Close-up with Reality
How Caravaggio's strong contrasts of light and dark represent the more sordid, unpalatable side of humanity.
At the turn of the 17th century, Rome was the place to be if you were an artist. In response to the Counter-Reformation,1 the Church started to commission new art work it could use as powerful propaganda against the protestant faith.
Artists were asked to produce emotionally intense works accessible and realistic enough to inspire the masses. Caravaggio, who’d rather spend time in a tavern than a church, understood the masses more than most.
The painter arrived in Rome in 1592. He was young, broke, homeless, and had already been in trouble with the authorities. Rome’s atmosphere was rich in humanity: nuns and cardinals rubbed shoulders with thieves and prostitutes.
Caravaggio felt right at home. His paintings close-up mirrors to society of the poverty and common humanity of even the most revered. Inches from their faces, we can see the pain of the holy and the regret of the betrayers.
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Betrayal—the kiss of death
The betrayal by kiss is a fascinating story Italian artists have portrayed for hundreds of years. But never with the honesty (we could call it cruelty) of Caravaggio. In the ‘Taking of Christ’ (above) he zooms right into the main deed, ignoring the rest.
Only the moon lights the scene. Although the man at the far side holds a lantern, that light is an ineffective source. In that man’s features Caravaggio portrayed himself as a passive spectator of the divine tragedy. He was 31.
It was unusual to have scenes cropped so tight in the 17th century. Caravaggio’s close-up work emphasizes Christ’s humanity. The light illuminates the protagonists from left to right, which suggests the divine.
The harsh polished metal of the guard’s armor is a mirror to us—the viewers and society—of the violence that hides in the shadows. We’re sinners by default. Darkness surrounds the scene and the seven people that crowd it.
Shade envelopes the men whose behavior says ‘street gang’ more than soldiers. Only the right hand(s) show the way—John’s, the youngest apostle and most beloved, away from the scene into the future, and the artist’s own as he holds the feeble lantern.
Red is ever present in Caravaggio’s work. In this painting, it seems like a halo, a symbol of the imminent martyrdom. Judas’ face shows contrasting emotions—love and jealousy—he appears haunted by what is to come.
‘Taking of Christ’ disappeared for 300 years.
Terror—no triumph, no armies, no victory
History of art books arguably call Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio the most revolutionary artist of his time. He abandoned the rules that had guided a century of artists who had idealized both the human and religious experience.
Instead, working in a dark room with light to direct his gaze, he showed us the dark side of the Christian story in scenes that could take place right here, right now. While living life in the gutter, Caravaggio produced profoundly spiritual work.
He painted fast over the still drying undercoat and rarely reworked. Ordinary working people were his models—street workers, prostitutes, beggars, and rent boys. To the horror of the clergy, the artist painted the Virgin Mary with dirty feet, St. Peter as a terrified and bewildered old man.
“Art is not about what you see, but what you make others see.”
In the first go at ‘David with the Head of Goliath,’ the overwhelming impression is of some action intensely personal and private—no triumph, no armies, no victory for the quietly efficient young victor. Caravaggio himself is a younger man in 1600.
He painted the other two versions2 in 1607 and 1610. The second version shows a triumphant young boy who’d managed to kill his strongest enemy. What a difference seven years make.
But the most jarring version of the story is his third version. Memento mori (Lat. for ‘remember that you must die’) is the theme. Goliath’s head is the artist’s last, tragic self-portrait.3
In this one David seems worried, tormented by inner feelings, disgust, and pity. The hero is a pensive young man, rather than a triumphant winner over the brutal representation of Goliath. David’s weapon is Goliath’s own sword.
The inscription on the blade reads H-AS OS, an acronym for humilitas occidit superbiam (Lat. ‘humility slays pride’).
Is there a philosophical connection between David and Goliath? If this were the case, the thread unites two opposing forces—Savior and Devil locked in eternal duality. The brute and the hero resemble each other.
It was one of Caravaggio last works.
Brutality—not taking the weight of what’s happening
When I saw the Crowning with Thorns in Vienna I noticed the force of the downward thrust exerted by the soldiers. Cardinal Benedetto may have commissioned the painting in 1621, then it belonged to his brother Vicenzo Giustiniani who placed it above a doorway in his Palazzo in 1638.
Which means they’d see Christ from below. Looking up the soldiers’ brutal downward thrust as they force the thorns into his flesh and bone is more harrowing. From the same perspective, Christ’s shoulders remain upright in a posture of dignity.
[Related: Value in Dignity]
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Christ is a victim with head thrust forward, neck stretched out. A focus the artist achieved using the chiaroscuro technique.4 To contrast Christ’s exposed white skin we have the white feather and the highlights on the suit of armor.
As the person in charge of the brutal procedure, the man in armor sits in the foreground. His armor gleams in the light, it reflects back to us and contrasts with the bare shoulders of the other three characters. To conceal the open wounds on Christ’s back, a red cloak.
Caravaggio uses hands to further underline the imbalance in power. Christ’s are bound, he must hold the makeshift scepter between his fingers. The hands of the soldiers have become fists as they exert great force.
The hand of the bored soldier is not very far from Christ’s hands and light, but it doesn’t seem to support his weight, as if not taking the weight of what’s happening upon himself.
“The beauty of art lies in its ability to reveal the truth.”
When Cardinal Benedetto or his brother Vincenzo looked at it, above a doorway in his rooms, who or what did they see and feel? What do we see?
Lust—raw instincts and temptations
Based on the Old Testament tale of Judith slaying the Assyrian monarch after luring him into a false feeling of security. Holofernes is shocked by his fate at the hands of a lovely and delicate lady such as Judith, a Jewish widow.
To save her people from the Assyrian general, Judith, sword in hand, grabs Holofernes’ hair, her face more anxious than angry. It must be done. Her arms are stretched out in front of her as if there is some kind of disgust at staining her dress with blood.
Ara the elderly maid, wrinkled and worn from years of servitude, waits nearby with a jute sack she most likely meant to use to conceal Holofernes’ face. Mouth wide open and forehead wrinkled Holofernes tries to fight off the surprise attack.
In this painting, the hands are clenched. Ara’s, along with her gaze, are our point of entry in the story. Her face may remind us of one of Da Vinci’s sketches. The entire scene is probably one of the most photographic shots by Caravaggio.
Holofernes is the story’s protagonist in the decisive instant of the beheading. The red draperies over his body look painful and draw attention to that small splash of blood that gushes from his neck. He’s a man whose pride and lust finally bring him down.
“The light always finds a way through the darkness.”
With Caravaggio, the Church may have gotten more emotional intensity than they envisioned. The artist, known for his strong temper, feared that his own emotions would someday overwhelm him.5
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