Taking Up the Cross

Then he said to all,

"If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself

and take up his cross daily and follow me.

For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it,

but whoever loses his life for my sake will save it.

What profit is there for one to gain the whole world

yet lose or forfeit himself?"

Luke 9:23-25

It's never easy to take up the cross, nor should it be. Sometimes it will lead you to laying down your own life for the sake of the Name.

St. Andrew by Francois Duquesnoy (at right).

Duquesnoy was one of three other sculptors employed by Bernini to create the colossal statues that stand in the niches built into the gigantic piers at the crossing (where nave and transepts intersect) of St. Peter's Basilica.

According to tradition, after preaching the Gospel in what is today Turkey and the Balkans, St. Andrew, brother of St. Peter, was crucified on an X-shaped cross during the reign of Nero.

As with the other three piers and their related statues, they are part of an amazing statement of the faith which Bernini developed in his designs for the furnishing of the crossing area. One of the greatest art history teachers I ever had, Irving Lavin, has written extensively on this design. Some of his work may be found at this link http://www.saintpetersbasilica.org/ . For the specific information on the crossing, its niches and statues, follow this path (for some reason the precise link can't be copied): click on "Library" from the links at the left side of the page, then on the image of the cover of "St. Peter's in the Vatican" (red cover with circular image of the basilica, second from the right in the second row), then "The Crossing Piers" hyperlink.

Ash Wednesday

I've been too busy at work recently (with many late nights) to have much time to write any contributions. However, during Lent I will try to post some works of art that I find particularly appropriate as reminders of the season. Here's the first, St. Francis in Meditation by Zurbaran (Munich, Alte Pinakotek).

In the Divine Image He Created Them

God created man in his image;
(Et creavit Deus hominem ad imaginem suam)

in the divine image He created him;
(ad imaginem Dei creavit illum)

male and female He created them.
(masculum et feminam creavit eos.)
Genesis 1:27 in the New American Bible and Latin Vulgate translations.

High above the heads of those who stand or sit in the Sistine Chapel (Rome, Vatican), be they tourists craning upward with open mouths, the cardinals in solemn conclave to elect a Pope or the Pope celebrating Mass, fly the great ceiling frescos of Michelangelo. Painted between 1508 and 1512, by commission of Pope Julius II, these paintings are one of the great monuments of Western art.

In those four years, Michelangelo took a bland, early Renaissance ceiling, painted dark blue with silver stars, and transformed it into a ceiling of majesty, with central scenic panels, divided by illusory architecture and telling the story of salvation from the Creation of Light to the Flood. In the areas between the vaults he also presented the prophets of the Old Testament, the sibyls of the ancient pagan world and the ancestors of Christ.

Probably the most familiar of all the images from the ceiling is the one that illustrates the passage of Genesis 1:27 from today’s readings (reproduced above right). Usually called the “Creation of Adam”, it actually shows something more complex. Yes, God is reaching out to the reclining (and not yet fully alive) Adam to animate him. But look further. As He animates Adam with His right hand, the left arm of God is wrapped around the shoulders of the already created Eve. She for her part grasps His arm and looks with evident interest at the about to be animated Adam.

There is another account in Genesis, also familiar to us, of the creation of Eve from one of Adam’s ribs. Michelangelo also painted that story on the Sistine ceiling, but it lacks much of the energy, the grace and the mystery of the first image.

Nothing new under the sun and moon

Job spoke, saying:
Is not man's life on earth a drudgery?
Are not his days those of hirelings?
He is a slave who longs for the shade,
a hireling who waits for his wages.
So I have been assigned months of misery,
and troubled nights have been allotted to me.
If in bed I say, "When shall I arise?"
then the night drags on;
I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;
they come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is like the wind;
I shall not see happiness again.
Job 7:1-4, 6-7

The first reading from today’s Mass should remind us that illness, job stress and nighttime worry is nothing new. And don’t our days frequently feel like this?
This passage also brings to mind an image, taken from some verses further on in the same chapter of Job (Job 7:13-15), from William Blake’s engraved illustrations to the Book of Job, which were published in 1826. Called "Job's Evil Dreams" it well illustrates the sometimes terrifying world of the nightmare. Job lies on his bed tormented by spirits and monsters. They press upon him from above and reach up to bind him in chains from below. Truly, they are visions that terrify.

When I say, "My bed shall comfort me,
my couch shall ease my complaint,"
Then you affright me with dreams
and with visions terrify me,
So that I should prefer choking and death
rather than my pains.
Job 7:13-15

The Conversion of St. Paul and the Two Michelangelos

On that journey as I drew near to Damascus,

about noon a great light from the sky suddenly shone around me.

I fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to me,

'Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?'

I replied, 'Who are you, sir?'

And he said to me,'I am Jesus the Nazorean whom you are persecuting.'

My companions saw the light but did not hear the voice of the one who spoke to me.

I asked, 'What shall I do, sir?'

Acts 22: 6-10

With these words St. Paul described the powerful experience that befell him on the road to Damascus, an experience that completely reshaped his life. From that point on, the persecutor of the Way in Jerusalem became the great apostle of the Way to the entire world, to Jew and Gentile alike. From this point on the man who had held the cloaks of those who had stoned St. Stephen to death for proclaiming Jesus the Nazorean as Lord, was himself persecuted, imprisoned and martyred for the sake of that same Jesus.

There are few more dramatic moments in the history of the early church than this event on the road between Jerusalem and Damascus. It is a drama that has received considerable attention from some of the world’s greatest artists. Among the greatest to have tackled it are two Michelangelos: Michelangelo Buonarotti (known as “Michelangelo”) and Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (known as “Caravaggio”).

Both men initially imagined the scene as one of high drama and activity. Indeed, Michelangelo imagined it, in his great late painting in the Vatican’s Pauline Chapel (painted 1542-1545), as an event involving large, active groups of figures in both heaven and earth. From heaven, Christ, surrounded by many other figures (angels, saints) plunges dramatically downward, a bolt of lightening springing from his hand, almost in the manner of the classical deity, Jupiter. The bolt hits the earthly group, which centers on the figure of Saul, lying on the ground, with his arm shielding his face, as a companion supports him. Other companions react by trying to shield themselves, or trying to flee, or simply by cowering, while one person tries to recapture Saul’s startled horse. Michelangelo’s Saul appears curiously older than he is usually depicted, being white bearded. He appears to bear a slight resemblance to Michelangelo himself. One wonders if there was some biographical content in his image. Or is it simply that he wanted to balance the older St. Peter, whose martyrdom is depicted on the opposite wall of the Pauline Chapel? In the composition, Michelangelo recapitulates some of his work in the Sistine Chapel, especially the “Last Judgment”, while harking back as well to such early Florentine works as the long-vanished “Battle of Cascina”.

Caravaggio painted two very different representations of the event on the road to Damascus relatively early in his career (both are dated as being circa 1600). The first version is usually called “The Conversion of Saul” and resides in the Odescalchi Balbi Collection in Rome. It is typical of many of Caravaggio’s compositions from around this time. (One thinks, for example, of the “Martyrdom of St. Matthew” in the Contarelli Chapel of S. Luigi dei Francesi in Rome). There is a great rush of movement from the upper right where Christ and a supporting angel appear to plummet down, toward the lower left, where Saul lies, his hands covering his face. Caravaggio, of course, was the master of dramatic lighting effects, his great legacy to almost all later painters. And there is plenty of drama in the way in which the light from heaven illumines the face of the angel, the hands of Christ, the face of Saul’s startled companion and finally swells to a crescendo on Saul’s body and protective hands. This painting, commissioned by Cardinal Tiberio Cerasi for his chapel in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome, was never installed there. It was recently cleaned and exhibited in Milan during Advent 2008.

The second version, which did get installed in the Cerasi Chapel, where it remains today, is often called “The Road to Damascus”. It is an extraordinary painting. Instead of a narrative full of frantic movement we are faced with the experience itself. With our vision blocked by the body of Saul's horse, we are, as it were, inside the silent center of the experience at the moment it happens. We are one of Saul’s companions. We see him in his weakness, his shock, his blindness. We see him sprawled on his back, in a tangle of arms and legs: his own and those of his horse and other companion. We do not see the cause of his fall, we see, as his companions did, only the light. But, although we cannot even see much of his face, we see the intensity of his reaction. We know he is listening to a voice we cannot hear. And we are struck with wonder. When you stand in the Cerasi Chapel, which is very, very tiny, the effect of this monumental picture and its equally monumental pendent, “The Crucifixion of St. Peter” is truly overwhelming. One of the aims of Counter-Reformation art and of Baroque art in general is to engage the spectator, to make the events of salvation history present to the viewer. It is hard to imagine a more truly involving work of art.

Sorry about that

My apologies for the lack of entries for December and January and the incomplete essays on St. John the Baptist for Advent. A pesky case of bronchitis kept me out of action for weeks and weeks. I hope to be more regular in the future.

Octave of Christmas

Nativity of the Lord by Petrus Christus (Washington, National Gallery of Art)

Images of Advent II.1

“John the Baptist appeared in the desert

proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

People of the whole Judean countryside

and all the inhabitants of Jerusalem

were going out to himand were being baptized

by him in the Jordan River

as they acknowledged their sins.

John was clothed in camel’s hair,

with a leather belt around his waist.

He fed on locusts and wild honey.

And this is what he proclaimed: “One mightier than I is coming after me.

I am not worthy to stoop and loosen the thongs of his sandals.

I have baptized you with water;

he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”
(Mark 1:4-8, Gospel for Sunday, December 7, 2008)

Poor John the Baptist! Probably no other saint in the Roman Catholic canon and certainly no other saint referred to in the New Testament has suffered a worse fate at the hands of artists from the Renaissance onward.

Apart from his very necessary appearance in images of the Baptism of Christ, St. John the Baptist almost always appears in five other roles. He is either:
a. the slightly older baby cousin of Jesus,
b. the goatskin clad “wild man” of the Judean desert,
c. the scantily clad stylized prophet with homoerotic overtones ,
d. the head on a platter carried by Salome or
e. a static saintly figure among several others.

Very few artists have presented him as the preacher and teacher described in the Gospels. We will look at those few in next week’s installment. This week we shall look at the “big 4” images.

John as baby
Usually accompanied by his signature cruciform staff which sometimes bears the wording “Ecce Agnus Dei” (Behold the Lamb of God”- John 1:29) and lamb, sometimes already wrapped in a goatskin, the infant or child St. John is shown associated with his younger cousin, Jesus. John is usually shown paying homage to Jesus, while Jesus is frequently shown giving John His blessing. Mary and Elizabeth often appear as well and Joseph appears sometimes. Two of the best known of this type are Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna of the Rocks in the Louvre (on the left), about which much nonsense has recently been written, and a second version in the National Gallery, London (on the right).

There are two other interesting pictures of St. John as a child. One, by Murillo (Madrid, Prado), shows St. John, holding a cross of twigs, accompanied by a lamb, already wearing a goatskin wrap (underneath a red wrap), in prayer as inspiration pours from heaven.

The most unusual one that I know of is also by Murillo (Madrid, Prado). It shows the two cousins, John and Jesus alone together, accompanied again by a lamb. Jesus wears a fine cloth wrapping, while John wears a small goatskin and carries his cross-shaped staff with a banner. In addition to the fact that there are no adults present, what sets this picture apart is the action. In a reverse pre-figuration of the Baptism and in a reflection of Jesus as the Living Water, it is Jesus who gives John a drink from a shell. Behind them a group of three baby cherubs look on prayerfully.

Over the next few days we will look at the other four groups of images.

Images for Advent I

Welcome to the season of Advent, that annually repeating time of preparation for each Christmas that also reminds us of our position in time. We look backward to the long wait of Israel for the Messiah at the same time as we look forward to the day on which He will come again.

The readings for these weeks strike many notes, working backwards through time, as it were. We began last Sunday with reminders of the final Judgment, for the next two weekends we will hear about John the Baptist and, on the final Sunday of Advent, we will hear about the moment of the Incarnation.

Advent images that come to mind focus on the Annunciation and Visitation, the specific advent of the Child Jesus. And we will look at them when we get there. But, for this first week of Advent let’s look at images of the Last Judgment.

The "Last Judgment" has been a favorite topic for much of the history of western art. It was the image of choice for the tympanum (space between the top of the door and the top of an archway) in many Romanesque and Gothic churches during the Middle Ages. One of the most famous and well-known examples is the tympanum from the Cathedral of St. Lazare at Autun, made between 1130 and 1135. Most unusually for a work of medieval sculpture, the tympanum is signed by the sculptor “Gislebertus hoc fecit” (Gilbert made this). Gislebertus must have been highly respected to be allowed to name himself. The lively figures surrounding the large figure of Christ in glory tell the story of the last day, when the dead are raised and divided into those who are saved and those who are damned. Among the scenes are those of the interaction between the Archangel Michael and the Devil, as Michael weighs souls in a balance. The Devil tries hard to cheat, and gain more souls for himself. He pulls down on the balance, even as the claws on his feet horrifically grab a frightened soul in the lintel below by the head and begin to drag it toward hell.

Some of these same details appear three hundred years later in the great "Last Judgment" polyptych (multi-paneled painting) painted by Roger van der Weyden for the Hotel-Dieu at Baune in Burgundy.


The Hotel-Dieu was built from 1443-1452 by Nicolas Rolin, Chancellor of the Duchy of Burgundy under Duke Philip the Fair, as a refuge for the sick poor (more like what we would today call a hopice than a modern hospital) during the unsettled century that saw the Hundred Years War and the continuing outbreaks of the Black Death. Here Michael’s weighing of souls takes center stage, directly beneath Christ. As the heavenly court hover above them, the souls of the dead emerge from their graves to face either an angelic welcome into heaven or a horrifying descent into hell.

Interesting as these images are, however, they can be said to represent the Judgment already in progress. For an image that can illustrate this Sunday’s warning to ‘Watch!” is the great image of the "Last Judgment" that Michelangelo produced for the end wall of the Sistine Chapel (1536 - 1541), thirty years after his work on the Sistine ceiling. In its dynamic image we see, as it were, the Last Judgment at the moment “when the lord of the house is coming” (Mark 13:35). There is an immediacy and an urgency as Christ breaks once more into the terrestrial world, the dead rise from their graves and the judgment takes place. Those who are to be saved are assisted by angels and the blessed to reach heaven, while angels and the blessed resist those who are damned but are trying to escape their punishment. To the right of center is a figure whose horror at being pulled down to hell is reminiscent of the little soul from Autun whose head was gripped by the Devil’s claws.

Images of the Last Judgment seem to have tapered off after about 1600, perhaps replaced by a greater emphasis on the particular judgment that follows each individual death than with the general judgment of the final days. But, at Advent each year, the Church reminds us of that still-to-come last act in salvation history and of its byword “Watch!”