Tag: Metropolitan Museum

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.
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.

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!

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.
“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.

Mauritshuis Acquires Painting by Adriaen Brouwer

Mauritshuis Acquires Painting by Adriaen Brouwer

“Superbia” or “Vanity”, c.1635

The Mauritshuis has acquired a unique painting by the Flemish artist Adriaen Brouwer (c.1605 – 1638). It is a rare representation of the Latin concept of “Superbia“, which means pride or vanity. Superbia depicts a man curling his moustache with a pair of scissors. The acquisition originally belonged to a series of seven panels, representing the seven deadly sins. The series got scattered around 1800, and the whereabouts of five paintings are still unknown. The painting known as “Luxuria”, which means lust, is also part of the Mauritshuis collection, since 1897.

The small panel (23x16cm) depicts a man with a red beret curling his moustache using a pair of scissors. The paint application is thin, and the background is left smooth and even. The clothing is minimally detailed, with only a few white paint strokes here and there on the collar and cufflinks. The man is shown looking into a mirror, like a snapshot from everyday life. He seems particularly preoccupied with his image, seeking to demonstrate his importance.  

Adriaen Brouwer (Flemish, c.1605 – 1638), Superbia or Vanity, (c.1635), 23x16cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Adriaen Brouwer worked in Haarlem and Amsterdam before permanently settling in Antwerp. He died at the age of 32. Brouwer’s work was highly regarded by his colleagues, including Rembrandt and Peter Paul Rubens, who collected paintings by his hand. Today, the work of Brouwer, of whom about 65 paintings are known, is relatively rare. He primarily depicted peasant life, often featuring fighting or drinking peasants in or near taverns. Later in his career, Brouwer began to combine various genres. For instance, he sometimes merged lively gatherings with portraiture and landscape painting. The painting The Smokers at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York is a perfect example of this. The artwork features a self-portrait of Brouwer alongside several artists, including Jan Lievens and Jan Davidsz de Heem. In this famous picture, Brouwer himself (center foreground) plays one of his typical revelers, seemingly surprised by the viewer’s intrusion on the scene.

Adriaen Brouwer (Flemish, c.1605 – 1638), The Smokers (c.1636), 46x37cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

On the back of both panels at the Mauritshuis, identical coats of arms were discovered, with consecutive numbers in the same handwriting: 114 and 115. Research conducted by Olivier Mertens, a specialist in heraldry, revealed that these seals with coats of arms are from Spanish regions (such as Castile, León, Aragon, and Sicily) and Austria. This specific coat of arms belonged to Don Juan José van Oostenrijk (1629 – 1679), an illegitimate son of the Spanish King Philip IV. This indicates that the series by Brouwer traveled from Antwerp to foreign countries as early as the 17th century, and then became dispersed around 1800.

Winter in art

Winter in art

“Baby, it’s cold outside…”

Now that we are in the middle of the winter, I’ve started thinking about how this “winter” concept has been represented in art. It’s the harshest season of the year, certainly when there was no electricity or gas, but some touching images have been produced over the centuries.

It was not just landscape painters who gave us winter scenes with frozen rivers and skaters. Painters also personified winter as an old man with a fur coat and warming his hands at a brazier. And from the the 18th century, artists depicted winter as a young woman, adding a sensual and warm touch to the cold.

I choose some ten works of art, all depicting winter as a “personification”; as a human figure depicted with symbolic attributes, representing the abstract idea of “winter”. Starting with the French Impressionist Berthe Morisot, as I like her paintings so much. And then going back in time to the 17th century Flemish painter David Teniers, to Madame de Pompadour – lover of King Louis XV of France, to the bedroom of King George III of England, to La Frileuse, the chilly girl, by the French sculptor Houdon. It’s an eclectic batch of art, but all lovely. They give inspiration and warmth in this cold season. Like Vivaldi’s Winter from The Four Seasons.

Berthe Morisot (French, 1841 – 1895). On the right: Hiver or Winter, 1880, 75x62cm, Dallas Museum of Art, Dallas, Texas. On the left: Été: Jeune femme près d’une fenêtre or Summer: Young Woman by a Window, 1879, 76x61cm, Musée Fabre, Montpellier, France.

Along with its Summer pendant, Winter depicts a fashionable Parisian woman who personifies a season. Berthe Morisot debuted the paintings together at the Paris Impressionist exhibition in 1880. Morisot’s images of the Parisienne, a popular figure type representing an elegant, upper-class Parisian woman, were considered utterly contemporary. A critic said about Morisot’s Winter: “with its figure, so courageously modern, of the Parisian woman braving the cold in her furs.”

Berthe Morisot (Édouard Manet’s model and sister-in-law) was one of the most respected members of the Impressionist movement. At the beginning of the 20th century, her aura began to dim and her painting, labelled “feminine”, was relegated to second rank. Only recently, thanks also to the grand 2019 Morisot exhibition in the Musée d’Orsay, Berthe Morisot was incontestably regarded again as a great artist.

Abraham Bloemaert (Dutch, 1566 – 1651), Allégorie de l’hiver (et de l’amour) or Winter (and love), c.1627, 70x58cm, Musée du Louvre, Paris.

This old man by the Dutch Golden Age painter Abraham Bloemaert is representing Winter. Wearing a fur hat and very carefully warming himself at a small stove full of red-hot coals or charcoal. His nose and cheeks reflect the heat of the coal. It’s not only a representation of winter, but also hinting to love and passion. Love – and it’s pleasure – happens to be gallant to the ones who court the fire of love with caution.

David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), Winter, from the series The Four Seasons, c.1644, Oil on Copper, 22x16cm, National Gallery, London.

David Teniers the Younger brings the cycle of the seasons to an end with an old man representing Winter. Wrapped in velvet and fur, he hunches over to warm his hands at a brazier, a small stove that’s heated with charcoal. His face is wrinkled, his beard long and frosted with white. In the background a small, monochrome skating scene. It’s a personification of winter and Teniers chose a character of an appropriate age and dressed him accordingly. Winter as the last season of life.

The tiny picture is on a copper base, which allowed the paint to flow more freely than it would on canvas. Teniers could show minute detail: the facial characteristics and expressions, Winter’s splendid hat and the objects on his table. Allegorical paintings of the seasons were popular at the time, and Teniers painted several versions of the subject. David Teniers was cashing in on the popularity of the series and turning them out quickly to fulfil demand.

Caesar Boëtius van Everdingen (Dutch, 1616 – 1678), A Young Woman Warming her Hands over a Brazier: Winter, c.1646, 97x81cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

This young woman by Caesar Boëtius van Everdingen warms her hands above a dish of glowing coals, holding her hands under a piece of cloth. She personifies Winter. This season was usually represented as an old man: old because the year is coming to an end, like towards the end of life. Van Everdingen’s choice of a young, richly attired woman is rather unusual. Cesar Boëtius van Everdingen was a Dutch Golden Age painter, from Alkmaar.

Giovanni Battista Pittoni the younger (Italian, 1687 – 1767), Allegory of Winter and Summer, c.1730, 125x112cm, Bristol City Museum & Art Gallery, Bristol, United Kingdom.

For this allegory of Winter and Summer, the painter Giovanni Battista Pittoni turned to traditional iconographic examples. Summer is personified as a young woman, and Winter as an old man warming his hands over a brazier. Summer gestures to a small angel-like figure in the top right corner (difficult to see on the picture). That’s the Spirit of Dawn whose urn of water provides the dew droplets of summer and frost in the winter.

Rosalba Giovannia Carriera (Italian, 1673 – 1757). On the left: A Personification of Winter, c.1726, Pastel on blue paper, 62x50cm, Royal Collection Trust, London. On the right: A Personification of Summer, c.1744, Pastel on blue paper, 60x50cm, Royal Collection Trust, London.

The Winter pastel by Rosalba Giovannia Carriera was acquired by George III, King of England. It entered the Royal Collection in 1762 as “a Beautiful Female covering herself with a Pelisse”. In traditional images Winter was typically shown as an old man, but Rosalba Carriera transformed the subject into a beautiful young woman. “Winter” was put on display in George III’s bedchamber at Buckingham Palace, alongside “Summer”.

Rosalba Carriera was born in Venice. She began her career as a painter of snuffboxes, but rose quickly to fame for her pastel portraits, which became highly desired across Europe. Carriera made several sets of allegories of the Four Seasons. The largest group of pastels by Carriera belonged to Frederick Augustus Elector of Saxony. Over 100 of her pastels were on display at his residence in Dresden in a ‘Rosalba Room’. The artist became blind in later life and died in 1757.

François Boucher (French, 1703–1770), The Four Seasons: Winter, 1755, 57x73cm, The Frick Collection, New York.

François Boucher painted this Winter from the series The Four Seasons in 1755 for Madame De Pompadour, King Louis XV’s long-term official mistress. Their original location is unknown, but their peculiar shape suggests that they were used as overdoors, no doubt in one of Pompadour’s many properties in France.

Instead of the hardship that traditionally illustrates the theme of winter, Boucher depicts a delightful encounter in joyous colours, a frosty background and a landscape buried under snow. A Tartar in pseudo-Russian dress pushes an elaborate sleigh with the heroine – most likely referring to Madame de Pompadour herself. Glancing out at us coyly, she sports a billowing fur-trimmed gown and a little fur necklace. Her hands may be warmed by a muff, but her upper body is completely exposed. This combination of luxury and seduction, treated in a fanciful and humorous manner, is typical of Boucher.

Étienne-Maurice Falconet (French, 1716 – 1791), Winter, c.1770, Marble, 135 cm, The Winter Palace, State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg.

In April 1764, the 42-year-old Madame Marquise de Pompadour, the official chief mistress of King Louis XV of France unexpectedly died, and in the workshop of her beloved sculptor Etienne Maurice Falconet, the last of the statues she commissioned remained unfinished – the marble Winter, a young woman sitting on an ice cube and gracefully covering flowers with her robe.

A year later Falconet received an invitation from the Russian Empress Catherine the Great to work at her court. It was agreed that at the expense of the Russian treasury all unfinished work from the Falconet workshop would travel with him to Russia. And part of that deal was the unfinished “Winter” sculpture. Falconet completed “Winter” only 5 years after arriving in Russia. That’s how this statue, made by a French sculptor, ended up in the Winter Palace of the State Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg. Contemporaries of Falconet received the work as a masterpiece and the artist himself wrote: “This might be the very best work which I can do; I even dare to think that it is good.”

Jean Antoine Houdon (French, 1741 – 1828), Winter (La Frileuse), 1787, Bronze, 144x39x51cm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

L’Hiver or Winter is a bronze statue of a young woman cast by the neoclassical French sculptor Jean-Antoine Houdon. The statue personifies the winter season and is nicknamed La Frileuse, The Chilly Girl. This is reflected in both the medium (a cold, dark bronze) and the features of the sculpture, a young woman clad only in a shawl. Upon its completion and presentation at the 1787 Salon, the French yearly art fair, Winter shocked the French artistic establishment but delighted art lovers. The critics at the Salon indulged in some irony: “La Frileuse by Monsieur Houdon does not seem to achieve its effect. When someone is really cold, he tries to pull all his limbs close to him and covers his body more than his head. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to the eye and the proportions are correct” and “One must concur that winter would be a very desirable season if pretty shivering girls did not cover themselves in any other way.” Don’t think this critic will still have a job after saying this nowadays. In terms of her clothing, the Metropolitan Museum of Art describes it as “elegant but hardly adequate”. La Frileuse made me think of the song Let it Go from Frozen, “The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway.”

The statue was bought by Louis Philippe Joseph, Duc d’Orléans, confiscated during the French Revolution and now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Paul Heermann (German, 1673 – 1732), Winter, c.1700, Marble, 65x64x34cm, Getty Center, Los Angeles. 

Shrouded in a heavy hooded cloak, this elderly man by Paul Heermann looks down with a deeply furrowed brow. As a personification of Winter, the bust gives visual expression to the chilling cold of that season. His old age refers to winter’s occurrence at the very end of the calendar year. This bust was probably part of a series of sculptures personifying the four seasons. At the Versailles Palace, it was fashion including statues of the seasons in the program for garden sculpture. The high level of finish and finely worked details of this bust, however, suggest that Winter was meant to be viewed up close, in an indoor palatial setting.

Jacob Matham (Dutch, 1571 – 1631) engraver, after Hendrik Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617) drawer, Winter, 1589, from the series The Seasons, engraving, diameter 26cm, National gallery of Art, Washington DC.

This Winter engraving has a very traditional iconography. The personification of Winter is an elderly man wearing a coat and warming his hands by holding a pot containing a fire; beyond is a wintery townscape with ice skaters and people collecting fire wood; the signs of the winter zodiac (Pisces, Aquarius and Capricorn) in the sky; and a cute little putto plays the cold Northern wind blowing into a cloud which results in rain and snow. And just so that we do not get it wrong, Hendrick Goltzius put the name “Hyems” just above the man, which is Latin for “Winter”.

Hendrick Goltzius designed four series with the seasons; Winter depicted here is from the set engraved by Jacob Matham.

The Visitation: Mary meets Elizabeth

The Visitation: Mary meets Elizabeth

“Baby Shower for two”

As we near December and Christmas, all our attention turns to the story of the birth of Jesus. But how about his mother Mary? How about Mary’s pregnancy, and what did she do in those nine months before giving birth to Jesus? Around May that year, when Mary was 2 months pregnant with Jesus, she travelled some 150km from her home in Nazareth to a small town in Judea, to visit her relative Elizabeth who was 8 months pregnant of John the Baptists. This visit of Mary to Elizabeth is called the “Visitation” and is told in the Bible in the chapter that’s the Gospel of Luke (1:39-56). The Visitation took place on May 31st and Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months, during which Elizabeth gave birth to John the Baptist, on June 24th.

Rogier van der Weyden (c.1400 – 1464), “Visitation” (c.1437), 58x36cm, Museum der Bildenden Künste, Leipzig.
Mary meets Elizabeth, both pregnant, in front of Elizabeth and Zacharias’ house. Although the story is set in Judea, Rogier van der Weyden choose a Flemish setting, which will have appealed to the contemporary viewers.

Elizabeth and her husband Zacharias were both very old and without children. Miraculously Elizabeth suddenly got pregnant, which was predicted to Zacharias by the angel Gabriel. Zacharias could hardly believe this, as his wife was too old to get a baby. Here is a similarity with the message Maria got from the same angel Gabriel: “Ave Maria, you will be pregnant and give birth to Jesus!” When Mary got pregnant, her fiancé Joseph could also hardly believe what had happened.

Albrecht Dürer (1471 – 1528), “Visitation”, from The Life of the Virgin series (1503), Woodcut, 30x21cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
The Life of The Virgin is a series of 20 woodcuts, published as a book with the prints facing a page with Latin verses. These series focus on Mary as a human and even a mother, opposed the the suffering as in many other series of the life of Mary and Christ. Also, Dürer is using a very contemporary approach, look at the clothes of Mary and Elizabeth and Zacharias standing in the door of their house. This depicting of a “bourgeois” Mary will immediately have been familiar and attractive to Dürer’s clientele. From the moment of publishing, the woodcuts were copied and sold illegally, Dürer started many legal cases to protect his copyright.

Mary knew well that her cousin Elizabeth had grieved for so many years on account of being childless. Mary travelled all the way to share Elizabeth’s joy and of course to help her in her household affairs and be with her during birth and in the months after the birth of the little John. It was a mission of charity.

Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn, (1606 – 1669), “Visitation” (1640), 57×48cm, Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, MI.
On the left the elderly Zacharias, husband of Elizabeth, easing himself down the stairs with the help of a young boy; on the right Joseph, Mary’s fiancé, climbing up the hill leading his donkey. Considering tradition and the need for security, Joseph probably accompanied Mary to Judea and then returned to Nazareth, to come again after three months to take his wife home. The dog symbolizes faithfulness. This painting may relate directly to Rembrandt’s life. The face of Elizabeth is reminiscent of the artist’s mother, who died in 1640 just as his wife was about to give birth.

Mary’s visit also brought divine grace to both Elizabeth and her unborn child, John the Baptist. Even though he was still in his mother’s womb, John became already aware of the presence of Jesus who was still in Mary’s womb. When Mary and Elizabeth met at the doorsteps of Zacharias’ house – the “Visitation” – Elizabeth spoke out with a loud voice and said to Mary: “Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb. Why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?” And Elizabeth said that as soon as she heard the voice of Mary’s greeting, her baby leaped in her womb for joy. At that moment the still to be born John the Baptist was filled with the Holy Spirit.

Drawn by Raphael (1483 – 1520) and finished by his workshop, “The Visitation” (c.1517), 200x145cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.
The two figures can be told apart by their age. Mary is depicted as a young woman while Elizabeth, on the left, is an old woman, which emphasizes the miracle of her pregnancy, as the Bible texts have it. The scene takes place in a landscape and in the background we can see an event which would take place years later: Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist in the Jordan River. This work was drawn by Raphael, who was paid 300 escudos. He then had the painting done by one of his assistants, though it is not clear which one. 

Since the Medieval era, Elizabeth’s greeting, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb,” has formed the second part of the “Ave Maria” or the “Hail Mary” song. The first part are the words the angel Gabriel said to Mary when he announced she will be pregnant of Jesus. One of the most famous composed music versions is Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria” from 1825. Listen to it via the link, with English and Latin lyrics provided in the clip and hereunder.

Hail Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
Domenikos Theotokopoulos (aka El Greco) (1541 – 1614), “Visitation” (c.1612), 97x71cm, Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC.
This Visitation painting was intended for the Church of San Vicente in Toledo, Spain, and the contract signed in 1607 stipulated “in the ceiling a story of the Visitation of Saint Elizabeth, … which is to be placed in a circle. ” By April 17, 1613, El Greco declared the paintings completed. However, it is not certain that The Visitation was installed. El Greco used quite some artistic – almost modern – abstractions in this 17th century work.  

In response to Elizabeth, Mary proclaims the famous words “My soul magnifies the Lord” in what is now called “Song of Mary” or “Magnificat”. Mary rejoices that she has the privilege of giving birth to Jesus. While Mary speaks to Elizabeth, she also turns a bit into a revolutionary as she continues looking forward to God transforming the world. “The proud will be brought low, and the humble will be lifted; the hungry will be fed, and the rich will go without.” In her answer to Elizabeth, Mary transforms herself from an obedient humble girl into an adult fighter for justice and protector of the poor. This “Magnificat” is nowadays banned in certain countries, as seen dangerous by the ruling oppressors. Johann Sebastian Bach put music to the words and created in 1723 his masterpiece “Magnificat”. Listen to it via the link, at least for the first few minutes. Lyrics in English and Latin hereunder.

My soul magnifies the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has looked with favor on His humble servant;  from this day all generations will call me blessed.
The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is His Name,
He has mercy on those who fear Him in every generation.
He has shown the strength of his arm;
He has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.

Magnificat anima mea Dominum;
Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo,
Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae; ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes.
Quia fecit mihi magna qui potens est, et sanctum nomen ejus,
Et misericordia ejus a progenie in progenies timentibus eum.
Fecit potentiam in bracchio suo;
Dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.
Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.
Esurientes implevit bonis, et divites dimisit inanes.
Pontormo (1494 – 1557), “Visitation” (c.1529), 202x156cm, San Michele e San Francesco, Carmignano, Tuscany, Italy. This “Visitation” has remained in the church for which it was painted for almost its whole existence. In the foreground of the painting, we see Mary and Elizabeth, in the background two handmaids.

Mary, through her meeting with Elizabeth, is no longer a silent participant of the Christmas story. She is a protector of the suppressed and a revolutionary, a fighter for a better world. Celebrating Christmas, is celebrating hope for a better world, for true justice to come.

Johann Sadeler (I) (1550 – 1600) engraver, after Maerten de Vos (1531 – 1603) drawer, “Visitation” (c.1588), 2nd print from the series of 15, “Life and Passion of Christ and the Virgin”, Engraving, 19x14cm, RijksMuseum, Amsterdam. An almost nowadays meet and greet between two couples. Mary and Elizabeth, who are both pregnant, kiss and hug. And their husband, Joseph and Zacharias, shake hands.

And for the sake of completeness, here is the full text of the Bible story of The Visitation; Luke 1:39-56, in the new international version.

Mary Visits Elizabeth (39 - 45)

At that time Mary got ready and hurried to a town in the hill country of Judea,
where she entered Zechariah’s home and greeted Elizabeth.
When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit.
In a loud voice she exclaimed: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear!
But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?
As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy.
Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”

Mary’s Song (46 - 55)

And Mary said: “My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me — holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever, just as he promised our ancestors.”

Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home. (56)
Saint Christopher and Atlas

Saint Christopher and Atlas

“The World On Your Shoulders”

Today July 25 is the day of Saint Christopher, since the dark Middle Ages the patron saint of travellers and nowadays also the protector of motorists. He is a popular saint, but there is no certainty that he really existed. In 1969 his name was dropped from the official calendar of the Catholic Church. The calendar was getting crowded with many secondary saints and some clean-up was needed to make space for the more important ones. There are hardly any historical data about Christopher, but he became super popular over the centuries. And on top of that, images of Christopher arose, bigger in size than Christ’s, and belief in Saint Christopher became close to superstition. Although Christopher’s day is no longer official and obligatory, he is still recognised as saint. Villages and cities that carry his name celebrate the feast of their saint. And there are many places with his name (Spanish: San Cristobál, Italian: San Cristoforo, Dutch: Sint Christoffel, French: Saint Christofe), even up to the island country of Saint Kitts and Nevis in the West Indies, officially the Federation of Saint Christopher and Nevis.

Images of Saint Christopher depict him as a giant man standing in water, holding a staff in his hand and with a child on shoulder who sometimes holds a terrestrial globe in his hand. This image tells the story of Christopher carrying a child across a raging river, and the child revealed himself as Christ.

Benvenuto Tisi “Il Garofalo” (1481 – 1559), “Saint Christopher” (c.1535), 33x37cm, Liechtenstein, The Princely Collections, Vaduz – Vienna.

According to the legendary account of his life, Christopher was a man of significant physical stature: 7.5 feet (2.3 m) tall, full of muscle and with a fearsome face. He took it into his head to serve the mightiest king on earth. He went to the king who was reputed to be so, but one day he saw the king cross himself at the mention of the devil. On thus learning that the king feared the devil, Christopher decided that the devil was even mightier and departed to look for him. He came across a gang of robbers, whose leader referred to himself as “The Devil”. But when this leader avoided a wayside cross out of fear of Christ, Christopher learned there was someone even more powerful than the devil. He left the gang of thieves and asked around where to find Christ. He met a hermit (often also depicted with Christopher, see hereunder the Joachim Patinir painting) who instructed him in the Christian faith. Christopher asked the hermit how he could serve Christ. The hermit suggested that because of his size and strength, Christopher could serve Christ by assisting people to cross a dangerous river, where many people with less strength had drowned.

Joachim Patinir (c.1480 – 1524), “Saint Christopher” (c.1522), 125x170cm), Royal Site of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Madrid.

After Christopher had performed this service for some time, a little child asked to take him across the river. During the crossing, the river became swollen and the child seemed as heavy as lead, so much that Christopher could scarcely carry him and found himself in great difficulty. When he finally reached the other side, he said to the child: “You have put me in the greatest danger. I do not think the whole world could have been as heavy on my shoulders as you were.” The child replied: “You had on your shoulders not only the whole world but Him who made it. I am Christ your king, whom you are serving by this work.”

It is because of this experience that Christopher got his name, for Christopher in Greek is Χριστό-φορος (Christó-foros), which literally translate as “Christ-bearer.”

Jheronimus Bosch (c.1450 – 1516), “Saint Christopher Carrying the Christ Child” (c.1500), 113x72cm, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

So, the child revealed himself to be the Christ Child, and that the weight Christopher felt was the weight of the entire world he was carrying on his shoulders. Then the Christ Child told Christopher to fix his staff in the bank of the river and come back tomorrow to see what had occurred. This would be the sign to Christopher that the child was truly Christ. The child then vanished. When Christopher returned the next day, the staff had become a palm tree, bearing fruit. On some paintings we may see the staff already replaced by a palm branch or even an entire palm tree. On the Garofalo painting above and the Ghirlandaio one hereunder, the staff is growing into a palm tree.

Domenico Ghirlandaio (c.1448 – 1494), “Saint Christopher and the Infant Christ” (c.1473), Fresco, 285x150cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Saint Christopher is still today valued by travellers. Small devotional medals with Saint Christopher’s name and image are commonly carried in a pocket or placed in vehicles by more religious (or superstitious?) travellers. Pilgrims who looked upon an image of St. Christopher were believed to gain a special blessing. Many medieval and later churches put up huge images that no pilgrim could miss, either on a prominent interior wall or on the outside of the building. Although condemned as superstitious, it appears this belief has endured. See the Ghirlandaio fresco, it measures almost 3 x 1.5 meters. Not to miss by any traveller or pilgrim.

Jusepe de Ribera “Lo Spagnoletto” (1591 – 1652), “Saint Christopher” (1637) ,127x100cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

Joseph de Ribera stripped the story of all the side elements, and kept it to the giant Christopher carrying the child and a terrestrial globe, juxtaposing the colossal size of the saint with the delicacy of the child, creating an image of great expressive power. Like a new Atlas, Saint Christopher crosses the river carrying a child, who is in fact Christ bearing the world. It’s a devotional image of a Christian story, but comparable to the Greek mythological story of Atlas carrying the celestial globe on his shoulders.

Giovanni Francesco Barbieri “Guercino” (1591 – 1666), “Atlas” (c.1545), 127×101cm, Museo Stefano Bardini, Florence.

In Greek mythology, Atlas was condemned by the Olympian god Zeus to hold upon his shoulders the heavens or sky, for eternity and while standing at the western edge of the earth which in those ancient days was northwest Africa. Zeus ultimately felt sorry for Atlas carrying the celestial globe and turned him into an entire mountain range, reaching up to the sky. That’s how Atlas became commonly identified with the “Atlas Mountains”. Also, “Atlantic Ocean” is derived from “Sea of Atlas”. 

The term Atlas has been used to describe a collection of maps since the 16th century when Flemish geographer Gerardus Mercator published his work in honour of the mythological figure of Atlas.

Bernard Picart (1673 – 1733), “Atlas Turned Into A Mountain” (1731), engraving, 35x25cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

What to learn from the giants Christopher and Atlas? Apparently it will give eternal fame when you carry the world or the sky on your shoulders. But that’s not what we want, when dealing with our nowadays problems. Look at Christopher, he could carry a child so light, but once he started to overthink this burden, it became heavier and heavier. Stick to your sorrows as they are and do not make it heavier than it is. The weight on your shoulders is heavy enough, but you are able to carry it and deal with it. As long as no phantasy takes it over and adds all those kilos of worrying. Now to Atlas…, once your feet are in solid ground and stuck to earth like a rock, you will be able to carry even the heaviest on your shoulders. Make yourself standing up with both feet on the ground. First thing to arrange is your own stability. And then you can carry all that weight and deal with any burden, for yourself and for others.

The Olympian Gods

The Olympian Gods

This is a 101 crash course in Greek and Roman gods. In ancient Greek mythology, twelve Olympian gods and goddesses ruled over the affairs of mankind from their palace on Mount Olympus. Besides this canon of major deities, many other gods, half-gods, human offspring and heroes visited the Olympus, and these twelve Olympians descended frequently to earth to have their wars, love affairs, parties and weddings, with other gods and humans. With 2,917 meters, Mount Olympus is the highest mountain in Greece, about 80 km southwest from Thessaloniki.

Cornelis van Poeleburgh (1594 – 1667), “Feast of the Gods” (1623), 32x84cm, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut.

Roman mythology draws directly on Greek mythology and the Romans identified their own gods with those of the ancient Greeks. Greek and Roman mythologies are therefore often classified together as Classical mythology. The interpretations of Greek myths by the Romans often had a greater influence on narrative and pictorial representations of “classical mythology” and therefore the twelve Olympians are often known under their Roman or Latin names.

There is a certain hierarchy, with Zeus being the King of the Gods and Hera their Queen. Almost all of these twelve have family relationships, Zeus often is the father although his kids have different mothers. The Olympian Gods and Goddesses have their own field of reign, covering all aspects of antique mankind. They can be recognised by their posture and physics, and by their attributes. Hereunder the Twelve Olympians, also with their Roman names and of course with their attributes. After some practising it becomes an easy and fun task to recognise them. Here is the 101 crash course!

Zeus (Jupiter)

King of the Gods and ruler of Mount Olympus, god of the sky, lightning, thunder, law, order and justice. The Roman equivalent is Jupiter. He is associated with a bundle of thunderbolts and the eagle. Zeus is married to Hera.

Heinrich Friedrich Füger (1751 – 1818), “Jupiter” (c.1800), 103x79cm, Hungarian National Gallery, Budapest.

Zeus (Greek Ζεύς, Roman Jupiter) is the senior god, ruling over the other deities who are living on their divine Mount Olympus. He held dominion over the earth and sky and was the ultimate arbitrator of law and justice. He controls the weather, specifically with thunder and lightning. He married Hera, but he had a wandering eye and a penchant for flings with any and all women and occasionally a man or boy. His romantic interests gave birth to numerous other gods, demi-gods, and mortal heroes on the earth. Many of the myths about Zeus concern his seemingly endless adulterous rapes of mortals and demi-gods. His wife Hera doesn’t like this at all of course. Zeus’ amorous adventures and Hera’s counterattacks and revenge provide an endless source of fun and many of these stories are inspiration for generations of artists. On the painting Zeus (Jupiter) enthroned, with the eagle at his feet and in his hand a bundle of thunderbolts.

Hera (Juno)

Queen of the Gods, Goddess of marriage and family. The Roman equivalent is Juno. Her attribute is the peacock. Hera is the wife of Zeus.

Hendrick Goltzius (1558 – 1617), “Juno” (c.1595), 13x11cm, Drawing on Paper, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Hera (Greek Ἥρᾱ, Latin Juno) rules as the queen of the gods. As the goddess of marriage and fidelity, she was one of the only Olympians to remain steadfastly faithful to her spouse, Zeus. Though faithful, she was also vengeful, and tormented many of Zeus’s extramarital partners. This has been depicted multiple times throughout history of art and is an endless source of stories and inspiration for painters. Acting as a matronly Queen of the deities of Olympus, she is normally associated with women, marriage and childbirth. Hera’s most usual attribute is her favourite bird, the peacock, as can be seen in-extremis on Glotzius’ drawing from the Rijksmuseum.

Poseidon (Neptune)

The God of the Sea. The Roman equivalent is Neptune. He can be recognised by his trident, horses and dolphins. Poseidon (God of the Sea) is a brother of Zeus (God of the Sky) and Demeter (God of the Land).

John Singleton Copley (1738 – 1815), “Neptune” (c.1754), 70x113cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

When Zeus became king, he divided the universe amongst himself and his two brothers of which Poseidon (Greek Ποσειδῶν, Latin Neptune) received dominion over the seas and waters of the world, its storm and earthquakes. He was the protector of seamen and the god of horses. Poseidon lived with his wife in a magnificent palace under the sea, though he was a frequent visitor on Mount Olympus. On the painting, as usual, Neptune is depicted as an old man with long flowing white hair and beard, riding over the waves of the sea in a coach made of a shell and drawn by his horses. His head crowned as king of the seas, trident in one hand and a big pearl in his other hand.

Demeter (Ceres)

Goddess of the Harvest and Agriculture. The Roman equivalent is Ceres. Her attributes are wheat and the cornucopia, which is the horn of plenty. Demeter is the sister of Zeus and Poseidon.

Antoine Watteau (1684 – 1721), “Ceres” (c.1717), 142x116cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.

Known as the “good goddess” to the people of the earth, Demeter (Greek Δημήτηρ, Latin Ceres) is the goddess of the harvest, who oversaw farming, agriculture, and the fertility of the earth. Not surprisingly, as she controlled the production of food, she was very highly worshipped in the ancient world. On the paining by Watteau she represents summer. Ceres wields a sickle and sits on clouds among sheaves of wheat. The figures surrounding Ceres — the crayfish, the lion, and the nude blond woman — represent the zodiacal symbols of summer (Cancer, Leo, and Virgo). The name of Ceres comes back in the word “cereal”.

Athena (Minerva)

Goddess of War and Wisdom. The Roman equivalent is Minerva. Her symbols are the owl and the body armour including a helmet. Athena is born out of Zeus’ head.

Rembrandt van Rijn (1606 – 1669), “Minerva” (1635), 138x117cm, The Leiden Collection, New York.

Athena (Greek Ἀθηνᾶ, Latin Minerva), was the daughter of Zeus, born out of his head and already at birth dressed in full armour. Athena’s strength rivaled that of any of the other gods. She refused to take any lovers, remaining determinedly a virgin. She took her place on Mount Olympus as the goddess of justice, strategic warfare, wisdom, rational thought, and arts and crafts. In the Rembrandt painting, Minerva can be seen in her study, looking up from her large folio. Her regal appearance is enhanced by the laurel wreath crowning her head. In the background are more books and parts of her body armour, a golden helmet, a spear and a large shield.

Artemis (Diana)

Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt. The Roman equivalent is Diana. Symbols are the moon, bow and arrow. She is a daughter of Zeus and Apollo is her twin brother.

Pietro Antonio Rotari (1707 – 1762), “Diana” (c.1740), 109x77cm, Private Collection, latest at Sotheby’s.

Artemis (Greek Ἄρτεμις, Latin Diana)  and her twin brother Apollo were children of Zeus. The twins became important Olympians, though they were as different as night and day. Artemis was quiet, dark and solemn, the goddess of the moon, forests, archery, and the hunt. Like Athena, Artemis had no desire to marry. She was the patron goddess of feminine fertility, chastity, and childbirth, and was also heavily associated with wild animals. On the painting she is easily recognised by the crescent moon worn as a tiara, the bow and arrow on her back and a hunting dog at her feet.

Apollo

God of the Sun, Light and Music. His attributes are the lyre, sun and laurel wreath. Apollo is a son of Zeus and Artemis is his twin sister.

Rosalba Carriera (1675 – 1757), “Apollo” (c.1743), 67x52cm, Pastel on Paper, The State Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg.

Artemis’s twin brother Apollo (Greek Ἀπόλλων and the same name in Latin) was the god of the sun, light, music, prophecy, medicine, and knowledge, and thus the exact opposite of Demeter. Zeus may have been the senior of the deities, but among the most important and popular with the Greeks and Romans, and later with artists, is Apollo. He is a beardless young man, and the epitome of male beauty. His most common attribute is the lyre, his constant companion for both music and poetry. Apollo was considered the most handsome of the gods. He was cheerful and bright, enjoyed singing, dancing, and drinking, and was immensely popular among both gods and mortals. He also took after his father in the chasing of mortal women and from time to time a boy. On the painting Apollo is depicted as a male beauty, with his lyre and a laurel wreath on his head.

Ares (Mars)

God of Violent War. The Roman equivalent is Mars. Spear, shield and armour are his symbols. Zeus is Ares’ father.

Hendrick ter Brugghen (1588 – 1629), “Mars” (1629), 107x93cm, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.

The attributes of Ares (Greek Ἄρης, Latin Mars) are any part of arms and armour of a warrior, like a helmet and shield. Where Athena oversaw strategy, tactics, and defensive warfare, Ares revealed in the violence and bloodshed that war produced. Often depicted asleep, as on our painting here, which makes him more sympathetic. The God of War asleep becomes the Good of Peace. His name is still used in “martial arts”.

Hephaestus (Vulcan)

God of Fire and Blacksmith of the Gods. The Roman equivalent is Vulcan. To be recognised by fire and the hammer. He married Aphrodite.

Pompeo Girolamo Batoni (1708 – 1787), “Vulcan” (c.1750), 98x76cm, Pinacoteca Civica, Como.

Hephaestus (Greek Ἥφαιστος, Latin Vulcan) learned the blacksmith’s trade, built himself a workshop, and became the god of fire and metallurgy. His forges produce the fire of volcanoes. Hephaestus was horribly ugly – at least by the standards of gods and goddesses – but he managed to marry the beautiful Aphrodite, goddess of love. His attributes derive from his role, and include the hammer and anvil as used in the working of metals. These tools can be seen on this painting, with fire in the background. The word “volcano” refers to the Roman name of Hephaestus, Vulcan.

Aphrodite (Venus)

Goddess of Love, Beaty and Sexuality. The Roman equivalent is Venus. She can be recognised a dove and beauty aspects like jeweller and flowers. Aphrodite married Hephaestos.

François Boucher (1703 – 1770), “Venus” (1751), 108x85cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Aphrodite (Greek Ἀφροδίτη, Latin Venus) as the most beautiful woman, was married to the most ugly of the gods, Hephaestus. She enjoyed a number of flings with mortal humans, including an affair with the beautiful young guy Adonis. Aphrodite (mostly as Venus) has proved hugely popular in Western art, all too often as an excuse for painting a classical female nude and in the case of her affair with Adonis, also with a beautiful man. This tradition of depicting Aphrodite largely or completely unclothed dates from classical times, already on some of the wall paintings found in the ruins of Pompeii. The Boucher painting, formally called “The Toilette of Venus” was executed for the bathroom of Madame de Pompadour, the powerful mistress of Louis XV. Boucher devised a summary of the key features: Venus as female beauty, and an unfurling of luxurious furniture, fabric, flowers, and pearls. The name of the goddess still lives on in the words “aphrodisiac” and “venereal”.

Hermes (Mercury)

God of travel, commerce and communication, Messenger of the Gods. The Roman equivalent is Mercury. Attributes are winged sandals, hat with wings, and the caduceus, a rod with two entwined serpents. His father is Zeus.

Peter Paul Rubens (workshop), “Mercury” (c.1637), 180x69cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

Hermes (Greek Ἑρμῆς, Latin Mercury) is the god who spends as much time among mortals as he does on Olympus: he’s the divine messenger and emissary. Attributes associated with that role include winged sandals, a distinctive staff with a pair of serpents around it, known as a caduceus, and a hat or helmet which bears wings too. The pair of entwined serpents along the caduceus indicates his swiftness as a messenger. This is where the word “mercurial” comes from. There’s also a touch of mischief about Hermes, which has resulted in him being referred to as the divine trickster. He’s thus seen as the protector of all messengers, travellers, thieves, merchants and orators. On the Prado painting we can see the wings around his feet and on his head, and the two snakes around the rod; and of course the male beauty of Hermes himself.

Dionysus (Bacchus)

God of Wine. The Roman equivalent is Bacchus. As God of Wine he can of course be recognised by the grapevine and a cup. Dionysus is the youngest son of Zeus.

Michelangelo Merisi, known as Caravaggio (1571 – 1610), “Bacchus” (c.1598), 95x85cm, Le Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence.

As the god of grape harvest, wine and its making and consumption, Dionysus (Greek Διόνυσος, Latin Bacchus) was an easy favourite among Olympians and mortals alike. Dionysus was the only Olympian to be born of a mortal mother, and perhaps that was part of the reason why he spent so much time among mortal men, traveling widely and gifting them with wine. Like on the Caravaggio painting here, he is almost always associated with wine and drunkenness. His most distinctive attributes are grapes, wine leaves and of course a glass of wine. His name lives on in the word “bacchanal”.

Saint Joseph

Saint Joseph

“Carpenter from Nazareth”

Today March 19th is the day dedicated to Saint Joseph. Who is he? Joseph is one of the three members of the Holy Family, together with the Virgin Mary and her child Jesus. He is a carpenter from Nazareth and a widower, who married the Virgin Marry at that time already pregnant with Jesus. The virgin birth of Jesus is the Christian doctrine that Jesus was conceived and born by his mother Mary through the power of the Holy Spirit and without sexual intercourse. Joseph is therefore Jesus’s foster-father. In most paintings with the Holy Family, Joseph has a minor role and just in the background. Only from the 15th century artists gave more attention to Joseph and made him visible as head of the Holy Family. When the bible speaks about Jesus’s brothers and sisters, those are children of Joseph from a previous marriage. Saint Joseph is the patron saint of family life, fathers, unborn children and carpenters and in Western Christianity his celebration day is March 19th. And in Italy, this special day of Saint Joseph (San Giuseppe in Italian) is also Father’s Day. Joseph might be a lesser celebrity in the biblical world, but as “father” he is a figure that means so much in everyone’s life. Even when he is a foster-father.

Robert Campin (1378 – 1444), “Saint Joseph” (right-hand panel of the “Annunciation Triptych – Merode Altarpiece”) (c. 1430), 65x27cm, Oil on Panel, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

This is the right-hand panel of a triptych. The old man Joseph, who is engaged to the Virgin Mary, works in his carpenter shop. The mousetraps he made, on the bench and in the shopwindow opening onto the street, are symbols of the crucifixion of Jesus which will only happen 33 years later. Jesus on the cross is considered the devil’s mousetrap.

Robert Campin (1378 – 1444), “Annunciation Triptych – Merode Altarpiece” (c. 1430), 65x118cm, Oil on Panel, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Looking at the triptych as a whole, the middle panel shows the moment when the Virgen Mary gets the message from the angel Gabriel that she will be pregnant with Jesus. It’s even the moment of the divine impregnation itself. On the right panel Joseph in his workshop, busy making the mousetraps and no idea what is happening to Mary at this very moment. On the left the donors of this triptych.

French 15th century, “The Expectant Madonna with Saint Joseph” (c.1435), 71x35cm, Tempura on Panel, National Gallery of Art (Samuel H. Kress Collection), Washington DC.

When Joseph was engaged to Mary he found out she became pregnant, and certainly not by him! Joseph was very much doubting if he should indeed marry her. As he considered splitting up, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream. “Joseph” the angel said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife. For the child within her was conceived by the Holy Spirit.” As is written in the bible, see Matthew 1: 18-20. On the picture above you can see Mary, pregnant with Jesus, and Joseph as an old man doubting about what happened. This is not a very common image to see in paintings and it’s obviously a mysterious element in the whole story and even a bit embarrassing for Joseph. The message from the angel to Joseph is then solving this element to everyone’s satisfaction, including Joseph’s. From the 15th century the Holy Family (Maria, Jesus and Joseph) as a subject became way more popular and that helped to raise Joseph in public esteem. Joseph is from then on represented more sympathetically and more prominently.

George de la Tour (1593 – 1652), “Saint Joseph the Carpenter” (1642), 137x102cm, Oil on Canvas, Louvre, Paris.

This painting by George de la Tour (1642, from the Louvre) cannot be missed in any story about Joseph. As patron saint of carpenters, Joseph is working on a beam, helped by his foster son Jesus. The arrangement of pieces of wood on the floor evokes a cross and prefigures the crucifixion of Jesus. The young Jesus with the candlelight shining on his face makes already a reference to becoming the “Light of the World”. George de la Tour shows that even Jesus lived a simple and innocent earthly life, but he included divinity’s presence by way of the light of the candle.

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617 – 1682), “The Holy Family” (1650), 144x188cm, Oil on Canvas, Museo del Prado, Madrid.

Here we see the Holy family with a playing Jesus and two caring parents in a domestic scene. It shows home life but also work, symbolized by Saint Joseph’s carpenter tools on the right. The almost leading role of Joseph, the foster father, corresponds to the increased worship of Joseph as a father figure within the Holy Family. Over the centuries the image of Joseph developed from a grumpy old man to a caring – and younger – father.

Sir John Everett Millais (1829 – 1896), “Christ in the House of His Parents – The Carpenter’s Shop” (1850), 86x140cm, Oil on Canvas, Tate Gallery, London.

This is a painting from the Pre-Raphaelite painter Millais, showing a scene from the boyhood of Jesus and placed in Joseph’s carpenter workshop. It’s full of symbolic messages. Jesus, as a boy, has wounded himself at a nail and is being comforted by his parents Mary and Joseph. Blood is dripping from his hand on his foot. Both spots of blood are foreshadowing the crucifixion. On the right we see the young Saint John the Baptist with a bowl of water, as reference to the baptizing of Jesus Christ. At the back on the wall is a carpenter’s triangle, referring to the Holy Trinity of God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus son of God. And the dove, symbolizing the Holy Spirit, is sitting on the ladder.

The pre-Raphaelites wanted to strip-away all traditions of painting since Raphael. Millais removed all beauty and placed the scene in an ordinary carpenter workshop, with common people as the Holy Family. The picture prompted many negative reviews. The Times described it as ‘revolting’ and objected to the way in which the artist had dared to depict the Holy Family as ordinary, lowly people in a humble carpenter’s shop. Charles Dickens was one of the most vehement critics, describing the young Christ as ‘a hideous, wry-necked, blubbering, red-headed boy, in a bed gown’. The painting can be seen in the Tate Gallery, London, where it’s now considered one of their masterpieces.

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617 – 1682), “The Heavenly and Earthly Trinities – The Pedroso Murillo” (c. 1680), 293x207cm, Oil on Canvas, National Gallery, London.

This painting illustrates the belief that Jesus was both human and divine, by placing him in the middle of the two “Trinities”. The vertical line is the Holy Trinity, with God the Father, the Holy Ghost (the dove), and Jesus as the Son of God. Jesus looks up towards heaven, but affectionately holds hands with his human parents, Mary and Joseph. The three together, as the horizontal line, make up the Earthly Trinity. Mary’s loving gaze and gracefully upturned palm are directed towards her young son. Joseph looks out of the picture towards us, inviting us to adore Jesus. Murillo transforms a complex theological principle into a very human and accessible image. With Jospeh as the connecting figure between us humans and the divine world of God.

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681) and writing letters.

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681) and writing letters.

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “The Letter” (c.1663), 82x68cm, oil on canvas, Royal Collection Trust, London.

Gerard ter Borch, 1617 – 1681, was a highly skilled Dutch Golden Age painter, who influenced his fellow Dutch colleagues Metsu, Dou and certainly also Vermeer. Ter Borch painted men and women, mistress and servant, soldiers and civilians, in the sanctum of guard room and home and hinting at their love lives. As this is the pre-email and pre-chat era, messages were sent by letters. The love letter was the appropriate start of dating. Letters are a returning subject in Ter Borch’s paintings. And a lot is left to the imagination of the viewer. Look at the painting from the Royal Collection, London. What is the lady reading from that letter? And is the dog, symbol of fidelity and now sleeping, a hint?

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “Officer Writing a letter, with a Trumpeter” (1658), 57x44cm, oil on canvas, Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Gerard ter Borch situates this scene in a guard room. The ace-of-hearts card on the floor suggests that the letter being written is an amorous one. The pieces of the clay pipe scattered around the card may refer to frustrations the letter-writer is having in expressing his romantic feelings. And the Trumpeter, a soldier-messenger, is waiting to deliver the letter. And he looks at us viewers to make us part of the story.   

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “Curiosity” (1660), 76x62cm, oil on canvas, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Three women appear in a luxuriously appointed interior. On the table is a letter with a broken seal and the answer back is in the making. The girl peers over the shoulder of the writer and tries to read what’s being written. The standing woman appears pensive or lovelorn. In the 17the Century letter writing was a common feature of courtship. Perhaps the woman at the table is helping her friend craft a response to a suitor?

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “An Officer Dictating a Letter” (c.1656), 75x51cm, oil on canvas, National Gallery, London.

A young officer is dictating a letter to a man with the quill, probably a soldier on duty who could write and read. Their comrade, a trumpeter soldier and messenger, will deliver the letter. His faintly amused expression and the way he catches the eye of the viewer creates a conspiratorial air: is there love in that letter?

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “Woman Writing a Letter” (c.1655), 38x28cm, oil on panel, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

A woman is writing a letter and we can only imagine for ourselves if its love she is thinking and writing about. Maybe the large pearl she wears has a meaning; it can be interpreted as a symbol of virginity. This painting with such minimal scene, certainly was an example for other artists, like Vermeer.

Gerard ter Borch (1617 – 1681), “The Messenger” known as “The Unwelcome News” (1653), 67x59cm, oil on panel, Mauritshuis, The Hague.

Here, we see a soldier receiving a letter from a messenger. The door on the left is still open and the messenger has his hat in his hand. He came rushing in, to hand over that letter. That is for sure not a love letter, but most likely a call to the front, away from the girl who leans against him so lovingly.

Gerard ter Borch’s works are comparatively rare; about eighty have been catalogued. Ter Borch died in Deventer, The Netherlands, on this day December 8, 1681.