We were talking about anachronism just a couple of days ago (Lent 23), and if it seemed unlikely that the Via Crucis would skirt around a church, it is even less likely that it would pass someone who looks like a monk, as they came even later. He’s not a monk, as it happens, but we would be hard pressed to tell the difference these days. He kneels, in prayer, his hands joined in front of his waist, the thumbs rather charmingly crossed. Below the flared white sleeves is his white belt, with the end that has been fastened through the buckle wrapped around the main length to form a knot. It loosely gathers his long white robe, which is covered by an equally long white hooded cloak, parted at his chest by the praying hands. It lies over his right forearm, the subtle modulation of light and slightly-less-light revealing the precise position of his arm, then falls to the ground in elaborate folds.

He is not a monk, as he does not live a life of seclusion: he is a Premonstratensian canon, an order founded in Prémontré, near Laon, in 1120. His duties would have been to preach and carry out pastoral ministry in parishes not far from his abbey. In England they were known as the White Canons, and you can see why. But why would a Premonstratensian canon be kneeling in our painting? What role does he play? Well, if you look carefully, and consider the direction of his gaze, he is not playing a role at all.

When founded, the order was one of great austerity, imposing additional statutes to the Rule of St Augustine, which was strict enough already. We could have guessed as much from this portrait. He has a rather pinched face, with hollow cheeks, a long, thin, slightly hooked nose, and hollow eyes. The skin appears tight across the temples. He has been enjoying great austerity, I would say. The ragged haircut – possibly tonsured on top – shows his humility in the face of human vanity, and his look is one of total concentration on his devotions. Both his face and his torso are angled towards us ever so slightly, so that we can see him better, and as a result we can tell that he is looking straight ahead, focussed on something in the distance – or into the middle distance, as he focusses on his own contemplation.

All of this means that he is not involved in the action of the painting – he is not looking towards it, but rather, out, and away. He is thinking about it, even praying about it, but it is almost as if he is not there. Or even, as if the action of the painting is one big thought bubble. This is the portrait of a man thinking about, meditating upon, the passion of Christ. It is, of course, a donor portrait: this is the man who gave, or donated, money (hence ‘donor’) to have it painted. In other words, he is the patron of the painting. For many years there was no real idea as to who he might have been, but recently, I believe, it has been suggested that he could be Herman van Rossum, who was the provost of a convent in Koningsveld, near Delft, at the beginning of the 16^th Century. Our painting would originally have been housed there, but, since the convent was all but destroyed in 1572 – presumably in the war with Spain – you will not be able to visit today. Below is a print which shows what the ruins looked like in 1680. As far as I can tell, it was just outside the city walls, not far from the position from which Vermeer painted his View of Delft (Lent 23), its place now taken by a 20^th Century (?) housing estate.

This portrait of Herman van Rossum has offered us a moment of contemplation, a pause before we too contemplate the rest of the story. But his attitude tells us one way of responding to these events: the attitudes and behaviours of those present will also tell us how to respond, as we shall see in the next few days.

The origins of portraiture in Western art lie in images of donors, like the one we have seen today. They showed appearance, yes, character, sometimes, and in this case, belief. From this point onwards portraiture found many new forms, and rapidly left its sacred setting to find an increasing number of secular spaces. I will be talking about some truly wonderful examples from the 19^th Century – created by some fabulous masters of the colour white, as it happens – this coming Wednesday, 17 March at 6pm GMT. If you are interested, and available, you can book via this link to the Art History Abroad website: Painting in Parallel – Sargent, Sorolla and Zorn.

One of the curiosities of this particular painting is that the Via Crucis passes by a church. ‘What’s that doing there?’ you might ask. After all, Jesus hasn’t been crucified yet, let alone risen from the dead – he has followers, yes, but you couldn’t call that ‘Christianity’, not at this point. And apart from anything else, it wouldn’t be legal for Christians to worship publicly – and so to build anything like a church – until the Edict of Milan some 280 years later. But it’s not there for historical accuracy – it is there for the ‘modern’ observer, back in the 16^th Century. Such anachronisms were commonplace, and we’ve already seen quite a few, without commenting on the fact. All of the fashions, however fanciful (because they are meant to evoke foreign lands) and all of the weaponry represented, is derived from contemporary examples – or, as I think I mentioned in Lent 7, from the not-too-distant past. It is there to make the appearance of the story familiar to the viewer, so they can understand what they see, and find it easier to believe. It is also there to remind us that Christ’s sacrifice is all part of God’s plan: it will allow the construction of churches, and, as a result, facilitate our redemption.

However, it’s not just any church. This is the New Church in Delft, the tower of which was completed in the form we see here in 1496. This gives us a useful terminus post quem for the painting. A ridiculous term to use these days, but I’ve used it now, and anyway, you never know when it might come in useful. It means the date ‘after which’ (post quem) the painting must have been ‘finished’ (terminus – this has nothing to do with the stations of the cross…). But wait a minute, I hear you say. Well, the ones who were paying attention, anyway. We already have a terminus post quem of 1509, as the painting quotes from Lucas van Leyden’s The Flagellation of Christ, which was dated that very year (Lent 17). So the New Church does not help us to date our painting. But it does tell us something about the artist. He (or she) was in Delft. And to be honest – and I might as well tell you now, we are more than half-way through Lent, after all – that is all we know about him. Or her. The fact is, we don’t know who painted this painting, so we call the them ‘The Master of Delft’ – almost certainly male, but as Caterina van Hemessen was to have a career as an artist a few decades later, there is the very slimmest possibility that this was painted by a woman – and her workshop. Although that possibility is really very slim.

The church itself has a notable presence in art. It is one of the major features of Carel Fabritius’s 1652 painting A View of Delft with a Musical Instrument Seller’s Stall. The curious perspective is a sign that Fabritius was experimenting with optics: originally the painting might have been part of a perspective box, which, when viewed from the right angle (usually a hole on one side of the box) would make the image ‘look right’.  This could be surprising when compared to the way we see it now, but that was the point: it’s a trick, or game – another form of illusion. Between the dates of the two paintings more building has happened – the roof of the central section of the church has been raised, and a flèche, a type of small spire, has been added. And the church no longer has the round chapel beyond the apse which is shown in our detail – but I don’t think that was ever there. I think it might have been a nod to the ‘Holy Sepulchre’ in Jerusalem, the church that marks the spot where Jesus is believed to have been buried. But that’s just a guess. If you were to see the Nieuwe Kerk today it wouldn’t look quite the same, as an extra section was added to the top of the tower in 1872. However, the tower – in its original form – is also clearly visible in Vermeer’s magisterial View of Delft, painted less than a decade after Fabritius’s version. You can see it two thirds of the way from left to right, brilliantly lit by the sun.

It has this prominence in Vermeer’s work as the church housed the tomb of William the Silent, the figurehead of the Dutch revolt against their Spanish overlords – but that’s another story. As it happens, I am due to talk about Vermeer – and music, this time – some time soon, and will give you more information when I can. Of course, the details of all of my talks are included on the diary page, so you can keep checking there if you are interested.

Meanwhile, back in the 16^th Century (or should that be the 1^st?), the procession towards the cross continues, with Pilate, the chief priests and soldiers following the condemned with their backs to the church – which might be significant. But there are none of Christ’s followers or family. They seem to have been excluded.

Two men in their shirts and pants, with one, possibly both, also wearing a waistcoat. Their legs are bare. A rope goes around the older man’s shoulders, and they are led by two guards – one with a helmet, another with a spear. We cannot see the arms of the two prisoners – maybe their hands are tied behind their backs. One has grey hair and a grey beard, another brown hair and a short, straggly beard. We are back with the two thieves, being led to their deaths, and yet, they do not look the same. At some point, between approaching the city gate and arriving at the green hill without the city wall someone has thought to find them something more to wear. Maybe it was decided, before they even left town, that it wouldn’t do to have thieves wandering around in just their pants. Humiliation is one thing, but a shred of decency for the sake of the onlookers might not go amiss. Not only that, though – there has been time for the older thief’s hair to grow, and, conversely, for the younger one to get a haircut, darken his hair, and grow a beard, however straggly. Check back to Lent 19 if you want to be sure. They have also swapped sides, and changed guards, but neither of those things are problematic.

How are we to account for these differences? We already know that this is a continuous narrative – a painting in which the same characters appear more than once, rather like a medieval comic strip – as we have already seen both Jesus and Judas twice (Jesus in Lent 10 and Lent 15, and Judas in Lent 11 – alive – and Lent 13 – dead). But a continuous narrative will only work if the characters look the same – or if there is no chance of mistaking their identity. This image falls into the latter category: there are no other malefactors in the story at this point, so they must be the two thieves. Nevertheless, it would have been easy enough to make them look the same. My suspicion (and I have already mentioned, though I don’t remember when, that I had one) is that the artist had a very loosely organised workshop, and got his (or her) assistants to paint the figures in the background – but without making sure that they consulted one another. If I’m right, then he (or she) gave them a remarkably free rein – we will see more examples later on, and it might explain why Judas was dressed as Jesus (Lent 11). A simple misunderstanding…

Whoever painted these figures was undoubtedly highly skilled – look at the carefully placed highlights which give perfect definition to the shape of the helmets, and the remarkable translucent, chiffon-like overshirt of the guard at the back. Or am I giving the artist/assistant undue credit? Maybe this translucence reveals another pentimento. That’s probably more likely, on reflection. Still, I like the careful delineation of the saddle on the white horse in the foreground of the detail, and the flecks of paint that create the texture of the hair of the guard in dull blue with his back to us.

The two thieves are followed by a brown horse, with a rider who is wearing a very jaunty hat, which I think we will see again. We will certainly see a hat of the same model, but as yet I can’t decide whether it is meant to be the same rider, especially as we now know that characters might change their clothes. He looks down and gestures, and it is a gesture that is all too familiar. If I didn’t know better I would suggest that he is checking his phone, but, as mobiles hadn’t been invented back then, his hand is empty. Given that I am clearly talking nonsense – as so often before – I’m afraid I don’t know what that gesture means, but it could be a character trait. The next man we will see with the same hat does something similar. The brown horse is braying in the ear of the older thief. I know, donkeys bray, but that’s what it looks like this horse is doing. I think even the animals don’t respect these men. Who can blame them? Even with their shirts on they look no more respectable than they did the last time we saw them. Who knows what they’ll be wearing next…

There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where our dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.

Written by Cecil Frances Alexander as one of the Hymns for Little Children in 1848, this hymn, so familiar to me from my youth, became more famous when it was included in the Appendix of the very first Hymns Ancient and Modern, published twenty years later. When I was one of the Little Children it always intrigued me. Why would a hill need a city wall? And what did it mean for it to be without one? It took a while, a greater understanding of vocabulary, and encountering churches such as St Botolph without Aldgate (in London although just without the ‘City’) to understand what it meant. We don’t use the word to mean ‘outside’ any more – and indeed, I’ve just found an updated version of the hymn that replaces ‘without’ with ‘outside’. Pity. For the Scottish, the variant ‘outwith’ is still in common parlance, although, despite nine months living and working there, I have heard it used more often since being outwith Scotland.

Today we head without the city walls, never to return. We are, following yesterday’s instruction, following the white horse. Its rider looks over his shoulder to check we are following – and the more I look, the more people I see returning our regular scrutiny. The man on the other white horse, for example, is gazing towards us, though I can’t for the life of me work out what he might be thinking. His horse, on the other hand, clearly has his eye on his brown companion. Impatience? Admiration? I’m sorry, I don’t speak Horse.

Why are we leaving the city? There is a historical reason. The Romans didn’t like dead bodies, and didn’t want them inside the city – and Jerusalem was part of the Roman Empire. Pontius Pilate was the Roman prefect, after all, and even 33 years before the events we are witnessing you may recall that, just before Christ’s birth, ‘it came to pass… that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed’ (Luke 2:1). That was the whole Roman world, of course. Because the Romans didn’t like dead bodies, their deceased were buried without the city walls. As an illustration, the catacombs I have visited most often are at the church of Sant’Agnese fuori le Mura – St Agnes without the Walls. And when St Peter was buried, it would have been in a necropolis next to the Circus of Nero (where he was executed), on a hill just outside the walls of ancient Rome. When they came to build the first St Peter’s in the fourth century, they sliced off the top of the hill so that they could build a church directly over what they believed (and still believe) to be the exact spot. Now, if they didn’t like dead bodies within the city walls, they would also have to head without for executions.

Not only is the green hill ‘without a city wall’, it is also, like St Botolph without Ludgate, without one of the city gates. Of course, if there’s a wall, there must be gates, and it is through one of them that the man on the first white horse is passing. We can see the track heading off into the distance towards the blue hills you might remember from Lent 4, echoed by the curve of the trumpet from Lent 6. But is this the green hill far away that we can see rising up to the right of the track? I don’t think so: there is no one about – no activity, no preparation, nothing. So I suspect we are not going that way. Head through the gate, and turn right. Follow that horse.