Day 61 – …the Virgin and Child

Sir Peter Lely, …the Virgin and Child, 1664. National Portrait Gallery, London.

Last Monday we looked at Sir Anthony van Dyck’s Cupid and Psyche painted for Charles I (Picture Of The Day 54), which I suggested was quite possibly more than a little sacrilegious from a Catholic point of view. My precise words were ‘It’s entirely outrageous’. So this Monday, I wanted to balance that out with something altogether respectable from the Stuart Court, this painting of the Virgin and Child, glowing with health and happiness, by Sir Peter Lely. 

Like most great British artists of the time, Lely wasn’t British at all, having been born in the Netherlands in 1618. He trained in Haarlem, and was accepted as a Master of the Artists’ Guild there in 1637. It seems more than likely that he would have known Judith Leyster (POTD 34), who became a Master of the same guild four years earlier, when Lely would have been 15 and presumably already well into his apprenticeship. He arrived in London some time around 1643, and his talent meant that before long he was painting portraits for Charles I. Then, when Charles, for obvious historical reasons, had no head for portraits, he carried straight on painting Oliver Cromwell. With the Restoration in 1660 Charles II knew that, to be accepted as King, he had to look like a King, and people had to know what that looked like – so one of the first things he did on his return to England was to appoint two Royal Portraitists – Lely became Principal Painter in Ordinary in 1661.

Painting the Virgin and Child seems like a curious choice for Lely, a Dutch artist, who grew up and trained in Protestant Haarlem, and who was now working in a Protestant court – even if both old King and new had Catholic wives. It’s an especially lush image, though, the rich blue of Mary’s cloak glowing with the clarity and wholesomeness of a Madonna by Sassoferrato, the Italian Baroque artist whose work constituted a Raphaelesque revival. The parallels with Raphael can be seen here too: the Madonna and Child lean towards each other, creating the pyramidal composition typical of the High Renaissance. This is strengthened at the base by the blue horizontal of the cloak, reaching from Mary’s knees to the folds by her hips. Her posture – upright back and horizontal left leg – echoes the verticality of the fluted classical column and the horizontal cornice or capital on which Jesus rests his feet. All of these compositional devices serve to frame him better. He must be supported by his Mother’s left hand, as his feet barely touch the surface. They reach towards each other with touching affection, but look out to us, subtle smiles on their lips – and maybe a slightly sleepy look in Mary’s eyes. Well, I’m sure that even holy babies can keep you awake.

I first saw the Virgin and Child at the end of January in the British Baroque exhibition at Tate Britain, which sadly closed a month before it was due to, for obvious reasons.  A pity – it was a revelation. The Lely was hung next to the painting on the right here, and not so far away from the one on the left. The latter is the not-so-obviously Catholic (from this portrait, anyway) Catherine of Braganza. She arrived from Portugal in 1662 to take up her position as Queen, and she and Charles were married twice – a secret, Catholic ceremony followed by a public, Protestant one. This might make it look as if Charles had appointed two Court artists before one wife, but the contract had already been signed the year before – not that she was present at the time. But then, negotiations had begun during the reign of Charles I: by the time he was beheaded in 1649 she was still only 10. When finally married, at the advanced age of 23, her dowry included Tangiers and what was then called ‘The Seven Islands of Bombay’ – the British Empire started here, effectively. She was allowed to practice Catholicism, and even had her own Chapel. She also had her own artist, Jacob Huysmans, who painted both of these portraits. Again, as a great British artist, he was Flemish – and so Catholic – having been born in Antwerp in 1633.

Catharine’s portrait shows her in that guise favoured by more than one Queen, the Shepherdess. After all, she would be able to look after her flock: Charles’s subjects were now her own. It was painted early in her reign, and is packed full of symbols of her hoped-for fecundity – the ducks in the bottom left, the lambs, the flowers carried by the cherub, the cherubs themselves (there are more in the background), and especially the orange blossom in her hair. She calmly strokes the head of a particularly docile lamb, the implication being that she is equally meek and mild: this sweet girl provides no militant Catholic threat. OK, so it’s a very low-cut dress, but her first official portrait was so square-laced it looked as if she would never fit into Charles II’s court.

But what is its relationship to the other painting? It depicts John the Baptist as a rather gawky teenager, complete with long, lustrous and above all healthy Stuart hair. You wouldn’t get hair like that on a diet of honey and locusts. He has the softest of camel skins wrapped around his right arm, with an off-the-shoulder blouse of the subtlest royal purple, matched with a pale pink cloak. In the crook of his left arm is a bamboo cross wrapped round with a small scroll bearing the greeting ‘Ecce Agnus Dei’ – ‘Behold the Lamb of God’ – with which John greeted Jesus. Another docile lamb (clearly one of Huysman’s specialities) sits cross-legged beside him. His right hand points, as if illustrating the word ‘Behold’, but he doesn’t seem to have the energy to lift it up high enough to point at the lamb. Typical teenager. Despite this diffidence, I suspect that somewhere in the background Huysman’s inspiration was Caravaggio. And however you interpret whatever I’ve just said, I do think it’s a rather elegant painting, and really rather surprising when you read what has been painted in the top left hand corner: ‘Duke of Monmouth’. Who was he? You may well ask. He was James Scott, and in case that doesn’t help, he was the son of Lucy Walter. Still not helping? He was the eldest illegitimate son of Charles II, and this was painted at the earliest in 1663 just after Charles had ennobled his son, and even gone as far as bestowing him with the Order of the Garter. Evil to him who evil thinks! From this point onwards he was regularly seen in the company of the King and Queen – a thorn in her side, perhaps, but it’s a very clever portrait. According to the Bible, John the Baptist was asked if he was the Messiah, to which he replied that he was a voice crying in the wilderness ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord’. The relevance to the contemporary situation would have been clear: the Duke of Monmouth was not the King’s legitimate heir – but one was on the way, thanks to Catherine. Having him painted by Huysmans – her artist – makes it look like she was totally happy about it. Tragically, despite several pregnancies, none of Catherine’s children lived. She must have led a very difficult life.

But why did the curators of the British Baroque exhibition hang the portrait of Monmouth, dressed up as John the Baptist, next to Lely’s Virgin and Child? Is it simply to fulfil the promise of the scroll, ‘Behold the Lamb of God’ by putting a painting of Jesus next to it? Come to think of it, it is a little unusual for Jesus and Mary to have such dark shiny hair – unless you’re in Spain – you could even argue a family resemblance with John the Baptist, I suppose. Well, maybe I should give you the full title of this painting. Naughty of me not to have done so before, really:

Barbara Palmer (née Villiers), Duchess of Cleveland with her son, probably Charles FitzRoy, as the Virgin and Child

So yes, that’s the reason – like James, Duke of Monmouth, as St John the Baptist it is another portrait of someone playing a role, someone in fancy dress, a genre which was rather popular in portraiture during the Stuart dynasty. But who was Barbara Villiers? The favourite mistress of Charles II in the 1660s. And Charles FitzRoy? Well, ‘Fitz’ comes from the French ‘Fils’ meaning ‘son’, and ‘Roy’ comes from ‘Roi’, meaning ‘King’ – Charles, son of the King. So this is the King’s favourite mistress, and one of his illegitimate sons (to be honest they don’t even know which one) dressed as the Virgin and Child. And if that’s not ‘entirely outrageous’ I don’t know what is. 

Day 60 – Psyche VI: ‘Resolution?’

Workshop of Raphael, The Story of Psyche, 1518-19, Villa Farnesina, Rome.

I had no idea this rom-com would involve so many episodes! But it is a great story, with some lovely paintings associated with it. And even if Apuleius didn’t tell it exactly as I am – well, my version seems to match the paintings… This week we move from Mantua to Rome – having stopped off in between somewhat out of the way in Stuart England. Cupid and Psyche are re-united, and both are awake, so now all they have to do is to get everyone else on their side. But before they do that, let’s put this cycle in context.

Raphael’s frescoes were designed for a garden loggia in what is now called the Villa Farnesina, built by the Sienese artist and architect Baldassare Peruzzi for banker Agostino Chigi, also from Siena, between 1506 and 1510. It is, like the Palazzo Te which houses Giulio Romano’s Psyche Cycle, a suburban villa, i.e. outside the city walls. It seems very close to the centre of Rome these days, but even now you pass through one of the gates in the city walls on your way there. It is in the Trastevere, the part of Rome which is, as its name suggests, ‘beyond the Tiber’. The easiest way to get there is over the charming pedestrian Ponte Sisto, built for Pope Sixtus IV (who, as well as the Sistine Bridge, was also responsible for the Sistine Chapel), to facilitate the movement of pilgrims through Rome during the Jubilee Year of 1475.  Sixtus’s nephew, Julius II, collaborated with Agostino Chigi to have two roads constructed, one from either end of the bridge, but both heading, more or less, towards the Vatican – thus enabling the pilgrims to get there even more quickly. It also freed up plots of land which people could build on. In other words, it was a property scam. One of the lots on the Trastevere side was taken by Chigi himself, out in the countryside, by the river, a perfect place to get away from the city and have fun – and he really did. The stories of excess consumption, and conspicuous display, are legion. But back to the art.

Nowadays you enter though the back door, in the middle of a rational, calm and orderly façade. No sense of the heavy stonework, or rustication, associated with the defensive palaces of the city. But you should have entered here, through the garden, and into the garden loggia – those big, reflective glass windows wouldn’t have been there in the five central arches. The River Tiber (‘Il Tevere’) is on our left, and at the back left corner of the Villa there was another loggia, but that was closed in during the 17th Century.  We are going to enter through the central door, head to the right-hand end of the loggia and look back.

This is the view you would have, with the frescoes designed by Raphael and executed by his workshop covering the ceiling. They should have carried on down the walls, but stopped at the bottom of the vaulting. Not even the lunettes are part of the original scheme. Work seems to have broken off when they had to move the scaffolding from the ceiling to the walls in 1519, probably because Raphael was busy – and then ill: he died the following year. It does, however, include the pendentives – the triangular elements hanging down as part of the vaulting. If you look at the end wall, the central pendentive shows Venus pointing out Cupid to Psyche, a painting which I included in ‘Psyche I’ (Picture Of The Day 43).

In context, you can see that Venus could so easily be pointing at any beautiful woman arriving in the loggia from the garden. There are two theories about the reason why this story was chosen to decorate the loggia… one is that it celebrates Chigi’s recent marriage, in which case, it would complement the beauty of his young wife, who must have been, like Psyche, more beautiful than Venus. The other theory is that, as a suburban villa, it was a place to get away – and entertain your mistress, which is precisely what Federico II was supposed to have done in Mantua. As it happens, Chigi’s marriage, which took place in 1519, was to his mistress, and the Pope legitimised their four children… so both versions are true, although the decoration was started before their marriage. As Giulio Romano was a member of Raphael’s workshop while it was being painted, I wonder if he suggested the subject to Federico II, Marquis of Mantua, for the Palazzo Te? It’s an intriguing thought… Another intriguing coincidence: Pope Julius II, who commissioned and prayed underneath Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, would have dined under these frescoes.  Indeed, his friendship with Chigi was so great that the latter was granted the right to use the Pope’s family coat of arms, which is in the middle of the ceiling. In Mantua, when Holy Roman Emperor Charles V visited in 1530, he chose the Sala di Psiche as the room for a slap-up banquet. And promoted Federico from Marquis to Duke. What is it about this story that made it so attractive to the two most powerful men in Europe?

The conception of Raphael’s frescoes is delightful, even if the walls were never finished, meaning that we don’t see most of the story that we’ve heard so far. As a loggia, it would have been open to the garden – and Raphael continued this idea with the conceit that we are still in the open air, but covered by pergola hung with two tapestries. Their edges are scalloped from the tension of the ties with which they are attached, and in the gaps between the tapestries and the pergola we can see the sky. In the pendentives and the vaulting above the lunettes it is only sky, which is nevertheless inhabited by episodes from the story and by amoretti carrying symbols of the Olympian gods. The garlands themselves, wrapped around the frame of the pergola, were painted by Giovanni Martine da Udine and contain over 170 different species of fruits and flowers, beautifully observed, and occasionally obscene. The pendentive with Venus and Cupid is to the left of this photograph, and we saw the two at the top right last week (POTD 53) – they show Psyche returning with water from the Styx (top right) and Venus, surprised at receiving it (top, right of centre). I’m going to look at the four along the bottom first, and then the two at the top left. Notice how Cupid is pointing down in the bottom left pendentive: Psyche has entered the loggia, it seems, and he is pointing her out to three women. 

The three women are all naked (what was the Pope to think?) and although nudity is usually associated with Venus they can’t all be her. They are her companions, the Three Graces, and are seen alongside her in paintings such as Botticelli’s Primavera. Basically, Cupid is working on his mother by trying to get everyone else on his side. Earlier Psyche had unsuccessfully tried to get the help of Juno (there’s a Giulio Romano painting of that in the Palazzo Te, which I didn’t manage to include), and she had also sought the help of Ceres. It was Ceres who suggested that she should go and ask Venus about Cupid, as it happens – not without a little malice, I suspect. As Cupid is talking to the Graces, one of them looks earnestly down at Psyche, while the other two are enchanted by Cupid. However all three look as if he’s in for a rough ride – they know what mum’s like, after all. In the next pendentive we see Ceres, with cereal in her hair, and Juno, with a peacock at her feet (see POTD 32).  Venus is on the left – typically naked. Whatever they have said or done to Psyche in the past, they now plead on her behalf, but the Graces were right: Venus sneers and looks unconvinced. In all of the pendentives Raphael’s design is superb: he uses the triangular format to full advantage, with wings, drapery or legs extending to the extremities. It’s a real pity he didn’t get to do more of the painting. Scholars argue about which bits he did, or if he did any at all, with some grudgingly conceding his participation in a few bits of the Graces… although I’ve never been convinced. 

Finally, Venus gets a summons from the big boss, Jupiter, and flies on her chariot to see him. Each of the gods was supposed to have had ‘mythical’ creatures pulling their chariots: Juno had peacocks, and Venus had doves (or sometimes, swans), for example. I know that neither peacocks nor doves are mythical, but their use as beasts of burden is. I love the way that Raphael has given Venus a team of four in hand, each pair with their own yoke. Jupiter sits comfortably on his eagle – although the poor squashed bird doesn’t seem too happy about it – and holds his thunderbolt like a sceptre, filling the top right corner of the pendentive. He has the demeanour of the father of a spoilt girl – he knows she’s behaved terribly but he really can’t be cross with her – and she behaves accordingly. We’re two sentences before she gets to ‘it’s not fair!’ I think… But why is she there?

Well, because Juno and Ceres had a word with Jupiter, presumably. But also, definitely, because Cupid did. He has come hot-foot from finding Psyche in a sleep-like death on the road out of the Underworld. He has woken her, declared his love, and has now come to tell Jupiter all about it so he can get him on side. If Jupiter was behaving like an indulgent dad with Venus (and some genealogies suggest he was her father, although her foam-born origin says otherwise), he is doing the same – but more so – with Cupid. The Eagle has been banished to the top right of the fresco, and takes the thunderbolt in its beak, while Jupiter grabs Cupid’s face, and pulls it close to his, trying to look as angry as possible. He’s a very naughty boy. But maybe a little closer than a grandson should be. Which might be a sly nod to some of the rumours about Julius II. Whatever, Cupid got his way, and Jupiter sent Mercury, messenger of the gods, to fetch Psyche and bring her to Olympus. He leads the way, looking back at her superhuman beauty, while she crosses her arms with modesty and wide-eyed innocence. 

This fresco should precede the last one, really. It is at the far end of the loggia, opposite Venus and Cupid pointing to… whichever dinner guest was deemed the most beautiful. It represents Mercury swooping down among the gathered assembly to scoop up an unsuspecting maiden and take her up to meet the immortal gods. I love his total abandon, cloak flying out behind, with a look of direct engagement in his eyes: you – yes you! – are the most beautiful person here! His arms are thrown out in a gesture of triumph, almost, as if to say ‘ta-dah!!! I’m here!’ His right hand holds a trumpet to herald his arrival, and his left leads out attention to an oversized courgette in the garland above, a fig hung over one end, and another, split, fig in close relationship to it at the other. I’ll let you look up a detail yourselves, because I couldn’t possibly. What would the Pope say?

Day 59 – Virtues vs Vices

Giotto, The Cardinal Virtues, and opposing Vices, c. 1305, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua.

We have spent the last two Saturdays looking at the Theological Virtues, and their opposing Vices (Picture Of The Day 45 & 52)– and this week we will put together the remaining imagery along the lowest level of the Scrovegni Chapel.

All eight of the images we will look at today are contained within this one photograph, although it is hard to pick them out. The Last Judgement (POTD 38) is behind us, and we are looking towards the altar. At the very bottom left and right you can see the lowest level of the frescoes, trompe l’oeil paintings of marbled panels framed in green, passing two side altars which mark a transition from the main ‘body’ of the chapel, originally accessible to the public congregation, to an area associated with the patrons themselves, the Scrovegni. Just before the chancel arch there is a door on the left, which originally gave access to the Scrovegni Palace – nowadays this is where you enter. Destroyed in the 19th Century, the Palace used to run alongside the left side of the chapel, which is why there are no windows there. The light comes from the windows on the opposite side – the side of the Virtues, interestingly enough – and from behind us, where there is a window just above Jesus in the Last Judgement. Before you get to those side altars, though, and directly under the decorative strip which crosses the blue sky of the ceiling – which marks a point half-way along the chapel – there are two imaginary sculptures – Justice on our right, and Injustice on our left. Remember that Hell is behind our left hand looking in this direction, while the Blessed, going up to Heaven, are behind our right. The next Vice and Virtue are on the walls next to the side altars, with two more pairs beyond.

Justice – we’ll see her below – is in the middle of the seven Virtues painted on the right-hand wall and serves to balance them all. Reading from left to right, are Prudence, who is at the foot of the Chancel arch, Fortitude, Temperance and Justice. They are the Four Cardinal Virtues, sometimes seen as the ‘secular’ set. They were identified by Plato as the virtues exhibited by members of the ideal Republic, and they were brought into Christian theology by Sts Ambrose and Augustine, two of the Doctors of the Church we mentioned yesterday (POTD 58). 

Prudence makes sensible decisions based on knowledge and understanding – expressed here by her self-knowledge. She sits at a desk – so is undoubtedly learned – and in her left hand she holds a convex mirror, essential for reflecting on herself and learning from her past experience. You have to be careful with symbols though – if you spend too much time looking at a mirror, you would be considered vain. Indeed, the mirror is also a symbol of Vanity. Hers is a measured existence, and in her right hand she holds a pair of compasses, perfect to plot the right course, and to chart all possibilities. Plato associated Prudence with reason, and with the ruling classes. Both Prudence and Fortitude next to her look to the right. They are looking towards the Last Judgement, but also towards anyone entering the Chapel through the West door – presumably they want to catch the visitors’ eyes, and recommend their own personal qualities. I am intrigued to think what Prudence could see in her mirror – apart from her own face, that is. A glimpse of the altar, maybe? Or, if she tilted it up a little, the Virgin Mary, painted towards the top of the adjacent wall. I’m sure it is a deliberate choice to have her looking towards the Last Judgement while reflecting on the altar…

I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with Fortitude. Plato associated her with man’s spirited nature, and with the warrior class. Giotto makes her a doughty dowager, armed for war: I’d keep out of the way of that stick. She holds a full-height shield which has spear heads embedded in it, and you can also see the bolts of the handle she is holding on the other side. It is decorated with a lion, which, in other manifestations, would be one of her main symbols, and she puts the ‘her’ into Hercules: she is wearing the pelt of the Nemean Lion, slain by the ancient hero as one of his labours. Its muzzle is over her head, while the legs are tied around her neck and waist. I’d feel safer, though, with Temperance, Fortitude’s pacifist sister. Associated with moderation or self-restraint, she has sheathed her sword, and is altogether self-contained. In other images she waters down the wine – not a virtue I’ve ever been guilty of, I’m afraid. Plato thought that, in his ideal Republic, this quality should be possessed by the farmers and craftsmen – the producing classes – and I can’t help thinking that it smacks of an economy that the rulers need not have worried about…

Justice is unlike the other virtues – indeed, of the Cardinal Four, she is the chief, ruling the interaction of the classes, as far as Plato was concerned. She sits enthroned, and balances the entire wall, sitting as she does at the centre of the Chapel. The three trefoil sides of her gothic throne, and its sky blue background, make me think of Mary, Queen of Heaven – and Justice here is crowned. This was certainly an elision seen in Venice, which is not so far away. She holds the pans of her scales in either hand – but not the beam or connecting cords. And that’s because she, herself, is the balance. However, this concept was original enough, and unusual enough, for someone to find it uncomfortable, to the extent that they tried to sketch in the rest of the expected scales. In her right hand an angel leans forward to reward the good (sadly lost in a damage to the fresco), and in her left, a second prepares to strike a kneeling malefactor, distributive and retributive justice respectively. 

Opposing these four we see Injustice (he’s below), Anger, Inconstancy and Foolishness. Looking at this wall, the Last Judgement – and the entrance – are towards our left, and that is the direction that most characters look. From the right, this time, so moving away from the altar, Foolishness looks foolish, its that simple. Waving a stick, with a crown of feathers, and ragged clothes, this could be a medieval Fool, perhaps, but not a witty one, not with the insight we see in Shakespeare. Inconstancy – lacking the solidity, the firmness, the dependability of Fortitude, rides a wheel along a sloping marbled floor, out of control and, thus, completely unreliable. Anger – or Wrath – the only Vice who is also a Deadly Sin – rents her clothes, and lets her hair run free. They are a pretty unattractive bunch, which is probably just as well: we wouldn’t want to be like them. Let’s compare Injustice with his opposite.

She sits comfortable, serene and secure, in the decorative elegance of her ecclesiastically-flavoured throne: she embodies the scales of Justice. He looks away – towards the final Judgement, with a billhook and sword, but his domain is overgrown – no husbandry here. His throne is a fortified gateway to a walled city, but the walls are crumbling with Injustice’s neglect, and the floor is eroding away.  These two pivotal personifications each have a predella – an image often seen at the bottom of an altarpiece, illuminating the image above. In both cases they are painted to look like relief sculptures. 

Hers, above, shows a courtly couple out hunting with their dogs, safe in the ordered countryside; a group of ladies dancing; and well-provisioned travellers arriving from the right. His, below, shows a pair of soldiers opposite the courtly couple; the dancers face a rape; and a traveller has been murdered. If any of you know Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s Allegory of Good and Bad Judgement in Siena, these tiny paintings say what Lorenzetti says, some 33 years later, across one and a half walls. 

So now we know where we stand – and as we enter through the West Door (which, sadly, we no longer do) we have the same view as Jesus, although somewhat lower. We can bless the Virtues on our right hand, and condemn the Vices on our left – the former will lead us to Heaven, the latter to Hell, all laid out behind us. But to get to Heaven the Virtues will not suffice – we must be forgiven. And so we need Jesus… but if he is to be born, he must have a Mother, so she must be born. But first, she must be conceived… so that is where we shall start next week!  Don’t worry, it’s perfectly respectable. Immaculate, even.

Day 58 – Ottobeuren Abbey

Johann Michael Fischer, Ottobeuren Abbey, 1737-1766, Bavaria, Germany.

Frescoes: J.J. and F.A. Zeiller; Stucco: J.M. Feichtmayr.

Today’s picture is a building! Or rather, the decoration of a building. I’ve named Fischer as the architect, although, to be honest, so many people were involved that it is hard to know who did what – but Fischer is generally credited with the overall concept of the building as it now stands. I’ve been to the abbey three times, once on my own, and twice leading groups – and it is visually one of the most exciting places I have ever been. Each time I have gasped, and I think the groups did too, although maybe not so audibly. Today’s post is a response to yesterday’s (Picture Of The Day 57) – and refers back to POTD 51, in that it is the best illustration I know that, contrary to popular opinion, the Rococo is not, of necessity, frivolous.

The Abbey has a long and complex history, but all I am going to say is that is was founded by the Blessed Toto in 764. Little is known of him, but he was certainly not the patron Saint of Oz. Or Kansas, for that matter.  Long story short – it was secularised in 1802, and re-founded in 1834. The irony about the secularisation was that, after over 1000 years of history, it had only reached its present, glorious form some 46 years before. At first glance it is – incomprehensible. Every surface is decorated – I swear, every square centimetre – but everything has a purpose and a reason. In most books the style is described as ‘Bavarian Baroque’, but that can only be justified by the alliteration, or if you deny the existence of the Rococo – because it is definitely Rococo. The architectural forms are dissolved in the complexity of the decorative details, the walls dematerialise, and nothing is solid.  The predominant colour is white, and the windows – although not visible in this photo, which is part of the genius of the architecture – are large, allowing vast quantities of light to flood the building. It is, simply, heavenly. And that is its very purpose – the dematerialisation, the lack of solidity, the other-worldliness of it all, is the very opposite of the material world in which we live and work – this is a world of light, of spirit and of joy. If Heaven is like this I want to go!

There are quite a few side altars, all dedicated to local saints and Benedictine heroes (it is, and always has been, a Benedictine establishment), but I will just focus on the central themes. In the image above, you have to imagine that we have just entered through the West Door, through the narthex and under the organ loft. We are looking towards the high altar, seen impossibly far away in the distance.  There is one dome above the choir, and a second, closer to us, above the crossing – the large arches opening to the north and south transepts (left and right) are just visible – and that is where we shall start. Imagine walking along the nave until you reach the crossing, and then looking up. This is what you would see.

In the midst of the thin blue luminous sky, the zenith is even more brilliant. At its centre we see a dove – the Holy Spirit is descending, surrounded by a circle of angels. There are seven of them, so they must be all the archangels as mentioned by Raphael (POTD 4). Light flows down past the broken pediment of a monumental arch, which is flanked on either side by two obelisks – which, in their turn, return our gaze to the Holy Spirit. Framed by the arch – a succession of arches, even – is a woman standing in prayer, wearing a red robe and a blue cloak: the Virgin Mary. She is surrounded by a group of men, looking up to the sky, hands raised or clasped in prayer, each with a small flame above their head. We are witnessing Pentecost – the descent of the Holy Spirit, when, fifty days after the Resurrection of Christ, the Apostles were gathered in an upper room, and everyone outside could suddenly understand them as if they were speaking in their own native tongues. This was the point at which the Apostles were truly empowered to go and evangelise, to teach the Word of God. All around the base of the dome we see different trees, different animals – and, above all, different people. The whole world is represented here.

If we head back half way towards the West Door, turn around and look back up at the dome, Mary is just as clearly visible.  The dome is supported by four massive arches. The one on the far side leads to the choir, those on left and right to the North and South Transepts respectively, and the one closest to us, to the Nave, where we are standing. The base of the dome rests on the top of these arches, and in between four triangular forms hang down – we can only see two of them here. They are known as pendentives – because they hang down. Each has an elaborate stucco frame, almost like an inverted pear, containing a fresco. As there are four of them, you can often guess who would be painted there, and in this case you would probably be right – the Four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. In the pendentive on the left you may be able to see a seated man wearing red and green – the traditional colours of John the Evangelist – and on the right, there is an angel reaching down towards a man in blue. The angel is symbolic of St Matthew. The Holy Spirit has inspired the Apostles to evangelise in the dome, and their message is put into words by these four Evangelists.  The arches supporting the dome spring from an entablature, which is continuous around the whole building. At the crossing it is supported by faux-marble pilasters and columns. Underneath each of the pendentives, sitting on top of the entablature, there is a figure modelled out of white stucco. They are too small to identify here, but the one on the left wears a papal triple tiara, while the one on the right has a Bishop’s mitre. They are two of the four Doctors of the Church – Sts Gregory, Ambrose, Augustine and Jerome. The other two are on the side nearer to us, underneath Sts Mark and Luke, who are in the pendentives that we cannot see.  Their writings, an interpretation of the gospels, have a special authority within the church, and are fundamental to its teachings.

If we bring our eyes down from heaven, we will see the font on our left, and the pulpit on out right. I’ve always liked Baroque and Rococo pulpits, because I know that, should I ever be stuck there in the midst of an especially long and dreary sermon, there would be plenty to look at. Some of the best are in Belgium, as it happens – maybe the preachers there are more than usually dull. Nevertheless, this is where the Priest will interpret the Gospels, and the teachings of the Doctors, to the uneducated masses like myself (I couldn’t possibly speak for you).  He would inevitably be inspired by the Holy Spirit to do this, which is why the dove appears more often than not on the underside of the sounding board.  Both this and the font are remarkable structures, but I am especially fond of the font. In the photograph above, on the left, you can just see the lid of the font itself at the very bottom of the image. It is then topped by the most remarkable superstructure. Standing on what appears to be a platform you can see the Baptism of Christ, with John the Baptist standing on the left, pouring water over the kneeling figure of Jesus. Beams of golden light descend from the Holy Spirit, which is as far above Jesus as he is above the font, and just above him, God the Father peers down from a cloud. As it happens, that is not a platform on which the Baptism is taking place, but a sort of frame. And if you were a baby being baptised, held in the arms of a priest, and looked up, this is what you would see.

It is a remarkably good thing that babies are myopic, because I think this would be absolutely terrifying. The angel at the bottom right is gesturing towards a gilded serpent, with an apple in its mouth. There you are, a tiny baby, about to have water poured over your head, and already temptation is in view. And just over the brow of a marble frame, there is a gilded relief with a tree. You can’t see it from here, but that relief shows the Fall – Adam and Eve are in the process of accepting another version of that self-same apple. And then beyond… let’s get in a little closer…

Yes, the Baptism in full view, and above that, the Holy Spirit, and even higher, God the Father. The Holy Trinity, looking down over you, which, if only you could focus, might calm your nerves – although the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is still the closest thing to you…

So – overall – we enter the church, and above the crossing we see the Dome in which the Holy Spirit inspires the Apostles with the gift of tongues so that they can go out and preach the word of God. Below them, the Four Evangelists write down the Good News of the Gospels, interpreted by the Four Doctors, who complete the teaching of the church. Once we have undergone the Sacrament of Baptism, we become full members of this church, and the Sermons we hear from the pulpit explain all of this – from the Holy Spirit, through the Apostles to the Doctors – so that we know what to believe, and understand our duties and our responsibilities, and we can head back out into the world to lead good lives. It covers just about everything, really. And ‘everything’ could hardly be called frivolous.

Day 57 – Tobias revisited

Gian Antonio Guardi, The Story of Tobias, c. 1750, Arcangelo Raffaele, Venice.

I’ve told you the story of Tobias and the Angel before (Picture Of The Day 4), so if you’d like to refresh your memory, do have a look there. At the time somebody mentioned the wonderful version of the story as told by a member of the Guardi family in Venice, and it’s taken me until now to get round to looking at it. Talking about Tiepolo last week (POTD 51), I said that he is ‘seen as being on the frivolous side of religious painting’, which reminded me about the Guardi. This is another example of Rococo religious painting which could be considered frivolous – but, as a friend pointed out, frivolity is a rather underrated value. However, the lightness of touch with which this sequence of images is painted does not make the story seem frivolous. If anything, it makes it more magical.

It was painted for the organ loft of the church of the Archangel Raphael. Make a beeline to see it the next time you are in Venice – not only are the paintings a delight, but also this part of Venice is rarely on the tourist trail. However, given that everyone I know seems to want to go to Venice as soon as the lockdown is over, because it has been so wonderfully quiet, I can’t imagine that the quiet will last. A pity, but I want to go – so why shouldn’t other people? The church is one of the oldest religious foundations in Venice – there is a record of it being destroyed by fire back in 889 AD. After all, Raphael is one of the Patron Saints of fishermen, and this is Venice, which is all sea. The current building is the eighth on the site: it was rebuilt for the last time in the 1740s, with work finishing in 1749. The organ was built in the same year by Gaetano Amigazzi. The case is highly elaborate, but a fairly restrained form of Rococo – it is entirely symmetrical, for one thing, and has a rather awkward, inorganic application of decorative details. The story is told on five canvases which have been stretched around the convex and concave bends of the organ loft. The sequence starts and finishes with the small panels to the left and right, which frame two wider canvasses, which themselves frame a bowed inner section. This creates a great rhythm for storytelling: an introduction and development leading up to the prolonged heart of the story, followed by a suitable conclusion, and a coda.  It could be the model for one of the pieces played on the organ itself. Or a five act ballet.

I said above that it was painted by a member of the Guardi family. To be honest, I was hedging my bets. The name you will most often see is Gian Antonio Guardi, the older brother of the better known Francesco. There was a third brother called Niccolò, also a painter, if rather a pedestrian one, and Francesco had a son, Giacomo, who also painted. Their sister married Tiepolo – artists in Venice were especially keen on keeping things in the family. Their father, Domenico, had also been an artist, although nothing is known about his work. He left the workshop to his eldest, Gianantonio, when he died in 1716, at which point Gianantonio was only 17. Very little is known about his work either – there is only one securely documented painting, The Death of Joseph, now in Berlin, which means that the attribution of the Tobias paintings is up for grabs. Even though most people think they are by Gian Antonio, there are still those who hold out for Francesco…

The narrative starts with the departure of Tobias – without bothering to explain any of the back story (I won’t bother to explain it either – head to POTD 4!). All you need to know is that Tobias’s father, Tobit, is blind, and Tobias is heading off in the company of the Archangel Raphael, supposedly disguised as a previously unknown member of the family called Azarias, to collect a debt from some distant relatives. At no point does Guardi try and disguise the fact that Azarias is indeed the Archangel Raphael. On the contrary, the wings are one of the wonders of this sequence, only out-feathered by the brushstrokes with which they are painted. Raphael leads the way, a staff, and Tobias’s left hand, in his right, his left hand held to his breast as a sign of his trustworthiness. Both travellers look back towards Tobit, while the dog, in the bottom right-hand corner, looks towards Raphael to see why they are hanging around. This is probably because Tobit himself is clinging onto Tobias’s right hand – a bit more paternal advice, presumably – while also pointing them the way. Anna, his wife, can’t bear to see her little boy go, and has turned back to the door so he doesn’t see her cry. He’s probably never been away before. Notice how the upward sweep of Raphael’s right wing – at right angles to the other – is matched by the diagonal of the clouds behind. And relish the feathery brushstrokes that we will see in every painting.  Detail gives way to an evanescent evocation of light and airy form.

After some time travelling they go down to a river to bathe – and are attacked by the most enormous fish. It doesn’t look like much of a threat here, but that’s because, following Azarias’s suggestion, Tobias has killed it. It also isn’t that big… it is, as so often, a symbolic fish that will fit better into the composition, and look more elegant as the boy lifts it out of the river with his scarf. The dog tries to get into the action, which is great, as it is only mentioned twice in the story: on departure and at their return. Azarias (Raphael) stands back, issuing instructions with a rather effete gesture – throughout, all characters in this story could be appearing in that five act ballet. Even the dog. I am showing you more than one version of this canvas, for more than one reason. This version gets in closer, so you can see the brushstrokes, and the canvas has been cleaned – so you can see the delicacy of the colours, which matches the light touch of the brushstrokes and the elegance of the gestures – there is nothing muscular about the Rococo. The tree in particular dissolves into an array of almost random dashes of light- and mid-greens: this is Impressionism avant le lettre. Indeed, Canaletto was the universally admired Venetian vedutista – or painter of views – up until the acceptance of Impressionism, at which point people started to re-evaluate the Guardi, and realised how brilliant they were.

In this version, before cleaning, we see more of the composition, and we realise that this is not so much a river, as the Venetian lagoon, complete with a ruined watchtower on a nearby island. And in the background on the right you can see ‘what happened next’ – they roasted the fish and ate it, saving some of its vital organs for later.

We arrive at the sweeping central section, bowing out towards us, with a gap in the centre allowing a view of the distant hills across the water. This gives the impression that the composition is a continuous narrative, showing two separate episodes on one canvas. On the left, we see the ‘distant cousins’ Tobias has come to find. They point towards the right of the image almost as if they are witnessing the arrival of their young cousin, the tall stranger (after all, they can’t see his wings) and the dog – although their gesture also serves to tie the two halves of the composition together, and to direct our attention to Tobias. As chance would have it, he had arrived at just the right time – they have a daughter of marriageable age, and, although Tobias is young, and may never have been away from home before, he is old enough… We see Azarias presiding over the wedding on the right.

The two servants carrying a hefty platter in the bottom left of this detail contradict the idea that this canvas is a continuous narrative, as I suspect they are bringing provisions for the wedding banquet. However, they are on the other side of a narrow stretch of water from the two richly dressed ‘cousins’, but are on the same ‘island’ as Tobias, so I wouldn’t rule it out altogether. If it is a continuous narrative, Guardi has feathered the two scenes together along a shallow diagonal – which seems like an entirely Rococo thing to do. Having said that, it does look as if they’ll have to clamber over a pile of detritus on their way. The outfits of these servants, coordinated in colour and loosely based on Venetian 18th century fashion, tell us that they work for a very wealthy household – but then, the two ‘cousins’, husband and wife, are finely dressed themselves – particularly the husband in his rich red and blue. His turban tell us that we are not in Venice any more – even if, to the right, we can see a gondolier… Just next to him, at the end of the parapet, is a jaunty vase, asymmetrical and quirky. To be honest, I think there is more life and vitality, more invention, in this one vase than in the whole of the organ casing we saw at the start. If only they’d asked the Guardi to design that too!

Azarias presides over the wedding, even though no one in the household knows he has such a very close relationship to God. He points upwards as Tobias kneels, head bowed in prayer, his wife-to-be kneeling devoutly and devotedly by his side. What the cousins didn’t initially mention was that she had been married six times before, and had murdered her husband on their wedding night every time. Azarias didn’t seem too worried about that, though, so they went ahead as planned. Just to the right of the bride you can see a censer burning – nicely framed by an archway, to give it an ecclesiastical feel. This is the heart of the fish which they had saved, sacrificed to bring good fortune at Azarias’s suggestion. And it worked – according to the book of Tobit, at this point the demon, which had been possessing the young woman, was driven out to Egypt, where it was bound in chains by the Angel. He must have been able to fly pretty quickly, as I don’t think they noticed he had gone. The mention of Egypt has led some people to suggest that, earlier in the story, they hadn’t been attacked by a fish at all, but by a crocodile – which would, let’s face it, have been far more threatening. Once married, according to the story, ‘… they went to sleep’. There is indeed a maid preparing a large, canopied bed on the far right. But I’m not sure it’s sleep that they had in mind. The dog, bottom right, continues to build up its part, and remains curious.

Again, two versions of this one – the first to show you what photographs of paintings often look like – flattened out, and made to look like a museum piece – and the second as it really appears on the organ loft, curving back from the central section. I’m not sure how they took the first photograph– maybe it was taken after cleaning: they would probably have removed the canvasses from their curved stretchers to do that. Anyway, Tobias decided to cut the wedding celebrations short, because he wanted to get back to Dad. And here he is, looking far too young to be married, clasping a box in his left hand, and touching his father’s face with his right. Azarias had suggested making a paste from the remaining organs of the fish (which they had probably kept in this very box), and applying it to Tobit’s blind eyes. On washing them, he could see again, he was cured – a miracle! The gathering of the figures in the centre of what is effectively a landscape is entirely charming, I think. Tobit is seated in the centre, with Anna bending down to care for him on the left, so that she and Tobias, reaching in from the other side, are on the same level. This is framed across the diagonal by the ever-curious dog and the angel, the former’s snout on the same line as the latter’s wing. Anna, Tobias and the dog look at Tobit, while Raphael looks over to Tobias – checking he’s doing it right, I suppose.

In the final scene, Azarias reveals himself as Raphael, before flying off back home to the Throne of God. He points up into the blue, as Tobit, Tobias, and the dog kneel in amazement, awe and adoration, their postures revealing their age – and their species. At the top right there is a green curtain, about to fall on this most delightful divertissement. La commedia è finita!

Day 56 – Apollo and Daphne

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Apollo and Daphne, 1622-25, Museo Borghese, Rome.

This truly is one of the marvels of marble carving – nothing can rival the delicacy of the leaves rustling in the breeze, the firmness of the roots thrusting into the ground, or the varied textures of tree and tresses – nor is there anything to match the scent of fear, and of confused compulsion, which the sculpture exudes.

And to think that Bernini was only 23 when he conceived this masterpiece! Not only that, but it was the third sculpture he completed for the most important patron of his youth, Cardinal Scipio Borghese, nephew of Pope Paul IV. He probably started work on it after finishing the Pluto and Proserpina, but then broke off to execute his David before going back to this. Three larger-than-life-size masterpieces before he was 26, it’s quite remarkable. And this is the tour-de-force.

The story is well known, but just in case, here it is again. Daphne, daughter of the river god Peneus, had asked for something rather special: perpetual virginity. Her father thought this a strange request, suspecting she might grow out of her dislike of men, but she was adamant. After all, she said, ‘Diana’s got it – why can’t I have it’ – just like many teenagers nowadays (although, nowadays, they are more likely to want a new phone). So that’s what she got. Meanwhile, not so far away, Apollo came across Cupid playing with his bow and arrow, and laughed, and teased him: ‘You’re just a baby, playing with your toy bow and arrow set – wait until you’ve grown up, and get some real weapons – then you can have proper arrows like mine, which cause the plague’. Cupid wasn’t having this. He can be vicious when he wants, so watch out. He waited until the right moment and shot one of his best golden arrows at Apollo – so that Apollo would fall desperately in love with the first living thing that he saw. Cunningly, Cupid had waited until Daphne was nearby, and shot her with one of his worst leaden arrows. If you didn’t know he had leaden arrows as well – well, he does. This might explain any problems you’ve ever had chatting people up: a leaden arrow makes you hate the first thing you see. So of course Apollo sees Daphne, and goes up to her, she sees him coming and starts to walk away – already averse to the company of men, but now with a strange new compulsion. So he speeds up – and so does she. Before long, it is an all out race, with him charging full pelt towards her, and her fleeing as fast as her feet will allow. She called out desperately to her father, pleading with him to save her honour, to protect her chastity, to change that beauty that would be her downfall. So he turned her into a tree. How many fathers would do that for their daughters nowadays?

The story is told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses – the changes of form. We live in a fluid world, were things are always in flux, and this is what Ovid explores. It’s not just the physical form, but our shifting moods and emotions as well. His description of Daphne’s transformation is wonderfully specific, and shifts from sensuous to serious: ‘a heavy numbness seizes her limbs; her soft breasts are surrounded by a thin bark, her hair changes into foliage, her arms change into branches; her foot, just now swift, now clings to sluggish roots.” Bernini must have read this carefully, but inevitably he riffs on the idea, and we see leaves growing from her fingers as well – although as yet, there is no bark on her breasts.

A while back I mentioned that I think that Donatello’s Judith and Holofernes is the first sculpture of the Renaissance to be conceived fully in the round (Picture Of The Day 35). By the time Bernini was born, the idea was old hat – but that doesn’t stop him from excelling. It is not possible to see this sculpture from enough different angles… here are just some suggestions.

It rewards continued inspection, looking at it from every possible angle, including stooping down and looking up, if you can. And if I could take in a step ladder, I would. It is also worthwhile getting as close to it as you can (wisely, there is a chain at some distance, this is a remarkably fragile piece) – or for that matter as far away, to get the overall feel of the piece. I would advise a variety of viewing distances for any work of art, to be honest – the further back you get, the more likely you are to be able to take in the overall composition. As it happens, the room in which this sculpture is exhibited is not very big.

Bernini has chosen the moment at which Apollo finally catches up with Daphne – his right foot is firmly planted on the ground, his left is trailing behind, as is his right arm. The left hand rests on her waist, but – almost as if the transformation has responded to his touch – he doesn’t feel flesh. Oddly, and ironically, her feet are not firmly planted – it is almost as if she was trying to fly away. But you can see the roots shooting out of her toes, and bark has grown up between her legs, leaving a tantalising gap between its rough exterior and her soft, shadowed thigh. It grows over her groin, and round her left hip, and that is where his left hand rests, delicately, his thumb and forefinger a matter of millimetres away from her stomach. But he doesn’t quite touch her. As his face approaches her right shoulder, she twists it away, elongating the stretch between her right foot and hand, but she looks round, involuntarily perhaps, to see how close he might be. Her mouth is open with an almost audible cry.

His cloak is wrapped around his left arm, and falls over the protecting bark, his fingers and the folds of the cloak contrasting with the rough and smooth of tree and flesh. The cloak then goes round his shoulder and flies out in a loop behind him, before wrapping around his hips, leaving a inviting gap just like her bark. If you stand at the right angle you can see the light from the window glowing through this cloak – in places it is so thin it is translucent.

When we get closer in, we learn more about their feelings. Bernini has carved their irises and pupils – eyes are always hard to capture in sculpture. Daphne is looking right round, her pupils in corners of her eyes, whereas he looks quite vacant. His lips are slightly parted – but do not seem to express worry, or determination, or even love or longing. He may still be running towards her, reaching out to grab her, but he is not even looking at her – his gaze misses the mark. And I think that is the unrealised genius of Bernini’s sculpture. Neither of these people know what they are doing. They are both bewitched by Cupid, he to run towards her, she to flee. They are acting under compulsion and do not understand their own actions. Her hair flies out behind her, between them and then up towards her fingers, where both hair and hands become leaves. There is just one delicate, stray curl above her right eyebrow. Similarly his hair flies back in the wind, soft and supple – no one could texture marble like Bernini. It is a soft and flowing variant of Apollo’s classical top knot.

Indeed, if we look again, it is clear that the figure of Apollo as a whole is based on the Apollo Belvedere, one of the classical treasures of the Vatican Museums: it has stood in the Belvedere Courtyard since 1511, and is not so far away from the Belvedere Torso which we saw Angelica Kauffman drawing in POTD 48. Bernini was keen to make his mark, not just by his conceptual and technical skill, but also by acknowledging his awareness of the art of others. An early work (and you thought this was early!), which is also in the Museo Borghese, is his Aeneas, Anchises and Ascanius, completed before he reached the ripe old age of 21. Aeneas, carrying his aged father on his back, is modelled on Michelangelo’s Risen Christ. His Pluto and Proserpina includes the three-headed Cerberus, modelled on a classical sculpture of a dog, which, like the Apollo Belvedere, is in the Vatican Museums. By breaking off work on the Apollo and Daphne to carve a sculpture of David he could only have been pitching himself against Michelangelo himself. The face of his David is a self portrait. Bernini casts himself as the giant-slayer, and the giant at whom he was taking aim was undoubtedly Michelangelo. With Apollo and Daphne he pitches himself against the ancients. 

All of this was exactly what his patron wanted – the next bright young thing, who not only had the most fantastic technique, and the most imaginative ideas, but also the intellectual grasp of the subject to make it doubly rewarding. But surely, neither this sculpture, nor the Pluto and Proserpina, were ideal subjects for a Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church? The former is another fantastic sculpture – a monstrous act, but a fantastic sculpture – and like this, it is another pagan story. But this one is maybe worse, seeing how it flirts and tantalises with its strip-tease like semi-concealment of the figures, and its tempting tactile values. It is just asking to be touched. To be caressed. To be enjoyed. So how could Borghese possibly justify it? Well, there’s an inscription on the base – two in fact, one on either side. On one side, there is a quotation from Ovid – more or less the section I quoted above – and on the other, a moral verse, written by Maffeo Barberini, who would become Pope Urban VIII, the next Pope but one after Scipio’s Uncle. They are held by the eagle and dragon of the Borghese coat of arms.  

On the left, the Ovid. On the right, in a rough translation, it says: ‘If you chase the joys of fleeting beauty, you’re grabbing at leaves and picking bitter berries’. So that’s alright then – this is a moral sculpture, it teaches us a lesson, it warns us of the dangers of physical pleasure. Which might convince me if the sculpture itself wasn’t quite so sensuous. But then, like many Cardinals, Borghese knew how to have his cake and eat it…

There are several theories about how it would originally have been displayed. Is there a predominant view, for example? I’m not sure that there is. Several of Borghese’s sculptures were placed against a wall – this is clear in the David, the back of which hasn’t even been carved. But I can’t see how that would make any sense with this one. Every viewpoint is interesting. However, given that there were so many different, and interesting ways of looking at it, which would be the best view to see first? After all, anyone entering the room where it is exhibited will have their viewpoint determined by the position of the sculpture in relationship to the position of the door. And I favour this final position. Not the most striking perhaps – and this is not quite the right view. Maybe the top left one in the mosaic up above… but, basically, there is a viewpoint whereby you can only see Apollo – and leaves. He appears to be running headlong into a tree. I think that would be a great ‘first view’ as you really wouldn’t know what was going on. Only as you walk into the room and around the sculpture would you discover the story – you see Apollo first, and then the chase, and then the transformation. That sense of the viewer’s participation in the drama is one of the things that can make the Baroque so profound, and so profoundly exciting.

Day 55 – A Straw Hat

Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, Self Portrait in a Straw Hat, 1782, National Gallery, London.

I’m no milliner, but I know a straw hat when I see one. And Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun is wearing one here. This is a defiantly confident self portrait. Doubly confident, in fact, because it is a copy she made of one she had only just completed, having written of the first version that, ‘When the portrait was exhibited at the salon, I dare say it greatly enhanced my reputation’. She knew when she was on to a good thing.

Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, 1755 – 1842 Self Portrait in a Straw Hat after 1782 Oil on canvas, 97.8 x 70.5 cm Bought, 1897 NG1653 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG1653

She is dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a pink, high-waisted dress. I think we’d call it ‘Empire Line’ now, but the ‘Empire’ was still a few years off – Napoleon wasn’t to crown himself for another 22 years. Indeed, she was still very actively painting Marie-Antoinette, and would continue to do so until 1789 when the unfortunate royals were arrested – at which point Vigée fled Paris, and ended up painting Marie-Antoinette’s sister Maria-Carolina, who was married to the King of Naples. Elisabeth’s dress has a wonderful, flouncy white collar, and a remarkable décolletage – it’s hard to miss it, as the exposed flesh is not only expansive, but also, with the exception of the collar, the brightest part of the painting. By means of a contrast, she wears a black shawl, which I am reliably informed was a must-have in 1780s Paris – or for that matter, Brussels, where the portrait was painted. And although she is not actually painting now, she was very recently – I suspect she has just laid down her brush, having finished this very portrait. The clue is in the palette, and the brushes she is holding in her left hand. 

Compared to the rectangular palette carried by Catharina van Hemessen back in 1548 (Picture Of The Day 28), Elisabeth Louise uses the archetypal, though more modern, version, far more familiar to us today, designed so that the colour can be laid out in a sweeping curve at an equal distance from the brush. It is arranged from light to dark, from white to black, passing through yellow and red, with blue off to one side, next to some pink which has been made by mixing the white and red. There is not much mess here – which can only mean that Vigée Le Brun is an expert painter, she knows what she is doing. After all, these are all the colours she needs for this painting – no more, no less. The white for the cuff, collar, feather and flowers, the yellows for her hat and the gold sash belt, red for more flowers and her lips, pink for the dress and the flesh tones, black for the shawl, and blue for flowers and sky. Each of the brushes she holds is reserved for a different colour – the white is closest towards us, with black at the top and blue just below it, for example. This isn’t quite the subtly bravura display of Judith Leyster (POTD 34) who was holding at least 18 brushes, a mark of her perception and sensitivity to colour and tone, but it is a mark of precision.

She gazes out at us from under the shade of her hat – the light is fantastic. It cuts diagonally across her right cheek, catching the lustre of her slightly open lips and the tip of her nose. One of her drop-pearl earrings reflects the light, the other is in shadow (what a show off!), and the diffuse light reflecting from her face catches the underside of the rim of the hat. The undulating circles of its woven structure are clearly delineated, and it is dressed with flowers and a feather. This is an ostrich plume, which is not only fashionable and expensive, but it also echoes her natural hair: she is not wearing a wig, as this is a relaxed portrait, not tight-laced formality. The following year (1783) year she would paint the Queen in a simple chemise – which caused a scandal. So much the better for her reputation, and her sales! Not only that, but with this particular painting she was deliberately challenging one of the most revered Old Masters.

In one of those curious coincidences, both Rubens’s Portrait of Susannah Lunden (?) and Vigée Le Brun’s Self Portrait have ended up in the National Gallery. She had seen the Rubens on a visit to Antwerp, apparently, and was impressed by the combination of direct sunlight and reflected glow – and she deliberately set out to paint her own version. She changes the fashion – from the 1620s to the 1780s – and gives herself a palette and brushes and something to lean on, but it is still an open-air three-quarter length portrait of a woman looking at the viewer, wearing a hat with a feather, two drop-pearl earrings and a remarkably low-cut dress with a brilliantly illuminated décolletage. Apart from this, only the hat is different. Well, that, and the attitude. 

We can almost tell what Rubens’s interest in the sitter was – the clue is in the décolletage, which I’m assuming Ms Lunden – if that is who she really was, we can’t be sure – is displaying to please the men, rather than herself… She is corseted, after all, to give a more Rubensian bust. By the 1780s there was a move against corseting – although it would return.  If this is Susannah Lunden, she would later become Rubens’s sister-in-law. She may look a bit flirty, but she was already married (for the second time, as it happens) – and her younger sister got the eminent artist in the end. She looks out at us with unnaturally large eyes – if you’ve seen Shrek II, it’s what I call the ‘Puss-in-Boots effect’. If you haven’t, you’re probably wondering if you’ve got me wrong all this time. She has also lowered her chin, and is peering out from beneath the brim of her hat – which is what I call the Princess Diana effect. If you understand both references we are probably about the same age…

The Rubens was a remarkably famous portrait, and had already earned itself a nickname back in the 18th Century – Le chapeau de paille, ‘The Straw Hat’. Now, I’m not a milliner, but I know a straw hat when I see one – and that is not a straw hat. The only possible explanation is that it is a felt hat – un chapeau de poil – which actually means hair, but it depends on what type of hair. This is beaver, apparently. Anyway, at some point along the line someone must have mis-transcribed poil as paille and the rest is history. Well, art history. All of which goes to prove that you should never write about a painting without actually looking at it. 

Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun was one of those women who became an artist because her father was: Louis Vigée was also a portraitist, but because he died when she was only twelve, she was mainly self-taught. In her case having a father who was an artist was secondary to her own skill and determination. She married an art dealer, Jean-Baptiste-Pierre Le Brun, which was an astute move, as he could help her find her way to the clients, but it didn’t last and their marriage was eventually dissolved. Precisely how cynical a move the marriage was on her part is hard to determine, but her connection to the art market nearly got her excluded from the Academy – but then, they were trying anything to keep the women out. She wasn’t having that though, and fought her way in. So why the low-cut dress? Does she want to objectify herself? Oh no! She knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s something I said about Judith Leyster (POTD 34) – she’s doing a man’s job, but she wants to show that there is nothing mannish about her. And let’s face it, you really wouldn’t paint in that dress. And certainly not in that shawl. Imagine, every brushstroke with her right hand, the shawl would be flicked forward and catch on the palette, on the spare brushes, on the canvas… it would be a mess. But no, not her – clean, tidy, precise… and feminine. 

Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, 1755 – 1842 Self Portrait in a Straw Hat after 1782 Oil on canvas, 97.8 x 70.5 cm Bought, 1897 NG1653 https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG1653

One of the reasons that women didn’t get to be artists was because they didn’t know about art, they just didn’t have the education. Well, that’s what the men said. But Vigée Le Brun does – she knows about Rubens, understands the brilliance of his depiction of light, and can better him. Compare the earrings – there’s no doubting it. Look at the precision of the shadow cast across her face. And look at the indirect light on the underside of the hat – Rubens doesn’t even attempt that.

So there you have it. She is an artist, doing a man’s job, but she’s all woman. And she knows about art. And what’s more, boys, she knows what a straw hat is.

Day 53 – Psyche IV: ‘The Tasks’

Giulio Romano, The Story of Psyche, 1526-8, Palazzo Te, Mantua.

Where are we? Back in the Sala di Psiche – or Room of Psyche – in the Palazzo Te in Mantua. And where were we? Oh yes – we left Psyche sitting and snivelling outside Cupid’s castle, having realised how much she loved him, back in Picture Of The Day 45. And, as I said then, ‘it is at this point in the story that she makes the worst decision possible. She decides to ask Venus if she knows where Cupid is…’ Now Venus hasn’t seen her son for a while, and doesn’t know what he’s up to. She also doesn’t know what has happened in her plot against Pscyhe (POTD 43 & 44) – because she hasn’t heard from Cupid. So when Psyche turns up at Venus’s door, declares her love for her son, and asks the Goddess of Love if she knows where he is – well, Venus is apoplectic. Apart from anything else she doesn’t know. She says she’ll try and find out where he is, if Psyche doesn’t mind helping her out in the kitchen for a while. She then disappears for a moment, Psyche hears a lot of crashing and cursing in the kitchen, and then Venus comes back and says, ‘I’ve had the most terrible accident, and spilt all my pulses – there are kidney beans and borlotti beans – not to mention chick peas and lentils – all over the place. I don’t suppose you could sort them out for me? I’m just popping out for a while to find out where Cupid is, and I’ll let you know when I get back’. With which, she disappeared again, leaving Psyche to clear up the mess. Obviously Psyche wasn’t best pleased, and sat there moping for a while, until eventually she started slowly, and half-heartedly, picking up the odd lentil, and putting it in one corner, then a chick pea in another, etc., etc., fully aware that she would never get it done. Until, all of a sudden, unannounced and out of the blue, a crack team of highly skilled ants appeared, curiously expert at kitchen maintenance and the organisation of ingredients. They ran in, picked a pulse each, and took it to the relevant pile. Sorted! And if you don’t believe me, have a look at this painting by Giulio Romano:

What do you mean, you can’t see the ants? You can at least see the inchoate pile of pulses on the left, from which flow ordered ranks of ants towards the coherent piles on the right. Psyche sits there every bit as miserable as she was in Claude’s Enchanted Castle last week, head in hand, and curled up as foetally as possible while still seated. And in case you still don’t believe me, here is a detail from a pre-cleaning image: on this scale the ants are more visible:

This is one of the episodes which Giulio Romano included in the lunettes (semi-circular paintings) at the tops of the walls of the Sala di Psyche. As a reminder – and so you can see where the lunettes are – this is what the Sala di Psiche looks like (although the ants are on one of the walls behind us):

Venus returned, and was astonished to find that the task had been completed, the pulses were sorted. How was it possible? (Hint: the other Gods were on Psyche’s side – Venus wasn’t always that popular with the others). Now, you may be thinking that this story reminds you of something else: a girl, left to do the kitchen work, with sisters she argues with, and a mother (not hers) who is a bit of a harridan… Yes, this is the origin of Cinderella. And in the original version – known to any fan of Stephen Sondheim and Into the Woods – Cinderella has to pick the beans out of the ashes, or cinders – hence her name. However, Cinderella’s little helpers are birds who fly in, pick out the beans, and drop them into a pot. They then later return to peck out her step-sisters’ eyes. Well, that’s another story, nevermind…

Anyway, as it was clearly taking longer than Venus expected to find Cupid (or at least, that’s what she said), she set Psyche another task. She pointed to a large wood with a river running alongside it, where, she said, there were sheep with golden fleeces. Her request was simple: to get her some of their wool. Psyche’s first instinct was to jump into the river and so end it all – until a friendly reed, growing on the banks of the river (yes, there are some), piped up and told her not to do that, as she didn’t want her river polluted (maybe not so friendly after all). She did, however, advise Psyche not to get too near the sheep, as they were pretty violent, and also suggested that, if Psyche wanted to wait until the sheep were resting, she could then gather strands of the golden wool that had got tangled in the bushes and briars around the edges of the wood. 

Again, this is a story that Romano tells in one of the lunettes. And, remembering that the Palazzo Te was built as a pleasure palace away from the cares of the court, Giulio is intent on being none-too-serious with what is, let’s face it, a none-too-serious story. Most of this painting is taken up by the River God, who reclines, as they do, pouring his river out of a jug. But then Romano makes him entirely watery: his flowing white hair and beard add to the flowing river – the white water being the sort that you wouldn’t even want to go rafting in (although it would, presumably, have suited Psyche’s original purpose). However, given where some of the water is coming from (I did say that this room isn’t the most… respectable… in Renaissance art), I wouldn’t want to swim in it anyway. The reed appears to be popping out from the very rock formation which is also the source of the river. With blond hair, and a suitably reed-green dress, she points Psyche in the direction of the sheep – and the bushes on which the wool has been snagged. Psyche appears to be tugging at some now – notice how she is wearing the same yellow gown as in the previous painting: it is important for characters in long stories to wear the same clothes, or you might not know who they are – just think of any superhero.

Once more, Venus was astonished. And once more (or so she said), she hadn’t managed to find Cupid – so, she sets a third task. This one seemed quite simple – just go and get a flask of water from a river. Which would have been fine, if it weren’t for the fact that it was the River Styx, which leads to the Underworld. Psyche headed off, ready for more despair. Indeed, she would have been a good contender to model for Giotto yesterday (POTD 52). Once more she considered suicide, but even that seemed impossible, as there were dragons appointed to guard the river. She reached down as far as she could to get some water, at which point Jupiter’s eagle took it upon himself to fly down and help her – he grabbed hold of the crystal vessel Psyche had been given by Venus, and filled it for her. 

Once again, Giulio Romano is in what we might today see as comic-book mode, with cartoon dragons on either side sporting long curving necks, tails and tongues. Psyche, who rather unhelpfully, given what I just said, has had time to stop and change into a green dress, is still stooping, trying to reach the water. The eagle is already there, all dignity, calm, and sobering solemnity, just about to take the container from her. Once he has returned it, Psyche heads back to Venus’s palace, her task fulfilled.

  • Workshop of Raphael, Palazzo Farnesina, Rome
  • Workshop of Raphael, Palazzo Farnesina, Rome

Raphael, in the Farnesina, imagines Psyche getting a lift back from accommodating amoretti, and, when Venus is unexpectedly given the filled phial, he shows her with the most wonderfully ham gesture of shock. We will look at this particular cycle in more detail another day, but, if you’re surprised by the slightly mechanical gestures, remember that Raphael may have designed these frescoes, but he didn’t paint them. Likewise, Giulio Romano (who had worked for Raphael in Rome) designed the paintings in Mantua, but had a team of assistants helping him to paint them. Notice how Psyche is wearing yellow (well, almost wearing…) – maybe this is one of the ideas that Giulio took with him to Mantua. Maybe Raphael wasn’t exaggerating Venus’s incredulity, though. In one early English translation of The Golden Ass her disbelief is palpable: ‘What, thou seemest unto me a very witch and enchauntresse, that bringest these things to passe, howbeit thou shalt do nothing more’.

What does she mean, ‘thou shalt do nothing more’? A fourth – and final – task, of course.  One that should shut Psyche up for good. It seems that Persephone (or, if you prefer, Proserpina), who had been carried off to the Underworld by Pluto (or Hades), having nothing else to do had released a new fragrance – as celebrities often do. It was called ‘Everlasting Sleep’ (to be honest, I don’t think this is quite how Apuleius wrote it, but the effect is the same…), and Venus wanted some. So she sent Psyche to get it… Still in green, she heads to the top of the tallest tower, once more to end it all – and, as luck would have it, the tower, like everything else, had her best interests at heart, and gave her some really useful advice. Not only did it tell her which way to go, but also suggested that she should take two cakes and a coin with her. And one other thing: she should not, under any circumstance, smell the fragrance. OK… you know where this is going.

All she has to do is to pay the ferryman (with the coin) to get over the river Styx, and then give the three-headed dog Cerberus one of the cakes, to calm it down (the other one would get her out), and so here she is in the Underworld, with Cerberus looking pleased having eaten his cake on the left, next to Charon, the Ferryman. Persephone, enthroned as Queen of the Underworld at the Right Hand of Pluto, hands over the fragrance in a white urn, while tormented souls look on… Psyche heads back out, wondering what this fragrance could possibly smell like. Of course, this is the point at which she does the one thing that she is not supposed to do. She opens the jar, smells the fragrance – ‘Eternal Sleep’ – and falls asleep for ever. And this is how Cupid finds her.

Day 52 – Three Vices

Giotto, Despair, Envy and Infidelity, c. 1305, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua.

This week, for Scrovegni Saturday, I thought we should cross to the other side of the chapel and have a look at the Vices which are paired with last week’s Virtues – paired with, or rather, opposed to: they are indeed opposite. I haven’t yet enumerated all Seven Virtues (that will have to wait until next week), but you might expect them to be paired with the Seven Deadly Sins – but no: these are Vices, not Sins – although I would assume that the Vices would lead to various sins. As it happens, they are, almost, the exact opposite of their equivalent Virtues.

You might want to look back to last week (Picture Of The Day 45), to remember where we were, but I will post this picture again anyway. It is not actually the chapel, but a very good replica of it – we are looking towards the West End, with the Last Judgement we saw in POTD 38. At the bottom of the left wall, and closest to the West End, you can see Hope reaching up towards Jesus, who is enthroned just below the window at the end of the Chapel. To the left of Hope – after the two decorative panels – there is another figure reaching up: Charity. On the right-hand wall, similarly conceived as a stone sculpture in a rectangular niche, at the far end of the wall, a figure hangs with her arms down – this is Despair. To the right of her, with flames burning around her feet, is Envy. They really benefit from being compared to their opposing virtues.

Despair has led to suicide, and although the church’s teaching on suicide has altered over the centuries, it has never been favourable. Back in the fourteenth century it would have been considered a mortal sin: if anyone who commits a mortal sin dies without repenting, there is no doubt: they will go to Hell. Hence the devil appearing above the figure, so disturbing to visitors across the centuries that it has been vandalized. The scarf that Despair has used to hang herself has suffered the same fate. All is downward – her weight, the direction of the arms, the fall of the head. What a contrast with the upward movement of Hope, which lifts her off the ground, her hands, relaxed and open, reach out to take the crown of salvation held for her by an angel. Despair’s hands are clenched, her arms tense and held out from her body, and although her weight pulls down on the rope, causing the beam it is tied to to bend, her feet still hit the floor. They cannot support her weight, and she buckles at the knees. Remember that both are next to the Last Judgement. In the same way that Hope’s gesture continues across the fresco on the adjacent wall towards the figure of Christ, the demon that comes down to take Despair’s soul seems to have flown – or even flowed – from the rivers of blood that issue from the throne of Christ. Her left arm continues this downward diagonal – a contrast to the upward reach of Hope’s arms on the opposite side of the room. And not only that, but look how she has let herself go! Her hair is undressed, and waves, snakelike, down the left side of the figure. As a contrast, Hope has the most pert coiffeur, wrapped into a bun that seems to stand up almost supernaturally. 

The contrast of Charity and Envy is similarly extreme. Both have a relationship to money – and also, to fire. Whereas Charity tramples worldly wealth underfoot, Envy grasps hold of a moneybag in her left hand. She doesn’t need to: there is a thin cord tying it to her belt in any case. The moneybag is a key symbol in this chapel, as you will remember, because the patron’s father had been condemned to Hell as a notorious usurer. Jesus instructed his followers, ‘lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’  (Matthew 6:20), and to hold onto earthly treasure, rather than giving all you have, is seen as inimical to God’s word. She is literally burning up with envy – flames lick all around her legs as if she were on a bonfire. Charity  – or Love, to give her her other name – also burns, but with the unqualified love of and for God. You can see three flames around her head, in front of what looks like a halo. I have no doubt that we should imagine a fourth reaching down behind her neck, not unlike the cruciform halo seen so often in images of Jesus. In fact, it is only Jesus – and the Holy Spirit – who are shown with a cross in their haloes. You can always tell the difference, though, because the Holy Spirit is depicted as a dove. By arranging these ‘flames’ around Charity’s head, Giotto creates a very clear parallel between Charity/Love and Jesus – God is Love. She reaches up to the sculpture of God in the niche, giving or taking – or even sharing. Envy also reaches – but it is a grasp. And while Charity’s reach is, beyond the sculpture, towards the figure of Christ in the Last Judgement, Envy is unwisely grasping towards Hell – and maybe, to some of the moneybags that can be seen there too.

Last week I pointed out that the background of the rectangular niches are painted as if inlaid with a slab of dark stone, which I said was serpentine – a dark, olive green, metamorphic rock. Some of these slabs are indeed meant to be serpentine (e.g. for Hope), but I realised, just after I posted, that they are not all the same. Envy’s background, for example, was clearly designed to emphasize the red of the flames: it is painted to look like porphyry, which is a deep red igneous stone with coarse crystals in a fine-grained matrix. Notice how the paler stone which surrounds it is veined: the convoluted patterning adds to Envy’s sense of anxiety, whereas the light marble which frames Charity’s niche is far calmer. Charity is also seen against a porphyry background, although the photograph makes it look like a different shade of red – which it may well be in the original. This red again ties in with the flames (in this case emanating from her head), but it is also fitting because red is often used as symbolic of Charity. The other Theological Virtues are represented by green (Hope – hence the serpentine) and white (Faith). 

Envy has an entirely alarming head, the whole thing seemingly bandaged together. She has sharp horns which curve back and seem about to pierce her neck, and a serpent for a tongue, which forces its way out of her mouth, only to bend back and threaten her. Not only is she burning up with envy, she is about to start gnawing on herself. She also has large ears – which may be a reference to Midas. He is best known as a result of his envy – he was envious of other people’s wealth – and wanted everything he touched to turn to gold. He got his wish, but as everything – from food and drink to his own family – were transformed as requested, he lost far more than he gained.  However, in another story about him he was asked to judge a musical competition between Apollo and Marsyas. Foolishly, he favoured the latter – and Apollo got his revenge by giving him ass’s ears. The reference to one story would be intended to trip a memory of another: ass’s ears, Midas, gold, envy…

While we’re talking about memory, I remember bringing in Marcel Proust last week. Envy is another one of the figures from the Scrovegni Chapel that he discusses in À la recherche du temps perdu, the narrator clearly remembering how off-putting he found the image when he was a schoolboy:

‘…that Envy, who looked like nothing so much as a plate in some medical book, illustrating the compression of the glottis or uvula by a tumour in the tongue, or by the introduction of the operator’s instrument…’ 

However, he learnt how to appreciate these figures:

‘But in later years I understood that the arresting strangeness, the special beauty of these frescoes lay in the great part played in each of them by its symbols, while the fact that these were depicted, not as symbols (for the thought symbolised was nowhere expressed), but as real things, actually felt or materially handled, added something more precise and more literal to their meaning, something more concrete and more striking to the lesson they imparted’.

(For more context, and more of this passage, go to the Public Domain Review)

This use of ‘real things, actually felt or materially handled’ also applies to our final comparison today, between Faith and Infidelity.

Rather than the poise of Fidelity, whose balance shows the security of true belief, Infidelity seems off balance, leaning backwards, on the verge of moving out of the picture altogether. Although she could be similarly statuesque in appearance, she is rather more bulky: she has weight, rather than gravitas. Whereas Faith holds something in each hand, Infidelity has little to hold onto but her own robe. Faith holds a text aloft, something to believe in, and this is echoed by a smaller scroll held by a figure in the top right of Infidelity’s niche. This could represent a prophet that she is ignoring, and signals that she has neglected true authority.

The discarded idol, broken at Faith’s feet, is replaced by the figure held up with respect, looked after, and intact, which is physically – and metaphorically – tied round Infidelity‘s neck. She cannot get away from this pagan god, however hard she leans away from the Hell of the Last Judgement and offers this idol to the devil. The flames are licking at her feet, too.

To be honest, I feel like they are licking at mine! The amount of thought that went into this fresco cycle is astonishing, every detail seems to have been deliberated over, conceived as an entity in its own right, and yet related to the Chapel as a whole. Nothing is left to chance. Each of these individual figures is a masterpiece – and yet there is so much more going on above them. I feel like I’ve barely started! So next week, so as not to delay too long, I shall introduce the four Cardinal Virtues – and their opposing Vices. 

Day 51 – The True Cross

Giambattista Tiepolo, The Discovery of the True Cross, Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice.

Just over a week ago I talked about Verrocchio’s lively bozzetto, or Model, for the Funeral Monument for Cardinal Niccolò Forteguerri (Picture Of The Day 42), and I mentioned that a bozzetto could be any type of sketch (or model) that an artist creates as part of the development of a new work. That happened to be a relief sculpture in terracotta, and today we have a bozzetto which is an oil painting. In case you were wondering, this should be pronounced ‘bot-tsetto’, the double ‘z’ being pronounced as in pizza, and not as in razzle…

It is a gorgeous little thing, measuring just 50cm across, and shows just how brilliantly Tiepolo could handle paint, with freedom, delicacy and precision. He doesn’t get a great press nowadays. People tend to find his pale pinks and blues a little bit chocolate-boxey – which is a great pity, as they are gorgeous colours, light and airy, and ideally suited to a fine spring day on the Venetian lagoon – or dawn in La Serenissima at any time of the year, to be honest. These colours evoke the spirit of the place, and given the vast areas of ceilings he was required to paint, it is hardly surprising that he chose to simplify matters by painting so much sky. Tiepolo is also seen as being on the frivolous side of religious painting – which is simply not true. If only more people had found quite so much joy in the depiction of saints and of sanctity, the church itself might have had a better press. 

The bozzetto is a sketch for a circular ceiling painting originally made for the Church of the Capuchins, which is not so terribly far from Venezia Santa Lucia (the railway station) or, in Tiepolo’s day, the Church of St Lucy (which was destroyed to build the station). I don’t think I’ve ever been in – but then, that’s probably because the Tiepolos aren’t there: the finished painting has ended up in the Accademia, in the same room as the bozzetto. It shows The Discovery of the True Cross, the high point of a story which is rather wonderful, but far too long to tell here (well, it does start with the death of Adam…) There are two main fresco cycles illustrating the story, one in Santa Croce in Florence (which makes sense, as the Church is dedicated to the True Cross), and the other is in San Francesco in Arezzo – we saw the Annunciation by Piero della Francesca from this cycle back on the Feast of the Annunciation (25 March, POTD 7). It is not a coincidence that both are Franciscan Churches – St Francis himself had a particular devotion to the Cross (POTD 29), and as the Capuchins are a reformed Franciscan order, it’s not surprising that they were interested in the same subject. 

The Legend of the True Cross is recounted in full in The Golden Legend. This episode comes towards the end of the story. After the conversion of the Emperor Constantine to Christianity, it says, his mother, the Empress Helena, went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to find the Cross on which Jesus was Crucified. On arrival, none of the locals would tell her where it was, although it was clear to Helena that they knew. So she had one of them, named Judas (probably not a coincidence – it must have been part of God’s plan) thrown into a pit. Seven days later he was more than happy to dig up the Cross himself. However, he got more than he bargained for: he dug up three crosses. Not only was Jesus’s there, but also the two on which the Good and Bad Thief had been Crucified. But which was the True Cross? Judas came up with a cunning plan. As it happened, the funeral procession of a young man came past. I used to think that the deceased went by the name of Lazarus, which also wouldn’t have been a coincidence, but I might have made that up, as I can’t find any evidence for it just now. I’ll stick with it, though, to make things simpler. The funeral bier was placed on the first cross – but nothing happened. It was then placed on the second cross – nothing again. Finally, when they got to the third, Lazarus stirred, came back to life, sat up, and then promptly knelt down in adoration. This was it – the True Cross!

This bozzetto might be the one that Tiepolo would have shown to the Friars to get their approval. Would this composition would suit them? As with so many canvasses designed for a ceiling, it is painted da sotto in su (from below, looking up – POTD 44), as if we are at the bottom of the hole which was dug to find the crosses. The True Cross is held aloft, with the Empress Helena, or St Helen (she became a Saint because of this, and because of her association with Constantine), standing at its foot, and pointing up to it. On the other side of the hole, Lazarus kneels, having fought his was out of the shroud, praying in thanks for his renewed life and in awe of the discovery of the Cross. His funeral bier is dark and discarded in the shadows at the bottom of the sketch. Behind Helena, in the shadows, is a Bishop – his mitre forms a silhouette against the sky. On the other side of the sketch looms the silhouette of a Roman soldier on horseback. Angels float on Tiepolo-pink clouds up above, one of them waving a thurible, or censer, while others pray and throw their hands out in astonishment.

Accademia – Giambattista Tiepolo, L’esaltazion della Crose e sant’Elena

If we get close in, and look at a detail, we can see how effortlessly Tiepolo seems to have thrown it together. St Helen’s creamy white robe flows around her body, picked out by a minimum of brushstrokes made with a loaded, small brush, in shades of dark brown (for the shadows), creams and whites, flicked on to create movement and form. Then, in an even darker brown, he has drawn in the outline to define the shape. You would think he would start with the ‘drawing’ and then do the ‘colouring in’ – but Tiepolo does it the other way round: get everything in more or less the right place, and then check you know where that is. Dufy would do the same a couple of hundred years later.

Helena’s face is almost lost behind her shoulder – we just catch her left eye, and her profile, as she looks down towards the miraculous resurrection, while pointing upwards to explain it. Her red cloak flows back to the edge of the circle, held back by a creeping figure in blue, and wraps around her to show a flash of red to the left. The colour is picked up by a cloak on the other side of the gap between her and Lazarus, drawing our attention towards him. The darkness of the forms below the red, and the purity of the shroud around his legs, make his body ring out. Further back we see the quickest sketch of the face of an onlooker – a daub and some detail – and the head of a white horse, with a rather dashing mane spirited out of two or three quick flicks of the brush. A little flash of red in the distance helps to hold the composition together. I love Tiepolo’s facility with paint, and I love his economy of means. And I also love that fact that, because this bozzetto is exhibited in the same room as the finished painting, you can, in true exam style, ‘compare and contrast’.

If the sketch is a mere 50cm across, the finished canvas is 5m: every measurement is ten times longer – or, in terms of the surface area, one hundred times larger. I would love to know if all of the changes were specified by the patrons: ‘Yes, it’s lovely Giambattista, but you can’t see her face. People don’t like it if you can’t see their faces’ – so he repositions her, makes her stand behind the cross, and look down towards Lazarus so she is more visible to us, more majestic, perhaps, but less original and less intriguing. Lazarus is also slightly turned towards us, and his bier pushed further down into the darkness, marginalized. Helena stands on a classical entablature: the story says that a Temple to Venus had been built over the site of the Crucifixion – maybe this represents its destruction. The soldier on horseback is still very present, a witness to the scene, and framing the image on the left-hand side, but the Bishop has been told to be more reverential. He kneels down, and has removed his mitre: it is held by a servant, who also has his crozier, just a little to the right. One of the other crosses lies, unregarded, to the bottom right, and nearby a banner reads SPQR – Senatus Populusque Romanus – ‘the Senate and People of Rome’. Helena was the wife and mother of Emperors, after all.

The angle of the True Cross has also changed. The upward diagonal leads our eye up to an angel who wasn’t in the bozzetto: the angel with the thurible has been somewhat demoted. The newcomer carries a small plaque saying INRI – Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudeorum – ‘Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews’ (POTD 23), an explanation of the ‘crime’ of Jesus which, according to the bible, Pontius Pilate attached to the top of the Cross. It is known as the titulus and is rather important here, as St Helena is supposed to have taken it to Rome. According to tradition, she founded a church called Santa Croce in Gerusalemme (Holy Cross in Jerusalem) in about 325AD to house the relics she had brought back from the Holy Land. The church is still there, heavily rebuilt, although rarely visited nowadays. However, some people believe that the titulus is there to this very day. It would still have been an important relic in the 18th Century, and no doubt the Capuchins would have wanted it to be clearly visible – hence its position at the top centre of the painting.

Sadly, the pink clouds of the bozzetto have gone – and with them the poetic, almost nonchalant air that Tiepolo had conjured up. The finished painting has all the majesty of a grand statement, and, when you get close to it, it has the master’s typical bravura brushstrokes – he lays on paint with a freedom and ease that looks like butter icing applied to a firm cake – but it doesn’t have the refreshing spontaneity of the bozzetto. I like both, if I’m honest, as Tiepolo excelled at both ‘modes’ of painting. But I know which one I’d rather hang in my study.