Have you seen the Shimmering One?

Gian Girolamo Savoldo, Saint Mary Magdalen approaching the Sepulchre,
c.1530, oil on canvas, 89.1 x 82.4 cm, The National Gallery, London

There is something about that shining, shimmering, incredibly tangible cloak that looks so modern.  It does not seem to fit into the art of 1530.  A brief look at some Mary Magdalen’s from the same period are enough to demonstrate that.  

Adriaen Isendbrandt, The Magdalen in a Landscape, c.1510-25,
oil on oak, 40 x 31.1 cm, The National Gallery, London

Adriaen Isenbrandt’s kneeling and praying figure, Correggio’s lady disturbed from reading and the Northern Magdalen who has just opened her pot, all have a much more familiar Renaissance style to their setting, accoutrements and landscapes.  

Correggio, The Magdalen, c.1518-19, oil on canvas,
38.1 x 30.5, The National Gallery, London

Netherlandish School, The Magdalen, c.1530,
oil on oak, 52.7 x 34.9 cm, The National Gallery, London

It is not even the direct gaze of Gian Girolamo Savoldo’s Saint that is so shockingly up to date.  It is definitely that cloak.

When I first saw this eye-catching work in the National Gallery, I completely misread it.  I thought the lady was seated on the ground, her head resting on her knees, wrapped in satin.  The curve of her back and position of her head do still suggest that position.  It was only when I saw the little section of red material at the bottom left and read the title, that I realised she was in fact, walking.  Of course, the reason for my misunderstanding is the curious way she has one hand curled inside her cloak and drawn up to her chin.  This has the effect of surrounding her face entirely in silvery satin, framing her penetrating and astonishingly direct gaze.

She is walking towards the place where Jesus was buried after he was crucified.  Her journey is recorded in the Bible in the gospel of John, “Early on the first day of the week while it was still dark, Mary Magdalen went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance”[1].  Savoldo has faithfully rendered the time of day, as in the left hand corner we can see the dawn creeping over the horizon, tinging the clouds with pink and highlighting the boats in the harbour.

The light that makes Mary’s “white silk mantle”[2] shine with such brilliance is, however, not the new sun, but, I would argue, the last vestiges of the moon.  It highlights her monumental, almost sculptural, back and casts her arms and face into semi shadow.  The consummate skill with which Savoldo has depicted the light glancing off the draped material is reminiscent of Titian and suggests a great knowledge both of different textiles and how to paint them realistically.  One feels that he has actually seen material like this, touched it, seen how it hangs and understood how light would be reflected from it.  Venice was the centre for trade in fabrics at this time, and although born in Brescia, Savoldo spent most of his time in Venice[3]. The little landscape of boats and harbour in the background probably represent Venice’s lagoon, complete with recognisable covered gondalers[4].

When discussing ‘realism’ people often, and rightly so, point to Caravaggio’s almost photographic scenes where light and dark have been used to dramatic effect, his Supper at Emmaus being one such example.  We can imagine his figures actually inhabiting the world they are in; they are so solid and real and present that we can almost reach out and touch them.  That is how I feel about Savoldo’s Magdalen and I would agree with the suggestion that Caravaggio was greatly influenced by Savoldo’s startling realism and the modernity we see here[5].

Alison Barker

Next time: Have you seen the one with the kiss?

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[1] The Bible, John ch.20 v 1

[2] Dunkerton et al, Durer to Veronese, The National Gallery, London, 1999, p.80

[3] http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk [accessed 19/03/16]

[4] www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/giovanni-giralomo-savoldo-mary-magdalene [accessed 19/03/16]

[5] http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/artists/giovanni-girolamo-savoldo [accessed 19/03/16] 

Have you seen...the one with a dog?

I think he is the cutest dog in art.  He sits there, fluffy and full of expression, eyes fixed on his master, almost audibly asking, "When are we going for a walk?"  Unfortunately, his master seems distracted and not even conscious of his faithful pet, looking at him so beseechingly.

Vittore Carppacio, The Vision of St Augustine, 1502, fresco, Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, Venice

There has been some debate as to his pedigree.  Ruskin had a Spitz and thought that St Augustine’s pet was exactly like him, whereas, others have suggested he is more like a spaniel or a Maltese puppy [1]. I actually would tend to agree with Ruskin on this one.

 

Spitz puppy

Maltese Puppy

In a way, it doesn’t matter what type of dog he is. For me, he adds so much to this interior study scene, that if he was absent it would have a completely different feel. He brings a sense of life into what is essentially a ‘still’ life.  There are books: open and closed, old and new, books in cupboards, books on shelves, books on the floor.  There are astralobes, candlesticks, censors, statuettes, hats, desks, pots, chairs and shells, all intricately described.

Yes, I know there is also a man at a desk, but he is as motionless as the items around him.  The vision he has seen through the window of the dead St Jerome, has spellbound him into absolute stillness.  He gazes, entranced, pen suspended for ever above the letter he is writing; time stands still…waiting.  

And so does the dog, waiting for that walk perhaps.  He waits in such an avid way, his nose in the air, almost twitching with supressed excitement at the thought of getting out of this quiet space and into the outside world.

The question, “why is he here?” is an obvious one, but one well worth asking. Dogs almost always appear in art as symbols of watchfulness and fidelity [2] and certainly here, Carpaccio's 'perky little white dog' [3] looks the picture of faithfulness as he waits patiently for that walk which will never come and gazes adoringly at his master. 

Alternatively, is he here to show the artist’s ability in painting dogs?  Carpaccio seems not to have had much artistic success with domestic cats, as can be seen in the British Museum’s preparatory drawing for this canvas. 

Carpaccio, Vision of St Augustine, c.1501-8, pen and brown ink, with grey wash, over leadpoint on paper, British Museum, London

This study, drawn in pen and brown ink with a grey wash, includes, instead of our fluffy white dog, an unusual and not very convincing cat. Cats were symbols of laziness and lust [4], a rather inappropriate animal to be associated with such an industrious saint as Augustine.  In fact, to me it looks more like an overgrown mouse, and some have suggested that it is more likely to be a weasel or ermine [5].  Perhaps the artist realised that this odd looking animal brought nothing to the scene, or perhaps the confraternity of the Schiavoni, who commissioned the canvas saw the drawing and asked for it to be replaced with something more fitting.

I would argue, however, that the key to the dog’s inclusion is the way he draws our eye, firstly to himself and then through his avid gaze, to the man at the desk.  The title of the work is The Vision of St Augustine, but we see nothing of this vision; it is all outside the window or inside St Augustine’s head.  Our attention is only drawn to what has captured the mind of the saint, by the steady, constant attention of his faithful pet.

Whatever the reason for his inclusion, whether for symbolic reasons, artistic prowess, the patron’s whim or compositional tool, I will be always grateful that Carpaccio decided to paint this little white dog.

Alison Barker

Next Time: Have you seen…the shimmering one?

[1] Morris J, Ciao, Carpaccio! An Infatuation, Pallas Athene, London, 2014, p.59

[2] Ferguson G, Signs and Symbols in Christian Art, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1954 (1^st ed), 1961, p.15

[3] Morris J, Ciao, Carpaccio! An Infatuation, Pallas Athene, London, 2014, p.140

[4] Ferguson G, Signs and Symbols in Christian Art, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1954 (1^st ed), 1961, p.14

[5] www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details/collection_image_gallery [accessed 30/04/16]

Have you seen...the one with a dragon?

Vittore Carpaccio, Saint George Slaying the Dragon, 1502, La Scuola della Schiavoni, Venice

The interior is dark and cool.  I can hardly see the walls at first, let alone make out the pictures adorning them.  Then, a curtain is pulled back, flooding the interior with light and suddenly there he is, a dragon rearing on his hind legs but pierced through the head with a lance, blood pouring from mouth and skull.  It is an inventive dragon: bat-like wings of a bluey green with rusty orange spines and black tips.  Scales as well as feathery fur can be seen on its haunches and front legs, raised as if to pounce, or else in supplication.  The tail is snake-like, curling away and up the left of the picture.  Fearsome though the jagged teeth and claws are, there is a piteous look in the one eye we can see and the ears droop in an attitude of fear and surrender.  The horse, also rearing on its hind legs and forming a triangle with the beast it faces, is larger than the dragon, going against my imagined images of this famous scene, where a tiny Saint George battles a massive hulking beast.

St George himself, almost stands astride his steed in shiny black armour as he thrusts home the death blow, shattering his lance in the process.  The chivalrous knight, long wavy hair flying, wears a look of determined and focused calm on his profile face, reminiscent of Roman coins, while an equally calm princess looks on, clasping her hands as if in prayer. Scattered on the ground in gruesome detail and exemplary foreshortening, lie the dismembered bodies of previous sacrifices and their would-be saviours.  In the background an oriental town sits on the shores of a limpid blue sea.

Vittore Carpaccio's scene of 1502 tells the familiar tale of St George, a wandering Christian knight, Dalmatian by birth, who kills the dragon to save a princess from being sacrificed. When the princess is saved and returned to her people the whole town of Selene is converted to Christianity and baptised by St George.  The story comes from Jacobus Voragine's Golden Legend written in about 1260 in Latin and then translated and printed in Venice in 1475.  It was to be a treasure trove of material for painters, sculptors and patrons alike.  

It is unknown whether Carpaccio chose the story or whether his patrons the Schiavoni confraternity did.  The Schiavoni, originating from Dalmatia, did have an affinity with the Saint, whose cult had taken hold in Europe from the eighth century onwards.  

Images of the saint and visual narratives of his life can be seen in many different parts of the continent.  A wonderful sculpture by Bernt Notke, complete with dragon, dismembered bodies, princess and horse, has a knight bearing a distinct resemblance to Carpaccio's St George in his static, upright stance. The saint is wearing accurate, fifteenth century armour

Bernt Notke, St George, 1489, Stockholm Cathedral, Stockholm

and his horse has metal reins and leather stirrups. The spine of the dragon is made of real elk antler, the body of the horse from a real horse's hide and linen and bristles have been used for the horse's mane.  The marble relief by Donatello, below, made much earlier than both Notke's statue and Carpaccio's canvas, depicts a similar composition with rearing horse, smallish dragon and princess clasping her hands.

Donatello, St George and the Dragon, c. 1416, Marble, 39 x 120 cm, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence

St George had been known in England from as early as the eight century and It was in 1222 that the Synod of Oxford declared 23rd April to kept as a holiday in his honour.  However, it was not until the end of the fourteenth century that George was adopted as Patron Saint of England (http://www.britannia.com/history/stgeorge.html).  Images of him proliferate here and Westminster Abbey even housed one of his legs for a while before the dissolution of the Monasteries in 1536 and the subsequent destruction of holy relics.  St George's statue survives though in the corner of Henry VII's tomb, modelled in bronze.  There are several depictions of the most well known episode from his life in our National Gallery, such as Paolo Uccello's depiction (below).  If, however, you can make the trip, I do recommend a visit to the Scuola to admire Carpaccio's canvas and take in the atmosphere of early sixteenth century Venice.  At the same time you will see Carpaccio's other canvases adorning the walls, including the next work I review here: The Vision of St Augustine, or, as I affectionately call it, "The one with a dog".

Paolo Uccello, c.1470, oil on canvas, 55.6 cm × 74.2 cm, The National Gallery, London

Alison Barker

Next time:  Have you seen...the one with a dog?

Have you seen...the one without a dragon?

Paolo Veronese The Martyrdom of St George, c.1565, oil on canvas, 431.3 x 300.4cm

You may be forgiven for thinking that there are many paintings that do not contain a dragon, and you would be right.  You can probably think of several off the top of your head, not least the twelve paintings featured so far on this blog.  

However, the reason why this painting is so significant for not containing a dragon, is that it was originally supposed to.  Paolo Veronese, the artist who is responsible for this incredible work of art and who also painted the Feast at the House of Levi (see Art Review 21st February 2014), was commissioned to paint an altarpiece for the Church of San Giorgio in Braida, Verona.  There was already a painting in place over the high altar, probably Giovanni Francesco Caroto's St George and the Dragon (below). 

Caroto, St George and the Dragon, 1535

This painting was moved to another church, also with George as its patron saint, hence the need for a new altarpiece at Braida.  Caroto's work shows St George as a knight on horseback having just vanquished the dragon, his broken lance having pierced the beast's neck.  This iconography is quite typical for paintings of this subject.  We can compare those works by Paolo Uccello, Raphael and Giorgio Vasari, to name but a few.  

George himself was a knight from Cappadocia in modern Turkey, living between the third and fourth centuries AD.  There was a city in the area that was suffering under a terrible situation.  A dragon was demanding human sacrifices and people were chosen by lot.  One day, the King's own daughter was chosen and taken to the dragon's home by the lake.  In a miraculous turn of events, George arrived and subdued the dragon.  He bound it with the princess's girdle and led it into the city to show the people and to convert them to Christianity.  They become Christians and George becomes a hero [1].  This story is narrated by Jacobus Voragine in The Golden Legend, and George’s fame spread. In 494 AD under the approval of Pope Galasius, George was made a saint. By the seventh and eighth centuries he had become the Patron Saint of England and his feast day has been celebrated on 23^rd April ever since.

Although he is famous for subduing and killing the dragon that been terrorising a city, Veronese does not choose to depict that most famous of moments.  The artist dispenses altogether with the dragon and the heroic knight on horseback and instead focuses on the moment before the saint’s martyrdom.  It is said that George refused to worship pagan idols and was beheaded in Nicomedia on the orders of the Emperor Diocletian in the fourth Century AD.  We see George kneeling, surrounded by people, his armour taken from him and his face raised to heaven.  The old man behind him tries to make him look at, and worship, the statue of Apollo at the far left of the picture, but the knight will not tear his eyes from his heavenly vision.  The Virgin Mary and Jesus look down on the scene below, whilst Faith, Hope and Charity join a Sacred Conversation with Saints Peter and Paul.  A winged cherub is about to crown George with the laurel wreath of victory, and although the executioner makes ready his sword, George has already left his earthly life, emotionally and spiritually, behind him.

This monumental masterpiece, standing at over four metres in height has been described as Veronese’s best work and “the most beautiful painting ever” [2].  Perhaps, after all, it didn’t need the dragon.

Alison Barker

Next time: Have you seen…the one with a dragon?

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[1] Zuffi S (ed), Saints in Art, J Paul Getty Museum Publishers, LA (English Trans), 2003, p.144 

[2] Durrant N, The Times, March 8^th 2014, p.5

Have you seen...The Honey Thief?

Lucas Cranach the Elder, Cupid Complaining to Venus, 1526-7, oil on panel, NG

The subjects of paintings fascinate me: I always want to know what is going on, who the people are, where they are and why they are. I want to know why the work was made, whom for and whom by. Paintings make me want to ask questions, and the finding out of the answers is one of the things I enjoy most about art. 

Take this painting for example.  What on earth is going on here?  In the background on the right there is a craggy hill topped by a castle and with a lake beneath whilst on the left, wild deer peer out from a dark forest. This landscape may be imaginary, but the artist, Lucas Cranach the Elder, often depicted places he knew or that belonged to his patrons in Saxony [1]. In the foreground and dominating the scene, a beautiful and, for this period, unusually slim, lady stands next to a tree, while a small boy looks up at her and swats bees.  The lady is wearing a magnificent hat and intricate necklace, but absolutely nothing else and the little boy is sporting a pair of wings.  A curious and intriguing image…there must be a story behind it! 

And there is.  The lady is Venus, goddess of love, and the boy is her son, Cupid. Cupid has just stolen a honeycomb from a hole in the tree and the angry bees have stung him.  His expression of pain and bewilderment is clearly depicted by Cranach in the furrowed eyebrows and parted mouth.  Cupid asks his mother how something so small, such as a bee, could cause so much pain, and Venus answers, that it is similar to the wounds inflicted by Cupid’s own arrows of love [2].  We know that this is the theme of the painting due to a Latin inscription in the sky at the top right:

Young Cupid was stealing honey from a hive when a bee stung the thief on the finger.  So it is for us: the brief and fleeting pleasure we seek comes mixed with wretched pain to do us harm [3].

The original idea was written in Greek, by the third century BC poet Theocritus and Lucas Cranach may have been introduced to the text by the German humanist Melancthon [4]. The poem, Idyll number nineteen, is very short:

When the thievish Love one day was stealing honeycomb from the hive, a wicked bee stung him, and made all his finger-tips to smart.  In pain and grief he blew on his hand and stamped and leapt upon the ground and went and showed his hurt to Aphrodite, and made complaint that so little a beast as a bee could make so great a wound.  Whereat his mother laughing, ‘What?’ cries she, ‘art not a match for a bee, and thou so little and yet able to make wounds so great?’ [5]

Cranach entitled his work, Cupid Complaining to Venus and I think he has fully captured that moment, both in Cupid’s pained and surprised expression as in the amused, almost sly look of Venus which is completely lacking in compassion.  She does not even look at her son, but directly out at the viewer.

This work was exhibited in the National Gallery’s recent Strange Beauty Exhibition, but the Gallery holds this work and it can normally be viewed, so do go and take a look.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...the One Without the Dragon?

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[1] Dunkerton (et al), Durer to Veronese, Sixteenth-Century Painting in the National Gallery, National        Gallery Publications, London, 1999, p.179

[2] Bugler C, Strange Beauty, German Paintings at the National Gallery, 2014, p.80

[3] Bugler C, 2014, p.80

[4] Dunkerton (et al), 1999, p.96

[5] http://www.theoi.com/Text/TheocritusIdylls4.html#19 [accessed 03/05/14]

Have you seen...Two Portraits in One?

Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, Self-portrait, 1790, Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery,
Florence (Photo: Andy Barker)

I will never forget the moment that I first saw this painting.  It was the subject of my Master’s Dissertation and I had been longing to see it ‘in the flesh’ for some time.  It hangs in the Vasari Corridor, a passageway linking the Uffizi Gallery and the Pitti Palace in Florence.  This passageway was built directly over the Ponte Vecchio by Vasari himself on the orders of the then Duke of Florence, Cosimo I de Medici. Cosimo needed a covered route between his palace and his office that would be private and uncluttered by the everyday person.  He was also amassing a collection of artists’ self-portraits, and this Corridor was the ideal place to hang them.  Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun’s image has since joined that illustrious group.

My husband and I visited the Uffizi Gallery on a day trip from Rome, specifically to see this portrait.  The problem was, that unbeknown to us, the Vasari Corridor is generally locked to the public and can only be visited when booked in advance and in a group.  Everyone in uniform that we asked simply shook their heads, and I got more and more desperate.  In the end we left the Gallery and found the Superintendent, a lady who had a smattering of English and a very kind heart!  She made phonecalls, spoke to security people and eventually, took us through the back door of the Uffizzi Gallery, up some steps and under an official-looking security tape.  Another lady unlocked a door, pushed us gently through it and locked it behind us!  

Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery, Florence,
(Photo: Andy Barker)

 We were on our own at the top of a steep blue-carpeted staircase and there was complete silence.  A man then appeared at the bottom of the stairs and beckoned for us to follow him.  He was the caretaker and jangled a huge set of keys as he walked.  He led us into a narrow corridor with a curved ceiling set with dim lights.  There was the occasional window, circular, like a porthole and with a grill across it. Lining the walls on both sides were paintings, all self-portraits.  Our guide had one word of English, “photo”, which he kept repeating, telling us to take pictures of the masterpieces surrounding us.  As we walked we felt the hairs stand up on the backs of our necks and neither of us spoke.  It was rather like a dream.  We kept walking until we found her. 

Vasari Corridor, Uffizi Gallery, Florence, (Photo: Andy Barker)

She sat there, serenely, gently smiling out of the canvas, paintbrush in one hand and palette in the other.  The intriguing thing about this work is that Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun is allowing us to see what she is painting.  In many of her self-portraits, she shows herself simply looking out of the canvas, or holding the tools of her trade, or sometimes wearing a fancy dress costume.  There are two main portraits where she explicitly shares her work with us, this one and its twin, which hangs at Ickworth House in Norfolk.  They are in fact, not entirely identical, as you will see if you examine the image on the canvas on which Vigée-Le Brun is painting.  The Ickworth portrait (below) shows the face of a young girl who seems to emerge out of the canvas and into the room.  This girl is Julie, Vigée-Le Brun’s daughter.  However, the Uffizi self-portrait shows an entirely different face, a shadowy, indistinct and altogether less ‘real’ image, the haunting features of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.

Elisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, Self-Portrait, 1791, Ickworth House, Norfolk 
(photo: Alison Barker)

Vigée-Le Brun lived during the French Revolution of 1789 and painted portraits for many of the French aristocracy who ended up losing their lives on the guillotine.  She herself, managed to escape Paris and wandered Europe, painting and writing her Memoirs.  She was proud of her images of the doomed Queen, many of which were large and imposing and have ended up in Vienna.  This one however, an intimate portrayal demonstrating Vigée-Le Brun’s own close connection to the Queen, has ended up here, in a quiet and atmospheric corridor over the River Arno and seen by very few.

As Andy and I left the Vasari Corridor and re-entered the sunlit world, we could not quite believe where we had been and the huge privilege we had been granted.

If you are visiting Florence, before you go, book a tour of the Vasari Corridor and experience not only the hushed feel of centuries of artists watching you as you pass by, but also the wistful gaze of Marie Antoinette.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...the Honey Thief?

Have you seen… …the Kiss of Betrayal?

Giotto, Kiss of Judas, The Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

It is an arresting image in more ways than one.  A forest of spears, clubs and flaming torches break the deep blue of the sky.  The foreground is crowded with figures, some with angry, worried faces, fists raised and clutching their weapons.  A bugler winds his horn and countless black helmets hide the anonymous soldiers.  Amidst this crushing rabble, One face is intensely calm.  Jesus gazes directly into the upturned eyes of his betrayer, who is about to kiss him.  This is the signal.  This is what they have been waiting for.  He is the One.

The event of Jesus’ betrayal and arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane recorded in the Gospels, has been depicted in art on many occasions, but if I had to choose my favourite, it would be this one.  It captures the drama, the anger, the shock, even the noise of the moment, but at the same time displays Christ’s absolute serenity and willingness to surrender Himself to death.  His smooth profile face contrasts dramatically with that of Judas whose hooded eyes are held fast by those of Jesus. Nearly all other eyes are on this scene in the centre, as if mesmerised, waiting to see what will happen next.

detail, Giotto, Kiss of Juda, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua

Giotto, the creator of this fresco, was responsible for decorating the entire series of scenes that cover the interior of the Scrovegni Chapel. The Kiss of Judas is one of forty-two frescoes telling the stories of Joachim and Anna and Mary their daughter, both of which are taken from the Apocrypha, and the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, taken from the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John in the Bible.  It has been said that this scheme “…is one of the most highly regarded ensembles in the history of art” [1]. 

Giotto, Scrovegni Chapel, 12.80 x 20.82 x 8.42 m, Padua

Why is it so highly regarded?  Well, having had the privilege of actually seeing these frescoes I think I can see why.  For anyone studying the Renaissance, Giotto is inescapable. He is regarded as the start, the father of modern art [2], the one without whom everything would be different, inconceivable.  I studied him and his wonderful Scrovegni Chapel frescoes back in the late nineties, and I was completely hooked.  I wanted to see them ‘in the flesh’ from that moment and although it took me nearly fifteen years, I finally saw them in July last year.  The Chapel is in Padua, in an area known as The Arena due to its use in Roman times. The tickets need to be booked well in advance and viewings are tightly controlled.  Twenty-five people are allowed in for fifteen minutes only, a time so short that it almost seemed like a dream.  We had to be conditioned to the environment in a special room for ten minutes first and then we were allowed into the hallowed space.

The thing that hit me first was the colour.  It is blue and beautiful and dreamlike.  Pastel is everywhere creating a feeling of ‘pretty’ colour, even in the Last Judgement at the far end, a far from ‘pretty’ subject.  The deep blue ceiling is studded with gold stars and roundels, and the rectangular scenes themselves are actually much bigger than I had imagined.  The Kiss is on the lower register on the left between two windows.  Taking this image as our example, we can see the stunning colour palette used by Giotto: the golden yellow of Judas’ cloak, the bright red of the soldier’s uniform, pastel pink of the pointing figure in the foreground and the azure blue of the night sky, with red and yellow flaming torches cutting through it.

Giotto was not only clever with colour, but innovative with his use of gesture and facial expression.  That is really the key to Giotto and why he has been hailed as so important in the history of art.  Look at the expressions of the people in the crowd, mouths open in shock, eyebrows knitted together in anger, and the calm intensity of Jesus’ own eyes.  The gestures too, speak volumes: fists balled, a cloak being pulled from a fleeing figure to the left, hands wielding weapons, a finger raised in admonishment and a hug, a treacherous, all enveloping hug.

I could go on…but I won’t.  Go and see them for yourself, they are worth the effort, even though you only get fifteen minutes!  It is fifteen minutes of wonder and awe and for me, a dream come true.

Alison Barker

Coming Next: Have you seen...Two Portraits in One?

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[1] Norman D (ed), Siena, Florence and Padua: Art, Society and Religion 1280-1400, The Open University, 1995, p.75

[2] Ibid p.73