Tag: medieval art

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.