Finding Caravaggio in Rome , June 2008

Caravaggio, The Calling of Matthew, 1599-1600

The art historical book on Michelangelo Merisi, called Caravaggio after the town in which he was born, is that he was a bad boy and a scoundrel. Probably homosexual--or at least bi, he was accused of murder and spent the latter years of his life on the lam, heading south from Rome – Naples, Malta, Sicily. He died on the beach at Porto Ercole, penniless, ruined, all his possessions lost.

Nonetheless, he is considered one of the pillars of the Italian baroque, and his dramatic style which combines oblique and dynamic spatial construction with acute contrasts of light and dark began to be emulated even before his death. Although the baroque has been my absolute least favorite period of western painting, except for maybe its successor the rococo, I have long known about Caravaggio’s importance, have seen at least two exhibitions of his work, and admired, in principal, several individual paintings of his. But it wasn’t until my two trips to Rome in June that one could say that I really *saw* Caravaggio. Perhaps because on this trip my mission was to see paintings from the point of view of our painting students, I found myself bowled over by a number of his works. “Genius” is not a word that I like to use, nor masterpiece for that matter; however, I was struck by the uniqueness of Caravaggio’s vision and by his uncanny ability to convey the subtle, and not so subtle, drama in the situations he painted.

“The Calling of St. Matthew” was the work that led to my epiphany. Significantly, I saw this work that resides in the Contarelli chapel in the church of S. Luigi dei Francesi, outside of my function as art historical catalyst for my group of students, on a short escape to Rome. I was walking in the area of the Piazza Navona with an old friend, also a painter, when I remembered that the nearby church was alleged to have a “good” Caravaggio. I was amazed to find it was this one – always one of my favorites, perhaps because of its quiet drama, in contrast to the wild action of its companion piece showing the martyrdom of St. Matthew on the other side of the chapel. (Not to mention the work over the altarpiece showing Matthew and his inspiring angel unified by a dramatic S-curve – allegedly Caravaggio’s second try at that subject, the first rejected because it was too unconventional).

Those works characterized by intensely arrested action are certainly thrilling, and when back in Rome with the students, I spearheaded a pilgrimage to Santa Maria del Popolo, across town, to see the “Conversion of St Paul.” Caravaggio is a master at communicating dramatic action by creating a fulcrum around which the whirlwind of activity stabilizes. In the “Martyrdom of St. Matthew,” there’s a triangle around Matthew sprawled on the floor, as his mostly nude attacker accosts him and seizes his arm. In image of St. Paul’s conversion, the former Saul’s arms form a U as he sprawls blinded by the light of God in the extreme foreground, the legs of his horse standing over him, closing the shape. And in the same chapel, as he is suspended upside down on a cross, St Peter’s knees form the fulcrum of a wheel around which the cross, arms, bodies create the spokes.

In the “Calling of St. Matthew” the drama is psychological, built through two contrasting, nested triangles. Christ enters the room of the counting house from the right, along with a triangle of light that begins beyond the right-hand border and expands outward until it ends in an abrupt line at the shoulder of the figure to Matthew’s right (but on the left-hand side of the picture surface). The composition of the figures beneath it forms another triangle whose shape grows in the opposite direction: two lines converge on the left, emanating from Christ and his companion on the right.

The work is about recognition: Christ’s of his apostle and Matthew’s (formerly Levi) of himself. Christ extends his hand directly underneath a window with a cruciform pattern, his finger pointing to Matthew, calling him to a spiritual life from his mundane existence as Levi the customs-taker. A dark spatial gap under the hand separates Christ’s space from that of the seated figures of Matthew and his compatriots, but Levi-Matthew responds to Christ’s gesture by pointing to himself in amazement. This lower triangle is closed off by the body of the figure counting on the left-hand side, slumped in his seat, oblivious to the important event that is occurring in the light-pierced room.

Before really looking and thinking about the work, I had assumed that Matthew was the beautiful young boy in a plumed hat seated next to him. This youth looks at Christ with a level stare, his arm on Matthew’s shoulder, and his face directly catching the entering light across the dark gap. Then, my poor Italian, along with the rough English translation of the written material in the church, raised the possibility that Matthew could be the youth on the left, slumped in teenaged oblivion. But with further reading and thinking, it’s obvious that the work’s brilliance lies in the placement of Matthew-Levi, whose one hand forms a pair with the young counter’s, as they both still touch the coins, while he points to himself with the other, his eyebrows arched in incredulity.

My other, favorite, psychological works: In S. Agostino, a church around the corner, “The Madonna of Loreto” – on the left, a towering, female figure, standing against a column, barely contains a large, squirming child in her arms, while from the right, as if dashing in from the right-hand corner, two bedraggled figures, a man and a woman, each on their knees and holding a pilgrim’s staff, pay homage to the pair. The feet of the male’s figure are what grabbed me in particular about this work, emerging from the corner, the soles encrusted with dirt. A diagonal line moves from these feet to the feet of the child which he fondles, and to the child’s head. The figure’s head and that of the Madonna are connected by the vertical line of the pillar on which she leans.

In the Borghese Gallery: “The Madonna of the Serpent,” or at home with the Virgin, Child, and Saint Anne. On the right-hand side of the canvas, there’s an obviously aged, standing St. Anne. On the left-hand, a young mother appears to teach her child to walk, holding him under the arms. But actually she’s teaching him to trample a serpent – the symbol of evil in the world -- which she is crushing under her foot while the child’s foot is resting on hers. Overlapping and connecting the space between the two groups – the curled gesture of the child’s hand, reflected in the coil of the snake’s body, and closest to the ground-line the coil of its tale. The Wikipedia entry criticizes the uncomplimentary view of St. Anne’s age, especially since this work was made for the church of Santa Anna of the Palafrenieri (the Vatican wardrobe guard). (Shortly after it was made, it was considered too indecorous for the Vatican, which is how it ended up in the Borghese collection.) But, like the dirty feet of the pilgrims in the Loreto Madonna, Anne’s wrinkles, as her worried look, show Caravaggio’s keen desire to place these events with otherworldly portent, firmly in the substance of this world.

Caravaggio, St. Jerome Writing, circa 1604

The piece in the Borghese that really blew me away for its intense, dramatic simplicity, however, was “St. Jerome Writing.” This is a minimalist work: a figure, a skull, three books, a centrally placed wooden table. On the right, an aged St. Jerome, leans across an open book into the center of the painting, pen poised in his extended hand. On the left, a skull facing towards Jerome is perched on two books. The table legs reiterate the balance between Jerome on the right, and the skull, books, and white cloth draped beneath it on the left. There’s a jagged linear motion between the skull and St Jerome’s head, formed by his arm, the spine of the open book, the point of fabric in its crease. The color is also spare: the red of St. Jerome’s garb, the white of the balancing drapery, the brown books and table, the dark background that is modulated with reds and browns.

I have always loved the idea of St Jerome at work in his study, translating the bible, first from the Greek, and then ultimately from its original Hebrew. It is said that he travelled to the holy-land at the age of 45 to study that language, in order to be able to make a more accurate translation. For me his work and the images of it, captures the essence of the scholar’s life, its quiet and meditative removal from the daily fray. And Durer’s large engraving, generally accepted as a representation of the Vita Contemplativa, has always exemplified the subject for me: the rich, light-bathed interior, the lion sleeping like a pussy cat at Jerome’s feet – it has put me in mind of the peace I (and my cats!) have found in my study on a good day. But whereas Durer’s vision is rich in meticulous linear and domestic detail, Caravaggio’s sparse work shows the pared down, extreme quality of Jerome’s search. Time is running out, as the skull indicates, and he may die in the process, but he will use all the energy and concentration of his sinewy, aged body and mind to find the perfect word.