Category: history

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.

masterpieces, skipped: notes from the louvre collection

Isaac Kim
The following article is from our family’s travel blog, arttravel.me. It was written by me.
Plaza del Louvre, seen from the second floor of the Denon wing.

Introduction

Of all the art museums, the Louvre is unquestionably the most prestigious. The name alone commands the power of its history, its reputation, and its massive collection of over 380,000 works of art. It draws millions of tourists to its galleries every year, and with such quintessential works of art like the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo, and Liberty Leading the People, who can blame them?

However, a problem arises precisely from the fact that the Louvre houses so many famous artworks. Because of their fame, too many tourists often visit the Louvre solely for these few masterpieces, leaving many more outright ignored. Which, of course, is a travesty. Fame isn’t a great way to appreciate any artwork, and in a place such as the Louvre, with so many beautiful pieces, the somewhat superficial standard of how famous a painting hinders the true experience of understanding and admiring any artwork.

Sadly, I was one of those tourists who judge by reputation alone when I visited the Louvre for the first time, back in 2018. As I found on this visit, the feeling of satisfaction at having seen something famous is nothing compared to the elation and peace that comes when you stop and really admire a beautiful piece. Prestige from fame just doesn’t compare.

So, armed with a (hopefully) deeper knowledge of art history, as well as a renewed standard of viewing art, I have compiled a list of underappreciated masterpieces from the Louvre collection. “Underappreciated” here is a vague term; the pieces shown below attracted barely any tourists when I visited, and attracted virtually no crowds at all. They all possessed a quiet beauty, a beauty that is, when properly appreciated, an unparalleled experience.

Without further ado, let’s begin our journey. The following is a list of the 10 artworks we’ll be examining, all tragically ignored:

  • The Great Sphinx of Tanis. 26th century B.C.(?), granite.
  • The Boy Strangling the Goose. Boëthus, 2nd century B.C., marble (Roman copy).
  • Saint Francis Receiving the Stigmata. Giotto, 1295-1300, tempera and gold on panel.
  • The Counterattack of Michelotto da Cotignola at the Battle of San Romano. Paolo Uccello, 1435-1460, tempera with oil on wood.
  • La Belle Jardinière. Raphael, 1507-1508, oil on panel.
  • The Wedding at Cana. Paolo Veronese, 1562-1563, oil on canvas.
  • Christ on the Cross Adored by Two Donors. El Greco, 1590, oil on canvas.
  • Death of the Virgin. Caravaggio, 1604-1606, oil on canvas.
  • The Chancellor Séguier. Charles le Brun, 1660, oil on canvas.
  • The Astronomer. Johannes Vermeer, 1668, oil on canvas.

Let’s start with the very oldest work on our list: the Great Sphinx of Tanis.

The Great Sphinx of Tanis

26th century B.C.(?), granite

Most visitors to the Louvre skim through the antiquities section on their way to see the famous Renaissance collection. They’ll probably take pictures of two marble statues: the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

This is a shame because the Louvre’s collection of Near Eastern and Egyptian antiquities is outstanding. One of the gems in the Egyptian collection is the Great Sphinx of Tanis. Sculpted from pinkish granite, it is in excellent condition considering its age. The sculpture is believed to have been made in the 26th century B.C. That’s over four thousand years ago!

The statue is also remarkable in the message it conveys. The sphinx sits upright and proud; its paws are disproportionately huge, radiating raw power; and is that a Shelleyan smile of pridefulness on its lip? One thing’s for sure: this sphinx is designed to convey dignity and might. Four thousand years later, it still fulfills its goal.

And while you’re in the Egyptian antiquities section, make sure to check out the ancient papyrus manuscripts, which are exquisitely decorated with reed-pen ink, as well as the collection of carved sarcophagi.

The Boy Strangling the Goose

Boëthus, 2nd century B.C., Roman marble copy

Despite the morbid title, the subject of this statue is actually somewhat of a mystery. Is the boy playing with the goose, hugging it affectionately to the chagrin of the bird? Or is he twisting its neck in a scene of jarring violence? The statue doesn’t say, and the enigma continues (though most modern sources refer to it as The Boy Strangling the Goose).

Notice the vivid sense of movement found in this sculpture. The flap of the indignant goose’s wings and the backward lean of the boy both convey motion as if it is a snapshot of a moment. And the chubby belly and limbs of the boy are accurately sculpted to show the features of a small child, as are the feathers of the goose.

Whether it’s a playful or deadly scene, we cannot deny that The Boy Strangling the Goose eloquently expresses motion in stone, seemingly effortlessly capturing a second like a fly in amber. The skill and beauty both show in the carved marble.

Saint Francis Receiving the Stigmata

Giotto, 1295-1300, tempera and gold on panel

Medieval art has somewhat of a reputation. Most people just aren’t fans of the flat figures, the lack of perspective, and the (admittedly) ugly depictions of the subjects. As a result, many visitors end up skimming over or totally skipping most of the medieval collections in favor of getting to the Renaissance artworks quicker.

However, I believe that medieval art has its own merit and charm. Two paintings demonstrate this; the first is Giotto’s Saint Francis Receiving the Stigmata. Depicting the story of Saint Francis receiving Christ’s wounds in a mystical experience, the gold background and halo combine with the delicately brushed tempera paint to form a scene with its own kind of 2-D beauty.

Giotto also portrayed the emotions of his subjects vividly, in a radical break from the Byzantine iconography of the time. This is just one of the factors that ultimately led to the development of the Renaissance and its humanistic art.

The Counterattack of Michelotto da Cotignola at the Battle of San Romano

Paolo Uccello, 1435-1460, tempera with oil on wood

The second artwork I mentioned is the lengthily titled The Counterattack of Michelotto da Cotignola at the Battle of San Romano, a segment of the overall Battle of San Romano series by Paolo Uccello. It is one-third of the total series.

This painting is revolutionary because of its previously unheard-of use of perspective. While previous artists did use the technique previously, Giotto specifically used it not to improve the narrative or theme of the painting, but rather to improve the realism of the scene—that is, for the sake of depicting depth realistically. According to Uccello’s biography written by Giorgio Vasari in his Lives, Uccello was deeply obsessed with perspective and vanishing points, often poring over a scene for hours into the night to analyze its perspective.

This kind of usage of techniques such as perspective for the sole purpose of making the painting more realistic was pioneered by Uccello. It would later become a hallmark of the Renaissance, and eventually, the Western canon.

La Belle Jardinière

Raphael, 1507-1508, oil on panel

We enter into the Renaissance at the turn of the 16th century, with one of the great Italian masters, Raphael. Of his many works in the collection of the Louvre, my personal favorite is Madonna and Child with Saint John the Baptist, also known as La Belle Jardinière.

The painting has all the hallmarks of a Raphaelesque Renaissance work: the triangular arrangement of the figures, the perfect-looking skin and faces, and the bright fabrics are all undeniably Raphael. This particular subject was not strange to him, either; he had already painted a separate Madonna painting (Madonna of the Goldfinch, Galleria Uffizi), and would go on to paint several more throughout his career.

The painting is strikingly tender and emotional. The Virgin Mary’s loving gaze towards the infant Christ, with Saint John the Baptist looking at Christ as a sort of witness to this bond, creates a format composed of three lines of gazes: Mary to Christ, Christ to Mary, and John to Christ. The tenderness of the painting makes this unique in the Raphael collection.

The Wedding at Cana

Paolo Veronese, 1562-1563, oil on canvas

As the picture above shows, the most crowded room in the entirety of the Louvre is the one where the Mona Lisa is housed; it was behind me when I took this picture. But da Vinci, although he was undoubtedly an artistic genius, didn’t paint the only masterpiece in the room. One only has to look to the opposite wall to see another beautiful artwork, much larger than (and more ignored than) the Mona Lisa by far: Veronese’s The Wedding at Cana.

This giant canvas depicts the Biblical story of the wedding feast at Cana in almost life-size; the style is clearly based on the Venetian school, of which Veronese was a clear master. The artist’s attention to detail shows; the individual faces of every single attendant, apostle, and attendee are painted clearly, their faces showing their emotions in subtle shades.

Of course, bigger doesn’t mean better when it comes to paintings. But when it comes to Veronese, his canvas is both bigger and better than most of the competition.

Christ on the Cross Adored by Two Donors

El Greco, 1590, oil on canvas

From the Italian Renaissance, we move on next to the Baroque and Mannerist movements of the Counter-Reformation. And with El Greco being the poster boy of the Mannerist school of art, the Louvre is bound to have a few paintings by him.

The title, of course, is ironic: even though the two donors specifically paid for the painting with their faces in it, we have no record of who they actually were. Rather, our attentions are drawn immediately to the twisted and tormented figure of Christ on the cross, dramatically lit in the theatrical Baroque style. Also notable are the clouds in the background, built like great arches in the sky.

The theatricality of El Greco’s composition is a hallmark of the Mannerist and Baroque schools. Another example of this intentionally dramatic composition can be found in our next painting.

Death of the Virgin

Caravaggio, 1604-1606, oil on canvas

As El Greco is considered a master of Mannerism, so too is Caravaggio considered a master of the Baroque.

When the Counter-Reformation in the arts was in full swing after the Council of Trent, Caravaggio’s art was in high demand as beautifully demonstrating the theatrical, dramatic lighting of the Baroque style. This dramatic lighting is exemplified in Death of the Virgin: it is as if a spotlight has been pointed at the pallid face, which is thrown into sharp contrast with the shadowed, mourning faces of the apostles.

Something interesting to note: the death of the Virgin Mary is a somewhat common motif in Catholic art, and many artists had chosen this before Caravaggio. In their paintings, the Virgin ascends into heaven still alive, crowned in the glory and majesty of heaven; but in Caravaggio’s painting, the Virgin just looks… dead. This seemingly irreverent take, though, is what elevates this work beyond the clichéd and into the poignantly emotional.

Another interesting thing to note is Caravaggio’s choice to use models from real life as the models for the sacred people in his scenes, including those from lower social strata. When this painting was originally unveiled, it caused quite a stir, as Caravaggio had used the face of a prostitute to model for his Virgin Mary. Perhaps it is this touch of the common, combined with the lighting of the theater, that gives his works a timeless and deeply emotional quality.

The Chancellor Séguier

Charles le Brun, 1660, oil on canvas

In the late 17th century, France was an exceptionally powerful kingdom in its heyday. Under the rule of Louis XIV (whose nickname was “the Sun King” and once said that “I am the state”, showing us his very humble nature), France prospered and, as a result, started to increasingly fund artists more and more.

In his painting of the Chancellor Séguier, Charles le Brun aptly shows the prosperity—almost ranging on decadence—of Louis XVI’s France. The eponymous chancellor sits regally on a pale horse, wearing a fine hat and flowing gold robes; attendants shade him with a parasol and lead the horse. And consider the fact that this was to celebrate the King entering Paris in 1660! One can even draw parallels between our first Great Sphinx of Tanis and the portrayal of royal magnificence. Both convey a central theme: power.

As the painter of the Sun King in all his glory, Charles le Brun demonstrated both technical skill and the ability to communicate themes in deceptively simple-looking works. Even now, his themes still resonate with us.

The Astronomer

Johannes Vermeer, 1668, oil on canvas

We finish off our tour of the underappreciated works of the Louvre with a painting whose quiet solitude especially saddened me, especially since it was executed by one of my favorite artists: Johannes Vermeer’s The Astronomer.

As I have written previously in another blog post, Vermeer was ridiculously good at photorealistic depictions of light and tone in his snapshots of ordinary moments. In fact, some scholars today argue that he executed his paintings with the aid of a kind of camera obscura—he was that good. He only ever painted around 40 works in his entire career; all are considered masterpieces today.

Of these works, The Astronomer has somewhat of a wild history. Ranking at the very top of the Nazi regime’s most wanted list of artworks, it was looted by Herman Göring during the Second World War. Thankfully, it was returned undamaged and now sits quietly in the second floor of the Louvre’s Richelieu wing.

As with many of Vermeer’s other works, the atmosphere comes primarily from light and solitude. The light doesn’t illuminate only the astronomer; it fills the whole room naturally, the way you would expect on a warm afternoon. The astronomer’s solitude, highlighted by the motion of reaching for the celestial globe, only accentuates and increases the effect of this natural light. The nickname “painter of light” goes often to Thomas Kinkade, but I think the title would be far more suitable for Johannes Vermeer.

Conclusion

Too often, people rush to and admire paintings and artworks based only on their provenance and fame. I believe this is a flawed and ultimately unsatisfactory way of looking at art, and I hope this article helps illustrate that. Just because it’s not a Leonardo da Vinci doesn’t mean it’s not a masterpiece.

amsterdam’s treasure trove: notes on the rijksmuseum collection

Isaac Kim
The following article is from our family’s travel blog, arttravel.me. It was written by me.
Front façade of the Rijksmuseum, seen from Stadhouderskade.

Introduction

The Netherlands is known for many things. From its famous tulips and windmills to its never-ending battle with the sea to its long-standing liberalism to its tall people, it’s a country with a rich culture and history. This is especially true in its capital, Amsterdam. Here, tradition combines with innovation: 16th-century canals butt heads with shining glass buildings and former churches house nightclubs. And like the country it sits in, Amsterdam is also known for many things. 

Of these things, perhaps the most beautiful is its artistic tradition. The Netherlands is home to such giants of art history as Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer, and Vincent Van Gogh. The development of Dutch art took centuries and arguably culminated in the 17th century, during the Dutch Golden Age, when its art was considered to be second to none—as it still is today.

The single largest collection of these Dutch masterpieces is the Rijksmuseum (pronounced Reichs-museum, a fact I didn’t know until my visit). Boasting over a million works of art, of which around 8,000 are on display, the museum is a gigantic treasure trove of art. At museums like these, it’s easy to get overwhelmed, so let’s stick to the highlights of the collection as we travel along a visual history of the Netherlands.

Before reading, note that this article is presented in historical order; in other words, the phases presented below are not in the order that we—and most other visitors—viewed. The route we took and the historic route are both at the very end. Also, note that this isn’t intended to be an exhaustive list and ranking of the Rijksmuseum’s many masterpieces; I will be selecting one or two paintings that are representative of a certain period of Dutch history and discussing them in this article.

Without further ado, let’s dive into the Rijksmuseum collection.

Medieval origins

Memorial Tablet, Master of the Spes Nostra, 1500. Oil on panel.

The story of truly Dutch art begins in the 15th century when an exciting advancement in the arts was spreading rapidly throughout Europe: oil paint. Previously, the International Gothic style, elegant but artificially so, had dominated the Low Countries and Northern Europe. But with oil paints, painters could suddenly add much more detail and nuance to their subjects with translucent, shimmering layers.

Walking through the Rijksmuseum’s medieval art section, which is on the first floor, viewers can see a noticeable improvement in quality post-1400s. One painting that exemplifies this improvement is the Master of the Spes Nostra’s Memorial Tablet, executed in 1500 and exhibiting a fine control of oil painting. From this point on, Dutch art started to move towards what would become its hallmarks: finely executed details, nearly photorealistic depictions, and controlled brushwork.

Independence and Wars of Religion

Fishing for Souls, Hendrick Avercamp, 1608. Oil on oak.
Banquet of the Amsterdam Civic Guard in Celebration of the Peace of Munster, Bartholomeus van der Helst, 1648. Oil on canvas.

With the advent of new technologies like oil painting came the Northern Renaissance, which came from Italy to the Low Countries at the advent of the 16th century. Soon, another phenomenon found its way to Northern Europe: the Protestant Reformation.

The most devastating of the European Wars of Religion, the 30 Years War, happened to coincide with the Dutch movement for independence from the Spanish Empire, the much older 80 Years War. Artistic depictions and allegories of both wars can be seen in the Rijksmuseum collection: an exemplary instance of religious allegory in the time of religious war can be found in Fishing for Souls, by Hendrick Avercamp. Here, Protestants and Catholics alike fish for souls in the great river; the subject matter is unmistakably Protestant-favored.

A second painting that showcases Dutch life at the end of the 80 Years War is Bartholomeus van der Helst’s Banquet of the Amsterdam Civic Guard in Celebration of the Peace of Munster, a mouthful of a name that celebrates the treaty that ended the war between Spain and the Netherlands.

The Dutch Golden Age

The Night Watch, Rembrandt, 1642. Oil on canvas.
Syndics of the Drapers’ Guild, Rembrandt, 1662. Oil on canvas.
The Milkmaid, Johannes Vermeer, 1657-58. Oil on canvas.

Coming to the central hall of the Rijksmuseum, we encountered the highlights of the museum collection: the hall was lined with dozens of Dutch Golden Age masterpieces, with the names of art giants like Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer, and Frans Hals proudly labeling the masterworks. No wonder; even now, centuries removed from their making, seeing a masterpiece by Rembrandt or Vermeer can become almost a spiritual experience for the viewer. Even now, they still hold an ethereal power.

As the Dutch prospered through their empire supported by the V.O.C., the demand for art grew exponentially in tandem with the growing middle class. From this demand grew two major categories of commissions: group portraiture and still life. The paintings shown above are two examples of these.

Although Rembrandt’s The Night Watch is the most famous example of group portraiture in the Rijksmuseum (and one of the most famous examples of group portraiture ever), it is currently under restoration, with a great metal bar obscuring much of the painting. However, there is another example of Rembrandt’s technique of group painting, one that I would argue rivals The Night Watch, though it’s not as famous. It is Syndics of the Drapers’ Guild.

In his large group portraits, Rembrandt employed a deceptively simple technique that brought them to life, the addition of movement. In all of his group portraits, the sense of motion is present; for example, in The Night Watch the leader of the group motions with his hand, and in Syndics of the Drapers’ Guild, all of the members of the guild (except for the leader) glance towards the viewer, while a single man either sits up from or sits down on a chair, almost as if we have walked into a private meeting. This movement breathes life into the composition, and in turn, brings the subjects to a more human level. For this technique, Rembrandt became highly sought after for his skills in group paintings.

The other major genre of Dutch Golden Age art well-known to most of us today is still life. And of course, the master of Dutch still life is Johannes Vermeer, an artist whose paintings are so highly regarded for their realism that some have suggested in the present day that he used a camera to paint his scenes. Vermeer’s most famous painting in the Rijksmuseum is The Milkmaid. From the exquisitely painted lighting that reflects beautifully on the rich blue dress of the eponymous milkmaid to the detailed stream of milk, this snapshot of a passing moment is Vermeer’s most beautiful.

Slavery and the V.O.C.

Model of a V.O.C. ship.

The wealth of the Netherlands that led to the masterpieces of the Dutch Golden Age, of course, is intrinsically tied to the colonialism of the Dutch Empire, exhibited most notably in the V.O.C.’s expansion of trade interests all over the world.

Confronting this dark history, the Rijksmuseum has presented artistic depictions of the V.O.C. and colonialism in an elegant, eloquent way. This understandably painful and embarrassing history has nevertheless been presented in a fascinating way. Embarrassing history such as this is still necessary to teach, and the Rijksmuseum, I think, sets a good precedent.

Romanticism, Impressionism, and the modern-day

Self-portrait, Vincent van Gogh, 1887. Oil on canvas.

As the art world moved on to the 19th century, the dominant styles shifted from Baroque to Rococo to Romanticism to Realism to Impressionism. The Rijksmuseum only has one painting by one of the most famous Impressionist artists ever, Vincent van Gogh; it remains very popular in the modern wing.

The Impressionist style, the capturing of the “impression” of a scene, is of course a far cry from the realistic, allegorically driven paintings of the Dutch Golden Age. But it’s also important to acknowledge the similarities between the two styles. Both of them sought to encapsulate the essence of light and tone in fleeting moments; both are intrinsically linked to each other, just as how each and every painting of the Rijksmuseum is connected in a linear pathway of the history of art.

And with this concludes our quick walkthrough of the Rijksmuseum. In its beautiful collection, art history becomes a path, twisting and turning through stone and paint. It is a must-see in Amsterdam.

The Rijksmuseum.
This post is based on our visit to the Rijksmuseum on July 10th, 2023.

berlin’s hollow tooth: notes on the kaiser wilhelm memorial church

Isaac Kim
The following article is from our family’s travel blog, arttravel.me. It was written by me.

Visiting Berlin, near the Tiergarten and the Zoo Berlin, there’s a somewhat surprising building that looms over Kurfürstendamm. A clock tower, copper-roofed and crumbling, stands over the plaza and the surrounding area. It’s surprising because it looks decayed, destroyed: the rose window is empty, the trefoiled arches are knocked out, and the topmost spire is caved in. The local name for it is der hohle zahn: “the hollow tooth”. 

But this tower isn’t abandoned; it’s still maintained regularly, preserved in destruction. That’s because what was built as the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in the 1890s (German: Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche) is now used as another memorial, dedicated not to the Kaiser, but to peace.

Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, seen from Budapester Straße.

The church is German Evangelical, initiated by Kaiser Wilhelm II and dedicated in 1895 in honor of the aforementioned Kaiser’s grandfather, Wilhelm I. What we see today is merely the spire; the original Neo-Romanesque church was big enough to seat over 2,000 people and stretched out to cover most of Breitscheidplatz. In its heyday, the church was a symbol of the Brandenburg area, but in a very different way from today.

But in 1943, the church was badly damaged by an Allied air raid; only the spire, altar, baptistery, and parts of the entrance hall remained. After the war, the decision was made to tear the old spire down, but public outcry ensued. The citizens of Berlin had decided that this damaged, crumbling tower had in it the spirit of the city. So today, the tower still stands, saved in the moment of destruction like a fly in amber.

Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, seen from Breitscheidplatz.

Looking at the tower, one can’t help but note just how badly damaged the spire really is. Many of the bricks and columns are charred and blackened by fire; entire windows and arches are smashed out clumsily; the roof is opened directly to the sky through an impromptu oculus. Walking around, the damage becomes much more apparent; decorations become ghosts of pale stone outlines, individual bricks protrude almost violently, and the bricks are peppered with mortar rounds. 

And consider the psychological impact of the monument too: this is a symbol of the violent bombing of the city it sits in. Just a few months after the raid that destroyed most of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, the Battle of Berlin began. The raid on November 22 alone killed 2,000 Berliners. And this is a war that Berlin started in the first place! 

At first glance, one wonders why this memorial even exists. The sheer amount of pain the building conjures, even after over 70 years after the end of the war, is hard to imagine. And this, of course, ties into the resentment that some Germans feel about their nation. It seems as if Germany is stuck in a never-ending, demeaning cycle of apologizing about its role decades ago. 

But the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church stands against this narrative of a subservient and beleaguered Germany, weakened by apologies. In my opinion, the church tells a different story entirely, one of the pain felt by ordinary German citizens. It was the people who paid the price for Hitler’s folly; it was the people who were left homeless and grieving. That’s not to say that the memorial takes away the blame that must be given to the people of 1930s Germany; Hitler, after all, was cheered by adoring crowds. Rather, the memorial speaks of the terrible human price of war, of the pain that the people go through during conflict; so really, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church stands as a memorial to all mankind. The hollowed spire stands as a quiet reminder of that old adage: war doesn’t determine who is right, only who is left. 

In a day and age where civilians are killed by wars all around the globe, it’s easy to take this as an unfortunate constant at best, or as a necessary action at worst. But the heart of Berlin reminds us otherwise: the spire stands against the terrible cost of war, and for the peace that mankind needs urgently.

The rededication plaque in front of the church says it all. It reads:

THE FORMER ENTRANCE HALL
OF THE OLD
KAISER-WILHELM-MEMORIAL-CHURCH
WAS ON 7 JANUARY 1987
REOPENED AS A MEMORIAL HALL
IT IS A PLACE OF ADMONITION
AGAINST WAR AND DESTRUCTION
AND A CALL TO RECONCILIATION
IN JESUS CHRIST

This post is based on our visit to the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church on July 6th, 2023.

milan’s marble face: notes on the duomo

Isaac Kim
The Milan Duomo, seen from the Piazza del Duomo.

Over 8 million tourists visited Milan in the year 2019; the number is projected to increase amidst a pan-European tourism boom. What did they come to see? Certainly, the northern Italian city has many attractions that appeal to a great number of sightseers, including Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, the historic Teatro alla Scala, and the beautiful Sforzesco Castle. But there’s one place that almost all of these tourists will certainly see: Milan’s cathedral, the Duomo.

And no wonder: the Duomo took over 600 years to build. To put that in another way, the amount of time it took to build the Duomo is more than the amount of time the Roman Empire (going by the time of the fall of the Western Roman Empire, 476 AD) existed. The cathedral is no joke.

But of course, the length of construction time isn’t the only way to measure a building’s worth. So what makes the Duomo special? This is the question we sought to answer when we visited the cathedral and one that we held in our heads for most of our visit. Just what is it about the Duomo that makes it so irresistible?

Exterior

The Duomo’s façade from close up.

Visiting the cathedral, the first thing that immediately caught our attention was, obviously, the front façade. Built completely of white marble, it is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture and design. Note the flat, pyramidal composition of the façade, its richly carved spires culminating at the apex and combining with the main body to form a visually pleasing pentagonal shape. Intricately decorated “head to toe” with carved marble figures and columns, the front face of the Duomo is probably one of the most beautiful parts of the entire cathedral.

Before we even stepped foot into the cathedral proper, one of the biggest reasons for the Duomo’s popularity showed itself to us: its sheer size. Counting by square area and volume, the Duomo is the third-largest church building in the world. The façade shows this quite bluntly; the flatness of the marble face makes for a focal point visible from anywhere in the Piazza del Duomo. Seeing the whole building clearly requires a view from the center of the Piazza itself. Otherwise, the building just doesn’t fit into the range of the eye.

This factor of fame, size, was soon to become much clearer in the interior of the Duomo.

Interior

Duomo, central nave.
Alternate view of the naves, seen from the transept.

Entering through the front of the cathedral, we were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the space. Gigantic stone pillars stretched almost impossibly high, supporting a rib-vault ceiling and spreading the weight of the roof along the five naves. The size of the human figures next to the columns in the bottom picture gives a vague sense of perspective to the viewer. It’s hard to imagine just how much space the cathedral takes up until you actually go inside.

From the sheer size of the columns, taller and thicker than trees, we can get a grip on the challenge of simply holding the roof up, much less keeping the walls standing, sculpting the hundreds of intricate details, and maintaining such a vast space. The very existence of a building as vast as this, factoring in construction time, restoration, and maintenance, is truly remarkable.

List of Milan’s archbishops. The Duomo’s first archbishop was Antonio da Saluzzo (listed as “Antonio Saluzzese”), number 101 on the list.

Walking down the nave towards the apse, we were encountered by gigantic stained-glass windows and a large number of side altars. One of the most incredible testaments to the sheer length of time it took to build the Duomo is towards the right of the nave; a marble panel on the wall lists all the archbishops of the city of Milan, ever. The archbishops of the present-day cathedral start around halfway down. It really speaks to the age of Milan’s Christian community, and to the age of the Duomo.

Side chapel in the Duomo.

For me, the most beautiful side chapel was the one pictured above, with what looks to be a statue of Saint Ambrose encased in a wonderfully baroque sculpture. The placard above him, “Ego sum pastor bonus”, is a quotation from the Bible, and is Latin for “I am the good shepherd”. Surrounded by beautiful stained-glass windows, this chapel is right next to the exit from the roof terraces, and I’d recommend stopping to admire it for a moment or two.

These kinds of side chapels are scattered across the sides of the cathedral, specifically next to the rightmost and leftmost naves. Their styles range from the Medieval to the Baroque, similar to Toledo Cathedral. Often, they include statues carved of marble and stone.

St. Bartholomew Skinned, by Marco d’Agrate.

Of course, one of the most famous sculptures in the Duomo is Marco d’Agrate’s “St. Bartholomew Skinned”. The stone statue features the eponymous St. Bartholomew, who was, according to tradition, skinned alive. The saint, somewhat morbidly, wears the folds of his own skin like a robe; the extremely accurate muscular structure is fully displayed. However morbid it may be, we had to admit that the sculpture was an impressively accurate and realistic work.

In a human touch, the sculptor proudly wrote the words “I was not made by Praxiteles (a famous Greek sculptor of antiquity) but by Marco d’Agrate” on the statue’s pedestal. And can we blame him?

Apse windows. Due to construction, only 2 of 3 are pictured.
A closer look at one of the apse windows.

Moving towards the back of the Duomo, the highlight of the apse is undoubtedly the three gigantic stained-glass windows. Featuring elaborate stone tracery, these windows are remarkable in both their sheer size and in the ridiculous amount of detail. Taking a closer look at the windows, we could see row after row of intricately detailed scenes in stained glass, portrayed in incredibly vibrant colors and life-like characters. The rows of rectangles featuring Biblical scenes almost feel like a comic strip; just looking at it fills visitors with awe and respect.

And while at the apse, we made sure to check out the red light towards the top that highlights the container that holds the Holy Nail, the purported nail that pierced Christ on the cross; every year, the archbishop takes the Holy Nail down to ground level, where it is displayed for 40 hours before being taken back to the top of the cathedral. Certainly an interesting tradition.

Roof terraces

View from the Duomo roof terraces.
Detail of flying buttresses, seen from roof terraces. Note the intricate stone carving.

Our visit to the Duomo, though, wasn’t complete without a visit to the roof terraces. Riding an elevator to the very top, we slowly made our way under the flying buttresses. The intricately carved stone, complete with arches, trefoils, statues of saints, and Gothic spires, makes the terraces a ridiculously beautiful space. The architectural beauty combines with commanding views of Milan, complete with a great view of the Piazza del Duomo in the front.

Row after row of trefoiled arches form the flying buttresses that support the great walls of the Duomo. They are decorated not only with geometric motifs but also with statues of saints grouped together in towering spires.

View of the Piazza Duomo from the roof terraces.
View of the Museo Duomo and Palazzo Reale from the roof terraces. The belfry of San Gottardo in Corte is visible towards the far left.

The full beauty of the view of the terraces cannot be understated, even though it started to pour rain the moment we went to the top. I would highly recommend at least a quick view of the terraces; it’s really a view you can’t miss. Any visit to the Duomo isn’t complete without a visit to the top.

Museo Duomo

Combined with properly admiring the exterior and interior of the cathedral, a visit to the terraces completes the visit to the Duomo proper. However, we made sure to also check out the Museo Duomo, which is right next to the cathedral, towards the right transept exit. 

I would highly recommend at least quickly skimming through the museum’s collections. It includes many insightful details about the full history of the Duomo, as well as many samples of art that used to be in the cathedral; fans of stained-glass, wood or stone sculpture, or just shiny things in general will enjoy the experience. Below is a small collection of some of the highlights of the museum:

Stained-glass depiction of an angel, Museo Duomo.
Gilt silver cross, Museo Duomo.
Reproduction of the Statue of the Virgin Mary on top of the Duomo, Museo Duomo.
Another stained-glass depiction of an angel, Museo Duomo.
1/20 wooden model of the Duomo, Museo Duomo.

Concluding thoughts

In a city as historically and culturally rich as Milan, the unquestioned highlight is the cathedral: in our case, the Duomo. Certainly, it is a triumph of Gothic architecture, from the gigantic stained-glass windows to the beautiful roof terrace spires.

We sought to answer the question of what makes the Duomo so special and irresistible to people all around the world. From my observation based on my visit, I could gather three reasons: history (specifically the long building time), architectural and aesthetic beauty, and sheer size.

Such a masterpiece of Western civilization should certainly be admired to its very fullest; I would highly recommend a thorough visit here if ever going to Milan. It’s definitely worth the 600-year wait.

This article is based on our visit to the Milan Duomo on June 30th, 2023.

a tale of two churches: notes on the sagrada família and santa eulalia cathedral

Isaac Kim
The following article is from our family’s travel blog, arttravel.me. It was written by me.
Left to right: Sagrada Família, Santa Eulalia Cathedral.

Introduction

If you ask, “What are the two most important cathedrals of Barcelona?” to anyone, they will probably answer by naming the Sagrada Família Basilica and Barcelona Cathedral (referred to here for clarity as Santa Eulalia Cathedral). And no wonder: one is Barcelona’s number one tourist attraction, bringing over three million visitors yearly, while the other was the city’s cultural and historical heart for centuries.

Which is odd, given that the two churches, at least at first glance, are wildly different from each other. One is 13th to 15th century; the other is 19th to 21st. One is primarily Gothic and neo-Gothic; the other is a riotous blend of architectural styles, described varyingly as Late Gothic, Catalan Modernist, or Art Nouveau. One is the classic image of a cathedral, imposing and austere; the other is colorful, richly decorated, and, famously, unfinished.

Given these differences, is it possible to draw any parallels between these two seemingly opposite buildings?

Exteriors

Santa Eulalia Cathedral, front façade; seen from Plaça Nova.

Of course, the part of any cathedral (and indeed, most buildings) that immediately captures the eye is the front face, of the façade. It’s also the most photographed part of the cathedral; when we visited the Sagrada Família, the spaces in front of the façades were absolutely packed with tourists snapping selfies. Although Santa Eulalia was considerably less crowded, this might have had more to do with the time we visited the cathedral (around 5 PM), as well as the considerably roomier space in front of Santa Eulalia.

We’ll start with Santa Eulalia. The front façade is unquestionably neo-Gothic, with its triple spires, its intricately carved panels, and its placement of the statues of saints… all quintessentially Gothic. I say neo-Gothic, though, because the façade actually doesn’t date back to the time the cathedral was built. In fact, the thirteenth-century western face was surprisingly simple until the late nineteenth century, when the spires were added. Overall, the façade is a classic example of the neo-Gothic.

The Sagrada Família, of course, is much more complicated than this, with its unique quirk of having three façades, all with their own unique design styles and architecture. Let’s start with the oldest face, the Nativity façade—the only face to have been completed in the lifetime of the architect, Antoni Gaudí.

Sagrada Família, Nativity façade.

A common mistake many visitors make is the assumption that Antoni Gaudí was spiritually avant-garde, deviating from orthodox Catholic teachings, or that he was not spiritual at all. Nothing could be further from the truth. Throughout his entire life, Gaudí was a devout, sometimes fanatical, Catholic. The influence his faith had on his works can best be seen in the Nativity façade because this is the only façade that Gaudí lived to see completed. It can thus be said to be a genuine example of the architect’s vision for the basilica.

Teeming with depictions of flora and fauna, the Nativity façade is full of life and celebrates the birth of Christ. The narrative of the nativity, starting from the Annunciation (1) to the birth of Jesus (2), accompanied by a band of angels (3) and the three wise men (4), then moving on to the young Christ in the temple (5) and a humble image of the holy family (6), before being capped by a colorful cypress tree surrounded by doves (7) and the four towers bearing the word “Sanctus” (Latin for “holy”) (8), is carved with meticulous detail from stone, with many of the statues being cast from life through plaster. From painstakingly accurate depictions of people, leaves, animals, and angels, to the overall exuberance of the design, the façade feels celebratory. The overall effect of the face is one of joy and celebration of the birth of Christ.

Sagrada Família, Passion façade.

In stark contrast to this vibrant and richly detailed face, the façade opposite to this, the Passion façade, is austere, bare, and sharply angular. This face of the cathedral was constructed far after Gaudí’s death, and the differences show: where the Nativity façade, telling the story of the Messiah’s entry into the world, is joyful and ornate, the Passion façade, telling the story of the Messiah’s brutal death, is bare and architecturally morose.

Like the Nativity façade, this face too primarily tells a story. The pillars are angular and resemble tendons or muscles, representing the physical aspect of Christ’s suffering. The narrative goes from the left to the right, then toward the very top. We start from the last supper (1), then towards the right to the infamous Kiss of Judas (2); the famous magic square (3) is also present, with all numbers in any direction adding up to the number 39, the age of Jesus when he died. (4) shows Peter’s denial of Jesus, with the apostle’s face wrought in grief; the rooster that crowed thrice (5) before Peter’s denial is also shown. Then it’s on to Pontius Pilate (6) deliberating during Jesus’ trial, with the Roman eagle (7) also shown.

Above the main doors, Christ’s walk to Golgotha, bearing the heavy cross, is shown (8), before the final suffering of the crucifixion (9). A stylized Roman soldier (10) and the burial of Jesus (11) are also shown. And above the whole façade, the words “Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum” are written: this is Latin for “Jesus Christ, King of the Jews”, and was the message written above Christ’s head when he was crucified. But even in this bleak story, hope is not lost: a small statue of Jesus (11) is perched in between the four towers, representing his ascent into heaven.

And finally, although we didn’t have a chance to see the final, main face of the Sagrada Família, the Glory façade, construction on it has barely started, so we really didn’t miss much.

Overall, the faces of the Sagrada Família are much more narrative-driven than the façade of Santa Eulalia; whereas the faces of the former are built with the purpose of telling a grand, overarching story, the face of the latter was built with decoration in mind, not with narrative. And while the façade of Santa Eulalia is built with a single style, every face of the Sagrada Família is different.

This speaks to the length of time it took to build the respective façades. The unity of style present in the face of Santa Eulalia is unusual in most Gothic cathedrals; it’s due to the comparatively short time it took to build the façade separately. The opposite is true in the Sagrada Família, where the unity of style in the three faces of the building isn’t present because of the time it took to build them.

Interiors

Nave of Santa Eulalia Cathedral, viewed from the entrance towards the apse.
Detail of the ceiling of Santa Eulalia Cathedral. Note the rib vault structure.

Visiting Santa Eulalia, we are immediately greeted by the nave, the vertical part of the cathedral’s cross structure, since the main entrance is there. The giant columns, stacked in tiers, support a brick rib-vaulted ceiling, a classic hallmark of Gothic cathedrals. The pointed Gothic arch is prominent throughout the building; some natural light comes through the windows, more prominently in the apse than in the nave, but most of the lighting is artificial. The interior of the cathedral seems dark, almost gloomy: this may be because of the cathedral’s position in Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter, where it is surrounded by buildings that block natural light from coming through the windows.

Detail of the ceiling of the Sagrada Família. Note the more naturalistic, “flowering” design.

In contrast to Santa Eulalia, the main entrance of the Sagrada Família is at the transept (the Nativity façade is at the right side of the transept), so visitors have to walk to the front of the cathedral to view the nave, as the main doors have not been opened yet. The most striking aspect of the Sagrada Família is unquestionably its color, coming from the Barcelona sunlight that passes through vibrantly colored stained-glass windows; it’s unquestionably natural, which may be due to the basilica’s position in the more rigidly planned Eixample district, where it towers above many residential buildings; more light can thus filter through, allowing for a brighter interior than that of Santa Eulalia.

Another striking detail is the design of the columns; unlike the classic tiered stone pillars that hold up pointed arches in Santa Eulalia, the columns of the Sagrada Família branch out towards the top and support a flowered ceiling (or perhaps a symbolic representation of a canopy of leaves) and, towards the top, a series of catenary arches. This design, combined with the fact that the sheer height of the basilica makes the columns look slender—in reality, they are incredibly wide—gives the feel of a stone forest, where the columns become naturalistically designed trees supporting fluid and non-rigid structures.

Stained glass windows of Santa Eulalia Cathedral, seen from the choir.
Stained glass windows of the Sagrada Família, seen from the nave side aisle.

Despite these differences, there are similarities between Santa Eulalia and Sagrada Família. The most prominent of these are the windows; both have fine stone tracery and a “rose” design, another hallmark of Gothic stained-glass windows. The windows of the Sagrada Família are overall more colorful, with a far greater selection of shapes and pieces than the windows of Santa Eulalia. However, they do feature the shape of the Gothic arch, in contrast to the catenary arches that are prevalent throughout the basilica.

Apse of Santa Eulalia Cathedral.

Moving to the front of the cathedral, we come to the apse, perhaps the most important part of any cathedral: this is where services are held, where the speakers preach, and where the high altar is found. 

For Santa Eulalia, the continuity of the space of the apse is partially disrupted by the entrance to the crypt, which is unusually in the open and sudden. This is where the namesake of the cathedral, Saint Eulalia, is buried. Behind the entrance is the apse proper, where the altar is. Compared to other cathedrals we visited, such as Toledo Cathedral, the apse of Santa Eulalia was surprisingly sparse; the main visual highlight of the space is the hanging sculpture of the crucified Christ surrounded by angels. The round walls of the apse feature lovely stained-glass windows, featuring the aforementioned tracery and rose shape of the classic Gothic style. 

Apse of the Sagrada Família.

As a basic starting point, the apse of the Sagrada Família—indeed, the entirety of the Sagrada Família—is far larger than that of Santa Eulalia. As such, the apse simply feels more impressive; combined with the effect of the technicolor stream of light, it contrasts sharply with Santa Eulalia. 

In the center of the apse is a hanging baldachin, or the canopy under which the bishop sits. Under it is another depiction of the crucifixion; coincidentally, it also floats off the ground in an almost abstract form. Behind the altar space are two organs, not present in Santa Eulalia, which play every half-hour or so. The sound of the pipes echoing through the basilica is a truly ethereal experience. Finally, the crypt, where Gaudí himself is buried, is situated directly under the apse, with a much subtler entrance than Santa Eulalia. 

The traditional structure of the apse, that is, the reservation of the focal point of the nave and transept for the holiest space of the church, is the common tangent that ties the spaces of the two buildings together. Besides the altar, the hanging sculpture of the crucified Christ, and the elevated platform, it may seem hard to draw parallels between the two spaces. After all, Santa Eulalia doesn’t have the double organs that the Sagrada Família boasts; nor does it have the uninterrupted seating space that allows all eyes from the nave to be drawn to the apse.

But although these differences are important, it’s also important to note the many common architectural points that Antoni Gaudí intended in his work. As mentioned previously, the stained-glass windows are similar throughout the two buildings; the similarity is most prevalent in the apse, where the tracery and rose shapes especially shine through. And no wonder: in both buildings, the apse is the brightest part of the church. Finally, in both buildings, one of the most important people of the church is buried directly under the apse. For Santa Eulalia, it is its namesake; for the Sagrada Família, it is its architect. An affirmation of Christ’s triumph over death, perhaps, or a sign of honor. 

Concluding thoughts

Santa Eulalia Cathedral and the Sagrada Família: Barcelona’s two great churches. One is a hallmark of medieval Gothic, the other is a hodgepodge of different styles over different decades. One is dark and solemn, the other is bright and airy. One is smaller and attracts fewer, the other is larger and attracts multitudes more. The differences go on.

Make no mistake, though: both are firmly grounded in Catholic tradition, architectural stability, and above all, faith. Though they may express it in radically different ways, at the end of the day, both buildings deserve a judgment on equal footing. They are both, in their own ways, beautiful statements of belief.

This article is based on our visit to the Sagrada Família and Santa Eulalia Cathedral on June 27th and 28th, 2023, respectively.