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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Correggio, The Magdalen, c.1518-19, oil on canvas, 38.1 x 30.5, The National Gallery, London |
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| 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?
[1]
The Bible, John ch.20 v 1
[2]
Dunkerton et al, Durer to Veronese, The
National Gallery, London, 1999, p.80
[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]
