Author: Peter Kostense

John on Patmos and the Book of Revelation

John on Patmos and the Book of Revelation

The Apocalypse, a vision for all times

Now that I have written about Albrecht Dürer’s Life of the Virgin, I became intrigued by another of his most famous works, the Apocalypse. I occasionally encounter woodcut prints from this series in exhibitions, and they have always struck me as unsettling and mysterious. Images of four horsemen, a book with seven seals, Babylon and its whore, the end of days, and the last judgement raise an obvious question: what is all this about?

It sounds dark and frightening, and in many ways it is. I learned that Dürer based his Apocalypse series on the final book of the New Testament, the Book of Revelation. That discovery led me to ask who wrote this text and why it speaks in such extreme images.

John on Patmos (c.1495), with on John’s left side a devilish creature with a hook, ready to pull away John’s writing tools. Hieronymus Bosch (Netherlandish, c.1450 – 1516), 63x 43cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Gemäldegalerie.

What John records are visions revealed to him during his exile on Patmos, visions of catastrophe, judgement, but also renewal. Reading them today, it is striking how closely they echo our own time. Climate change, environmental destruction, authoritarian power, war, famine, and corruption all appear in the Book of Revelation. Born from exile and persecution, the text reads less like a theological work and more like a warning that continues to speak to the present.

I also discovered where Patmos is, a small Greek island at the far eastern edge of the Mediterranean Sea. Now I find myself wanting to go there, to spend time in contemplation, and perhaps to recover a sense of hope in these dark and uncertain times.

Landscape with John on Patmos (1640), where everything is still calm, as if it’s the silence before the storm of his Apocalyptic visions. Nicolas Poussin (French, 1594 – 1665), 100x136cm, Art Institute Chicago.

Let’s start exploring.

Albrecht Dürer’s Apocalypse series consists of fifteen woodcut prints, published in 1498, just a few years before the year 1500, a moment charged with fear and expectation that many believed could mark the end of days foretold in the Book of Revelation. From this series, I will focus on four key images: John put in a pot of boiling oil, the Four Horsemen, the Whore of Babylon, and the Apocalyptic Woman.

John on Patmos (c.1618) with in the top left corner the Woman of the Apocalypse with the Seven-Headed Dragon. Diego Velázquez (Spanish, 1599 – 1660), 136×102cm, National Gallery, London.

Alongside Dürer’s prints, I will also include medieval Apocalypse manuscripts from the centuries before him. Images from these books were widely familiar in the Middle Ages, and Dürer clearly builds upon this tradition while transforming it through the power of print, which made such images available to a far wider public.

We begin by asking what the Book of Revelation is and who its author was, a figure known as John on Patmos. We will follow John’s path into exile and ask how and why he ended up on Patmos, far to the east in the Mediterranean Sea, where his visions were revealed.

The Book of Revelation

The Book of Revelation is the final book of the New Testament, written in the late first century by John of Patmos, traditionally identified with John the Evangelist. Composed as a series of visions revealed to its author, it describes the Apocalypse, from the Greek word ἀποκάλυψις, literally meaning “an uncovering” or “a lifting of the veil”, rather than the end of the world alone. The book’s name in Dutch is Openbaring.

John on Patmos (c.1450), with the eagle as John the Evangelist’s symbol carrying his writing tools. Miniature from the Heures de Louis de Laval, Folio 30r Manuscript Latin 920, Parchment, full page 25x17cm, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

John, exiled to the island of Patmos during the reign of the Roman emperor Domitian, recounts a vision revealed to him by an angel and commanded to be made known. Written at the far eastern edge of the Roman Empire in the late first century and addressed to persecuted Christian communities, the text speaks in a language of terror and hope, warning and consolation.

Why is John on Patmos?

According to early Christian tradition, John was arrested during the reign of the emperor Domitian and brought to Rome, where he was condemned for his faith. Medieval sources recount that he was subjected to martyrdom by immersion in boiling oil, an ordeal from which he emerged unharmed, a sign of divine protection. Dürer’s print visualizes this moment of failed execution, emphasizing both the brutality of Roman authority and the impossibility of silencing the witness.

The martyrdom of John, being put in the pot with boiling oil, Emperor Domitian on the left, from The Apocalypse series (c.1496), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 39x28cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett.
John put in the boiling oil (1455) and Emeprior Domitian on the right, Miniature on Folio 005v from the manuscript Book of Hours of Simon de Varie, Parchment, full page 12x9cm, Koninklijke Bibliotheek (National Library of the Netherlands) KB 74 G37a, The Hague.

Unable to destroy him, the emperor instead ordered John into exile. He was banished to the small island of Patmos, at the far eastern edge of the Roman Empire, a place used for political and religious dissidents rather than common criminals. It is there, removed from centers of power yet still under imperial control, that John received the visions recorded in the Book of Revelation, transforming an act of punishment into a moment of revelation.

John exiled to Patmos (c.1500), Miniature from a Book of Hours, fol. 14v, Spencer Collection MS. 6, New York Public Library.
John exiled to Patmos (1685), Jan Luyken (Dutch, 1649 – 1712), Engraving, 12x15cm, Rijksmueum, Amsterdam.

John’s visions

John’s vision begins with a throne set in heaven. In the hand of the one seated on the throne lies a sealed book, which only the lamb is worthy to open, the lamb being the symbol of Christ, slain and offered through his crucifixion. With the breaking of the seven seals, history itself is set in motion.

Lamb of God (Christ) on the book with the Seven Seals (1601), from the series XII. Sibyllarum Icones, Crispijn de Passe the Elder (Dutch, c.1565 – 1637), Engraving, 15x12cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The opening of the seals unleashes four horsemen, bringers of conquest, war, famine, and death. Earthquakes follow, the sun is darkened, and the moon turns to blood. Trumpets sound, and the world is struck by fire, pestilence, darkness, and monstrous plagues. These are not random disasters, but signs of a world unraveling under tyranny, violence, and corruption.

The book with the Seven Seals shown to John (c.1010), manuscript illustration from the Bamberg Apocalypse, Parchment, full page 30x21cm, Staatsbibliothek Bamberg, Msc.Bibl.140, Bamberg, Germany.
John on Patmos (c.1465), with on the right a devilish creature trying to steal John’s writing tools, Leaf from a French Book of Hours by Master of Jacques de Luxembourg, Parchment, full page 24x17cm, Cleveland Museum of Art.

Towards the end of the Book of Revelation, after disasters followed by judgment, comes renewal. Evil is bound, the dead are raised, and a new world is revealed, a luminous city of jasper walls and golden streets, where suffering has no place and history reaches its long promised end.

The Four Horsemen

In The Four Horsemen, the most famous woodcut from his Apocalypse series of 1498, Albrecht Dürer gives visual form to one of the most terrifying passages of the Book of Revelation. As the Lamb opens the first four seals of the sealed book, four riders are released upon the world, each mounted on a horse and entrusted with a destructive force that shapes human history.

The Four Horsemen, from left to right: Death, Famine, War and Conquest, and in bottom left corner a bishop eaten by a monster, from The Apocalypse series (1498), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 39x28cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett.

Earlier illustrated Bibles often presented the horsemen as isolated figures or symbolic types. Dürer transforms the vision into an overwhelming surge of movement. The four horses and riders thunder diagonally across the image, compressed into a single, unstoppable wave that tramples everything beneath them. Death leads the charge, followed by Famine, War, and Conquest, their forms overlapping and interlocking so tightly that they appear as a single force rather than four separate agents.

The First (Conquest) and Second (War) Horseman of the Apocalypse (c.1010), manuscript illustration from the Bamberg Apocalypse, Parchment, Staatsbibliothek Bamberg, Msc.Bibl.140 14r and 14v, Bamberg, Germany. Click here for the full manuscript page with the First Horseman, and here for the full manuscript page with the Second Horseman.

Each rider carries a distinct attribute drawn from the biblical text. Number one bears a bow and crown, associated with conquest and domination. The second one raises a sword, bringing war and the collapse of peace. The third horseman holds a pair of scales, symbol of famine, scarcity, and economic imbalance. The final rider, Death, carries no emblem at all. His power is absolute and needs no sign. On Dürer’s woodblock print, human bodies are crushed beneath the horses, while a monstrous jaw gapes open to swallow the fallen (a bishop in particular), a reminder that violence, hunger, and disease spare no one.

The Third (Famine) and Fourth (Death) Horseman of the Apocalypse (c.1010), manuscript illustration from the Bamberg Apocalypse, Parchment, Staatsbibliothek Bamberg, Msc.Bibl.140 15r and 15v, Bamberg, Germany. Click here for the full manuscript page with the Third Horseman, and here for the full manuscript page with the Fourth Horseman.

The print does not present disaster as random or meaningless. The horsemen are released only after the seals are opened, suggesting that destruction follows from human history itself, from conquest, war, inequality, and the abuse of power. Seen today, the image still resonates. The forces Dürer visualized at the end of the fifteenth century remain disturbingly familiar, reminding us that the Apocalypse, in its original sense of revelation, is an unveiling of patterns that repeat across time.

The Whore of Babylon

In the Whore of Babylon, Albrecht Dürer gives visual form to a disturbing and politically charged vision in the Book of Revelation. John describes a woman seated upon a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns, adorned in luxury and holding a golden cup, drunk with the blood of saints and martyrs. Behind her rises the doomed city of Babylon, already engulfed in flames, its destruction both imminent and deserved.

The Whore of Babylon, admired by her greedy rich followers and Babylon already fallen and burning in the background, from The Apocalypse series (c.1497), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 39x28cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett.

Dürer presents the whore as a figure of seductive authority. She sits confidently upon the multi headed beast. The golden goblet in her hand, an object of beauty and desire, contains corruption and violence. Her gaze is directed toward a group of richly dressed figures who look upon her with fascination and submission, while an armed multitude advances from above, suggesting the reach and complicity of worldly power.

The seven headed beast beneath her recalls the dragon of the Apocalyptic Woman (hereunder as Dürer’s next print), linking these beasts of evil into a single continuum of deception, domination, and abuse of authority. Babylon itself is not only a city but a system, a world built on excess, exploitation, and the commodification of human life. Its fall is mourned not by the innocent, but by kings and merchants whose wealth and influence depended upon it.

The Whore of Babylon (c.1295) holding the golden goblet full with corruption and violence, Miniature from a Manuscript of the Apocalypse, from France, Lorraine, Parchment, 10x15cm, Cleveland Museum of Art.

For Dürer’s contemporaries, his image spoke directly to anxieties about corrupt rulers, moral decay, and the entanglement of power, money, and violence. Seen today, the Whore of Babylon remains a haunting warning. It is a vision not of sudden catastrophe, but of a society undone by its own indulgence and indifference, a world that collapses precisely because it mistakes luxury and authority for justice and truth.

The Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon

In the Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon, Albrecht Dürer visualizes one of the most complex and symbol laden passages of the Book of Revelation. John describes a woman clothed with the sun, the moon beneath her feet, and a crown of twelve stars upon her head. Before her stands a monstrous dragon with seven heads and ten horns, waiting to devour her. A child is saved and taken up to God, while the woman flees, protected yet pursued. The Woman is interpreted as Mary and the Child as Christ. The Seven-Headed Dragon represents Satan and evil. This image is a good versus evil struggle.

The Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon, from The Apocalypse series (1498), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 39x28cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kupferstichkabinett.

Dürer transforms this vision into a tightly compressed drama. The woman appears serene yet vulnerable, elevated above the earthly realm, while the dragon coils below her in violent agitation. Its multiple heads and gaping mouths embody chaos, deception, and oppressive power, often interpreted as an image of empire and tyranny. The contrast is stark: divine order and promise above, destructive force below. The print is emphasizing that the struggle between good and evil is ongoing and not yet settled.

John on Patmos (c.1511) and the Apocalyptic Woman, the book with the seals in the bottom left corner Hans Baldung Grien (German, c.1484 – 1545), 87x76cm, Metropolitan Museum, New York.

For contemporary viewers around 1500, this image resonated deeply. It echoed fears of political corruption, religious conflict, and looming catastrophe, while also offering reassurance that evil, however terrifying, would not ultimately prevail. The Apocalyptic Woman stands as a figure of endurance and hope, a reminder that this Revelation is not only a vision of destruction, but also of preservation, resistance, and eventual renewal.

John on Patmos (c.1580) with the Apocalyptic Woman and the Seven-Headed Dragon, Engraving by Jan Sadeler I (Flemish, 1550 – 1600), after design by Marten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), 26x20cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Closing Notes

The Book of Revelation was written in a world marked by imperial violence, religious persecution, forced movement of people, and the abuse of power by an authority that claimed absolute legitimacy. The book’s visions are not fantasies of destruction for their own sake, but acts of unveiling: a refusal to accept oppression as normal or inevitable.

When Albrecht Dürer published his Apocalypse in 1498, Europe stood on the threshold of the year 1500, a moment charged with apocalyptic expectation. War, plague, religious anxiety, and social unrest shaped how these images were read. Dürer’s woodcuts force the viewer to recognize violence, false authority, and human suffering as part of a recurring historical pattern rather than a singular catastrophe.

Seen from our own time, marked by war, displacement, environmental destruction, and the misuse of power, the Revelations once again feel uncomfortably close. Yet the book does not ask us to endure these conditions in silence while waiting for a promised end. Its ultimate vision of a renewed world serves as a standard against which the injustices of the present are exposed.

Revelation’s “happy ending” does not cancel the horrors that precede it. The images confront every age with the same question: whether we recognize Babylon while living within it, and whether we still dare to imagine a world made new.

Landscape with John on Patmos (1564) with the Apocalyptic Woman (Mary) and the Seven-Headed Dragon high up in the sky, a stormy sea with sea monsters on the right, Hans Bol (Flemish, 1534 – 1593), Watercolor on canvas, 51x86cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
Albrecht Dürer: Bestseller and Piracy

Albrecht Dürer: Bestseller and Piracy

16th century copyright protection

Last October I was in Nuremberg, Germany, the city where Albrecht Dürer (1471 – 1528) was born and lived. One can visit the Dürerhaus, where he worked and resided from 1509 until his death. This visit inspired me to look more closely at Dürer’s life and work, especially his woodcut series. Among these, Life of the Virgin stands out as an excellent example: a cycle of twenty prints, sold both individually and published as a book with corresponding Latin verses. It became a bestseller already during Dürer’s lifetime, not only in Germany, but across Europe. And, inevitably, it was also widely copied, often without Dürer’s permission.

Self-portrait (1498), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 52x41cm, Prado, Madrid.

We will look more closely at the Life of the Virgin series and explore how Dürer tried to protect his artistic rights and defend his name against the flood of “fake Dürers” that appeared in its wake. We will then follow the complete series itself, which unfolds like a comic-book narrative about the Virgin Mary, her parents Anna and Joachim, and, of course, her son Jesus Christ.

Let’s explore as follows:

Dürer: artist and business man

Albrecht Dürer was not only a master artist but also a businessman. His prints reached buyers all over Europe through a clever distribution system, with his wife even selling them at trade fairs such as Frankfurt. Prints were a steady source of income, and Dürer offered works in a wide range of styles and price points.

Among the most ambitious of these projects was Life of the Virgin, a cycle of twenty woodcuts first published individually and later as a book in Nuremberg in 1511. Each image was paired with Latin verses by Benedictus Chelidonius, a learned Benedictine monk, also from Nuremberg. The combination of Dürer’s monumental images with humanist poetry gave the series the dignity of a richly illustrated devotional book.

Fake prints

But his success also came with frustrations: new works were copied almost immediately, sometimes crudely, but often in high-quality versions that were difficult to distinguish from the originals. Some even bore his famous AD monogram, used as both trademark and signature, to pass as genuine Dürers.

Dürer’s AD monogram, detail from the Meeting of Joachim and Anna at the Golden Gate (1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Look at the two following prints: the original woodcut by Dürer and the exact copy made by Marcantonio Raimondi as an engraving, even including Dürer’s AD monogram. Raimondi produced his copy three years after Dürer published the original.

Left: Dürer’s original c.1503. Annunciation to the Virgin from “The Life of the Virgin”, Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.
Right: Raimondi’s copy c.1506 including the “AD” trademark. Annunciation to the Virgin from “The Life of the Virgin”, Engraving by Marcantonio Raimondi (Italian, c.1470 – c.1527), after a woodblock print by Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 29x21cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.

Copies flourished north and south of the Alps. Some bore fake monograms, others carefully erased Dürer’s signature, or replaced it with a crude imitation. Ironically, this wave of imitation only spread his fame further. In this sense, Dürer’s imagery became part of a wider visual language of the time, endlessly adapted and reinterpreted. Yet Dürer’s efforts to protect his work mark him out as one of the first artists to confront what we now call copyright. Dürer was keenly aware that his art was not only spiritual and aesthetic, but also a commercial product in the bustling market of Renaissance Europe.

The Life of the Virgin cycle’s popularity made it a prime target for counterfeiters. The renaissance art-writer Giorgio Vasari (Italian, 1511 – 1574) later recounted how the Italian engraver Marcantonio Raimondi (c.1470 – c.1527) copied the entire Life of the Virgin in engraving, even adding Dürer’s monogram. According to Vasari, Dürer pursued the matter in Venice and won a ruling forbidding Raimondi to use his mark. Whether or not Vasari embroidered the story, it reflects a real concern: Dürer’s name and monogram were being exploited, and he took active steps to defend them. His colophon to the 1511 edition of Life of the Virgin is a warning against pirated copies, and shows a remarkably modern awareness of intellectual property and artistic rights.

Anti-piracy colophon in Latin (1511) on the print nr. 20: Glorification of the Virgin from “Life of the Virgin”, Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, sheet 44x31cm, block 30x21cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Dürer’s anti-piracy colophon is phrased as a severe warning to anyone who dared to copy his prints. Translated from Latin, it reads like a threat, and is strikingly laid out in a triangular form on the final sheet of the Life of the Virgin series. Here it is, and shiver while reading the last paragraph!

Printed in Nuremberg by the painter Albrecht Dürer, in the year of Christ 1511.

Woe to you, thief of another’s labor and skill! Do not dare to lay your reckless hands upon these works. Know that the most glorious Roman Emperor Maximilian has granted us the right that no one may presume to print these images from false blocks, or to sell them throughout the bounds of the Empire.
If, driven by arrogance or by greed, you do so, then be certain of this: after the confiscation of your goods, you will have to face the gravest peril without escape.

Dürer’s trip to Venice seems to have had some effect, especially when combined with the anti-piracy colophon he added to the final page of the Life of the Virgin series. Marcantonio Raimondi, who had previously copied these entire series and even reproduced Dürer’s “AD” monogram, now approached Dürer’s work more cautiously. When he later engraved another series after Dürer (the Small Passion series), Marcantonio copied every detail with his usual precision, except the monogram. In these later prints the space where Dürer placed his “AD” trademark is left conspicuously blank. Compare these two images from the Small Passion series: Dürer’s original, proudly bearing his monogram, and Raimondi’s meticulous copy, identical in all respects but stripped of Dürer’s AD monogram.

Left: Dürer’s original with the “AD” trademark. Christ standing before Herod, from “The Small Passion” (1509), Woodblock print by Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 13x10cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Right: Raimondi’s copy without the “AD” trademark. Christ standing before Herod, from “The Small Passion” (c.1511), Engraving by Marcantonio Raimondi (Italian, c.1470 – c.1527), after a woodblock print by Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 13x10cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Life of the Virgin

Having spoken about Dürer’s efforts to protect his copyright, let’s now look at the Life of the Virgin series itself. Conceived as a cycle of twenty woodcuts — nineteen narrative scenes plus a frontispiece — it traces the Virgin Mary’s story from the rejection of her father Joachim’s offering in the Temple to her Assumption and Glorification in heaven. Dürer began the series around 1501 and published it a decade later, in 1511, as a complete book. Each image was paired with Latin verses written by Benedictus Chelidonius, a Benedictine monk and humanist poet from Dürer’s own city. Together, image and text created a carefully balanced combination of visual devotion and humanist learning, intended for a cultivated audience of merchants, clerics, and scholars.

Image and Text; Dürer and Chelidonius

Benedictus Chelidonius (c. 1460–1521), a humanist scholar and Benedictine monk from the monastery of St. Egidius in Nuremberg provided the Latin verses that accompany the Life of the Virgin series. Chelidonius belonged to the circle of learned churchmen who sought to merge humanist literary style with devotional themes, while remaining firmly rooted in the Catholic tradition. This was no small matter: by 1511 Luther’s Reformation was already knocking loudly at Nuremberg’s doors. In my view, Dürer’s imagery for Life of the Virgin adheres closely to Catholic tradition, not so much as a protest against the Reformation, but out of pragmatic awareness. As a skilled tradesman, he understood that more traditional devotional images would continue to sell well in regions less touched by reformist ideas, especially in Catholic countries such as Italy.

Life of the Virgin as published in 1511, prints by Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528) and text verses by Benedictus Chelidonius (German, c.1460 – 1521), Kunstsammlungen der Stadt Nürnberg, Germany. This is the page with the Flight into Egypt.

Chelidonius’ poems retell the Virgin’s life with a mixture of biblical narrative and rhetorical flourish. Dürer sought to dignify his art with humanist eloquence and the authority of the written word, and Chelidonius’ text dramatized and deepened the episodes shown in the prints.

An example of text and image; Joachim’s offer rejected in the Temple.

2. Joachim’s offering in the Temple is rejected (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

In Dürer’s print, the old priest thrusts Joachim’s sacrifice away with an unmistakable gesture of condemnation. Chelidonius heightens this visual drama with a scathing Latin rebuke, placing words in the mouth of the High Priest that leave no doubt about the seriousness of Joachim’s “crime”: childlessness. The verse does not merely explain the scene, it intensifies its emotional and moral charge.

Text verse by Benedictus Chelidonius (c. 1460–1521), published in 1511, opposite the page with Durer’s woodblock print Joachim’s offering in the Temple is rejected (c.1504), Albertina, Vienna.

Here is line 17-21, in Latin and the translation; pretty harsh!

Infecunde senex, audes qua fronte feraces
inter conventus ire sub ora Dei?
I, sterili te condere domo, vir inutilis! Odit
coniugium frigens et sine fruge polus.
“Barren old man, with what face do you dare
to stand among the fruitful in the sight of God?
Go, hide yourself in your sterile house, useless husband!
Heaven itself despises a cold and fruitless marriage.”

These four lines condense the theological, moral, and human dimensions of the scene. They make clear that Chelidonius was not content simply to accompany Dürer’s images with decorative poetry. Rather, his verses work as a deliberate dramatic counterpoint, drawing the reader deeper into the emotional world of the Life of the Virgin series. In this way, Chelidonius and Dürer together transform Joachim’s humiliation into a vivid meditation on faith, obedience, and divine purpose.

Life of the Virgin; the 20 woodcuts

The 1511 edition was remarkable not only for its art but also for its modern design. It reflects Dürer’s awareness of both aesthetics and marketing. His aim was to elevate the woodcut from a humble popular medium to the level of fine art. At the same time, the book’s devotional subject and refined presentation ensured wide appeal, making it one of the most sought-after print series of the early sixteenth century.

Frontispiece: The Virgin on a Crescent Moon

1. Frontispiece, the Virgin on a Crescent Moon (c.1510), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 34x22cm, Albertina, Vienna.

The series opens with a radiant image of Mary sitting on a crescent moon, a symbol of her Immaculate Conception, pure and untouched by sin from her birth. Dürer blends several motifs here: the Virgin’s regal dignity with a crown of stars, and her gentle motherly presence by nursing her baby Jesus. The composition sets the tone for the entire cycle, presenting Mary as both approachable and exalted.

The Rejection of Joachim’s Offering in the Temple

2. Joachim’s offering in the Temple is rejected (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

The story begins harshly. The aged Joachim, husband of Anna and father-to-be of Mary, presents his offering at the Temple, a lamb and a small cage of birds, but the High Priest turns him away, rejecting his devotion due to Joachim’s childlessness. They judge him unworthy in the eyes of God, because he and Anna have no children. Dürer shows the moment of humiliation vividly, the priest pushes back the old man’s gift, while bystanders whisper. Hurt and ashamed, Joachim leaves Jerusalem and heads into the wilderness, convinced he has failed his family and his faith.

The Angel Appears and Annunciation to Joachim 

3. The angel appears and Annunciation to Joachim (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Joachim, dejected and wandering in the wilderness, is visited by an angel who brings a divine promise. The angel tells him his wife Anna will conceive a child through divine grace. Dürer fills the landscape with a sense of sudden tenderness: the old man kneels, overwhelmed, as the heavenly visitor leans toward him with reassurance. The encounter transforms despair into hope.

The Meeting of Joachim and Anna at the Golden Gate

4. Meeting of Joachim and Anna at the Golden Gate (1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Meanwhile, Anna receives the same message from another angel, and she hurries toward Jerusalem’s Golden Gate. Joachim, rushing from the desert, meets her there. The couple embrace, their joy erupting in the middle of the busy gate. Dürer makes this reunion radiant and human, two elderly people clinging to each other with relief, gratitude, and renewed hope.

The Birth of the Virgin

5. Birth of the Virgin (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Inside a lively household, the Virgin Mary is born. Women bustle about as midwives tend to Anna, resting in her bed after the long-awaited delivery. Others bathe the newborn child in a small wooden tub. Dürer turns this sacred moment into an intimate domestic scene, full of details: textiles, furniture, and the calm relief of a long-desiring mother.

The Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple

6. Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

As a small child, Mary is brought by her parents to the Temple, dedicated to God’s service. Dürer shows her climbing the steep steps alone, a tiny figure ascending toward the high priest who awaits her. Joachim and Anna look on, both proud and moved, as if understanding that their daughter’s life will be extraordinary. Anna points at the offering lambs, as if she tells Joachim “do you still remember when your offer was rejected?”. Dürer connects the early “Joachim’s Rejection” print with Mary’s triumphal entry into the temple.

The Marriage of the Virgin

7. Marriage of the Virgin (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Mary is joined in marriage to an older widowed man named Joseph before a small assembly of witnesses. Dürer captures both the ceremony’s ritual precision and the human warmth of the participants. Joseph and Mary convey mutual respect and spiritual purpose, while the architectural setting frames the sacred promise binding them together.

The Annunciation

8. Annunciation to the Virgin (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

In a quiet, sunlit interior, Mary reads when the angel Gabriel appears before her. His message is astonishing: she will conceive a child through the Holy Spirit. Mary reacts with humility, and acceptance; a moment of divine communication.

The Visitation, Mary meets Elisabeth

9. Visitation, the Virgin meets Elisabeth (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Mary travels to visit her older cousin Elizabeth, who is miraculously pregnant with John the Baptist. The two women meet outdoors in an affectionate embrace, recognizing the divine mystery present in both of them. Both women are pregnant with children who will play central roles in salvation history. Their embrace conveys joy, mutual recognition, and shared purpose.

The Nativity; Adoration of the Shepherds

10. Nativity; Adoration of the Shepherds (c.1502), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Albertina, Vienna.

Christ is born in a ruined stable. Mary kneels in worship, gazing at the child. Joseph stands nearby. Angels crowd above. Shepherds arrive to offer humble reverence. Dürer’s composition guides the viewer’s eye toward Christ, while the rustic setting reminds us of the humility of his entrance into the world.

The Circumcision of Christ

11. Circumcision of Christ (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

On the eighth day after his birth, the infant Jesus is brought to the Temple for his circumcision, the ritual that marks him formally as a son of Israel. Dürer sets the scene inside a vaulted sacred space, where priests prepare the ceremony, while Mary stands close, watching anxiously yet faithfully as her child undergoes the ancient rite. It’s a composition that balances human vulnerability with religious duty.

The Adoration of the Magi

12. Adoration of the Magi (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Three kings arrive from distant lands, bringing gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They kneel before the infant with reverence, their faces full of age, wisdom, and wonder. Dürer sets the scene within a magnificent architectural ruin, as if he conveys both the worldly grandeur of the Magi and the serene divinity of the holy family.

Presentation in the Temple

13. Presentation in the Temple (c.1505), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Mary kneels, offering a small cage of doves as the modest sacrifice prescribed for the poor, while Joseph stands behind her, attentive. Simeon, the aged priest, lifts the infant Christ with reverent care, fulfilling prophecy. A few bystanders watch quietly, and the vast temple interior frames the sacred act. Dürer emphasizes the gravity of the ritual and the fulfillment of God’s promise, balancing intimacy with monumental architecture.

The Flight into Egypt

14. Flight into Egypt (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Warned in a dream that King Herod seeks the child’s life, Mary and Joseph flee south into Egypt. Mary rides a donkey, cradling her baby, while Joseph leads them along a rugged path. Dürer enriches the landscape with a palm tree and exotic vegetation, the Middle Eastern landscape through which the Holy Family must quietly pass.

The Rest on the Flight into Egypt

15. Rest on the Flight into Egypt (c.1502), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Now settled in Egypt, the Holy Family engages in daily life. Joseph works at his carpenter’s bench, and Mary spins wool nearby; it’s a small industrious household. The infant Christ is tended by angels and we see putti, while God the Father blesses the scene, the Holy Spirit descending as a dove.

The 12-Year-Old Christ Among the Doctors

16. The 12-year old Christ among the Doctors (c.1503), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Back in Jerusalem, after days of searching, Mary and Joseph find twelve-year-old Jesus in the Temple, debating from a lectern with learned scholars. Dürer fills the hall with the old learned men, pointing, arguing, leaning in, and surprised by the boy’s insight, already showing the authority that will define his later ministry.

Christ Taking Leave of His Mother

17. Christ saying farewell to His Mother (c.1504), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Before his Passion, Christ comes once more to say goodbye to Mary. The moment is private and emotional. They stand near the simple entrance of her home, both aware of what lies ahead. Dürer captures a moment familiar to all parents: the pain of letting go, knowing a child must follow his calling.

The Death of the Virgin

18. Death of the Virgin (1510), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Surrounded by the apostles, Mary’s final moments unfold in a room lit by candles. The apostles lean in, praying softly; reading from a book or holding candles. Mary lies peaceful. Dürer balances human grief with sacred serenity.

The Assumption into Heaven and The Coronation of the Virgin

19. The Assumption into Heaven and Coronation of the Virgin (1510), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 29x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Angels lift Mary from her tomb, carrying her upward into a swirl of clouds. Her body rises not through effort but through grace. Below, the apostles look up in awe, their expressions mixing disbelief and wonder. The scene bridges earth and heaven in one sweeping vertical movement. The cycle ends triumphantly. In heaven, both her Son Christ and God the Father crown Mary as Queen of Heaven.

Glorification of the Virgin, surrounded by saints

20. Glorification of the Virgin (surrounded by saints) (c.1502), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Woodcut, 30x21cm, Kunsthalle Bremen, Germany.

Dürer concludes the series with a majestic vision of Mary exalted in heaven, surrounded by a host of saints and angels. She sits at the center, serene and radiant, while figures of holy men and women gather around her. Angels float gracefully, carrying musical instruments and banners. The composition conveys both joy and solemnity: the trials, sorrows, and faithful endurance of Mary’s life are now transfigured into eternal glory.

Closing Notes

When we look at Life of the Virgin by Albrecht Dürer, as a series published in 1511 and with most of the prints issued individually around 1505, we must try to see it not only with our nowadays eyes, accustomed to endless images, but with the eyes of Dürer’s contemporaries. How did people in the early sixteenth century experience a series like this? They lived in a world without photographs, without film, without magazines, without the internet, without TikTok or Instagram, a world where most people encountered images only in a church altarpiece or the occasional fresco. It was, visually speaking, a world of darkness punctuated by a few precious points of light.

Into that world, Dürer released this series. And it reads almost like a comic book or a biopic: one scene leading seamlessly into the next, each print a little narrative cliffhanger inviting the viewer to turn the page. Published with accompanying text, the series functioned almost like a script for a film long before cinema existed.

Dürer’s imagery was fresh, inventive, and instantly recognizable. In an age without photocopiers or digital reproduction, the only way to “go viral” was through reprinting, and Dürer was one of the first artists whose visual inventions were copied, repeated, and adapted across Europe. It is no wonder that his compositions reappear again and again throughout the sixteenth century and beyond. Success brought imitation, but Dürer was acutely aware of his intellectual property: he did everything he could to protect his “AD” monogram, his early version of a brand logo.

If we translate Dürer’s achievement into modern terms, he was an influencer, a trendsetter, even a blockbuster director whose imagery shaped European art. “Life of the Virgin” can be read as a Renaissance biopic, a storyboard for a film about Mary’s life, “There’s Something About Mary” created, directed and produced by Albrecht Dürer. In 1511.

Homo Bulla Est – Life is a bubble

Homo Bulla Est – Life is a bubble

Quis Evadet? – Who can escape?

This time I want to turn to a lighter, more airy subject: bubbles! I have always been intrigued by the details that painters choose to include; why a flower, a skull, a candle, or something as fleeting as a bubble? In seventeenth-century Dutch painting, bubbles are surprisingly common: sometimes drifting alone, sometimes blown by a child at play. Much has been written about them, and in recent decades there has been a lively debate about the deeper meaning of a child blowing bubbles.

Allegory of Vanity (c.1626), Cornelis de Vos (Flemish, c.1584 – 1651), 194x191cm, Herzog Anton Ulrich Museum, Braunschweig, Germany.

Let us look at this painting by Cornelis de Vos in Braunschweig. The scene is a room overflowing with treasures — gold, silver, coins, glittering jewels. We see a richly dressed lady in her prime, proudly displaying a string of pearls. Yet beside her, two children offer a silent commentary. They blow soap bubbles: fragile, transparent, gleaming for a moment before they vanish. Their message is unmistakable, all earthly riches and beauty are as fleeting as these bubbles. What dazzles us now will soon be gone. The painting leaves no doubt: it is a moral lesson. All is vanity. Life itself is a bubble.

But how did this fragile image of the bubble come to carry such weight? Here are the topics we’ll explore:

Let’s go!

Origin: Varro, Erasmus and Goltzius

Where is this bubble symbol coming from? Fortunately, the inscriptions on certain prints from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries give us a clearer sense of the associations they carried in their own day. Yet at the same time, we should be cautious; not every bubble hides a heavy moral lesson. Sometimes, a bubble is just a bubble. Still, let us give it a try, and start at the very beginning.

Homo Bulla or Allegory of Transcience (1594), Engraving by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), 21x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

If we want to trace the roots of the bubble as a symbol, we should begin with prints. The Dutch engraver Hendrick Goltzius gave us one of the earliest and most striking examples in 1594. His engraving Homo Bulla presents a small boy, his arm resting on a skull, as he blows soap bubbles into the air. At his feet grows a freshly opened lily, beautiful yet already marked for decay. To the side, a small pot smoulders, its smoke curling upward and vanishing into the sky. Beneath the image runs the chilling motto QVIS EVADET? — “Who can escape?” followed by a verse that speaks of flowers that fade, of beauty that perishes, of life that vanishes like a bubble or dissolves like smoke. 

Flos novus, et verna fragrans argenteus aura,
Marcescit subito, perit, heu perit illa venustas.
Sic et vita hominum, iam nunc nascentibus, eheu,
Instar abit bullae, vani et elapsa vaporis.

In smoother words:

A fresh flower, silver-bright in the spring breeze,
suddenly withers — alas, that beauty perishes!
So too with human life, even as it is born:
it slips away like a bubble, like smoke dissolving into air.

The poem ties everything together: the lily at the boy’s feet, the shining bubbles that burst as soon as they appear, the smoke rising from the little pot. Text and image together form a powerful meditation, confronting the viewer with the inevitability of death and the transience of all earthly beauty.

(Left) Saint Jerome in His Study (1528), Joos van Cleve (South Netherlandish, c.1485 – c.1540), 40x29cm, Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton NJ.
(Right) Erasmus (1523), Hans Holbein the younger (German, c.1497 – 1543), 74x5cm, National Gallery, London, on loan from Longford Castle collection.

This was not an invention of Goltzius alone. The phrase homo bulla est — “man is a bubble” — was already a proverb in antiquity, attributed to the Roman polymath Marcus Terentius Varro (116 – 27 BCE). In the early sixteenth century, Desiderius Erasmus (1466 – 1536) included homo bulla est in his Adagia, a collection of over 4000 Greek and Latin proverbs. Erasmus explained that human life is like a bubble under water: it rises, glistens for a moment, and disappears as soon as it reaches the surface. An underwater bubble, however, is not very easy to paint — which may explain why artists transformed the idea into a soap bubble, delicate, luminous, and instantly legible to the eye.

Half a century before Goltzius turned Varro’s proverb into a boy blowing bubbles, Joos van Cleve had used the phrase in a painting of Saint Jerome (Hieronymus), the Church Father who translated the Bible into Latin. In Van Cleve’s panel, the words homo bvlla are written on the wall behind the saint, linking it to imagery of a skull and a candle of which the flame just went out. Van Cleve is anchoring the concept of homo bulla in the language of vanitas, paintings with symbolic representations of the transience of life, the futility of pleasure and worldly possessions, and the inevitability of death.

Placed side by side, Joos van Cleve’s Jerome and Holbein’s Erasmus invite comparison. Both men are shown as scholars, immersed in books, surrounded by the signs of learning. Erasmus devoted his life to gathering and preserving the wisdom of antiquity, collecting and translating old proverbs and texts into a language his age could understand. Jerome, more than a thousand years earlier, had done the same with sacred scripture, rendering the Bible into the Latin of his day. Erasmus himself took part in the first major edition of Jerome’s collected works, published in 1516, just a decade before Van Cleve painted his Jerome. Each, in his own way, was a bridge between past and present, and both confronted the brevity of life and the vanity of earthly existence. Van Cleve makes the lesson explicit: Jerome points to a skull, a candle that went out, and HOMO BVLLA inscribed on the wall. The saint seems to confirm Erasmus’s proverb: human life is as fragile as a bubble.

Vanitas

Boy Blowing Soap Bubbles, Allegory on the Brevity of Life (1663), Karel Dujardin (Dutch, 1626 – 1678), 116x97cm, Statens Museum for Kunst, Copenhagen.

Karel Dujardin’s large canvas gives us one of the most elaborate interpretations of the homo bulla theme. At first glance we see a boy in a blue tunic, just lowering his pipe and watching with satisfaction the bubbles he has set afloat. But the scene quickly shifts from everyday reality into allegory: the boy himself stands precariously on a giant bubble, balanced on a shell that rides the waves like a fragile vessel.

The image also borrows from an older motif: Fortuna, the goddess of fortune, was often shown standing on a ball or tossed upon the sea. The ball symbolized the instability of luck, always rolling, never fixed, on waves of unpredictable currents. By placing the bubble-blowing figure on a bubble adrift on the water, Dujardin fuses this classical image of Fortuna with the homo bulla theme, doubling the sense of fragility and uncertainty. In the background, the ruins of a once-proud city add a final touch of melancholy: not only bubbles and beauty vanish, but whole civilizations too.

The painting combines various classical traditions into one striking allegory. What began as the learned homo bulla of sixteenth-century prints — a child blowing bubbles as a reminder that man is but a bubble — has here been transformed into a monumental and almost theatrical scene. Dujardin makes the message clear: fortune, beauty, and cities themselves vanish as quickly as soap bubbles on the wind.

Allegory of Vanity (1633), Jan Miense Molenaer (Dutch, c.1610 – 1668), 102x127cm, Toledo Museum of Art, Toledo, OH.

Jan Miense Molenaer here turns everyday domestic life into a grand allegory. At the center sits a young woman in a sumptuous gown of pink and gold, her blonde hair being combed by an older attendant. She gazes into a small hand mirror, which is just a reflection of her beauty. Yet around her the signs of vanity and mortality crowd in. Her slippered foot rests on a skull, a blunt reminder of where earthly beauty must end.

On the left, a small boy in bright blue and red quietly blows soap bubbles. The bubbles are a bit difficult to see, just to the left of the violins hanging on the wall. The homo bulla figure has been transformed into a playful child, but carrying the same heavy message. On the table nearby glitter jewels and trinkets; musical instruments hang on the wall, promising entertainment but also evoking the fleeting nature of sound. Each detail is drawn from the familiar vocabulary of Dutch interiors, but here they are gathered together into a tightly woven vanitas lesson.

Amor with soap bubble (1634), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), 75×93cm, The Liechtenstein Princely Collections, Gartenpalais Liechtenstein, Vienna.

Rembrandt gives the soap bubble a new twist by placing it in the hands of Cupid, the little god of love. With his bow resting at his side and his arrows slung across his back, the winged boy bends over his pipe, intent on blowing fragile bubbles into the air. It is an unusual, playful image for the young Rembrandt, who painted the scene in 1634. Today the work belongs to the Princely Collections of Liechtenstein.

Cupid’s arrows strike suddenly and make hearts fall and love appear without warning. But just as quickly it may vanish: bright and beautiful one moment, gone in a splash the next. The bubble becomes a metaphor for the brevity of passion, reminding the viewer that desire itself is as fragile as human life.

Memorial and contemplation

Posthumous portrait of Louise-Marie-Anne de Bourbon, named Mademoiselle de Tours (1681), Pierre Mignard I (French, 1612 – 1681), Château de Versailles, Paris.

Not all bubble-blowing children carry a playful warning. Sometimes, as in this portrait of Mademoiselle de Tours from the Chateau de Versailles, the motif takes on heartbreaking intimacy. Louise-Marie-Anne de Bourbon, the daughter of Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan, died in 1681 at the age of just six. This portrait was painted in the wake of her death, transforming the familiar homo bulla allegory into a personal memorial.

At a table beside the child rests a watch, emblem of passing time. In her hand she holds a delicate bubble, shimmering yet about to vanish. Together these symbols speak to the fragility of life, especially that of a child taken too soon. Mignard’s painting is not only vanitas but also elegy, a royal family’s grief expressed through the language of art. Here the soap bubble is no longer a generalized symbol of human mortality but a direct reminder of one short life: bright and beautiful, like the bubble itself.

Soap Bubbles (c.1733), Jean Baptiste Chardin (French, 1699 – 1779), 61x63cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Chardin takes the well-worn vanitas motif of soap bubbles and turns it into something personal and moving. At first glance we see a boy, perhaps a student, carefully blowing a bubble while staring at it with concentration. Behind him, peeping out of the window, is his much younger brother, still in the carefree stage of childhood. The contrast between the two is striking: one on the cusp of adulthood, already contemplative and aware of the fragility of time; the other still playful and innocent.

What might otherwise be a simple memento mori becomes in Chardin’s hands an image of melancholy, a quiet farewell to youth, gone in a flash like the bubble itself.

Children playing

A Boy Blowing Bubbles (1663), Frans van Mieris I (Dutch, 1635 – 1681), 25x18cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

On this small panel, scarcely larger than a sheet of paper, Frans van Mieris painted a boy absorbed in the simple game of blowing bubbles. From the shadows behind him, a smiling woman holding a small dog looks on and outside of the painting to us viewers, as if sharing both in his amusement and in ours. Each detail is rendered with the precision for which Van Mieris and his fellow “fine painters” (fijnschilders) from Leiden were celebrated. Although the motif of a child blowing bubbles carried a long tradition of reminding viewers of life’s brevity, here that moral message seems muted. Van Mieris may well have intended something more playful: a display piece of painterly refinement, a scene pleasant to look at and rich with surface effects. By the eighteenth century, when the allegorical resonance of homo bulla was already fading, such an image still charmed viewers, now for its sheer visual delight.

Conclusion

When I began writing about Homo Bulla, I imagined it would be a light and playful subject. But as I traced its history, I encountered the Roman author Marcus Terentius Varro, the humanist Desiderius Erasmus, and even Saint Jerome. Alongside Homo Bulla, Fortuna herself appeared. What began as a fragile bubble became surprisingly weighty, with roots in antiquity and a revival in the humanist sixteenth century. Bubbles and bubble-blowing children remind us that life is brief. That moral element, with its long pedigree, cannot be ignored. Yet at the same time, a bubble is simply a beautiful thing: round, transparent, glistening; a playful touch in a painting. Not every image should be forced into solemn allegory. Sometimes a bubble is just a bubble, and lovely in its own right.

Bonus: Jacob Maris and his daughters

Two Girls Blowing Bubbles (c.1880), Jacob Maris (Dutch, 1837 – 1899 ), Watercolor, 47x33cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

To conclude and as a bonus, we return to that lighter note. In this watercolor from around 1880, Jacob Maris shows his two daughters in playful interaction, blowing soap bubbles and admiring their magic. From a painter’s perspective, the subdued greys of the watercolor are gently interrupted by the blue of the soap dish, its color elegantly echoed in the bubble itself. Here, at last, a bubble is nothing more — and nothing less — than a bubble, and a beauty for sure.

Pulling the Pretzel

Pulling the Pretzel

Het trekken aan de Krakeling

After writing about saints and sinners, prophets and heroes, I now turn to a more mundane subject: a playful tradition from 17th-century Holland known as pulling the pretzel, or in good old Dutch, het trekken aan de krakeling. A joyful occasion, it seems at first glance, but perhaps not without a deeper moral meaning.

Pulling the pretzel, or in Dutch: Het trekken aan de krakeling (c.1630), Jan Harmensz van Bijlert (Dutch, c.1597 – 1671), 91x119cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht, The Netherlands.

Jan van Bijlert’s Pulling the Pretzel, in the Centraal Museum in Utrecht, depicts two men and two women seated at a table set with pretzels, butter, and salt. The group appears to be playing a game in which the person who pulls off the longer half of a shared pretzel wins. The usual title of the painting, Merry Company Eating Pretzels, is misleading, since the figures are not eating but engaged in the act of pulling the pretzel. At the back of the table, a man and woman share one pretzel, and the woman, using two fingers instead of only her pinky, cheats to improve her chances. Her partner notices but does not object, placing his arm around her shoulders and seeming more interested in her bosom. While across from them, another woman raises her glass in protest. The man beside her looks out of the painting, showing us viewers a pretzel and underscoring the two-finger-cheating.

The scene is festive on the surface, yet its meaning is more complex. Through its lively composition and direct engagement with the viewer, Van Bijlert combines humor and sensuality with an underlying allegory of human weakness, temptation, and the fragile balance between good and bad habits.

Pulling the pretzel, from Johan de Brune, Emblemata of Zinne-werck, published in Amsterdam (1624), page 143, Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolenbüttel, Germany.

This gesture of pulling a pretzel is rare in Dutch painting, but it appears in Johan de Brune’s Emblemata, a book of moral emblems published in 1624. In that context, it symbolizes the human soul caught in a struggle between the forces of good and evil, between God and the devil. The pretzel itself, with its twisted form, becomes a metaphor. Its contorted shape reflects the spiritual confusion and moral weakness of humanity.

Netherlandish Proverbs (1599), Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569), 117x164cm, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.

Pulling a pretzel also appears in Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Netherlandish Proverbs, where the gesture is usually interpreted as illustrating the saying “to draw the long (or short) end.” In my view, this reading could be reconsidered. It may be more fitting to interpret it in light of the older tradition of “pulling the pretzel.”

Netherlandish Proverbs (1599), detail, Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569), Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.

Pretzels at the bakery

Let’s have a look at two paintings of bakers and their shops, with pretzels offered amongst the breads and rolls.

Baker’s Couple Arent Oostwaard and Catharina Keizerswaard (1658), Jan Steen (Dutch, 1626 – 1679), 38x32cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The Baker’s Couple by Jan Steen (Rijksmuseum) and The Baker by Gerrit Berckheyde (Worcester Art Museum), offer a celebration of bread and its makers. In both scenes, the bakers stand at the threshold of their shop, surrounded by a bounty of loaves, rolls, and pretzels arranged almost like a still life of abundance. With pride they present their freshly baked goods to the viewer. The presence of the baker’s horn, used to announce that the bread is ready, adds to the sense of interaction with the viewer. Pretzels appear in great numbers, not only as a popular food but perhaps also as a visual symbol that connects everyday life to deeper cultural and moral meanings, just as they do in Van Bijlert’s painting.

The Baker (1681), Job Adriaensz. Berckheyde (Dutch, 1630–1693), 63×53cm, Worcester Art Museum, Worcester, MA.

Pretzels in still life paintings

Still life with flowers, dried fruits and pretzels (1611), Clara Peeters (Flemish, c.1594 – before 1657), 52x73cm, Prado, Madrid.

Two still lifes by Clara Peeters, one in the Prado and the other in the Mauritshuis, feature pretzels among the exquisitely painted objects. In the Prado version, a half-eaten pretzel suggests that someone has already been at the table, heightening the illusion that this is a moment captured from real life. These compositions are often said to contain vanitas themes, subtly referring to the fragility of life and the passage of time. For Peeters herself and for her contemporaries, however, the primary purpose could simply be the display of artistic virtuosity and the association of such objects with refined taste and social status.

Still Life with cheeses, almonds and pretzels (1615), Clara Peeters (Flemish, c.1594 -before 1657), 35x50cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Still, the presence of the pretzel, especially the broken one, may hint at a deeper layer of meaning. Like in Van Bijlert’s painting or the emblems of Johan de Brune, the pretzel could symbolize the human soul caught between virtue and temptation, between divine order and worldly desire. Whether intended or not, such readings remain possible.

In the end, it is all in the eye of the beholder.

Pretzels in manuscripts

Last Supper, from a Benedictional (c.1030), Illustrated manuscript from Regensburg, Bavaria, Germany, Ms. Ludwig VII 1 (83.MI.90), p. 23×16cm, Getty, Los Angeles.

To step further back in time, a miniature of the Last Supper from around 1030, part of an illuminated manuscript in the Getty Museum, shows a pretzel placed plainly on the table among other foods. And in the Hours of Catherine of Cleves, a richly decorated prayer book from around 1440, now in the Morgan Library & Museum, the border of one miniature is woven entirely from intertwined pretzels, forming a frame around the sacred image.

Saint Bartholomew, with border of intertwined pretzels, from the Hours of Catherine of Cleves (c.1440), Illustrated manuscript, MS M.917:945, p. 228, 19x13cm, Morgan Library & Museum, New York.

Closing notes

These appearances in paintings and manuscripts remind us that the pretzel was not always a symbol to be decoded. It was also an everyday food, a common bakery item, familiar to people of all ages and social ranks. Not everything has to carry a hidden meaning.

Sometimes, a pretzel is just a pretzel.

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch

Saints and Symbols in the Age of Pandemic

Recognizing saints in paintings is like solving a hidden picture puzzle, only the clues are palm branches, halos, arrows, a sword, a pilgrim staff, or even sometimes dogs! Once you know what to look for, every museum visit or church interior becomes a visual treasure hunt. This is about a visual language that painters used for centuries to tell stories and signal virtues. But it is not only about symbols. It is also about understanding the role these saints played in the lives of the people who venerated them. In the case of Sebastian and Roch, their images gave people hope and comfort during the darkest periods of the Black Death and recurring plague epidemics. These saints were more than just recognizable figures. They were spiritual companions in times of fear, loss and recovery.

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch (1631), Ernst van Schayck III (Dutch, active 1567 -1631) 164x140cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht, The Netherlands.

In this crash course, we will meet two saints who are frequently and vividly depicted in western art: Roch and Sebastian. Once you know the tricks and symbols, you will start to see them everywhere and you will know exactly who they are. In short: Sebastian is the one pierced by arrows, Roch is the pilgrim lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of the plague disease.

Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch (c.1496), Die Heiligen Sebastian und Rochus Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), 20×20, Pen drawing, Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main.

Here are the topics we’ll explore:

Let’s start!

Saint Sebastian: arrows, endurance, and healing

The earliest written account of Sebastian’s life comes from a fifth-century text known as the Passio Sancti Sebastiani. According to this biography, Sebastian was a high-ranking Roman officer under Emperor Diocletian, around the year 300. Though he served at the heart of the Roman Empire, Sebastian was a committed Christian, using his position to support fellow believers and convert others. His defiance did not go unnoticed. When Sebastian continued to preach after being ordered to stop, Diocletian condemned him to death.

Saint Sebastian (c.1457), Andrea Mantegna (Italian, c.1431 – 1506), 68x30cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian (1475), Antonio del Pollaiuolo (Italian, c.1432 – 1498) and Piero del Pollaiuolo (Italian, c.1441 – c.1496), 292x203cm, National Gallery, London.

Sebastian was tied to a post and shot with arrows; so many that, according to the Passio, his body looked “like a hedgehog.” Remarkably, he survived. A Christian woman named Irene found him still alive, took him into her home, and nursed him back to health.

Saint Sebastian tended by Irene (1625), Hendrick Terbrugghen (Dutch, 1588 – 1629), 149×119cm, Allen Memorial Art Museum, Oberlin College, Oberlin OH.

After being healed by Irene and rather than flee, Sebastian returned to confront the emperor and continue his mission. This time there would be no escape. He was beaten to death with clubs, and his body was thrown into a Roman sewer. Christians later recovered his remains and buried them in the catacombs along the Via Appia, a burial site that became an early pilgrimage destination.

Saint Sebastian (c.1615), Guido Reni (Italian,1575 – 1642), 128x98cm, Musei Capitolini, Rome.

Sebastian’s martyrdom was not just remembered, it grew! During outbreaks of plague in cities like Rome and Pavia, he became known as a powerful intercessor. People turned to him in desperation, hoping for protection or healing. Part of this devotion came from a visual connection: plague often brought painful skin lesions, which to the medieval eye resembled the wounds from arrows that pierced Sebastian’s body. Yet in his story, Sebastian miraculously survives these wounds. If he could heal, perhaps they could too. His body, punctured but intact, became a symbol of endurance and hope in the face of disease.

The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian (1600), Joachim Anthonisz Wtewael (Dutch, 1566 – 1638), 169x125cm, The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, MO.

By the fifteenth century, as waves of plague, typhus, and dysentery overwhelmed European cities, his image spread rapidly in churches, chapels, and altarpieces. Sebastian was no longer just a martyr, but a solitary protector standing between humanity and divine interaction.

Saint Sebastian (c.1600), Aegidius Sadeler II (c,1570 – 1629) after design by Jacopo Palma il Giovane (c.1548 – 1628), Engraving, 44x31cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

For Renaissance artists, Sebastian offered something else: the ideal male nude. His pierced yet miraculously preserved body gave painters a sacred excuse to explore human anatomy, grace, and even sensuality. Painters emphasized his physical beauty, strength, and sometimes his erotic vulnerability. Over time, Saint Sebastian became a complex figure: part Roman soldier, part Christian martyr, part symbol of erotic endurance.

Saint Sebastian tended by Irene, (c.1623), Dirck van Baburen (Dutch, c.1592 – 1624), 109x153cm, Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

The figure of Irene, who rescues and heals him, became popular in art during the Counter Reformation. She brought a renewed focus on compassion and quiet heroism, a contrast to the spectacle of violence. Her inclusion also emphasized that Sebastian’s story was not just about suffering, but about survival, healing, and of course about unshakable faith.

Saint Roch: the plague pilgrim and his faithful dog

According to tradition, Roch (or Rocco or Rochus) was born around 1348 in Montpellier, just as the Black Death was sweeping across Europe. Orphaned young, he gave away his inheritance, took up the pilgrim’s staff, and devoted himself to caring for plague victims as he traveled through France and Italy. Wherever he went, the sick recovered. His healing touch — and his refusal to abandon the afflicted — made him a figure of immense compassion and courage.

Saint Roch (c.1580), Engraving by Jan Sadeler I (Flemish, 1550 – 1600), after design by Marten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), 20x15cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

But his life of service eventually turned against him. In the city of Piacenza, Roch himself caught the plague. To avoid infecting others, he withdrew into the forest, prepared to die alone. There, a small miracle occurred: a dog appeared daily, bringing him bread and licking his wounds. Artists portrayed him as a weary pilgrim, often lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of plague. He is nearly always accompanied by his faithful dog, a symbol of loyalty, compassion, and daily grace.

Saint Roch (c.1584), Gaspar Dias (c.1515 – c.1591), 350x300cm, Museum of São Roque, Lisbon.

Once healed, Roch returned to Montpellier. But his suffering was not over. Mistaken for a spy and unrecognized, he was thrown into prison, where he eventually died. Like Sebastian, Roch became one of the great plague saints of the Renaissance. He was the saint who had been there, not struck down in noble martyrdom, but sick, rejected, exiled, and healed. That made him deeply relatable. For many, he offered a vision of healing and survival through suffering.

Saint Roch (c.1480), Carlo Crivelli (Italian, c.1430 – before 1495), 40x12cm, The Wallace Collection, London.

His popularity surged during the Counter Reformation, especially in Catholic countries. He appeared in altarpieces, processions, and protective prints, sometimes shown receiving divine inspiration from an angel or being appointed by Christ himself as patron of the plague-stricken.

Christ Appointing Saint Roch as Patron Saint of Plague Victims (c.1623), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 412x258cm, Sint Martinus Church, Aalst, Belgium.

In Rubens’ dramatic vision, Roch is formally appointed by Christ himself as the patron of the plague victimes. In the upper part of the panel, we see an angel who holds a tablet with the inscription “Eris in peste patronus” which means “You will be the patron in times of plague.” In the lower part of the painting, figures suffering from the disease implore the saint’s protection.

Companions in crisis: Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch together

As plague returned again and again to Europe between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, artists and worshippers turned not to one protector, but to two. Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch began to appear side by side, in altarpieces, processions, chapels, and prints, forming a kind of alliance in the battle against disease.

The Virgin and Child with Saints Roch and Sebastian (c.1521), Lorenzo Lotto (Italian, c.1480 – 1556), 82x109cm, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa ON.

The pairing made sense. Sebastian had endured violence and lived, if only briefly. Roch had fallen ill and survived. One was pierced, the other wounded. Both had skin lesions, which was so very recognisable for the ones suffering from the plague. Artists often placed them at either side of the Virgin and Child, turning them into protective witnesses for the sick and the fearful.

Mary with Saint Roch and Saint Sebastian (c.1633), Engraving by Cornelis Bloemaert II, (Dutch, 1603 – c.1684) after design by Federico Barocci (Italian, 1528 – 1612), 37x28cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Closing notes

Once you know the clues, it’s easy to identify Sebastian and Roch. The first one with the arrows, tied up and pierced; Roch, the second one, the pilgrim with a swollen plague-sore on his thigh. Sebastian’s idealized, youthful body stands for sacrifice and beauty even in suffering. Roch’s older figure emphasizes humility and compassion. And both of them are on a path of recovery.

Together, they became companions in crisis. In times of fear, they offered a sense that the suffering had been seen, shared, somehow sanctified, and maybe even healed! A visual and spiritual double act, shaped by public need for hope and support in the dark days of the Black Death.

Bonus: Sebastian, Resurrection, and the path to Heaven.

As a bonus, let’s have a look at Sebastian on the Triptych of The Resurrection (c.1490) by Hans Memling from the Louvre, Paris. Three panels, and showing from left to right the path from suffering to heaven.

Saint Sebastian and the Triptych of The Resurrection (c.1490), Hans Memling (South Netherlandish, c.1435 – 1494), central panel 62x45cm, Louvre, Paris.

On the left panel, Sebastian is being pierced by arrows. That is the figure with whom the viewer suffering from the plague or disease might identify. Moving to the central panel, we see the resurrection of Christ from death. That must have given hope to beat the plague and rise and shine again. And to complete the path to healing and salvation, look at the panel on the right, with the ascension into heaven. You can just see Christ’s feet dangling in the top part of the panel, ascending into heavenly light.

So when you suffer from the plague, read this triptych from left to right. Hope to resurrect from the disease and heal. Or alternatively, ascend into heaven. Either way, a happy ending!

Hagar and her son Ishmael

Hagar and her son Ishmael

Ishmael and Isaac: children of one father.

It took me a few years writing this story about Hagar and her son Ishmael, and about Abraham, Ishmael’s father. And also about Sarah and her son Isaac, who is Ishmael’s half-brother. Ishmael and Isaac: they are children of one father.

It’s not difficult to find paintings on this subject. Many artists over the centuries have taken it up, drawn to the emotional and dramatic interaction between the figures. But I hesitated for a long time, because this story stands at a crossroads between Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And over time, the story of Isaac and Ishmael as half-brothers – perhaps quarreling, as brothers do – has been used, or even abused, to explain political and religious tensions, especially in the long struggle between Arabs and Jews.

But that is not the story I want to tell. I want to approach it differently, as a story of shared origin. A story of children of one father.

Here are the topics we’ll explore, following the narrative of the Book of Genesis:

Let’s start!

Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Ishmael

Let’s begin at the very beginning. With that odd old couple, Abraham and Sarah, both well over a hundred years old, and still no children! But Sarah has an idea!

Sarah leading Hagar to Abraham (1673), Caspar Netscher (Dutch, 1639 – 1684), 60x51cm, The Leiden Collection, New York.

They had grown old together, and the hope of ever having a child seemed to have faded. In the biblical account, it is Sarah who suggests that Abraham have a child with her young Egyptian maidservant, Hagar. Sarah blamed herself for their childlessness, saying, “The Lord has kept me from having children.” So she offered Hagar to Abraham, hoping to build a family through her. Abraham agreed, and Hagar became pregnant. She gave birth to a son, and they named him Ishmael. Abraham was the father.

Sarah leading Hagar to Abraham (c.1644), Matthias Stom (Dutch, c.1600 – after 1650), 113x168cm, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.

A son is promised to Sarah

Then comes the next phase in the story. One day, Abraham and Sarah receive an unexpected visitor: an angel! The story makes it clear that this is a messenger of God, appearing in disguise.

Abraham, Sarah, and the Angel announcing the birth of their son (c.1520), Jan Provoost (Netherlandish, c.1465 – 1529), 71x58cm, Louvre, Paris.

The angel’s message sounds completely unbelievable: Sarah, at her advanced age, will have a son within a year. Abraham is told this directly. And he reacts with a gesture, as we see in Jan Provoost’s painting from the Louvre. Pointing toward his wife as if to say, “Her? At her age?” Sarah, standing in the doorway on the right, overhears it. Her reaction is the most human of all: she laughs. The Hebrew text says she laughs “within herself,” a kind of private chuckle of disbelief. One might say: she laughed out loud. The biblical version of LOL.

The name of the promised child will be Isaac, which fittingly means “he laughs.”

Two brothers: Ishmael and Isaac

Now there are two sons, Ishmael and Isaac. Two brothers, both children of Abraham, but from different mothers. Ishmael, the older, is the son of Hagar, Sarah’s Egyptian servant. Isaac, the younger, is the long-awaited child of Sarah, the mistress of the house.

Sarah complains to Abraham about Ishmael, and asking him to send Hagar and Ishmael away (1563), Willem Willemsz. Thibaut (Netherlandish, c.1524 – c.1597), Etching and engraving, 21x24cm, Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum, Braunsweig, Germany.

Though they share a father, their positions could not be more different. One is born of a servant, the other of a free woman. One is firstborn, the other the child of promise.

The story suggests that there was tension between the boys. They were probably like any brothers, playing, teasing, perhaps quarreling? But Sarah becomes concerned. Or perhaps protective. She sees something, maybe rivalry, maybe mischief, and she is not pleased. In some versions, Ishmael is mocking Isaac. In others, it’s more ambiguous. But Sarah is firm. She turns to Abraham and tells him what she wants: send Hagar and Ishmael away.

In the print above, which I use to illustrate this scene, you can see Sarah speaking to Abraham in the foreground, and in the background, the two boys playing, fighting, hard to tell which. But the tension is there.

Abraham sends Hagar and Ishmael away

This next moment in the story has stirred the imagination of many artists. The emotional weight is immense: father and son, torn apart. Hagar, the mother, cast out. And Sarah, determined to protect her own child.

Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael (c.1715), Philip van Dijk (Dutch, 1680 – 1753), 50x41cm, Louvre, Paris.

The Bible gives us the core of what happens. Sarah sees the two boys, Isaac and Ishmael, and she turns to Abraham and says, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son. He is not going to share the inheritance with my son, Isaac. I won’t have it.”

Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael (1637), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Etching and drypoint, 13x10cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Abraham is deeply upset. Ishmael is his son. He does not want to send him away. But he listens, because a voice tells him to. For Abraham that’s the voice of God reassuring him that Isaac is the one through whom the family line will be counted. But God also gives Abraham this promise: “I will make a nation of the descendants of Hagar’s son because he is your son too.” That nation, in Islamic tradition, will be the Arab people. Ishmael is seen as the ancestor of the Arabs, and his role is honored as a founding figure.

Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael (c.1653), Gabriel Metsu (Dutch, 1629 – 1667), Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden, The Netherlands.

So Abraham rises early the next morning. He prepares food, gives Hagar a supply of water, and sends her away with Ishmael. And the two of them wander into the desert.

Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael(1612), Pieter Lastman (Dutch, 1583 – 1633), 48x71cm), Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg.

This moment, the sending away, has become a favorite subject for painters and printmakers. And it is easy to see why. It is a perfect scene to show all the emotions: Abraham’s pain, Hagar’s grief, Ishmael’s innocence, Sarah’s determination. And the stillness of the moment before the wilderness swallows them.

Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael (1657), Guercino (Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, Italian, 1591 – 1666), 115x152cm, Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan.
Abraham casting out Hagar and Ishmael(1516), Lucas van Leyden (Dutch, 1494 – 1533), Engraving, 15x13cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Hagar and Ishmael in the desert

And so, Hagar and her son Ishmael find themselves alone in the desert. When the water runs out, Hagar breaks. In panic she runs up and down between the hills in the desert, all the time the same circle, and no water!

Hagar in the Wilderness (1835), Camille Corot (French, 1796 – 1875), 180x271cm, Metropolitan, New York.

She places the boy in the shade and walks away, just far enough so she doesn’t have to watch him die. She sits down, weeping. Her words are raw: “I don’t want to watch the boy die.” It’s despair in its purest form. But then something shifts. The text in Genesis tells us that God hears the boy’s cries. An angel calls to Hagar — not one she sees, but one she hears: “Hagar, what’s wrong? Do not be afraid! Go to your boy and comfort him, for I will make a great nation from his descendants.”

Hagar and the Angel (18th Century), Giuseppe Bottani (Italian, 1717 – 1784), 40x73cm, Louvre, Paris.

In that moment, Hagar opens her eyes. And there, suddenly, is a well. Water. Life. She runs to fill her container and gives Ishmael a drink.

Hagar and the Angel (c.1640), Pier Francesco Mola (Italian, 1612 – 1666), 27x35cm, Louvre, Paris.

Ishmael survives. He grows up in the wilderness. He has many children, and through his line, the people of the Arab deserts trace their ancestry. This moment of despair, transformed by courage and grace, becomes the beginning of a nation.

Hagar and the Angel (c.1645), Carel Fabritius (Dutch, 1622 – 1654), 158x136cm, The Leiden Collection, New York.

This story isn’t just one of near-death and rescue — it’s also a story of inner voice, of resilience pushed into action. The Bible says Hagar heard the angel, not saw him. Perhaps the angel was not a visible figure, but a message rising up from within: “Please do not give up, but give it another try. There is still hope.” In Carel Fabritius’ painting, this is shown beautifully — the angel stands behind Hagar. She does not see him. She hears him, as an inner message of encouragement. And that makes all the difference. The image of Hagar in the desert, distraught and fearing for Ishmael’s life, is also an image of hope. This moment symbolizes the resilience and faith that inspire perseverance, even in the darkest times.

Family reunion

There is something deeply moving in how these family ties circle back. According to Arab tradition, Abraham — known as Ibrahim — and his son Ishmael reconciled later in life. Together, they built the Kaaba in Mecca, which became the spiritual heart of Islam. The well Hagar discovered, now called the Zamzam well, still flows near the Kaaba, inside the Great Mosque.

Abraham is buried by Isaac and Ishmael in the Cave of Machpelah (c.1728), Engraving and etching by Gillian van der Gouwen (South Netherlandish, active 1669 – 1720), after design by Gerard Hoet (Dutch, 1648 – 1733), 36x23cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Ghent, Belgium.

And in the Jewish and Christian traditions, Isaac and Ishmael too found each other again. When Abraham died at the age of 175, it was both his sons, Isaac and Ishmael, who came together to bury him. As it is written in Genesis: “Abraham lived for 175 years, and he died at a ripe old age, having lived a long and satisfying life. He breathed his last and joined his ancestors in death. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah.”

Ishmael and Isaac and the burial of Abraham, from the series ‘Icones Biblicae’ (c.1625), Matthäus Merian (Swiss, 1593 – 1650), Etching, 11x15cm, British Museum, London.

So perhaps this story, often seen as the origin of division, also carries the seeds of reunion. Two brothers, children of one father!

Bonus: from desert to pilgrimage – Hagar’s legacy in Mecca

To bring the story of Hagar and Ishmael into our present day, we can look to the sacred city of Mecca, where Muslims from around the world travel each year to perform the Hajj, the holy pilgrimage. This city of 2.5 million inhabitants, visited by more than 20 million pilgrims annually, was built on the site in the desert where Hagar found water for Ishmael, named as the Zamzam well.

Great Mosque of Mecca (Masjid al-Haram).

Today, the Great Mosque of Mecca, the Masjid al-Haram, stands on this sacred ground. It is the most holy site in the Islamic world, and within its walls, several locations are directly tied to the story of Hagar, Ishmael, and Abraham (Ibrahim in the Islamic tradition):

  • The Kaaba — the cuboid-shaped building at the heart of the mosque and the most sacred site in Islam. It is the structure that, according to tradition, was built or rebuilt by Abraham and Ishmael, together as father and son.
  • The Hijr Ismail — a semicircular area adjacent to the Kaaba that pilgrims are not to walk upon. It marks the site where Abraham constructed a shelter for Hagar and Ishmael.
  • The Zamzam Well — the water source discovered by Hagar after hearing the angel’s message to keep searching. To this day, pilgrims can receive a five-liter bottle of Zamzam water.
  • Safa and Marwa — two small hills now enclosed within a covered passageway. This is where Hagar, in her desperation, ran back and forth seven times in search of water for her child. That journey is reenacted by pilgrims as part of the Hajj ritual.

So the footsteps of Hagar, a woman alone in the desert, a mother desperately searching for life for her son, are still being followed by millions today. Her strength, her voice, her perseverance have become a foundational memory in the faith of Islam.

Hercules

Hercules

Brute Force in a Divine Package

Meet Hercules! After writing about Perseus, I now turn to Hercules, another legendary son of Zeus, also born of a mortal mother. Like Perseus, Hercules belongs to the pantheon of Greek mythological heroes, but where Perseus is celebrated for his wit and cunning, Hercules is all about brute strength and unstoppable physical power. How can you recognise him in art? Look for bulging muscles, a hefty club, and the skin of the Nemean Lion; more on that last detail later.

Hercules (c.125CE), Marble Roman statue, aka Landsdowne Herakles, found in 1790 at Hadrian’s Villa in Tivoli, height 194cm, J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

Hercules is his Greek name; in Roman mythology, he’s known as Heracles. He’s most famous for the epic series of challenges known as the Twelve Labors, a set of nearly impossible tasks, each involving a monstrous creature or a supernatural trial. In this TAB: The Art Bard story, I’ll focus on three of his Labors: his battle with the Nemean Lion, his wrestling match with Antaeus, and his descent into the underworld to capture Cerberus, the terrifying three-headed hound of Hades.

Farnese Hercules (c.1592), Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 42x30cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

But before we get to those heroic feats, let’s take a moment to look at Hercules’ extraordinary infancy, a childhood that already hinted at the hero he would become. It’s also the story behind nothing less than the creation of the Milky Way!

Here are the topics we’ll explore:

Consider this post both an introduction to Hercules and another crash course in Greek mythology. Let’s begin!

The Baby Who Bit a Goddess: Hercules and the Milky Way

According to Greek myth, Heracles was the illegitimate son of Zeus, king of the gods, and the mortal woman Alcmene. Zeus was married to Hera, queen of the gods, and his countless affairs with mortals enraged her. Heracles, born of one such affair, became a particular target of Hera’s wrath.

Yet Zeus had a bold plan to make his mortal son invincible: he secretly placed the baby at Hera’s breast while she slept, hoping the divine milk would grant him immortality.

The Birth of the Milky Way (c.1638), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577-1640), Oil on canvas, 181x244cm, Prado, Madrid.

But Hera awoke. The infant Heracles bit her nipple with such force that she screamed and pushed him away. As the baby tumbled back, her milk sprayed across the heavens, creating what we now see in the night sky as the Milky Way.

In Rubens’ painting, Zeus watches the scene unfold, his thunderbolts symbols resting at his feet.

The Baby Hercules vs. the Snakes

Another famous story tells of the night when two snakes slithered into Hercules’ cradle. They weren’t there by accident. They were sent by Hera, Zeus’s long-suffering wife, still furious about her husband’s affair with the mortal woman Alcmene, which had produced the illegitimate child Hercules.

The Infant Hercules with the snakes (c.1700), Pieter van der Werff (Dutch, 1665 – 1722), Oil on panel, 35x43cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Hera’s plan was simple: let the snakes do the dirty work and get rid of the child once and for all. But things didn’t go as she hoped. Hercules, still just a baby, grabbed the snakes with his bare hands and strangled them effortlessly, treating the deadly serpents like harmless toys.

Young Hercules choking the snakes (c.150CE), Marble, hight 64cm, Musei Capitolini.

The Twelve Labors: why did they happen?

According to Greek myth, Heracles was condemned to perform twelve nearly impossible tasks, known as the Twelve Labors, as a form of penance. Driven mad by Hera, he had killed his wife and children. Overcome with grief, he sought purification and consulted the Oracle of Delphi, who instructed him to serve King Eurystheus for twelve years. It was Eurystheus who assigned him the twelve labors, each one more dangerous and degrading than the last.

This punishment was part of Hera’s ongoing vendetta. Not only had she caused his madness, but the labors themselves were designed to humiliate and destroy him. Yet instead of breaking him, these trials became the very deeds that secured Hercules’ fame and turned him into a legend.

Hercules and the Nemean Lion (c.1468), manuscript illustration from Raoul Lefèvre, Recueil des histoires de Troie, MS Francais 59, folio 136r, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

The First Labor: the Nemean Lion

Hercules’ first task sent him to the hills of Nemea to slay a monstrous lion that had been terrorizing the region. But this was no ordinary beast. The Nemean Lion’s golden coat was invulnerable to weapons; neither sword nor arrow could pierce it. When Hercules discovered this, he did something only he could do. He trapped the lion inside its cave and wrestled it bare-handed. After a brutal struggle, he choked it to death with his immense strength. When the battle was over, he tried to skin the lion. But even in death, its pelt resisted every blade.

Herakles wrestling the Nemean Lion, hydria vase (c.470BCE), attributed to the Aegisthus Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height 29cm, Getty, Los Angeles.
Hercules and the Nemean Lion (c.1530), Engraving by Adamo (Ghisi) Scultori (Italian, 1530 – 1585), after design by Giulio Romano (Italian, 1499 – 1546), 21x14cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Hercules fighting the Nemean Lion (1634), Francisco de Zurbarán (Spanish, 1598 – 1664), Oil on canvas, 151x166cm, Prado, Madrid.
Hercules with his Club and Nemean Lion’s Skin (1548), Engraving after design by Baccio Bandinelli (Italian, 1488 – 1560), 35× 23cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Unable to cut through the pelt with his knife, Hercules used the lion’s own claw to flay the beast. Razor sharp, the claw was said to pierce any soldier’s helm or shield. He then draped the invulnerable pelt over his shoulders, wearing the gaping lion’s head like a hood. From that moment on, the lion skin became part of his iconography and a lasting symbol of Hercules’ brute strength.

Hercules dressed in the skin of the Nemean Lion (17th Century), Anonymous sculptor, Carrara marble, height 77cm, Prado, Madrid.

The Eleventh Labor: wrestling with Antaeus on the way to the Garden of the Hesperides

The wrestling match between Hercules and Antaeus became a legendary detour on his way to the Garden of the Hesperides, where he had to steal the golden apples.

Hercules lifts Antaeus clear of the Earth, Maiolica piatto (c.1490), Italian, Ø43cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Antaeus, a giant son of Gaia, the Earth goddess, had an unfortunate habit of challenging every traveler to a wrestling match. And winning! His secret was simple: as long as he remained in contact with the ground, and thus with Gaia his mother, the earth itself renewed his strength. Wrestling, after all, is about pinning your opponent down. But Hercules, no stranger to thinking as well as fighting, realized where Antaeus drew his power from. So he did the opposite. He lifted the giant high into the air, breaking his bond with the earth, and crushed him in a powerful embrace.

Hercules disconnecting Antaeus from the Earth (c.1828), Rafael Tejeo (Spanish, 1798-1856), sketch for the larger work now in the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Oil on canvas, 27x17cm, Prado, Madrid.

This scene became a favorite among artists in the Renaissance and Baroque periods. It gave them the perfect excuse to show off: two muscular bodies intertwined in violent motion. The struggle between Hercules and Antaeus offered not just a tale of brute strength, but also a clever mythological riddle and a glorious opportunity to turn male anatomy into art.

Hercules and Antaeus (c.1578), Giambologna (Flemish, 1529 – 1608), Bronze, height 51cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

The Twelfth Labor: the Cerberus

The Twelfth Labor was the most terrifying of all. Hercules had to descend into Hades, the Greek underworld, and bring back its guardian beast, the fearsome three-headed dog Cerberus.

Hercules and Cerberus (1636), Peter paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), Oil on panel, sketch made for the decoration of the Torre de la Parada, 28x32cm cm, Prado, Madrid.

Cerberus was the creature Hercules was sent to capture, not to kill, but simply to borrow and display. Like a mythical dog-walker, he descended into Hades, wrestled the beast into submission with his bare hands, and dragged it up into the land of the living. For a brief moment, Cerberus was paraded through the court of King Eurystheus as living proof of Hercules’ impossible strength, before being politely returned to his post in the land of the dead.

Charon crossing the Styx (c.1520), Joachim Patinir (South Netherlandish, c.1480 – before 1524), Oil on panel, 64x103cm, Prado, Madrid.

In the old Greek mythological days, one might have pictured Hercules standing at the brink of the underworld, just like the lone soul in the boat in Joachim Patinir’s haunting painting Charon Crossing the Styx (c. 1520, Prado, Madrid). Charon, the ferryman, guides his boat across the dark waters of the river Styx, the shadowy boundary between life and death. On one side of the river, a narrow, rocky side stream winds upward toward a glowing paradise, guarded by angels. On the other, a broad and inviting channel leads straight into what looks like a pleasant place but is, in fact, the gaping mouth of Hell, or Hades in the Greek tradition.

Charon, the grim ferryman of myth, rows his silent passenger toward a final judgment. But look closely at the right bank. Just before the gate of the underworld crouches a monstrous figure. This is Cerberus, part bulldog, part nightmare. The three-headed hound of Hades sits at the infernal threshold, ensuring that no soul may ever escape. In this Christianized vision of a Greek myth, Cerberus appears like a devil’s watch-dog, trapped in a kind of kennel at the entrance to eternal darkness.

Hercules and Cerberus (c.1580), Aegidius Sadeler II (Netherlandish, 1568 – 1629), Engraving, 23x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Bonus: Who Pays The Ferryman?

The question of who pays the ferryman has echoed far beyond ancient myth. In Greek tradition, Charon demands a coin from each soul before granting passage across the river Styx. Without payment, there is no crossing, only a restless afterlife on the shadowy banks. The phrase found new life in the 1977 BBC series Who Pays the Ferryman?, set in Crete and centered on Alan Haldane, a British former soldier haunted by the moral debts of war and love. Just as Charon rows through the waters of Patinir’s painting, ferrying a soul toward judgment, the title reminds us that no crossing, whether into Hades or into memory, comes without its price.

Who Pays the Ferryman? BBC television series, 1977, theme composed by Yannis Markopoulos (Greek, 1939 – 2023).

🎵 Listen to the theme from Who Pays the Ferryman? by Yannis Markopoulos.🎵 

Bonus: Antaeus, by Chanel

The myth of Antaeus did not just inspire Renaissance painters and sculptors. It also found its way into the world of modern fragrance. In 1981, Chanel launched Antaeus, one of its first perfumes created specifically for men. In Chanel’s words: “Named after the mythological Greek giant who was invincible only as long as his feet remained on the ground, Antaeus is an intense yet subtle, smooth and rich fragrance that tells the story of a hero both virile and vulnerable.”

Antaeus, Pour Homme, Chanel, 1981.

A personal note. This was my very first perfume. I still remember the iconic 1980s advertisement: a sculpted male torso, arms raised in triumph, lifting the Antaeus bottle like a trophy or sacred object.

And it is only now, while writing this story about Hercules and Antaeus, that I realise the Chanel perfume was indeed named after the mythological giant, and that the visual imagery of the advertisement is a direct contemporary echo of the ancient tale. Learning by going.

Perseus and Medusa

Perseus and Medusa

Super Hero and #MeToo

After exploring prophets, sinners, and saints from the Biblical tradition, it’s time to turn back to the world of Greek mythology. Let’s start with two of its most iconic figures: Perseus and Medusa. Her story resonates today as a #MeToo narrative; his tale reads like the script of a modern superhero film. Greek myths may be older than the Bible, but the themes they carry, such as good versus evil, justice for the wronged, and the quest for hope, are timeless. So let’s dive in.

To give some context, I’ll introduce the two main characters, Perseus and Medusa, before following Perseus through his adventures, from his miraculous birth as the child of one of Zeus’ escapades to his dramatic wedding with Andromeda. The topics we’ll explore are:

The recurring theme: a busy life for our superhero and the eternal struggle between good and evil.

The Main Characters: Perseus and Medusa

Perseus is one of the prominent heroes in Greek mythology. Unlike some other Greek heroes, his strength did not rely solely on brute force but also on inner qualities like courage and determination. He was the son of Zeus, king of the gods, and Danaë, a mortal princess. Perseus is best remembered for slaying Medusa and for rescuing Andromeda from a sea monster.

Medusa, once a beautiful priestess in the temple of Athena, is one of the tragic figures in mythology. She was raped by Poseidon in Athena’s sacred temple. Because the act defiled a holy space, and possibly because Medusa had boasted of her beauty, Athena punished her by transforming her flowing hair into venomous snakes. And from that moment on, anyone who looked directly at Medusa would be turned to stone.

Poseidon, the rapist, went unpunished. It was the victim who bore the consequences. We do not know if Poseidon felt guilt or ever faced the weight of what he had done. What we do know is that Medusa became the embodiment of female suffering, even labeled a monster. Her transformation has come to symbolize the way women are punished or demonized. In today’s world, Medusa’s story is often reinterpreted through the lens of the #MeToo movement, challenging us to consider who the real monster truly was.

Perseus, Roman copy after a Greek original of the 5th century BCE, Marble, height 29cm, Centrale Montemartini, Musei Capitolini, Rome. Medusa (c.1646), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (Italian, 1598 – 1680), Marble, height 68cm, Musei Capitolini, Rome.

Danaë, Perseus’ mother; Zeus, his father

Perseus was born under remarkable and mysterious circumstances. His mother was Danaë, a mortal princess and daughter of Acrisius, the king of Argos. Acrisius, obsessed with control and fearful of fate, had received a chilling prophecy: one day, he would be killed by his own grandson. To stop this from happening, he locked Danaë in a bronze chamber, isolated high in a tower, where no man could reach her.

Danaë and the shower of gold (1527), Jan Gossaert (Flemish, c.1472 – 1532), Oli on panel, 114x95cm, Alte Pinakothek, München.

But the gods, as always in Greek myth, find a way. Zeus, king of the gods, saw Danaë and desired her. Taking the form of a shower of gold, he entered her prison and impregnated her. In time, Danaë gave birth to a son, whom she named Perseus.

Danaë and the shower of gold (c.1621), Orazio Gentileschi (Italian, 1563 – 1639), Oil on canvas, 162x227cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles.

When Acrisius discovered the child, he was furious and terrified. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to kill his own daughter and her infant directly. Instead, he sealed them in a wooden chest and cast them out to sea, leaving their survival to fate. But Zeus watched over them!

The sea carried Danaë and Perseus safely to the island of Seriphos, where a kind fisherman named Dictys took them in. Dictys raised Perseus as his own, and the boy grew into a brave and spirited young man.

Danaë and the little Perseus put in a chest by King Acrisius (c.470BCE), Stamnos (storage bowl), Attributed to the Deepdene Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height 39cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

(A note from the future: many years later, when Perseus had grown into a man, he took part in the Olympic Games. During a discus throw, his aim went astray and struck down a spectator. That man was none other than King Acrisius, his own grandfather. The prophecy Acrisius was so afraid of was fulfilled, by a tragic accident. But that lies far ahead in the story. For now, we return to the adventures of Perseus as a youth.)

King Acrisius sending off Danaë and Perseus in a chest (c.470BCE), Lekythos (oil vessel), Attributed to the Providence Painter, height 41cm, Toledo Museum of Art, Toledo, OH.
Danaë and the little Perseus put in a chest by King Acrisius (c.490BCE), Hydria (water bowl), Attributed to the Gallatin Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), height: 42cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

As Perseus matured, he became fiercely protective of his mother. Her beauty had not faded, and it attracted the unwanted attention of many men, including the island’s ruler, King Polydectes. Polydectes was aggressive and arrogant, and he was determined to marry Danaë, whether she agreed or not. Perseus saw through him immediately and did everything he could to protect his mother.

Danaë locked in the tower, Perseus with his mother Danaë drifting away, the fisherman Dictys who found Perseus and his mother, and King Polydectes who will soon start harassing Danë.
Illustration (c.1470) from Raoul Lefèvre (French, 15th Century) “Recoeil des Histoires de Troyes”, 9x12cm, Koninklijke Bibliotheek KB 78 D 48, National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague. For the full page of the manuscript, with text and illustration, click here.

An impossible task: killing Medusa

Frustrated, Polydectes devised a plan to get Perseus out of the way. He announced he was marrying someone else and demanded that all his subjects bring him wedding gifts. Perseus, relieved that his mother wasn’t the bride, promised to give Polydectes whatever he wanted. The king seized the opportunity and asked for something outrageous: the head of Medusa, whose gaze could turn anyone to stone.

Perseus agreed, though he had no idea how he would complete such an impossible task.

Help from Athena and Hermes

To carry out the impossible task of killing Medusa, Perseus received crucial help from two gods: Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Hermes, the swift messenger of the gods.

Perseus Armed by Athena and Hermes (1604), engraver Jan Harmensz. Muller (Dutch, 1571 – 1628) after design by Bartholomeus Spranger (Flemish, 1546 – 1611), Engraving, 57x40cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Athena gave Perseus a highly polished bronze shield. It would allow him to see Medusa’s reflection without looking directly at her. A pretty vital move, since anyone who met her gaze would instantly turn to stone. Hermes provided him with winged sandals, enabling him to fly, and a sharp curved sword.

Perseus Armed by Athena and Hermes (c.1550), Paris Bordone (Italian, 1500 – 1571), Oil on canvas, 104x153cm, Birmingham Museum of Art, Birmingham, AL.

With Athena’s guidance and Hermes’s gifts, Perseus was ready to face the deadly Medusa. He flew to her, used the mirror-like shield to watch her movements, and without ever meeting her eyes, struck with precision. In one swift motion, he cut off her head, snakes and all.

Perseus with the Head of Medusa (1554), Benvenuto Cellini (Italian, 1500 – 1571), Bronze, height 519cm, Loggia dei Lanzi, Piazza della Signoria, Florence.
Perseus about to kill Medusa with the the guidance of Athena (c.1636), engraver Cornelis Bloemaert (Dutch, c.1603 – 1692) after design by Abraham van Diepenbeeck (Dutch, 1596 – 1675), Illustration from Michel de Marolles “Temple des Muses” (Amsterdam, 1676), Engraving, 28x18cm, Heidelberg University Library, Heidelberg, Germany.
The Head of Medusa (1618), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640 Antwerpen), and the snakes by Frans Snyders (Flemish, 1579 – 1657), Oil on canvas, 69x118cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Perseus after cutting off Medusa’s head (c.460BCE), Hydria (water bowl), attributed to the Pan Painter, produced in Attica (Greece), excavated in Capua (Campania, Italy), height 34cm, British Museum, London.

Death of Medusa and the birth of Pegasus

As Perseus struck off Medusa’s head, something extraordinary happened. From the blood that poured from her neck, a winged horse sprang forth. This was Pegasus, who became Perseus’s loyal companion.

Perseus now carried two powerful tools. One was the head of Medusa, which still had the power to turn anyone who looked at it into stone. The other was Pegasus, the magical horse who could fly. With these, Perseus began his journey home. He planned to return to Seriphos, confront King Polydectes, and reunite with his mother Danaë.

Perseus on Pegasus, after slaying Medusa (1925), John Singer Sargent (American, 1856 – 1925), Oil on canvas, 348x318cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

But the way back would not be simple. Like many heroes, Perseus would face new challenges on the road. Each test would reveal more of his courage, his cleverness, and his sense of justice.

Atlas becomes a mountain

On his journey home, Perseus grew tired and stopped to rest in a distant land. This place was ruled by Atlas, a mighty giant who stood guard over a sacred garden. Perseus asked for shelter, explaining that he was the son of Zeus. But Atlas remembered a prophecy that warned him a son of Zeus would one day steal the golden apples from his garden. Fearing the prophecy, Atlas refused to let Perseus stay.

Atlas being transformed into a mountain range (1606), “Atlas ob inhospitalitatem in montem sui nominis” or “Atlas, because of his inhospitality, turned into a mountain of his own name” from Ovidius’ Metamorphoses, Antonio Tempesta (Italian, 1555 – 1630), Etching, 10x12cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Perseus did not argue. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out the head of Medusa. When Atlas looked upon it, he was instantly turned to stone. His great body became part of the earth. His beard and hair turned into forests. His shoulders and arms became ridges and cliffs. His head rose into the sky as a high mountain. This, according to legend, is how the Atlas Mountains in Morocco originated and came to be named after the giant Atlas.

Perseus and Andromeda

As Perseus traveled home, riding the winged horse Pegasus, he flew over the coastline of ancient Ethiopia. There, he saw a young woman chained to the rocks at the edge of the sea. Her name was Andromeda. She had been left as a sacrifice to a sea monster, sent to punish the land for her mother’s pride. Her mother, Queen Cassiopeia, had once claimed that Andromeda was more beautiful than the sea spirits. This angered Poseidon, god of the sea. In revenge, he sent a terrifying monster to attack the coast. The only way to stop the destruction, the people believed, was to offer Andromeda to the creature.

Perseus and Andromeda (c.1592), Giuseppe Cesari (Italian, 1568-1640), Oli on slate, 71x55cm, Rhose Island School of Design Museum, Providence, RI.

Perseus was struck by Andromeda’s beauty, and he made a promise to save her. As the sea monster rose from the waves, Perseus flew into action. Riding Pegasus, he waited for the perfect moment. Then, at just the right time, he pulled Medusa’s head from his bag. The monster looked…, and instantly turned to stone.

Perseus releases Andromeda (c.1622), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), Oil on canvas, 100x139cm, Hermitage, St. Petersburg.

Andromeda’s parents, the king and queen, were filled with gratitude. Perseus asked for Andromeda’s hand in marriage, and she agreed. Together, they would set off for his homeland. But their story was not over yet.

Wedding of Perseus and Andromeda, and Phineas as unwanted guest

After rescuing Andromeda, Perseus was welcomed as a hero. The wedding was quickly arranged, and the royal palace filled with celebration. But not everyone was pleased. At the height of the feast, an angry voice echoed through the hall. It was Phineus, Andromeda’s former fiancé. He stormed in with a group of armed men, furious that the bride had been given to another. He shouted that Andromeda had been promised to him, and that Perseus had stolen her. Tension rose. The joyful feast turned into chaos. Phineus and his followers attacked. Perseus tried to fight them off, but he was badly outnumbered.

Perseus turning Phineas and his followers to stone (c.1640), Luca Giordano (Italian, 1634 – 1705), Oil on canvas, 285×366cm, National Gallery, London.

Then, as a last resort, Perseus reached for the most fearsome weapon he had: the severed head of Medusa. Holding it aloft, he turned his gaze away. The attackers, caught mid-charge, had no time to look away. One by one, their bodies froze in place. Faces twisted in rage, weapons raised, they turned to cold, silent stone. The room fell quiet. Phineus was no more. The threat was over. The marriage of Perseus and Andromeda could finally begin in peace.


Perseus turns Phineas and companions into stone by showing them Medusa’s head (c.1605), Annibale Carracci (Italian, 1560 – 1609) and Domenichino (Italian, 1581 – 1641), fresco, c.500x200cm, Galleria dei Carracci, Palazzo Farnese, Rome.

Saving his mother Danaë, and confronting Polydectes

After his adventures abroad, Perseus returned home to the island where he had grown up. But all was not well there. His mother, Danaë, was still being harassed by King Polydectes, who had never given up his attempts to force her into marriage. She had taken refuge in the temple of Athena, hiding from the king’s relentless advances.

King Polydectes petrified by Medusa’s head (1676), illustration from Isaac De Benserade’s “Metamorphoses d’Ovide en rondeaux”, engraved by Sébastien Leclerc (French, 1637 – 1714), 8x10cm, Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, France.

Perseus went straight to the palace and confronted Polydectes. Without a word, Perseus pulled the head of Medusa from his bag. Polydectes and his supporters, unprepared and arrogant, looked straight at it and turned to stone. With justice served and his mother finally safe, Perseus restored peace to the island.

Medusa’s head on Athena’s shield

After the sea monster was killed, Andromeda and his mother Danaë saved, and justice delivered, Perseus fulfilled one last promise. He returned the head of Medusa to Athena, the goddess who had guided him on his quest.

Perseus, Athena with the head of Medusa, and Hermes (c.395BCE), Krater (mixing bowl) by the so-called Tarporley Painter, produced in Apulia (Italy), height 31cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, MA.

Athena took the powerful object and placed it at the center of her shield. From then on, Medusa’s stony gaze would serve to protect. It would turn away evil, and remind all who saw it of the strength found in wisdom and courage.

Athena and her shield with Medusa’s Head (c.1585), engraver Jan Saenredam (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) after design by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 21x14cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Medusa on a shield (1597), Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610), Oil on panel, 60x55cm, Le Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence.

Closing Notes

So what do we make of Perseus? Like Daniel from the biblical tradition, he is not a hero of brute force but of cleverness, courage, and integrity. Both are young men who rise to great challenges with the help of higher powers, whether divine faith or Olympian favor. They confront arrogant rulers, monsters in both human and mythic form, and they stand up for those who cannot protect themselves.

The stories of Perseus are older than the Bible, mythological in form, but in essence they tell the same tale: that justice can prevail, and that even in dark times, there is hope for the oppressed. Daniel’s story, though biblical in origin, mirrors these ancient myths in spirit. Both narratives teach us that the powerful who act with pride and hubris will be humbled. Both reveal a world where integrity matters more than might. And both reassure us that in the end, with the help of God or the gods, peace can be restored.

Bonus: Versace!

Now from myth to Milan! The famous fashion house Versace uses the head of Medusa as its logo, a direct nod to Greek mythology. The choice wasn’t random. As children, the Versace siblings played among ancient ruins near Reggio Calabria in southern Italy. There, on an old mosaic floor, they encountered the image of Medusa.

Versace Medusa plate (1993), Rosenthal Porcelain, Ø30cm.

Gianni Versace chose Medusa as the brand’s emblem. In myth, those who looked at her were turned to stone. In fashion, he hoped those who looked at his designs would be equally spellbound and captivated. Unlike Perseus, who avoided her gaze, we are drawn to it willingly, mesmerized. Carefully of course, because style and beauty can petrify!

Famous Sinners

Famous Sinners

Sin, penance and redemption? Maybe yes, maybe no!

I’ve been meaning to write about Abraham Bloemaert’s engraving series Six Sinners of the Old and New Testament for some years now. The series features the Apostle Peter, the Apostle Paul, Mary Magdalene, the tax collector Zacchaeus, King Saul, and Judas Iscariot. All are marked by sin; some found redemption through penance, while others did not.

What intrigues me is why Bloemaert chose to design this series when he did. He was a devout Catholic working in a time of intense religious conflict: the Protestant Reformation and the Catholic Counter-Reformation. Both movements were promoting their doctrines, and in my view, this series served as a kind of visual “marketing” within Catholic circles – propaganda, if you will – promoting the sacrament of penance, a sacrament explicitly rejected by the Protestants.

To give context, I’ll briefly touch on how penance was viewed in both the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation. And of course, I’ll explore the six figures themselves: What was their sin? What path, if any, led them to salvation or redemption? The topics are as follows:

The recurring question: Sin, Penance and Redemption? The recurring answer: Maybe yes, Maybe no!

Protestant Reformation and Catholic Counter-Reformation

Two key players. On 31 October 1517, Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the door of All Saints’ Church in Wittenberg, protesting the sale of papal indulgences. This act ignited public debate about corruption in the Catholic Church and its doctrines, sparking the Protestant Reformation. Pope Paul III (born Alessandro Farnese) was the pontiff who convened the Council of Trent in 1545, a major Catholic congress called to address the challenges raised by the Reformation. Recognizing the urgent need for reform, Pope Paul III launched what became known as the Catholic Counter-Reformation. Portrait of Martin Luther (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (German, 1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, 40x25cm, Veste Coburg, Kunstsammlungen Coburg, Germany.
Portrait of Pope Paul III (1543), Titian (Italian, 1490 – 1576), 106x85cm, National Museum of Capodimonte, Naples, Italy.

Protestant Reformation

During the Protestant Reformation of the early 16th century, reformers such as Martin Luther and John Calvin challenged many core teachings and practices of the Roman Catholic Church. One of their main targets was the sacrament of penance. In Catholic tradition, penance involved confessing one’s sins to a priest, receiving forgiveness, and performing penitent actions, such as prayer, fasting, or giving to the poor. The protesting reformers rejected this system, arguing that forgiveness came directly from God and could not be earned or managed by church officials.

They believed it was both theologically incorrect and morally questionable for a priest to claim the power to forgive sins in God’s name. In their view, no human had the authority to stand in place of God or to offer spiritual pardon in return for good deeds or, in the worst cases, in exchange for money. Instead, they promoted a more personal relationship with God, in which each individual could seek forgiveness through sincere belief and trust. This view challenged the structure and authority of the Catholic Church.

Catholic Counter-Reformation

In response to these challenges, the Catholic Church began the Counter-Reformation, also known as the Catholic Reformation. This movement aimed to correct abuses within the Church and to clearly define Catholic teaching in the face of Protestant criticism. A central moment in this effort was the Council of Trent, which took place between 1545 and 1563. This Council was a large official gathering of bishops and theologians, similar in function to a modern political party congress or strategy meeting. It shaped the future of Catholic doctrine and practice.

Regarding confession and penance, the Council of Trent firmly upheld traditional beliefs. It confirmed that penance remained one of the Church’s essential sacraments, and that priests continued to play a central role as mediators of God’s forgiveness. The Council taught that people needed to be truly sorry for their sins, confess them honestly to a priest, and follow through with actions that showed a sincere desire to make things right.

In summary, while the Protestant Reformation rejected this framework and emphasized direct faith as the path to forgiveness, the Catholic Church maintained the importance of the sacrament of penance as a structured way to seek reconciliation with God.

The Apostle Peter

Peter (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 1-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Peter is often referred to as a sinner not because of a life marked by immorality, but because of a specific, dramatic moment of human weakness: his so-called “denial.” What happened? On the night of Jesus’ arrest, Peter famously denied knowing Him three times. This betrayal happened just as Jesus had predicted: “Truly I tell you,” Jesus said to Peter, “this very night, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.” When the moment came, Peter acted out of fear for his own life and told the bystanders in the high priest’s courtyard that he did not know Jesus.

The Denial of Saint Peter (c.1620), Gerard Seghers (Flemish, 1591 – 1651), Oil on canvas, 173x227cm), North Carolina Museum of Art.

After the third denial, in the early morning, the rooster crowed, and Peter remembered Jesus’ words. He went outside and wept bitterly. That moment of bitter weeping marks the beginning of his sorrow and change of heart. Later, in the end, Peter received forgiveness, and the story moves from failure to restoration.

Saint Peter Penitent (c.1618), Gerrit van Honthorst (Dutch, 1592 – 1656), Oil on canvas, 110x97cm, The Kremer Collection.

Peter’s sin was not one of malice, but one of fear and denial under pressure. It is a profoundly human failing. Even the most faithful can stumble. That is what makes Peter’s story so relatable for many who look at his image or read about him. His tears, his sorrow, and his return to grace speak to something very close to everyday life: the reality of weakness, the weight of regret, and the hope of forgiveness.

The Apostle Paul

Paul (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 2-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Paul, originally known as Saul of Tarsus, is considered a sinner because of his fierce persecution of early Christians. Before his conversion, Saul actively sought out followers of Jesus, arresting them and approving their punishment.

The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1617), Guido Reni (Italian, 1575 – 1642), 238x179cm, Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Spain.

Paul’s turning point came on the road to Damascus. While traveling to arrest more Christians, he was struck by a great light from heaven and heard the voice of Jesus: “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” Blinded and shaken, he was led into the city. After three days, a Christian named Ananias visited him, restored his sight, and baptized him. From that moment on, Saul became Paul, a tireless preacher of the gospel and one of Christianity’s most influential apostles. More about Paul’s conversion can be read in one of my earlier posts, just click here.

The Apostle Paul in Contemplation (c.1629), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Oil on panel, 47x39cm, Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Nürnberg, Germany.

Paul’s story is not just about a change of opinion, but about radical transformation. He went from persecutor to preacher, from enemy to evangelist. His life shows that no one is beyond redemption. Like Peter, Paul reminds us that great failure can be the beginning of great purpose.

The tax collector Zacchaeus

Zacchaeus (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 3-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector in Jericho, a profession despised by many Jews at the time. Tax collectors were seen as collaborators with the Roman occupiers and were often associated with greed and corruption. Zacchaeus was also a wealthy man, likely enriched through questionable means. And he was short in stature, a small detail that becomes important in his story.

Jesus encounters the tax collector Zacchaeus (c.1480), illustration by Jean Colombe (c.1430 - c.1493) form the manuscript Vie de Jésus-Christ by Ludolf of Saxony, MS 178, fol.89v., Bibliotheque nationale de France, Paris.
Jesus encounters the tax collector Zacchaeus (c.1480), illustration by Jean Colombe (French, c.1430 – c.1493) form the manuscript Vie de Jésus-Christ by Ludolf of Saxony, MS 178, fol.89v., Bibliotheque nationale de France, Paris.

When Jesus passed through Jericho, Zacchaeus, eager to catch a glimpse of Him, climbed a tree to see above the crowd. This simple act of curiosity became the start of something much greater. In a striking moment of grace, Jesus looked up, called him by name, and announced that He would stay at Zacchaeus’s house. The crowd was scandalized. But Zacchaeus responded with a bold act of sorrow and penance: he gave half his possessions to the poor and promised to repay anyone he had cheated, four times over.

Zacchaeus and Christ, in an Initial D (c.1170), Illustration from the Stammheim Missal manuscript, unknown artist, created in Hildesheim Germany, Tempera colors, gold leaf, silver leaf, and ink, sheet 28x19cm, Getty, Los Angeles.

This almost childlike gesture of climbing the tree, followed by sincere conversion, makes Zacchaeus a powerful image of redemption. In the spirit of the Counter-Reformation, his story reminds us that no sinner is beyond the reach of grace. And visually, the story is unforgettable: that little man perched high in the tree, waiting for a glimpse of mercy.

Mary Magdalene

Magdalene (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 4-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Mary Magdalene has long been one of the most misunderstood figures in Christian tradition. In many paintings, she is portrayed as a penitent sinner, often assumed to have been a former prostitute. But what was her actual sin? Surprisingly, the Bible never describes Mary Magdalene committing any specific wrongdoing. What we do know is that she was a devoted follower of Jesus, and she was also the first to witness and proclaim the Resurrection, which even earned her the title apostola apostolorum, the apostle of the apostles.

Mary Magdalen and Christ jat the tomb, just after the Resurrection (1638), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), 61x50cm, Royal Collection Trust, Buckingham Palace, London.

The image of Mary Magdalene as a sinful woman arose from a long-standing confusion of identities. The 6th-century Pope Gregory combined different women into one: the unnamed “sinful woman” who anoints Jesus’ feet and Mary Magdalene. This mix-up led to centuries of tradition in which Mary Magdalene was depicted as the great penitent, weeping for a sinful past that the Bible never assigns to her. During the Counter-Reformation, this image became especially prominent as a symbol of penance and transformation.

The Penitent Magdalen (c.1635), Gerrit Dou (Dutch, 1613 – 1675), Oil on panel, 26x19cm, Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

Today, both scholars and the Catholic Church have worked to correct the long-standing confusion about Mary Magdalene’s identity. In 1969, the Church officially separated her from the unnamed “sinful woman”, and in 2016, Pope Francis elevated her memorial to the rank of an official Feast Day (July 22nd). Far from being a scandalous sinner, Mary Magdalene is now recognized as a figure of faith, devotion, and spiritual strength. Her story also reminds us of the central and active role women played in the early Church. During the Counter-Reformation, however, the image of a sinful and penitent Magdalene remained popular as a powerful and visually attractive way to promote the message of penance.

King Saul

King Saul, the first king of Israel around the 11th century BC, died not in triumph but in despair. Saul began his reign with promise, but over time, he disobeyed divine commands, acted out of fear rather than faith, and slowly lost all favor. Saul admitted fault but never showed deep regret, making his decline inevitable.

Saul (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 5-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

This engraving captures Saul’s final act: his death on the battlefield. Surrounded by Philistine forces and facing defeat, Saul chose to fall on his own sword. His armor-bearer (on the right) followed him in death. In the foreground, the fallen spear and crown say everything: symbols of royal authority, now useless and abandoned. Unlike the later King David, who would sin grievously but find forgiveness, Saul dies without reconciliation, without peace, and without a legacy of redemption.

King Saul suffers from depression and is soothed by the young David who plays the harp for him. In a particularly striking detail, Saul dries his tears on the curtain. But Saul will soon fly into a rage and throw his spear at David.
Saul and David (c.1651), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Oil on canvas, 130x165cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Saul’s story is a tragedy, and the image of his death speaks to the cost of pride, fear, and spiritual isolation. For viewers in the time of the Counter-Reformation, this image served as a stark moral warning: Saul had the chance to seek forgiveness, but he let that chance slip away. His death without sorrow and regret becomes a cautionary mirror, urging the faithful not to delay, but to turn to God in penitence while there is still time. In a visual culture that promoted penitence, Saul stands as a missed opportunity, a soul lost not by one great sin, but by failing to seek mercy. In the context of Bloemaert’s Series of Sinners, the figure of Saul serves to dramatize this failure, a counterpoint to the earlier figures who, though sinners, found their way back to grace.

Judas Iscariot

Judas Iscariot’s betrayal of Jesus is one of the most well-known episodes in the New Testament, and artists across centuries have visualized different moments of his story. Bloemaert’s print takes the story to its final stage. Judas is shown preparing to hang himself, with the purse with the thirty silver pieces, the bribe that triggered him to betray Jesus, lying beside him as a reminder of the irreversible deed. In the context of the Counter-Reformation, this image would have served as a moral lesson. Judas feels sorrow, but instead of seeking forgiveness, he condemns himself.

Judas Iscariot (c.1609), from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (Plate 6-6), Engraving by Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Dutch, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 27x17cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

In the manuscript illustration hereunder, showing the Kiss of Judas, he approaches Jesus with a gesture of affection that is, in fact, a signal to the arresting soldiers. In his hand, he holds the purse containing the thirty silver pieces he had already received as payment for delivering Jesus to the authorities. The image captures the moment of betrayal as it happens.

Kiss of Judas (c.1503), illustration by Jean Bourdichon (French, c.1457 – 1521) from the manuscript Les Grandes Heures d’Anne de Bretagne (The Grandes Heures of Anne of Brittany), MS lat. 9474, fol.227v., Bibliotheque nationale de France, Paris.

In Rembrandt’s painting, we see Judas shortly after the arrest. He is no longer defiant; instead, he is overwhelmed with remorse. He returns to the temple, trying to give back the silver, but the priests refuse to take it. Judas throws the coins to the ground in despair. Rembrandt shows him in a deeply human moment, tormented by guilt, isolated, and desperate for a resolution that does not come. This scene is not about the betrayal, but about the aftermath and the silence that follows rejection.

Judas Returning the Thirty Silver Pieces (1629), Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Oil on panel, 79x102cm, Private Collection.

Like King Saul, Judas becomes an example of despair without redemption. That’s why Counter-Reformation artists like Bloemaert depict Judas not simply as a sinner, but as a warning: sorrow without grace and penance leads to despair, not redemption.

Closing Notes

Artists and theologians of the Catholic Counter-Reformation strongly reaffirmed the Church’s essential role in the process of redemption. Abraham Bloemaert, a devoted and almost militant Catholic, stands firmly within this tradition. His series of prints depicting six biblical “sinners”, including Peter, Paul, Mary Magdalene, Saul, Judas, and Zacchaeus, offers the viewer a choice: to remain in sin or to be transformed through confession and penance. Through vivid visual storytelling, Bloemaert underscores a central Catholic message: no soul is beyond salvation, and the path to healing lies in turning back to the Church and its sacraments of confession and penance.

Bloemaert’s six engravings are a visual theology. They present a direct rebuttal to Protestant skepticism and a defense of the Catholic practice of confession and penance. His series are a great example of marketing and promoting the ideas of the Catholic Counter-Reformation, and rejecting the Protestant Reformation.

More simply put: Sin, Penance, and Redemption? Maybe yes, maybe no!

Bonus: Zacchaeus in the Palm Tree?

Here’s a little bonus, a curious and funny mix-up of stories and imagery. The story of Zacchaeus is part of Jesus’ entry into Jericho. Zacchaeus, being short, climbs a tree to get a better view of Jesus as he passes by. But Jesus also made another notable entry, into Jerusalem. It’s a different event, but visually it looks quite similar: Jesus on a donkey, a crowd greeting him. At Jerusalem, people laid down cloaks and branches — especially palm leaves — to create a kind of “red carpet” welcome for Jesus, the scene we now celebrate as Palm Sunday.

And here’s the twist. In some early 14th-century artworks with depictions of the Entry into Jerusalem, a little man (sometimes even two) appears high up in a tree again. In my view, this is Zacchaeus imagery that wandered into the wrong story. Somehow, Zacchaeus climbed into the Palm Sunday narrative and stayed there for about a hundred years. The motif disappears again in the early 15th century, but for a while, it added a charming and slightly comical detail to sacred art.

The entry into Jerusalem (c.1412), illustration by the Limbourg brothers, from the manuscript Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, MS 65, fol.173v., Bibliothèque et archives du Château de Chantilly.
Entry into Jerusalem (c.1305), Giotto (Italian, 1266 – 1337), Fresco, 200x185cm, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy.
Entry into Jerusalem (c.1308), detail from the Maestà, Duccio di Buoninsegna (Italian, c.1255 – 1319), Tempera and gold on wood, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Siena.
Saint Anthony

Saint Anthony

Temptation, Burning Skin Disease, and Care as Cure.

After writing about the prophets Jeremiah and Isaiah, and more recently about Daniel, I feel it’s time to return to the Saints: who they are, and how to recognise them in art. One saint I’ve long wanted to write about is Saint Anthony. There are several saints named Anthony, but I mean Saint Anthony the Great also known as Saint Anthony the Abbot. He is the protector and healer of those suffering from Saint Anthony’s Fire, or Ergotism, which is a burning skin disease combined with hallucinations.

Anthony’s story is also a fascinating example of the difference between care and cure in the history of medicine. The monks of the Antonine order offered such dedicated care to the sick that it was often seen as a cure. And of course, plenty of prayer, that helped too.

The stories around Saint Anthony I’ll be exploring are:

A recurring theme is care as cure; how, in the pre-scientific medical era, the care offered by monks served as both physical and spiritual healing.

Saint Anthony as a historical figure

First, a few words about Saint Anthony and who he was as a historical figure. Anthony was a monk who lived in Egypt during the 3rd and 4th centuries AD. At a young age, Anthony gave away all his wealth and worldly possessions after hearing the Gospel message to ‘sell all you have and give to the poor.’ He chose to live an ascetic life in the desert, devoting himself to solitude, prayer, and spiritual struggle. He is often considered the father of Christian monasticism.

Landscape with Saint Anthony the Hermit (c.1647 – 1650), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 26x24cm, Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main.

Monasticism, in the Christian tradition, refers to a way of life in which individuals withdraw from worldly society to live in spiritual discipline, often in communities (monasteries) devoted to prayer, work, and contemplation. Saint Anthony is called the father of monasticism because he was among the first to retreat into the desert purely for religious reasons, inspiring many others to follow his example. Although he lived as a hermit himself, his life and teachings laid to the foundation of communal life in monastries as the Hospital Brothers of Saint Anthony, later known as the Antonines.

The Temptation of Saint Anthony

During his years of isolation, Anthony reportedly endured intense temptations, visions and torments involving lust, wealth, pride, and physical suffering, which he resisted through faith and prayer. These battles became central themes in later depictions of him in art, especially in the many dramatic scenes of ‘The Temptation of Saint Anthony.

Temptation of Saint Anthony (c.1548), Pieter Coecke van Aelst (Flemish, 1502 – 1550), 41x53cm, Prado Madrid.
Here we see Anthony with his hands clasped in prayer, fleeing from a dark, hellish vision. As the saint flees, his hands point to a monastery, a reminder that he was the founder of monasticism.
Temptation of Saint Anthony (c.1517), Giovanni Girolamo Savoldo (Italian, c.1483 – 1548), 70x119cm, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego, CA.
Anthony sits reading from a book; from the right approaches a woman with a goblet in her hand; the horns on her head indicate she is a demon. She tries to seduces Anthony with a goblet of abundance, which Anthony refuses of course.
Temptation of Saint Anthony (1509), Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, c.1494 – 1533), Engraving, 18x16cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Search for Saint Anthony in this painting full with demons and temptation! He is sitting under the tree at the right side. A lady is trying to seduce him. And demons galore!
Temptation of Saint Anthony (1650), Joos van Craesbeeck (Flemish, c.1605 – 1660), 78×116, Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe, Germany.
The Temptation of Saint Antony (1556), Engraving by Pieter van der Heyden (Flemish, 1530 – 1572) after a design by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1530), 24x33cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to add this Brueghel print to the collection of Temptations. First, look for Saint Anthony, he is seated on the right side, beneath the tree trunk. On his cloak, he wears the Tau-cross, the symbol of the Antonine monks. Compare this print to the painting by Joos van Craesbeeck shown above. The painting (from 1650) could not have existed without inspiration from Brueghel’s print (from 1556).
The Temptation of Saint Antony (1556), Engraving by Pieter van der Heyden (Flemish, 1530 – 1572) after a design by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1530), 24x33cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
The bearded saint is gazing toward a woman who symbolises Lust. The devil sent the demons to beat him and alluring women to distract him from his prayers. Saint Anthony evens sees the devils fly above his head, which is a typical form of hallucination caused by the poison in the Ergot fungus, as well as in LSD trips; LSD contains same chemical elements.
Temptation of Saint Anthony (1647), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 51×71, Prado, Madrid.
Saint Anthony gazes serenely out at the viewer as frenzied demons grab at his limbs, clothes, and hair and pound him with sticks.
The Temptation of Saint Anthony (c.1472), Martin Schongauer (German, c.1445 – 1491), Engraving, 31x23cm, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.

Saint Anthony’s Fire and Ergotism

Anthony’s legendary temptations bear a striking resemblance to the symptoms of Ergotism, a disease caused by eating rye bread contaminated with the ergot fungus. In the Middle Ages, rye was a staple food for the poor. When stored in damp conditions, especially during the wet autumn months, the grain could easily become infected. Bread made from this tainted rye caused severe outbreaks of illness across entire mostly-rural communities. This mysterious and terrifying illness, especially the burning pain of the skin (like a fire) is known as Saint Anthony’s Fire, or in Dutch as Kriebelziekte (“Itching Disease”). Common Ergotism symptoms included this burning skin pain, but also hallucinations, convulsions, mania, and gangrene, often mistaken for demonic possession or divine punishment. At the time, people had no idea that a fungus in their bread was the cause. Instead, they believed they were possessed or being punished by the devil. In their desperation, many turned to Saint Anthony, whose legendary temptations in the desert seemed to reflect their own torments. His name became associated with miraculous healing and spiritual endurance.

Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), detail with creature suffering from skin ulcers caused by Saint Anthony’s Fire, and detail with Christ suffering from all kind of skin wounds. The viewer, suffering himself, will feel connected with Christ and get hope for resurrection, relief and recovery from the terrible state of illness, like Christ’s resurrection after being crucified.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), Matthias Grünewald (German, c.1470 – 1528), Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.

In response to widespread suffering, the Hospital Brothers of Saint Anthony, later known as the Antonines, were founded in France in the late 11th century by two French noblemen who credited Saint Anthony with healing them. The order established monasteries and hospitals across Europe, particularly along pilgrimage routes, where they cared for victims of Saint Anthony’s Fire. Though unaware of the disease’s true cause (infected bread), the Antonines provided nourishing food (proper bread and not infected rye bread), hygiene, skin treatment, and spiritual care. Their compassion and effectiveness further strengthened Saint Anthony’s reputation as a protector of the sick and suffering.

The Isenheimer Altarpiece, created by Matthias Grünewald in the early 16th century, was made for the Antonine monastery and hospital in Isenheim, near Colmar, France. The altarpiece held a central place in the hospital chapel. With its vivid, often harrowing imagery of suffering and healing, it was meant to offer spiritual comfort and a sense of connection between Christ’s pain and the patients’ own suffering from Saint Anthony’s Fire.

With its inner wings open, the Altarpiece allowed pilgrims and patients to venerate Saint Anthony, protector and healer of Saint Anthony’s fire. Saint Anthony occupies the place of honour at the centre of the altarpiece and at his side two pigs can be seen. The panel on the right depicts Saint Anthony being tormented by monstrous creatures.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), inner wings opened, Matthias Grünewald (German, c.1470 – 1528), open 269x589cm, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), detail with central sculpture of Saint Anthony, (c.1470), Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.
Sanit Anthony with the Tau Cross and with two pigs at his feet.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), detail with central wooden sculpture of Saint Anthony, (c.1470), Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), detail with Temptation of Saint Anthony and a creature suffering from skin ulcers, Matthias Grünewald (German, c.1470 - 1528), Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.
Saint Anthony being tormented by monstrous creatures. Trampled to the ground, beaten with sticks, pulled by his hair, torn by claws and bitten, Saint Anthony appeals to God for help. In the lower left corner, the being with a distended belly seems to personify the disease caused by ergot poisoning, resulting in swelling and ulcerous growths.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), detail with Temptation of Saint Anthony of Saint Anthony. and a creature suffering from skin ulcers, Matthias Grünewald (German, c.1470 – 1528), Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.
The wings of the altarpiece were mostly kept closed, displaying The Crucifixion framed on the left by the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian pierced by arrows, and on the right by Saint Anthony, remaining calm although he is being taunted by a frightening monster. The two saints protect and heal the sick, Saint Anthony as the patron saint of the victims of Saint Anthony’s fire and Saint Sebastian, whose aid was invoked to ward off the plague, a disease also leading to terrible skin lesions.
Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1514), closed, Matthias Grünewald (German, c.1470 – 1528), open 269x589cm, Musée Unterlinden, Colmar, France.

The symptoms of ergotism can lead to a range of psychiatric and neurological disturbances, including mania and psychosis. The symptoms are akin to bad LSD trips, as LSD contains chemical elements related to the ergot fungus. Sufferers may see all kinds of monsters flying or even believe they can fly themselves. Very much alike the temptations of Saint Anthony.

By the end of the 15th century, the monks had built roughly 370 hospitals across Europe to treat outbreaks of Saint Anthony’s Fire. The brothers were also instrumental in caring for those infected with the plague or Black Death. The success of these hospitals may be attributed to feeding their patients bread made from uninfected grains, such as wheat or other cereals, and providing compassionate care as a form of treatment. The Antonine Order as a monastic institution no longer exists. It began to decline in the 17th century, and by the late 18th century, it was absorbed into other religious orders or dissolved, especially during the wave of secularization and monastic reform that swept Europe.

However, their legacy of care lived on and we still see traces of it today, particularly in the naming of hospitals, clinics, and charitable institutions. Names like Antonius Gasthuis (Hospital) in the Netherlands preserve this heritage, reminding us that long before modern medicine, healing was closely tied to religious devotion, charity, and the care of the sick.

How to recognize Saint Anthony in art

The Antonines were allowed to let their pigs roam freely through towns and villages. These pigs often wore little bells to signal that they belonged to the order and should not be harmed. The fat from these pigs was used by the monks to make the medicinal Saint Anthony’s balm, a healing ointment for treating the skin lesions and intense burning sensations caused by ergotism (by Saint Anthony’s Fire). When going around for alms, the monks were also carrying and ringing bells.

Over time, the pig and the bell became symbols of Saint Anthony’s role as a protector of the sick. In art, the pig is a subtle allusion to both his healing work and the monastic order’s care practices. Another symbol is the fire, which represents the fire-like burning pain of the skin disease, the Saint Anthony’s Fire.

Another symbol closely associated with Saint Anthony is the Greek letter Tau (Τ). This simplest form of the cross was a decorative emblem with a spiritual meaning. Saint Anthony is said to have used the Tau as a sign of protection against evil, and it became the emblem of the Antonine order and the monks wore it on their habits.

Saint Anthony with his various symbols: the Tau Cross on his cloak, a pig, a bell, and the fire, representing Saint Anthony’s Fire, the burning skin diseases.
Saint Anthony the Great (c.1455), Joan Reixach (Spanish, 1431 – 1486), Tempera on Panel, 91x64cm, Prado, Madrid.
Saint Anthony the Great (c.1520), Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1533), Engraving, 11x7cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
Also a symbol of Saint Anthony is the bell, so that everyone could hear the monks going around for alms; a bell is hanging on the pig and in the top left corner.
Saint Anthony the Great (c.1520), Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1533), Engraving, 11x7cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
An engraving of St Anthony, seated and reading a book. Anthony’s symbols, a bell is hanging on the cross next to him.
Saint Anthony (1519), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Engraving, 10x15cm, Royal Collection Trust, London.

Travel destinations

Two important sites are closely connected to the legacy of Saint Anthony and are now high on my visit-wish-list: Saint-Antoine-l’Abbaye in France and the Monastery of Saint Anthony in Egypt.

Saint-Antoine-l’Abbaye, France.

Saint-Antoine-l’Abbaye, in southeastern France, is a medieval village that developed around an abbey housing relics of Saint Anthony, brought there in the 11th century. In the Middle Ages, it became a major pilgrimage destination, especially for those seeking healing from Saint Anthony’s Fire. It was also the motherhouse of the Antonines, or the Hospital Brothers of Saint Anthony, the religious order devoted to care and healing.

Monastery of Saint Anthony, Egypt

The Monastery of Saint Anthony in Egypt, located in the Eastern Desert near the Red Sea, is one of the oldest Christian monasteries in the world. Founded in the 4th century near the cave where Saint Anthony lived in seclusion, it has remained a center of pilgrimage and monastic life ever since, preserving the spiritual heritage of early Christian monasticism within the Coptic Orthodox tradition.

Medical literature

And here are two great articles from the medical literature.

An article (in Dutch) about healthcare in relation to the Isenheim Altarpiece, published in 1995 in the Dutch Magazine for Healthcare, J.P. Mackenbach, ‘De kriebelziekte en het Isenheimer altaar’, Nederlands Tijdschrift voor Geneeskunde, 1995.

In another beautiful article (in English) the writers underscore that at least three distinct diseases, one toxic (i.e., ergotism) and two infectious (i.e., erysipelas and herpes zoster) have been called Saint Anthony’s Fire, and that even some cases of plague may have been included. The article is from 2021, “One holy man, one eponym, three distinct diseases. St. Anthony’s fire revisited”, by G. Cervellin, U. Longobardi an G. Lippi, in Acata Biomedica, 2021.

Closing Notes

Although the Antonine monasteries no longer exist, their legacy is still with us. Hospitals and care institutions across Europe still bear the name of Saint Anthony, such as the ‘St. Antonius Gasthuis’ in Zeeland, The Netherlands. These names are not coincidental. They are echoes of a time when healing the sick was considered a sacred duty, and when monks provided care long before the advent of modern medicine. The spirit of Saint Anthony’s compassion, and the idea that care itself can be a form of healing, continues to influence how we think about health and humanity today.

In our modern world, medicine often revolves around the idea of cure: fixing what is broken, extending life, eliminating disease. While this is a noble and essential goal, we sometimes risk forgetting the quieter, older value of care. Saint Anthony and the Antonine monks remind us that healing is not always about eradicating illness. Their gentle presence, their comfort, their tending to the pain of others – these were acts of care that, in their time, were experienced as cures.

For the old, the frail, and those nearing the end of life, a cure may no longer be possible. But care, simple and devoted and human, can still be given. And in many cases, it may be the greater blessing.

Bonus

The Temptation of Saint Antony (1946), Salvador Dalí (Spanish, 1904 – 1989), 90x120cm, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels.

This 1946 painting by Salvador Dalí was created for an invitational competition on the theme of The Temptation of Saint Anthony, organized by the Loew-Lewin Company, a film production firm. The winning entry would appear in the movie The Private Affairs of Bel Ami, based on a story by Guy de Maupassant. Eleven artists participated, including Dalí, Paul Delvaux, and Max Ernst. Although Dalí’s painting did not win the contest, it later became the most well-known of all the submissions. The prize ultimately went to Ernst.

Temptation of Saint Anthony (1945), Max Ernst (1891 – 1976), Oil on canvas, 108x128cm, Lehmbruck Museum, Duisburg, Germany.
Temptation of Saint Anthony (1945), Max Ernst (1891 – 1976), Oil on canvas, 108x128cm, Lehmbruck Museum, Duisburg, Germany.
Daniel

Daniel

“Prophet or not, visionary for sure!”

Now that I’ve written about Jeremiah and Isaiah, it’s time to turn to Daniel and Ezekiel. These four are known as the Major Prophets, meaning they each have a full “major” book named after them in both the Hebrew and Christian Bibles. Ezekiel is a challenge, though. His visions are so abstract that they’re hard to picture, which makes him a tricky subject for visual storytelling.

Daniel, on the other hand, had plenty of adventures, and artists have loved depicting them in paintings and prints. Drama galore! He’s not always seen as a traditional “prophet” in the sense of an old wise man foretelling the future, but Daniel was definitely a visionary, and young and beautiful, and a smart cookie too! Here are some of the stories around Daniel, brought to life through art. Enjoy!

The Prophet Daniel, from the series Icones Prophetarurm Veteris Testamenti or Portraits of Old Testament Prophets (c.1620), Engraving by Cornelis Galle (1576 - 1650), after design by Jan van der Straat (1523 - 1605), 17x13cm, British Museum, London.
Daniel looks like a pretty young guy compared to the other prophets; see Jeremiah or Isaiah for the contrast. This is an engraving from a series of Prophets. Daniel for sure the youngest (and prettiest).
The Prophet Daniel, from the series Icones Prophetarurm Veteris Testamenti or Portraits of Old Testament Prophets (c.1620), Engraving by Cornelis Galle (1576 – 1650), after design by Jan van der Straat (1523 – 1605), 17x13cm, British Museum, London.

First some background on Daniel: He was part of the Jewish nobility in Jerusalem, but taken into exile when the Babylonians, under King Nebuchadnezzar, attacked and destroyed the city in 586 BC and looted its grand temple. Daniel and many others were deported to Babylon. Despite being a foreigner in exile, Daniel rose to a respected position at the royal Babylonian court, thanks to his intelligence and striking beauty.

The illustrated stories I’ll be exploring are:

A recurring theme in these stories is the downfall of rulers who abuse their power, and the triumph of justice. Daniel is on our side with his patience, wisdom and moral courage.

Daniel explains the dream of Nebuchadnezzar

Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar (c.1630), Salomon Koninck (1609 - 1656), Oil on canvas, 165x165cm, National Trust, Kedleston Hall, Derbyshire, United Kingdom.
Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar, explaining the king’s dream (c.1630), Salomon Koninck (1609 – 1656), Oil on canvas, 165x165cm, National Trust, Kedleston Hall, Derbyshire, United Kingdom.

In Salomon Koninck’s Daniel before Nebuchadnezzar (c.1630), we see the young exile Daniel standing calmly before the powerful Babylonian king, counting to four on his fingers as he explains the king’s troubling dream that none of the royal wise men, seen on the left searching in books, could decipher. The king had dreamt of a giant statue made of four materials: a golden head, silver chest, bronze torso, and legs of iron mixed with clay. The statue was terrifying in appearance, until a mysterious stone struck it and shattered it to dust. Daniel reveals that the statue represents a succession of kingdoms, with Nebuchadnezzar’s own Babylonian empire as the golden head, and each one destined to fall.

The dream’s deeper meaning would unfold over generations. Babylon eventually fell to the Medes and Persians, just as Daniel had foretold. Koninck’s painting captures the quiet authority of Daniel among the king’s scribes, as the young visionary reveals that even the most powerful rulers are subject to the judgment of time and of something greater than themselves.

This story remains a warning to rulers of all eras not to overreach in their power, because pride and arrogance are always destined to fall, even for the mightiest people on earth.

The Writing on the Wall

Now to the next story, about King Belshazzar, a successor of Nebuchadnezzar. Belshazzar once held a lavish feast, using the sacred gold and silver vessels that had been looted from the temple in Jerusalem, Daniel’s homeland. At the height of the party, a mysterious hand appeared and began writing glowing words on the wall. No one could interpret them, so Daniel was summoned. He was the only one who understood the message: “mene, mene, tekel, upharsin”.

Belshazzar's Feast (c.1636), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), Oil on canvas, 168x209cm, National Gallery London.
During a lavish party at King Belshazzar’s court, a mysterious hand writes a message on the wall. And look at the precious gold and silverware, all stolen from the temple in Jerusalem; that was not respectful to use those. That night the kingdom of Babylon fell, as predicted in the writing on the wall.
Belshazzar’s Feast, and the writing on the wall (c.1636), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Oil on canvas, 168x209cm, National Gallery London.

Daniel explained it as a divine judgment, and told King Belshazzar that this is what it means:

Mene means numbered, the days of your reign are numbered, and they are ended.

Tekel means weighed, you have been weighed and found wanting, you have failed the test.

Upharsin means divided, your kingdom will be divided and given to the Medes and Persians.

The message foretold the fall of Belshazzar and the end of the Babylonian kingdom. Daniel warned the king that by arrogantly flaunting the temple treasures and ruling with excess and pride, he had sealed his own fate. That very night, Belshazzar was killed, and the Persians took control of Babylon.

Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast captures this moment of divine intervention with dramatic intensity. The story remains a warning to rulers who govern with arrogance and disregard for justice. It also offers a quiet message of hope to the oppressed: power built on pride will not last, and justice will come in time.

The Writing on the Wall at Belshazzar's Feast (c.1400), from Weltchronik by Rudolf von Ems (Austrian, c1200 - 1254), unknown makers, Tempera colors, gold, silver paint, and ink, Illuminated Manuscript Ms. 33 (88.MP.70), fol. 214v, Getty Center, Los Angeles. (the illustration)
Same story from an illustrated manuscript. A mysterious hand is writing a message on the wall. The old wise men at the left have nu clue, but the little Daniel, in blue in the front, explains to king Belshazzar what it means: “your time has come, your kingdom will fall”!
The Writing on the Wall at Belshazzar’s Feast (c.1400), from Weltchronik by Rudolf von Ems (Austrian, c1200 – 1254), unknown makers, Tempera colors, gold, silver paint, and ink, Illuminated Manuscript Ms. 33 (88.MP.70), fol. 214v, Getty Center, Los Angeles.

The saying “the writing on the wall” comes directly from this dramatic moment in the Book of Daniel. In Dutch: een teken aan de wand.

The phrase “weighed and found wanting,” meaning “evaluated (weighed) and found to be lacking,” also comes from this same passage — the mysterious words Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin. In Dutch: gewogen en te licht bevonden.

Daniel and the Four Beasts

Daniel’s vision of the Four Beasts, with the Archangel Gabriel explaining (1599), Hieronymus Wierix (1553 - 1619), Engraving, 19x26cm, British Museum, London.
Daniel’s vision of the Four Beasts, with the Archangel Gabriel explaining (1599), Hieronymus Wierix (1553 – 1619), Engraving, 19x26cm, British Museum, London.

Now to one of Daniel’s own dreams, in which he sees four strange beasts rising from a stormy sea. Disturbed by the vision, Daniel asks an angel to help him understand what it means. The angel explains that the four beasts represent four successive empires: the lion with eagle’s wings is often interpreted as Babylon, the bear as the Medo-Persian Empire, the leopard with four wings as Greece under Alexander the Great, and the final terrifying beast with iron teeth and ten horns as the Roman Empire.

Even the most fearsome of these, the monstrous last beast representing the Roman Empire, is destined to fall. Once again, the message is clear: no kingdom lasts forever.

This is a warning to rulers to govern with humility, not through violence or intimidation like the beasts of the vision, which rule with claws and teeth.

Daniel’s vision of the The Four Beasts (c.1050), detail, ilustration from the manuscript Beatus a Liebana, Commentarius in Apocalypsin (The Saint-Sever Beatus, also known as the Apocalypse of Saint-Sever), MS lat. 8878 folio 51r, Parchement, 37x29cm, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.
Daniel’s vision of the The Four Beasts (c.1050), detail, ilustration from the manuscript Beatus a Liebana, Commentarius in Apocalypsin (The Saint-Sever Beatus, also known as the Apocalypse of Saint-Sever), MS lat. 8878 folio 51r, Parchement, 37x29cm, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

Daniel in the Lions’ Den

Daniel’s next adventure, and perhaps the most well-known, is his stay in the lions’ den. Rubens’s powerful painting in the National Gallery in Washington brings this dramatic moment to life with vivid realism.

Daniel in the Lions' Den (c.1614), Peter Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640), Oil on canvas, 224x331cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
Daniel in the Lions’ Den (c.1614), Peter Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640), Oil on canvas, 224x331cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.

So what happened? Daniel had become a favored advisor at the court of King Darius (or Cyrus, depending on the source), the Persian ruler who succeeded the Babylonians. But jealous rivals plotted against him. They tricked the king into issuing a decree that, for thirty days, no one could pray to any god or person except to King Darius himself. Anyone who disobeyed would be thrown to the lions. Devout as ever, Daniel continued to pray to his own God, the God of Israel. Though Darius admired Daniel and regretted the trap he had fallen into, he was bound by the law of the Medes and Persians, which could not be changed.

Daniel getting food from Habakkuk, who is held by an angel by his hair (c.1470), illustratiuon from Speculum humanae salvationis, MS 89, f. 029 - vue 1, Parchement, Bibliothèque l'Alcazar de Marseille, France.
Daniel getting food from Habakkuk, who is held by an angel by his hair (c.1470), illustratiuon from Speculum humanae salvationis, MS 89, f. 029 – vue 1, Parchement, Bibliothèque l’Alcazar de Marseille, France.

Daniel was thrown into the lions’ den. He kept praying, and help came in the form of the prophet Habakkuk, who was miraculously transported to Daniel with food – carried by an angel who lifted him by his hair (see the manuscript illustrations, and the engraving hereunder).

Daniel in the Lions’ Den and Habakkuk bringing food, nr 8-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Daniel sits amongst the lions in a cave and looks up at an angel swooping in and carrying Habakuk by the hair; food delivery!
Daniel in the Lions’ Den and Habakkuk bringing food, nr 8-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Daniel getting food from Habakkuk, who is held by an angel by his hair (c.1109), illustration from the Silos Apocalypse, Add. 11695, ff.238v-239, Parchement, British Library, London.
I think this is a great illustration of the story: Daniel between two lions who are licking his feet, like dogs would do, they are harmless towards Daniel. And the angel transports Habakkuk through the air to get Daniel some food.
Daniel getting food from Habakkuk, who is held by an angel by his hair (c.1109), illustration from the Silos Apocalypse, Add. 11695, ff.238v-239, Parchement, British Library, London.

After a week, Darius had the den opened, and to everyone’s astonishment, Daniel was still alive and unharmed. The king rejoiced, and justice was swiftly served: Daniel’s accusers were thrown into the lions’ den in his place.

Daniel is pulled out of the Lions' Den, nr 9-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Daniel is pulled out of the Lions’ Den, nr 9-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The moral? However hard the trial, and however hopeless the outcome may seem, faith and perseverance can lead to a just resolution. For Daniel, this meant both survival and vindication. The story remains a symbol of hope and courage. In modern terms: even when those in power make life miserable, keep your faith and hold your head high. A day of justice will come.

Cyrus has Daniel's accusers thrown into the Lions' Den, nr 10-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Darius has Daniel’s accusers thrown into the Lions’ Den, nr 10-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The phrase “a law of the Medes and Persians” survives to this day, describing a rule that cannot be changed, no matter how inconvenient or unjust.

Susanna and the Elders, and Daniel’s judgment

The elders spying upon Susanna (c.1506), Lucas van Leyden (1494 - 1533), Engraving, 20x15cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The elders spying upon Susanna (c.1506), Lucas van Leyden (1494 – 1533), Engraving, 20x15cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Now we turn to Susan and the Elders, which story remains startlingly relevant today. At its heart is a woman wrongly accused by two powerful men after she refuses their sexual advances. Her integrity is put on trial, her word weighed against that of respected elders. Yet she does not give in. Susanna chooses to speak, knowing the cost. It is a story of courage, the abuse of power, and ultimately, of justice, thanks to the young Daniel, who intervenes with clarity and moral insight. By cross-examining the two elders separately, Daniel uncovers their lies: each gives a contradictory account of the scene, revealing their falsehood and exposing their guilt. The story concludes with Susanna’s vindication and the elders’ downfall.

Susanna and the Elders (1647), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), Oil on panel, 77x93cm, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.
Susanna and the Elders (1647), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Oil on panel, 77x93cm, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.

In the story, after Susanna refused their sexual advances, the elders sought revenge by claiming they had caught her committing adultery with a young man in her garden. According to the law at the time, adultery was punishable by death, and the testimony of two respected elders carried great weight. Their accusation was intended to destroy her reputation and life, but Daniel’s intervention ultimately revealed the truth and saved her.

Centuries later, this story continued to inspire artists, particularly in the Baroque period. Rembrandt’s Susanna and the Elders (1647), housed in the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin, captures a moment of vulnerability and fear. In contrast, Artemisia Gentileschi’s Susanna and the Elders (c.1610) is strikingly defiant. Painted when she was only seventeen, Artemisia – herself a survivor of sexual violence – transforms Susanna into a figure of resistance. Today, her version speaks with particular force, not only because of its raw visual intensity, but because the artist’s own trauma echoes through her entire oeuvre.

Susanna and the Elders (c.1610), Artemisia Gentileschi (1593 - 1653), Oil on canvas, 170x119cm, Collection Schloss Weissenstein, Pommersfelden Germany, currently on view in Musée Jacquemart-André (untill 3 August 2025), Paris.
Susanna and the Elders (c.1610), Artemisia Gentileschi (1593 – 1653), Oil on canvas, 170x119cm, Collection Schloss Weissenstein, Pommersfelden Germany, currently on view in Musée Jacquemart-André (untill 3 August 2025), Paris.

In the context of the MeToo movement, the story of Susanna feels painfully modern. A woman is cornered, threatened, and disbelieved by those in power. Yet she refuses to yield. With Daniel’s intervention, truth is reclaimed and the false accusers are unmasked. This ancient tale becomes, in today’s terms, a parable of resistance and the enduring hope for justice, even against overwhelming odds.

Yet we must also look critically at how this story has been visualized, especially in the Baroque era. For many male artists, including Rubens and Rembrandt, Susanna and the Elders became a pretext for painting the nude female body under the guise of a biblical subject. Susanna is often shown at her most vulnerable, surprised in the bath, exposed not only to the leering elders but also to us, the viewers. This dynamic implicates the audience, making us – consciously or not – silent participants. From a contemporary perspective, especially in light of #MeToo, we must ask: are we seeing Susanna through the eyes of Daniel, or through the eyes of the elders?

Susanna and the Elders (c.1610), Peter Paul Rubens (1577 - 1640), Oil on panel, 190x223cm, Royal Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando, Madrid.
Susanna and the Elders (c.1610), Peter Paul Rubens (1577 – 1640), Oil on panel, 190x223cm, Royal Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando, Madrid.

Daniel urges us to shift our perspective, from complicity to conscience. When we look at these artworks, we are invited not just to witness injustice, but to side with justice. Daniel’s judgment is not merely a narrative turning point, it is a call to the viewer: to recognize the abuse of power, to listen to the vulnerable, and to believe that justice, though often delayed, will prevail.

Daniel’s jugement (c.1621), Valentin de Boulogne (1591 - 1632), Oil on canvas, 175x211cm, Louvre, Paris.
Daniel’s jugement (c.1621), Valentin de Boulogne (1591 – 1632), Oil on canvas, 175x211cm, Louvre, Paris.
Susanna accused of adultery, from The Story of Susanna (1555), Heinrich Aldegrever (c.1502 - 1561), Engraving, 12x8cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Susanna accused of adultery, from The Story of Susanna (1555), Heinrich Aldegrever (c.1502 – 1561), Engraving, 12x8cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Daniel exposed the elders by separating them and asking each under which tree they had seen Susanna commit the alleged act. One claimed it was under a small mastic tree, the other said it was a big oak. Their conflicting answers revealed their lie, proving that their accusations were false and leading to Susanna’s vindication and the elders’ punishment, which was quite harsh in the days of Daniel, but also in the days when these engravings were made.

Daniel cross-examining the Elders, from The Story of Susanna (1555), Heinrich Aldegrever (c.1502 - 1561), Engraving, 12x8cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
The stoning of the Elders, from The Story of Susanna (1555), Heinrich Aldegrever (c.1502 - 1561), Engraving, 12x8cm), Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Daniel cross-examining the Elders (left) and The stoning of the Elders (right), from The Story of Susanna (1555), Heinrich Aldegrever (c.1502 – 1561), Engraving, each 12x8cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Daniel exposes the corruption of the priests of Bel

The next one is  how Daniel exposes the corruption of the priests of Bel, one of the gods (or idols) in the land of king Darius (or Cyrus, depending on the source of the story). It’s a lesser-known but sharp story about uncovering corruption.

Daniel and Cyrus before the idol Bel (1633), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), Oil on panel, 24x30cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles.
In this scene, King Cyrus of Persia, at the center, questions Daniel about his refusal to worship the god Bel, whose statue looms in shadow on the right, you can see the legs of the big statue. Cyrus insists Bel is a living deity, pointing to the daily offerings of food and wine that mysteriously vanish each night. Daniel calmly replies that bronze statues do not eat. The story takes a playful turn, this powerful king believes the idol consumes the offerings! But Daniel is about to expose the truth. What really happens to the food and wine? The answer reveals not just a trick, but a deeper tale of fraud, corruption, and the courage to speak truth to power.
Daniel and Cyrus before the idol Bel (1633), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Oil on panel, 24x30cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles.

In Babylon, there was a magnificent temple dedicated to the god Bel (or Baal), where the people believed the statue of the god consumed great daily offerings of food and wine. Every day the people offered the most tasteful dishes and the most wonderful wines. And next day the food and wine was always gone. King Cyrus was a devout believer and asked Daniel why he did not worship Bel like everyone else. Daniel replied that Bel was only a statue made by human hands and that it could not eat or drink. To prove otherwise, the king challenged Daniel: if the food was indeed not eaten by Bel, the priests would be executed. But if Bel had eaten it, Daniel would be punished.

King Cyrus shows Daniel the statue of the god Bel, nr 2-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The king shows Daniel the temple of the god Bel. In the middle of the temple is a large statue of the seated god. Servants are busy displaying food and drink on a table in front of the statue.
King Cyrus shows Daniel the statue of the god Bel, nr 2-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

That night, the king sealed the temple doors after the offerings were placed inside. But Daniel had secretly scattered ashes on the temple floor. Next morning, the food was gone, yet the floor revealed footprints leading to a hidden door under the altar tabel and a secret entrance in the corner of the temple. It turned out the priests and their families had been sneaking in at night to eat the offerings themselves. The king, shocked at the deception, had the false priests removed, and the temple of Bel was destroyed.

Hereunder four engravings that tell the story in a comic-book style.

Daniel strewing ashes in the temple and Cyrus sealing the door, nr 3-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
To prove that it is not the statue of the god Bel who eats the food, but the priests, Daniel scatters ashes on the floor of the temple. King Cyrus has the door of the temple sealed so that no one can enter unnoticed.
Daniel strewing ashes in the temple and Cyrus sealing the door, nr 3-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The priests and their families eat the food for Bel at night, nr 4-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The priests and their wives and children enter the temple at night through secret doors and eat the food that is on the table for the god Bel. As they secretly take the food, their footprints are left in the ashes scattered on the ground by Daniel.
The priests and their families eat the food for Bel at night, nr 4-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Daniel revealing the fraud of Bel's priests, nr 5-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
King Cyrus and Daniel come to the temple in the morning and see footprints in the ashes that Daniel has scattered on the floor. They discover the secret entrance to the temple, through which the priests and their families have entered to eat Bel’s food.
Daniel revealing the fraud of Bel’s priests, nr 5-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
King Cyrus smashes the statue of Bel to pieces, nr 6-10 from the series: The story of Daniel, Bel and the Dragon (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 - 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 - 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
King Cyrus watches men smash the statue of the god Bel to pieces. On the spot where the table with food used to be, the entrance to the secret entrance to the temple can now be seen. In the front right, a boy pees in Bel’s mouth.
King Cyrus smashes the statue of Bel to pieces, nr 6-10 from the series: The story of Daniel and Bel (1565), Engraving by Print Philips Galle (1537 – 1612) after design by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498 – 1574), 20x24cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The lesson, also for today in our own time and place! Even the most sacred institutions can be corrupted from within. Daniel’s calm wisdom once again uncovers the truth. Faith and trust, combined with reason, has the power to expose lies and uphold justice.

Closing remarks

A note on the Book of Daniel and the Bible in general. Many people do not realize that the Catholic and Protestant Bibles are not exactly the same. The stories of Daniel exposing the corruption of the priests of Bel, his intervention in the case of Susanna and the Elders, and Habbakuk delivering food when Daniel is in the lions’ den, are perfect examples of this difference. These stories are part of the so-called “Additions to Daniel,” which are included in the Catholic Bible but not in the Hebrew Bible and not in the Protestant Old Testament. In most Protestant traditions, they are considered apocryphal, meaning additional or non-canonical. So depending on which Bible you are reading, you might or might not find these stories at all.

A moral remark as final closing: What can we take from Daniel’s stories today? Perhaps this: all empires, whether Babylonian, Persian, Greek, Roman, or others from Daniel’s time to our own, no matter how powerful, eventually collapse under the weight of their own excess. Any leader who overreaches, who rules with arrogance or deception, is destined to share in that downfall. The stories in Daniel’s book reveal a pattern. When power is worshipped for its own sake, it corrupts systems, turning them into something beastly, inhumane, and blind to truth. Daniel also teaches patience. Injustice and oppression do not end quickly, but they do end. In time, those who do harm, whether by abusing power or silencing the innocent, will face their reckoning. And on a more personal level, Daniel shows us what it means to live with integrity in unfamiliar circumstances, to hold your head high and trust in justice, even when you are in exile or a stranger in a strange land.

Bonus

I can’t resist adding a little bonus here, partly because this scene is so full of drama, and partly because it features two remarkable statues by my favourite sculptor Bernini, in the Chigi Chapel in Rome.

Daniel and the Lion (c.1655), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598 – 1680), Marble, 170cm, Chigi Chapel, Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.
Habakkuk and the Angel (c.1655), Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598 – 1680), Marble, 170cm, Chigi Chapel, Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.
Daniel in the lions’ den (left) and Habakkuk and the angle (right), both c.1655, Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598 – 1680), Marble, 170cm, Chigi Chapel, Basilica of Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.

One statue shows Daniel in the lions’ den, praying to God. A lion is at his feet, even licking one of them, emphasizing Daniel’s divine protection. Across from him, in a niche on the opposite side of the chapel, we see the prophet Habakkuk. He’s seated on a rock, his lunch basket beside him, pointing in the direction he wants to go. But the angel has other plans! Leaning out of the niche, the angel lifts Habakkuk by the hair and points decisively toward Daniel, guiding him to bring food to the imprisoned prophet. Bernini composed these two figures as part of a larger program within the Chigi Chapel, connecting them visually and theologically. It’s a sculptural narrative drawn from from the apocryphal additions to the Book of Daniel.

Here’s the full passage featuring Habakkuk and the miraculous food delivery. Read and enjoy!

Daniel 14:33-39

Now the prophet Habakkuk was in Judea; he had made a stew and had broken bread into a bowl, and was going into the field to take it to the reapers. But the angel of the Lord said to Habakkuk, “Take the food that you have to Babylon, to Daniel, in the lions’ den.” Habakkuk said, “Sir, I have never seen Babylon, and I know nothing about the den.” Then the angel of the Lord took him by the crown of his head and carried him by his hair; with the speed of the wind he set him down in Babylon, right over the den.

Then Habakkuk shouted, “Daniel, Daniel! Take the food that God has sent you.” Daniel said, “You have remembered me, O God, and have not forsaken those who love you.” So Daniel got up and ate. And the angel of God immediately returned Habakkuk to his own place.
Cranach’s Adam and Eve united in a single frame

Cranach’s Adam and Eve united in a single frame

Lucas Cranach the Elder (German, 1472 – 1553)

Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence

At the Uffizi in Florence, an important restoration has brought new life – and unity – to Lucas Cranach the Elder’s celebrated pair of panels Adam and Eve, together representing the Fall of Man. The Uffizi’s Adam and Eve were most likely created as two coordinated but independent panels, not as one painting later split. They are conceived together as a single composition, and the two works have now been united within a single ebony-style frame, visually and aesthetically restoring the harmony intended by the German master.

Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 167x122cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.
After: Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, 167x122cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.

Cranach and his workshop painted over fifty versions of The Fall of Man. Within those, the Uffizi pair stands out for its design: the figures of Adam and Eve are clearly meant to be seen together and, as such, tell the story of the Fall of Man. Their expressions, gestures, and mutual gaze reveal a dynamic dialogue that is now fully restored. The new frame, inspired by the black ebony frames typical of Central and Northern European collections, enhances this interplay while also protecting the works with conservation glass.

Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, each 167x61cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.
Before: Adam and Eve (1528), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 167x61cm, Galleria degli Uffiuzi, Florence.

Lucas Cranach the Elder’s paintings of Adam and Eve were typically created as a matched pair, with each figure painted on a separate panel intended to be displayed side by side. Though not a single unified panel, the works were conceived as a visual pair, often mirroring each other in pose and scale to create that harmonious composition. This diptych format was popular in Cranach’s workshop, which produced multiple variations on the theme, all maintaining the balance and tension between the figures.

Here are a few other examples: the set from the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna; the set from the Norton Simon Museum during restaurantion; and a single panel variation from Würzburg. For an overview of all Cranach’s Adams and Eves, see the Corpus Cranach as supported by the Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg.

Adam (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Eve (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Adam and Eve (c.1510), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 137x54cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
Adam and Eve (c.1530), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, each 188x70cm, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California.
The two panels from the Norton Simon Museum, put next to each other during the restauration.
Adam and Eve (c.1530), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, each 188x70cm, Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, California.

Over the centuries, some of these paired panels were separated, sold individually, and now reside in different collections around the world. Where possible, museums have reunited them, while others display only one half of the original pairing. Though variations exist – including single-panel compositions featuring both figures – Cranach’s most attractive format is the two-panel set, a format emphasizing the duality of the narrative of the seducer and the one being seduced, and allowing for the visual interplay between Adam and Eve.

Adam and Eve (c.1513), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 - 1553), Oil on panel, 72x62cm, Museum für Franken, Würzburg.
Adam and Eve (c.1513), Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553), Oil on panel, 72x62cm, Museum für Franken, Würzburg.

Within the visual and theological conventions of the Renaissance, Eve was often portrayed as the seducer, and Adam as the one being seduced. Lucas Cranach the Elder’s paintings reflect this interpretation. His depictions typically follow the traditional Christian narrative in which Eve is the first to take the forbidden fruit and then offers it to Adam, thus leading both into the Fall.

With the operation in Florence, the Uffizi has not only restored the original compositional intent but has also enhanced the storytelling power and visual impact of two masterpieces of the German Renaissance, now united as they were meant to be. The result is a more coherent and powerful narrative of the biblical story of temptation and the fall of humankind. This reframing marks a key addition to the Uffizi’s newly arranged rooms dedicated to Flemish and Northern European painting on the Gallery’s second floor. 

  • About the restoration on the Uffizi website, click here.
  • Some info about visiting the Uffizi in Florence, click here.
Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano (c.1500) and the Visitation by Pontormo (c.1528), Tuscany.

Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano (c.1500) and the Visitation by Pontormo (c.1528), Tuscany.

Pontormo (1494 – 1557)

Poggio a Caiano, Tuscany.

The Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano is located between Florence and Prato in Tuscany. It was commissioned by Lorenzo de’ Medici around 1485 and designed by Giuliano da Sangallo. The building is considered an early example of Renaissance villa architecture, with classical elements such as a symmetrical layout, a central loggia, and a raised platform. Its elevated platform, symmetrical structure, and central loggia reflect the ideals of Vitruvian proportion and balance, making it a model for later villas across Europe.

Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano, seen from the entrance and reception area.

The villa was used as a country residence by the Medici family. Pope Leo X (born Giovanni de’ Medici, Lorenzo de’ Medici’s son and the first Medici pope), stayed there regularly. In the 16th century, major decorative works were added, including frescoes in the main hall by Andrea del Sarto and Pontormo (a depiction of Vertumnus and Pomona), a.o. These works reflect Medici political ambitions and classical themes. The main hall and ceiling decoration is dedicated to Pope Leo X.

Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano, main hall ceiling, Pope Leo X coat of arms, a combination of the Papal and Medici symbols.

Later, the villa was used by the Habsburg-Lorraine dynasty and by the House of Savoy. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, it served as a royal residence. Today, it is a Unesco World Heritage Site and is open to the public.

The villa currently houses The Visitation by Pontormo, on temporary display while its original location – the church of Santi Michele e Francesco in Carmignano – is undergoing restoration. The painting, a key example of early Mannerism, remains accessible to the public during this period.

Visitation (c.1528), Pontormo (1494 - 1557), Oil on board, 202x156cm, San Michele e San Francesco, Carmignano, now on view in the Medici Villa of Poggio a Caiano, Italy.
Visitation (c.1528), Pontormo (1494 – 1557), Oil on board, 202x156cm, San Michele e San Francesco, Carmignano, now on view in the Medici Villa of Poggio a Caiano, Italy.

The villa also houses the Museo della Natura Morta, a museum dedicated to still-life painting, with works from the 17th to 18th centuries. The villa is surrounded by a historic park and gardens, with beautiful citrus trees and a Limonaia (Orangery).

  • The Villa Medicea di Poggio a Caiano is off the beaten track, outside Florence and absolutely worth a visit. Reservations are needed, for English or Italian tours. The villa can be visited free of charge from Tuesday to Sunday. Guided tours lasting about an hour with admission every hour from 8.30 to 15.30. No visit at 13.30. Reservations required on +39 055 877012 (just call them, they speak English and it’s very easy to book a slot).
  • For directions, click here. Bus 210 connect the station of Signa with the Villa, the stop is right in front of the Villa. For bus 210, just tap in and out with your bankcard.
Isaiah and Jeremiah

Isaiah and Jeremiah

“Prophets, Prophecies, and Their Fulfilment“

I’ve been thinking for a long time that I want to understand the Prophets better — their role in the Jewish Hebrew Bible, their place in the Christian Old Testament, and even how they appear in New Testament stories about the life of Jesus. But when I look at how the Prophets are shown in art, it’s not so easy. They usually look like wise old men, deep in thought, sometimes holding a book or mostly a scroll — probably because back in the time they lived, around 600–900 BC, there were no books yet, only scrolls for writing. Without a name or a clear symbol, it’s almost impossible to tell one Prophet from another. Maybe that’s why artists who painted or engraved series of Prophets often made sure to write their names somewhere. Otherwise, they would just be a group of thoughtful old men.

How to get to know these Prophets, beyond just their faces and names?

Let’s start with Isaiah and Jeremiah, who (together with Ezekiel and Daniel) are considered the Major Prophets. The term “major” here refers not so much to their importance over others, but more to the length of their prophetic books, which are part of both the Christian Old Testament and the Jewish Hebrew Bible.

The Prophet Jeremiah, from the series Icones Prophetarurm Veteris Testamenti or Portraits of Old Testament Prophets (c.1620), Engraving by Cornelis Galle (1576 - 1650), after design by Jan van der Straat (1523 - 1605), 17x13cm, British Museum, London.
The Prophet Jesaiah, from the seriesIcones Prophetarurm Veteris Testamenti or Portraits of Old Testament Prophets (c.1620), Engraving by Cornelis Galle (1576 - 1650), after design by Jan van der Straat (1523 - 1605), 17x13cm, British Museum, London.
The Prophet Jeremiah (l) and the Prophet Isaiah (r)
from the series Icones Prophetarurm Veteris Testamenti or Portraits of Old Testament Prophets (c.1620), Engraving by Cornelis Galle (1576 – 1650), after design by Jan van der Straat (1523 – 1605), 17x13cm, British Museum, London.

The Prophet Isaiah

Isaiah (sometimes as Jesaiah or Jesaja) prophesied during a time of great political upheaval, in the 7th Century BC, and is known for his peace predicting visions. He is considered as the author of the Bible book named after him. Besides messages of hope and peace, the later chapters are often interpreted as Messianic, meaning that Isaiah announced the arrival of a world-peace keeper, to be interpreted as a new king in his own days, or interpreted by Christians as the arrival of Jesus.

The Prophet Isaiah (c.1510), Michelangelo (1475 - 1564), 390x380cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.
The Prophet Isaiah (c.1510)
Michelangelo (1475 – 1564), 390x380cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.

Isaiah 7:14 and Its Different Interpretations.

Immanuel or Jesus?

The prophet Isaiah says in his Bible book in verse 7:14: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” How to interpret this from a Christian point of view? “Immanuel” means “God with us” in Hebrew. Isaiah’s prophecy seems to say that the child will be called that name. But when Jesus is born, he is named Jesus (from Hebrew Yeshua, meaning “The Lord saves”), not Immanuel. Why? The evangelist Matthew, who writes about Jesus’ life in his book in the New Testament, explicitly connects “Jesus” with “Immanuel”. In Matthew 1:22–23, where Matthew writes about the birth of Jesus, he says that Jesus’ birth fulfills Isaiah’s prophecy of 600 years earlier, as Matthew clearly sees Jesus as embodying God is with us (which is the meaning of the name Immanuel) even though his personal name is Jesus. Name problem solved, according to Matthew

Virgin or Not-a-Virgin?

Now about Isaiah’s use of the word “virgin”. In the original Hebrew Bible, the verse says that an “almah” — a young woman — will conceive and bear a son. The Hebrew word “almah” simply means a young woman of marriageable age; it does not specifically mean virgin. If Isaiah had intended to stress virginity, he would have used a more virgin-specific word. Several centuries before Christ, Jewish scholars translated the Hebrew Bible into Greek. In their translation of Isaiah 7:14, they chose the Greek word “parthenos” which means virgin, not just young woman. This translation had a major impact: it shaped how early Christians, who often read the Bible in Greek, understood Isaiah’s prophecy. Later, in the Latin translation of the Greek Bible, the verse was rendered: “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” — “Look, the Virgin shall conceive.”

Jesaiah with the Ecce Virgo prophecy, Giovanni Francesco Barbieri aka Il Guercino (1591 - 1666), Red chalk on paper, 23x22cm, Albertina, Vienna.
The Prophet Isaiah with the “Ecce Virgo” prophecy (Isaiah 7:14)
Giovanni Francesco Barbieri aka Il Guercino (1591 – 1666), Red chalk on paper, 23x22cm, Albertina, Vienna.

This Latin version “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” or simply “Ecce Virgo” reinforced the Christian reading that Isaiah had foretold a miraculous virgin birth. In the Gospel of Matthew (Matthew 1:22–23), the birth of Jesus from the Virgin Mary is thus presented as the direct fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy. For Christians, Jesus is seen as “Immanuel” (“God is with us”), with a “virgin” mother, which was announced by Isaiah seven centuries earlier.

The Prophet Isaiah, by Giovanni Francesco Barbieri aka Il Guercino (1591-1666), Oil on canvas, 73x56cm, Burghley House, Stamford, Lincolnshire, United Kingdom.
The Prophet Isaiah with the “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” prophecy (Isaiah 7:14)
Giovanni Francesco Barbieri aka Il Guercino (1591-1666), Oil on canvas, 73x56cm, Burghley House, Stamford, Lincolnshire, United Kingdom.

In Jewish interpretation, however, Isaiah 7:14 is understood differently. It is seen as a prophecy intended for Isaiah’s own time as Isaiah was speaking directly to King Ahaz of Judah about a political and military crisis happening at that time (around 735 BC). Two enemy kings were threatening Jerusalem, and Isaiah was reassuring King Ahaz that God would protect Judah. The child mentioned likely referred to a contemporary birth — perhaps the future King of Judah — and not to a miraculous virgin birth in the distant future, seven centuries later. In this view, the name “Immanuel” would symbolically express God’s support for Judah during the immediate crisis, not predict a future Messiah born centuries later.

Summary: in the Jewish view: Isaiah 7:14 refers to a young woman in Isaiah’s own time, not to a virgin birth. In the Christian view: Isaiah 7:14 foretells the virgin birth of Jesus, as echoed in the Latin phrase “Ecce Virgo Concipiet”.

Isaiah and Fra Angelico’s Valdarno Annunciation.

Let’s look at the connection between Isaiah’s Prophecy and the Annunciation in Fra Angelico’s Valdarno Annunciation (c. 1430). It’s not just a typical depiction of the biblical moment when the Archangel Gabriel announces to the Virgin Mary that she will conceive Jesus. It is a visual commentary on the connection between the Old and New Testaments, specifically the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy.

Annunciation with the Prophet Jesaiah (c.1430), Fra Angelico (c.1400 - 1455), Tempera on panel, 95x158cm, from Chiesa di San Giovanni Battista a Montecarlo, now in Museo della Basilica di S. Maria delle Grazie, San Giovanni Valdarno, Italy.
Annunciation with the Prophet Isaiah and his “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” prophecy (c.1430)
Fra Angelico (c.1400 – 1455), Tempera on panel, 95x158cm, from Chiesa di San Giovanni Battista a Montecarlo, now in Museo della Basilica di S. Maria delle Grazie, San Giovanni Valdarno, Italy.

In the center of the composition, a unique tondo (a circular frame) prominently features Isaiah holding a scroll inscribed with the Latin phrase “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” (“Look, the Virgin shall conceive”), directly referencing Isaiah 7:14. This prophecy foretold that a virgin would bear a son, a passage which Christians believe is fulfilled in the birth of Jesus. By placing Isaiah’s scroll in the Annunciation scene, Fra Angelico visually unites the Old Testament prophecy with the New Testament event, making it clear that Mary’s conception of Christ is the fulfillment of what was promised centuries earlier. The scroll not only links the two Testaments but also serves as a bridge between the prophetic and the fulfillment, allowing viewers to see the continuity of divine purpose across time. The phrase “Ecce”, meaning “look” or “see,” calls the viewer’s attention to the importance of Mary’s role. Isaiah with his scroll tells us viewers directly and literally: “Look, here is Mary’s conception of Christ!”

Annunciation with the Prophet Jesaiah (c.1430), detailAnnunciation with the Prophet Jesaiah (c.1430), Fra Angelico (c.1400 - 1455), Tempera on panel, 95x158cm, from Chiesa di San Giovanni Battista a Montecarlo, now in Museo della Basilica di S. Maria delle Grazie, San Giovanni Valdarno, Italy.
Annunciation with the Prophet Isaiah and his “Ecce Virgo Concipiet” prophecy (c.1430), detail
Fra Angelico (c.1400 – 1455), Tempera on panel, from Chiesa di San Giovanni Battista a Montecarlo, now in Museo della Basilica di S. Maria delle Grazie, San Giovanni Valdarno, Italy.

By integrating Isaiah into the scene, Fra Angelico emphasizes the idea that Christ’s birth was not a sudden, isolated event but the culmination of 700 year promise. In essence, Fra Angelico’s Valdarno Annunciation is a masterful visual exploration of prophecy and fulfillment, inviting the viewer to reflect on the continuity of God’s word from the Old to the New Testament, with Isaiah as the messenger.

Jewish versus Christian perspective.

From the Jewish perspective, it can seem like Christians are hijacking (or reinterpreting beyond the original context) Isaiah’s prophecy from some 700 years earlier. From the Christian perspective, the idea is more like the Old Testament has deeper layers, hidden meanings that are only revealed through Christ. The evangelist Matthew (and later Christian thinkers) read the whole Old Testament as pointing ahead to Jesus, even if the people in Isaiah’s time didn’t realize it yet. So for Christians, it’s not hijacking, it’s fulfilling.

In short: Jews say Christians misread Isaiah; Christians say Isaiah was prophesying deeper truths without even fully knowing it.

Isaiah 2:4 and the Vision of Peace and a World without War

In Isaiah 2:4, the prophet describes a future time when nations will no longer make war, but will instead turn their tools of violence into tools of cultivation and life:

“They will hammer their swords into ploughshares
and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation will no longer fight against nation,
nor train for war anymore.”

In Isaiah’s vision, weapons are literally reshaped into farming tools: swords become ploughshares (blades for turning the soil, as agricultural instruments), and spears become pruning hooks (used to tend vines and trees). It became a symbol of transforming destruction into creation, war into peace, and death into life. This prophecy captures Isaiah’s forward-looking hope for a world ruled by divine justice and wisdom, where international conflicts are settled peacefully, and where humanity’s energy is devoted not to violence but to sustaining life and nurturing the earth.

Isaiah and Brueghel’s Peace Vision Painting.

A visual interpretation of Isaiah’s prophecy appears in Brueghel’s Isaiah’s Prophecy (c. 1609), housed in the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. This oil-on-copper painting captures Isaiah’s vision of peace, specifically the transformation of weapons into tools of cultivation. The central theme “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares” (Isaiah 2:4), is vividly depicted with a putto burning a helmet and figures on the left who are literally shown reshaping swords into ploughshares and other agricultural tools, symbolizing the cessation of war and the beginning of a harmonious, peaceful era.

Jesaiah’s Prophecy (c.1609), Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568 - 1625) and Hendrick van Balen the Elder (1573 – 1632), Oil on copper, 40x50cm, Alte Pinakothek, Munich.
Isaiah’s Prophecy “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares” (c.1609)
Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568 – 1625) and Hendrick van Balen the Elder (1573 – 1632), Oil on copper, 40x50cm, Alte Pinakothek, Munich.

The painting likely refers to a ceasefire signed in 1609 between the Spanish Catholic suppressor and the Dutch Protestant Revolt faction in the Low Countries (the Twelve Years’ Truce during the Eighty Years’ War). The three women in the scene on the right, representing Fortune, Faith, and Abundance, symbolize the blessings and positive outcomes that peace can bring.

Isaiah can be seen holding a tablet with his prophecy:

Iudicabit gentes, et arguet populos multos;
et conflabunt gladios suos in vomeres, et lanceas suas in falces.

or

He shall judge among the nations, and instruct many peoples;
and they shall forge their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks.
Iasaiah’s Prophecy (c.1609), detail, Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568 - 1625) and Hendrick van Balen the Elder (1573 – 1632), Oil on copper, Alte Pinakothek, Munich.
Isaiah’s Prophecy “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares” (c.1609), detail
Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568 – 1625) and Hendrick van Balen the Elder (1573 – 1632), Oil on copper, Alte Pinakothek, Munich.

And in Isaiah 11:6-8, he describes a perfect world where all creatures of nature live in a perfect harmony. Besides a future living-in-harmony vision, this description also shows the daily dangers of nature in Isaiah’s time:

In that day the wolf and the lamb will live together;
the leopard will lie down with the baby goat.
The calf and the yearling will be safe with the lion,
and a little child will lead them all.
The cow will graze near the bear.
The cub and the calf will lie down together.
The lion will eat hay like a cow.
The baby will play safely near the hole of a cobra.
Yes, a little child will put its hand in a nest of deadly snakes without harm.

Isaiah and the United Nations.

Before we move on to Jeremiah, our next Prophet, let’s close Isaiah’s story with a glimpse of how his vision still lives on in our world today.

Outside the United Nations Headquarters in New York stands a bronze sculpture titled Let Us Beat Swords into Ploughshares. Created by Soviet artist Evgeniy Vuchetich (from Ukraine) and presented by the Soviet Union to the UN in 1959, the statue depicts a muscular man forging a sword into a ploughshare with a hammer. This imagery directly references the vision of peace articulated by the Prophet Isaiah, who proclaimed: “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” (Isaiah 2:4). The sculpture embodies Isaiah’s prophetic hope for a future where instruments of war are transformed into tools for nurturing life, symbolizing a universal aspiration for peace and the end of conflict.

Let Us Beat Swords Into Ploughshares (1959), Evgeniy Vuchetich (Soviet Union, 1908 - 1974), Bronze, 280cm heigh, gifted to the United Nations by the USSR on December 4th, 1959, United Nations, New York.
Let Us Beat Swords Into Ploughshares (1959)
Evgeniy Vuchetich (Soviet Union, 1908–1974), bronze, 280 cm high, gifted to the United Nations by the USSR on December 4, 1959. United Nations Headquarters, New York.

IIsaiah lived in the 8th century BC, during a time of political turmoil and moral decline in the Kingdom of Judah. He called for justice and righteousness, while also offering some of the most hopeful and enduring promises in the biblical tradition. His visions express the hope for a world where violence, fear, and injustice are overcome by harmony, justice, and peace. It is a universal prophecy, and it speaks to every age.

The Prophet Jeremiah

Jeremiah is another of the major prophets of the Hebrew Bible, known for his impassioned warnings and deep sorrow over the fate of his people. His prophecies include warnings of coming judgment, but also give hope for restoration.

Jeremiah before Jerusalem in Flames (c.1360), illustration from the Historical Bible manuscript by Master of Jean de Mandeville (French, active 1350 - 1370), Getty Center, Los Angeles.
Jeremiah Lamenting in front of Jerusalem in Flames (c.1360)
illustration from the Historical Bible manuscript by Master of Jean de Mandeville (French, active 1350 – 1370), Getty Center, Los Angeles.

The Weeping Prophet.

Jeremiah lived in the late 7th and early 6th centuries BC and prophesied during a time of great political and spiritual crisis in the Kingdom of Judah. Jeremiah warned that Jerusalem would fall because of the people’s unfaithfulness to God, condemning idolatry, social injustice, and the corruption of both leaders and priests. His warnings came true when the Babylonians, under King Nebuchadnezzar II, destroyed Jerusalem and looted its Temple in 586 BC, leading to the exile of many Jews to Babylon.

Because of the emotional depth of his laments — especially those expressed in the Bible Book of Lamentations, traditionally attributed to him — Jeremiah is often called the “weeping prophet.” His name gave rise to the word jeremiad, meaning a long, mournful complaint. His name survives in the given name Jeremy.

In art, Jeremiah is typically portrayed as an elderly, bearded man, often seated or hunched in a posture of grief or deep contemplation. He may appear weeping or lost in thought, his head resting on his hand in a gesture of sadness and lamentation. On Rembrandt’s painting hereunder, Jeremiah is mourning the destruction of Jerusalem. The old prophet sits on the rocky slope of a mountain, his head resting on his left hand. On a stone beside him lie a golden bowl, a jug, and books, relics from the destroyed temple. In the lower left, the burning buildings of Jerusalem can be seen.

Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem (1630), Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 - 1669), Oil on panel, 58x46cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem (1630)
Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), Oil on panel, 58x46cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

One of the most famous depictions is Michelangelo’s Jeremiah on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, his head resting on his hand in a posture of mournful reflection.

The Prophet Jeremiah (1508 - 1512), Michelangelo (1475 - 1564), 390x380cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.
The Prophet Jeremiah (c.1510)
Michelangelo (1475 – 1564), 390x380cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.

Michaelangelo as Jeremiah, a self-portrait?

Interestingly, Michelangelo’s depiction of Jeremiah in the Sistine Chapel may have a personal twist. Some art historians suggest that the anguished expression of the prophet could actually be a self-portrait of Michelangelo himself. At the time, Michelangelo was deep into his monumental work on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, a project that was taking far longer than expected. Pope Julius II’s persistent demands for progress left Michelangelo feeling trapped and frustrated, and it’s said that the artist infused some of his own lamentation and weariness into Jeremiah’s portrayal. Perhaps, in this depiction, the weeping prophet is not only mourning the fate of his people but also expressing Michelangelo’s own sorrow over the endless toil of the commission.

Closing Remarks, Jeremiah and Isaiah in modern days.

Both Jeremiah and Isaiah speak to people in times of crisis, but their emotional tone and prophetic focus differ. Jeremiah is deeply rooted in lament and mourning. He bears witness to downfall and trauma, giving voice to sorrow, both that of others and his own, as if he personally carries the pain. His spirit is introspective and somber, focused on exposing the depth of the wound. Isaiah, by contrast, speaks with an eye toward hope and restoration. His prophecies are filled with visions of peace and a transformed world. He is forward-looking, pointing the way to healing and offering a horizon of promise and joy.

In simple terms: Jeremiah names the wound and weeps over it; Isaiah envisions the cure and sings of its coming.

Together, they can help heal the human heart. When we are weighed down by loss, we can think of Jeremiah and Isaiah: Jeremiah gives us the space to mourn, to acknowledge sorrow without shame. Isaiah reaches out from the future, offering hope, renewal, and the promise of joy once again.

Cain and Abel

Cain and Abel

“Destructive Power of Jealousy“

The tale of Cain and Abel is one of the earliest and most poignant stories from the Bible, illustrating themes of jealousy, moral choice, and justice.

Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise and Adam and Eve with their sons Cain and Abel (c.1450)
Miniature from Manuscript 0139, f.003v-004, Jean Mielot, Miroir de l’humaine salvation, parchment, leaf 40x30cm, Chantilly, Bibliothèque et Archives du Château, France.

The narrative begins with Adam and Eve, the first humans created by God, living in the Garden of Eden. This paradise was lost to them by eating the forbidden fruit, resulting in their expulsion. Driven from Eden, they were condemned to a life of toil and hardship. Adam, whose name means “man,” was cursed to work the ground and labor for his sustenance with great effort and sweat. Eve, whose name means “life,” was condemned to suffer pain in childbirth. These curses set the stage for their challenging life outside Eden.

After their expulsion from Eden, Adam and Eve started a new life and had two sons: Cain, the firstborn, and Abel. Cain became a farmer, working the soil, while Abel became a shepherd, tending to the flocks. Their professions set the stage for the fateful events that followed.

Cain and Abel Offering Gifts (c. 1365)
Master of Jean de Mandeville (French, active 1350 – 1370), Illuminated manuscript with tempera colors, gold, and ink, leaf 35x26cm, Getty, Los Angeles.

In time, both Cain and Abel made offerings to God. Cain offered fruits of the soil, while Abel brought fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock. God looked with favor upon Abel and his offering, but He did not look with favor upon Cain and his offering; see the two God-images on the manuscript illustration above. This divine preference sparked jealousy and anger in Cain.

Cain and Abel Offering Gifts and Cain killing Abel (c.1477)
from the Codex Palatinus Germanicus 16, Illustrated manuscript from the workshop of Ludwig Henfflin (German, 15th Century), 18x17cm, Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg, Germany.

Consumed by envy and rage, Cain lured Abel into the fields and killed him, committing the first murder recorded in biblical history. When God inquired about Abel’s whereabouts, Cain famously responded, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God, knowing what had transpired, cursed Cain to a life of wandering and hardship, and sends him away to a land East of Eden.

Cain slaying Abel (c.1608)
Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 131x94cm, The Courtauld Gallery, London.

The story vividly illustrates the destructive power of jealousy. Cain’s envy of Abel’s favor with God drives him to commit a heinous act. This emotion blinds him to brotherly love and leads to tragic consequences.

Cain Killing Abel (1589)
Engraving by Jan Muller (Netherlandish, 1571 – 1628) after design by Cornelis Cornelisz van Haarlem (Netherlandish, 1562 – 1638), 33x42cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

After the murder, Cain expresses a form of regret when confronted by God. His infamous response, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” and later his concern about being killed in retribution, reflect his realization of the gravity of his actions. This regret, however, appears more self-centered than truly remorseful for Abel’s death. While the story does not explicitly mention forgiveness in the conventional sense, there is a form of divine clemency. God marks Cain to protect him from being killed by others, signifying that despite his grave sin, Cain is given a chance to live and possibly atone. This mark can be interpreted as a complex form of mercy, highlighting that even severe sinners are not beyond the reach of divine protection.

The Lamentation of Abel (1623) with on the right Abel’s flock of sheep, and two more children of Adam and Eve, one of them being Seth, the future ancestor of Noah.
Pieter Lastman (Netherlandish, 1583 – 1633), 68x95cm, The Rembrandt House Museum, Amsterdam.
Adam and Eve Lamenting over the Corpse of Abel (1604) with some scenes in the background: top right Cain and Abel offering, middle right Cain kills Abel, and middle left Cain sent away to the East of Eden.
from the series Adam and Eve, History of the First Parents of Man, engraving by Jan Pietersz Saenredam (Netherlandish, 1565 – 1607) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1566 – 1651), 28x20cm cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The Death of Abel (c.1539) and God cursing Cain and sending him away to the Land of Nod, East of Eden.
Michiel Coxcie (Flemish, 1499 – 1592), 151x125cm, Prado, Madrid.

Genesis 4:9 is a pivotal verse: “Then the Lord said to Cain, ‘Where is your brother Abel?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”

This part holds significant moral implications, encapsulating themes of responsibility, guilt, and moral accountability. Here’s an analysis of its significance. By asking Cain about Abel’s whereabouts, God is not seeking information but providing Cain with an opportunity to confess his wrongdoing. This mirrors God’s approach to Adam and Eve in Genesis 3:9 when He asked, “Where are you?” after they sinned. It signifies God’s desire for honesty and repentance from humanity. The question “Where is your brother Abel?” underscores the expectation that humans should be aware of and care for one another, highlighting a fundamental ethical principle of communal responsibility.

Curse of Cain (1583) with few extra scenes: on the left Adam and Eve lamenting over the body of Abel, on the right Adam and Eve expelled from paradise and in top right corner the two offers made by Cain and Abel.
from the series Sinners of the Old Testament, engraving by Raphaël Sadeler I (Flemish, 1561 – 1628) after design by Maerten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), 24x20cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Cain’s reply, “I don’t know,” is a blatant lie, showcasing his unwillingness to accept responsibility for his actions. This reflects the depth of his moral failure, as he not only commits fratricide but also attempts to deceive God. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”: This rhetorical question is laden with irony and defiance. It encapsulates Cain’s attempt to evade responsibility and his failure to understand the moral duty of protecting and caring for his sibling. The phrase has since become synonymous with the idea of moral and social responsibility, questioning whether individuals are obligated to look after the welfare of others.

The passage underscores the teaching that individuals have a duty to one another. The concept of being one’s “brother’s keeper” implies that everyone has a responsibility to look out for and protect others, which is a cornerstone of ethical behavior in many religious and moral systems. The phrase “Am I my brother’s keeper?” challenges readers to reflect on their own responsibilities to their fellow human beings, making it a timeless and profound moral question.

The Story of Cain and Abel (1425 – 1452) in six scenes: top left Adam and Eve with their sons Cain and Abel, middle left Abel as shepherd, bottom left Cain as farmer, top right the offer of Cain and Abel and God giving more appreciation to one above the other, middle right Cain killing Abel, and bottom right God in conversation with Cain and sending him away to the land East of Eden.
Lorenzo Ghiberti (Italian, 1378 – 1455), panel from the Gates of Paradise, Opera del Duomo Museum, Florence.

The story of Cain and Abel has been a rich source of inspiration for artists throughout history. Ghiberti’s bronze relief on the Gates of Paradise in Florence captures the drama and emotion of the tale in six scenes with the crucial moments of their story. The story of Cain and Abel is not only a tale of sin and retribution but also an exploration of human emotions and relationships. It continues to be a significant cultural and religious reference, reminding us of the complexities of human nature and the consequences of our actions.

Cain and Abel, Genesis 4:1-16 (based on the New International Version Bible translation)

1 Adam made love to his wife Eve, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Cain. 2 Later she gave birth to his brother Abel. Now Abel became a shepherd and kept flocks, and Cain worked as a farmer.

3 In the course of time Cain brought some of the fruits of the soil as an offering to the Lord. 4 And Abel also brought an offering, fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock. The Lord looked with favor on Abel and his offering, 5 but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry, and his face was downcast.

6 Then the Lord said to Cain, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? 7 If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you may rule over it.”

8 Now Cain said to his brother Abel, “Let’s go out to the field.” While they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

9 Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” “I don’t know,” he replied. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” 

10 The Lord said, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. 11 Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. 12 When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”

13 Cain said to the Lord, “My punishment is more than I can bear. 14 Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.” 15 But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills you, Cain, will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.

16 So Cain went away from the Lord’s presence and lived in the Land of Nod, East of Eden.

Silenus and Bacchus (c.1572) shine again in the Uffizi.

Silenus and Bacchus (c.1572) shine again in the Uffizi.

Jacopo Del Duca aka Jacopo Siciliano (Italian, 1520 – 1604)

Le Gallerie degli Uffize, Florence

After a complex restoration which lasted over six months, the bronze sculpture and one of the leading lights of the Verone Corridor on the first floor of the Uffizi Gallery is glowing again: we are talking about the large statue of Silenus with Bacchus as a Child by the sixteenth-century artist Jacopo del Duca.

Silenus with Bacchus as a Child (c.1572), Jacopo Del Duca aka Jacopo Siciliano (Italian, 1520 – 1604), Bronze, height 187cm, Le Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence.

The restoration has been the first recovery intervention carried out on the statue in modern times. It had become necessary because of the excessive darkening of the bronze caused by many retouchings and corrections made on the surface of the Silenus over the centuries. Also, its base needed to be reinforced because of the presence of microcracks in several points.

Silenus with the Infant Bacchus, marble statue created in Rome around 1st century AD after a Greek bronze original by Lysippos from around 300 BC, discovered in Rome in the Gardens of Sallustius around 1566, height 198cm, Louvre, Paris.

The subject derives from a marble statue, now preserved in the Louvre, which is a Roman copy from the Imperial era after a bronze dating back to the late 4th century BC allegedly by the Greek sculptor Lysippos. The Louvre Silenus (the so-called Borghese Silenus) was found in the second half of the sixteenth century in a garden in Rome. The bronze copy of the Uffizi, was commissioned by Ferdinando I de’ Medici. In 1588, the Grand Duke placed the sculpture inside the gallery of Villa Medici in Rome and later moved in front of the villa’s portico. In 1787, Silenus with Bacchus as a Child was brought to Florence and displayed in the Uffizi Gallery, where it’s still found today.

In Greek mythology, Silenus was a companion and tutor to the wine god Bacchus (or in Greek Dionysus). A notorious consumer of wine, he was usually drunk and had to be supported by satyrs or carried by a donkey. But Silenus was also wise prophet and the bearer of terrible wisdom; he was described as the oldest, wisest and most drunken of the followers of Bacchus.

Drunken Silenus (c.1620), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 212x215cm, Alte Pinakothek, München.

When Bacchus was born, Hermes – the messenger of the gods – took the infant and gave it to Silenus, then a minor forest god who loved getting drunk and making wine. Silenus took young Bacchus under his care and raised the child which grew to become one of the most important gods of Greek mythology. Eventually, Silenus, from a foster father became a follower of Bacchus and he became inextricably linked with the wine god.

The Thriumph of Silenus (c.1625), Gerrit van Honthorst (Netherlandish, 1590 – 1656), 209x272cm, Palais des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France.
  • More about the restoration, click here.
  • Some info about visiting the Uffizi in Florence, click here.
The Guitar Player (c.1670), Johannes Vermeer, London.

The Guitar Player (c.1670), Johannes Vermeer, London.

Johannes Vermeer (Netherlandish, 1632 – 1675)

Kenwood House, London

On the edge of Hampstead Heath and surrounded by tranquil landscaped gardens, Kenwood House is one of London’s hidden gems. The stately home has breathtaking interiors by Robert Adam and a stunning world-class art collection, which includes Vermeer’s ‘Guitar Player.

The Guitar Player (c.1670), Johannes Vermeer (Netherlandish, 1632 – 1675), 53x46cm, Kenwood House, London.

The Guitar Player properly demonstrates the energy of Vermeer’s late style, creating paintings that demonstrate dynamic poses and actions, implying that a movement (or in this case, sound) is taking place. In this painting, Vermeer depicts a young girl strumming a guitar. The instrument is placed comfortably on her lap while she plays near a window, sitting in the corner of a room. The young girl has an open expression that is joyous and flirtatious. The girl’s smile and tipped head, along with the fixed gaze on something just outside the painting suggests that she is playing not for us, but for an unseen individual. Her dress and hairstyle reflect the relevant fashions of the wealthy Dutch, in that day.

After Vermeer’s death in 1675, the painting stayed in Delft in the hands of Maria de Knuijt, his widow. In 1682, Maria gave the painting to their daughter, Magdalena van Ruijven. After Magdalena’s death, the painting was passed on to her widower, Jacob Abrahamsz Dissius. In 1696, the painting was auctioned off, went hrought various ownerships and has been on display at Kenwood House, London since the 1920s.

On February 23, 1974, someone stole the painting from Kenwood House and ransomed it for a deal to deliver and distribute over $1 million USD in food to the Caribbean island of Grenada, or the thief would destroy the painting. Following the threat, a small strip of the painting was sent to The Times in London. The painting was recovered by Scotland Yard in the cemetery of St Bartholomew-the-Great, in London’s financial district, on May 7, 1974. 

A period copy, A Lady Playing the Guitar, is in the collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Recent scholarship, as of June 2023, indicates the painting in the Philadelphia museum may be an original Vermeer work. Kenwood’s version could not be presented in the Rijksmuseum’s 2023 grand Vermeer exhibition, since its fragile condition made it too risky to travel. But, it can be seen at Kenwood House; without queues and not necessary to book tickets; and entrace is free!

Kenwood House, London.
  • Kenwood House is part of English Heritage; all details about opening times and visiting can be found here.
  • How to get to Kenwood House, click here. It’s 30 minutes walk from Highgate metro station, and that’s easily reached from central London.
Lamentation of Christ (c.1483), Mantegna, Milan.

Lamentation of Christ (c.1483), Mantegna, Milan.

Andrea Mantegna (Italian, 1431 – 1506)

Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan

Andrea Mantegna’s Lamentation of Christ, housed in the Pinacoteca di Brera in Milan, is a portrayal of the aftermath of Christ’s crucifixion. Painted around 1483, it depicts the lifeless body of Jesus being mourned by the Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene, and Saint John the Evangelist. The most striking aspect of the painting is Mantegna’s use of foreshortening to create a sense of depth and realism.

Lamentation of Christ (c.1483), Andrea Mantegna (Italian, 1431 – 1506), Tempera on Canvas, 68×81cm, Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan.

The painting was found in Mantegna’s studio at the time of his death, sold by his son Ludovico to Cardinal Sigismondo Gonzaga and inventoried among the property of the lords of Mantua in 1627.

The iconography of the work, probably intended for the artist’s private devotion, refers to the compositional scheme of the Lamentation over the Dead Christ, in which mourners are gathered around the body prepared for burial, laid out on the stone of unction and already anointed with perfumes.
The composition produces a great emotional impact, accentuated by the extreme foreshortening: Christ’s body is very close to the viewpoint of the observer who, looking at it, is drawn into the center of the drama; every detail is enhanced, the rigor mortis of the body and the wounds of the crucifixion.
It is an absolute peak in Mantegna’s production, a work whose expressive force and masterly handling of the illusion of perspective have made it one of the best-known symbols of the Italian Renaissance.

The Khan Academy has a beautiful video with explanation about Mantegna’s Lamentation of Christ. worth viewing before visiting.

  • The Pinacoteca di Brera is in the heart of Milan. For details about visiting, click here.
  • For directions, click here.
Basket of Fruit (c.1599), Caravaggio, Milan.

Basket of Fruit (c.1599), Caravaggio, Milan.

Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610)

Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, Milan

The Pinacoteca Ambrosiana was established in April 1618, when Cardinal Federico Borromeo donated his collection of paintings, drawings and statues to the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, which he had founded in 1607. The museum consists of 24 rooms, where visitors can admire some of the greatest masterpieces of all time, and one of those is the Basket of Fruit or Canestra di Frutta by Caravaggio.

Basket of Fruit, Canestra di Frutta (c.1599), Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610), 68x55cm, Pinacoteca of the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan.

This Basket of Fruit is probably the most famous painting in the collection of Cardinal Federico Borromeo, which formed the original nucleus of the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana. It is considered to be a sort of prototype of the “still life” genre. It shows a wicker basket brimming with fruit and leaves, rendered with great realism and attention to detail. This almost conflicts with the abstract neutral background of the painting and with the line of colour the basket itself is resting on, and from which it juts out. The founder of the Ambrosiana mentions this extraordinary painting many times in his writings and says he has searched in vain for a work that can bear comparison to it. But, he writes “for its incomparable beauty and excellence, it remained alone”. The painting has been interpreted in many different ways, some of which are religious: the extreme realism with which the fresh fruits are placed alongside those that are worm-eaten, and the leaves that gradually dry out and shrivel, give tangible form to the inexorable passing of time.

And when you are visiting the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, please do not forget to see Leonardo da Vinci’s only painting on panel to have remained in Milan, now called Portrait of a Musician.

Portrait of a Musician (c.1485), Leonardo da Vinci (Italian, 1452 – 1519), 45×32cm, Pinacoteca of the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan.

Leonardo’s Portrait of a Musician was traditionally thought to depict Ludovico il Moro, Duke of Milan. In 1905, when restoration work removed the overpainting and uncovered the hand with a musical scroll in the lower part, it was suggested that this was the portrait of a Musician, at times identified as Franchino Gaffurio, chapel Master of the Duomo of Milan and at other times as the Franco Flemish singer and composer Josquin des Prez, both of whom worked in Milan at the time of Leonardo and Ludovico il Moro. Recently it has also been suggested that it is a portrait of Atalante Migliorotti, a Tuscan musician who was a friend of Leonardo and who came with him to the Duke’s court in Milan as a singer and talented lyrist. With other words, we don’t know who it is, but it’s a beautiful portrait for sure. And the queues are way less than for visiting Leonardo’s Last Supper!

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane (1646), Borromini, Rome.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane (1646), Borromini, Rome.

Francesco Borromini (Italian, 1599 – 1667)

Rome

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, also called San Carlino, is an iconic masterpiece of Baroque architecture. The church was designed by the architect Francesco Borromini, and it was his first commission. The church is built for the Spanish Trinitarians, an order dedicated to the freeing of Christian slaves.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane (1646), Francesco Borromini (Italian, 1599 – 1667), Rome.

In the 1630s, the monks of the Trinitarian Order were searching for an architect to build a church connecting their monastery. Francesco Borromini offered to complete the commission free of charge in order to start his career as a solo architect. The rise of baroque architecture prompted Borromini to bring his sculpture background to life by creating unexpected combinations of curves and rectangular forms in his work. Many baroque architects during the seventeenth century focused their design basis to fall in line with proportions of the human body. Borromini was non-classical in the sense that he based his designs on geometric figures. In San Carlino it all culminates in the dome with its geometrical patters.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane (1646), view into the dome, Francesco Borromini (Italian, 1599 – 1667), Rome.

Francesco Borromini (1599–1667) came from a lower-class background but quickly built a name for himself by taking on small commissions for churches around Europe. Borromini became known as a father of baroque architecture after completing his first solo project, the San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane. Borromini first found his interest in architecture through his travels to Milan, in which his father sent him to observe stonecutting. His interest lead to years of architectural and sculptural training which caused a growing debt to his father. Borromini fled to Rome to avoid his debt and found himself becoming an architectural star pupil under renowned Italian architect Carlo Maderno. Together, Maderno and Borromini worked side by side on numerous architectural giants, St. Peter’s Basilica, Palazzo Barberini, Sant’Andrea della Valle, until Maderno died and Borromini found himself working as a solo baroque architect.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane (1646), Floorplan, Francesco Borromini (Italian, 1599 – 1667), Rome.

Being inside this small church San Carlino and looking up towards the dome is a grand exprerience and makes one realise that Borromini is a top genius of architecture. This church, small as it is, is a masterpiece of the baroque era. For Saint Peter’s church one needs to queue for hours, San Carlino has no queues at all!

The Khan Academy has a great and very instructive video about San Carlino and the Trinitarians, who commissioned the church.

Balaam and the Donkey (1626), Rembrandt, Paris.

Balaam and the Donkey (1626), Rembrandt, Paris.

Rembrandt (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669)

Musée Cognacq-Jay, Paris

This composition of Balaam and the Donkey, among the first known paintings by the Dutch master, is probably the oldest Rembrandt held in France. The story depicted by Rembrandt is about the prophet Balaam beating his donkey who subsequently speaks with a human voice and asks Balaam why he is beating her. The angel is a messenger from God, and it’s all about obeying God.

Balaam and the Donkey (1626), Rembrandt (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669), 63x47cm, Musée Cognacq-Jay, Paris.

The story of Balaam and the donkey is found in the Book of Numbers in the Bible, specifically in Numbers 22:21-35. Balaam was a prophet known for his wisdom and consulted by many. Balak, the king of Moab, became concerned about the Israelites who were encamped near his territory. He feared they would conquer his land, so he sent messengers to Balaam, offering him rewards if he would curse the Israelites.

Initially, God instructed Balaam not to go with the messengers and not to curse the Israelites because they were blessed. However, when Balak’s messengers returned with more valuable offers, Balaam asked God again, and this time, God allowed him to go but instructed him to speak only what He told him.

As Balaam set out on his journey riding his donkey, an angel of the Lord appeared on the road with a drawn sword, blocking the donkey’s path. The donkey saw the angel but Balaam did not. The donkey veered off the road into a field to avoid the angel. The second time, the donkey pushed itself against a wall to make space for the angel, but crushing Balaam’s foot against that wall. Balaam beat the donkey and forced it back onto the road. Further along the road, the angel appeared again, this time in a narrow path with no room to turn aside. The donkey lay down under Balaam, frustrating him further. Again, Balaam beat the donkey.

Then, the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and it spoke to Balaam with a human voice, asking him why he had beaten it. Balaam, surprised but not recognizing the significance of a speaking donkey, answered as if it were a normal conversation. Eventually, God opened Balaam’s eyes to see the angel standing in the road, and he realized his error. The angel told Balaam that the donkey had saved his life by seeing the angel and that if the donkey had not turned aside, Balaam would have been killed.

The story serves as a reminder of God’s sovereignty and His ability to use any means to communicate His will, even through a donkey. It also emphasizes the importance of listening to God’s instructions and not being swayed by personal desires or external pressures.

Balaam and the Donkey (1622), Pieter Lastman (Netherlandish, 1583 – 1633), 41x60cm, The Israel Museum, Jerusalem.

This rare subject seems to be a traditional one in 16th century Dutch art, and Rembrandt was certainly familiar with an interpretation by Pieter Lastman, in whose studio he did his apprenticeship. The young painter seems to have been inspired by it in several respects: the moment of the story represented in the painting and the animal’s posture  – bent left paw, head turned towards its master and mouth open. However, many signs of Rembrandt’s art can already be detected in this canvas. The meticulous technique and sophisticated colours already give pride of place to the central light in his mature work.

The dramatic tension of Rembrandt’s scene is concentrated in the three main characters: Balaam, the donkey and the angel. The eye moves around the central group to discover two other pairs of figures, including a turbaned head that evokes the master’s incredible tronies (the Dutch word for “face”), which are drawings of faces with singular features and striking expressions. In the painting of fabrics and drapes for the prophet’s clothing, or the satchel full of leaves, we can already distinguish Rembrandt’s unique treatment of materials, combining the rendering of details with the thickness of the paint, a liquid paste with granulation effects.

  • Musée Cognacq-Jay, Paris, off the beaten track but in middle of the Marais, no queues, and free when no exhibition going on.
  • For directions, click here. Musée Picasso is around the corner.
Villa La Rotonda (1567), Palladio, Vicenza.

Villa La Rotonda (1567), Palladio, Vicenza.

Andrea Palladio (Italian, 1508 – 1580)

Vicenza, Italy

Villa La Rotonda is a Renaissance villa just outside Vicenza in Northern Italy designed by Italian Renaissance architect Andrea Palladio. The villa’s official name is Villa Almerico Capra Valmarana, but it is mostly known as La Rotonda. Along with other works by Palladio, the building is conserved as part of the Unesco World Heritage Site City of Vicenza and the Palladian Villas of the Veneto.

Villa La Rotonda (1567), Andrea Palladio (Italian, 1508 – 1580), Vicenza, Italy.

This house, was to be one of Palladio’s best-known legacies to the architectural world. Villa La Rotonda may have inspired a thousand subsequent buildings, like the White House in Washington D.C., but the villa was itself inspired by the Pantheon in Rome.

The name La Rotonda refers to the central circular hall with its dome. This and all other rooms were proportioned with mathematical precision according to Palladio’s rules of architecture which he published in I quattro libri dell’architettura. The design reflected the humanist values of Renaissance architecture.  From the porticos, views of the surrounding countryside can be seen; this is purposeful as the Villa was designed to be in harmony with the landscape. This was in contrast to such buildings as Villa Farnese (aka Villa Caprarola) of just 16 years earlier.

Villa La Rotonda (Villa Almerico Capra Valmarana), from I quattro libri dell’architettura, Andrea Palladio (Italian, 1508 – 1580), published in Venice, 1570, 29x20cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Building began in 1567. Neither Palladio nor the owner, Paolo Almerico, were to see the completion of the villa. Palladio died in 1580 and Vincenzo Scamozzi, after Palladio the most famous Renaissance architect of those days, was employed by the new owners to oversee the completion. 

The villa is now owned by Count Nicolò Valmarana. The interior is open to the public Friday through Sunday, and occasionally the Count will give tours.

  • Villa La Rotonda can be visited Friday, Saturday and Sunday, for all the details, click here.
  • The Villa can be reached early from Vicenza, it’s a 30 minutes walk from the station. For directions, click here.
Restoration of Masaccio’s Holy Trinity, Santa Maria Novella, Florence.

Restoration of Masaccio’s Holy Trinity, Santa Maria Novella, Florence.

Holy Trinity (c.1426), Masaccio (Italian, 1401 – 1428)

Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, Florence

During restoration work it will be possible to admire closely the great and wonderful Masaccio’s Holy Trinity up close for the first time ever and see the restorers at work!

Restoration Holy Trinity (c.1426), Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, Florence.

Tommaso Guidi, known as Masaccio, was born in San Giovanni Valdarno, a village between Arezzo and Florence, on 21 December 1401. Already by October of 1418 he was working as a painter and living in Florence. Since the oldest sources report that he died at twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, the year of his death is probably 1428.

Around 1427 Masaccio won a prestigious commission to produce a Holy Trinity for the Dominican church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence. Probably the donor is represented to the left of the Virgin in the painting, while his wife is right of St. John the Evangelist. The fresco, considered by many to be Masaccio’s masterwork, is the earliest surviving painting to use systematic linear perspective, possibly devised by Masaccio with the assistance of Brunelleschi.

Holy Trinity (c.1426), Masaccio (Italian, 1401 – 1428), fresco, 667x317cm, Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, Florence.

Masaccio started by producing a rough drawing of the composition and perspective lines on the wall. The drawing was covered with fresh plaster for making the fresco. To ensure the precise transfer of the perspective lines from the sketch to the plaster, Masaccio inserted a nail in at the vanishing point under the base of the cross and attached strings to it, which he pressed in (or carved into) the plaster. The marks of the preparatory works are still visible.

The sacred figures and the donors are represented above an image of a skeleton lying on a sarcophagus. An inscription seemingly carved into the wall above the skeleton reads: “Io fui gia quel che voi siete e quel ch’io sono voi anco sarete” (I once was what now you are and what I am, you shall yet be). This skeleton is a reminder to viewers that their time on earth is transitory. It is only through faith in the Trinity, the fresco suggests, that one overcomes this death. The Holy Spirit is seen in the form of a dove, above Jesus.

In 1570 Giorgio Vasari covered the fresco with a stone altar and a painting. The Holy Trinity fresco was rediscovered in good condition during an 18th century restoration of the Church. It was removed from the wall and reassembled on the inner wall of the facade. When another restoration was undertaken in 1952 the skeleton painted by Masaccio at the bottom of the Holy Trinity fresco was discovered and then the Holy Trinity fresco was put back in its original place. 

Restoration work as on April 9, 2024; Holy Trinity (c.1426), Masaccio (Italian, 1401 – 1428), fresco, 667x317cm, Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, Florence.
  • For visiting the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, Florence, click here.
  • The Basilica di Santa Maria Novella is located next to the Santa Maria Novella Station in Florence., Florence. Click here for directions.
Last Supper (1450), Andrea del Castagno, Florence, Italy.

Last Supper (1450), Andrea del Castagno, Florence, Italy.

Andrea del Castagno (Italian, 1420 – 1457)

Cenacolo di Sant’Apollonia, Florence

This Last Supper is a fresco by the Italian Renaissance artist Andrea del Castagno, located in the refectory of the convent of Sant’Apollonia, now the Museo di Cenacolo di Sant’Apollonia, and accessed through a door on Via Ventisette Aprile at the corner with Santa Reparata, in Florence. The painting depicts Jesus and the Apostles during the Last Supper, with Judas, unlike all the other apostles, sitting separately on the near side of the table, as is common in depictions of the Last Supper in Christian art.

Last Supper (1450), Andrea del Castagno (Italian, 1420 – 1457), fresco, 453x975cm, Museo di Cenacolo di Sant’Apollonia, Florence.

Sant’Apollonia was a Benedictine convent of cloistered nuns, and Castagno’s fresco was not publicly known until the convent was suppressed in 1866. Thus its exclusively female audience should be considered in analyzing the work. Castagno painted a large chamber with life-sized figures that confronted the nuns at every meal. The fresco would have served as a didactic image and an inspiration to meditation on their relationship with Jesus.

Although the Last Supper is described in all four Gospels, Castagno’s fresco seems most closely aligned with the account in the Gospel of John, in which eleven of the apostles are confused and the devil “enters” Judas when Jesus announces one of his followers will betray him. Saint John’s posture of innocent slumber neatly contrasts with Judas’s tense, upright pose and exaggeratedly pointed facial features. Except for Judas, Christ and his apostles, including the recumbent Saint John, all have a translucent disc of a halo above their heads.

Portrait of Andrea del Castagno, from the series “Serie degli Uomini i più illustri nella pittura, scultura e architettura” (c.1770), made by Giovanni Battista Cecchi, engraving, 17x12cm, British Museum, London.

Andrea del Castagno (1420 – 1457) was an Italian Renaissance painter in Florence, influenced chiefly by Masaccio and Giotto. In 1447 Castagno worked in the refectory of the Benedictine nuns at Sant’Apollonia in Florence, painting, in the lower part, a fresco of the Last Supper, accompanied above by other scenes portraying the Passion of Christ: the Crucifixion, Entombment, and Resurrection, which are now damaged. The fresco of the Last Supper is in an excellent state of conservation, in part because it remained behind a plaster wall for more than a century. Many important Florentine families had daughters in the convent at Sant’Apollonia, so painting there probably brought Andrea to Florentine fame. Del Castagno’s Last Supper may have been seen by Leonardo da Vinci before he painted his own Last Supper, about 50 years later. Castagno died of the plague in 1457. 

Museo di Cenacolo di Sant’Apollonia, Florence.
Last Supper (1525), Andrea del Sarto, Florence, Italy.

Last Supper (1525), Andrea del Sarto, Florence, Italy.

Andrea del Sarto (Italian, 1486 – 1531)

Cenacolo di Andrea del Sarto, Florence.

In the old refectory of the San Salvi monastery on the outskirts of Florence, Andrea del Sarto painted the life-like Last Supper. Initially, the artist painted the sub-arch, which took 18 days. Work was suspended for about fifteen years, and then he was called back to fresco the Last Supper properly and completed it in 46 days. During the siege of Florence it was one of the very few surviving works outside the walls of Florence, the only one of importance, and it seems that the imperial soldiers were so enchanted by its surprising modernity that they spared it. In 1534 the monastery became a female monastery and then a strict enclosure was introduced, which made the work de facto invisible until the monastery was suppressed. 

Last Supper (1525), Andrea del Sarto (Italian, 1486 – 1531), fresco, 468x871cm, Museo del Cenacolo di Andrea del Sarto, Florence.

At this Last Supper, the apostles are seated, shocked by the announcement of the betrayal just uttered by Jesus. Judas, as Leonardo already did in his Last Supper, is not separated from the table on this side as in so many other Last Suppers, but is at the right hand of Jesus, faithful to the Gospel text of John with his hand on his chest to demonstrate his disbelief, as he receives a piece of soaked bread from Jesus. Jesus had just told the group that one of them will betray him, the one he will rech out to with a piece of bread.

Selfportrait (1528), Andrea del Sarto (Italian, 1486 – 1531), fresco, 51x38cm, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

Andrea del Sarto (1486 – 1530) was an Italian painter from Florence, whose career flourished during the High Renaissance and early Mannerism. Although highly regarded during his lifetime as an artist senza errori or without errors, his renown was eclipsed after his death by that of his contemporaries Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael.

Museo del Cenacolo di Andrea del Sarto, Florence.
Four Saints Altarpiece (1482), Filippino Lippi, Lucca, Italy.

Four Saints Altarpiece (1482), Filippino Lippi, Lucca, Italy.

Filippino Lippi (Italian, 1457 – 1504)

Lucca, Chiesa di San Michele in Foro

In 1482, Filippino Lippi painted the Fours Saints Altarpiece also known as the Pala Magrini; depicting the saints Roch, Sebastian, Jerome, and Helena. “Pala” is an Italian term used to refer to a single panel altarpiece. Filipino painted this altarpiece in “tempera”, a technique in which pigments are mixed with a water-soluble binder, typically egg yolk or egg white, to create a paint medium. Used before “oil painting” became popular. This beautiful painting can be seen in the Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, Lucca, Italy.

Pala Magrini or Four Saints Altarpiece (c.1483), Filippino Lippi (Italian, 1457 – 1504), 147x158cm, Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, Lucca, Italy.

The saints from left to right:

Saint Roch (San Rocco) is a Christian saint, often invoked against the plague. According to tradition, he cared for the sick during an outbreak of the plague in Italy, risking his own life. He is typically depicted with an enlarged lymph node on his thigh, symbolizing the plague, and with a pilgrim’s staff.

Saint Sebastian (San Sebastiano) is another Christian saint, known for his martyrdom, symbolized on the painting by the palm leave he is holding. He was a Roman soldier who converted to Christianity and was subsequently martyred for his faith. He is commonly depicted as a young man tied to a tree or column and pierced by arrows. Despite being left for dead, Sebastian survived and continued to profess his faith. Here he is recognoized by holding an arrow. 

Saint Jerome (San Girolamo) is one of the four Church Fathers and best known for his translation of the Bible into Latin, known as the Vulgate. He spent much of his life in study and contemplation, and he is often depicted with a lion, representing a famous legend in which he removed a thorn from the paw of a lion.

Saint Helena (Sant’Elena) was the mother of Emperor Constantine the Great. She is renowned for her pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where she is said to have discovered the True Cross, the cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified. She is often depicted holding a cross.

A viewer from the 15th century, living in an era plagued by the Black Death, would interpret this altarpiece by reading it from left to right: Roch and Sebastian are depicted surviving wounds, reminiscent of the lesions caused by the plague. The message conveyed is that such salvation can be attained through faith in the Word of the Bible (represented by Jerome) and the Cross (depicted by Helena).

Portrait of Filippino Lippi, from the series “Serie degli Uomini i più illustri nella pittura, scultura e architettura” (c.1770), made by Cosimo Colombini, engraving, 17x12cm, British Museum, London.

Filippino Lippi – “Filippino” to avoid confusion with his father Fra Filippo Lippi – was an Italian Renaissance painter, born around 1457 in Florence, Italy, and died in 1504. He was the illegimate son of the renowned painter Fra Filippo Lippi. Filippino trained under his father’s guidance and later under Sandro Botticelli, another prominent Florentine artist. Filippino Lippi’s style was influenced by both his father and Botticelli. The figure of Helena on the Pala Magrini looks like Botticelli’s Primavera.

Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, Lucca, Italy.

The church of San Michele in Foro is a church located on Piazza San Michele in Lucca, Italy, on the site where the Roman forum was situated. It is particularly known for its richly decorated façade or front. Partly due to the use of various types and colors of marble on the exterior and the front, this church is considered by many Tuscans to be one of the most beautiful churches in Tuscany. In 1070, construction began by order of Pope Alexander II, who was bishop of Lucca for four years. However, it was never completed: because too much money was spent on the church’s facade, there was not much left for the rest of the church.

  • For directions, click here.
National Gallery of Art acquires Anne Vallayer-Coster still life

National Gallery of Art acquires Anne Vallayer-Coster still life

Anne Vallayer-Coster (French, 1744 – 1818)

Still Life with Flowers in an Alabaster Vase and Fruit (1783)

The National Gallery of Art, Washington, has acquired an important painting by Anne Vallayer-Coster (1744–1818), Still Life with Flowers in an Alabaster Vase and Fruit (1783). One of the greatest still life painters of 18th-century France, Vallayer-Coster achieved remarkable success in the male-dominated art world of her time. She not only attracted the patronage of some of the most powerful collectors of the time, including Marie Antoinette, but she also became one of the few women to be admitted to the prestigious Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture and to show her work at its official public exhibition, the Salon.

Portrait of Anne Vallayer-Coster (c.1770), Engraving by Charles Francois Le Tellier (French, 1743 – 1800), National Gallery of Art, Washington.

Still Life with Flowers in an Alabaster Vase and Fruit is the first painting by Vallayer-Coster to enter the National Gallery’s collection. Despite the limited access to training and patronage, women artists achieved unprecedented professional opportunities and success in the latter half of the 18th century. Vallayer-Coster, alongside Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, is now the second woman artist represented in the National Gallery’s collection of 18th-century French paintings. This masterpiece not only fills out a more complete story of this pivotal period in European art history, but also highlights the accomplishments of one of its most significant artists.

Still Life with Flowers in an Alabaster Vase and Fruit (1783), Anne Vallayer-Coster (French, 1744 – 1818), 109x90cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.

One of Vallayer-Coster’s most ambitious works, this painting showcases her unrivaled ability to capture the soft, delicate textures of flowers and to coordinate their dazzling colors and irregular shapes into a harmonious whole. When it was exhibited at the Salon of 1783, critics hailed Still Life with Flowers in an Alabaster Vase and Fruit as a masterpiece. Vallayer-Coster herself considered it her finest painting, and she kept it until her death. Lost for nearly 200 years, this extraordinary work was recently rediscovered in an almost pristine state of preservation: unlined, on its original stretcher, and in the Louis XVI frame in which it was likely exhibited.

Depicting an opulent bouquet brimming with meticulously studied and exquisitely rendered flowers, this work includes roses, irises, lilacs, carnations, hollyhocks, dahlias, bluebells, and hydrangeas, among others, that create a dazzling display of color against the rich, chocolate brown scumbling of the background. The flowers sit in an alabaster vase adorned with French gilt-bronze mounts, featuring a child satyr supporting a cornucopia of fruits and flowers. Resting on an elaborately carved and gilded mahogany table with a pale gray marble top, the vase and flowers are completed by a bunch of white grapes, a pineapple, and three peaches. Evoking the cool polish of marble and alabaster, the glistening surface of cast-bronze, the translucency of grapes, the spiky form of a pineapple, the velvety skin of peaches, and the delicate freshness of flower petals, the painting epitomizes Vallayer-Coster’s extraordinary skill in portraying colors and textures.

Maarten van Heemskerck

Maarten van Heemskerck

Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem

28 September 2024 – 19 January 2025

The Frans Hals Museum, Stedelijk Museum Alkmaar and Teylers Museum will organize the first major retrospective exhibition on Maarten van Heemskerck. The Frans Hals Museum focuses on Heemskerck’s early career.

Maarten van Heemskerck was one of the most successful, innovative artists of the Northern Netherlands in the 16th century. In his lifetime, he saw the advent of Protestantism, new technology and the rise of the Dutch Republic. The changes that happened around him are reflected in his work: before it had been the Church, now burghers also patronised the arts, the impact of the Italian Renaissance reverberated in Holland and artists longed to see the art of Antiquity and their famous Italian contemporaries with their own eyes, while the iconoclastic cleansing of the churches brought a violent end to church art in the Northern Netherlands.

Saint Luke painting The Virgin (1532), Maerten van Heemskerck (Dutch, 1498 – 1574), 168x235cm, Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem.

In the Frans Hals Museum, the focus is on Maarten van Heemskerck’s early career. A comparison of his work with that of teachers and contemporaries such as Jan Gossaert and Jan van Scorel reveals how the up-and-coming, talented Heemskerck adopted and excelled in a remarkable new way of painting. This distinctly realistic style is clearly evident in the timeless portraits he painted for his increasingly successful burgher patrons. He depicted them with lifelike accuracy, down to the wrinkles and facial blemishes. Our exhibition concludes with his St Luke Painting the Virgin, the last work Heemskerck painted before leaving for Rome. It was one of the works Haarlem’s city council managed to save from the iconoclastic mob in 1566. A testimony to the high esteem in which Heemskerck was already held. St Luke Painting the Virgin has been restored specially for this exhibition and the spectacular result has revealed new insights into the way Heemskerck worked.

This year is the 450th anniversary of Maarten van Heemskerck’s death, then a wealthy, prominent burgher of Haarlem where he had settled after returning from Rome.

L’invention de la Renaissance; L’humanisme, le prince et l’artiste

L’invention de la Renaissance; L’humanisme, le prince et l’artiste

Bibliothèque nationale de France BnF, Paris

20 February – 16 June 2024

Du XIVe au XVIe siècle, l’Europe a été le théâtre d’une effervescence intellectuelle, artistique et scientifique nouvelle, que la postérité a consacrée sous le nom de Renaissance. L’humanisme en constitue le coeur : né dans l’Italie du XIVe siècle et caractérisé par le retour aux textes antiques et la restauration des valeurs de civilisation dont ils étaient porteurs, le mouvement humaniste a produit en Occident un modèle de culture nouveau, qui a modifié en profondeur les formes de la pensée comme celles de l’art. Les princes et les puissants s’en sont bientôt emparés pour fonder sur lui une image renouvelée d’eux-mêmes, comme l’attestent tout particulièrement les grandes et magnifiques bibliothèques qu’ils ont réunies.

Érasme de Rotterdam (1526), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471-1528), engraving, 25x19cm, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

La BnF consacre une exposition à cette épopée culturelle et à ce moment décisif dans l’avènement de notre modernité, où littérature et art occupent une place maîtresse. La présentation de plus de 200 oeuvres comprenant des manuscrits, des livres imprimés, des estampes, des dessins, des peintures, des sculptures et objets d’art, des monnaies et médailles issues des collections de la BnF et de prêts extérieurs de grandes collections parisiennes (musée du Louvre, musée Jacquemart-André) plonge le visiteur dans l’univers de pensée et le monde des humanistes de la Renaissance.

Le parcours de l’exposition conduit du cabinet de travail privé du lettré s’entourant de ses livres dans son studiolo jusqu’à l’espace ouvert au public des grandes bibliothèques princières. Entre ces deux moments qui disent l’importance capitale des livres et de leur collecte, le visiteur est invité à explorer les aspects majeurs de la culture humaniste de la Renaissance : le rôle fondateur joué au XIVe siècle par Pétrarque et sa bibliothèque ; la redécouverte des textes antiques et la tâche de leur diffusion par la copie manuscrite, le travail d’édition, la traduction ; l’évolution du goût et des formes artistiques qu’entraîne une connaissance toujours plus étendue du legs de l’Antiquité ; la promotion nouvelle de la dignité de l’être humain et des valeurs propres à sa puissance d’action et de création, telles que le programme humaniste de célébration des hommes illustres les exalte.

Suetonius, De vita Caesarum or Lives of the Caesars, “C. Suetonii Tranquilli
 duodecim Caesares : singulorum vitae praefiguntur numismata atque insignia elegantissimè delineata“, publication 1501-1600, manuscript in Latin on parchemin, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

Tout au long du parcours, manuscrits magnifiquement calligraphiés et enluminés et livres imprimés à la mise en page et l’illustration renouvelées par des modèles empruntés à l’Antiquité sont replacés dans le dialogue que l’art du livre de la Renaissance ne cesse d’entretenir avec l’ensemble des arts plastiques et visuels du temps : peinture et sculpture, art de la médaille et de la reliure, gravure et dessin.

La culture des lettres promue par les humanistes est ainsi réunie au culte de la beauté par lequel ils entendaient créer les conditions propices à l’établissement d’un rapport neuf et toujours plus étroit avec la culture de l’Antiquité : un rapport qui ne faisait pas seulement de la civilisation antique une matière d’étude mais aussi l’objet d’une véritable « renaissance », qui n’envisageait pas seulement cette civilisation comme un monde de connaissances historiques mais aussi comme un monde de valeurs toujours actuelles, de manière à accomplir la promesse d’humanité contenue dans le mot même d’humanisme.

Portrait équestre du condottiere Muzio Attendolo Sforza (1491), and folio 5r.
Both illuminations form Compendio di gesti del magnanimo et gloriosissimo Signore Sforza, incipiente dal tempo de la sua natiuità fine a la morte sua, etc., 1401-1500, manuscript in Italian, parchment, 33x22cm, BnF, Bibliothèque nationale de France, département des Manuscrits, Italien 372, fol. 4v. and fol. 5r.

Une scénographie sobre, au service des oeuvres et de leur mise en relation, met à profit les volumes de la galerie Mansart de la BnF Richelieu, pour enchaîner dans l’unité d’un récit les cinq grands chapitres de l’exposition. Ils conduisent du XIVe au milieu du XVIe siècle, tout en suivant l’ordre thématique que leurs titres indiquent : « Le studiolo » ; « Pétrarque et la naissance de l’humanisme » ; « De l’étude de l’Antiquité au goût de l’antique » ; « Le savoir et la gloire » ; « De la bibliothèque humaniste à la bibliothèque princière ».

The Kantharos

The Kantharos

Limburgs Museum, Venlo

27 April – 2 February 2025

The “Kantharos from Stevensweert” is making its way back to Limburg! This Roman archaeological gem, crafted entirely from silver with golden embellishments, was discovered in 1943 in the Maas River in Stevensweert, Limburg. More info to follow.

Kantharos from Stevensweert (c.100BC – 200AD), 13x11cm, silver and partly gold-plated, Netherlands Cultural Heritage Agency, on loan to Valkhof Museum, Nijmegen.
Brueghel to Rubens, great Flemish drawings

Brueghel to Rubens, great Flemish drawings

Ashmolean Museum, Oxford

23 March – 23 June 2024

The Ashmolean’s spring 2024 exhibition “Brueghel to Rubens, great Flemish drawings” will be devoted to some of the finest works of art produced by Flemish masters. Bruegel to Rubens will show 120 of the most outstanding drawings from the 16th and 17th centuries, with over 30 on display for the first time, including some which have only recently been discovered. Many of the drawings from Belgium are “Topstukken” – masterpieces designated by the Flemish Government for their exceptional quality and value.

The King Drinks (1640), Jacob Jordaens (Flemish, 1593 – 1678), watercolor on paper, 38×57cm, KMSKA, Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp.

The exhibition will show a remarkable range of artworks rarely seen in public because of their fragility and sensitivity to light. Among the works on show will be drawings by three of the most famous Flemish artists: Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525–69), Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640) and Anthony Van Dyck (1599–1641).  The exhibition will also present numerous drawings by other talented draughtsmen, such as Maerten de Vos, Hans Bol, and Jacques Jordaens.

These drawings were produced during a period of great change and prosperity in the region known as the Southern Netherlands. This area was a hub of artistic production driven by high demand from the established rural aristocracy, newly monied urban patricians, and many religious orders and professional guilds. All were eager to commission sacred and secular paintings, sculpture and decorative artworks which required preparation in drawing.

This exhibition will be a first for grouping South Netherlandish drawings according to their function in the artist’s studio and beyond, presented in three galleries: as sketches and copies; as preparations for other works; and as independent works of art in their own right. In doing so, the exhibition provides an insight into how these artists honed their drawing skills throughout their careers.

The 120 works on display range from quick scribbles to elaborate studies: from sensitive portraits to compositional studies for paintings; colourful designs for triumphal arches and monumental tapestries; and elaborate sheets made to celebrate friendships. These will be shown together with a selection of related works for which the drawings were designs; and with artworks which inspired them. Overarching themes running across the exhibition include the personal connections and networks forged between these artists, often resulting in collaborations. Many of them travelled extensively, settled abroad and became court artists across Europe, emphasising the broader international achievements of South Netherlandish artists.

To begin with, the show considers studies, made in the studio or out of doors (en plein air), and includes copies of other artworks, such as antique sculpture. A highlight is an album containing tiny drawings by Rubens from around 1590, including his earliest work produced when he was aged just 13: ‘The Abbot and Death’, inspired by a Hans Holbein woodcut. Rubens makes the scene his own, enlivening the action and rendering the skeleton figures more dynamic. There will also be a reconstruction of Rubens’s drawing desk, featuring Ancient Roman busts and coins from the Ashmolean’s collections, similar to those the artist is known to have collected and copied.

Torso Belvedere (c.1601), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), drawing, 38x27cm, Rubenshuis, Antwerp.

The exhibition then explores design-drawings created in preparation for works in other media, including paintings, prints, sculpture, architecture and decorative arts, such as metalwork, stained glass and tapestries.

One of the most striking examples is Bruegel’s ‘The Temptation of St Anthony’ (c. 1556), a hellish vision of demonic creatures across a bleak landscape which recalls the work of Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450–1516). The drawing is meticulously rendered in pen and brown ink, intended to be made into an engraving by a professional printmaker. The Ashmolean has recently acquired an impression of the print, which will be on display for the first time in the exhibition. 

The Temptation of St Anthony (c.1556), Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1528 -1569), drawing, 22x33cm, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, UK.

Finally, the exhibition looks at drawings made as independent works of art, often for presentation or as gifts to patrons, friends and other artists. Among these are highly finished and painterly ‘cabinet miniatures,’ including a particularly fine example by Joris Hoefnagel – ‘An Arrangement of Flowers in a Vase with Insects’ (1594). This forms part of a display of sheets from ‘friendship albums’ with contributions from many South Netherlandish artists that would have circulated among friends and colleagues.

A new look at Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin

A new look at Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin

Louvre, Paris

20 March – 17 June 2024

To celebrate the historic conservation work carried out on Jan van Eyck’s masterpiece – the first intervention of its kind since the painting entered the museum in 1800 – the Louvre has decided to dedicate a spotlight exhibition “A new look at Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin” to the Chancellor Rolin in Prayer before the Virgin and Child. The layers of oxidised varnish that had darkened the paint were stripped away, restoring the work to its former glory. The Louvre wishes to show audiences how the analyses carried out at the Centre for Research and Restoration of the Museums of France, and the conservation work itself, have challenged our previous assumptions about the piece, long known as the Virgin of Autun.

The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin (c.1425), Jan van Eyck (Flemish, 1390 – 1441), 66x62cm, Louvre, Paris.

Many aspects of this painting – less well known than it should be for such a major work of Western art – may seem difficult to understand. For this reason, the exhibition will be built around a series of questions designed to draw the viewer in: for what purposes(s) did Van Eyck create this very unusual work for Nicolas Rolin? Why is the background landscape so miniaturised as to be almost invisible? How should we interpret the two small figures in the garden? What are the connections between this painting, the art of illumination and funerary bas-reliefs? Do we know how the artists of the 15th century interpreted the work? The Rolin Madonna illustrates the tensions between medieval tradition and revolutionary experimentation that pervaded Flemish art in the first third of the 15th century.

Baudouin de Lannoy, chamberlain at the court of Philip the Good (c.1435), Jan van Eyck (Flemish, 1390 – 1441), 27x20cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.

The Louvre’s investigation of the Madonna of Chancellor Rolin will be driven by comparison with other paintings by Van Eyck, as well as with works by Rogier van der Weyden, Robert Campin and the great illuminators of the time. Some sixty painted panels, manuscripts, drawings, bas-reliefs and precious metal artefacts will be brought together for this exhibition, made possible by the support of many museums and institutions in France and abroad, including the Städel Museum in Frankfurt (which is lending the Lucca Madonna for the first time), the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin, the Royal Library in Brussels, the Morgan Library & Museum in New York and the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Roelant Savery’s Wondrous World

Roelant Savery’s Wondrous World

Mauritshuis, The Hague

8 February – 20 May 2024

The Mauritshuis exhibition “Roelant Savery’s Wondrous World“, featuring over 40 paintings and drawings, including works on loan from museums in the Netherlands and abroad, will introduce visitors to this highly versatile artist.

The Dodo and Other Birds (c.1630), Roelant Savery (Dutch 1576 – 1639), 82x102cm, Natural History Museum, London.

Roelant Savery was a pioneer in many fields, and introduced several new themes to Dutch painting. He made the Netherlands’ first floral still life, and was the most notable painter of the legendary (extinct) dodo. He was also the first artist who went out into the streets to draw ordinary people. His painted landscapes are often like a fairytale, featuring ancient ruins and marvellous vistas. And his animal paintings include so many species that it would be an understatement to describe them as ‘crowded’.

Roelant Savery was born in Kortrijk (Belgium) into a Protestant family. It was a tumultuous time, right in the midst of the Eighty Years’ War against Spain. When Roelant was six years old, the Savery family was forced to flee to Haarlem. A few years later, he became an apprentice to his ten-year-older brother Jaques in Amsterdam. The brothers worked together after Roelant completed his apprenticeship, until Jaques tragically passed away from the plague in 1603. Shortly thereafter, Roelant departed for Prague to work for the Habsburg Emperor Rudolf II, who was the greatest collector of his time.

Vase with Flowers in a Stone Niche (1615), Roelant Savery (Dutch 1576 – 1639) 64x45cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Roelant Savery spent over a decade in Prague, where he would develop into an incredibly versatile artist. He drew inspiration from the vast world around him and specialized in forest and mountain landscapes, animal studies, and floral still lifes. He depicted flora and fauna in intricate detail, including new species brought from all over the world to Europe.

For an artistic polymath like Roelant Savery, the court of Rudolf II was a paradise. The emperor collected not only art and scientific instruments but also plants and animals. In the gardens of Rudolf’s palace in Prague, Savery could personally study the wonders of nature. During the warm months of the year, the emperor sent him on expeditions to Tyrol to sketch the breathtaking landscapes. He marveled at the sights, including the Bohemian villages he visited

Two Horses and Grooms (1628), Roelant Savery (Dutch 1576 – 1639), Collection Abby Kortrijk.
Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North

Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North

Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

19 March to 30 June 2024

The Kunsthistorisches Museum Vienna’s 2024 spring exhibition “Holbein. Burgkmair. Dürer. Renaissance in the North” is devoted to three outstanding pioneers of the Renaissance north of the Alps: Hans Holbein the Elder, Hans Burgkmair, and Albrecht Dürer. It offers a golden opportunity to experience fascinating works by these artists and to explore how Augsburg became the birthplace of the Northern Renaissance. 

Paired Portraits of Jacob Meyer zum Hasen and his Wife Dorothea Kannengießer (1516), Hans Holbein the Younger (German, c.1497 – 1543), each panel 40x32cm, Kunstmuseum Basel.

At the beginning of the sixteenth century, Augsburg – dominated by the hugely wealthy banking family of the Fuggers – was influenced by the art of Italy more than almost any other city north of the Alps. That this was the case is vividly demonstrated by the two most important Augsburg painters of the period: Hans Holbein the Elder (c.1464–1524) and Hans Burgkmair (1473–1531). In the Vienna exhibition, select works by these two very contrasting artists enter into a stimulating dialogue with works by Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528) and further German, Italian, and Netherlandish masters, notably the Augsburg-born Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/98–1543). The exhibition in Vienna showcases more than 160 paintings, sculptures and other works from many of the most important collections of Europe and the United States of America.

Portrait of a Young Man (1506), Hans Burgkmair the Elder (German, 1473 – 1531), 41x28cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

The upheavals in art around 1500 are brought to life and elucidated, as is the role of the imperial trading city of Augsburg as the centre of the Renaissance in the North.

Frans Hals

Frans Hals

Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

16 February – 9 June 2024

The Rijksmuseum presents “Frans Hals“, an exhibition of some 50 of the Dutch master’s greatest paintings, many on loan from top international collections.

Frans Hals (Antwerp c.1583 – Haarlem 1666) is regarded as one of the most innovative artists of the 17th century, for his brisk, impressionistic painting style. With unparalleled boldness and talent, he captured the vitality of his subjects – from stately regents to cheerful musicians and children – and made them live and breathe on the canvas. 

The Laughing Cavalier (1624), Frans Hals (Dutch, c.1583 – 1666), 83x67cm, Wallace Collection, London.

Frans Hals set himself the goal as a painter of capturing his subjects as the living, breathing, spirited people they were, in the most convincing manner possible. He achieved this by deliberately and courageously developing a unique style that was utterly original in Dutch 17th-century painting. Hals chose to use rapid brushwork to achieve an unprecedented sense of dynamism in his portraits. He is one of very few artists in the history of Western art to have successfully painted people smiling and laughing – most painters shied away from this challenge simply because it is so difficult. The subjects of Hals’s paintings come even more to life in this Rijksmuseum exhibition through explorations of their individual identities and social worlds. Malle Babbe, for example, must have been a familiar figure on the streets of Haarlem, and Pekelharing was probably an actor touring with a British theatre company.

Malle Babbe (c.1640), Frans Hals (1582:1583–1666), 79x66cm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin.
Pekelharing or Peeckelhaering (c.1626), Frans Hals (1582:1583–1666), 76x64cm, Museum der bildenden Künste Leipzig.

Frans Hals’s original style and technique earned him a reputation in his own time as a virtuoso, a status equalled only by the likes of Rembrandt in the Netherlands and Velázquez in Spain. He was an in-demand portraitist among the wealthy citizenry of Haarlem and other cities in the region. Over the course of the 18th century, however, Hals’s work gradually fell into obscurity. It wasn’t until the 19th century that French art critic and journalist Théophile Thoré-Bürger (1807–1869) rediscovered his work, as well as that of Vermeer. Until the 1960s, Frans Hals was regarded as one of the ‘big three’ of 17th-century Dutch painting, alongside Rembrandt and Vermeer. Later, however, interest in the artist waned significantly – reason enough for the Rijksmuseum, The National Gallery, London, and Gemäldegalerie, Berlin, to place him on the highest possible pedestal and to show how truly boundary-breaking he was as an artist.

The Lute Player (c.1623), Frans Hals (Dutch, 1582 – 1666), with frame 108x100cm , Musée du Louvre, Paris.

The artist’s expressive, gestural brushwork has always been seen as the most distinctive quality of his art, and he can justifiably be described as the forerunner of Impressionism. Hals’s virtuosic style influenced fellow artists Gustave Courbet, Édouard Manet, James McNeil Whistler, Claude Monet, Max Liebermann, Vincent van Gogh, John Singer Sargent and others. Almost all of them visited Haarlem to admire his portraits of individuals and civil militia groups.

Frans Hals is organised by the Rijksmuseum in partnership with the National Gallery, London, and Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.

Black on White, Rubens Graphics from the KMSKA Collection

Black on White, Rubens Graphics from the KMSKA Collection

Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp

26 January – 12 May 2024

Rubens owed his worldwide fame partly to the prints he commissioned from his paintings. These prints are masterpieces in their own right, transforming colour and form into black and white. In 1900, the renowned Rubens expert Max Rooses donated a collection of engravings and woodcuts to the KMSKA. Today, the museum owns more than 700 Rubens prints from before and after Rubens’ death. With this exhibition “Black on White, Rubens Graphics from the KMSKA Collection” the general public can also enjoy these masterpieces, presented in the intimate atmosphere of the print room.

Rubens’ fame spread quickly and far beyond Europe. He owed this to his paintings, but certainly also to the many prints he commissioned of his works. With these prints, the master succeeded in making his work known to a larger public and spreading new trends among artists, even abroad. In doing so, Rubens always recognised the importance of protecting the quality of his works on paper. Thus, he was one of the first artists to be granted a copyright (temporarily) from 1620 to protect his prints from imitation and looting.

The Prodigal Son (c.1630), design by Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), engraved by Schelte Bolswert (Dutch, c.1586 – 1659), 47×62cm, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp.

The master had a distinct vision, selecting work or coming up with his own compositions to be converted into prints. In doing so, he had a great preference for copper engraving and woodcut. These printing techniques require great virtuosity on the part of the maker to properly convert the colours, volumes and nuances of a painting into black-and-white and all gradations in between. Unlike, say, Albrecht Dürer, Rubens therefore left the cutting of his prints to others. Their craftsmanship combined with Rubens’ artistic guidance resulted in prints of particularly high quality.

He worked with Lucas Vorsterman I (1596-1674), who managed to achieve subtle transitions and a wide variety of tones with a range of shading and stippling. After a quarrel with Vorsterman, Rubens called on his pupil Paulus Pontius (1603-1658), who matched his master’s style but was more controlled. And although the woodcut technique was somewhat outdated in the 17th century, Rubens, inspired by his great example Titian, whose works had been reproduced in woodcuts, also teamed up with Christopher Jegher (1596-1652).

Susanna and the Elders (1620), design by Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), engraved by Lucas Vorsterman (Dutch, 1595 – 1675), 39×28cm, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp.

Rubens checked the proofs himself, correcting them with pen or retouching them with paint. The engraver or woodcutter then refined the copper plate or woodblock further and further based on these intermediate states. Ruben’s engravings and woodcuts thus became masterpieces in their own right. Long after his death, Rubens’ compositions were still published in print. And even without his direct interference, the quality of these prints rose to great heights.

Around 1626, Rubens recognised the talent of the Frisian brothers Boëtius and Schelte Adamszoon Bolswert. Schelte in particular produced many of the graphic works named after Rubens after his death. He excelled in landscape scenes, a genre Rubens focused on in his later life.

Storytelling. The narrative power of printmaking

Storytelling. The narrative power of printmaking

Draiflessen Collection, Mettingen

15 October, 2023 – 28 April, 2024

This showcase exhibition “Storytelling. The Narrative Power of Printmaking” delves into the fascinating world of printmaking, which kicked off a groundbreaking transformation in the fifteenth century with its novel way of disseminating images. Before this time, works of art such as altarpieces and paintings were usually only accessible to a privileged audience. With the advent of the new media of woodcut and copperplate engraving, images could suddenly be produced and distributed quickly, cheaply, and in large editions. The exhibition impressively shows how printmaking, with its unique narrative form, helped to make images and the stories they contain accessible to a broad public for the first time. It also shows that, with the new medium, what was depicted also changed.

The Milkmaid (1510), Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, c.1494 – 1533), Engraving, 11x16cm), Draiflessen Collection, Mettingen.
In a print that has been described as the earliest Dutch image of a milkmaid, a buxom lass and a strapping lad seem keenly aware of each other. The cowherd’s (and the viewer’s) focus on the farmgirl would have brought to mind the slang word melken (to milk), meaning to attract or lure. The term’s origin is more or less explained in an anonymous Dutch book of 1624, Nova poemata (subtitled “New Low German poems and riddles”), in which a woman in the act of milking a cow (“A sinewy thing she has seized with joy,” and so on) is compared with grabbing a man’s . . . attention. (Thanks to metropolitan Museum of Art, new York)

While the artists were initially still strongly influenced by religion and therefore also rendered mainly religious motifs, profane everyday scenes were now increasingly pushing their way into the center of the picture. But what purpose did these secular pictures serve? Which zeitgeist is reflected in them? And how did the artists manage to convey to the contemporary viewer not only an image, but at the same time an entire story or message on just a few square centimeters of paper? In contrast to the viewers of that time, who naturally understood the multilayered allusions conveyed through pictorial language, today we often lack this knowing gaze. “Storytelling” therefore invites us to decipher the hidden stories in the depictions and thus to (re)discover answers to the above-mentioned questions. 

The Offer Of Love or The Ill-Assorted Couple (c.1495), Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471 – 1528), Engraving, 15x14cm, Draiflessen Collection, Mettingen.
The theme of the unequal couple has been taken up as a moral satire from ancient times up to today. Due to the spread of prints, the motif gained great popularity north of the Alps in the last quarter of the 15th century. The depictions reflected the way of life of the class society and its order as well as the prevailing moral concepts. One of Albrecht Dürer’s first engravings shows the meeting of a young, well-off lady and an older gentleman at the edge of the forest outside the city. It quickly becomes clear that Dürer is not depicting a couple in love in his depiction: the gestures of the protagonists indicate that this is not true love, but rather a relationship for sale. The old man takes money out of his bag with his wrinkled hand and gives it to the young woman, who willingly accepts it. While the woman’s clothing, with a lavish bonnet and tight-fitting bodice, corresponds to the latest fashion, the depiction of the gentleman is ridiculed by the old-fashioned Tappert, his fur hat on the floor and his pointed shoes – and thus the old man’s madness in love. Dürer shows his iconographic ingenuity through further elements: the man’s bag with two small bags hangs directly in front of his lap, while the horse rubs itself sensually against a tree. The steeply upward broken branch to which the animal is tied is reminiscent of a phallic symbol. (Thanks to Staatsgalerie Stuttgart)

The exhibition presents a variety of artistically impressive and inventive prints, which to this day remain both aesthetically pleasing and, in terms of narrative, highly captivating. “Storytelling” provides a glimpse into late fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century printmaking, while purposefully directing the eye to experience contemporary messages and artistic expression in a new way.

The Conversion of Saint Paul on the Way to Damascus

The Conversion of Saint Paul on the Way to Damascus

“Saul becomes Paul”

The Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul is celebrated on January 25th. This day commemorates the biblical account of the dramatic conversion of Saul, who then becomes the Apostle Paul. According to biblical accounts, Saul was traveling to Damascus with the intention of arresting and persecuting Christians when he experienced a dramatic encounter with a bright light and heard the voice of Christ. Saul fell from his horse as he heard Christ’s words “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me”? or in Latin ”Saule, Saule, quid me persequeris”? This dramatic encounter brought about Saul’s conversion.

The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1617), Guido Reni (Italian, 1575 – 1642), 238x179cm, Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Spain.

Saul was blinded by the strong light. He was then guided to Damascus where Ananias, a follower of Christ, baptised Saul and miraculously gave him back his eyesight. After his conversion, Saul’s name was changed to Paul, and he is often referred to as Saint Paul or the Apostle Paul.

Christ appears own a cloud, with three angels. The Conversion of Saint Paul (1506), Hans Baldung Grien (German, 1484 – 1545), woodcut, 24x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Alternative theories about what happened to Paul on the way to Damascus have been proposed, including sun stroke, struck by lightning and a seizure; or a combination of these. In an article in the Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery, and Psychiatry (1987), it has been stated , that Paul’s conversion experience, with the bright light, loss of normal bodily posture, a message of strong religious content, and his subsequent blindness, suggested a Temporal Lobe Epilepsy (TLE) attack, and a post-ictal blindness. TLE seizures can affect emotions, behaviour, memory, and consciousness. Symptoms can vary widely and may include unusual sensations, altered sense of reality, déjà vu, hallucinations, or even loss of awareness. Post-ictal blindness refers to a temporary loss of vision that occurs after a seizure. Individuals may experience various neurological symptoms, and a temporary inability to see.

The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1680), Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (Spanish, 1617 – 1682), 125x169cm, Prado, Madrid.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1602), Adam Elsheimer (German, 1578 – 1610), Oil on Copper, 20x25cm, Städel Museum, Frankfurt am Main.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (c.1527), Francesco Mazzola aka Parmigianino (Italian, 1503 – 1540), 178x129cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.
The Conversion of St Paul on the Way to Damascus (1601), Caravaggio (Italian, 1571 – 1610), 230x175cm, Cerasi Chapel, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome.
The Conversion of Saint Paul (1509), engraver Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1533) after his own design, engraving, 28x41cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

According to the New Testament, after Saul had his encounter with the bright light on the road to Damascus and heard the voice of Christ, he was left blinded. The men traveling with Saul stood there speechless; they had heard the sound but did not see anyone. Paul got up from the ground, but when he opened his eyes he could see nothing. So they led him by the hand into Damascus. For three days he was blind. In Damascus he met with Ananias, who laid hands on him, and something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes, restoring his sight. Ananias then baptized Saul, who took on the name Paul.

The Conversion of Saint Paul, print 15/34 from the series Acts of the Apostles (1582), engraver Philip Galle (Netherlandish, 1537 – 1612) after design by Maerten van Heemskerck (Netherlandish, 1498 – 1574), engraving, 21x27cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
Ananias Restoring the Sight of Saul (1719), Jean Restout (French, 1692 – 1768), 99x80cm, Louvre, Paris.
The conversion of St Paul on the way to Damascus and the baptism of St Paul by Ananias (c.1190), Fol 24v from the Picture Bible from the Benedictine Abbey of St. Bertin, France, 11x15cm, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague.
The Apostle Paul with in the background the story of his conversion, including the words: “Saule, quid me persequeris” or “Saul, why are you persecuting me”?.
Saint Paul, print 5/6 from the series Sinners of the Old and New Testament (c.1610), engraver Willem Isaacsz. van Swanenburg (Netherlandish, 1580 – 1612) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1564 – 1651), Rijkmuseum, Amsterdam.

After his conversion, Paul dedicated himself to spreading the teachings of Christianity. He embarked on several missionary journeys, established Christian communities, and wrote numerous letters (epistles) that are an integral part of the New Testament. His writings and teachings have had a profound impact on the development of the early Christian Church.

Storm on the Sea of Galilee

Storm on the Sea of Galilee

“Don’t Panic, Keep Faith!”

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee or the “Calming of the Storm” is a story recounting a moment when Jesus and his disciples were on a boat crossing the Sea of Galilee, and a sudden and severe storm arose. As the disciples panicked and feared for their lives, Jesus, who was asleep in the boat, was awakened when they screamed, “Save us! We’re going to drown!” He replied, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then he got up and said to the winds and the waves, “Peace! Be still!” and it was completely calm; the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm sea. The disciples were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1641), Simon de Vos (Flemish, 1603 – 1676), 72x56cm), latest at Christie’s 2014, price realized GBP 13,750.

The Sea of Galilee was known for its sudden and fierce storms. The locals were people of the land who were generally uncomfortable at sea, especially since they believed the sea to be full of frightening creatures. Storms on lakes can arise and intensify quickly, but they also tend to calm down rapidly. By asking the question “Why are you so afraid?”, Jesus was asking his disciples to explore in their own minds the cause and origin of fear, so they would realize that all fear has its roots in assumptions and is counterproductive in finding solutions. This “miracle of calming the sea and the wind” is a message that it’s better to keep faith and find courage to bring a difficult (and maybe hopeless) task to a good end than to fear and give up. The “Calming of the Storm miracle” is to be interpreted symbolically as the ability to bring peace and order to the turbulent aspects of life. Don’t panic, keep faith!

The story is recounted in the New Testament and is mentioned in three of the four Gospels, Matthew (8:23-27), Mark (4:35-41), and Luke (8:22-25).

Rembrandt depicts the panic-stricken disciples struggle against a sudden storm, and their fight to regain control of their fishing boat, ripping the sail and drawing the craft perilously close to the rocks in the left foreground. One of the disciples succumbs to the sea’s violence by vomiting over the side. Amidst this chaos, only Jesus, at the right, remains calm, like the eye of the storm. Awakened by the disciples’ desperate pleas for help, he rebukes them: “Why are you fearful, oh you of little faith?” and then rises to calm the fury of wind and waves.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1633), Rembrandt van Rijn (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669), 160x128cm, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston MA, stolen in 1990. Here is more info about the theft of this Rembrandt (and another Rembrandt and a Vermeer!), plus the contact details for any info on the current whereabouts.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (c.1595), Engraved by Aegidius Sadeler II (Flemish, 1570 – 1629), 21×25cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Backhuysen was one of the leading painters of seascapes in the late 17th century. He often put to sea when a storm threatened in order to observe the changing weather conditions.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1695), Ludolf Backhuysen (Netherlandish, 1630 – 1708), 58x72cm, Indianapolis Museum of Art, Indianapolis IN.
Brueghel depicts the boat, lashed by the waves with Jesus asleep inside, at the precise moment when one of the disciples decides to wake him before they are all shipwrecked. Also in the vessel are eleven of the disciples who make every effort not to be sunk, rowing and attempting to manage the sails.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1596), Jan Brueghel the Elder (Flemish, 1568 – 1625), Oil on Copper, 27x35cm, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid.
On this print we see two professional boatsmen trying to get control over the sails, while the disciples are pretty useless. The waves have the form of a sea monster.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (c.1582), print 2:12 from the series The Miracles of Christ, Engraved by Harmen Jansz Muller (Netherlandish, c.1539 – 1617), 21×26cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
In this 11th century manuscript illustration, we see two scenes in one: on the left Jesus sleeping and on the right when he is calming the storm.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (c.1000), Illustration from the Gospels of Otto III, created in Reichenau Abbey, manuscript size 34x24cm, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (Clm 4453), München, Germany.
Delacroix depicts Jesus sleeping peacefully while his panicked disciples weather a violent storm. Delacroix painted at least six variations on this biblical theme, but this version is considered his first oil sketch for the series.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1853), Eugène Delacroix (French, 1798 – 1863), 46×55cm, Nelson Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City MO.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (c.1010), from the Hitda Codex nr 1640 fol. 117r, Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek, Darmstadt, Germany. The Hitda Codex is a Christian Gospel book with twenty-two full-page miniatures with an emphasis on Jesus’ miracles, produced around 1000-1020. The miniatures include a dedication image depicting the patron, Abbess Hitda of the convent in Meschede, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany.
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (c.1608), Engraved by Cornelis Galle the Elder (Flemish, 1576 – 1650) after design by Maerten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), 18x22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Jesus Calms the Storm, from Matthew (8:23-27)

23 Then he got into the boat and his disciples followed him. 24 Suddenly a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. 25 The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!”

26 He replied, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm.

27 The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
Jesus Calms the Storm, from Mark (4:35-41)

35 That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” 36 Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. 37 A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. 38 Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

39 He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

40 He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

41 They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”
Jesus Calms the Storm, from Luke (8:22-25)

22 One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out. 23 As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger.

24 The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!” He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm.

25 “Where is your faith?” he asked his disciples. In fear and amazement they asked one another, “Who is this? He commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him.”
Vertumnus and Pomona

Vertumnus and Pomona

“God of Seasons and Goddess of Orchards”

The story of Vertumnus and Pomona comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a Latin narrative poem from the year 8 CE. Vertumnus, the God of the Seasons, disguised himself as a talkative old woman and attempted to seduce the reclusive Pomona, the Goddess of Orchards. When Vertumnus approached Pomona in the form of an old woman, in her garden was an elm tree with a vine growing around its trunk. The old woman interpreted this as a symbol of marital union. In his disguise of the old spinster, he sang the praises of love and of Vertumnus. The trick worked, for when Vertumnus dropped his disguise and took on his own appearance of handsome young man, his good looks won Pomona over and she agreed to become his wife.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 623-636: “Pomona tended the gardens more skilfully or was more devoted to the orchards’ care than anyone else. She loved the fields and the branches loaded with ripe apples. She carried a curved pruning knife, with which she cut back the luxuriant growth, and lopped the branches spreading out here and there. This was her love, and her passion, and she had no longing for desire. She enclosed herself in an orchard, and denied an entrance, and shunned men.“
Vertumnus and Pomona (1617), Jan Tengnagel (Dutch, 1584 – 1635), Oil on Copper, 21x29cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 653-658: “Once, Vertumnus covered his head with a coloured scarf, and leaning on a staff, with a wig of grey hair, imitated an old woman. He entered the well-tended garden, and admiring the fruit, said: ‘You are so lovely’, and gave Pomona a few congratulatory kisses, as no true old woman would have done.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1638), attributed to Ferdinand Bol (Dutch, 1616 – 1680), 18x22cm, Pen and brown ink on paper, Princeton University Art Museum, Princeton NJ. Auctioned in 2007 at Christie’s New York; purchased Princeton University Art Museum for USD 144,000.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 659-668: “Vertumnus, dressed at the old lady, pointed at the branches bending, weighed down with autumn fruit. There was a elm tree, covered with gleaming bunches of grapes. After he had praised the tree, and its companion vine, he said: ‘But if that tree stood there, unmated, without its vine, it would not be sought after for more than its leaves, and the vine also, which is joined to and rests on the elm, would lie on the ground, if it were not married to it, and leaning on it. But you, Pomona, are not moved by this tree’s example, and you shun marriage, and do not care to be wed. I wish that you did!”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1630), Paulus Moreelse (Dutch, 1571 – 1638), 114x130cm, Museum Boijmans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.
Vertumnus continued seducing Pomona with sweet words. Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 672-692: “Even now a thousand men and the gods and demi-gods want you, Pomona, though you shun them and turn them away. But if you are wise, if you want to marry well, and listen to this old woman, that loves you more than you think, more than them all, reject their vulgar offers, and choose Vertumnus to share your bed! You have my assurance as well: he is not better known to himself than he is to me: he does not wander here and there in the wide world: he lives on his own in this place: and he does not love the latest girl he has seen, as most of your suitors do. You will be his first love, and you will be his last, and he will devote his life only to you. And then he is young, is blessed with natural charm. Besides, that which you love the same, those apples you cherish, he is the first to have, and with joy holds your gifts in his hand! But he does not desire now the fruit of your trees, or the sweet juice of your herbs: he desires nothing but you. Take pity on his ardour, and believe that he, who seeks you, is begging you, in person, through my mouth.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (c. 1749), François Boucher (French, 1703 – 1770), 86x135cm, Columbus Museum of Art, Columbus, Ohio.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 761-764: “Remember all this, Pomona of mine: put aside, I beg you, reluctant pride, and yield to your lover. Then the frost will not sear your apples in the bud, nor the storm winds scatter them in flower.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (1613), Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), 90×150cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Rubens chose to depict the moment when, having removed his disguise, Vertumnus declares his love to Pomona. On the left, the old lady’s stick, and Vertumnus’ old-lady’s-veil is just sliding off his head. Pomona tries to resist a bit still, but will now fall in love, and they will be together happily ever after.
Vertumnus and Pomona (c.1636), Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 27x38cm, Prado, Madrid.
Pomona finally falls in love with the beautiful Vertumnus, who according to Ovid looks like the sun so beautiful: see his sunray-style of hair on this engraving. And Pomona’s sickle is safely on the ground now. Read Ovid’s Metamorphoses Book XIV, verse 765-771: “When Vertumnus, the god, disguised in the shape of the old woman, had spoken, but to no effect, he went back to being a youth, and threw off the dress of an old woman, and appeared to Pomona, in the glowing likeness of the sun. Pomona, captivated by the form of Vertumnus, felt a mutual passion.”
Vertumnus and Pomona (1605), engraving by Jan Saenredam (Netherlandish, 1565 – 1607) after design by Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (Netherlandish, 1562 – 1638), 26x22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
On this engraving the whole story together in two scenes: Vertumnus disguised as the old lady speaks with Pomona, and Vertumnus and Pomona embracing each other in the background on the right.
Vertumnus and Pomona (1605), engraving by Jan Saenredam (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) after design by Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1564 – 1651), 49×38cm, Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, CT.
Vertumnus, from the Pastoral Gods series (1565), Engraver Cornelis Cort (Dutch, c.1533 – 1578), after design by Frans Floris the Elder (Flemish, 1519 – 1570), Publisher Hieronymus Cock (Flemish, 1518 – 1570), Engraving, 29x22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
This portrait painted by Arcimboldo is Vertumnus, as a glorified representation of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II. As Vertumnus was the God of the Seasons, all four seasons are represented in the portrait using corresponding fruits and vegetables. Some of the fruits and vegetables represented, such as corn, were exotic at the time in Europe. The elements of this allegorical portrait stand for the power of Emperor Rudolf and the prosperity in the domains he ruled.
Portrait of Rudolf II as Vertumnus (1591), Giuseppe Arcimboldo (Italian, 1526 – 1593) 70x58cm, Skoklosters Slott, Skokloster, Sweden.
Pomona, from the Pastoral Nymphs and Goddesses series (1564), Engraver Cornelis Cort (Dutch, c.1533 – 1578), after design by Frans Floris the Elder (Flemish, 1519 – 1570), Publisher Hieronymus Cock (Flemish, 1518 – 1570), Engraving, 27x19cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Pomona encircled by a garland of fruit (17th Century), Studio of Frans Snyders (Flemish, 1579 – 1657), 203x158cm, latest Christies London 2010.

Ovid, Metamorphoses, translated by A. S. Kline.

The King Drinks

The King Drinks

“The Three Kings and The Bean King”

In the Low Countries, the Feast of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night of Christmas, is known as Drie Koningen (Three Kings). The Christian holiday is traditionally celebrated on January 6th with a festive meal at which friends and relatives gather to eat, drink and be merry. Drie Koningen originated as a medieval church holiday with public performances and festivals reenacting the biblical story of the Three Kings from the East who follow a bright star to find and do homage to the newborn Jesus. Although public performances had become outmoded in the 17th century, Twelfth Night continued to be celebrated in taverns and homes.

The king was chosen by chance, either by finding a bean or a coin in a cake baked for the occasion or by lottery, as is evident here from the two slips of paper on the floor and the one stuck on the hat of the young man seated at back.
The King Drinks or Peasants Celebrating Twelfth Night (1635), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 47x70cm, National Gallery, Washington.

It was a secular way to celebrate the Catholic Epiphany; the Protestants did disapprove of these Catholic festivities, but could not prohibit the feast staying popular indoors and within the family. The evening began with the proclamation of a “King,” played by the eldest member of the company or chosen by lot. This was done by drawing paper lots or by the concealment of a bean or coin in a large cake, and the person in whose portion it was found would preside over the festivities as “King” or “Bean King.” He put on a fake crown, chose a queen, and appointed a staff of courtiers – from minister to jester.

The Latin inscription as translated “None is closer to the fool than the drunkard”, lends the degenerate carryings-on a moralistic undertone.
The Feast of the Bean King (c.1642), Jacob Jordaens (Flemish, 1593 – 1678) 242×300cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Royal duties were extremely simple: When the King raised a glass of wine or beer, everyone had to exclaim in chorus: “The King Drinks!” as an appeal to the participants in the feast to follow the King’s example. And that happened often enough! Such feasts dragged on the whole night.

The inscription above the King reads: “In Een Vry Gelach, Ist Goet Gast Syn”, which translates as “It’s great to be a guest at a free drinking party”. The King had to pay the bill at the end of the evening.
The King Drinks (c.1639), Jacob Jordaens (Flemish, 1593 – 1678), 156×210 cm, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels.

The “King” was not necessarily meant to represent one of the Three Kings, but might refer to the misrule of Herod, who is mocked as a drunkard and as a reminder of his all too excessive indulgence.

A Twelfth Night Feast, The King Drinks (c.1661), Jan Steen (Dutch, 1626 – 1679), 40x55cm, Royal Collection Trust, London.
The King Drinks (c.1655), David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), 58x70cm, Prado, Madrid.
January, with “The King Drinks” scene, and with skating in the background (1629), from a series with the 12 months.
Crispijn van de Passe I, engraver (Dutch, c.1564 – 1637) after design by Maerten de Vos (Flemish, 1532 – 1603), engraving, 12cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.
The King Drinks (c.164), Gabriël Metsu (Dutch, 1629 – 1667), 81x98cm, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, München.
Twelfth Night (c.1665), Jan Steen (Dutch, 1626 – 1679) 41x49cm, Nasjonalmuseet for kunst, arkitektur og design, The Fine Art Collections, Oslo.
King’s Letter for a Twelfth Night celebration, with 16 lottery pieces for the various roles, King, Queen, Cook, Jester, Secretary, Singer, etc.
Publisher Widow Hendrik van der Putte, Amsterdam, c.1766, 31×22cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Mauritshuis Acquires a Tulip by Balthasar van der Ast

Mauritshuis Acquires a Tulip by Balthasar van der Ast

“Zomerschoon” or “Summer Beauty”

The Mauritshuis has acquired Vase with a Single Tulip by Balthasar van der Ast. This still life from 1625 is a rare painting showing only one flowering tulip. And it’s a very small painting, 27x20cm. Watercolor drawings with the one flower have been preserved in full, such as in tulip albums for bulb growers. In contrast, only two Dutch paintings with a single tulip are known from the 17th century.


Vase with a Single Tulip (1625), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 27x20cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

First documented in the eighteenth century in the collection of Johan van der Linden van Slingelandt (1701 – 1782), this is a much celebrated still life by Balthasar van der Ast, remarkable for its minimalist conception, featuring just a single flower. The composition is beautifully and simply arranged. A Zomerschoon (Summer Beauty) tulip stands in a small glass vase with a gilded neck and foot, placed just off centre in the panel, on a brown stone ledge. A small Adonis blue butterfly (Polyommatus bellargus ) has alighted on one of the flower’s leaves while a fly crawls along the ledge below, and we see three small drops of water against the dark leaf and background.

Van der Ast’s panel portrays nothing of the frantic atmosphere of speculation and competition in which it was created. The “Tulip Mania,” which swept the Netherlands during the 1620s and ‘30s, saw the fervid importation, production and sale of countless varieties of tulips as the emerging wealthy merchant class sought to own and grow new, strikingly colored types of the flower. At the peak of the mania, some of the flowers themselves cost more than their painted versions. In the boom year of 1637, particularly desired tulip bulbs could sell for 100–300 guilders, while a painting of flowers by Van der Ast was only about 39 guilders. So-called “broken” tulips (those infected with the virus which gave them their variegated colors) were the most popular new varieties. The Zomerschoon, usually consisting of red or pink streaks on a white or cream petal, was highly sought after and commanded exorbitant prices. It remains one of the few varieties of tulip cultivated in Holland in the seventeenth century that exist today.

Earlier in the painting’s provenance, it was auctioned at Christie’s, on December 8, 2016 for GBP 809,000 (Estimate GBP 300,000 – GBP 500,000).

Tulip “Admirael Castelyn” and Tulip “Perragoen Spoors” (c.1625), from a portfolio with 71 drawings of tulips and shells, Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), Watercolor, 31x20cm, Fondation Custodia, Paris.

To prepare his still lifes, Van der Ast made a sort of library of over 800 drawings of individual species of flowers, seashells and some insects, which he kept in his studio. The sheets are characterized by a number placed in the bottom left corner, as well as a calligraphic inscription naming the flower or seashell, and Balthasar van der Ast’s monogram in the bottom right corner. The largest group, consisting of 71 sheets, is housed in a folder at the Fondation Custodia, Paris. Van der Ast may have used this catalog for buyers when ordering a still life painting with flowers and shells, like buying a bouquet of flowers.

Shells and lizard (c.1625), from a portfolio with 71 drawings of tulips and shells, Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), Watercolor, 31x20cm, Fondation Custodia, Paris.

Shortly after 1600, flower still lifes emerged as a new genre in Dutch paintings, featuring a bouquet of blooming flowers. Rare and exotic species were favorites, such as the tulip. With these, painters created impossible bouquets; in reality, the various flowers could never all bloom at the same time.

Flowers in a Wan-Li Vase, with Shells (c.1645), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 53x43cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
A Tulip, a Carnation and Roses, with Shells and Insects, on a Shelf (c.1630), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 31x40cm, Sotheby’s New York January 27, 2022, Estimate 200,000 – 300,000 USD, unsold.

Balthasar van der Ast was taught by his brother-in-law Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder (1573 – 1621), the pioneering flower painter of the first decades of the seventeenth century. Works in which a choice number of blooms and a few shells are placed on a ledge with flying insects, are an innovation of Van der Ast.  He is not afraid to pose his flowers in unexpected ways, for example the roses placed face-down on the ledge, the better to appreciate the ruffles of the petals.

The shells in these paintings are also collectors’ items, important elements of the cabinets of curiosities that became popular in the seventeenth century. They reflect increasing interest in the natural world and the trading and colonial voyages of Dutch sailors, who took the shells as souvenirs with them from the Far East and West.

Flowers in a Vase, Shells, Butterflies, and a Cricket (c.1645), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 53x42cm, Louvre, Paris.

The painter Balthasar van der Ast (born in Middelburg, 1593) was raised by his older sister Maria. She was married to flower still life painter Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder, who became Van der Ast’s teacher and introduced him to flower still lifes. In 1619, Balthasar van der Ast enrolled as a master painter in the Utrecht St. Luke’s Guild. At that time, the city of Utrecht was the center for flower still life art. Roelant Savery – about whom an exhibition will be on display at the Mauritshuis in spring 2024 – also worked here. Savery had a great influence on the development of Van der Ast, who made his use of color his own. In addition, Balthasar van der Ast had the advantage of being able to study various types of flowers at Savery’s home in Utrecht, as this painter owned his own garden with exotic flowers and plants.

Flowers in a Wan-Li Vase (c.1620), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 37x28cm, Suermondt-Ludwig Museum, Aachen, Germany.

At Tefaf in 2004, this still life by Balthasar van der Ast was found, that had gone missing from the Suermondt Ludwig Museum in Aachen in 1945. The painting finally made its way back to the museum in 2017.

The specific relevant content for this request, if necessary, delimited with characters: As many works of art belonging to the city of Aachen, the painting was taken to the Albrechtsburg in Meißen in 1942, since that area was supposed to be safe with regard to air raids. The American army withdrew in the summer of 1945 and left the area to the Soviet authorities. The fate of the Van der Ast from Aachen remained obscure, since the storage in the Albrechtsburg was to be heavily plundered by the Red Army and many pieces would end up in the Soviet Union. The Van der Ast still life, however, was not among these. It’s thought that a German lady working for the Soviet secret police had stolen the paintings from the Albrechtsburg. Afterwards, she had fled to Berlin and worked for the American forces, which enabled her to immigrate to the US and from there into Canada. With her, she brought twelve paintings, at least ten of them from the Aachen Suermondt-Museum. Over time, most of these paintings got dispersed and disappeared, but not the Van der Ast. Only recently, the negotiations have led to a proposal by the City of Aachen. The current owner agreed to return the painting to Aachen for a finder’s fee.

Two Van der Ast paintings are still missing according to the German Lost Art Foundation database.

Still Life with Flowers (c.1630), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 37x24cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Massachusetts.
Flowers in a Vase with Shells and Insects (c.1630), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 47x37cm, National Gallery, London.
Chinese Vase with Flowers, Shells, and Insects (1628), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 52x33cm, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid.
Basket of Flowers (c.1622), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 18x24cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.

An inventory of 1632 confirms the presence of this still life in the collection of Princess Amalia van Solms, wife of Frederik Hendrik, Prince of Orange. By the early 1630s, Frederik Hendrik and Amalia van Solms had formed an important collection of contemporary Dutch and Flemish paintings. Their taste led them to collect mythological and allegorical paintings as well as princely portraits. The inventory of their possessions made in 1632 lists only four still lifes, of which “two small paintings in ebony frames, one a basket with fruit and the other a basket with flowers, by Van der Ast.”

National Gallery acquired painting by Abraham Bloemaert

National Gallery acquired painting by Abraham Bloemaert

The National Gallery London has acquired the painting Lot and his Daughters (1624) by Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1566 – 1651). This is the first painting by the artist to enter the National Gallery Collection.

The painting’s subject is the Old Testament story of Lot and his daughters, popular because of its moralising potential and dramatic possibilities. The story (Genesis 19) recounts how Lot was spared on account of his virtue and escaped God’s destruction of the immoral city of Sodom with his wife and two daughters. After the loss of his wife, who was turned to salt for disobeying God’s command not to look back at the burning city, Lot eventually settled inside a cave with his daughters. Lot’s two daughters believed only they remained alive on earth and took the desperate measure of seducing their own father to ensure the continuation of the human race. Nine months later, the sisters bore the sons Moab and Ben-Ammi, founders of the Moabite and Ammonite tribes. From the Moabite tribe eventually emerged Ruth, who, according to some theologians, was the ancestress of Christ.

Lot and his Daughters (c.1612), Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1566 – 1651), Drawing, 19x23cm, latest at Christies London 2014.

Already in the Middle Ages, depictions of this biblical story served to moralise on the danger of female seduction and the unfavourable effects of alcohol. Abraham Bloemaert drew inspiration from a print on the same subject by Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, c.1494 – 1533) and a painting by Hendrick Goltzius (Netherlandish, 1558 – 1617). But Bloemaert also altered the narrative thrust of their scenes, portraying Lot and his daughters as mostly clothed and psychologically disconnected from one another, rather than nudes engaging in a range of carnal pleasures. This had the effect of emphasising the moral dilemma of this story to the viewer.

Lot and His Daughters (1530), Lucas van Leyden (Netherlandish, c.1494 – 1533), Engraving, 19x24cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Lot and his Daughters (1616), Hendrick Goltzius (Netherlandish, 1558 – 1617), 140×204cm, Rijkmuseum, Amsterdam.

On the National Gallery’s Bloemaert painting, Lot looks hazily to the ground, seemingly unaware of the unsteady drinking cup he holds in his hand. A shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat falls over his eyes, symbolic of his disengagement and obliviousness to the intentions of his daughters. In the background we see how the city of Sodom is burning, while the fate of Lot’s wife is also visualised. The symbolically charged items forming the still life provide a commentary on the moral and ethical issues surrounding this biblical narrative.

Lot and his Daughters (1624), Abraham Bloemaert (Netherlandish, 1566 – 1651), 166×229cm, National Gallery, London.

A striking feature in Bloemaert’s rendition is the sumptuous still life spread out on a stone table partially covered by a plain white damask tablecloth. It consists of apples and grapes in a Wan-li porcelain bowl, half a bread loaf stacked on top of an old Gouda cheese, a pewter dish with oysters, and a knife balancing precariously on the edge of the table. These objects and motifs are typical of early seventeenth-century still-life painting. Some of them—the bread, grapes, and cheese in particular—appear frequently in depictions of Lot and His Daughters, including in Goltzius’s version. Standing before the table is a large, ornate, gilded ewer and on it a covered goblet. Bloemaert probably based these vessels on actual prototypes, possibly by the Utrecht silversmith family Van Vianen.

A prominent element of this still life is the plate of oysters—aphrodisiacs that allude to the imminent sexual consummation planned by Lot’s daughters. Discarded shells of consumed oysters lying on the ground in the shadow of the elder sister’s dress further indicate the sexual implications of the story. Nevertheless, also prominently displayed in this still life are bread and wine, fundamental elements of the Eucharist. It’s argued that the prominence of such Christological symbols in depictions of Lot and His Daughters presents the moral dilemma of this story to the viewer. They serve as reminders that Lot was a sinner, redeemed by Christ, but also that he was also an archetypal prototype for Christ. The red admiral butterfly hovering above the still life also has Christological implications, for it refers symbolically to the resurrection of the soul.

‘Lot and his Daughters’ was only recently recognised as a work by Abraham Bloemaert. Around the beginning of the 20th century it was attributed to Peter Paul Rubens on the basis of a false signature applied in the 19th century. With the discovery of Abraham Bloemaert’s signature and date during the painting’s restoration in 2004, it became possible to identify this work as the ‘grand gallery picture’ auctioned on 14 February 1811 in London, which, according to the sale catalogue, had belonged to King Charles II of England (1630 – 1685).

Part of the above text is from the excellent article about this painting when it still belonged to the Leiden Collection.

Van Tuinen, Ilona. “Lot and His Daughters” (2017). In The Leiden Collection Catalogue, 2nd ed. Edited by Arthur K. Wheelock Jr. New York, 2017–20.Download
Rembrandt Copper Plate donated to Rijksmuseum  

Rembrandt Copper Plate donated to Rijksmuseum  

The Stoning of Saint Stephen, Copper Plate (1635)

Rembrandt van Rijn (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669)

Simon Schama and Virginia E. Papaioannou have donated to the Rijksmuseum an original copper plate made by Rembrandt in 1635, depicting the stoning of Saint Stephen. Rembrandt made 314 copper plates that served as the basis for his etchings. With this gift, there are now seven such plates in public ownership in the Netherlands, two of which are in the Rijksmuseum collection. Dr. Papaioannou taught at Oxford and Tufts Universities and is Emerita Professor of Genetics and Development at Columbia University. Sir Simon Schama has taught at Cambridge, Oxford and Harvard universities and is Professor of Art History and History at Columbia University. He is the author of numerous books on Rembrandt and the Netherlands of the 17th-century, and he is widely known for his documentaries and television programmes for the BBC.

The Stoning of Saint Stephen (1635), Rembrandt van Rijn (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669), Copper Plate, 8x9cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Rembrandt van Rijn is arguably the most famous printmaker of all time. In the period spanning 1627 to 1665 he produced no fewer than 314 copper plates to create etchings. He made the etchings by first coating a copper plate with a mixture of resin and beeswax, and then using a needle to draw into the wax, revealing the copper surface. He would then apply acid to incise the etched lines into the copper plate. The cleaned plate was then inked and covered with a sheet of paper before being passed through a printing press to transfer the image onto the paper.  

The Stoning of Saint Stephen (1635), Rembrandt van Rijn (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669), Etching, 8x9cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The Rijksmuseum also recently received six copper plates by the artist Adriaen van Ostade (1610-1685). They constitute a representative cross-section of his approximately 50 etched works. These plates are presented in the print display cabinet for the late 17th century, alongside prints made from them. They depict various aspects of rural life – at the farm, in taverns, and dancing on the village square. The artist specialised in scenes of this kind.  

Peasant (c.1645), Adriaen van Ostade (Netherlandish, 1610 – 1685) was), Copper Plate and Paper Etching, 9x6cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The copper plate by Rembrandt is part of the temporary display Art in the Making, shedding light on the processes through which artists make their work, from preliminary sketch to final work of art. The display runs to 26 May 2024 in the Rijksmuseum Print Cabinets. The Rembrandt copper plate will be on show in the display cabinet for early-17th-century prints, alongside prints made using various states, or versions, of the etching. The prints reflect changes made over time, while the etching itself reveals how Rembrandt originally conceived the composition.  

Some 10 years befor Rembract made his etching, he already pained The Stoning of Saint Stephen. It’s the first signed painting by Rembrandt, made at the age of 19. The figure, nestled between Saint Stephen and the man holding a large rock over his head, is the first extant self-portrait of Rembrandt.
The Stoning of Saint Stephen (1625), Rembrandt van Rijn (Netherlandish, 1606 – 1669), 90x124cm, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon.
The Seven Sacraments

The Seven Sacraments

Rogier van der Weyden’s altarpiece (c.1445)

Last week, I visited the Royal Museum of Fine Arts in Antwerp, with a specific goal in mind: Rogier van der Weyden’s masterpiece, “The Seven Sacraments”. My visit was not solely to admire this exquisite triptych but also to delve deeper into the meaning of the seven sacraments. This exploration hereunder will be guided by seven works of art as visual narratives, with Van der Weyden’s triptych serving as our starting point.

In the interior of a Gothic church, Rogier van der Weyden has depicted two interconnected scenes. The Crucifixion is the main scene, with smaller episodes in the aisles of the church on the side panels and in front of the main altar in the central panel, forming the second scene: the “Seven Sacraments”. From left to right, we see Baptism, Confirmation, Confession, the Eucharist, Ordination, Marriage and the Anointing of the Sick. This church is a microcosm of medieval society, with rich and poor, young and old, all together on these three panels.
The Seven Sacraments (c.1445), Rogier van der Weyden (Flemish, c.1399 – 1464), 200x223cm, Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp.
On the left panel from the front towards the back:
Baptism: initiation into the Christian faith involving water, symbolising purification of sins and rebirth.
Confirmation: children receive the Holy Spirit and become full members of the church, with anointing and laying on of hands by a priest or bishop.
Confession: forgiveness of sins through confession to a priest, and with penance if appropriate.
On the central panel, behind the Crucifiction and in front of the main altar:
Eucharist: the communion or the Lord’s Last Supper, it involves the consumption of bread and wine as symbols of Christ’s body and blood.
On the right panel, from the back towards the front:
Ordination: individuals are ordained as priests, to serve the church.
Marriage: symbolizing the union of two individuals in a lifelong partnership.
Anointing of the Sick: spiritual and physical healing, often administered to those who are seriously ill.

The Seven Sacraments in seven paintings

Baptism

Baptism is the sacrament of regeneration and initiation into the Church that was begun by Jesus, who accepted baptism from St. John the Baptist. Baptism is understood, therefore, as the annulment of one’s sins and the emergence of a completely innocent person.

Christ stands in a shallow, winding stream as Saint John the Baptist reaches up to pour a small bowl of water over his head. John had been preaching, encouraging people to repent of their sins and to be baptized: the river’s water symbolized the washing away of sin. The river is considered the river Jordan.
The Baptism of Christ (c.1440), Piero della Francesca (Italian, c.1417 – 1492), Egg Tempera on Poplar, 167x116cm, National Gallery, London.

Confirmation

A sacrament that is conferred through the anointing with oil and the imposition of hands, Confirmation is believed to strengthen or confirm the grace bestowed by the Holy Spirit at baptism. The Confirmation rite is a relatively simple ceremony that is traditionally performed during the Mass by the bishop, who raises his hands over those receiving Confirmation and prays for the bestowal of the Holy Spirit. He then anoints the forehead of each confirmand with holy oil and says, “Accipe Signaculum Doni Spiritus Sancti” (“Be sealed with the gifts of the Holy Spirit”).

This work depicts the moment when the Holy Ghost, in the form of flames, rests on the Virgin and the Apostles, as happend during pentecost day in Jerusalem.
Pentecost (c.1600), El Greco, (Greek and Spanish, 1541 – 1614), 275x127cm, Prado, Madrid.

Confession

This sacrament of reconciliation or penance, reflects the practice of restoring sinners to the community of the faithful by confessing one’s sins to a priest. The Roman Catholic Church claims that the absolution of the priest is an act of forgiveness. To receive it, the penitent must confess all serious sins, manifest genuine sorrow for sins, and have a reasonably firm purpose to make amends. The sacrament of confession was rejected by most of the Reformers on the grounds that God alone can forgive sins, and not through a priest.

John the Baptist was a hermit, living in the wilderness, calling on all who would listen to repent their evil ways, and of course, all in the name of God. That’s why he is pointing towards heaven. John the Baptist thus preached confession, repentance, and being baptized to be totally cleansed of any sins.
Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness (c.1636), Guido Reni (Italian, 1575 – 1642), 225x162cm, Dulwich Picture Gallery, London.

Eucharist

The Eucharist (from the Greek word “εὐχαριστία” which means “thanksgiving”) is the central act of Christian worship, also known as Holy Communion and the Lord’s Supper. The rite was instituted by Jesus at the Last Supper when he blessed the bread, which he said was his body, and shared it with his disciples. He then shared a cup of wine as his blood. Jesus called on his followers to repeat the ceremony in his memory. It is a commemoration of his sacrifice on the cross.

The focus in this painting is on Christ, serene and triumphant at the moment of consecrating the bread and wine, amidst the apostles at the Last Supper. The bread in the form of the Sacred Host.
The Last Supper (c.1556), Juan de Juanes (Spanish, c.1504 – 1579), 116x191cm, Prado, Madrid.

Ordination

Ordination is a sacrament essential to the church, as it bestows an unrepeatable, indelible character upon the priest being ordained. The essential ceremony consists of the laying of hands of the bishop upon the head of the one being ordained, with prayer for the gifts of the Holy Spirit and of grace required for the carrying out of the ministry.

Christ orders Peter to feed the sheep, meaning that he actually charges Peter to take care of the believers. That’s how Peter became a priest and the first pope of the Catholic Church. Raphael here combines the story with giving Peter the keys to the kingdom of heaven.
Christ’s Charge to Peter (c.1515), Raphael (Italian, 1483 – 1520), cartoon as design for the tapestry for the Sistine Chapel, 343x532cm, Royal Collection Trust, Victoria & Albert Museum, London.

Marriage

Marriage as a sacrament, also known as holy matrimony, is the covenant by which a man and a woman establish between themselves a partnership for the whole of life, administered in the presence of a priest. However, the inclusion of marriage among the sacraments gives the Roman Catholic Church jurisdiction over an institution that is of as much concern to the state as it is to the church.

Christ and Mary are invited to a wedding at Cana in Galilee. When Mary notices that the wine has run out, Christ delivers a sign of his divinity by turning water into wine. The account is taken as evidence of Jesus’ approval of marriage and earthly celebrations and has also been used as an argument against the total abstinence of alcoholic drinks.
Wedding at Cana (c.1305), Giotto (Italian, 1266 – 1337), Fresco, 200x185cm, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy.

Anointing of the sick

This sacrament is conferred by anointing the forehead and hands with blessed oil and pronouncing a prayer. It may be conferred only on those who are seriously ill or on elderly people who are experiencing the frailties of old age. In popular belief, anointing is most valuable as a complement to confession or, in the case of unconsciousness, as a substitute for it. Anointing is not the sacrament of the dying; it is the sacrament of the sick.

This painting shows Christ’s mission to save the unfortunate and heal the sick. Christ is opening the eyes of a blind man, who kneels at his feet. His dog stares out of the painting, a reminder that soon he will no longer be needed to lead his master. There are three more unfortunate individuals: a lame beggar, with a crutch and a bowl, and two madmen. One of the latter is manacled, his chain held by a keeper; the other is cured of his possession, as an evil spirit (looking rather like a winged lizard) leaves his mouth. It seems likely that this painting has been commissioned by a hospital where its theme of healing and salvation would have been appropriate.
Christ Healing the Sick (1577), Crispin van den Broeck (Flemish, 1524 – 1591), 91x142cm, Royal Collection Trust, Windsor Castle.
“The Harvesters” (1565), by Pieter Brueghel the Elder

“The Harvesters” (1565), by Pieter Brueghel the Elder

August, harvest month

I had the privilege of spending several weeks in the Dutch countryside this August, surrounded by vast wheat fields, with tractors and combines blending their mechanical prowess reaping the harvest. Amidst the rustic charm and the modern pulse of agricultural machinery, I was reminded of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s 1565 masterpiece “The Harvesters”.

The Harvesters (1565), Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569), 119x162cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

“The Harvesters” is part of a series of six works that Bruegel created for the Antwerp merchant Niclaes Jongelinck, each depicting a different season of the year. “The Harvesters” specifically portrays the season of summer. It’s a landscape painting that offers a vivid and detailed depiction of a rural scene, showing peasants engaged in various activities during the harvest season. The foreground of the painting is dominated by peasants working in the fields. They are shown harvesting wheat, with some using sickles to cut the wheat and others gathering the cut stalks into bundles. Amidst the work, there is a group of peasants taking a break under a large pear tree, relaxing and enjoying their midday meal of porridge, bread and pears. In the background on the right, a man climbed an apple tree to shake its branches, while two women gathered the fallen apples into baskets. These scenes add a touch of human connection and leisure to the painting.

The background of the painting showcases a panoramic landscape with a village, a church, and a castle on the distant horizon. This panoramic view provides a sense of depth and perspective to the scene. “The Harvesters” is celebrated for its realism, attention to everyday life, and the way it captures the essence of rural existence during the 16th century. Bruegel’s series is a watershed in the history of Western art. The religious pretext for landscape painting has been suppressed in favor of a new humanism, and the unidealized description of the local scene is based on natural observations.

Summer “Aestas”, from the series The Seasons (1570), design and drawing by Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569), engraver Pieter van der Heyden (Flemish, c.1530 – c.1572), publisher Hieronymus Cock (Flemish, 1518 – 1570), 23x29cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Pieter Bruegel the Elder created also a series of prints that corresponded to the seasons of the year, similar to his paintings. “Summer” is one of these prints, and it’s often considered a companion piece to his painting “The Harvesters”. This famous engraving gives a glimpse of the varied work of country people on a summer’s day. In the immediate vicinity of a village, the ripe grain is scythed, bundled and transported away; but it’s also time for refreshments and a chat. In the tradition of medieval pictures of the months and seasons, Bruegel celebrates the working peasants as guarantors of the country’s prosperity. Bruegel’s prints were engraved by other artists based on his own designs and drawings, allowing his works to reach a wider audience. Brueghel’s drawing for “Summer” still exists and is now in the Kunsthalle in Hamburg; for a picture, see hereunder.

In the print “Summer” Bruegel once again focuses on the themes of rural life and the activities of peasants during the warmer months. Just like his paintings, Bruegel’s prints are celebrated for their meticulous attention to detail, rich narratives, and the way they capture the essence of the time and place they depict.

August, from the Brukenthal Breviary Book of Hours (c.1500), Manuscript 761, 21x14cm, Brukenthal National Museum, Sibiu, Romania.

This manuscript illustration from circa 1500 is a detailed showcase of the labour-intensive process of wheat harvesting in Flandres in the pre-industrial era. Here’s an overview of the various activities involved in wheat harvesting during that time and shown on the illustrated manuscript pages above, from left to right:

  1. Reaping: The first step in wheat harvesting was reaping (Dutch: maaien), which involved cutting the mature wheat stalks with a sickle or scythe. Workers would move through the fields, carefully cutting the stalks close to the ground to ensure that the maximum amount of grain was harvested.
  2. Binding: Once the wheat stalks were cut, they were gathered into bundles or sheaves (Dutch: schoven) and tied together using straw or twine. These bundles made it easier to transport and handle the harvested wheat.
  3. Threshing: Threshing (Dutch: dorsen) was the process of separating the grain kernels from the rest of the plant. This was often done using a flail (Dutch: dorsvlegel), which consisted of a wooden handle attached to a wooden stick. Or it could be done by a horse trembling on the sheaves, as shown on this miniature, repeatedly beating the bundles of wheat to break open the husks and release the grain.
  4. Winnowing: After threshing, the mixture of grain, husks, and chaff (the dry, protective casings around the grains) needed to be separated. This was achieved through winnowing (Dutch: schiften), a process in which the mixture was tossed into the air. The wind would carry away the lighter chaff, while the heavier grain would fall back to the ground. See the top right corner of this manuscript illustration.

Pieter Brueghel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569)

The Painter and the Buyer (c.1566), Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Flemish, c.1525 – 1569), Pen and brown ink, 26x22cm, Albertina, Vienna.

A morose painter (a self portrait?) with a coarse brush is contrasted with a stupid-looking buyer, whose mouth is open with wonder. The inner distance between the two figures becomes evident in the polarity of their expressions. While the artist dedicates himself entirely to the work lying outside of the picture’s range, the customer is already reaching for his money-bag, apparently interested solely in material values. A symbol of ignorance, the spectacles point to this failure to appreciate art. Rather than being a self-portrait the drawing addresses the role of the artist: Pieter Brueghel is here ironically commenting on the conditions of art production in his day. (Text with thanks to the Albertina, Vienna.)

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525-1569) was a renowned Flemish Renaissance painter and printmaker. He is often referred to as Bruegel the Elder to distinguish him from his sons, who were also artists and carried on his artistic legacy. Key points about Pieter Bruegel the Elder:

  1. Artistic Style and Themes: Bruegel was known for his distinctive artistic style that combined meticulous detail, naturalism, and a deep understanding of human behavior. He is celebrated for his ability to capture everyday life and landscapes with a keen observation of the world around him. He often depicted scenes of peasants engaged in various activities, rural landscapes, and the changing seasons.
  2. Subject Matter: Bruegel’s works often contained social and moral commentary. He frequently explored themes related to human folly, the cycles of life, the interaction between humans and nature, and the contrasts between different social classes. His paintings and prints often had multiple layers of meaning, inviting viewers to reflect on deeper concepts.
  3. Seasonal Series: One of Bruegel’s notable accomplishments was his creation of a series of paintings that represented the different seasons of the year. These works include “The Gloomy Day” (early spring, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna), “Haymaking” (early summer, Lobkowicz Palace, Prague Castle), “The Harvesters” (late summer, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York), “The Return of the Herd” (autumn, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna) and “The Hunters in the Snow” (winter). The “Spring” painting disappeared.
  4. Influence: Bruegel’s work had a significant impact on subsequent generations of artists. His detailed depictions of nature and human life influenced the development of landscape painting and genre painting. Artists like Peter Paul Rubens and even later masters like the Dutch Golden Age painters drew inspiration from Bruegel’s work.
  5. Humanism and Cultural Context: Bruegel’s art was created during a time when humanism was flourishing. Humanism emphasized the importance of individualism, human experience, and the natural world. Bruegel’s art reflected these ideals by portraying the common people, their joys, struggles, and the world they inhabited. While Brueghel did create some religious paintings, his most famous and distinctive works depict scenes of everyday life, landscapes, and the activities of peasants.
  6. Printmaking: In addition to his paintings, Bruegel also created a number of prints. His detailed designs were engraved by skilled printmakers, allowing his works to reach a broader audience and leaving a lasting influence on art history.
Summer (1568), Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Netherlandish, c.1525 – 1569), Pen and brown ink on brown paper, 22x 29cm, Hamburger Kunsthalle, Kupferstichkabinett, Hamburg, Germany.

This drawing from the Kunsthalle in Hamburg served as a relatively accurate preparatory sketch for the depiction of summer in a graphic sequence of the seasons planned by Bruegel towards the end of his life and which were put into engravings by Pieter van der Hayden (for a picture of the engraving “Summer” see above). Brueghel’s “Summer” offers a wealth of delicious pictorial inventions, such as the drinker’s foot, which pierces the front edge of the picture. Bruegel’s fine sense of humor is illustrated by the boy with a bundle of wheat growing out of his back, or the woman whose head is completely covered (or even replaced) by a basket of vegetables.

Bruegel was born in the town of Breda in the Duchy of Brabant, which is now part of the Netherlands. However, he spent a significant portion of his artistic career in Antwerp, a prominent city in Flanders. His work is associated with both the Netherlandish artistic tradition and the broader Flemish artistic movement. In essence, while Bruegel’s birthplace lies in what is now the Netherlands, his artistic contributions and much of his career are deeply connected to the artistic heritage and culture of Flanders. Therefore, he is often referred to as a Flemish artist within the context of art history.

Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s legacy has endured through the centuries. His works are celebrated for their ability to transport viewers into a detailed world of everyday life in the 16th century. His influence can be seen in the works of later artists, and he remains a highly respected figure in the history of Western art.

Zeus and Callisto

Zeus and Callisto

“…and Hera, the Great Bear and the Smaller Bear”

The story of Zeus and Callisto is part of Greek mythology and involves Zeus, the king of the gods, and Callisto, a beautiful nymph and one of the companions of the Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the equivalent of Diana in Roman mythology. Zeus is the same king of the gods as the Roman god Jupiter. The story of Zeus and Callisto serves as a tale about the capricious nature of the gods in Greek mythology. One of the most well-known versions can be found in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”.

According to the myth, Callisto was a devoted follower of Artemis (Diana) and like the other companion nymphs in the group of Artemis, Callisto also swore to remain a virgin for her entire life. They are hunting together, bathing together and were a great subject for painters throughout the centuries to depict a group of female nudes. With the exception of Vermeer, who portrayed Artemis and her nymphs in a very discreet and decent manner.

Artemis (Diana) and her companion nymphs; Callisto was one of them. Diana can be recognised by the crescent moon worn as a tiara (c.1653).
Johannes Vermeer (Dutch, 1632 – 1675), 98x105cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
Artmis (Diana) and her Nymphs; Artemis with the crescent moon on her head (1702).
Willem van Mieris (Dutch, 1662 – 1747), 44×57cm, Rijksmuseum Twenthe, Enschede, The Netherlands.

However, Zeus, known for his numerous affairs and infidelities, set his eyes on Callisto and decided to seduce her. Disguising himself as Artemis, Zeus approached Callisto and took advantage of her, resulting in Callisto becoming pregnant.

Zeus (Jupiter), disguised as Artemis (Diana), even with the crescent mon on his/her head, seduces the nymph Callisto. The symbol of Zeus is the eagle and the arrows, which can be seen just behind Zeus, who now has the form and shape of Artemis (1727).
Jacob de Wit (Dutch, 1695 – 1754), 240x205cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Zeus in the Guise of Artemis (Diana), and the Nymph Callisto; Zeus’ eagle can be seen just behind the pink cloth (1759).
François Boucher (French, 1703 – 1770), 58x70cm), The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, MO.

When the truth came to light, Callisto faced the wrath of Artemis, who was furious at her for breaking her vow of chastity. The goddess could not bear to look at Callisto anymore, and she banished her from her company. Callisto was devastated and left to live a life of solitude.

Diana and Callisto; the pregnancy discovered. Diana on the left side, with the crescent moon on her head (c.1635). Most paintings have in their museum-titles “Diana” opposed to “Artemis”, but the two goddesses are the same; Artemis the Greek version and Diana the Roman one. Detail not to be missed on this Rubens painting is Diana’s enslaved servant.
Peter Paul Rubens (Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 203x326cm, Prado, Madrid.
Diana and Callisto; after Callisto’s pregnancy has been dicovered, she is sent away by Diana (c.1557).
Tiziano Vecellio (Italian c.1487 – 1576), 188x205cm, National Galleries of Scotland, Edinburgh and the National Gallery, London.

As her pregnancy progressed, Callisto’s appearance began to change and she now has a baby belly. Hera, Zeus’s wife and the queen of the gods, noticed these changes and grew suspicious of her husband’s involvement. Feeling betrayed and enraged, Hera sought revenge on Callisto. After the nymph gave birth to a son named Arcas, Hera transformed Callisto into a bear.

Hera still wants to take revenge and changes Callisto into a Bear. On the left the peacock-carriage in which Hera descended from the sky. On the right the next moment from this episode, Callisto, now as a bear, walks away. (1590).
Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Arcas, son of Zeus and Callisto

In the meantime Arcas, the child of Zeus and Callisto, grew up and became a skilled hunter. He lived in a beautiful land and was chosen to be the king of that peaceful and pastoral area, called “Arcadia”, named after Arcas. Throughout history the name “Arcadia” has continued to be a symbol of an unspoiled and idyllic natural world.

Many years later, when Callisto is wandering around as a bear, her son Arcas is hunting and encounters a bear; his mother, and Arcas doesn’t know that (c.1725).
Sebastiano Ricci (Venetian, 1659 – 1734), 65x54cm, latest at Sotheby’s London 2019.

As a bear, Callisto was forced to roam the wilderness, unable to communicate or return to her human form. Years passed, and one day, Arcas, now a young hunter, came across his mother-bear in the forest. Unaware that the bear was his own mother, he prepared to shoot it with his arrow. However, Zeus, who had been watching the events unfold, intervened to prevent a tragic outcome. To protect Callisto and her son, Zeus turned Arcas into a bear as well and placed them both among the stars, forming the constellations Ursa Major (the Great Bear) and Ursa Minor (the Smaller Bear). In this way, they were immortalized in the night sky, and their bond was forever preserved.

Callisto (as a bear) is hunted by her son Arcas. On the top right side, Zeus (with the eagle) is inviting Callisto and Arcas into the sky, where they will be the Great Bear and the Smaller Bear, the Ursa Major and Ursa Minor star constellations. (1590).
Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Hera did not like this at all; too much honour for Callisto and Arcas to be in the sky as stars. So, Hera descended from heaven and arrives with her carriage drawn by peacocks on sea-level, to complain to her friends the god Oceanus and his wife Tethis, a sea-goddess. Hera tells them that, in punishment for having such honorable place at the sky, they should never let the Callisto and Arcas, as Great and Smaller Bear, touch their waters and be able to wash themselves. Hera therefore instructs the gods of the sea that they shall not let either constellation sink below the horizon, and passing into the waters of the ocean. Indeed neither Ursa Major nor Ursa Minor ever set below the horizon, viewed from most regions in the Northern hemisphere.

Juno complaining to Oceanus and Thetis, ordering the sea gods to never let the Great Bear and Smaller Bear wash themselves in the ocean, to never have these star constellations sink into the sea (1590).
Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, CA.

Ursa Major (Great Bear) and Ursa Minor (Smaller Bear)

Map (c.1760) with the constellations of the Northern Hemisphere; Ursa Major, the Big Bear and on this map as La Grande Ourse on the left bottom and Ursa Minor, the Smaller Bear and on this map as La Petite Ourse, in the centre of the map (c.1760).
Phillipe de la Hire (French, 1640 – 1718), hand colored engraving, 50x50cm, The Barry Lawrence Ruderman Map Collection, Stanford University, Stanford, CA.

The Big Bear constellation is also known as Ursa Major, which means “Great Bear” in Latin. The more popular term “Big Dipper” is actually a colloquial name for a prominent asterism within the Ursa Major constellation. The Big Dipper is a group of seven bright stars that form a distinctive shape resembling a ladle or a dipper. This shape is a well-known feature of the northern night sky. The Great Bear has served as a navigational tool for travellers to determine directions.

The seven bright stars from the constellation Ursa Major (“the Big Bear”) together forming the Big Dipper; four stars forming the bowl and three stars forming the handle.
The Starry Night “La Nuit Étoilée” by Vincent van Gogh. It’s the starry night above the river Rhone. With in the center of the sky a bright depiction of the Big Bear (1888).
Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853 – 1890), 73x92cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

Polaris (North or Pole Star)

Ursa Major (Callisto, the Great Bear), Ursa Minor (Arcas, the Smaller Bear) and Polaris (North or Pole Star).

Polaris, commonly known as the North Star or Pole Star, is the brightest star in the constellation Ursa Minor (the Smaller Bear). It holds a special place in the night sky because it appears very close to the celestial north pole, the point in the sky around which all other stars appear to rotate as Earth spins on its axis. This makes Polaris a valuable navigational reference point, especially for travellers in the Northern Hemisphere. Polaris appears relatively stationary in the sky while other stars appear to move in circles around it as the night progresses. This unique characteristic made Polaris an important celestial marker for ancient sailors, explorers, and navigators who used it to determine their northward direction. Polaris can be found by extending the two outer stars of the Big Dipper’s bowl (from the constellation Ursa Major) in a straight line. This extension leads you to Polaris, making it a helpful guide for finding true north in the night sky.

Greek and Roman Gods

The three gods involved in the story of Zeus and Callisto are:

  • Zeus (Ζεύς) is the god of the sky and thunder, and king of the gods, married to Hera. His symbol is the eagle. The Roman equivalent is Jupiter, also knows as Jove. Read more about Zeus in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Hera (Ήρα) is the goddess of marriage, women and family and the queen of gods, wife of Zeus. Her symbol is the peacock. The Roman equivalent is Juno. See Hera in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Artemis (Ἄρτεμις) is the goddess of the hunt, and to be recognised by the moon crescent as tiara on her head. Her Roman equivalent is Diana. More about Artemis in The Twelve Olympians.
Zeus and Io

Zeus and Io

“…and Hera, Hermes and Argus”

The story of Zeus and Io is one of the many fascinating tales from Greek mythology. It involves love, deception, and a remarkable transformation. The story is written in various ancient Greek texts, but one of the most well-known versions can be found in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”. Ovid was a Roman poet who lived during the 1st century AD and wrote a collection of mythical tales, including the story of Zeus and Io.

Here’s the story: Io was a beautiful mortal princess and her radiant beauty caught the attention of Zeus, king of the gods. He became infatuated with her and desired her affection. Zeus, being notorious for his amorous escapades, sought to pursue Io without the knowledge of his jealous wife Hera. To avoid detection, Zeus approached Io in the form of a cloud. It’s Zeus naughty and cunning habit to seduce his amorous victims in disguise, in the form of a cloud this time.

Zeus, disguised as a cloud, seduces the beautiful princess Io. Look at his face and his paw! (c.1530)
Correggio (Italian, c.1489 – 1534), 162×74cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Zeus’ wife Hera became enormously suspicious when she saw that cloud hanging above the fields and went to see if her husband Zeus was behind it and maybe after another beautiful girl.

Oops, there is Zeus wife Hera! Catching her husband with Io; Hermes and Argus in the background, but that’s only later in the story… (1619)
Hans Bock the Elder (German, c.1550 – c.1623), 47x62cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest.

Zeus then used his divine powers and transformed Io into a white heifer (a young and fertile cow) to hide their affair from his jealous wife. This transformation allowed Io to live among the other cattle without arousing suspicion.

Zeus (with the eagle) is surprised by his wife Hera (with the peacock) and quickly transforms his lover Io into a cow (c.1530)
On the left the drawing as study for the print, and on the right the ultimate print. Drawing (c.1530), Michiel Coxie (Flemish, 1499 – 1592), Paper and Brown Ink, 17x14cm, British Museum, London. Print (c.1540), printmaker Cornelis Bos (Flemish, c.1508 – c.1555), after the drawing by Michiel Coxie (Flemish, 1499 – 1592), engraving, 18x14cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

However, Hera was no fool and soon became suspicious of her husband’s intentions. She suspected that Zeus was up to something and devised a plan to discover the truth.

Hera is now finding out what’s happening, having watched her husband Zeus with the beautiful Io in the body of a cow (c.1656)
Jan Gerritsz. van Bronchorst (Dutch, c.1603 – 1661), 274x176cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

Hera approached Zeus and cunningly expressed her admiration for the cow, suggesting that she would love to have the creature as a gift. Zeus, aware of his wife’s jealousy, could not refuse the request and reluctantly agreed to give the cow to her.

Hera demand Zeus: “Give that cow (Io, that is) to me!” (1638)
David Teniers (Flemish, 1582 – 1649), 47×61cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Now, Hera had possession of the transformed Io, but she wasn’t entirely convinced of her husband’s innocence. To keep an eye on the situation, she assigned the many-eyed giant guy Argus Panoptes (the all-seeing Argus) to guard the cow. Argus was an extraordinary creature with hundreds of eyes, and he was capable of keeping watch over Io at all times, even while some of his eyes rested.

Hera tells Argus, the guy with 100 eyes, to guard the cow Io (c.1625)
Printmaker Moyses van Wtenbrouck (Dutch, c.1595 – c.1647), engraving, 13x18cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Zeus was deeply concerned for Io’s safety and well-being. In a desperate attempt to free her, he sought the help of his son Hermes, the messenger of the gods and a skilled trickster.

Zeus instructs Hermes to kill Argus and to free the cow Io (c.1656)
Jan Gerritsz. van Bronchorst (Dutch, c.1603 – 1661), 277x183cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

Hermes devised a clever plan to rescue Io. He played a melodious tune on his flute and began to tell entertaining stories to Argus. As the music and tales enchanted the many-eyed giant, his eyes gradually closed, one by one, until all were shut in a peaceful slumber.

Hermes plays the flute and tells stories, until all the 100 eyes of Argus fell asleep,with the cow Io in the background (c.1592)
Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1566 – 1651), 64x81cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.
Argus fell asleep and Hermes is pulling his sword to kill Argus; the cow Io in the background (1610)
Paulus van Vianen (Dutch, 1570 – 1614), Silver Plaquette, 13x16cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Taking advantage of the situation, Hermes swiftly slew Argus with a single stroke of his sword.

Hermes kills the 100-eyed Argus with Io as a cow in the back of the picture, 5th Century BC
Greek Stamnos Vase, 5th Century BC, found in Cerveteri Italy, height 30cm, diameter 25cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

After Argus’s death, Hera was informed of his demise, and she mourned the loss of her loyal servant. As a tribute to the fallen guardian, Hera transferred Argus’s eyes to the tail of her favorite bird, the peacock, which became a symbol of her power and authority.

The dead Argus on the ground, and Hera placing the eyes of Argus on the tail of a peacock (17th Century)
Deifobo Burbarini (Italian, 1619 – 1680), 159x255cm, Private Collection, latest Christie’s New York 2017.

Io was finally free from her captor, but Hera’s rage did not subside. In her fury, she sent a tormenting gadfly to relentlessly sting and chase Io across the world, making her wander in agony.

Poor Io being pestered by a gadfly sent by Hera; the fly on her ear, she cannot reach it and it makes Io-as-cow running in panic all over the Mediterranean, through the Ionian Sea and over the Bosporus into Egypt (2019)
Olivia Musgrave (Irish, 1958), Bronze, 39x54x26cm, John Martin Gallery, London.

Io’s wanderings led her to Egypt, where she eventually returned to her original human form. In Egypt, she gave birth to a son named Epaphus, who would later become a renowned king and ancestor of various legendary figures.

Io (left, back in human form but still with the cow horns) is welcomed in Egypt by Isis (right) and Io is living happily ever after
fresco from the temple of Isis in Pompeii, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, Italy.

The story of Io and Zeus is one of the many tales that highlight the complicated relationships among the gods and mortals in Greek mythology. It showcases the consequences of divine infidelity and the lengths to which the gods would go to protect their interests and secrets.

Ionian Sea and Bosporus

After her transformation into a cow and subsequent escape from Argus, Io roamed through various regions, enduring Hera’s torment in the form of a gadfly that continually stung her. Her wandering took her through different lands and over various seas. The Ionian Sea is named after Io and she crossed the Bosporus on her way to Egypt.

The word “Bosporus” does indeed have a connection to the idea of “cow crossing” in its etymology. The Bosporus, the strait that separates the European and Asian parts of Turkey, derives its name from ancient Greek. The Greek word “Βόσπορος” (Bosporos) is a combination of two words: “βοῦς” (bous), which means “cow,” and “πόρος” (poros), which means “crossing” or “passage.” So, the term “Bosporus” can be interpreted as the “Cow Crossing” or the “Cow Passage.” In a similar vein, “Oxford” in England has its name derived from “oxen ford,” which means a place where oxen (and likely other cattle) could cross a river. Same for “Coevorden” in The Netherlands. Place names often carry historical or mythological significance, and they can provide fascinating insights into the cultural heritage and stories of the regions they represent.

Greek and Roman Gods

The three gods involved in the story of Zeus and Io are:

  • Zeus (Ζεύς) is the god of the sky and thunder, and king of the gods, married to Hera. His symbol is the eagle. The Roman equivalent is Jupiter, also knows as Jove. Read more about Zeus in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Hera (Ήρα) is the goddess of marriage, women and family and the queen of gods, wife of Zeus. Her symbol is the peacock. The Roman equivalent is Juno. See Hera in The Twelve Olympians.
  • Hermes (Ἑρμῆς) is the messenger of the gods and the divine trickster. His Roman equivalent is Mercury. More about Hermes in The Twelve Olympians.
National Gallery acquires Saint Bartholomew by Bernardo Cavallino

National Gallery acquires Saint Bartholomew by Bernardo Cavallino

Now on view in the National Gallery, London

The National Gallery purchased the life-size painting of Saint Bartholomew by Bernardo Cavallino at Sotheby’s New York back in January 2023 from the Fisch Davidson collection – one of the most important collections of Baroque art ever to appear on the market. The cost was $3.9 million (hammer $3.2m). This depiction of Saint Bartholomew, a most splendid work by Cavallino, dates to the 1640s, when the Neapolitan artist was at the height of his artistic powers.

Saint Bartholomew (c.1642), Bernardo Cavallino (Neapolitan, 1616 – 1656), 176x126cm, National Gallery, London.

Saint Bartholomew sits alone in the wilderness. His expression is one of grim determination, at once horrified and resolved. Enveloped in the folds of his mantle, he turns towards us, unable to look at the knife clasped in his left hand. This will be the tool of his martyrdom, for Bartholomew was flayed alive. One of the Twelve Apostles, Bartholomew was said to have preached the gospel in India and in Armenia. When he refused to make a sacrifice to the local gods, he was horribly killed, first stripped of his skin and then beheaded. Gruesome depictions of Bartholomew’s martyrdom were popular in seventeenth-century Naples and often showed the act of flaying in progress. This painting’s power comes from how extremely it has been pared back. Bartholomew is the sole protagonist in this almost monochromatic, intensely psychological picture. Stark light illuminates the mantle and the flesh, which provides the only colour in a work otherwise composed of silvery grey tones. We are not confronted here with violence: rather, it is the threat and imminence of violence that is so menacing. Instead of witnessing Bartholomew’s flayed flesh, the picture is dominated by the creamy mantle, whose folds are so elaborate that they cannot help but make us think of skin. Whether in the crisply delineated edges of the fabric or the strong sense of outline created by pulling the white paint right up to the flesh, everything seems to allude to layers and unpeeling, the act of incision unseen but ever-present.

Bernardo Cavallino

Bernardo Cavallino (1616 – 1656?) was one of the leading Neapolitan artists of the first half of the 17th Century. While many details of his life and career remain shrouded in mystery, he was renowned in his lifetime for his small, sensitive paintings of mythological and biblical subjects which he painted for a private clientele. Cavallino probably received his training in Naples, the city of his birth. He was strongly influenced by Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652), and seems to have mostly worked for private patrons, producing small, sensitive paintings of mythological and Biblical subjects. This life-size depiction of Saint Bartholomew, with its drama and intensity, is one of Cavallino’s masterpieces. Although we do not know for whom he painted it, its size and grandeur suggest it was an important commission. It probably dates from the latter years of the artist’s life, in which he became increasingly focussed on the emotional power of his works. Just eight of Cavallino’s known works are signed or initialled, and only one is dated. Cavallino probably died during the plague that devastated Naples in 1656. He was well regarded in the decades following his death, but knowledge of his paintings – which were often mistaken for the work of other painters – remained rudimentary until the second half of the 20th century when scholars developed a fuller sense of his poetic contribution to 17th Century art.

The influence of the Jusepe de Ribera is immediately apparent in Cavallino’s Saint Bartholomew, which recalls Ribera’s life-size portrayals of saints from the late 1630s and 1640s and resonates profoundly with Ribera’s near-contemporaneous depiction of the same saint, today in the Prado, Madrid. 

Saint Bartholomew (1641), Jusepe de Ribera (Valencia, Spain 1591 – Naples, Italy 1652), 197x183cm, Prado, Madrid.

The whereabouts of Cavallino’s Saint Bartholomew were untraced until it was sold in 1903 (as by Ribera) at Christie’s, London. It next resurfaced in 1988, after which the painting’s correct attribution to Cavallino was reinstated. The painting was last exhibited in public in 1993, at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in in New York, so the public will now be able to enjoy it for the first time in 30 years. Saint Bartholomew is on display alongside other Italian 17th Century Baroque masterpieces in Room 32 of the National Gallery, London, where Saint Bartholomew will make its natural home among pictures by artists such as Caravaggio, Artemisia and Orazio Gentileschi, Guercino, Reni and Ribera.

  • More about Saint Bartholomew and the Twelve Apostles, click here.
  • More about the National Gallery, London, click here.
Jonah and the Whale

Jonah and the Whale

“Prefiguration of The Resurrection”

The prophet Jonah (Yunus يُونُس in Arabic‎) is a prominent figure in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. He is best known for the biblical story of “Jonah and the Whale” or “Jonah and the Great Fish.” According to the Bible, Jonah was a prophet sent by God to deliver a warning to the people of Nineveh, the capital of the Assyrian Empire and the biggest and most beautiful city of the ancient world; Nineveh is now Mosul in Iraq. The warning was that destruction of their city will happen because of the wicked and sinful behaviour of the Nineveh inhabitants. However, instead of obeying God’s command, Jonah attempted to flee in the opposite direction by boarding a ship heading to faraway. During the voyage, a great storm arose, and the crew believed that someone on board had angered the gods. Jonah eventually confessed that he was fleeing from God’s call, and he asked the crew to throw him overboard to calm the sea, which the crew then did. As the story goes, God calmed the sea, but also sent a large fish (commonly referred to as a whale) to swallow Jonah, saving him from drowning.

The desperate crew understands that Jonah is the reason they are in this big storm. They throw Jonah overboard, and Jonah will be swallowed by the “big fish” or the whale. That helps, because the storm will go and the sea will be calm again.
First engraving from a series of three prints (c.1584), engraved and published by Johann Sadeler (Flemish, 1550 – 1600) after a drawing by Dirck Barendsz (Dutch, 1534 – 1592), Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Jonah Thrown into the Whale and Jonah Spat Up By the Whale, two miniatures from Manuscript 0139, f.028v-029, Jean Mielot, Miroir de l’humaine salvation, parchment, c.1450, Chantilly, Bibliothèque du Château, France. (2)

Jonah spent three days and three nights inside the fish’s belly, during which time he prayed and repented; he felt so very sorry that he had not followed God’s wish and order to go to Nineveh. He repents for his actions and promises to fulfill his mission if given another chance. In response to Jonah’s repentance and prayer, God commands the fish to release him. The fish spits Jonah out onto dry land, giving him a second chance. With a renewed sense of obedience, Jonah finally traveled to Nineveh to deliver God’s message of warning to the city. He warned the people of their wickedness and the impending destruction that would come if they did not repent. Surprisingly, the Ninevites listened to Jonah’s message, repented, and turned away from their evil ways. In response to their repentance, God showed mercy and spared the city from destruction. The story of Jonah is often interpreted as a lesson on the importance of obedience to God and the concept of divine mercy and forgiveness. It serves as a reminder that God’s compassion extends even to those who have strayed from the right path. It’s a message to everyone that even after having done bad things and being a not so good person, there is hope if you repent, change your life and say farewell to your sins.

After having been in the belly of the whale (or big fish at least) for three days and nights, Jonah is spat up on the shore. Jonah gets a second chance and can now go to Nineveh to warn the inhabitants about the danger that will come if they do not repent and let their wicked life go.
Second engraving from a series of three prints (c.1584), engraved and published by Johann Sadeler (Flemish, 1550 – 1600) after a drawing by Dirck Barendsz (Dutch, 1534 – 1592), Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The link between Jonah and Christ is a significant theological parallel found in the New Testament of the Christian Bible. The primary scriptural reference to this connection is found in the Gospel of Matthew, specifically in Matthew 12:38-41: “As Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish, so Jesus will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.” On this basis Christians saw Jonah as a type of Christ and his story as a promise of resurrection, first for Christ but then also for everyone and all of us, there will be resurrection after death. But of course under the condition of being a good person and having said goodbye to your bad habits and sins.

This is the third print in the same series; as Jonah spent three days in the belly of the whale, so will Jesus spent three days in his tomb before his resurrection.
Third engraving from a series of three prints (c.1584), engraved and published by Johann Sadeler (Flemish, 1550 – 1600) after a drawing by Dirck Barendsz (Dutch, 1534 – 1592), Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

The story of Jonah underscores the idea that Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection are part of a divine plan, prefigured in the Old Testament narratives. The story of Jonah in the Whale in the Old Testament is seen as a prefiguration of Jesus’ resurrection. And subsequently as everyone’s resurrection from death at the day of the last judgement. With other words: the story of Jonah gives hope that there will be life after death, but only if one repents and is obedient and does not lead a sinful life.

On this manuscript miniature, Jesus’ followers place his body in a sarcophagus. Expanding the meaning of the central scene, the artist included in the border on the lower left the Old Testament episode of Jonah swallowed by the great fish, as a prefiguration of Jesus’ Entombment and Resurrection; just as Jonah emerged unharmed after three days in the belly of the fish, so will Jesus rise after three days in the tomb.
The Entombment (c.1471), from the Prayer Book of Charles the Bold, manuscript by Lieven van Lathem (Flemish, c.1430 – 1493), Tempera colors, gold leaf, gold paint, silver paint, and ink, 12×9cm, Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
This painting shows the resurrection of Jesus. Three days after his death, Jesus rose again and ascended to the heavens from the tomb in which he was buried. The tomb is here a sarcophagus, on the front of which a figure is pursued and going to be swallowed by a big fish. This refers to story of Jonah and the Whale and Jonah being spit out after three days. The relief on the sarcophagus connects with the resurrection as the main theme of this painting.
Fray Juan Bautista Maíno (Spanish, 1581 – 1649), The Resurrection of Christ with Jonah and the Whale on the Tomb (c.1613), 295x174cm, Prado, Madrid.
In the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling painted by Michelangelo, several prophets from the Old Testament are depicted and Jonah gets the most prominent place, straight above Jesus on the Last Judgement on the wall behind the main altar. Michelangelo creates here a giant visual link between Jonah high above the viewers, and Jesus on the last judgement fresco directly under Jonah, and the humans raising from their graves at the underside of the fresco wall, and subsequently us viewers as watching this whole scene of hope and resurrection after death, but only for the ones who lead a good life and the ones who repent after committing their sins.
Michelangelo (Italian, 1475 – 1564, The Last Judgment (1536 – 1541) with above it the Prophet Jonah (1508), fresco, 1370x1220cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.
Prophet Jonah and the Fish on the Sistine Chapel ceiling above the Last Judgement fresco. The fish is here just a “big fish” as the knowledge of how a whale looked like only came from the spread of 16th and 17th century prints of stranded whales on the European shores.
Michelangelo (Italian, 1475 – 1564, (1508) on Sistine Chapel ceiling, fresco, 400x380cm (12.4 ft), Sistine Chapel, Vatican.

Big Fish or Whale?

Although the creature that swallowed Jonah is often depicted in art and culture as a whale, the original Hebrew text uses the phrase “big fish”. In the art of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the species of the fish that swallowed Jonah became closer to a whale. Most likely that’s also because in those centuries people got familiar with the concept of whales as truly big fish though prints of stranded whales. Before that hardly anyone will have seen a whale, let alone a huge whale that’s capable of swallowing a human person.

Whale on the Dutch coast at Berckhey, February 3, 1598. Print made by Jacob Matham (Dutch, 1571 – 1631) after a drawing by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), engraving dated 1598, 32x43cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Nineveh

Nineveh was an ancient city located on the eastern bank of the Tigris River in present-day Mosul, Iraq. It was one of the most important and influential cities in the ancient world and served as the capital of the Assyrian Empire for several centuries. The city’s history spans over 3,000 years, and it was a center of culture, commerce, and military power. Nineveh as capital of the powerful Assyrian Empire is considered to have been the biggest and most beautiful city in ancient times. Nineveh was surrounded by a series of massive defensive walls that were over 12 kilometers long. These walls were among the most impressive feats of engineering in the ancient world and provided excellent protection for the city. Despite its military might, Nineveh faced its eventual downfall. In 612 BC, a coalition of Babylonians, Medes, and Scythians attacked and razed the city. This marked the end of the Assyrian Empire, and Nineveh was abandoned and largely forgotten for centuries. The ruins of Nineveh were rediscovered in the mid-19th century during excavations by archaeologists such as Austen Henry Layard. These excavations unearthed numerous artifacts and cuneiform tablets, providing valuable insights into the history, culture, and language of the ancient Assyrians.

Artist impression of the Assyrian palaces from The Monuments of Nineveh by Sir Austen Henry Layard, 1853, British Museum, London.

Today, the ancient site of Nineveh, along with other nearby Assyrian cities like Nimrud and Khorsabad, are recognized as UNESCO World Heritage sites. However, the region has faced challenges due to political instability and armed conflicts, leading to damage and looting of its precious historical remains, mostly by ISIS around 2014.

Al-Nabi Yunus (The Prophet Jonah) Mosque

The Al-Nabi Yunus Mosque (Arabic: جامع النبي يونس) also known as the the Prophet Jonah’s Mosque, is an important religious site located in Nineveh, now Mosul, Iraq. It holds significance for both Muslims and Christians due to its association with the prophet Jonah (known as Yunus in Islamic tradition) from his stories in the Hebrew Bible and the Quran. The mosque is situated on top of a hill on the eastern bank of the Tigris River in Mosul. Its location is believed to be the site where the prophet Jonah was buried.

View on the (now destroyed by ISIS) Tomb of Jonah and The Prophet Jonah Mosque, Nineveh (now Mosul), Iraq, around 1965. Photograph from the Library of Congress, Washington.

The Al-Nabi Yunus Mosque is considered a place of veneration for Muslims, who come to pay their respects to the prophet Yunus. However, it also holds importance for Christians, as Jonah is recognized as a prophet in Christianity as well. This interfaith significance has made the site an important symbol of religious coexistence. The mosque’s origins can be traced back to the 14th century. The site itself however, has religious significance dating back to much earlier times.

In 2014, during the rise of the Islamic State (ISIS), the mosque suffered destruction along with other historical sites in Mosul. ISIS militants considered the veneration of shrines and tombs to be against their strict interpretation of Islam and targeted such sites. The mosque was used as a prison and later blown up by the militants. After the liberation of Mosul from ISIS in 2017, efforts were made to restore and rebuild the Al-Nabi Yunus Mosque. The reconstruction work has been carried out as part of broader efforts to preserve and revive the cultural and historical heritage of the city. During the reconstruction an even older Assyrian palace was found under the remains of the mosque.