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.
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.
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.
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 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, 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.
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’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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Recognizing saints in paintings is like solving a hidden picture puzzle, only the clues are palm branches, halos, arrows, a sword, a pilgrim staff, or even sometimes dogs! Once you know what to look for, every museum visit or church interior becomes a visual treasure hunt. This is about a visual language that painters used for centuries to tell stories and signal virtues. But it is not only about symbols. It is also about understanding the role these saints played in the lives of the people who venerated them. In the case of Sebastian and Roch, their images gave people hope and comfort during the darkest periods of the Black Death and recurring plague epidemics. These saints were more than just recognizable figures. They were spiritual companions in times of fear, loss and recovery.
In this crash course, we will meet two saints who are frequently and vividly depicted in western art: Roch and Sebastian. Once you know the tricks and symbols, you will start to see them everywhere and you will know exactly who they are. In short: Sebastian is the one pierced by arrows, Roch is the pilgrim lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of the plague disease.
The earliest written account of Sebastian’s life comes from a fifth-century text known as the Passio Sancti Sebastiani. According to this biography, Sebastian was a high-ranking Roman officer under Emperor Diocletian, around the year 300. Though he served at the heart of the Roman Empire, Sebastian was a committed Christian, using his position to support fellow believers and convert others. His defiance did not go unnoticed. When Sebastian continued to preach after being ordered to stop, Diocletian condemned him to death.
Sebastian was tied to a post and shot with arrows; so many that, according to the Passio, his body looked “like a hedgehog.” Remarkably, he survived. A Christian woman named Irene found him still alive, took him into her home, and nursed him back to health.
After being healed by Irene and rather than flee, Sebastian returned to confront the emperor and continue his mission. This time there would be no escape. He was beaten to death with clubs, and his body was thrown into a Roman sewer. Christians later recovered his remains and buried them in the catacombs along the Via Appia, a burial site that became an early pilgrimage destination.
Sebastian’s martyrdom was not just remembered, it grew! During outbreaks of plague in cities like Rome and Pavia, he became known as a powerful intercessor. People turned to him in desperation, hoping for protection or healing. Part of this devotion came from a visual connection: plague often brought painful skin lesions, which to the medieval eye resembled the wounds from arrows that pierced Sebastian’s body. Yet in his story, Sebastian miraculously survives these wounds. If he could heal, perhaps they could too. His body, punctured but intact, became a symbol of endurance and hope in the face of disease.
By the fifteenth century, as waves of plague, typhus, and dysentery overwhelmed European cities, his image spread rapidly in churches, chapels, and altarpieces. Sebastian was no longer just a martyr, but a solitary protector standing between humanity and divine interaction.
For Renaissance artists, Sebastian offered something else: the ideal male nude. His pierced yet miraculously preserved body gave painters a sacred excuse to explore human anatomy, grace, and even sensuality. Painters emphasized his physical beauty, strength, and sometimes his erotic vulnerability. Over time, Saint Sebastian became a complex figure: part Roman soldier, part Christian martyr, part symbol of erotic endurance.
The figure of Irene, who rescues and heals him, became popular in art during the Counter Reformation. She brought a renewed focus on compassion and quiet heroism, a contrast to the spectacle of violence. Her inclusion also emphasized that Sebastian’s story was not just about suffering, but about survival, healing, and of course about unshakable faith.
Saint Roch: the plague pilgrim and his faithful dog
According to tradition, Roch (or Rocco or Rochus) was born around 1348 in Montpellier, just as the Black Death was sweeping across Europe. Orphaned young, he gave away his inheritance, took up the pilgrim’s staff, and devoted himself to caring for plague victims as he traveled through France and Italy. Wherever he went, the sick recovered. His healing touch — and his refusal to abandon the afflicted — made him a figure of immense compassion and courage.
But his life of service eventually turned against him. In the city of Piacenza, Roch himself caught the plague. To avoid infecting others, he withdrew into the forest, prepared to die alone. There, a small miracle occurred: a dog appeared daily, bringing him bread and licking his wounds. Artists portrayed him as a weary pilgrim, often lifting his tunic to reveal a swollen sore on his thigh, the visible sign of plague. He is nearly always accompanied by his faithful dog, a symbol of loyalty, compassion, and daily grace.
Once healed, Roch returned to Montpellier. But his suffering was not over. Mistaken for a spy and unrecognized, he was thrown into prison, where he eventually died. Like Sebastian, Roch became one of the great plague saints of the Renaissance. He was the saint who had been there, not struck down in noble martyrdom, but sick, rejected, exiled, and healed. That made him deeply relatable. For many, he offered a vision of healing and survival through suffering.
His popularity surged during the Counter Reformation, especially in Catholic countries. He appeared in altarpieces, processions, and protective prints, sometimes shown receiving divine inspiration from an angel or being appointed by Christ himself as patron of the plague-stricken.
In Rubens’ dramatic vision, Roch is formally appointed by Christ himself as the patron of the plague victimes. In the upper part of the panel, we see an angel who holds a tablet with the inscription “Eris in peste patronus” which means “You will be the patron in times of plague.” In the lower part of the painting, figures suffering from the disease implore the saint’s protection.
Companions in crisis: Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch together
As plague returned again and again to Europe between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries, artists and worshippers turned not to one protector, but to two. Saint Sebastian and Saint Roch began to appear side by side, in altarpieces, processions, chapels, and prints, forming a kind of alliance in the battle against disease.
The pairing made sense. Sebastian had endured violence and lived, if only briefly. Roch had fallen ill and survived. One was pierced, the other wounded. Both had skin lesions, which was so very recognisable for the ones suffering from the plague. Artists often placed them at either side of the Virgin and Child, turning them into protective witnesses for the sick and the fearful.
Once you know the clues, it’s easy to identify Sebastian and Roch. The first one with the arrows, tied up and pierced; Roch, the second one, the pilgrim with a swollen plague-sore on his thigh. Sebastian’s idealized, youthful body stands for sacrifice and beauty even in suffering. Roch’s older figure emphasizes humility and compassion. And both of them are on a path of recovery.
Together, they became companions in crisis. In times of fear, they offered a sense that the suffering had been seen, shared, somehow sanctified, and maybe even healed! A visual and spiritual double act, shaped by public need for hope and support in the dark days of the Black Death.
Bonus: Sebastian, Resurrection, and the path to Heaven.
As a bonus, let’s have a look at Sebastian on the Triptych of The Resurrection (c.1490) by Hans Memling from the Louvre, Paris. Three panels, and showing from left to right the path from suffering to heaven.
On the left panel, Sebastian is being pierced by arrows. That is the figure with whom the viewer suffering from the plague or disease might identify. Moving to the central panel, we see the resurrection of Christ from death. That must have given hope to beat the plague and rise and shine again. And to complete the path to healing and salvation, look at the panel on the right, with the ascension into heaven. You can just see Christ’s feet dangling in the top part of the panel, ascending into heavenly light.
So when you suffer from the plague, read this triptych from left to right. Hope to resurrect from the disease and heal. Or alternatively, ascend into heaven. Either way, a happy ending!
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 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.
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.
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.
(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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.
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”.
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 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.
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 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.
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 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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Mauritshuis has acquired Vase with a Single Tulip by Balthasar van der Ast. This still life from 1625 is a rare painting showing only one flowering tulip. And it’s a very small painting, 27x20cm. Watercolor drawings with the one flower have been preserved in full, such as in tulip albums for bulb growers. In contrast, only two Dutch paintings with a single tulip are known from the 17th century.
Vase with a Single Tulip (1625), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 27x20cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
First documented in the eighteenth century in the collection of Johan van der Linden van Slingelandt (1701 – 1782), this is a much celebrated still life by Balthasar van der Ast, remarkable for its minimalist conception, featuring just a single flower. The composition is beautifully and simply arranged. A Zomerschoon (Summer Beauty) tulip stands in a small glass vase with a gilded neck and foot, placed just off centre in the panel, on a brown stone ledge. A small Adonis blue butterfly (Polyommatus bellargus ) has alighted on one of the flower’s leaves while a fly crawls along the ledge below, and we see three small drops of water against the dark leaf and background.
Van der Ast’s panel portrays nothing of the frantic atmosphere of speculation and competition in which it was created. The “Tulip Mania,” which swept the Netherlands during the 1620s and ‘30s, saw the fervid importation, production and sale of countless varieties of tulips as the emerging wealthy merchant class sought to own and grow new, strikingly colored types of the flower. At the peak of the mania, some of the flowers themselves cost more than their painted versions. In the boom year of 1637, particularly desired tulip bulbs could sell for 100–300 guilders, while a painting of flowers by Van der Ast was only about 39 guilders. So-called “broken” tulips (those infected with the virus which gave them their variegated colors) were the most popular new varieties. The Zomerschoon, usually consisting of red or pink streaks on a white or cream petal, was highly sought after and commanded exorbitant prices. It remains one of the few varieties of tulip cultivated in Holland in the seventeenth century that exist today.
Earlier in the painting’s provenance, it was auctioned at Christie’s, on December 8, 2016 for GBP 809,000 (Estimate GBP 300,000 – GBP 500,000).
Tulip “Admirael Castelyn” and Tulip “Perragoen Spoors” (c.1625), from a portfolio with 71 drawings of tulips and shells, Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), Watercolor, 31x20cm, Fondation Custodia, Paris.
To prepare his still lifes, Van der Ast made a sort of library of over 800 drawings of individual species of flowers, seashells and some insects, which he kept in his studio. The sheets are characterized by a number placed in the bottom left corner, as well as a calligraphic inscription naming the flower or seashell, and Balthasar van der Ast’s monogram in the bottom right corner. The largest group, consisting of 71 sheets, is housed in a folder at the Fondation Custodia, Paris. Van der Ast may have used this catalog for buyers when ordering a still life painting with flowers and shells, like buying a bouquet of flowers.
Shells and lizard (c.1625), from a portfolio with 71 drawings of tulips and shells, Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), Watercolor, 31x20cm, Fondation Custodia, Paris.
Shortly after 1600, flower still lifes emerged as a new genre in Dutch paintings, featuring a bouquet of blooming flowers. Rare and exotic species were favorites, such as the tulip. With these, painters created impossible bouquets; in reality, the various flowers could never all bloom at the same time.
Flowers in a Wan-Li Vase, with Shells (c.1645), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 53x43cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
A Tulip, a Carnation and Roses, with Shells and Insects, on a Shelf (c.1630), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 31x40cm, Sotheby’s New York January 27, 2022, Estimate 200,000 – 300,000 USD, unsold.
Balthasar van der Ast was taught by his brother-in-law Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder (1573 – 1621), the pioneering flower painter of the first decades of the seventeenth century. Works in which a choice number of blooms and a few shells are placed on a ledge with flying insects, are an innovation of Van der Ast. He is not afraid to pose his flowers in unexpected ways, for example the roses placed face-down on the ledge, the better to appreciate the ruffles of the petals.
The shells in these paintings are also collectors’ items, important elements of the cabinets of curiosities that became popular in the seventeenth century. They reflect increasing interest in the natural world and the trading and colonial voyages of Dutch sailors, who took the shells as souvenirs with them from the Far East and West.
Flowers in a Vase, Shells, Butterflies, and a Cricket (c.1645), Balthasar van der Ast (Dutch, 1593 – 1657), 53x42cm, Louvre, Paris.
The painter Balthasar van der Ast (born in Middelburg, 1593) was raised by his older sister Maria. She was married to flower still life painter Ambrosius Bosschaert the Elder, who became Van der Ast’s teacher and introduced him to flower still lifes. In 1619, Balthasar van der Ast enrolled as a master painter in the Utrecht St. Luke’s Guild. At that time, the city of Utrecht was the center for flower still life art. Roelant Savery – about whom an exhibition will be on display at the Mauritshuis in spring 2024 – also worked here. Savery had a great influence on the development of Van der Ast, who made his use of color his own. In addition, Balthasar van der Ast had the advantage of being able to study various types of flowers at Savery’s home in Utrecht, as this painter owned his own garden with exotic flowers and plants.
At Tefaf in 2004, this still life by Balthasar van der Ast was found, that had gone missing from the Suermondt Ludwig Museum in Aachen in 1945. The painting finally made its way back to the museum in 2017.
The specific relevant content for this request, if necessary, delimited with characters: As many works of art belonging to the city of Aachen, the painting was taken to the Albrechtsburg in Meißen in 1942, since that area was supposed to be safe with regard to air raids. The American army withdrew in the summer of 1945 and left the area to the Soviet authorities. The fate of the Van der Ast from Aachen remained obscure, since the storage in the Albrechtsburg was to be heavily plundered by the Red Army and many pieces would end up in the Soviet Union. The Van der Ast still life, however, was not among these. It’s thought that a German lady working for the Soviet secret police had stolen the paintings from the Albrechtsburg. Afterwards, she had fled to Berlin and worked for the American forces, which enabled her to immigrate to the US and from there into Canada. With her, she brought twelve paintings, at least ten of them from the Aachen Suermondt-Museum. Over time, most of these paintings got dispersed and disappeared, but not the Van der Ast. Only recently, the negotiations have led to a proposal by the City of Aachen. The current owner agreed to return the painting to Aachen for a finder’s fee.
An inventory of 1632 confirms the presence of this still life in the collection of Princess Amalia van Solms, wife of Frederik Hendrik, Prince of Orange. By the early 1630s, Frederik Hendrik and Amalia van Solms had formed an important collection of contemporary Dutch and Flemish paintings. Their taste led them to collect mythological and allegorical paintings as well as princely portraits. The inventory of their possessions made in 1632 lists only four still lifes, of which “two small paintings in ebony frames, one a basket with fruit and the other a basket with flowers, by Van der Ast.”
The story of Zeus and Callisto is part of Greek mythology and involves Zeus, the king of the gods, and Callisto, a beautiful nymph and one of the companions of the Artemis, goddess of the hunt and the equivalent of Diana in Roman mythology. Zeus is the same king of the gods as the Roman god Jupiter. The story of Zeus and Callisto serves as a tale about the capricious nature of the gods in Greek mythology. One of the most well-known versions can be found in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”.
According to the myth, Callisto was a devoted follower of Artemis (Diana) and like the other companion nymphs in the group of Artemis, Callisto also swore to remain a virgin for her entire life. They are hunting together, bathing together and were a great subject for painters throughout the centuries to depict a group of female nudes. With the exception of Vermeer, who portrayed Artemis and her nymphs in a very discreet and decent manner.
Artemis (Diana) and her companion nymphs; Callisto was one of them. Diana can be recognised by the crescent moon worn as a tiara (c.1653). Johannes Vermeer (Dutch, 1632 – 1675), 98x105cm, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
However, Zeus, known for his numerous affairs and infidelities, set his eyes on Callisto and decided to seduce her. Disguising himself as Artemis, Zeus approached Callisto and took advantage of her, resulting in Callisto becoming pregnant.
Zeus (Jupiter), disguised as Artemis (Diana), even with the crescent mon on his/her head, seduces the nymph Callisto. The symbol of Zeus is the eagle and the arrows, which can be seen just behind Zeus, who now has the form and shape of Artemis (1727). Jacob de Wit (Dutch, 1695 – 1754), 240x205cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Zeus in the Guise of Artemis (Diana), and the Nymph Callisto; Zeus’ eagle can be seen just behind the pink cloth (1759). François Boucher (French, 1703 – 1770), 58x70cm), The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, MO.
When the truth came to light, Callisto faced the wrath of Artemis, who was furious at her for breaking her vow of chastity. The goddess could not bear to look at Callisto anymore, and she banished her from her company. Callisto was devastated and left to live a life of solitude.
Diana and Callisto; the pregnancy discovered. Diana on the left side, with the crescent moon on her head (c.1635). Most paintings have in their museum-titles “Diana” opposed to “Artemis”, but the two goddesses are the same; Artemis the Greek version and Diana the Roman one. Detail not to be missed on this Rubens painting is Diana’s enslaved servant. Peter Paul Rubens (Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), 203x326cm, Prado, Madrid.
As her pregnancy progressed, Callisto’s appearance began to change and she now has a baby belly. Hera, Zeus’s wife and the queen of the gods, noticed these changes and grew suspicious of her husband’s involvement. Feeling betrayed and enraged, Hera sought revenge on Callisto. After the nymph gave birth to a son named Arcas, Hera transformed Callisto into a bear.
Hera still wants to take revenge and changes Callisto into a Bear. On the left the peacock-carriage in which Hera descended from the sky. On the right the next moment from this episode, Callisto, now as a bear, walks away. (1590). Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Arcas, son of Zeus and Callisto
In the meantime Arcas, the child of Zeus and Callisto, grew up and became a skilled hunter. He lived in a beautiful land and was chosen to be the king of that peaceful and pastoral area, called “Arcadia”, named after Arcas. Throughout history the name “Arcadia” has continued to be a symbol of an unspoiled and idyllic natural world.
Many years later, when Callisto is wandering around as a bear, her son Arcas is hunting and encounters a bear; his mother, and Arcas doesn’t know that (c.1725). Sebastiano Ricci (Venetian, 1659 – 1734), 65x54cm, latest at Sotheby’s London 2019.
As a bear, Callisto was forced to roam the wilderness, unable to communicate or return to her human form. Years passed, and one day, Arcas, now a young hunter, came across his mother-bear in the forest. Unaware that the bear was his own mother, he prepared to shoot it with his arrow. However, Zeus, who had been watching the events unfold, intervened to prevent a tragic outcome. To protect Callisto and her son, Zeus turned Arcas into a bear as well and placed them both among the stars, forming the constellations Ursa Major (the Great Bear) and Ursa Minor (the Smaller Bear). In this way, they were immortalized in the night sky, and their bond was forever preserved.
Callisto (as a bear) is hunted by her son Arcas. On the top right side, Zeus (with the eagle) is inviting Callisto and Arcas into the sky, where they will be the Great Bear and the Smaller Bear, the Ursa Major and Ursa Minor star constellations. (1590). Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Hera did not like this at all; too much honour for Callisto and Arcas to be in the sky as stars. So, Hera descended from heaven and arrives with her carriage drawn by peacocks on sea-level, to complain to her friends the god Oceanus and his wife Tethis, a sea-goddess. Hera tells them that, in punishment for having such honorable place at the sky, they should never let the Callisto and Arcas, as Great and Smaller Bear, touch their waters and be able to wash themselves. Hera therefore instructs the gods of the sea that they shall not let either constellation sink below the horizon, and passing into the waters of the ocean. Indeed neither Ursa Major nor Ursa Minor ever set below the horizon, viewed from most regions in the Northern hemisphere.
Juno complaining to Oceanus and Thetis, ordering the sea gods to never let the Great Bear and Smaller Bear wash themselves in the ocean, to never have these star constellations sink into the sea (1590). Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), Engraving, 18×26cm, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, CA.
Ursa Major (Great Bear) and Ursa Minor (Smaller Bear)
Map (c.1760) with the constellations of the Northern Hemisphere; Ursa Major, the Big Bear and on this map as La Grande Ourse on the left bottom and Ursa Minor, the Smaller Bear and on this map as La Petite Ourse, in the centre of the map (c.1760). Phillipe de la Hire (French, 1640 – 1718), hand colored engraving, 50x50cm, The Barry Lawrence Ruderman Map Collection, Stanford University, Stanford, CA.
The Big Bear constellation is also known as Ursa Major, which means “Great Bear” in Latin. The more popular term “Big Dipper” is actually a colloquial name for a prominent asterism within the Ursa Major constellation. The Big Dipper is a group of seven bright stars that form a distinctive shape resembling a ladle or a dipper. This shape is a well-known feature of the northern night sky. The Great Bear has served as a navigational tool for travellers to determine directions.
The seven bright stars from the constellation Ursa Major (“the Big Bear”) together forming the Big Dipper; four stars forming the bowl and three stars forming the handle.
The Starry Night “La Nuit Étoilée” by Vincent van Gogh. It’s the starry night above the river Rhone. With in the center of the sky a bright depiction of the Big Bear (1888). Vincent van Gogh (Dutch, 1853 – 1890), 73x92cm, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
Polaris (North or Pole Star)
Ursa Major (Callisto, the Great Bear), Ursa Minor (Arcas, the Smaller Bear) and Polaris (North or Pole Star).
Polaris, commonly known as the North Star or Pole Star, is the brightest star in the constellation Ursa Minor (the Smaller Bear). It holds a special place in the night sky because it appears very close to the celestial north pole, the point in the sky around which all other stars appear to rotate as Earth spins on its axis. This makes Polaris a valuable navigational reference point, especially for travellers in the Northern Hemisphere. Polaris appears relatively stationary in the sky while other stars appear to move in circles around it as the night progresses. This unique characteristic made Polaris an important celestial marker for ancient sailors, explorers, and navigators who used it to determine their northward direction. Polaris can be found by extending the two outer stars of the Big Dipper’s bowl (from the constellation Ursa Major) in a straight line. This extension leads you to Polaris, making it a helpful guide for finding true north in the night sky.
Greek and Roman Gods
The three gods involved in the story of Zeus and Callisto are:
Zeus (Ζεύς) is the god of the sky and thunder, and king of the gods, married to Hera. His symbol is the eagle. The Roman equivalent is Jupiter, also knows as Jove. Read more about Zeus in The Twelve Olympians.
Hera (Ήρα) is the goddess of marriage, women and family and the queen of gods, wife of Zeus. Her symbol is the peacock. The Roman equivalent is Juno. See Hera in The Twelve Olympians.
Artemis (Ἄρτεμις) is the goddess of the hunt, and to be recognised by the moon crescent as tiara on her head. Her Roman equivalent is Diana. More about Artemis in The Twelve Olympians.
The National Gallery purchased the life-size painting of Saint Bartholomew by Bernardo Cavallino at Sotheby’s New York back in January 2023 from the Fisch Davidson collection – one of the most important collections of Baroque art ever to appear on the market. The cost was $3.9 million (hammer $3.2m). This depiction of Saint Bartholomew, a most splendid work by Cavallino, dates to the 1640s, when the Neapolitan artist was at the height of his artistic powers.
Saint Bartholomew (c.1642), Bernardo Cavallino (Neapolitan, 1616 – 1656), 176x126cm, National Gallery, London.
Saint Bartholomew sits alone in the wilderness. His expression is one of grim determination, at once horrified and resolved. Enveloped in the folds of his mantle, he turns towards us, unable to look at the knife clasped in his left hand. This will be the tool of his martyrdom, for Bartholomew was flayed alive. One of the Twelve Apostles, Bartholomew was said to have preached the gospel in India and in Armenia. When he refused to make a sacrifice to the local gods, he was horribly killed, first stripped of his skin and then beheaded. Gruesome depictions of Bartholomew’s martyrdom were popular in seventeenth-century Naples and often showed the act of flaying in progress. This painting’s power comes from how extremely it has been pared back. Bartholomew is the sole protagonist in this almost monochromatic, intensely psychological picture. Stark light illuminates the mantle and the flesh, which provides the only colour in a work otherwise composed of silvery grey tones. We are not confronted here with violence: rather, it is the threat and imminence of violence that is so menacing. Instead of witnessing Bartholomew’s flayed flesh, the picture is dominated by the creamy mantle, whose folds are so elaborate that they cannot help but make us think of skin. Whether in the crisply delineated edges of the fabric or the strong sense of outline created by pulling the white paint right up to the flesh, everything seems to allude to layers and unpeeling, the act of incision unseen but ever-present.
Bernardo Cavallino
Bernardo Cavallino (1616 – 1656?) was one of the leading Neapolitan artists of the first half of the 17th Century. While many details of his life and career remain shrouded in mystery, he was renowned in his lifetime for his small, sensitive paintings of mythological and biblical subjects which he painted for a private clientele. Cavallino probably received his training in Naples, the city of his birth. He was strongly influenced by Jusepe de Ribera (1591–1652), and seems to have mostly worked for private patrons, producing small, sensitive paintings of mythological and Biblical subjects. This life-size depiction of Saint Bartholomew, with its drama and intensity, is one of Cavallino’s masterpieces. Although we do not know for whom he painted it, its size and grandeur suggest it was an important commission. It probably dates from the latter years of the artist’s life, in which he became increasingly focussed on the emotional power of his works. Just eight of Cavallino’s known works are signed or initialled, and only one is dated. Cavallino probably died during the plague that devastated Naples in 1656. He was well regarded in the decades following his death, but knowledge of his paintings – which were often mistaken for the work of other painters – remained rudimentary until the second half of the 20th century when scholars developed a fuller sense of his poetic contribution to 17th Century art.
The influence of the Jusepe de Ribera is immediately apparent in Cavallino’s Saint Bartholomew, which recalls Ribera’s life-size portrayals of saints from the late 1630s and 1640s and resonates profoundly with Ribera’s near-contemporaneous depiction of the same saint, today in the Prado, Madrid.
Saint Bartholomew (1641), Jusepe de Ribera (Valencia, Spain 1591 – Naples, Italy 1652), 197x183cm, Prado, Madrid.
The whereabouts of Cavallino’s Saint Bartholomew were untraced until it was sold in 1903 (as by Ribera) at Christie’s, London. It next resurfaced in 1988, after which the painting’s correct attribution to Cavallino was reinstated. The painting was last exhibited in public in 1993, at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in in New York, so the public will now be able to enjoy it for the first time in 30 years. Saint Bartholomew is on display alongside other Italian 17th Century Baroque masterpieces in Room 32 of the National Gallery, London, where Saint Bartholomew will make its natural home among pictures by artists such as Caravaggio, Artemisia and Orazio Gentileschi, Guercino, Reni and Ribera.
More about Saint Bartholomew and the Twelve Apostles, click here.
More about the National Gallery, London, click here.
Wives of the Patriarchs (Abraham, Isaac and Jacob).
In the context of the Jewish and Christian Bible, the term “matriarchs” refers to a group of prominent women who are considered the female founders or ancestral mothers of the Israelite people.
Sarah: wife of Abraham and considered the first matriarch. She is known for her faith and trust in God, as well as her role in the birth of Isaac, her son with Abraham.
Rebecca: wife of Isaac and the mother of Jacob and Esau. She played a crucial role in facilitating Jacob’s reception of his father’s blessing. Rebecca is remembered for her beauty, kindness, and her participation in God’s plan for the chosen lineage.
Leah: the older daughter of Laban and the first wife of Jacob. Though initially unloved by Jacob, she bore him many children. Leah is recognised for her perseverance and her significant role in the establishment, through her sons, of the twelve tribes of Israel.
Rachel: the younger daughter of Laban and the beloved wife of Jacob. She is known for her beauty and her deep love for Jacob. Rachel gave birth to Joseph and Benjamin, two significant figures in the biblical narrative. Her tragic death during Benjamin’s childbirth is also a notable event.
Judaism, Christianity, and Islam hold that the patriarchs, along with their primary wives, the matriarchs Sarah, Rebekah and Leah, are entombed at the Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron, a site held holy by the three religions. Rachel, Jacob’s other wife, is said to be buried separately at what is known as Rachel’s Tomb, near Bethlehem, at the site where she is believed to have died in childbirth.
Sarah (wife of Abraham)
Sarah, Abraham’s wife, cooking a meal for the three angel-guests and laughing about the conversation between her husband Abraham and the three angels outside in top right corner. The angels just told Abraham that Sarah (101 years old) will get a son next year. From the series The wives of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (1597), engraving, 22x16cm, print maker Jan Saenredam (c.1565 – 1607), after drawing by Hendrick Goltzius (1558 – 1617). With a Latin verse by Cornelius Schonaeus (1541 – 1611): “Effoeto sterilis quanvis sit corpore Sara, Concipit illa tamen divino numine natum.” (Although the barren Sarah is aged in body, by divine will she shall conceive a son).
Sarah is a biblical figure and the wife of Abraham. She is an important figure in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Sarah and Abraham faced challenges in conceiving a child, but according to the biblical account, God promised them a son. In their old age when Sarah was 101, she miraculously gave birth to Isaac, who became a significant figure in the religious traditions that followed. Sarah is celebrated for her faithfulness, loyalty, and resilience. Her story emphasizes the importance of trust in God’s promises and the strength of the family lineage that descended from her and Abraham. On the Goltzius engraving we see the very old Sarah laughing when she hears the angels on the background tell Abraham that they will get a son. Sarah cannot believe what she is hearing. It’s the background narrative on te print that depicts the encounter between Abraham and three angelic visitors who deliver this important message.
According to the story, Abraham saw three men standing near him. Recognising their divine nature, he hurriedly approached them and offered them hospitality, inviting them to rest and partake in a meal. Abraham and his wife Sarah quickly prepared a generous meal for their guests, consisting of freshly baked bread and cooked meat. As the guests enjoyed the meal, they engaged in conversation with Abraham. During the conversation, the visitors revealed that they were messengers from God and brought a message of great significance. They informed Abraham and Sarah that they would soon have a son, despite their old age and Sarah’s previous inability to conceive. Sarah overheard the conversation from inside the house and laughed incredulously, as she found it hard to believe such news. In response to Sarah’s laughter, one of the visitors questioned Abraham about her disbelief, asking, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” This emphasized the divine power and ability to fulfill their promise. It also served as a reminder that God’s plans can exceed human expectations and limitations.
The story of Abraham and the three angels highlights themes of hospitality, faith, and divine intervention. Abraham’s generous and welcoming nature, serves as an example of righteousness and compassion. The announcement of Sarah’s impending pregnancy, despite her age, showcases the fulfilment of God’s promises and the possibility of miracles. And indeed, Sarah gave birth to Isaac.
Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Abraham Entertaining the Angels (1646), 16x21cm, Private Collection, USA.
Rembrandt’s Abraham Entertaining the Angels of 1646 depicts the foretelling of the birth of Isaac to the elderly Abraham and his wife, Sarah. This episode, from chapter 18 of Genesis, begins with the visit of three travelers, to whom Abraham offers a meal and water with which to wash their tired feet. While eating, the guests ask about Sarah, and one of them announces that she will give birth to a son in a year’s time. Hearing this, the old Sarah, on the painting standing in the doorway on the right, laughs in disbelief, prompting the speaker – now identified in the text as God – to chastise her, asking, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” He thus reveals to the couple the divine and providential nature of his announcement.
Abraham (as Ibrahim) is also one of the most important prophets in Islam and is seen as a father of the Muslim people through his first child, Ishmael.
Here the angel tells Abraham and Sarah (101 years old!) that they will get a son next year. Abraham points at the super old Sarah as if he says: “She?” Sarah’s reaction: “LOL”. And that son will be Isaac. A sort of annunciation from the Old Testament. Jan Provost (Flemish, c.1464 – 1529), Abraham, Sarah and the Angel (c.1500), 71x58cm, Louvre, Paris.
A Son Is Promised to Sarah, Genesis 18: 1-151One day Abraham was sitting at the entrance to his tent during the hottest part of the day. 2He looked up and noticed three men standing nearby. When he saw them, he ran to meet them and welcomed them, bowing low to the ground. 3Abraham said, “if it pleases you, stop here for a while. 4Rest in the shade of this tree while water is brought to wash your feet. 5And since you’ve honored your servant with this visit, let me prepare some food to refresh you before you continue on your journey.”
“All right,” they said. “Do as you have said.” 6So Abraham ran back to the tent and said to Sarah, “Hurry! Get three large measures of your best flour, knead it into dough, and bake some bread.” 7Then Abraham ran out to the herd and chose a tender calf and gave it to his servant, who quickly prepared it. 8When the food was ready, Abraham took some yogurt and milk and the roasted meat, and he served it to the men. As they ate, Abraham waited on them in the shade of the trees.
9“Where is Sarah, your wife?” the visitors asked. “She’s inside the tent,” Abraham replied. 10Then one of them said, “I will return to you about this time next year, and your wife, Sarah, will have a son!”
Sarah was listening to this conversation from the tent. 11Abraham and Sarah were both very old by this time, and Sarah was long past the age of having children. 12So she laughed silently to herself and said, “How could a worn-out woman like me enjoy such pleasure, especially when my my husband is also so old?”
13Then the visitor (who in meantime revealed himself as God) said to Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh? Why did she say, ‘Can an old woman like me have a baby?’ 14Is anything too hard for the Lord? I will return about this time next year, and Sarah will have a son.” 15Sarah was afraid, so she denied it, saying, “I didn’t laugh.” But the Lord said, “No, you did laugh.”
Rebecca (wife of Isaac)
Rebecca, Isaac’s wife to be, at the well; beyond is a landscape with camels and travellers taking refreshment, the convoy sent by Abraham to find a wife for Isaac. As these are camels, this is Rebecca at the well, and not Rachel, as that would be a well with a flock of sheep. From the series The wives of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (1597), engraving, 22x16cm, print maker Jan Saenredam (c.1565 – 1607), after drawing by Hendrick Goltzius (1558 – 1617). With a Latin verse by Cornelius Schonaeus (1541 – 1611): “Morigeram dum se praebet Rebecca Tonanti, Accipit obsequio praemiae digna sculptor.” (As long as Rebecca is obedient to God’s will, she will receive blessings worthy of her obedience).
Rebecca is a biblical figure, also mentioned in the Book of Genesis. She is one of the matriarchs and the wife of Isaac and the mother of Jacob and Esau. According to the biblical narrative, the patriarch Abraham wanted to find a suitable wife for his son Isaac. He sent his servant with a convoy of camels to his homeland to find a wife and there the servant encountered Rebecca near a well. He approached Rebecca and asked for a drink of water. In a remarkable display of hospitality, Rebecca not only gave him water but also volunteered to draw water for his camels until they were satisfied. He was impressed by her kindness and hospitality and believed she was the chosen woman. The servant gave her gifts of jewellery and asked for her hand in marriage on behalf of Isaac, and Rebecca agreed to go with him.
Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini (Venetian, 1675 – 1741), Rebecca at the Well (c.1710), 127×105, National Gallery, London.
Rebecca married Isaac and became the mother of their two sons, Jacob and Esau. She played a significant role in the story of the deception that led to Jacob receiving Isaac’s blessing instead of Esau. The story of Rebecca at the well highlights themes of divine guidance, hospitality, and faith. It is regarded as a pivotal event in the biblical narrative, shaping through Jacob the future of the Israelite people.
Rembrandt van Rijn (Dutch, 1606 – 1669), Isaac and Rebecca, also known as The Jewish Bride (c.1667), 122×167cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. Nowadays the subject of this painting is considered to be Isaac and Rebecca; for centuries it was simply known as “The Jewish Bride”.
A Wife For Isaac, Genesis 24: 1-67
1Abraham was now a very old man, and the Lord had blessed him in every way. 2One day Abraham said to his oldest servant, the man in charge of his household, 4"Go to my homeland, to my relatives, and find a wife there for my son Isaac. 9So the servant took swore to follow Abraham’s instructions. 10Then he loaded ten of Abraham’s camels with all kinds of expensive gifts from his master, and he traveled to the distant land. 11He made the camels kneel beside a well just outside the town. It was evening, and the women were coming out to draw water.
12“O Lord, God of my master, Abraham,” he prayed. “Please give me success today, and show unfailing love to my master, Abraham. 13See, I am standing here beside this spring, and the young women of the town are coming out to draw water. 14This is my request. I will ask one of them, ‘Please give me a drink from your jug.’ If she says, ‘Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!’—let her be the one you have selected as Isaac’s wife.” 15Before he had finished praying, he saw a young woman named Rebecca coming out with her water jug on her shoulder. 16Rebecca was very beautiful and old enough to be married, but she was still a virgin. She went down to the spring, filled her jug, and came up again.17Running over to her, the servant said, “Please give me a little drink of water from your jug.”
18“Yes,” she answered, “have a drink.” And she quickly lowered her jug from her shoulder and gave him a drink. 19When she had given him a drink, she said, “I’ll draw water for your camels, too, until they have had enough to drink.” 20So she quickly emptied her jug into the watering trough and ran back to the well to draw water for all his camels. 21The servant watched her in silence, wondering whether or not the Lord had given him success in his mission. 22Then at last, when the camels had finished drinking, he took out a gold ring for her nose and two large gold bracelets for her wrists.
50Then later Rebecca's brother said 51"Here is Rebecca; take her and go. Yes, let her be the wife of your master’s son, as the Lord has directed.” 52When Abraham’s servant heard their answer, he bowed down to the ground and 53then he brought out silver and gold jewellery and clothing and presented them to Rebecca. He also gave expensive presents to her brother and mother. 54Then they ate their meal, and the servant and the men with him stayed there overnight.But early the next morning, Abraham’s servant said, “Send me back to my master.” 55“But we want Rebecca to stay with us at least ten days,” her brother and mother said. “Then she can go.” 56But he said, “Don’t delay me. The Lord has made my mission successful; now send me back so I can return to my master.”
“Well,” they said, “we’ll call Rebecca and ask her what she thinks.” So they called Rebecca. “Are you willing to go with this man?” they asked her. And she replied, “Yes, I will go.” 59So they said good-bye to Rebecca and sent her away with Abraham’s servant and his men. The woman who had been Rebcca’s childhood nurse went along with her. 61Then Rebecca and her servant girls mounted the camels and followed the man. So Abraham’s servant took Rebcca and went on his way.
62Meanwhile, Isaac, when one evening as he was walking and meditating in the fields, he looked up and saw the camels coming. 64When Rebecca looked up and saw Isaac, she quickly dismounted from her camel. 65“Who is that man walking through the fields to meet us?” she asked the servant. And he replied, “It is my master.” So Rebecca covered her face with her veil. 66Then the servant told Isaac everything he had done.
67And Isaac brought Rebecca into his mother Sarah’s tent, and she became his wife. He loved her deeply, and she was a special comfort to him after the death of his mother.
Leah and Rachel (wives of Jacob)
Rachel and Leah, wives of Jacob, at the well with in the distance at left a shepherd and his flock of sheep, most likely Jacob who put the peeled rods in front of the sheep to produce speckled and striped sheep, which he may keep as his own. From the series The wives of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob (1597), engraving, 22x16cm, print maker Jan Saenredam (c.1565 – 1607), after drawing by Hendrick Goltzius (1558 – 1617). With a Latin verse by Cornelius Schonaeus (1541 – 1611):) “Prodijt ex nobis sacra, et divina propago, Quae totam largo complevit semine terram.” (From us has sprung a sacred and chosen line, that has filled the whole earth with abundant seed).
Leah and Rachel are prominent figures in the biblical narrative, specifically in the Book of Genesis. They are sisters and the daughters of Laban, who is Rebecca’s brother. They become the wives of Jacoband play significant roles in the story of the patriarchs.
Jacob, the son of Isaac and grandson of Abraham, traveled to the land of his uncle Laban in search of a wife. Jacob encountered the beautiful Rachel at a well, where she was going to water her sheep. Jacob fell in love with Rachel at first sight and desired to marry her. In exchange for marrying Rachel, Laban asked Jacob to work for him for seven years. However, on the wedding night, Laban deceived Jacob by giving him Leah instead of Rachel. Upon discovering the deception, Jacob confronted Laban, who explained that it was not their custom to give the younger daughter in marriage before the elder daughter. Laban offered Rachel to Jacob as well but required him to work for an additional seven years. As a result, Jacob married both Leah and Rachel, becoming polygamous according to the customs of that time. Leah, who was described as having “weak eyes,” became Jacob’s first wife, while Rachel, whom Jacob loved more, became his second wife.
The story of Leah and Rachel portrays a complex and often troubled relationship between the two sisters. Leah, feeling unloved by Jacob, yearned for his affection. She gave birth to several sons, including Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah. Rachel, on the other hand, initially faced infertility and struggled with jealousy over Leah’s ability to bear children. Eventually, Rachel conceived and gave birth to two sons, Joseph and Benjamin. Tragically, Rachel died while giving birth to Benjamin.
The story of Leah and Rachel encompasses themes of love, rivalry, fertility, and the complexities of family relationships. Their roles as the wives of Jacob and the mothers of the twelve tribes of Israel make them significant figures in the biblical narrative.
Jacob meets the two sisters Leah and Rachel at the well; in the story it’s more Rachel he meets, but Raffaello includes Leah. On the left the heavy piece of stone that covers the well and that Jacob removed singlehandedly. Raffaello Sanzio (Italian, 1483 – 1520), Jacob’s Encounter with Rachel and Leah (c.1519) Fresco, Loggia di Raffaello, Vatican.
At the well, Jacob noticed a large stone covering its mouth. He asked the shepherds about the well and the people of the area. They informed him that they were waiting for all the shepherds to gather before they could remove the stone and water their flocks. While they were conversing, Jacob saw Rachel, Laban’s daughter, approaching the well with her father’s sheep. Overwhelmed by Rachel’s beauty, Jacob was immediately drawn to her. Filled with excitement, he approached the shepherds and asked them to remove the stone so that Rachel’s sheep could drink.
As Jacob helped Rachel water her flock, he was overcome with emotion. Without hesitation, he kissed Rachel and wept aloud. Jacob’s meeting with Rachel at the well is often romanticized as a moment of love at first sight. The story serves as a turning point in Jacob’s life, as it leads to his eventual marriage to Rachel and marks the beginning of his years of service to Laban in order to earn Rachel’s hand in marriage.
Jacob jumps up when he discovers that it’s Leah in the marriage bed and not Rachel; he confronts their father Laban and says: “you cheated me by putting the wrong daughter in the bed; it’s Leah and you promised me Rachel” and Laban answers: “well, what can I do, first the eldest sister needs to marry”. Leah in the bed on the right, the half-dresses Jacob reproaches their father in the center and the beautiful Rachel on the left. Jan Steen (Dutch, c.1626 – 1679), Jacob Confronting Laban; with Leah and Rachel (c.1667), 48x59cm, The Norton Simon Museum, Pasadena, CA.
Jacob fell in love with Rachel and to earn her hand in marriage agreed to work as a shepherd for her father, Laban, for seven years. But, presumably under cover of the marriage veil, Laban substituted his elder daughter Leah for Rachel. When Jacob discovered the deceit the morning after the marriage, he was bitterly disappointed. He reproached his new father-in-law, but Laban argued that the elder daughter must be married first. He compromised by offering to allow him to marry Rachel as well – in return for another seven years work. The determined Jacob agreed, and was eventually simultaneously married to both sisters, and had 12 children.
Jan Steen in the painting above, portrays the dramatic moment of surprise when Jacob discovers the Laban has deceived him. The younger woman in the bed is Leah whom Jacob married the night before. Her handmaid kneels before her offering a bowl of water. To the left stands Rachel, while Laban is obliged to explain the deceit to a beseeching and agitated Jacob. Celebrants from the wedding night’s festivities give context and a bit of levity to the scene. The rich, theatrical setting and lush appointments of the bedroom set the scene in the historical past, a device that Steen may have adopted from contemporary Dutch theatre.
Jacob putting the peeled rods in front of the sheep, creating speckled and striped offspring; and those lambs he could keep as his own; as such enhancing his flock. Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (Spanish, 1617 – 1682), Jacob Laying Peeled Rods before the Flock of Laban (c.1665), 223x361cm, Meadows Museum, Dallas, TX.
The story of Jacob and the speckled lambs depicts a scheme devised by Jacob to increase his own wealth while working for his father-in-law, Laban. After Jacob’s marriage to Laban’s daughters, Leah and Rachel, he agreed to work for Laban for a total of 14 years in exchange for marrying Rachel. During his service, Jacob became a skilled shepherd and developed a keen understanding of animal husbandry, although more relying on the hand of God than on Mendel’s Laws of Genetics.
Jacob noticed that Laban’s flock consisted mainly of solid-colored sheep and goats. He proposed a deal to Laban, suggesting that he would continue to work for him but requested a specific arrangement regarding the offspring of the flock. Jacob proposed that he would keep any lambs that were speckled, spotted, or otherwise marked differently from the rest of the flock as his own.
Laban agreed to this arrangement, likely thinking that the chances of such offspring were slim. However, Jacob had a plan. He took rods of poplar, almond, and plane trees and peeled off strips of bark to create striped patterns on them. He placed these rods in the watering troughs where the flock would come to drink. When the flock mated, Jacob strategically positioned the rods in the watering troughs so that the sight of the striped patterns would be imprinted in the minds of the animals during conception. As a result, many of the offspring were born with speckled, spotted, or striped markings.
Over time, Jacob’s flock began to grow, and Laban’s flock dwindled in comparison. Jacob’s understanding of animal breeding and the use of selective breeding techniques allowed him to increase his own wealth while Laban’s flock decreased. The story of Jacob and the speckled lambs demonstrates Jacob’s resourcefulness and cunning in outwitting Laban and increasing his own wealth. It also highlights the theme of divine intervention, as Jacob attributes his success to God’s guidance and favor.
Jacob arrives at the well, Genesis 29: 1-141Then Jacob hurried on, finally arriving in the land of the east. 2He saw a well in the distance. Three flocks of sheep and goats lay in an open field beside it, waiting to be watered. But a heavy stone covered the mouth of the well. 3It was the custom there to wait for all the flocks to arrive before removing the stone and watering the animals. Afterward the stone would be placed back over the mouth of the well.
7Jacob said, “Look, it’s still broad daylight, too early to round up the animals. Why don’t you water the sheep and goats so they can get back out to pasture?” 8“We can’t water the animals until all the flocks have arrived,” they replied. “Then the shepherds move the stone from the mouth of the well, and we water all the sheep and goats.”
9Jacob was still talking with them when Rachel arrived with her father’s flock, for she was a shepherd. 10And because Rachel was his cousin, the daughter of Laban, his mother’s brother, and because the sheep and goats belonged to his uncle Laban, Jacob went over to the well and moved the stone from its mouth and watered his uncle’s flock. 11Then Jacob kissed Rachel, and he wept aloud. 12He explained to Rachel that he was her cousin on her father’s side, the son of her aunt Rebecca. So Rachel quickly ran and told her father, Laban.
13As soon as Laban heard that his nephew Jacob had arrived, he ran out to meet him. He embraced and kissed him and brought him home. When Jacob had told him his story, 14Laban exclaimed, “You really are my own flesh and blood!”
Jacob Marries Leah and Rachel, Genesis 29: 14-30
14After Jacob had stayed with Laban for about a month, 15Laban said to him, “You shouldn’t work for me without pay just because we are relatives. Tell me how much your wages should be.”
16Now Laban had two daughters. The older daughter was named Leah, and the younger one was Rachel. 17There was no sparkle in Leah’s eyes, but Rachel had a beautiful figure and a lovely face. 18Since Jacob was in love with Rachel, he told her father, “I’ll work for you for seven years if you’ll give me Rachel, your younger daughter, as my wife.”
19“Agreed!” Laban replied. “I’d rather give her to you than to anyone else. Stay and work with me.” 20So Jacob worked seven years to pay for Rachel. But his love for her was so strong that it seemed to him but a few days.
21Finally, the time came for him to marry her. “I have fulfilled my agreement,” Jacob said to Laban. “Now give me my wife so I can sleep with her.” 22So Laban invited everyone in the neighborhood and prepared a wedding feast.
23But that night, when it was dark, Laban took Leah to Jacob, and he slept with her. 25But when Jacob woke up in the morning—it was Leah! “What have you done to me?” Jacob raged at Laban. “I worked seven years for Rachel! Why have you tricked me?” 26“It’s not our custom here to marry off a younger daughter ahead of the firstborn,” Laban replied. 27“But wait until the bridal week is over; then we’ll give you Rachel, too—provided you promise to work another seven years for me.”
28So Jacob agreed to work seven more years. A week after Jacob had married Leah, Laban gave him Rachel, too. 30So Jacob slept with Rachel, too, and he loved her much more than Leah. He then stayed and worked for Laban the additional seven years.
Jacob’s Wealth Increases, Genesis 30:25-4325Soon after Rachel had given birth to Joseph, Jacob said to Laban, “Please release me so I can go home to my own country. 26Let me take my wives and children, for I have earned them by serving you, and let me be on my way. You certainly know how hard I have worked for you.”
27“Please listen to me,” Laban replied. “I have become wealthy, for the Lord has blessed me because of you. 28Tell me how much I owe you. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.” 29Jacob replied, “You know how hard I’ve worked for you, and how your flocks and herds have grown under my care. 30You had little indeed before I came, but your wealth has increased enormously. The Lord has blessed you through everything I’ve done. But now, what about me? When can I start providing for my own family?” 31“What wages do you want?” Laban asked again.
Jacob replied, “Don’t give me anything. Just do this one thing, and I’ll continue to tend and watch over your flocks. 32Let me inspect your flocks today and remove all the sheep and goats that are speckled or spotted, along with all the black sheep. Give these to me as my wages. 33In the future, when you check on the animals you have given me as my wages, you’ll see that I have been honest. If you find in my flock any goats without speckles or spots, or any sheep that are not black, you will know that I have stolen them from you.” 34“All right,” Laban replied. “It will be as you say.” 35But that very day Laban went out and removed the male goats that were streaked and spotted, all the female goats that were speckled and spotted or had white patches, and all the black sheep. He placed them in the care of his own sons, 36who took them a three-days’ journey from where Jacob was. Meanwhile, Jacob stayed and cared for the rest of Laban’s flock.
37Then Jacob took some fresh branches from poplar, almond, and plane trees and peeled off strips of bark, making white streaks on them. 38Then he placed these peeled branches in the watering troughs where the flocks came to drink, for that was where they mated. 39And when they mated in front of the white-streaked branches, they gave birth to young that were streaked, speckled, and spotted. 40Jacob separated those lambs from Laban’s flock. And at mating time he turned the flock to face Laban’s animals that were streaked or black. This is how he built his own flock instead of increasing Laban’s.
41Whenever the stronger females were ready to mate, Jacob would place the peeled branches in the watering troughs in front of them. Then they would mate in front of the branches. 42But he didn’t do this with the weaker ones, so the weaker lambs belonged to Laban, and the stronger ones were Jacob’s. 43As a result, Jacob became very wealthy, with large flocks of sheep and goats, female and male servants, and many camels and donkeys.
Abraham & Sarah
Two sons: Isaac (with Sarah) and Ismael (with Hagar).
Isaac & Rebecca
Two sons: Jacob and Esau
Jacob & Leah
Six sons and one daughter: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zebulun and Dinah
Today 25th of March is the feast of The Annunciation, also referred to as the Annunciation to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It is the announcement by the Archangel Gabriel to Mary that she would conceive and bear a son through a virgin birth and become the mother of Jesus Christ.
It’s easy to remember this date, as it’s a full nine months of pregnancy before Christmas, the birthday of Jesus. And it’s approximately the start of spring and the moment of the northern equinox when day and night are equally long. In medieval terms, start of spring is identified as the date of an unusual number of Biblical events: Adam’s and Eve’s fall into sin; Cain’s murder of Abel; Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac; the martyrdom of John the Baptist; and the Crucifixion. Still more strongly associated with this date is the Annunciation, at which, according to the Gospel of Luke, the archangel Gabriel brought word to the Virgin Mary that she would conceive the Son of God: “Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.”
The Annunciation at the Well flourished in Byzantium, an ancient Greek city that became known as Constantinople and as Istanbul today. In this illustration from a 12th century manuscript, two meetings are implied: at left, Mary dips her pitcher into a well as she turns to hear Gabriel’s message; at right, she approaches a house where she will receive the angel a second time while sitting on a throne-like chair. This illustration is following the Annunciation as written in the Gospel of James. Jacobus Monachus also known as the Kokkinobaphos Master, Homiliae in Beatam Mariam etc, 12th Century, Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Département des Manuscrits, Inv Nr Grec 1208, page 159v.
The Annunciation has been one of the most frequent subjects of Christian art. Its composition and details vary in accordance with its setting: the Virgin might appear on a throne, in a loggia, in a bedroom, or outdoors, and she often is shown sewing or reading. A variant of particular interest is the depiction of the Annunciation at the Spring, also known as the Annunciation at the Well. Inspired by accounts preserved in early apocryphal (non-Bible) texts such as the Gospel of James, this variant of the Annunciation depicts the Virgin Mary greeted by the angel Gabriel as she is fetching water at a well.
Cultures in the western part of the Mediterranean, like Venice with its strong trading links to the Byzantine area, adopted the image of the Annunciation at the Spring. This scene appears among twelfth-century mosaics of the Life of the Virgin in the transept of the church of San Marco in Venice.
There are two basic sources that describe the Annunciation. The Gospel of Luke (1:26-38) and the Gospel of James (v.11). Luke’s Gospel is part of the traditional Bible books and mostly the story that is depicted in Western art from the 14th Century onwards. The other source is the 2nd Century Gospel of James, which is an “apocryphal” book, meaning it’s not included in the traditional Bible collection of books. James’s Gospel is mostly the source in Eastern art up to the 15th Century and – remarkably – again by British painters in the 19th Century. The Gospel of James describes how one day Mary took the pitcher and went forth to draw water at a well when she heard an angelic voice: “Hail, you are highly favored, the Lord is with you, blessed are you among women.” And Mary looked around on the right and on the left to see from where this voice could have come.” During this first encounter, at a well or spring, the angel was heard but not seen. Mary appeared to be alone. Mary then went inside and it’s there that the angel appeared to her in person, while Mary is sitting on a throne-like chair.
In this beautiful illustration form an early 14th Century Armenian manuscript known as the Glazdor Gospels, a flattened, stylized well and pitcher offer only a reminder of the original “Annunciation at the Well” images. The figures’ static postures, animated only by Gabriel’s speaking gesture and the Virgin’s raised palm, recall Western Annunciation scenes, but Mary’s gilded brocade, the throned seat and the ogival dome at the top of the composition attest to its Eastern roots. The Glazdor Gospels, Los Angeles, University of California Research Library, MS. 1, p. 305.
From the 14th Century onward most Annunciations in Western art focus more on the story as written in the Gospel of Luke rather than the apocryphal Gospel of James. They dispense with the pitcher and the well and more and more they will also omit Mary sitting on a the throne-like seat. Many more images placed the event in a specific and unified space such as a portico (Fra Angelico), a private home (Rubens), or a church (Van Eyck).
The Archangel Gabriel delivers a salutation from God: “Ave Gratia Plena” (Hail, Full of Grace). His words flow out in gold letters. Mary draws back with surprise and modesty. She has been chosen to bear the Son of God. As she speaks her acceptance: “Ecce Ancilla Domini” (See, I am the Servant of the Lord), written upside-down for God to read it more easily from above. The dove of the holy spirit descends to her on rays of light. Jan van Eyck (Netherlandish, c.1390 – 1441), The Annunciation (c.1435), 90x34cm, National Gallery of Art, Washington.
In this Annunciation by Fra Angelico, Gabriel is seen approaching Mary outdoors in the cloister of San Marco in Florence. Mary is depicted as sweet and innocent yet taken aback by Gabriel’s arrival. Her innocence and virginity is represented by the “Hortus Conclusus” (Walled Garden) seen in the background. Her arms are folded in the same manner as Gabriel, and show her acceptance, humility, and submission. Fra Angelico (c.1395 – 1455), The Annunciation (c.1442), Fresco, 230x297cm, Convent of San Marco, Florence.
When Cosimo de’ Medici rebuilt the convent of San Marco, he commissioned Fra Angelico to decorate the walls with frescos. This included the inside of the monk’s cells and inside the corridors; around fifty pieces in total. Out of all of the frescos at the convent, the Annunciation is the most well known. This fresco was not intended just for aesthetic purposes. Running across the loggia at the bottom of the fresco there is an inscription that instructs the viewer: “Virginis Intacte Cvm Veneris Ante Figvram Preterevndo Cave Ne Sileatvr Ave.” It means “When you come before the image of the Ever-Virgin take care that you do not neglect to say an Ave”. This was a daily reminder for the monks to pray.
Leonardo’s Annunciation depicts the Archangel Gabriel announcing to Mary that she would conceive miraculously and give birth to a son to be named Jesus. The angel holds a Madonna lily, a symbol of Mary’s virginity as well as that of the city of Florence. It is presumed that, being a keen observer of nature, Leonardo painted the wings of the angel to resemble those of a bird in flight, but later, the wings were lengthened dramatically by another artist. Leonardo da Vinci (Italian, 1452 – 1519), Annunciation (c.1474), 98x217cm, Uffizi, Florence.
In this Annunciation by Rubens, painted around 1628, Mary is portrayed in her sitting room. The homy atmosphere is emphasized by the wicker basket that contains Mary’s sewing and the sleeping cat in the bottom right-hand corner. Rubens started working on this painting after his stay in Italy, where he had come under the influence of the great painters of the Renaissance. This Italianate influence is evident from the unusually bright colors and the free dynamic style, which was new in the Netherlandic countries. Rubens used ultramarine for Mary’s cloak, a precious pigment made from finely ground lapis lazuli. Peter Paul Rubens (Flemish, 1577 – 1640), The Annunciation (1628), 310x179cm, Rubens House, Antwerp.
This scene shows the intercession of the Holy Ghost, symbolised by the white dove. The Virgin is accompanied by three of her traditional attributes: a sewing basket, a book as symbol of Mary’s devotion, and a spray of lilies which symbolize her purity. Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (Spanish, 1617 – 1682), The Annunciation (c.1660), 125x103cm, Museo del Prado, Madrid.
In the 19th Century a group of British painters broke with traditional imagery and went back to pre-Raphael depiction of stories. This group is therefor called the Pre-Raphaelites. Here on this painting, Mary is back at the well as in the Byzantine annunciation images. She encounters the voice of the angel and his message, although she doesn’t see him. Edward Burne-Jones (British, 1833–1898), The Annunciation (1879), 250x105cm, Lady Lever Art Gallery, Liverpool, England.
This Annunciation of 1892, by Arthur Hacker from the Tate Britain, London, is depicting the story from the 2nd Century apocryphal (non-Bible) Gospel of James. As Mary gathers water at the well, unexpectedly an angel she cannot see appears. Arthur Hacker chose to portray the young Mary in portrait form, rather than focus upon the angelic meeting. Serious and sombre, Mary rests her hands on her heart. She is aware of something very important happening to her. She knows she has a role to play, and seems humbled to be chosen for it. Hovering behind Mary is the angel. He holds out a lily to Mary, the flower that symbolises Mary’s purity. Arthur Hacker spent time in Spain and Morocco. This had a strong influence on his art. Mary’s clothing probably reflects Islamic dress Hacker saw during his travels. Arthur Hacker (English, 1858 – 1919), The Annunciation (1892), 233x126cm, Tate, London.
Beatrice Emma Parsons chooses to portray the innocence and vulnerability of a young woman faced with the important responsibilities of motherhood. While the virginity of Mary has always held theological importance, with this work Parsons uses it to emphasize the humanity of the scene. Parsons captures the vulnerability of Mary, dressed in white and standing among a field of Madonna lilies, a symbol of the Annunciation and Mary’s purity. Also seen growing in Mary’s garden are red roses, emblematic of Christ’s Passion. The Holy Spirit, represented according to the traditional iconography of scenes of the Annunciation as a Dove fluttering above the Virgin’s head, is here translated into a group of birds sitting on the roof of the Virgin’s cottage. Beatrice Emma Parsons (English, 1870 – 1955), The Annunciation (1897), 114x183cm, Sotheby’s New York, 2007.
Tanner painted The Annunciation after a trip to Egypt and Palestine in 1897. Influenced by what he saw, Tanner created an unconventional image of the moment when the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that she will bear the Son of God. Mary is shown dressed in rumpled Middle Eastern peasant clothing, without a halo or other holy attributes. Gabriel appears only as a shaft of light. Tanner entered this painting in the 1898 Paris Salon exhibition, after which it was bought for the Philadelphia Museum of Art in 1899. Henry Ossawa Tanner (American, 1859 – 1937), The Annunciation (1898), 145x181cm Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia PA.
March 25 was used as New Year’s Day in many pre-modern Christian countries. The holiday was moved to January 1 in France by Charles IX in 1564. In England, the feast of the Annunciation came to be known as Lady Day, and Lady Day marked the beginning of the English new year until 1752.
Here are the two stories, written by Luke and by James, both accounts of the Annunciation and written down in the first few centuries after the birth of Jesus.The story as told by Luke in his Gospel (1:26-38) is focusing on the discussion between the Angel and Mary. It’s as follows:
Luke 1: 26-38
God sent the angel Gabriel, to a virgin named Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”
Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Highest.”
“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”
The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.”
“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her
The story as told by James in his Gospel (v.11) gives also details about the setting. It happens at the well and inside Mary’s house, and it mentions that Mary is doing some sewing and needlework. It’s as follows:
James v.11
And she took the pitcher and went out to fill it with water. And suddenly a voice could be heard, saying: “Hail, you who has received grace; the Lord is with you; blessed are yiou among women!” And Mary looked round to the right hand and to the left, to see from where this voice came. And she went away, trembling, to her house, and put down the pitcher; and she took her sewing basket with needlework, and she sat down on her seat. And then, look, an angel of the Lord stood before her, saying: “Fear not, Mary; for you have found grace before the Lord, and you shall conceive, according to His word.” And she is hearing, reasoned with herself, saying: “Shall I conceive by the Lord, the living God? and shall I give birth as every woman gives birth?” And the angel of the Lord said: “Not so, Mary; for the power of the Lord shall overshadow you: wherefore also that holy thing which shall be born with you shall be called the Son of the Highest. And you shall call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.” And Mary said: “See, I am the servant of the Lord before His face: let it be upon me according to your word.”
Spring is in the air! I wrote about Winter in Art not so long ago. The pictures in that story were all about keeping ourselves warm in the cold season. It made me so much longing for Spring and Summer, even Autumn would be fine. Can the dark winter days be gone please, and will we soon see some spring flowers and sunshine! To get in the mood for the warmer weather, here are two series of the Four Seasons, both starting with Spring: a cute series of paintings by David Teniers (made around 1644) with seasonal activities, and four prints by Hendrick Goltzius (from 1601) with the seasons represented by children growing up and falling in love. These pictures are all to get you in the mood for the warmer seasons. Stay warm for now and enjoy!
Four Seasons by David Teniers (1610 – 1690)
The series of four small paintings by David Teniers is an allegory of the seasons where Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter have been given human forms that embody the essence of each. Teniers placed his characters, of an appropriate age and dressed accordingly, in the foreground with a symbolic seasonal object. In the background figures doing work associated with each season. The paintings are from c.1644 and pretty small, about 22x16cm.
Spring is personified as a gardener heaving a large pot containing a young tree, kept during winter in the orangery and now back outside as weather is getting milder. There is still a chilly background; it seems as if April showers are approaching. Other gardeners dig the soil, making a formal garden in the fashionable style set by French designers and followed with keen interest in Flanders.
David Teniers the Younger (Antwerp 1610 – Brussels 1690) is one of the most famous 17th-century Flemish painters and particularly known for developing the peasant genre and tavern scenes. He was working for the King of Spain, as well as for Prince William of Orange and the Governor of the Netherlands, the Archduke Leopold. Teniers moved to Brussels where Archduke Leopold became his main employer. One of Teniers’ key tasks was to look after and enlarge the Archducal collection, which grew to incorporate about 1300 works. The archduke’s collection became the nucleus of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna.
Summer is a young peasant with a sheaf of wheat he has just finished binding together with straw. The peasants behind him are working hard. The man wields a scythe to cut the wheat, while the woman bends to heap it into sheaves, ready to be tied. Behind them the trees are in full leaf and the distance is hazy with the summer heat.Autumn is a jolly wine drinker – a stout fellow with a handsome moustach and a comfortable belly. In the background, a man raises a hammer to fasten down the lid of a barrel of wine. Another guy attends to a barrel that has spilled grapes onto the ground. It’s the grape harvesting season. Autumn holds a flagon in one hand and raises a glass with a fancy stem in the other, like tasting Beaujolais Primeur, and seemingly happily ignorant of the grey autumn clouds piling up behind him.Winter brings the cycle of the seasons (and life!) full circle with an old man representation the coldest of the four seasons. Wrapped in velvet and fur, he hunches over to warm his hands at a brazier. In the background a skating scene with some misty figures.
Fours Seasons by Hendrick Goltzius (1558 – 1617)
The Four Seasons (1601), designed and drawn by Hendrick Goltzius and engraved by his pupil Jan Saenredam, offer lush depictions of flora and fauna through changing times of the year. The prints simultaneously follow a young girl and boy’s journey into adulthood. The discovery of the bird’s nest of Spring passes seamlessly into the harvesting of Summer’s ripe crops. Autumn’s root vegetables and fruits attract the interest of a full-grown goat and a pig, while the adults and their loyal hound skate the Winter away on a frozen river. On Spring and Summer an Amor figure is shooting his arrows of love towards the boy and girl, and in all four prints the warm or cold wind is blowing from the mouth of a child’s head high in the sky. This is a series about the four seasons, about falling in love, and about growing up.
Two young children, a boy and a girl, study a bird’s nest containing chicks. A kid goat and a young deer are in foreground. And Amor, God of Passion and Desire, flies around; ready to shoot his arrow. Love is in the air. “Humanas recreo mentes, volucresque ferasque: Omnia floriferi laetantur tempore veris.” or “I am enlightening every man’s heart, and the birds and the wild animals; everything is happy and in full flower in the season of Spring.”
Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558–1617), draftsman, engraver, print publisher, and painter, was one of the most important engravers and print publishers of his time. He lived and worked in Haarlem, close to Amsterdam, and established his own print publishing business. He trained a number of engravers to work in his distinctive style. Goltzius and his workshop were internationally acclaimed; his patrons included sovereigns from all parts of Europe, most notably the art-loving Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II who also granted Goltzius copyright protection, which can be seen on the Spring engraving. It mentions “Cum Privil Sa Cae M” which means Cum Privilegio Sacrae Caesarea Majestatis or With Privilege of his Holy Imperial Majesty, and with the date Anno – in the year – 1601. This should prevent other engravers from copying Goltzius’ design and prints. Once such privilege was granted, artists indeed went to court and took action against illegal copying of their works of art.
An encounter between a boy and a girl: the boy at left holding a sheaf of wheat and a rake over his shoulder while she has a yoke and two water buckets. A cock and hen are in the foreground. And Amor still flying around! In the background farmers are harvesting wheat, a typical summer activity. “Per me larga Ceres densis canescit aristis, Agricolasque beo foecundi frugibus anni.” or “Through me, the wheat fields are full and golden shiny; I make the farmers happy with gifts in this fruitful year.”
Jan Pieterszoon Saenredam (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) was a printmaker in engraving, born in Zaandam (hence his name). He showed great artistic talent and the young Saenredam was sent to learn drawing and engraving from Hendrick Goltzius in Haarlem, where he became a master at the age of 24. After working for some time with Goltzius, he encountered the almost inevitable professional rivalry and jealousy, prompting his departure and set up his own workshop in Assendelft (just north of Amsterdam and Zaandam). He died of typhus at the age of 41, and was buried in the Saint Adolphus church at Assendelft. Jan left his wife a sizeable estate as a result of lucrative investments in the Dutch East India Company.
A boy and a girl, now young adults, are picking grapes and carrying a basket with freshly picked pears. Vegetables in the foreground and a goat chewing one a branch with vine leaves. Is this the goat from Spring, but older? “En ego maturos Autumnus profero fructus, Efficioque mei ne sit spes vana coloni.” or “Look at me Autumn, who gives fruits that are ripe and takes care that the hope of my farmer is not in vain.”A young woman and a young man in rich clothes, are holding hands and skating, oblivious of the deer beset by a wolf in the background, or any of the season’s dangers. Is this poor deer the same one from Spring? A dog in lower right corner is the couple’s companion and a symbol of loyalty in love. “Accumulant homines totum quaecunque per annum, Haec ego consumo, soli haec mihi cuncta parantur.” or “All that has been gathered and collected throughout the year, that’s consumed by me, it’s all prepared for just me alone.”
David Teniers the Younger (Flemish, 1610 – 1690), Spring, The Four Seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, c.1644, Oil on Copper, 22x16cm, National Gallery, London.
Jan Saenredam, printmaker (Dutch, 1565 – 1607) after design by Hendrick Goltzius (Dutch, 1558 – 1617), The Four Seasons represented by four pairs of children: Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, 1601, with Latin text by C. Schonaeus (Dutch, 1540 – 1611), Engraving on cream laid paper, 22×16 cm, The Art Institute of Chicago.
About the annotations on the prints:
H. Goltzius Invent. or HG Inve. This means that Hendrick Goltzius is the “inventor” or “drawer” of the design of the print.
I. Sanredam Sculpt or I.S Sculp. This means that Jan Saenredam is the “sculptor” or the “engraver” of the print.
Cum Privil Sa Cae M,. This means that the print was protected “Cum privilegio Sacrae Caesarea Majestatis” or “With imperial privilege from the Holy Roman Emperor”, as protection against illegal copies.
A° 1601 means “Anno 1601” or “in the year 1601”
C.S. means “Cornelis Schonaeus”, a scholar from Haarlem who wrote many Latin lines and verses that are found on prints of the Haarlem circle of print designers and engravers.
Two magnificent pictures by Joseph Mallord William Turner (British, 1775 – 1851) returned to the UK for the first time in over 100 years. Harbour of Dieppe: Changement de Domicile and Cologne, the Arrival of a Packet-Boat: Evening are on display at the National Gallery, London, until 19 February 2023. Lent by The Frick Collection, New York.
Exhibited at the Royal Academy London in 1825 and 1826 respectively, the paintings reflect Turner’s lifelong fascination with ports and harbours. Turner’s sketching tours within Europe were central to his fame as an artist-traveller, drawing in sketchbooks and producing paintings from them back in his studio in England. These monumental paintings have always belonged together. “Dieppe” in brilliant afternoon sun, pulls you into the hustle and bustle of a fishing harbour; “Cologne” at dusk, is set at the shore of the river Rhine in the centre of the German city. In 1911 the two paintings were acquired by the American industrialist and art patron Henry Clay Frick.
Joseph Mallord William Turner (British, 1775 – 1851), Harbor of Dieppe: Changement de Domicile, 1826, 174x225cm, Frick Collection, New York.
Turner visited the French fishing port of Dieppe, in Normandy, twice in the early 1820s before painting Harbour of Dieppe: Changement de Domicile in his London studio. Set in the afternoon, the work draws from sketches made on site, as well as from memory and imagination. In this Romantic view, signs of modernisation, such as the steamboats then in use, are excluded. Turner focuses on the vibrant energy of the town filled with glowing sunlight and hundreds of figures engaged in lively activities. He captured the details of local dress, studied the ships and their rigging up close and made detailed renderings of the town’s architecture. The French subtitles Turner assigned the painting – “Changement de Domicile” (change of home address) – may refer to the couple to the right, who appear to be loading or unloading objects from boats.
Joseph Mallord William Turner (British, 1775 – 1851), Cologne, the Arrival of a Packet-Boat: Evening, 1826, 169x224cm, Frick Collection, New York.
Cologne, Germany, had long been a major commercial, educational, and religious centre. Situated on the banks of the Rhine, Cologne was still largely medieval in appearance when Turner visited. Only a small section of the city is visible in his painting: the tower and spire of the church of Groß St. Martin piercing the evening sky, with defensive towers, walls, and the customs house leading up to it. There is a sense of time standing still. The ferry boat carrying tourists to shore is about to disturb the peace of the scene.
Turner visited Italy in 1819 and was highly inspired by the Mediterranean sun. Light became an increasingly important motif in Turner’s later work, and these two paintings certainly are the start of that artistic journey. Turner said: “The sun is God”. These words and the two paintings on view in the National Gallery summarise his belief.
Charles Baudelaire (French, 1821 – 1867) wrote a collection of short prose poems “Petits Poèmes en Prose”, published in 1869, one of those is “The Port”. Turner’s use of light in “Dieppe” and “Cologne” is a poem in painting, as Baudelaire’s words are a poem in prose.
The Port A port is a delightful place of rest for a soul weary of life’s battles. The vastness of the sky, the mobile architecture of the clouds, the changing coloration of the sea, the twinkling of the lights, are a prism marvelously fit to amuse the eyes without ever tiring them. The slender shapes of the ships with their complicated rigging, to which the surge lends harmonious oscillations, serve to sustain within the soul the taste for rhythm and beauty. Also, and above all, for the man who no longer possesses either curiosity or ambition, there is a kind of mysterious and aristocratic pleasure in contemplating, while lying on the belvedere or resting his elbows on the jetty-head, all these movements of men who are leaving and men who are returning, of those who still have the strength to will, the desire to travel or to enrich themselves.
Le Port Un port est un séjour charmant pour une âme fatiguée des luttes de la vie. L’ampleur du ciel, l’architecture mobile des nuages, les colorations changeantes de la mer, le scintillement des phares, sont un prisme merveilleusement propre à amuser les yeux sans jamais les lasser. Les formes élancées des navires, au gréement compliqué, auxquels la houle imprime des oscillations harmonieuses, servent à entretenir dans l’âme le goût du rythme et de la beauté. Et puis, surtout, il y a une sorte de plaisir mystérieux et aristocratique pour celui qui n’a plus ni curiosité ni ambition, à contempler, couché dans le belvédère ou accoudé sur le môle, tous ces mouvements de ceux qui partent et de ceux qui reviennent, de ceux qui ont encore la force de vouloir, le désir de voyager ou de s’enrichir.
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 fenêtreor 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.
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.
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.
March is the month named after Mars, in Roman mythology the God of War. He is also an agricultural guardian. The month March, opening the year of farming, is considered the start of the year for the Roman calendar, which had only ten months. With March being the first, September is number seven, October number eight and November and December nineth and tenth. But who is Mars? Although being the god of war, he is also a god of peace (when sleeping!), an epitome of male beauty, and the secret beau of Venus, Goddess of Love. Let’s look at a few paintings with Mars and also some together with Venus. The last painting is revealing the real scandal!
Hendrick ter Brugghen (1588 – 1629), “Mars Asleep” (1629), 107x93cm and 152x140cm with frame, Oil on Panel, Centraal Museum, Utrecht.
This is not a common soldier. This is Mars, God of War, in a 17th Century human form. The harness on the painting is a very rich and precious piece of work made in Italy. It was owned by Hendrick ter Brugghen and kept in his studio. Exactly the same harness and helmet ended up on other paintings by Ter Brugghen and by his colleagues from Utrecht. Around 1648, the end of the Eighty Years’ War and a final end to Spain’s rule over the Netherlands, the painting was placed in its current frame. The weapons and tools of war on the frame are chained together and cannot be used any longer. Mars fell asleep; he now represents peace. In the true Dutch tradition when Mars, God of War, falls asleep, Mercury, God of Trade, will get active again. A political painting in its time.
Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (1599 – 1660), “Mars” (1638), 179x95cm, Oil on Canvas, Museo del Prado, Madrid.
Here is Velázquez majestic painting of Mars. Mars is lazily seating on a soft, unmade bed. The bedclothes belong to a luxurious bed much more suited to amorous struggle than to battles and war. Mars is only wearing his helmet; his shield and armour lie at the ground. This picture is a defeat of arms by love which conquers all. The painting was made for the Spanish royal hunting pavilion on the outskirts of Madrid, in a century when Spain was in continuous wars. An amorous Mars seems certainly more sympathetic than a war-god in full armour.
Sandro Botticelli (1445 – 1510), “Venus and Mars” (1485), 69x173cm, Oil and Tempera on Panel, National Gallery, London.
This Italian Renaissance painting by Botticelli shows Venus, the Roman goddess of love, and Mars, god of war, surrounded by playful and naughty satyrs. Venus watches Mars asleep – and snoring – and she contemplates her victory: love has conquered war. Although it’s unfaithful love, as Venus was in fact married to Vulcan, god of fire and an unattractive blacksmith. The little satyr guys are playing with Mars’s armour: one put the too big helmet on his head and another crawled inside his breastplate. Even one blows a conch shell in his ear to wake Mars, but of course unsuccessfully. The couple have been making love, and Mars obeyed to the male habit of falling asleep after sex. Most likely the painting was commissioned to celebrate the marriage of a wealthy Florentine couple, and was meant to decorate the bedroom with that witty representation of sensual pleasure. There is another thought about Mars’s state of undress. It was thought that looking at an image of a beautiful man would help to conceive a boy – the most desirable heir in those days.
Louis Jean François Lagrenée (1725 – 1805), “Mars and Venus, Allegory of Peace” (1770), 65x54cm, Oil on Canvas, Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
The French rococo painter Louis Jean François Lagrenée shows us Mars, throwing back the curtains to reveal a sleeping Venus. Mars is captivated by her beauty; his shield and sword lie on the ground. A pair of white doves are building a nest in Mars’s helmet. A 18th Century example of “make love not war”. Mars gives peace a chance.
Joachim Wtewael (1566 – 1638), “Mars and Venus Surprised by Vulcan” (1601), 21x16cm, Oil on Copper on Panel, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
This painting depicts the adultery of Venus and Mars. Venus’ husband Vulcan – god of fire and standing with his back to us on the left – has caught the couple in the act. When Vulcan heard that Venus and Mars had an affair, he – as a skilled blacksmith – made an invisible bronze net to catch them in their love bed. The metal net was so delicate that the two beautiful gods did not know that they had been captured until it was too late. Vulcan invited all the gods from Mount Olympus to come and laugh at the trapped lovers. A detail: Mercury, god of trade, is getting jealous and said he is willing to replace Mars. He can be seen above the bed and Cupido is already sending an arrow in Mercury’s direction. The still-life in the foreground is Mars’s armour, Vulcan’s hammer and Venus her red slippers, an old-fashioned symbol of adultery.
Because of the erotic subject matter, the painting’s early owners will have concealed the painting behind a curtain. For a longtime this painting was kept in depot by The Mauritshuis “to protect an immature public against itself”. Only from 1987 this small painting is shown to the public in its full splendor; painted on copper, which is excellent for expressing fine details. It’s an erotic picture, very attractive for the viewers. But it’s certainly also a showcase for the skills of the Joachim Wtewael. And above all an embarrassment for Venus and Mars!
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.
Bronzino (1503 – 1572), “An Allegory with Venus and Cupid” (1545), 146x116cm, Oil on Wood, The National Gallery, London.
Mannerism
is a European art style that follows Renaissance and precedes Baroque,
originating in Italy around 1520 and spreading over Europe. Mannerism lasted
until the end of the 16th Century, when Mannerism gradually turned into
the Baroque style.
How
did Mannerism originate and what is it all about? The artists from the Renaissance,
like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, excelled in painting and sculpting ideal
beauty, balanced proportions and ultimate elegance. Their art had reached the
top of what could be achieved; Renaissance was considered the peak of
perfection. That gave the next generation of artists a feeling that they had
not much to add anymore, and therefor they started to search for additional
artistry on top of the Renaissance skills and values. This next generation
started to add wisdom and intelligence to their art. And that resulted in a “manner”
of over-sophisticated elegance. Mannerism is more about artificial and
intellectual beauty than the perfect natural beauty from the Renaissance times.
The word “Mannerism” comes from the Italian word “maniera”, meaning “manner”. The Mannerist painters were painting in the “manner” of Renaissance painters like Michelangelo, but topped it up with their own intellectual and sophisticated inventions. One could say that they overdid it a bit. The mannerist artists tried to exceed Renaissance art, but that resulted in an overcomplicated way of depicting nature. And ultimately that was followed by the even more complex manner of depicting beauty during the Baroque.
Look at Bronzino’s “An Allegory with Venus and Cupid” (1545). It’s an almost bizarre composition and an exaggerated anatomy of figures. It reminds us of Michelangelo, but with an over-the-top approach of beauty. And the meaning behind this painting is so over-intellectual, that one hardly understands what it is about. It’s passion and play, time and despair, love and seduction; with every figure having it’s own symbolic meaning and art historians nowadays in doubt of the actual meaning. Or look at the Virgin Mary with Child (1540) by Parmigianino. In his efforts to create more elegance, Parmigianino gave his figures those long stretched bodies. And ironically, the painting is now just known as “The Madonna with the Long Neck”. Both Bronzino and Parmigianino want to express that there is more to achieve than the old-fashioned way of traditional Renaissance painting. They show the viewer their new “manner” of dealing with art and beauty. Mannerist painters proudly created Modern Art in the 16th Century.
Parmigianino (1503 – 1540), “The Madonna with the Long Neck” (c. 1537), 216x132cm, Oil on Wood, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.
