imbued with subtle spirituality. Velazquez’ most famous painting is Las Meninas, and it has endured a plethora of speculation by scholars since its creation. Velazquez’ biggest wish was to be inducted into the Order of Santiago, a militant religious order of knights. The Order had severe and rigorous requirements, and Philip IV called in several of Velazquez’ painter contemporaries and friends to testify on his behalf. Velazquez was allowed into the Order three years after Las Meninas was painted. Velazquez’ career was marked with masterpieces compelling viewers to examine themselves or the subject(s) of Velazquez’ paintings. Perhaps better than any other Spanish painter, Velazquez captured the emotion and personality of his subjects.

Velazquez, Christ in the House of Mary & Martha, 1618.

Velazquez’s Christ in the House of Mary & Martha (1618) depicts Mary & Martha’s story, told in Luke 10. This painting is quite interesting because Velazquez painted a normal foreground, but in that foreground there is a window, an alcove, a mirror, or perhaps even a separate painting, where Christ can be seen with Mary and Martha. This part of the painting only takes up a small portion and it is not the entire piece – our focus is divided between two scenes. In this small scene, Christ, wearing royal colors of blue and red, is speaking with two sisters, Mary and Martha. The figures are wearing archaic clothing in comparison to the more normal Spanish garb of the foreground figures. As Luke 10 describes, Christ and his followers had come over. Martha, the older sister, was left to do serving and housework alone because her younger sister Mary was captivated by Christ’s teachings and sat at his feet, listening. Martha complains to Christ, “Tell her to help me with the work!” He gently tells her that  “Mary has done the right thing by listening.” This painting is a visual commentary on Luke 10, weighing the merit of the contemplative life over the active life.

Who is depicted in the foreground? Is it Mary & Martha, reflecting on their time with Christ? Or are the women meant to be normal Spanish women, contemplating the way they should act? Velazquez probably meant the women to be examples for modern day viewers, enabling them to place themselves into the scene and think about their own spiritual state. According to St. Augustine, the contemplative life a life better lived than the active life.  In the 16th and 17th centuries, Protestants promoted this idea, while Catholics tended to promote the active life (good works, charity, and labor). Protestants denied that you needed good works for salvation because of grace. Why would Velazquez, painting in orthodox Spain, paint  something with a Protestant message? Velazquez manipulated the  focus on a contemplative life so that it has a Catholic interpretation. The young woman in the foreground, who for our purposes represents the contemplative life, looks discouraged. The older woman, representing the active life, is pointing at her in admonishment, pushing her to keep working. Velazquez used an elderly, possibly blind woman to represent alife of works. This is the same model that was painted in An Old Woman Frying Eggs, which this website examined in What is Art History? By using the same model in multiple paintings, Velazquez gives value to menial tasks and people despite their social rank. The fish on the table are signifiers of Christ, suggesting that the younger woman is being Christlike by desiring a thought-filled life, just as the old woman is being Christlike by constantly working. Through this painting, Velazquez  places  faith and works on the same level, which is an appropriate Catholic message. Catholics can be pious no matter if they choose to express their beliefs through monastic vows, missions, serving their community, or simply caring for their household and being good wives/mothers and husbands/fathers, which we’ll discuss below.

Bartolome Esteban MURILLO (1617-1682)
Bartolome Esteban Murillo was the baby of the Spanish Baroque painters. At the time of his birth in 1617, Velazquez was in Seville & became a master painter that year; Zurbaran was finishing up his apprenticeship; Ribalta had reached his artistic maturity; and Ribera was in Naples enjoying artistic success.  Murillo was an unconventional painter and in a short time became more widely known and more influential than Velazquez, which was due to Velazquez’ role as a court artist. Velazquez’ works were only seen by royalty, not the public. Murillo’s works, on the other hand, were publicly accessible (in churches), and he was a prolific artist who painted around 500 paintings with the aid of a large workshop. Until the early 20th century, scholars considered him the most important Spanish Baroque artist.

Murillo, The Holy Family with a Little Bird, c. 1650.

The Holy Family with a Little Bird (c. 1650) was a popular scene in Baroque Spain. Murillo depicted the Holy Family pretty normally: they have a dog and a bird, Mary is busily spinning, and Joseph is identified as a carpenter via the carpenter’s bench. Baby Christ, whose blond hair makes him special since blonds were nonexistent in Spain, is teasing the family’s  dog with a goldfinch (a reference to Christ’s Passion). Joseph is front & center with Jesus, watching over him, and Mary has been pushed to the back. This seems like a strange position for Mary, but it is specifically Spanish and was present in most Spanish Holy Family scenes. Early Spain was very devoted to Joseph, and glorified him as the embodiment of the perfect father. Still, it was revolutionary that Mary was depicted so far away from the center foreground of the painting. Another revolutionary change that Murillo made in this piece was that Joseph is portrayed as a young and energetic man, not an old man. This doesn’t seem too important, but it is, because it suggests that he and Mary remaining chaste until Christ’s birth is  extremely impressive. After all, they’re both fairly young – this makes their chaste marriage even more admirable and miraculous. If Joseph was an old man, then of course he and Mary wouldn’t be intimate and he would be more open to adopting her child as his own. Catholic Spain specified Joseph’s age between 30 & 40. This painting displays Joseph as a young, invigorated father, carefully watching over his son while his wife quietly and happily watches them interact. By painting the Holy Family in such normal artistic language, Murillo made them accessible to the public – he made Mary and Joseph’s perfection, obtained by and through God, accessible to any normal Baroque Spanish parent who might so desire to be a better pious parent. Further, by the couple’s gaze being fixed on the young Christ, so too are viewers reminded to keep their eyes fixed on Christ and remember his Passion.

Each of these artists emphasized religious devotion on canvas in different ways. Ribalta was dramatic and dark, while Ribera embraced the Dynamic Baroque and emphasized internal goodness over external appearance.  Zurbaran encouraged believers to take heart even in the face of death and inspired devotion in monks. Velazquez painted genre scenes with subtle spiritual lessons, such as the important of  practicing both faith and works. Murillo reminded families to emulate the piety, perfection and harmony demonstrated by Joseph and Mary – and above all, to remember to look to Christ and consider his sufferings.

Next week we’ll look at the art of a Spanish Baroque artist whose fun, eerie, and exaggerated art removed him artistically from his peers, but made him an undeniable force in the art world … That artist is El Greco!

Tags: Art History, Catholic, Church, History, Iconography, Sacred Art, Spain, Spanish Baroque Series

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, born September 29, 1571.

Happy Birthday, Caravaggio! You’ve had a great year. People all over the world, especially Italy, celebrated the 400th anniversary of your death on July 18, 1610. Exhibits displaying your masterpieces sprung up internationally, a couple new books about your life were published, and scholars think they found one of your long lost paintings, St. Augustine. Despite being simultaneously loved and hated in Italy during your life, your art now graces some of Italy (and the world’s)  greatest museums, and your life has intoxicated many of the world’s incredible scholars.  You don’t look too happy about the birthday hat I photoshopped on top of your head, but humor, photoshopping, and pointy birthday hats are a tradition in today’s world. Besides, you enjoyed practical jokes, even if you could get a little mean. Baglione and your clever poetry from that summer in 1602, remember? Like Albrecht Durer, when he found out about the (fake) death of Martin Luther, I wonder what you could have given the world if you had just lived another 20 years. Your sudden death caused pleasure for some, who wrote some wild rumors about your life. Your death also propelled your art into the world through the Caravaggisti and gave you international posthumous fame. The saddest part about your life, for me, was that you never lived to receive news of the Papal bull lifting the pena capitale off your head. You’ll be happy to know that in the last 400 years, public and scholarly perception of you has changed dramatically.

The following, most from Philip Sohm’s article, Caravaggio’s Deaths, are examples of 17th century perceptions of Caravaggio by fellow artists and biographers: 

• “When [Giovanni Pietro] Bellori called the twelve artists of his Vite eleven saints … and one bad man … it is clear that among these twelve apostles Caravaggio played the role of Judas” (454).
• Poussin accused Caravaggio of betraying art, and, when he saw Caravaggio’s controversial The Death of the Virgin, he exclaimed: “I won’t look at it, it’s disgusting. That man was born to destroy the art of painting. Such a vulgar painting can only be the work of a vulgar man. The ugliness of his paintings will lead him to hell.”
• According to Francesco Albani, Caravaggio was responsible for the “decline and total ruin of painting” (454).
• “Vicenzo Carducho called Caravaggio the ‘anti-Christ’ and the ‘anti-Michelangelo’ because he led his followers away from the truth” and, “just as he rejected artistic authorities… so, too, did he deny Church and family” (455).
• Filippo Baldinucci thought Caravaggio was delusional upon receiving his medal from the Order of the Cross of Malta – he “referred to the proverb, ‘You can deck out an ass with a fancy saddle and gold braids as if it were a noble horse, but once it brays you know it is just an ass” (456).
• Giovanni Baglione described Caravaggio rather mildly, given their disagreeable history: he was “sarcastic and haughty … quarrelsome…” Baglione’s biography of Caravaggio can be read here, in English.

Despite all the people that hated Caravaggio as a person and thought his art represented the decline of painting, he had powerful patrons that testified to how in demand his art was. He worked for Francesco Maria Del Monte, a Cardinal who commissioned Caravaggio’s early works featuring young adolescents, such as Sick Bacchus and The Cardsharps. Del Monte’s support and commissions moved Caravaggio up on the artistic ladder of competitive Baroque Rome, and while he was there, Caravaggio received continual commissions for some of Rome’s most important churches and influential citizens. It was in Rome, too, that he attracted an artistic following, the Caravaggisti. Killing a man, fleeing Rome, and having a Papal bounty on his head could not dampen Caravaggio’s popularity as an artist. Some of his most powerful protectors were also his patrons. He spent the last four years of his life fleeing from bounty hunters and the authorities and continuing to paint devotion-inspiring and thought-provoking religious scenes. While on the run, he worked for one of Malta’s most imposing men, Alof de Wignacourt, who realized one of Caravaggio’s dreams by inducting him into the Order of the Knights of Malta. In Malta, Caravaggio received a large commission for the Beheading of Saint John. He got into a brawl, was imprisoned and stripped of his new title, fra (brother), escaped prison in a Tom Cruise-esque legendary manner, and fled. He went to Sicily, where he painted several religious scenes and was kept company by friends. A few months later Caravaggio reached  Naples, and an attempt on his life was made, disfiguring his beloved face. With Wignacourt and the Knights against him, and anonymous parties attacking him in the street, Caravaggio headed north for Rome to further his attempts at obtaining a pardon. Mythological accounts of his death exist, so historically accurate details are difficult to pick out, however, my favorite account is this: Caravaggio reached the Port’Ercole and got off the boat with his belongings still on board. He was arrested by a guard for essentially no reason and spent a couple days in jail. Once he had the money, he posted bail and immediately went to the harbor, where legend has it the boat that had his prized possessions – including painting(s) meant for Cardinal Scipione Borghese, who could pardon Caravaggio of his murderous crime – sailed off before his eyes. He ran after the boat along the beach, and in the hot sun, fainted, fell sick with fever, and died.

In the last four centuries, many biographers and scholars have contributed to our understanding or misunderstanding of Caravaggio.  A number of these scholars work(ed) in American universities and many more can be found all over the globe, as well. A couple contributors are not art historians by trade, but have produced compelling biographies of Caravaggio, most notably Peter Robb’s M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio and Andrew Graham-Dixon’s Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane. Caravaggio.com has an extensive list of scholars who have contributed to the body of scholarship surrounding Caravaggio.

I’d like to focus on what you think about Caravaggio. I asked this on the website’s Facebook page and Tumblr:

I was so happy with the astute  responses!

• doublebifrost‘s response brings up one of the most important and immediately recognizable aspects of Caravaggio’s art: his stark, unforgiving realism. “I always loved the fact that he used ordinary, non-rich folks as his models and never went for flattery over realism in their likeness ” One of my favorite things about Caravaggio as a person is his stubbornness. He refused to compromise his artistic vision to merely satisfy his patrons or conform to the norm standard of representation. Despite painting for Roman ‘royalty,’ he still kept company with the people he wanted to – prostitutes, fellow artists, jokesters, drunkards. He enjoyed wearing the fine clothes of an Italian nobleman and carrying a sword or two. Unlike Andrea Mantegna, a painter for the court of Mantua in the Renaissance, who was treated like royalty and purportedly thought of himself as such, Caravaggio didn’t place himself on a pedestal except to acknowledge that he was a good artist and that was it.
• abbscules and deadsunflower both brought up another striking feature of Caravaggio’s art that made his art so impacting: his use of lighting. Caravaggio’s use of lighting was unparalleled in the 17th century. He mastered chiaroscuro and controlled the lighting in his painting so that it revealed, hid, or emphasized parts of the story being told on canvas. 
  
• On Facebook, Jennifer says: “I think he totally deserves every bit of recognition he gets, if not more! I’m actually not a huge fan of the Baroque period overall, but I absolutely love Caravaggio. I think my favorite is “the Calling of St. Matthew”… I love how he recalls the gesture of God the Father in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel in Jesus’ gesture towards Matthew. The dynamic between St. Matthew and Christ and the onlookers is so powerful. I also love the detail in “The Lute Player” as well. He did an amazing job of using brilliant colors and depicting emotion without being ostentatious.” Jennifer’s statement contains part of the beauty of Caravaggio’s art: that you don’t have to like the Baroque period to appreciate it! The realism is so easy to relate to, so natural, that the viewer can’t help but be drawn into what’s being portrayed.
• wtfArtHistory mentioned one of Caravaggio’s many artistic rivals, Annibale Carracci. Rivalry is a key component to consider when studying Caravaggio’s art, and this comment hits the nail on the head by acknowledging the Cerasi Chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome: “I love the juxtaposition between Caravaggio & Annibale in the Cerasi chapel, which for me demonstrates two strands of painting in 1601 ” A quick glance at the Web Gallery of Art’s page for the chapel and you can see how different Annibale’s painting and representational styles were from Caravaggio. In such direct contrast to Caravaggio, Annibale’s work is much more Rococo, if I may, and standing in that chapel, I imagine I would be hard pressed to take him seriously when faced with the intense, brooding imagery of the two Caravaggios nearby.  Annibale wins, in the end: Caravaggio’s style spread internationally, while Annibale’s style took over Italy by the end of the 17th century.
• dr-attonitus described Caravaggio’s Judith Beheading Holofernes as “theatre on canvas.” This statement sums up the entire body of Caravaggio’s work and the reaction the viewer has watching it unfold.
• Several readers mentioned their favorite paintings by Caravaggio: The Sick Bacchus, The Calling of St. Matthew, The Lute Player, Judith Beheading Holofernes, The Crucifixion of St. Peter.
• fauvinist suggested that Caravaggio “deserves an HBO show. x) But one that’s supremely accurate and belligerent.” I think we need to band together and start a petition!

It is pure joy for me to see the wealth of scholarship and general interest in Caravaggio that has bubbled up and been sustained in the past couple decades. I don’t think scholars are done telling Caravaggio’s story. I am certainly not!

Happy birthday to a complicated, talented, groundbreaking artist.

As I was preparing this tribute post to Caravaggio, I struggled with what sort of dessert I could post an image of in celebration of his birthday. By the 17th century, cakes had taken their modern tiered, icing, decorated form, but only the very wealthy had elaborate cakes. And I have no idea what an Italian Baroque cake would have looked like, anyway. I thought about chocolate chip cookies, but they weren’t developed until the 19th century. So, instead of posting an image of a sweet, tasty treat, I decided on a staple of every 17th century Italian’s diet: wine!

Caravaggio, Adolescent Bacchus, 1595-97. Detail.

I hope you had fun celebrating Caravaggio’s birthday in this post!

Tags: Art History, Caravaggio, History, Italian Baroque, Italy, Rome, Tumblr

Note: This is part two of my series on Renaissance and Baroque depictions of David.

Part One of this series explored the story of King David and, despite his shortcomings, how he came to be a Renaissance hero. Not only was David considered to be a precursor of Christ, he was also revered for his honesty and military triumphs. Donatello’s Bronze David (c. 1440s) was used to discuss how Florence’s ruling family, the Medici, displayed David as a symbol of their military power and piety. The Bronze David does not approach the manhood displayed by later Davids created by Michelangelo, Bernini and Caravaggio. What inspired these artists to create such strong, confident and emotionally and physically developed Davids?

Michelangelo, David, 1504.

Like Donatello’s Bronze David, Michelangelo’s famous marble masterpiece David is also nude. This David stands assured, confident, and strong. The massive scale of this statue – it weighs 6 tons – is due to its original commission. It was not initially intended to be viewed up close, but rather to be placed on the roof of Florence’s cathedral. It was too heavy, however, and dispute ensued as to where David should be placed. The sculpture now stands in its own alcove in Florence’s Accademia di Belle Arti.

When I saw Michelangelo’s David in person, my jaw dropped at the massive scale of the sculpture in front of me. I felt incredibly small. If the sculpture was in its original intended home on the roof of the Duomo, it would not have had the same affect on me. But here, in front of me, I am but a small viewer of a famed, revered victor.

Michelangelo, David (detail)

Scale was not abandoned in past depictions of David, and neither was Goliath. What is missing from this David is… Goliath himself. The sling that David used to defeat Goliath is slung over his back. The emphasis is placed on David alone.  He does not appear as the “boy” that the Biblical text referred to him as. This David is muscular and confident, reminiscent of ancient statues of Greek and Roman warriors and gods. He stands contrapposto, perhaps already have thrown the defeating stone and looking out in triumph. The viewer, in a way, forced to do nothing but admire David’s beauty: the beauty of the male form, of victory, of the story of a person who rose from a boy to a king. Admiration is the action that this David welcomes us into.

Bernini, David, 1623-24

On the other hand, Bernini’s David, housed in the Galleria Borghese in Rome and commissioned by Cardinal Scipione Borghese, invites the viewer to react to his focused and strength-filled casting of the fatal stone. As Joy Kenseth argues in Bernini’s Borghese Sculptures: Another View, it is unlikely that Bernini’s intent was to “render the Borghese statues with a respect to a single, dominate view.” Instead, we are invited to participate in the flurry of action:

Movement was crucial to Bernini’s sensual, emotional and flurried art.  Viewers cannot stand static and arrested as they might looking at Michelangelo or Donatello’s Davids. Instead, viewers of Bernini’s David move around the sculpture before them, inspect it, and participate the action and event it portrays. By defeating Goliath, David administers and maintains justice. In his marble form, this David represents the perpetual administration of heroic, god-fearing justice, revered and upheld by Cardinal Scipione Borghese, in whose villa the sculpture stands.

Caravaggio painted three versions of David (and Goliath), all centered around the theme of transformative justice; that is, the way in which the defeat of Goliath affected David. David is inextricably attached to and defined by Goliath. Caravaggio’s David and Goliaths represent the underlying action that made David great: the defeat of the profane giant (and, by extension, Christ’s defeat of sin) and the beginning of a pure Israel.

Caravaggio's David and Goliath paintings. L: Madrid, C: Vienna, R: Borghese

The dates of Caravaggio’s David and Goliaths are highly contested among scholars, and the debate will not be taken up here. I will use the dates that I used in my thesis. (The following discussion of Caravaggio’s paintings is drawn upon from my thesis, which, among other things, explored these three paintings in depth as a series.) Caravaggio’s first David and Goliath, painted c. 1605-6, is now in the Prado. His second, painted c. 1608, is in Vienna; and his third and arguably most famous of the three, is in the Borghese Gallery and was painted in 1610.

Caravaggio, David & Goliath, 1599 or 1605/6. Madrid.

In the Madrid painting, David is depicted as a boy, just as the Biblical text describes him. He bends over Goliath’s headless body, which wears armor, in contrast to David’s mere tunic. This is the only painting of the three that features Goliath’s body. Goliath’s hand is still frozen into a fist, his eyes gaze out at the viewer, and his mouth is agape. He still looks aware of his surroundings, and rightfully so since his head was freshly cut off and David has laid Goliath’s sword nearby. The composition of the piece leads the viewer to Goliath’s head, ultimately, which is a self-portrait of the artist himself. David is fussing with Goliath’s hair, preparing himself to pick up the head and present it to the victorious army of Israel and the defeated one of the Philistines. David shys his face away from the light as he readies himself, making the composition;’s emphasis on Caravaggio-Goliath. Even though this is a self-portrait, Caravaggio stayed within the bounds of the Tridentine Catechism, accurately representing the Biblical text with regards to costume and figural development.

Caravaggio, David & Goliath, c. 1608. Vienna.

The Vienna painting showcases a confident, physically developed, and self-aware David. Light shines down on his body. One hand holds Goliath’s massive sword, and the other lifts up Goliath’s head, displaying it to both armies and proclaiming the God of Israel’s victory. Goliath’s head drips blood and his eyes are downcast, unlike in the Madrid painting. David stares out to an invisible audience, now a hero and a brave soldier who overcame a terrifying and better equipped champion.

The focus of this and the Roman painting’s compositions could be either David or Goliath, depending on the viewer’s relationship with the story and the artist. That is, the viewer could choose to focus on Goliath in his sad, bodyless state, who, in the Vienna painting is probably not also Caravaggio but definitely is in the Rome painting. Or the viewer could focus on the triumphant David, whose victory has now transformed him from a boy to a man.

Caravaggio, David & Goliath, 1610. Galleria Borghese, Rome.

Whereas David was but a shy boy in the Madrid painting and an undaunted hero in the Vienna painting, the Roman painting displays a David who seems disgusted and unconvinced of the rectitude of his militant act.  Caravaggio scholar David Stone reflects that David is presented as

Stone makes an excellent point. Like Christ, David isn’t rejoicing in the death of a sinner (cf. 2 Peter 3:9).   In this final painting, Goliath’s death is portrayed as a tragic, unsettling event. A giant who threatened to enslave all of Israel and who insulted the Israelite God is dead, his eyes still glossy and his head still bleeding. This is undoubtedly not a pleasant sight, even if it marks a military and spiritual victory. David has lowered Goliath’s sword and he looks upon the severed head with a sickly contempt, appalled by the vileness of Goliath’s physical body and the vileness of his sin (cf. 1 Samuel 17:26).

The Borghese David and Goliath symbolizes more than just the Renaissance hero David defeating Goliath, tyranny and sin. It is a visual exploration of death. In their engaging psychoanalytic study of Caravaggio, art theorists Leo Bersani and Ulysse Dutoit write,

David was one of a few Old Testament heroes who understood eternal life and sin’s effect on human souls (cf. Psalm 16 & 51). Centuries later, the Catechism of the Council of Trent explained to believers that resurrection of the soul occurs after bodily death when a believer has “[risen] from the death of sin to the life of grace.” To the Renaissance believer, Goliath is a warning, for he died in his sin and experienced death in sorrow rather than as a “bright opening to a blessed immortality.” Death of a sinner or the pious is still not a joyous occasion for those left behind, as we can see from David’s face. Grief, horror, and confusion are involved, but the good is this:  in David and Goliath’s case, sin was vanquished and Israel was safe, and in the death of faithful laymen, they would be seen again in heaven (cf. 2 Samuel 12:23).

David’s unwavering faith in the face of death, war, and his rough path to the kingship solidified him as a hero for the ages. He was admired for his Psalms, which the Tridentine Catechism describes as “embrac[ing] the principal mysteries of redemption.”  His righteousness and repentance were extolled consistently throughout the Renaissance and Baroque period. When Saul tried to kill David, not once but several times, David never returned such an attempt. And, when David sinned sexually with the beautiful Bathsheba and subsequently killed her husband, he repented in tears and sorrow and penned several regretful Psalms.  David was a powerful and (usually) wise ruler. He possessed qualities which princes of the Church and Italian nations desired within themselves. As a king, David was quick to administer  justice to those who deserved it and quick to welcome in outcasts, such as his dear friend Jonathan’s lame son. He defended his kingdom rigorously and victoriously. As a man, David was favored by God, talented, handsome (a quality important to the Israelites, cf. 1 Samuel 9:2 and 1 Samuel 16), and he rose to power at a young age. He was simultaneously and paradoxically a human who faced temptations, the pre-cursor of Christ, and a symbol of pious perfection. His life was made up of countless admirable and godly acts, few sins to learn from, and hundreds of successful military campaigns.  David’s effigy was the perfect commission for a prince of the Church wanting a constant reminder of faithfulness and redemption, or for a prince of nations, wanting a public and readily recognizable symbol of power and faithfulness.

Tags: Art History, Bernini, Caravaggio, Catholicism, Council of Trent, David, Experience, Iconography, Italian Baroque, Michelangelo, Renaissance, Sacred Art

Save the art of Baroque Italy, nothing approaches the intense spirituality of Spanish Baroque art. Through a series of short essays over the next few weeks, we’ll explore the art, religious history, and politics of this militant, devoutly Catholic country in the seventeenth century.

In the seventeenth century, Spain was securing political, military and religious power for themselves. The Papacy had been ideologically and (in some countries) physically battling Protestants since 1517, and had been putting down various theological rebellions for centuries before that. Their response to the Reformation that rose up in the North was to launch internal reforms to improve the piety of Catholic nations. Spain was granted the privilege of taking their brand of militant Catholicism, which was slowly being refined with a new global catechism, to the New World. They had competition, and they were paid handsomely. The real prize was expanded political glory for Spain and new converts for Catholicism. Back home, piety was less adventurous but by no means was it less involved. This post will examine the communal, wrenching, detailed devotion found in Spanish polychromed sculpture.  (Note: Please view the gallery of images below for detailed images of  the polychromed sculptures discussed. Angles, lighting and (if applicable) dress all affect the way these sculptures appear to the viewer and it is truly remarkable how emotionally versatile these sculptures are.)

Gregorio Fernandez, Dead Christ, c. 1625-30

Gregorio Fernandez’ sculptures were known for their wince-inducing realism. Such realism was part of the experience of the sculptures, most of which were paraded through the streets during Holy Week. Many of Fernandez’ and other artists’ polychromed sculptures are still in processional use. Holy Week processions were a time of celebration, feasting, and mourning. Life-size, detailed, and poseable polychromed sculptures displayed the events of Christ’s Passion. Clerics and laymen alike lined Spain’s medieval streets, walking from one church to another. Music was played and prayers were shouted. Polychromed sculptures (paso) provided the faithful with visual and emotional cues to be lead into compassion, repentance and awe.

Fernandez, Dead Christ (detail)

Fernandez’ Dead Christ is life-size and modestly semi-nude. His body rests on a bed, and is a stationary part of the church in which he rests. Viewers can approach him, examine his body (although the sculpture is often enclosed in a glass case), and contemplate the dead Christ before them. The materials that Fernandez used contribute to the intensity and emotion affect of the sculpture. The dead Christ has glass eyes, fingernails from animal horn, and cork was used to build up Christ’s wounds. The detailed and skilled painting is equally important in affecting realism. The dead Christ is when he is at his most human. Christ’s body is simultaneously battered and beautiful; he is divine and human.  The intent behind this and other paso masterpieces was to induce in the viewer a state of sorrow and repentance – a turning back to Christ, and a realization of the severity, somberness, and violence of his death.

Piety extended from king to subject, from clerics to laymen, and from artists to viewers. By necessity, artists were Catholic, and firsthand accounts sometimes shed light on their individual acts of faithfulness. Antonio Palomino, an 18th-century Spanish art historian and painter, muses

Indeed, such practices of piety welcomed a large resurgance in Baroque western Europe, many thanks to Church’s reforms. In his Spiritual Exercises, the Jesuit father St. Ignatius instructs the faithful to

Juan Martinez Montanes, Christo de la Clemecia, 1603-4.

It was this type of deep contemplation that pasos and Holy Week processions intended to instill – directly or indirectly, obviously or not – in the populous.

Juan Martinez Montanes’ pasos don’t exhibit obvious signs of torture and gore like those of Fernandez, but they nevertheless are still meant to stir up compassion. He reduced stories to only their necessities. His Christo de la Pasion  (below) has flexible limbs and is meant to be dressed up. This Christo transforms the streets of Baroque Seville into the Stations of the Cross, recreating Christ’s passion. Indeed, as you can see from the gallery of images below, his Christo is eerily human.

The creation of pasos such as the Christo is a team effort, just as they are made to be experienced by community. Montanes, Fernandez, and  other Spanish paso sculptors collaborated  with painters and consulted their patrons to ensure that the finished work was up to the high standards of the new, post-Trent Catechism, which charged artists that art must be accurate, didactic and devotion-inspiring. Pasos could be painted by famous artists who did not limit their careers only to these monuments of wood. Pacheco, the teacher of Velazquez, painted Montanes’ Christo de la Pasion. The caretakers of the church in which the paso rests during the rest of the year (non-Holy Week) are responsible for the upkeep of their pasos.

Juan Martinez Montanes, Christo de la Pasion, c. 1618, Seville.

Devotion-inspiring art was not limited to sculpture in Baroque Spain. Painting was, in a certain way, a wider and more accessible medium for artists and their patrons to communicate with the public and elite sectors. For next week’s post in the series, we’ll explore the Caravaggesque art of Velazquez, Zurbaran, Ribalta, and other influential painters. Many of their religious scenes draw from pasos, which were unavoidable, and, of course, acknowledge the Tridentine Church’s reforms. The new boundaries set forth for artistic representation will be explained in more depth as they relate to painting.

For more information about paso sculptures (which are not limited to representations of Christ’s passion), I highly recommend that you explore the National Gallery’s slideshow of their 2010 exhibition, The Sacred Made Real.

Tags: Art History, Artistic Intention, Baroque, Catholic, Church, Experience, Jesuits, Parade, Sacred Art, Spain, Spanish Baroque Series