According to historian Simon Schama, the only two things that you need to know about Caravaggio is that “He made the most powerfully physical Christian art that has ever been painted, and that he killed someone.”[1] He is without doubt, a giant in the history of art, a man full of contradictions: “the devout Christian and criminal who understands the redemption of blood because he has direct experience spilling it.”[2] Although you may not be familiar with the name you may have seen one or two of his paintings, the two we are perhaps most familiar with are Doubting St Thomas and Supper at Emmaus.
This has been described as the most shocking depiction of this biblical scene ever painted. Previous artists had only ever painted Christ offering the wounds in his hands and side, not so Caravaggio, his art is physical, for him the proof is in the probing and so he paints the nail-scarred hand of Christ guiding Thomas’ finger deep into the lipped wound in his body burying it up to the joint. Thomas’ expression is one of revelation and belief. Caravaggio seems to be saying that “to make true believers…it’s not enough to direct the eyes; you must also register the spectacle viscerally, on your flesh. Hairs should stand up on the neck; goose-bumps rise on the skin.”[3] We might say today that it is not enough to be a worshipper of Christ but that we must follow him in the concrete reality of our physical, daily lives. To do less allows us to indulge in the false premise that we may believe a theology of the bodily resurrection of Jesus without us having to live as though it had actually taken place.
Doubting St Thomas above all challenges us with the shock and awe of the physical reality of the risen Christ. The painting of the scene of Jesus’ self-disclosure at Emmaus is, like all of Caravaggio’s paintings, spectacularly lit and dramatic and above all it is powerfully real. Caravaggio captures the exact moment the disciples realise that it is Jesus in their midst and freezes it, rendering it permanent and enabling us to take our time to consider the miracle of the resurrection and the presence of Christ, and to experience for ourselves the sense of shock, astonishment and wonder felt by the disciples. This is not a sweet expression of theology but a powerful declaration of the power of God on display before the eyes of these disciples, and before ours.
His painting, David with the Head of Goliath may be one of his last paintings. Whilst there is no doubt that Caravaggio is the model for Goliath, some art historians believe he is also the model for David. Like most artists of the time, Caravaggio often appears in his paintings, simple self-portraits usually on the edge of the picture or in the crowd. In David with the Head of Goliath he is front and centre the focus of the picture. Recovering from his wounds in Sicily and reflecting on his life he seems to have reached a moment of genuine self-revelation.
No artist in history had ever painted a self-portrait in this way, nor would they ever again. This canvas is a visual message to the cardinals of his repentance, a declaration that, despite his wild past full of drunkenness, whoring, and brawling and murder he had reached a place of genuine repentance and longing for redemption. His paintings that had spoken so powerfully to others now touched him and helped to bring him to a moment of understanding, as Picasso once said, “Art is a lie which makes you realise the truth.”[4] With this self-portrait Caravaggio seems to be saying, “here I am! This is the real me in all my sinful ugliness” and in doing so he confronts us to face us to who we really are.
When I look at this portrait, I am reminded of the ugliness of my sin, of the reality of my true self despite the lies that I tell myself, the lie that I am a better person than I really am, and I am reminded of my need for redemption that leads me to repentance. For all the absolute brokenness of his life, God still worked in him and through him, leaving us a legacy of the greatest Christian art ever painted. It was in his brokenness that he finally found God. For me, the great legacy of the story of his life and art, told especially in this great painting, is for me, is the powerful reminder that in the garden of God, even broken trees bear fruit.
This post is a summary of a longer signpost on this subject. If you would like to know more, please get in touch.
[1] Simon Schama, The Power of Art, (London: The Bodley Head, 2009), 16
[2] Simon Schama, The Power of Art, (London: The Bodley Head, 2009), 9
[3] Simon Schama, The Power of Art, (London: The Bodley Head, 2009), 56
[4] Pablo Picasso, cited in The Power of Art, Simon Schama, London, The Bodley Head, 2009 inside cover.