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| Caravaggio, The Supper at Emmaus, 1601 |
It
actually looks like a photograph, admittedly, a very large photograph. There is something about the light and the
shadow, the creased brow and the torn elbow patch, that speak the truth of a
camera’s lens. There is also that frozen
moment in time, that millisecond where movement is arrested and everyone is
caught, suspended, inanimate.
But
it is not a photograph. It is a
meticulously wrought, four hundred and thirteen year old oil painting, nearly two
metres in length and one and a half in width.
Four
men surround a table covered with a Turkish carpet and a white cloth which is
laden with food and drink. A bowl of
fruit teeters on the edge and a carafe of liquid creates a pool of reflected
light. None of the figures look at us, each has his attention caught
elsewhere. For me, the man on our right
is the one I see first. His outstretched
arms just draw me in. With those arms he
spans the width of the room he inhabits, the fingers of his left hand reaching
into my world, those of his right almost brushing the back wall in his. His gesture is one of astonishment, wonder,
awe and sudden enlightenment. What has
he understood? What is the drama? His friend, on our left with his back to us,
is caught in the same intense reaction.
He half rises from his chair, his patched elbow thrust towards us, his
gaze on the man in the centre.
But
nothing much seems to be happening to cause this reaction. The man standing to one side at the back
certainly does not seem to think so. He
looks on, unmoved, his thumbs in his belt, looking down at the yet uneaten meal
and the man in the centre.
Who
is this man at the centre of attention, seated serenely, eyes lowered, one hand
hovering over a loaf of bread, the other raised in a gesture of blessing? He is Jesus.
Son of God. King of Kings and
Lord of Lords. And his disciples have
just realised. That is the moment of
clarity that Caravaggio captured on his canvas.
That is the awe inspiring truth.
Jesus who was crucified is alive and blessing the bread. They had lived with him and followed him for
three years. They had just walked with
him for three hours and had not known it was him[1].
The
drama of the moment just explodes out of the frame. The outstretched arms shouting not only, “He is
alive!” but symbolising the manner of his death, stretched on a cross. Symbols abound from every corner: the bread,
his broken body, the grapes, his shed blood, the rotten apple, the sin for
which he died.
There
is more, much more, to absorb from this work: classical allusion in the profile
face of the disciple James, the skill of the artist demonstrated in a multitude
of different textures, three dimensional effects and touches of pure genius. But don’t take my word for it. Come and see for yourself this moment of
clarity, Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus,
The National Gallery, London, Room 32.
Alison Barker
I'm a huge fan of Caravaggio. His work is never "pink and fluffy" but it is always incredibly full of emotion realism.
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