Preface 6
Caravaggio’s Art 10
Formation and the Early Roman Period 20
The New Religious Style: The Major Public Commissions 76
The Years of Exile 144
The Fortunes of the Prints Based on Caravaggio’s Paintings 208
by Michela Gianfranceschi
Oil on canvas, 66 x 49.5 cm (26 x 191/2 in.)
National Gallery, London
A young man, depicted while putting flowers in a bowl or taking fruit from a table in the foreground, is suddenly bitten by a lizard that was hidden among the leaves. In this scene Caravaggio creates an intimate, everyday atmosphere with his scrupulous attention to details, as can be seen in the precise rendering of the boy’s grimace, which expresses both the pain and the surprise triggered by this unexpected incident.
The original composition is mentioned in the sources of that time, both by the chief papal physician, author, and art collector Giulio Mancini, who dates it to the time when Caravaggio was living in the residence of Monsignor Pandolfo Pucci, and by Giovanni Baglione, who places the composition in the period immediately after the artist’s activity in the atelier of Cavalier d’Arpino.
As in the case of other works painted in this period, Caravaggio effects a synthesis of pictorial genres considered minor, such as portraiture and still life, and goes on to pay special attention to the study of human emotions, which he manifests in an incredibly realistic fashion in the intense expression of the youth. This may be the first painting in which he reveals almost virtuosic talent in rendering instinctive reactions and gestures that thus become the very subjects of the painting.
The pose of the young man with his shoulder exposed, which Caravaggio often adopted at this time, is a reference to ancient statuary, which the artist seems to evoke especially in his rendering of the flowing drapery, the curls on the forehead, and the strong facial features. The light coming from the left generates different effects, first striking the young man’s shoulder and then, in a stunning display of virtuosity, depicts—on the glass flower vase at the right—the deformed reflection of the window. Furthermore, according to some critics the entire invention
refers to the biblical concept of vanitas: both the cut flowers and the depiction of the sudden pain that burst into the everyday routine are to be interpreted as a sort of warning of the uncertainty and fragility of the human condition.
There are several versions of this composition, two of which—this one in the National Gallery and the other in the Fondazione Longhi in Florence—are considered autograph by most art historians. Both are part of the famous group of Caravaggio’s “doubles”—that is, works known in more than one version, which in many cases are nothing more or less than enigmas for art historians, given the number of imitators and excellent copyists of the Lombard artist in past centuries.
In 1577, Pietro Vittrice, the guardarobiere or steward of Pope Gregory XIII, had obtained the tutelage of the Cappella della Pietà in Santa Maria in Vallicella Church, Rome, the mother church of the Oratorians. Years later, at the time when remodeling work was being carried out in the church and the chapel, Caravaggio was commissioned by a member of the family, presumably Girolamo Vittrice, to paint a Deposition of Christ in the sepulcher in keeping with the testamentary provisions of Pietro. The canvas was placed on the altar in 1604 and beautified the chapel of the church until it was seized by Napoleon’s troops in 1797 and taken to Paris. It was brought back to Rome in 1817 and placed in the Vatican Picture Gallery, being replaced in the church by a copy painted by Michele Köck that is still there.
Described by Bellori in his biography of Caravaggio (1672) as “among the best works painted by the brush of Michele,” this canvas became part of the admirable group of altarpieces that he executed for the Roman churches. Thanks to recent acquisitions of documents, we now know that the Oratorians—who were closely connected to Cardinals Federico Borromeo and Francesco Maria del Monte (who was already one of Caravaggio’s patrons)—were probably
in contact with the artist well before the beginning of the enlargement of the chapel. The strong influences of the pure expression of the spirituality of St. Philip Neri and Federico Borromeo can be seen in the conception of this superb painting, which demonstrates how the elaboration of the iconography was the fruit of a long planning process inspired mostly by the thought and acts of Neri and Borromeo. Mary of Cleophas, in the classical pose of the orant, with her arms upraised, evokes motifs connected to Oratorian spirituality, while the Virgin, who is still keeping watch over her dead son with the gesture of her extended arm, deviates quite a lot from the traditional portrayals of her fainting in front of Him, in respectful observance of Borromeo’s new indications regarding decorum in sacred painting.
Conceived much like an ancient high relief, the composition develops with the movement flowing downward, beginning from the sorrowful figure with her upraised arms and ending toward the bottom of the canvas, in the lower left corner, where the Redeemer’s hand grazes, and seems to be indicating, the slab of stone, a clear reference to the evangelical cornerstone, the nucleus of the Christological message.
1607
Giovanni Baglione (1642) was the first to write that Caravaggio had painted a portrait of the Grand Master of the Order of the Knights of Malta, Alof de Wignacourt, who as a sign of his appreciation had promised to give him the mantle of the Order. It is quite probable that the canvas was executed a short time after the artist’s arrival on the island, in the latter part of the year 1607, perhaps with the aim of obtaining a papal pardon thanks to the support of the powerful Order. It is not certain where the painting was kept, but from indications in Bellori’s biography (1672) it would seem that it was kept in the Magistral Palace of Valletta, from which it was removed after Caravaggio escaped from Malta, plausibly as a recollection and tangible proof of the disgrace the Order suffered after having awarded so many honors to the escapee. In 1644, the painting was already in Paris according to the testimony of John Evelyn. It was bought by King Louis XIV and ended up in the Louvre collection after having suffered an inept restoration.
Wignacourt is portrayed at about 60 years old, full-figure and accompanied by a page. The armor he is wearing alludes to his long service to the Order. He was responsible for protecting the island of Malta from the frequent pirate raids and for the organization of the military campaigns against the Turks in the eastern Mediterranean, which earned him the reconquest of various islands that had been under Turkish dominion. Caravaggio captures the proud
countenance of a knight, the efficiency and character of a person used to commanding, by re-elaborating models from the past, official portraits in Venetian and Tuscan painting. However, Wignacourt’s portrait is realistic, with the body in movement, as is evident in the bent leg, in the baton held with such vigor, and in the page entering the scene at right. Indeed, there is a total lack of the rigidity typical of official portraits, while one perceives a subtle tension in the scene, an implicit way of presaging imminent action, a decision, perhaps a command. Caravaggio therefore portrays a man accustomed to action by subtly depicting the action itself. In his description of the painting, Bellori does not mention the page, thus creating doubt as to whether he is referring to another painting of an unknown artist still being kept in the National Museum of Fine Arts of Valletta.
An interesting detail is the armor worn by Wignacourt, which is not the same as the armor he actually used, which is known from other portraits, but is a Milanese type that dates back to 1565 to 1580 and which may have belonged to the Grand Master Jean “Parisot” de la Valette and is still kept in the Armory of the Magistral Palace in Valletta. This choice can probably be explained by the artist’s desire to exalt not the man himself, but rather the military glory of the Order of Knights of St. John as a whole, with particular reference to the victory of Lepanto and the knights’ triumph after the Great Siege of Malta in 1565.
In May 1610, the Genoese patrician Marcantonio Doria received news from his agent in Naples, Lanfranco Massa, that the consignment of the “painting of St. Ursula” had to be delayed because the varnish on the canvas was still wet. In that period, before being sent to Genoa, the magnificent work had sparked a great deal of interest, due to the originality of the iconography and the excellent pictorial quality.
The work later appeared in the inventories of the Doria family residence in Genoa in 1620, and returned to Naples in 1832, after being inherited by the Neapolitan branch of the Doria family. It was then sold to the Romano Avezzana barons and lastly purchased by the Banca Commerciale Italiana in 1972, having been attributed to Mattia Preti.
The legendary massacre of St. Ursula together with eleven thousand virgins is narrated in a 10th-century Passio that describes the story of the Breton princess who dedicated her life to God and, having arrived in Cologne, was slaughtered by the Huns for refusing to marry Attila, the king of the Huns.
As is the case with the other paintings in Caravaggio’s final production, the iconography of this one, executed a couple of months before he died, also harks back to the models of Classical culture while at the same time doing away with traditional imagery and depicting the scene in a wholly original fashion. In fact, in more recent times, before the discovery of the relevant documentation, the subject had been interpreted as a typical allegorical scene. In the narrow horizontal space of the canvas, with drapery as background (perhaps a reference to the Huns’ camp), the persons are painted crowded together in three-quarter length and dressed in contemporary clothing, in keeping with Caravaggio’s practice of modernizing the sacred event. The composition is immersed in darkness: only a raking light reveals, like a sudden lightning bolt, a few details, including the hands, clothing, and expression. Once again, behind the protagonist there emerges the profile of Caravaggio in a hastily rendered self-portrait. The entire narration leaves out the particulars of the hagiographic description and omits the grandiloquent tone that was usually adopted when representing the martyrdom of the virgins at Cologne, and is now concentrated on the young woman’s intimate spasm. The saint is almost incredulous as she looks at the mortal wound in her chest, and her cheeks have already lost all their color. The incipient awareness of the end that manifests itself in the saint’s livid face and in the poignant gestures of her hands touching her breast is more powerful and eloquent that any shriek of pain. Caravaggio does not show us the blood, the color of which is conveyed by the purple robe enveloping Ursula. Everything seems to freeze for a moment around this sorrowful image before the tumultuous episode resumes its fated course.
