Author: Isaac Kim

propaganda and magnanimity in velázquez’s “las lanzas”

Isaac Kim
Diego Velázquez, “The Surrender of Breda” (“Las Lanzas”), 1634–1635, oil on canvas, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, Spain.

A painting for a declining empire

The year is 1625, and the Spanish Empire is at its apogee.

So far, “Spain had been steadily losing the Eighty Years’ War against the Netherlands” (Dorsey 12). But a surprising turn of fortune happens: in what is now the Netherlands against the Dutch Republic, a nine-month siege culminates in conquering the fortified city of Breda. Under the leadership of the remarkable General Ambrosio Spinola, King Philip IV of Spain and his Army of Flanders has scored a decisive success in capturing the city. The equally brilliant Dutch general Justinus van Nassau surrendered Breda after heavy losses, the Dutch are pushed away from the hinterland, and fewer than 3,500 Dutch soldiers survive the siege (Duffy 96). It shows Europe that Spain is still a formidable fighting force; “Spain is victorious,” it says triumphantly, “Spain will conquer the Dutch revolt.”

The victory, though, is ultimately a pyrrhic one. As David Dorsey writes:

Spain lost Breda only a few years after the surrender and went on to lose the entire war in 1648. This moment in 1625 was only a brief setback for The Netherlands. From here onward, the declining Spanish Hapsburg empire gradually ceded its primacy on the world stage to another rising imperial star: the Dutch (Dorsey 12).

In a little over two decades, Spain will suffer grave political losses in the Peace of Westphalia, which guarantees independence to the Netherlands. “The regime of… Philip IV,” writes Peter Schjeldahl, “… was overstretched abroad, sclerotic at home, and, what with the Dutch and English predation on its shipments… often broke. The Golden Age of Spanish art and literature… was sputtering out” (Schjeldahl 11). Indeed, the Dutch ended up recapturing Breda in 1637, two years after this painting was finished.

But we are not there yet. We are still in a period when Spain feels confident and triumphant. And, when Philip IV begins to build a new palace outside of Madrid, the Buen Retiro, in the early 1630s, Spain’s power, though increasingly diminishing, still remains. The war is not lost just yet.

One series of commissions in particular stands out: “a series of twelve paintings for the Hall of Realms, where royal audiences and other ceremonies took place,” depicting, by the hands of different artists, “recent Spanish victories, some won just a year or two earlier” (Annenberg). Artistic greats such as Zurbarán and Castello are called in from Italy and Castille. And the King gives the commission for the greatest Spanish military triumph in recent memory, the surrender of Breda, to the court’s most prestigious and illustrious painter, Diego Velázquez.

By this point, Vélazquez was very safely ensconced within the favor of the court of Philip IV. He never lacked commissions or offers, and was indeed friendly with both the King and Queen; “No other painter in history was better situated than Velasquez,” says Dorsey, “to paint the life of empire and the tenuous nature of political power” (Dorsey 12). It is no surprise, then, that Vélazquez obtained this most important commission for the Hall of Realms.

And he delivered. The Surrender of Breda (often called Las Lanzas for the prominence of the wall of Spanish lances pointing to the sky) is still considered “one of the most famous and accomplished war pictures in the history of art” (Wolf 22). But its value doesn’t come entirely from its impressive depiction of individuality and surface texture; rather, Vélazquez’s brilliant balancing of humanity, power, and propaganda lends his work the quality of a masterpiece.

The merciful surrender

Jacques Callot, “The Siege of Breda”, 1628, etching, Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton, USA.

It is difficult to overstate just how important the successful Siege of Breda was to the Spanish and their spirits. The surrender, after all, was “a rare late success for the Spaniards in the war” (Schjeldahl 11). Breda’s extraordinary importance in Brabant made the Spanish triumph especially significant. News of the victory spread throughout Catholic Europe quickly and was met with great joy, as Norbert Wolf writes:

Many contemporary witnesses felt sure that the long struggle for the Netherlands would determine the future position of Spain… and the strategic significance of the place [Breda] was correctly assessed by Philip IV’s best commander in the Thirty Years’ War, Ambrosio Spinola… After a four-month siege and when all the provisions in the fortress had run out, he [Justinus van Nassau, the commander of the fortress of Breda] was forced to petition for an honorable surrender. Spinola allowed him to leave under conditions that were extremely generous for the period…

News of the victory was greeted with relief and delight in Madrid, and by Pope Urban VIII in Rome. The Pope congratulated Spinola on washing his hands in the blood of the heretics (Wolf 22).

What made this surrender in particular remarkable was that the Spanish commander, the brilliant General Ambrosio Spinola, was incredibly merciful, or rather magnanimous, to the defeated Dutch, and especially to the Dutch commanding officer, Justinus van Nassau. Normally, surrender was a humiliating act of the vanquished; “the tradition of surrender scenes,” writes Professor Jonathan Brown, was one “where the winning general sat upon the horse, in front of him was the kneeling losing general, who handed over the keys to the city to the victorious general” (Annenberg). But, according to Dorsey,

Eyewitnesses said Spinola dismounted in order to greet Nassau as an equal and saluted him as he approached. It was reported that he praised Nassau’s courage and his people’s endurance, during the siege. Spinola’s behavior would seem to be history’s noblest act of what we’d call good sportsmanship. There were no victory dances in the end zone here. Only a scene in which the victor humbles himself before the vanquished (Dorsey 12).

But, although this was a uniquely kind and surprisingly warm gesture towards the vanquished enemy, Spinola hid another gesture within that of mercy: one of magnanimity. That Spinola chose to be generous with the Dutch indicates not only military power but, in willful mercy, also displays a kind of moral superiority over the enemy. Comparable with the Roman depiction of the Dacians in Trajan’s Column, the message in this battle was not one of degrading and utterly humiliating the enemy (as was previously the case in surrenders); rather, it was one of carefully chosen magnanimity and, by extension, Spanish excellence.

We must also note here that Velázquez was intimately connected to General Spinola himself; indeed, the two were good friends and had previously traveled to Italy together. Spinola “died a few years before the commission of the painting” (de Dios 15); it is no surprise, then, that Velázquez wanted to especially emphasize the magnanimity and kindness of Spinola the man, making The Surrender of Breda a kind of tribute for his friend.

With such an emphasis on the mercy and moral superiority of the Spanish, then, in the battle itself, Velázquez’s composition naturally parallels and magnifies this emphasis. The painting overwhelmingly emphasizes the magnanimity of the Spanish over the defeat of the Dutch or the raw military power of the empire.

A painting about magnanimity

Diego Velázquez, “The Surrender of Breda” (detail), 1634–1635, oil on canvas, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, Spain.

For all its magnificence and detail, The Surrender of Breda, when broken down, has a surprisingly simple composition. Velázquez essentially breaks the painting into two halves of military groups, placing the defeated Dutch on the left and the triumphant Spanish on the right. “Though the painting depicts a military victory,” Dr. Jimena Berzal de Dios writes, “Velázquez removed the bloody and violent aspects of the battle from the canvas” (Dios 15), simultaneously deemphasizing the violence and brutality of the Spanish siege while highlighting the specific moment of the aftermath of the battle. The only signs of the war are shown in the silent battlefield in the distance, smoke rising from fires far away.

Velázquez makes a clear visual distinction between the two groups of soldiers. On the right, the Dutch soldiers stand, weather-beaten, disorganized, and few. “The group of defeated men,” writes Wolf, “is constructed more loosely and with more variety of lighting and colour than the well-disciplined company of victors” (Wolf 22). They provide a distinct foil to the Spanish troops on the right, “presented as a large, well-organized, and seasoned group” (de Dios 15). In sharp contrast to the Dutch, the Spanish soldiers seem more elegant, more competent, and more victorious.

Velázquez emphasizes the might of the Spanish particularly strongly in the depiction of the lances, a veritable forest of dense spikes pointing to the sky. They dominate the Spanish half of the composition, and serve to both “create a sense that there are more Spanish troops than we can actually see” (de Dios 15) as well as emphasize the military superiority and competence of the Spanish. The Dutch pikes are few and crooked; the Spanish lances are ordered, straight, and greater in number. This dense forest of lances so dominates the overall composition that it gives the painting itself its well-known subtitle, Las Lanzas. The order and military might of the Spanish military also provide a subtle foil to the generous and merciful act that happens in the center of the painting, the central act of the moment, to which the viewer’s eyes are inevitably drawn.

The massive composition is centered on a slight, momentary gesture of kindness. Justinus van Nassau, his head slouched wearily and bowing before Ambrosio Spinola, proffers the keys of the city to the Spanish general. Spinola bends down to van Nassau and lays his hand on his shoulder tenderly, almost affectionately, and looks at him with a slight smile, “a sympathetic and a noble gesture” (Wolf 22). De Dios writes that Spinola puts his hand over van Nassau’s shoulder “most likely in order to stop him from kneeling” (de Dios 15), further emphasizing the human tenderness and the surprising mercy of the moment. Perhaps Spinola says something to the defeated general, who looks up and meets his eyes in surprise; his rod of command and hat, both symbols of authority, dangle from his hand as if forgotten at the moment.

This momentary gesture of kindness and affection is the clear center of the entire painting; Velázquez deemphasizes the battle itself (only painted in the distant background, almost as an afterthought) in favor of Spinola’s, and Spain’s, magnanimity, shown in this singular moment. “The entire composition,” as the painting’s page on the Prado says, “is designed to emphasize this gesture, and both the group of Dutch soldiers… and the Spaniards serve to frame, accompany and shelter this principal motif, drawing our attention directly to it” (Prado). The visual message here isn’t one of triumphant victory, but one of the mercy of the Spanish, shown “with extraordinary efficiency” (Prado) in the depiction of this gesture that must have lasted mere seconds.

By depicting a singular moment in time (one recalls Caravaggio’s hic et nunc philosophy) in remarkable visual detail, Velázquez makes the viewer feel as if they are a witness to the surrender as well. The photorealistic detailing of the armor of Spinola and van Nassau, the remarkable individuality of all the soldiers present in the composition, and Velázquez’s “inexhaustibly rich orchestration of their feelings and their states of mind” (Wolf 22) all serve to make the scene as realistic as can be. His brushwork and color is impeccable in its realistic technique:

Velazquez achieves… a new perception of light and a subtle counterposition of luminous colored planes… Matter has become impalpable, seeming to soak in light and at the same time radiate it, achieving a sensation of palpitation, of true life, created not through tactile techniques—outlines are no longer sharply defined—but rather through exclusively visual means (Ortiz et al. 89).

Especially noteworthy here is the fact that Velázquez removed all allegorical or mythological references to victory or triumph, making the work “indisputably the first purely historical picture in modern European painting” (Wolf 22). Such lack of symbolism further reinforces the main message of the work, which is definitively not concerned with military triumph. “As numerous scholars have pointed out,” the Prado says, “this is no ordinary pictorial celebration of victory or martial ideals” (Prado). Velázquez concentrates our attention on the foreground, to the scene of the triumphant general reaching out in surprising kindness.

If Spinola is talking to van Nassau in this second, what does he say? Opinions differ. Perhaps he says something along the lines of “‘Don’t bow down to me, friend. We are one and the same, you and I. Our enemy is everything that’s happening around us’” (Dorsey 12). Or maybe “he says something like ‘We both know that this is only the outcome of today’” (Schjeldahl 11). Perhaps the gesture is one of “destined consent” (Koppelman 16), as Eli Siegel commented on the work. Or maybe “the hand he places on his opponent’s shoulder is ambivalent—a concurrent show of respect and condescension” (Annenberg).

We just don’t know. But I like to imagine Spinola’s gesture as one that goes beyond kindness and into comforting the enemy general; an unprecedented act of affection that speaks volumes in mercy and magnanimity. Or, at least, that’s what Velázquez wants us to see.

The work as propaganda

Diego Velázquez, “Portrait of Philip IV in Fraga”, 1644, oil on canvas, The Frick Collection, New York City, USA.

As much as we would like to imagine otherwise, this emotionally moving meeting between Spinola and van Nassau never actually happened. Indeed, though many details of the composition (the armor, the flags, the equipment, etc., etc.) are drawn from Velázquez’s research and real life, the truth is that Spinola’s magnanimous gesture and van Nassau’s humility are fictional. As Jimena Berzal de Dios writes,

… we should not let Velázquez’s naturalistic style deceive us. The Surrender of Breda is not a faithful reproduction of the event. It is highly unlikely that the encounter between the two commanders took place as depicted. The painter, who was not present at the siege of Breda, carefully constructed the scene to commemorate Spinola’s magnanimous character, not to document an event…

The painting presents a humane encounter in the midst of the chaos and cruelty of war. But we should not think that there are no ulterior motives for the presentation of this seemingly virtuous moment (de Dios 15).

The aim of the painting, in its emphasis on magnanimity and Spanish moral superiority, becomes clear in its original context, within the halls of the Buen Retiro. Recalling the fact that the Hall of Realms was where royal receptions and ceremonies took place, it becomes clear that The Surrender of Breda is, at its core, a propagandistic painting. Its message is one of mercy and magnanimity rather than of Spanish military power, yes, but none of its purposes include naturalistically and realistically depicting an actual event. The painting “operates at multiple levels: it is a rhetorical exaltation of Spanish national identity, a symbol of Philip IV and his army, and a tribute to Spinola” (de Dios 15). Indeed, this is true of the other paintings commissioned for the Buen Retiro:

The Surrender of Breda and the other images in the Buen Retiro series served a dual purpose. On the one hand, they offered evidence of Spain’s power to contemporary audiences; on the other, they commemorated the success of Philip’s reign for posterity. In order to meet these objectives effectively, they sometimes played with the facts (Annenberg).

The “point” of The Surrender of Breda shows itself clearly. It isn’t depicting a historical event accurately and truthfully; rather, it’s extolling the magnanimity and power of General Spinola, and, by extension, the greatness of Philip IV and the Spanish Empire as a whole. That Velázquez was able to depict such abstract concepts as honor and magnanimity so efficiently is less a degradation of his work (just because a work is propaganda doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily “bad”!) than it is a testament to his genius. In the words of the Prado: “the simple gesture of the two generals is enough to transmit a theory of State and a view of history” (Prado).

“I was so moved by these two men,” says Dorothy Koppelman, “taking their hats off to one another, that I wanted to be like them, yielding and victorious” (Koppelman 16). Perhaps that is the key to The Surrender of Breda: an emphasis on the beauty of submission and pride, the triumph of magnanimity and mercy, the inherent power within choosing to refrain from exercising power.

Did The Surrender of Breda “work”? Probably not. At the end of the day, Velázquez and Philip IV took a gamble in depicting the triumph of an event “that had not yet withstood the test of time” (Annenberg) in decorating the Buen Retiro. And they lost that gamble: within scarcely a decade, Spain’s position on the continent was lost, its dominance lost to the English, the French, and the Dutch. Within two years, most of Spain’s victories in Brabant and Flanders, including Breda itself, were reversed for good. The Buen Retiro was ruinously costly and ended up becoming “a sepulchre of imperial dreams” (Schjeldahl 11); Philip IV’s passion project was razed during the 19th century, leaving behind what is today the Retiro Park in Madrid. And Spain itself sank into a constant economic plunge, plagued by bankruptcy and a parasitic nobility.

But, timelessly, The Surrender of Breda still “works” for us. Velázquez’s effect of magnanimity and his message of Spanish moral superiority still speak to us; more importantly, the tenderness of the composition still takes us by surprise and invites us, almost as eyewitnesses, to this singular moment in time. Velázquez’s unique ability to apply a distinct message with his talent for applying paint perpetuates a fictionalized past that, almost four centuries later, still feels present and real. Peter Schjeldahl is entirely correct when he writes that “He conquered time” (Schjeldahl 11).

The Spanish Empire lost the Eighty Years’ War, and its Golden Age died soon after Velázquez completed this work. The victory at Breda was all too fleeting, and both Spain and the Buen Retiro fell into decline. But we can forget all of that when we look at this fictional hill on the outskirts of Breda, when we see epic intimacy and the triumph of ordinary humanity in the slight, kind gesture of a simple hand on the shoulder. Velázquez’s ontology of history is ever present, ever real. The Surrender of Breda continues to speak in the present tense; Spinola still comforts van Nassau with the soldiers and the lances, and the power of magnanimity confronts us, infinitely here.

Sources cited

Duffy, Christopher. Siege Warfare: The fortress in the early modern world, 1494–1660. Routledge, 1996.

Wolf, Norbert. Velázquez. Taschen, 2022.

Ortiz, Antonio Domínguez, et al. Velázquez. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1989.

Koppelman, Dorothy. “What Will Make Us Truly Proud of Ourselves? A Study in the Art of Diego Velázquez.” Terrain Gallery, 10 January 2016, https://terraingallery.org/aesthetic-realism-art-criticism/what-will-make-us-truly-proud-of-ourselves/.

de Dios, Jimena Berzal. “Diego Velázquez, The Surrender of Breda.” Smarthistory, 8 August 2015, https://smarthistory.org/velazquez-the-surrender-of-breda/.

“Art: Surrender of Breda.” Annenberg Learner, 22 March 2019, https://www.learner.org/series/art-through-time-a-global-view/history-and-memory/surrender-of-breda/.

“The Surrender of Breda.” Museo del Prado, https://www.museodelprado.es/en/the-collection/art-work/the-surrender-of-breda/0cc7577a-51d9-44fd-b4d5-4dba8d9cb13a.

Dorsey, Dave. “Awakening from the nightmare of history.” Represent the Painting Life, 10 February 2012, https://thedorseypost.com/?p=1076.

Schjeldahl, Peter. “The Reign in Spain.” The New Yorker, 25 December 2011, https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/01/02/velazquez-the-reign-in-spain-peter-schjeldahl.

agonizing mysticism: pain, emotion, and comfort in the isenheim altarpiece

Isaac Kim
Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece, 1512–1516, oil and tempera on panel, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.

A grotesque Man of Sorrows

A monstrously violent execution in the middle of the night: a thin, gaunt man, his skin a sickly gray-green and pockmarked with the scars of pox, hangs from a cross, his limbs contorted and hands outstretched in agony. Blood runs from his freshly pierced wounds, dripping down from his ribs and feet. His mouth wails silently in unimaginably painful death; the crown of thorns angrily juts into his skin like the splinters upon his body. His grieving disciples surround him; there is no peaceful, merciful death here, no ecstatic revelation. There is only the dark bleakness of suffering and death.

This is Matthias Grünewald’s monumental Isenheim Altarpiece, one of the most bleak and solemn, and simultaneously one of the most fantastic and magnificent, works of the North Renaissance tradition. A massive piece, measuring over 12 feet by 22, it functions as “essentially a box of statues covered by folding wings” (Hickson); three sets of wings of painted panel swing outwards to reveal Biblical scenes that ultimately lead to a polychrome wood ensemble of three seated saints, a multimedia type of altar popular in Germany at the time. (A video of the full altarpiece being opened can be seen here.)

This article will only analyze part of the Isenheim Altarpiece, which consists of six hinged wings, ten individual painted scenes, and sixteen polychrome wooden sculptures. Specifically, we will be looking at arguably the most intriguing—and disturbing—part of the altarpiece: the crucifixion scene, the very first motif the viewer sees when it is fully closed, as it usually was in its original setting. This violent depiction and its meaning go far beyond the mere vehicle of corporal suffering; rather, they both serve to emphasize the overarching meaning of the work itself, not one of despair, but one of comfort and hope.

A hospital for the dead

When analyzing any work of art, careful observation and consideration of its original setting and function are paramount to fully understanding the work. The Isenheim Altarpiece is no exception to this rule; indeed, a full grasp of its original context is vital to understanding Grünewald’s meaning completely.

This monumental work was originally “created to serve as the central object of devotion in an Isenheim hospital built by the Brothers of St. Anthony” (Hickson). Such altarpieces, serving as focal points serving as objects of devotion and hope, were not uncommon in European hospitals of the time, many of which were run by monastic orders such as the Hospital Brothers of St. Anthony.

We must note here that this hospital was not necessarily a place of healing and wellness; on the contrary, many patients here were probably beyond the point of saving and were at the point of succumbing to their illnesses. A better name for it would be hospice care, for that was what the monks of St. Anthony mostly attended to. This was not a place for actively getting better and recovering from sickness; rather, this was a place for comforting those who were about to pass away, treating them with care and compassion while offering them hope for a better life after this one.

As Professor Andrée Hayum notes:

“Present-day medical attitudes and treatments are primarily geared toward preservation of life… This situation is in sharp contrast to that of the early sixteenth century, when diseases quickly took on epidemic proportions… Hence the practice of medicine then was.. alleviating illness rather than restoring health” (Hayum).

This is especially true given the fact that many of the patients there suffered from ergotism, a deadly disease that came from consuming rye bread infected with fungus. It was also, incidentally, called St. Anthony’s Fire. The diagnosis was generally grim: patients could get painful seizures and convulsions, often leading to psychosis or mania, within hours of eating the contaminated food. Even worse, patients could become infected with gangrene, dying painful deaths of detached fingers and/or entire limbs. Ergotic patients would be stricken with characteristically pockmarked skin, which would cause painful scratching. The chances of survival were slim, especially after monks would often unwittingly feed patients infected bread.

Ergotism was a notoriously terrifying disease, claiming many thousands throughout the centuries of European history. Perhaps the most viscerally horrifying description of this disease comes from 11th-century monk Sigbert von Gembloux, who named 1089 the “Year of the Plague”, writing:

“That year there was an epidemic, where the Holy Fire consumed the innards of many people, who simply rotted away, because their limbs became black as coal and were eaten away. They either died in anguish, or their hands and feet fell off and they wasted away, living a painful life. Many people suffered, tormented by cramps, a real torture” (Stieglitz).

In a place of such grievous suffering and pain, the Isenheim Altarpiece stood as a central visual attractor in the space and the primary focal point of the patients. Its wings were closed most of the time, which meant that the patients would see the scenes of the crucifixion and deposition in the closed frontal state of the altarpiece most often. Only on specially designated feast days would the wings of the piece stretch open, revealing a vibrant and colorful interior.

The context of the Isenheim Altarpiece, then, was grim, painful, and tragic. Disease was a part of life in its original place; death was, of course, common. Keep this in mind as we begin to analyze the form and content of the work itself.

The marred crucifixion

Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece (detail), 1512–1516, oil and tempera on panel, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France. Photo by Stephen Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Like a twisted kind of visual magnet, the central theme of the crucifixion invariably draws our eyes toward the suffering, bloodied body of Christ. And how could such brutal visual agony not command our attention?

Indeed, the more one gazes at the central crucifixion panels, the more one feels disturbed, almost revolted, at the sheer scale of agony and suffering depicted so eloquently in the form of the crucified Christ. His limbs and hands stretch out and contort in obvious pain. The scarlet blood running from his stigmata contrasts so clearly with the pale skin of recent death, marred by splinters and—crucially—the characteristic pockmarks of ergotism.

This emphasis on connection with the ergotism of the patients of the hospital is further reflected in the body of Christ, which is depicted lying in the predella of the altarpiece. Christ’s corpse sprawls across the panels, bleeding and horrifyingly punctured. And, of course, the ergotic pockmarks are present here as well. The choosing of the two saints who flank the central panels, too, is no mere coincidence; Saint Sebastian was venerated as a patron of plague victims and a protector against bubonic plague (due to his body being marked with arrows), while Saint Anthony the Great was the namesake of the monks who cared for the sick here.

Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece (detail), 1512–1516, oil and tempera on panel, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France. Photo by Stephen Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Several characteristics of Grünewald’s central panels are especially noteworthy. The lack of the halo in the forms of both Christ and the Mater Dolorosa, as well as in the forms of the flanking Saints Sebastian and Anthony the Great, speaks to the decline of the overt use of the “Byzantine” halo during the Renaissance. And, of course, the motif of the crucifixion with the Mater Dolorosa and the Agnus Dei is everything but new in the tradition of Western Christian art.

Many visual characteristics and nuances, however, stand out from this tradition. Consider the setting of the crucifixion; the sky is darkened (perhaps not a nighttime scene, but rather a nod to the eclipsing of the sun recorded in the account of the crucifixion within the Gospels), and the distant landscape undetailed, so that a black curtain seems to fall behind the action. John the Baptist, usually reserved for other artistic motifs, is included standing by the cross. And, of course, the form of Christ is contorted in pain; his suffering is dialed up to the point of near-grotesque abstraction.

The significance of pain is crucial to this work; as Professor Hayum writes,

“Pain is essentially a private experience that isolates its victim from his surroundings. In the open stage of the Isenheim Altarpiece… Grünewald seems to urge the viewer’s confrontation with this immediate reality, and he presents a circumscribed possibility for its alleviation” (Hayum).

Such artistic choices stand in stark contrast to the depictions of the crucifixion in different parts of Europe during the Renaissance, most specifically in the South (think Italian city-states here), where the humanistic emphasis was on mathematical perspective, realistic atmospheric landscapes, and stability. In Mantegna’s The Crucifixion, for instance, we find an entirely different scene from Grünewald’s panels, though the subject matter is the same. Mantegna’s Christ is almost pensive and restful, his halo glowing; Grünewald’s Christ is contorted in palpable agony and sans halo. Mantegna is interested in depicting atmospheric and mathematical perspectives; Grünewald’s background is almost pulled forward in its simplicity. Mantegna’s sky is blue and light; Grünewald’s is blackened and empty.

Andrea Mantegna, The Crucifixion, 1457–1459, tempera on panel, Musée du Louvre, Paris, France.

Such mathematical precision and clarity is, of course, a hallmark of the early Italian Renaissance, where the treatises of Alberti and Brunelleschi emphasized the depiction of humanism through such vehicles. Why, then, is Grünewald’s humanism so markedly different from the Southern tradition? Why is there such an emphasis on corporal suffering and pain?

The altarpiece as andachtsbild

Such humanistic emphasis on the mortal form of Christ, especially on his emotional and physical pain, was a crucial part of the vibrant tradition of Northern Gothic and Renaissance spiritual art.

This emphasizing of the grief and suffering of holy figures in art, intended to facilitate a viscerally emotional connection between an artwork and its viewer, is a major linchpin in the Northern tradition of andachtsbilder, or “devotional images” in German. Andachtsbilder hyperfocused on sorrow; the grief of Christ in the artistic motifs of the Ecce homo, the Arma Christi, or the Pensive Christ, as well as the grief of his companions and friends in the motifs of the Mater Dolorosa and the Pietà, would have resonated with the Medieval and Renaissance-era faithful, especially in an age where death and suffering were not uncommon.

This relatively new tradition was a clear breakaway from the Medieval depictions of Christ when the Son of God was depicted as triumphant and simultaneously separated from the viewer. Artistic motifs such as the Christus triumphans and the common subject matter of the Last Judgement (especially popular in the tympana of cathedrals) emphasized the divinity of Christ, his holiness, and his lasting victory over sin and death. In Medieval works such as these, Christ’s face is one of transcendence and triumph.

Unknown Pisan painter, Cross no. 432 (detail), 12th century, tempera on wood, gold background, Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy.

This perspective of Christ as distant and victorious, however, started to shift in the early 13th century as part of a broader religious movement, which began to emphasize the humanity and sufferings of Christ, rather than his divine conquering, to pave an emotional connection between God and the common suffering of the average person. Starting from this time, influential writers such as Bonaventure and Meister Eckhart began to stress the humanity of Christ, and religious groups such as the Franciscans, the Beghards, and the Gottesfreunde followed. Indeed, as Dr. Nancy Ross says,

“Late medieval devotional writing… leaned toward mysticism and many of these writers had visions of Christ’s suffering. Francis of Assisi stressed Christ’s humanity and poverty. Several writers, such as St. Bonaventure, St. Bridget of Sweden, and St. Bernardino of Siena, imagined Mary’s thoughts as she held her dead son. It wasn’t long before artists began to visualize these new devotional trends” (Ross).

This vibrant and, from a modern point of view (one that has become admittedly tainted with a stereotypical perspective of the Middle Ages as a period of backwardness and fervently divine thought), surprisingly humanistic tradition extended throughout the 13th century and beyond with Thomas à Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ and the movement of the Devotio Moderna. Such theology had a humanistic bent to its core tenets and principles, emphasizing the spiritual connection between the divine and the mortal. These connections were made especially frequently through the use of compassion in pain; depictions of Christ and his followers in deep grief and emotional agony, although horrifically violent, were intended “to show that God and Mary, divine figures, were sympathetic to human suffering, and to the pain, and loss experienced by medieval viewers” (Ross).

Unknown artist, Röttgen Pietà, 1300–1325, polychrome wood, Rheinisches Landesmuseum Bonn, Bonn, Germany.

An earlier artwork, similarly from the German andachtsbilder tradition, which we can compare to the Isenheim Altarpiece is the Röttgen Pietà. Here, the subject matter is a little different—the solitary Virgin Mary cradles the dead Christ after the Deposition—but the principal function of its form is remarkably similar. The Pietà, which would have been placed in a small chapel, aimed to elicit a similar emotional response and connection to the suffering of Christ. Similarly to the Isenheim Altarpiece, Christ’s wounds and form are exaggerated in their horrifying violence (his head bends backward at an unnatural angle, blood runs from his glaring stigmata, and his body and limbs are distorted to the point of near-abstractionism); the factor of physical pain is run to its absolute limit.

Emotional pain is dialed up as well. The face of the Virgin Mary is especially notable; holding her son’s body in her hands, her face is not one of quiet, accepting sadness or pensive tranquility (as is the case in Michelangelo’s rather more famous treatment of the same subject). Rather, she “appears to be angry and confused… She shows strong negative emotions that emphasize her humanity, just as the representation of Christ emphasizes his” (Ross).

Andachtsbilder such as these were meant to give a specific message, a specific kind of comfort and compassion, to their viewers. Medieval viewers, by seeing such gruesome pain experienced by even the divine, were meant to feel a closer, more personal connection to God, deeply intertwined with the emotional and the painful. “God sees and feels your pain,” the works say; “He suffered just as you did in life.”

Despair and triumph

Despite the emotional connection forged between the divine and the viewer through such themes of agony and suffering, though, the Isenheim Altarpiece is not entirely grounded on bodily pain. In fact, when the altarpiece was opened on special feast days, the viewers would have been greeted with a stunningly beautiful depiction of triumph over death, resurrection, and hope, a far cry from the subject matter of the front panels.

Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece (detail), 1512–1516, oil and tempera on panel, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France. Photo by Stephen Zucker, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

The inside panels depict what is essentially a speedrun through the life of Christ, depicting, from left to right, the Annunciation, the Nativity (angelic choir included), and a combination of Transfiguration, Resurrection, and Ascension.

This rightmost panel is especially fascinating and is described as “the strangest of these inner visions” (Hickson). Christ rises from the tomb and over the sleeping soldiers, wrapped in a brilliant cloak of bright yellows, oranges, reds, and blues. A shining body halo painted in sunset colors surrounds him, and his face, radiating with divine light, is so bright that it almost blends in with the halo behind his head. The scene is again during the night, but the subject matter is not death, but rather the triumph over death itself.

Christ’s body is again the center of our attention, but his body is perfect and otherworldly, unmarred by the scars of ergotism or pox. The wounds of his physical suffering, the stigmata, are transformed with a golden glow into a symbol of transcendence and triumph. His face is not contorted in pain, but tranquil in everlasting peace. This is a vibrant and physically moving depiction of Christ resurrected, of the divine victory over suffering and death. It certainly would have moved the patients of the Isenheim hospital, offering the hope of transcendence and peace to those afflicted with disease.

Grünewald has clear control of both the depiction of intense agony—both physical and emotional—and that of peaceful ascendancy. The Isenheim Altarpiece is simultaneously a praise of divine suffering, a sympathetic depiction of agony, and a prayer for hope after death. It is, in other words, a unique visual thesis on the nature of pain, faith, death, and resurrection.

Sources cited

Hickson, Sally. “Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece.” Smarthistory, 27 April 2023, https://smarthistory.org/grunewald-isenheim-altarpiece/.

Ross, Nancy. “Röttgen Pietà.” Smarthistory, 8 August 2015, https://smarthistory.org/roettgen-pieta/.

Hayum, Andrée. “The Meaning and Function of the Isenheim Altarpiece: The Hospital Context Revisited.” The Art Bulletin, December 1977, https://www.jstor.org/stable/3049705.

Stieglitz, Ann. “The Reproduction of Agony: Toward a Reception-History of Grünewald’s Isenheim Altar after the First World War.” Oxford Art Journal, 1989, https://www.jstor.org/stable/1360358?seq=5.

“The Isenheim Altarpiece animation.” YouTube, uploaded by Smarthistory, 18 April 2023, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoXwnbYR8Fk.

mccarthy’s ousting isn’t just about polarization—it’s about precarity

Isaac Kim

The following essay was chosen as the featured article of the October edition of the LA/Irvine Media Club newsletter. You can find it here: https://shorturl.at/kuRZ4

Eight Republican votes: that’s all it took to paralyze our government on October 3rd when the House of Representatives decided to oust Speaker Kevin McCarthy, the first time it has chosen to do so in history. One-half of Congress is now rudderless, limping by with an interim speaker that has no real power; in other words, it has paralyzed itself.

The timing is impeccable. Two US allies are now engulfed in devastating wars that call for government attention and aid immediately. US citizens have been taken hostage in crises. And a government shutdown is looming in little over a month—the deadline, ironically, being one that Congress set for itself. This moment is one of the worst to have a Capitol Hill crisis, but as it stands, the House is engulfed in chaos.

This isn’t a temporary problem, either. What once looked like a messy leadership change has now spun into a full-blown leadership crisis for the House GOP. This was only further confirmed when Mr. Steve Scalise, the House Majority Leader and the Republican nominee for House Speaker, dropped out of the race today, leaving the Republican spot for Speaker vacant once again. Commenting on Mr. Scalise’s choice, Rep. Mark Alford remarked “…we’re a ship that doesn’t have a rudder right now, and I’m thoroughly disappointed in the process” (Brooks et al.). That seems clear enough: Republicans are not willing to put aside their divisions and support cohesive action on the House floor.

This problem is, of course, a familiar one. Ever since Republicans assumed control of the House, hardliner groups within the party haven’t hesitated to make their voices heard. One example of this lies within the House Freedom Caucus, a group whose “members… are among the most conservative of House Republicans, with several falling on the rightmost end of the spectrum” (DeSilver). Or, more broadly, the so-called “Wrecking-Ball Caucus”, “an ultraconservative minority that sees the federal government as a threat to the republic… a wrecking crew aimed at the nation’s institutions on a variety of fronts” (Hulse).

But what makes this particular situation unique is its shocking reveal of government precarity. The numbers on the ousting vote are revealing: only eight Republican votes out of a total of 221 were needed to eliminate McCarthy’s speakership. Among the votes was Matt Gaetz, who filed the motion to vacate and is described as a “reliable flame-thrower, a main character in the drama now consuming Capitol Hill” (Honderich). It only took eight reactionary firebrands to throw Congress into chaos.

Mr. Carl Hulse sums up the Republican division in his article for the New York Times: “House Republicans… are consumed with an extended struggle of personal grievance, petty beefs, political payback and rampant attention-seeking that has sidelined Congress at a critical moment and rendered the Capitol a bastion of G.O.P. dysfunction. The spectacle of their infighting is even more glaring at a moment of international crisis… they remain unable to settle on a speaker who could put the House back in business.”

Equally as important, though, is the role of House Democrats in McCarthy’s ousting. It’s telling that every single Democrat voted to oust him, as stated by House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, who justified the vote by arguing that “It is now the responsibility of the GOP members to end the House Republican Civil War. Given their unwillingness to break from MAGA extremism… House Democratic leadership will vote yes on the pending Republican Motion to Vacate the Chair” (Racker). Ironically, it was Jeffries himself who “urged House Republicans to pass bipartisan legislation…bipartisan plan was the only option available, he said” (Blackburn). It isn’t just Republicans tied up in petty personal squabbles: it’s Democrats as well.

We can therefore see three factors that each played a crucial and instrumental role in the McCarthy oust: a lack of a clear leading force in the Republican party; an unwillingness to cooperate with either side from both parties; and a disproportionately large amount of power that individual Congressmen seem to suddenly wield. 

Firstly, it is plain that the Republican party lacks a clear and cohesive leading force right now. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that the current state of the party is in turbulence; especially during the last few days, “The race for House Speaker is dividing Senate Republicans, reflecting the broader division in the GOP between traditional and MAGA-aligned conservatives” (Bolton). But the McCarthy fiasco has only brought these problems to further light; as early as January, analysts were warning of “a modern-day civil war within the GOP… On one side: a growing number of elected officials eager to move beyond the divisive politics and personality of former President Donald Trump… And on the other: the GOP’s vocal ‘Make America Great Again’ wing, which… is quick to attack the status quo in both parties” (Peoples). In other words, division within the Republican party has been exacerbated by the McCarthy ousting, but this particular problem’s root lies in how the GOP is currently structured.

Republicans were certainly united, or at least seemed to be, in the Trump administration’s heyday. Throughout the presidency, the de facto leader of the party was undeniably Trump. But after COVID, January 6th, and Ukraine, the party is split between radical conservatives and more traditional members. Because of this division, the party is no longer headed by the former president, or indeed by any single entity at all; Trump becomes a flashpoint, reduced to little more than a stasis point for the party to split itself over. That much is clear, shown by Vivek Ramaswamy, Ron DeSantis, Nikki Haley, and other Republicans vying to appeal to the more Trump-hesitant half, presenting themselves as an alternative. The Republican party is increasingly becoming leaderless and disjointed—compare that to the Democrats, whose unanimity in ousting McCarthy speaks volumes.

Meanwhile, although an unwillingness for across-the-aisle cooperation is a historic tradition of Capitol Hill, the increasing political polarization over any number of points—Roe v. Wade, Ukraine, January 6th, and now Israel—gives plenty of reason for worry. The leaderless and uncoordinated nature of the Republican party is a cause for concern, but equally concerning is the unanimous decision of House Democrats to oust McCarthy, fully knowing that his replacement will probably be far less willing to cooperate with them on key issues. After all, McCarthy was ousted precisely because he was too willing to work with Democrats in the first place. Why, then, would they make this choice? Whether it be a lack of trust in their Republican colleagues or a kind of pleasure at watching said colleagues get humiliated, it’s clear that we won’t be seeing much in the way of bipartisan trust or action any time soon.

Perhaps the most concerning angle of this whole debacle, though, is the amount of power that is concentrated in the hands of individual Congressmen, partially as a result of increasing polarization. In his bid to become House Speaker, McCarthy agreed to a new rule, the “motion to vacate”. According to this rule, “only one member of Congress—Democrat or Republican—is needed to bring… a vote on removing the speaker” (Stewart). And it was one of these motions, brought forth by Gaetz, that spelled the end of McCarthy’s Speakership. This is gravely concerning; for one, it gives much power to individual Congress members, which is likely to be exploited by firebrands and radicals. It gives the next Speaker less leeway with potential policies and less room for action. And it certainly dashes any hopes of significant across-the-aisle political cooperation.

The upshot of all of this is more than temporary instability in Capitol Hill; it transcends Speakership quibbles and polarization. In the short term and long term, the consequences impact us immediately. The New York Times, for instance, cites aid for Israel and Ukraine, as well as avoiding a government shutdown by November 17, as three essential actions that will be put on hold as “disunity… has brought the House to a standstill… leaving one chamber of Congress hobbled in the face of crises at home and abroad” (Jimison). 

But in the long term, the consequences to American standing and power abroad could potentially be devastating. As Robert Gates, a former defense secretary, warned: “‘Dysfunction has made American power erratic and unreliable… with potentially catastrophic consequences’… paralysis raises questions about America’s global leadership…” (Economist). Indeed, both at home and abroad, the McCarthy ousting is casting doubts on America’s image and reputation. It is making people less secure with us. And it is putting our government and nation in an increasingly precarious situation.

If Capitol Hill wants respect from its people, trust from its allies, and fear from its enemies, it must act like it does. Anything else risks pushing the nation over the brink.

Citations

Brooks, Emily, et al. “Steve Scalise drops out of Speaker’s Race.” The Hill, 13 Oct. 2023, thehill.com/homenews/house/4253448-steve-scalise-drops-out-speakers-race.

DeSilver, Drew. “Freedom Caucus likely to play a bigger role in new GOP-led House. So who are they?” Pew Research Center, 31 Jan. 2023, www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2023/01/23/freedom-caucus-likely-to-play-a-bigger-role-in-new-gop-led-house-so-who-are-they.

Hulse, Carl. “The Wrecking-Ball Caucus: How the Far Right Brought Washington to Its Knees.” The New York Times, 23 Sept. 2023, www.nytimes.com/2023/09/23/us/republicans-congress-freedom-caucus.html.

Honderich, Holly. “What Does Matt Gaetz Actually Want?” BBC News, 11 Oct. 2023, www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-67084540.

Hulse, Carl. “With the World in Crisis, House Republicans Bicker Among Themselves.” The New York Times, 13 Oct. 2023, www.nytimes.com/2023/10/12/us/politics/house-republicans-bicker-world-crisis.html.

Racker, Mini. “Why House Democrats Refused to Save McCarthy.” TIME, 3 Oct. 2023, time.com/6320202/house-democrats-refused-save-kevin-mccarthy.

Blackburn, Piper Hudspeth. “Key Lawmakers in the Government Spending Fight as a Shutdown Nears.” CNN, 30 Sept. 2023, www.cnn.com/2023/09/30/politics/key-players-government-funding-shutdown-capitol-hill/index.html.

Bolton, Alexander. “Senate GOP divided over race to replace McCarthy.” The Hill, 9 Oct. 2023, https://thehill.com/homenews/senate/4244261-senate-gop-divided-over-race-to-replace-mccarthy/.

Peoples, Steve. “Republicans confront bitter divide; no clear path forward.” AP News, 27 Jan. 2023, https://apnews.com/article/politics-us-republican-party-donald-trump-united-states-government-2022-midterm-elections-77c6e337644955bc3e64e1f7e3a094e5.

Stewart, Kyle. “How a speaker of the House can be ousted with a ‘motion to vacate’.” NBC News, 10 Jan. 2023, https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/congress/speaker-of-the-house-ousted-motion-to-vacate-rcna64902.

Jimison, Robert. “Here’s What Can’t Get Done While Republicans Fight Over a Speaker.” The New York Times, 12 Oct. 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/12/us/politics/speaker-house-republicans-israel-ukraine.html.

“Paralysis in Congress makes America a dysfunctional superpower.” The Economist, 12 Oct. 2023, https://www.economist.com/united-states/2023/10/12/paralysis-in-congress-makes-america-a-dysfunctional-superpower.