Welcome back to our course The Great Masters of European Art. This week we’ll be looking at the art produced in Italy and Spain during the 17th century – a period of art known as the Baroque. This term comes from the Portuguese word for an irregularly shaped pearl, and wasn’t originally meant as a term of praise. To its critics, baroque art seemed misshapen and off-balance, like an imperfect pearl. It wasn’t until the middle of the 19th century that Baroque became a positive term for the ornate and complex qualities of 17th-century art, music and literature. Eventually, the word came to be given to the historical period as a whole.
So what were the qualities that earned Baroque art its derogatory name? They were actually rather exciting! The Baroque style is characterised by a sense of drama, exuberance and grandeur. It emerged around 1600 in Rome, and spread across most of Europe and Latin America across all art forms, including sculpture, painting, architecture, and music. Baroque paintings often emphasise the most dramatic moment or aspect of a story, as we’ll be seeing.
This new style found support and patronage principally among two groups: on the one hand, the aristocracy, who projected their wealth and power through exuberant art and architectures; and on the other hand, the Catholic Church. This period is known as the Counter Reformation, when the Catholic Church set out to reform itself in response to the rise of Protestantism in northern Europe. Protestants decried the use of images in religious practice, but the Catholic Church recognized its value. Art had a more immediate impact than the written word, and was also more accessible, reaching both the literate and illiterate. But it was also an effective tool for inspiring devotion, through its drama and emotional involvement. As a result, the most popular subjects were the most compelling – for example, Christ’s sacrifice, the suffering of martyrs, and the visions of the saints – which were all depicted in a style that was persuasive, involving and dramatic.
Caravaggio
The most famous and innovative exponent of this approach was Caravaggio. His controversial paintings were hugely influential on generations of painters across Europe. Caravaggio injected his scenes with powerful drama, through his bold contrasts of light and shadow, known as chiaroscuro, Italian for light and dark. This had existed before Caravaggio of course, but he made it a hallmark of his art, exaggerating the darkness and brightness for dramatic effect, and transitioning abruptly from one to the other – much like a film director might do today. Caravaggio also enhanced the immediacy of his scenes by creating tightly cropped compositions, with figures almost bursting out of the canvas, which involves viewers closely with the scene depicted. And last but not least, he depicted religious figures as ordinary, everyday people – often with dirty feet and ragged clothes, which made them more familiar, but horrified contemporary audiences.
Caravaggio’s life was as dramatic as his paintings. By all accounts, he was rebellious, arrogant, and often involved in street brawls; he was even accused of murder. His real name was Michelangelo Merisi, but he was known after his place of birth: Caravaggio in Lombardy in northern Italy. In 1592, when he was 21, he moved to Rome. There, he specialised in still life paintings of fruit and flowers – a Lombard tradition – and also painted half-length figures of young boys. He initially struggled, but in 1596, he caught the attention of an eminent cardinal called Francesco del Monte. Through the cardinal's circle, in 1600 Caravaggio received his first public commission – in the Contarelli Chapel in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi. His innovative approach to this commission caused sensation. His painting of The Calling of St. Matthew brought him overnight success, and proved to be hugely influential on younger artists in Rome.
It shows the apostle Matthew, who was a tax collector before being called by Jesus to join the group of disciples. Caravaggio depicts the moment described in the Gospel of Matthew in the Bible, which reads: ‘Jesus saw a man named Matthew at his seat in the custom house, and said to him, 'Follow me,' and Matthew rose and followed Him’. Here, Matthew sits at a table with four men, in what looks like an ordinary Roman tavern as Jesus and Peter enter the room on the right. Jesus points at Matthew, who points at himself, seemingly in disbelief that he has been singled out. His face is lit by a beam of light, like a spotlight, which also illuminates his companions at the table. Symbolically, this light may represent divine light arriving in pagan darkness. Christ’s halo is only just visible, and his feet are bare, in contrast to the well-dressed taxmen, all hunched over their money. Their very worldly life is abruptly interrupted by the divine presence of Christ.
What shocked Caravaggio’s contemporaries was the way these biblical characters were shown as ordinary people, with rough and distinctive faces. Also startling was the fact that he showed them in contemporary surroundings – as if they lived in the Rome of his day. This was a stark change from the idealised beauty of High Renaissance art, which we heard about in week two.
One of Caravaggio’s most celebrated works is his Supper at Emmaus, now at the National Gallery in London. It’s a large painting – almost 2 meters wide – and the figures are near life-size, which makes us seem close to the scene depicted. At first glance, it seems to be an ordinary meal: a group of friends gathered at a table for supper. But this is in fact a religious scene. In the Bible, the story goes that two of Jesus's apostles were walking along the road to Emmaus after the Crucifixion, and along the way they met a stranger, who walked with them. He was in fact the resurrected Jesus, but they didn’t recognise him. When they sat down to supper, Christ broke the bread, and at that moment his disciples suddenly realized who he was.
Caravaggio captures a split-second of absolute shock. The disciples respond dramatically. The one on the left pushes back his chair – stunned, and the one on the right throws out his arms in amazement; it’s as if he’s reaching into our space. Placed at the centre of the composition, and wearing a bright red garment, Christ is the focus of the painting; and the way his hand is held out in a gesture of blessing also invites us into the painting. Notice that the hand is foreshortened; which is the word for when an object or body part is distorted to make it look like it’s projecting into our space. We saw foreshortening in Raphael’s School of Athens in week two, but in Caravaggio’s work, it becomes much more exaggerated.
On the table, the basket of fruit seems to be teetering over the edge, which adds to the dramatic tension. You’ll remember that Caravaggio specialised in still life at the beginning of his career, and here, he described the fruit very carefully – to the extent that we see the mottles and decay. Like the basket, the table too seems to project outwards from the painted space and into ours, which makes us – the viewers – feel like there’s a space for us too at the table.
And we mustn’t forget the light: the scene is theatrically lit, with a strong light falling on Christ’s face, making it stand out against the dark background: notice how the shadow behind his head serves as a kind of halo. This bright light highlights all the details and textures, like the tear in the Apostle’s robe, the joinery in the furniture, and the Apostle’s red nose. So in this ordinary tavern, we are witnessing a miracle: the moment when the divine enters the everyday world. The divine becomes almost tangible, which would have reaffirmed the faith of those viewing this scene.
Another great example of Caravaggio’s dramatic style is The Deposition, also known as The Entombment of Christ, painted in 1604, and now in the Vatican Museums. Standing at three meters tall, this is an enormous painting. It shows the moment when, after the Crucifixion, Christ's followers remove his body from the cross and place it in the tomb; among them are Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, Mary Magdalene, and Christ’s mother, Mary. Caravaggio’s painting has a strong physicality: we get a sense of the immense effort involved in moving Christ’s body: the figures struggle to hold its dead weight and ease it gently into the tomb. There’s also an unsettling realism to Christ’s body, which really does look dead, and likewise the intense grief it elicits: Mary Magdalene raises her arms in despair, and the Virgin’s face is contorted with pain and sorrow. These painful emotions are given a strong physical expression.
Once again, the figures’ imperfections are all visible: the ragged clothes, dirty feet and unkempt appearance. How far we’ve come from the idealized figures of the High Renaissance! Even Christ looks like an ordinary man, which encourages us to relate to his suffering. Take a closer look at the figure holding Christ's shoulders. Notice how his arm is under Christ's torso, but as he reaches around Christ, his fingers slip into the wound caused left by the Roman soldier who stabbed him on the cross. It’s incredibly graphic, so much so that it’s unsettling, but that's the idea: baroque art encourages us to identify with religious scenes both emotionally and physically.
The intensity of the scene is heightened by the darkness. It looks like the scene is taking place at night, with the figures lit dramatically, which produces stark contrasts of light and dark. In this dark setting, Caravaggio strips the space to a minimum. There’s nothing in the background, just darkness, which focuses our attention on the figures. They’re pushed into the foreground, as if they were spilling out into our space. Their proximity, along with the graphic realism of the scene, seem to invite us to reach out and touch Christ's body, as if we too could help carry its weight. And this is one of the key features of baroque art: the illusion that the painted space extends into ours, and that the barrier between the painted world and ours is broken. We become active participants rather than just passive viewers.
As for Caravaggio’s working methods, we know that he worked intuitively and quickly. He seems to have done little preparation, painting straight onto the canvas. No preparatory drawings by Caravaggio survive. This spontaneous approach reflects a character that, by all accounts, was very fiery. One of his biographers wrote that: ‘after a fortnight's work, he will swagger about for a month or two with his sword at his side and with a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or argument, with the result that it is most awkward to get along with him’. At the time in Rome, it was illegal to carry a sword unless you had a license, which Caravaggio didn’t. Police records of the time show that he was arrested several times for – among other things – slashing an adversary’s coat, throwing a plate of artichokes at a waiter, and scarring a guard.
In 1606, Caravaggio found himself in real trouble. He was involved in an argument, either over a woman or a tennis match, which escalated into a swordfight. Caravaggio stabbed his rival, and the man died. Although Caravaggio probably didn’t mean to kill him, he evaded justice and left Rome. First he went to Naples, and then to Malta, and after being expelled from there for fighting, he moved on to Sicily. Caravaggio was already a big name in Rome by this time, so his influential friends petitioned the Pope to gain a pardon that would enable him to return to the city. He even loaded his possessions onto the Rome-bound ship but got himself arrested before sailing, and by the time he was released, the ship had gone. So he made his way along the coast but fell ill, perhaps of malaria, and a few days later, he died alone, at just 39 years of age.
Caravaggio’s groundbreaking paintings, with their compelling naturalism, dramatic lighting and powerful storytelling would go on to transform art in Rome and beyond. After his death in 1610, artists in Italy and beyond emulated his style. They became known as Caravaggisti, or Caravaggio’s ‘followers’, despite never having worked alongside him. This master-pupil relationship was different from the Renaissance model, because most of these artists had no direct connection with Caravaggio himself. Many of them, living around Europe, hadn’t even seen his paintings at first-hand. But what they all had in common – as far afield as Italy, Spain, France and the Netherlands – was their use of chiaroscuro —the dramatic contrasts of light and dark which Caravaggio had made his own, but they took this into directions of their own, as we’re about to see.
Artemisia Gentileschi
One of Caravaggio’s earliest emulators was Orazio Gentileschi, who lived and worked in Rome, and knew Caravaggio personally. His daughter, Artemisia, was also an artist, which was very unusual at the time. Women couldn’t really train as artists but Artemisia was able to learn her skills in her father's workshop. Like her father, she took great inspiration from Caravaggio – both his strong contrasts of light and dark and his dramatic, sometimes violent subjects.
And her talents didn’t go unnoticed. Women were rarely accepted by the artistic community at this time, but she became the first female member of the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence. For a long time, she was regarded as an anomaly or a curiosity, but she’s now recognized as one of the most progressive painters of her generation. But despite her achievements, her status came to be overshadowed by her biography – both during her lifetime and since – and not just because she was a woman painter. In 1611, when she was 17, Artemisia was raped by one of her father’s acquaintances, and the matter was taken to court; the records from the trial still exist. In them, Artemisia describes her struggle, and how she protected herself by from her assailant by attacking him with a knife.
This part of her story has influenced how her works have been interpreted, in particular her representation of women. She often portrayed strong or wronged women from the Bible. Her best-known work is Judith Slaying Holofernes, painted around 1620, and now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. This was a popular subject in Renaissance and Baroque art, and comes from the apocryphal Book of Judith in the Old Testament. It tells how the Assyrian general Holofernes was killed by the Jewish heroine Judith, a young widow from the city of Bethulia. Holofernes’s armies were camped outside her city, and were ready to invade, so Judith, wanting to protect her people, took matters into her own hands. She wore her finest garments, and entered the enemy camp saying she had information that could help Holofernes. He was so struck by her beauty that he invited her to dine with him, intending to seduce her. But he drank too much and fell asleep. Judith saw her opportunity, and beheaded the sleeping general with the help of her maid Abra. In doing so, she saved her people from destruction.
With its gory details and spurts of blood, Artemisia’s painting is difficult to look at. She depicts the terror in Holofernes’ eyes, and the women’s determination as they perform this horrific act. As Judith presses down Holofernes’s head, drawing the large sword through his neck with the other, he struggles in vain. And his oversized fist reaches for the maid’s face as he desperately fights to survive.
Caravaggio had painted this subject too, and Artemisia would have known his work, because her father – you’ll remember – was one of Caravaggio’s acquaintances. For the young Artemisia, Caravaggio was both an inspiration and a model to surpass: her treatment of this subject is perhaps even bloodier and more shocking than his.
Let’s compare the two paintings: Artemisia’s debt to Caravaggio is clear, but she made changes that intensify the physicality of the struggle: the dramatic spurts of blood, for example, and the stained sheets in the foreground; also the way Holofernes’s muscular body is bathed in light and projects into our space; and the intense expressions on the faces of Judith and her maidservant, which convey their sheer determination. Most importantly, Caravaggio’s Judith steps back and recoils as she cuts Holofernes’s throat, but Artemisia’s women get stuck in. And while Caravaggio’s old attendant just looks on, holding the bag ready for the severed head, Artemisia’s strong young women work together, their sleeves rolled up, eyes focused, and grip firm.
This gruesome scene has led some scholars to argue that Artemisia identified with the protagonist, Judith, in a way her male counterparts couldn’t. And not just because she was a woman, but because she was raped – you’ll remember that she struggled against her assailant with a knife. With this biographical interpretation, there’s a tendency to see her paintings as some kind of catharsis. What’s perhaps more useful is to consider the subject against a broader cultural backdrop. The theme of Judith and Holofernes was very popular in the Baroque period, and featured in literature, theatre and music as well as art. It was seen as representing the victory of virtue over vice. Judith was seen as an Old Testament precursor to the Virgin Mary and, as such, as a symbol of the Church.
This painting leaves no doubt about Artemisia’s mastery of realism. She exploited it to the full to heighten the drama: notice how she placed the figures close to the picture plane, so that they seem closer to us; and used strong contrasts of light and dark; and included carefully observed details – which in this case are truly gruesome. She was clearly proud of her work, signing it in the lower right corner.
The power of this painting to shock didn’t diminish over the centuries. In the late 18th century, the painting’s then-owner, one of Florence’s Medici duchesses, was so horrified by it that she hung it in a dark corner of the Uffizi, and it stayed there until the late twentieth century. Even today – in this age of gory horror films – Artemisia’s ability to transform paint into blood still inspires awe and revulsion.
Gianlorenzo Bernini
The intense drama and focus on the human body are characteristics of Baroque sculpture, too. One of most successful and influential sculptors of the Italian Baroque was Gianlorenzo Bernini, who worked in Rome for a succession of popes and private clients. Bernini’s virtuosity, sense of grandeur and ability to work at an epic scale made him the ideal choice for a Catholic Church desperate to assert its authority against the attacks of the Protestant movements in Northern Europe. Even today, Rome is full of Bernini’s great sculptural and architectural projects, including glorious fountains, public sculptures, churches and piazzas, of which the huge oval piazza in front of St Peter’s Basilica is probably the most famous.
When Bernini began life as an artist, he was much inspired by Caravaggio’s powerful dramas of human emotion, and sought to render such effects in stone. In this private commission, a representation of the classical myth of Pluto and Proserpina, exaggerated emotional content meets breathtaking realism in a characteristic Baroque fusion. Pluto, god of the underworld, has abducted Proserpina, the daughter of Ceres, goddess of agriculture, and carries her to Hades. In Bernini’s sculpture, the struggling Proserpina, wailing and crying, attempts to fight off the god; he strides forward, grasping her tightly, and passes by the three headed dog Cerberus, the guard of the gates of the underworld. Let’s take a closer look at Bernini’s amazing virtuosity: he has rendered the soft flesh of Proserpina’s thigh with infinite care. Pluto’s fingers dig into it in such a naturalistic way it’s hard to believe that what we’re seeing is actually carved from cold marble. Compare the swirling motion of this dynamic work with the more static and emotionally restrained sculpture of David by Michelangelo, and the distinction between High Renaissance and Baroque sculpture is clear. Made for the Roman palace of Cardinal Scipione Borghese, this piece is one of Bernini’s early works. It can still be found, along with several other works by the artist, in the Villa Borghese, alongside the rest of the Cardinal’s remarkable art collection.
Pluto and Proserpina was a private commission, but its captivating energy and flamboyance made it clear that Bernini was an artist designed for the public stage. The Catholic Church, embattled by the fallout of Martin Luther’s his denunciations, intended to use art and architecture to reinforce both people’s faith and the power of the Church of Rome. The church commissioned art that spoke directly to the viewer using dramatic effects and powerful narratives. Perhaps Bernini’s most successful – and certainly his most famous – expression of this is his sculptural assemblage, known as the Cornaro Chapel, in the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome. The chapel is a combination of carved marble, gilded stucco, fresco, mosaic and stained glass – all unified in a single work of art designed for maximum dramatic impact. The central scene depicted in the chapel, which is the focal point of the entire arrangement, is a depiction of the Ecstasy of St Teresa. St Teresa was a sixteenth-century nun from Avila in central Spain, and was made a Catholic saint only twenty-five years before this artwork was created.
St Teresa became well-known in her time for her mystic visions, which she wrote about in startling detail. One such vision, depicted in this sculpture, described the visitation of an angel, who thrust a spear many times into the nun’s levitating body, each time producing a combination of intense pain and profound pleasure. In Bernini’s depiction, St Teresa throws her head back in abandonment, her limbs limp, her mouth hanging open; her garments cascade downwards, with one bare foot just visible. A powerful wind ruffles the angel’s garments at it smiles down benevolently at St Teresa. Gilded bronze beams, lit by a hidden stained glass window, generate the appearance of divine illumination, and the entire scene is framed by marble columns that seem to bend outwards to allow us to see within. On the walls facing the scene, opera box-style apertures permit two groups of men to look upon the event; some pray, others discuss what they’re witnessing. These are the patrons of the chapel, the Cornaro family, and representations of their ancestors. Meanwhile, below the scene, mosaic images of praying skeletons look upwards, while, far above the central scene, frescoed clouds seem to billow into the real space of the church itself.
If the Cornaro chapel seems theatre-like, that may well have been Bernini’s intention. It is known, in fact, that he designed pageants and festivities for the benefit of the Pope. The effect, even today, is akin to watching a play, with its hidden lighting, dramatic action and even fellow audience members looking on. However, all of this theatricality was there for a serious religious purpose: to strengthen the faith of the viewer, and to assert the primacy of Catholicism. Few people seeing the Cornaro chapel could be unmoved by its exaggerated theatricality, its virtuosic handling of many materials, and its powerful emotional punch.
Diego Velázquez
Caravaggio’s influence also extended beyond Italy. In the Iberian peninsula, the Baroque style took on a distinctively Spanish form. During the sixteenth century, Spain, under the Hapsburg monarchy, had been a major international power. It had ruled Portugal, parts of Italy, the Netherlands, large parts of the New World and the Philippines in Asia. But by the seventeenth century, Spain’s power had begun to decline. There were prolonged periods of war, including the Thirty Years' War, one of the longest, most destructive conflicts in Europe, which lasted from 1618 to 1648. But despite this, and despite Spain’s economic decline, the seventeenth century proved to be something of a Golden Age for Spanish art and literature. The Hapsburg kings were great patrons of the arts and avid collectors of Italian and Northern Renaissance painting.
One of the most important artists of the Spanish Golden Age was Diego Velázquez. He was originally from the southern city of Seville, and later became court painter to King Philip IV in Madrid. At the time, Seville was the largest city in Spain: a port, with a population of around 130,000 people. It was the main hub for trade between Europe and the Americas, so wealth poured into the city, which in turn supported art. But alongside the wealthy merchants, there was also poverty.
In his early career, Velázquez specialized in genre paintings – that is, scenes of everyday life – which sometimes also had religious content. Like Caravaggio, he didn’t shy away from representing ordinary people as he saw them, usually in a very sympathetic way. Velázquez was never as provocative as Caravaggio, but the latter’s influence was strong on him: we find it in Velázquez’s earthy colour palettes, plain backgrounds, and dramatic lighting.
All of this can be seen in The Waterseller of Seville, now at Apsley House in London. In Spanish art, this kind of painting is known as a bodegón, which comes from the Spanish word bodega, meaning tavern. The term is used for depictions of daily life, particularly with food involved, so they’re genre scenes with still life objects. Velázquez’s bodegones have an authenticity and life-like quality that was unparalleled at the time.
Let’s take a closer look. This painting is dominated by the large figure of the waterseller, shown in profile and wearing a heavy brown cloak. Notice how Velázquez carefully described his skin, which is tanned and wrinkled from the hot Spanish sun. The waterseller is offering a young boy a glass of water, just poured from the large clay vessel in the foreground. If you look closely, you can see a fig in the glass – to sweeten the water. Although the boy and the old man are physically connected through the glass, they don’t make eye contact, which makes them seem as if they’re in different worlds: separated by age and, perhaps also social status. A third face emerges from the shadows between the waterseller and the boy, staring out at us while drinking from his mug. These three faces seem to be representing the three ages of man: youth, adulthood and old age.
Like Caravaggio, Velázquez emphasises the contrasts between light and dark. A strong light comes from the left, illuminating the young boy’s face and highlighting the beads of water trickling down the curving water jug. The painting is a tour-de-force of naturalism; notice how Velázquez captures the different textures of the clothes, jugs and glass, and even the waterseller’s face, using a combination of thick paint and smaller brushstrokes. Alongside these very real details, Velázquez gives the waterseller a sense of monumentality, showing this ordinary man with great dignity.
In 1622, Velázquez moved from Seville to Madrid, home to the Spanish royal court, and soon gained a commission to paint a portrait of the King – Philip IV. This portrait is now lost, but it brought Velázquez renown, and soon afterwards, he was named official painter to the king, a position he held until his death. In this role, he painted portraits of royal family and nobility, but also turned his attention to the more lowly members of the court, like the dwarfs, immortalizing them in deeply humane paintings.
But Velázquez’s masterpiece is undoubtedly Las Meninas, today at the Prado in Madrid – an enormous, puzzling, complex, and technically brilliant work, painted in 1656. It’s a painting that makes us think about illusion and reality, and about the relationship between the figures depicted and us, the viewers. It takes a moment to understand exactly what Velázquez is showing. We’re in fact looking at a large room in the Alcázar, part of the Royal Palace in Madrid, where Velázquez had his studio. In the foreground, at the centre, is the five-year-old Infanta, or Princess, Margarita Theresa, at this time the King and Queen's only surviving child. She is attended here by two handmaidens, or meninas, who give this painting its name: the one on the left offers her a drink from a red jug, and the one on the right is poised to curtsy. Further to the right are two dwarfs: the German “María Barbola” and the Italian, Nicolás Pertusato, who playfully nudges the sleepy mastiff with his foot.
To the left is Velázquez himself holding a brush and looking out towards us, past an enormous canvas that’s supported by an easel. On his chest is the Red Cross of the prestigious Order of Santiago, which Velázquez didn’t receive until 1659, three years after he painted this picture. The story goes that King Philip himself painted the cross onto the painting as a gesture of esteem for his court painter, but it’s more likely that he ordered it to be added after Velázquez’s death.
So what is Velázquez painting on his large canvas? We find a potential answer in the mirror on the back wall. Reflected in it are King Philip IV and Queen Mariana, who are sitting for their portrait. The other figures – the princess, handmaidens and dwarves – are all gathered here to watch. So although the princess seems to be the main subject, at the centre and brightly lit, she isn’t; the King and Queen are. Reflected in the mirror, the royal couple appear to be standing on our side of the pictorial space, which means that the entire image is from their point of view; they’re watching themselves being watched by the Infanta and her entourage. As for the man in the doorway on the right, he’s thought to be the Queen's chamberlain, who had the task of opening and closing doors for her; his presence suggests that the sitting may almost be over.
The painting was probably influenced by a work we came across in the first week: Jan van Eyck's Arnolfini Portrait, painted in 1434. In Velázquez’s day, this painting hung in the Spanish royal palace, and he was almost certainly familiar with it. Despite the big different in scale – van Eyck’s work is small and this is huge – the Arnolfini Portrait features a mirror on the back wall, reflecting two figures, much like we see here.
Overall, Las Meninas addresses the dignity of the profession of painting. By including himself, Velázquez highlighted the fundamental role of the artist, who shares space and company with royals, not as a servant but as an equal. This canvas originally hung in the King’s private quarters, and although visitors would have seen it, it was meant to be viewed by the king himself. The highly complex composition, with its play on reflections and illusion, raises questions about the very act of looking, and about the limits between painting and reality – what is real and what is illusory.
Velázquez’s last mission as court painter was to accompany the king and court to the French border, in the spring of 1660. His task was provide designs for the festivities surrounding the marriage of another princess, the Infanta María Teresa, to Louis XIV of France. Shortly after his return to Madrid, he fell ill, and died on August 6. He left few followers but holds a unique place in the history of Spanish art for his work at the royal court. But there were plenty of other painters who adopted the naturalistic baroque style of painting in Spain at this time.
Francisco de Zurbarán
One of these was Francisco de Zurbarán, who’s known for his religious subjects, in particular penitent monks or martyred saints. His works have a powerful immediacy, which betrays Caravaggio’s influence. Zurbaràn imbued his saints, monks and apostles with an intense palpability, which he achieved through his dramatic lighting, careful modeling and description of fabrics. His depictions of miracles and visions have a realism that’s almost startling.
Unlike Velázquez, who worked for aristocratic patrons, Zurbarán’s worked primarily for monasteries or religious houses, mostly around Seville – though he sometimes worked for clients as far afield as the New World. While working on a commission, he sometimes lived in the monasteries so had first-hand experience of the monastic lifestyle. The rules varied from order to order, but monks generally woke early to pray, and prayed several times a day, between carrying out tasks around the monastery – like writing, copying books, studying scripture, or other, more physical tasks.
This contemplative environment found a perfect match in Zurbarán’s austere and spiritual art. We see this in his stark depiction of Saint Serapion, which he made for the Mercedarian Order in Seville. Serapion is a lesser-known saint, whose origins are unknown: some say he was born in England, others say he was born in Ireland or Scotland. But all agree that he was a soldier in the army of the twelfth-century English King, Richard the Lion-Heart. He travelled to Spain when the Iberian Peninsula was under Islamic rule to try to re-establish Christian rule: this military campaign is called the ‘Reconquista’ or ‘reconquest’. Serapion later joined the Mercedarian Order, which had been set up to help Christian soldiers who had been captured on the Crusades; that is, the Christian campaign to recover the Holy Land. Serapion successfully rescued several hostages, but during his last mission, he was killed. It’s not clear how. One account tells how he was killed by pirates off the British coast. But according to the Mercedarians, he was killed while rescuing a Christian hostage near Algiers; the ransom money took too long to arrive, so the saint was nailed on an X-shaped cross, and dismembered or disemboweled.
We see none of these gory details in Zurbarán’s painting. Instead, he reduces the grisly story to a still, contemplative image: a vision for us to meditate upon. The three-quarter-length figure of Serapion takes up most of the painting, his lifeless body draped in his monk’s habit. Its light colour echoes the saint’s deathly pallor, while its copious fabric conceals all signs of physical violence, except for a small wound on Serapion’s forehead. The pose is reminiscent of Christ on the cross: drawing a visual parallel between Serapion’s willingness to risk his own life and Christ’s sacrifice.
Like Zurbarán’s other paintings of saints and monks, this one is characterised by its limited palette, which strikes a subdued note. The dark browns and muted creams are lifted only by sparse splashes of red and yellow, on the Mercedarian badge on Serapion’s torso. It’s easy to imagine seeing this painting in a dimly lit space, where the saint’s brightly lit habit seem to be emerging from the shadows. The painting’s power to move its audience was thus enormous. But there’s one detail that reminds us that this is indeed a painting, not reality: the small piece of paper on the right, which identifies this saint as Serapion. This was where Zurbarán signed and dated his painting.
This brings us to the end of today’s session. Next week we’ll be moving from southern Europe back to northern Europe, to see how artists there responded to the Baroque.