Masaccio's frescoes in Cappella Brancacci, in the Oltrano

Brancacci Chapel

On my last morning in Florence I went back to the Oltrano to breakfast with a friend in the Piazza Santa Spirito. When one of my erudite British friends suggested I couldn’t leave Florence without visiting the Cappella Brancacci in the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Carmina, literally around the corner from breakfast, I had no reason not to pop in en route to the train station. I have to say, the deal was clenched when I read that Brancacci, the wealthy patron after whom the chapel takes its name, was vehemently and vocally anti-Medici. Anyone who stood up to the wealthiest family in Renaissance Florence, had to be a man of measured decisions, and therefore, have the judgment to choose a quality decorator for his chapel.

The jewel of the Chiesa di Santa Maria del Carmina is indeed Masaccio’s fresco cycle on the life, imprisonment and death of St Peter, the saint of the church. Yet again, I was astounded at the vibrancy and immediacy of the Renaissance in action. At first glance, as always, what makes the cycle amazing, what makes the cycle that of a master, are the colours, the fall of the light as it is created through colour, the fabrics of the robes, and because it is the Renaissance, the incredible presence of the figures. Surrounded by frescoes in other chapels, frescoes in which dark robed figures whose expressions are not always fully defined, can be static and unreflective, Masaccio’s figures are so alive and so recognizeable, that we feel their heightened emotions, we follow their conversations, we are pulled into the drama of their stories. This was my immediate impression.

Detail from Peter Baptising the Neophytes 

There are at least two further characteristics that make Masaccio’s cycle for this chapel magical, both of which take time to reveal themselves. First, the facial expressions and hand gestures of the figures in the story. The detailed faces and gestures are so vivid, so lifelike, and simultaneously, so varied, that each figure is given his own individual personality via these traits. This is a cycle that has incredible energy and movement, and yet, unlike those painted over one hundred years later (I am thinking of Michelangelo), most of Masaccio’s figures are actually static. What makes them move is the strength of their facial expressions and the force of their hand gestures. Thus when someone points, we voluntarily follow the gesture as if the hand creates a sightline. And when the turn and direction of the figures’ different gazes leads us around the walls, we never stop, but rather, enjoy being caught up in the dynamism of otherwise static figures. Through the power of these three aspects, we begin to hear the conversations, the arguments between characters, we hear the silence as the crowd listens to St Peter preaching, we hear Jesus giving Peter his instructions to find the coin in the fish’s mouth in The Tribute Money. This is as vivid as 15^th century fresco painting gets.

This putti is on the altar with the fresco behind her

Like the Fra Angelico frescoes, the most astounding aspect of Masaccio’s work is the perfect visual unity – but in the Brancacci Chapel the unity only comes together at the point of observation. The viewer, standing in the dead centre of the chapel, represents the point at which all the lines of both layers of multiple narratives within each frame converge. Thus the settings in the upper registers slope down, and the figures are perspectively rendered, as though sliding down the hill to us. Similarly, moving around the chapel, the figures all cast shadows appropriate to their position in relationship to the altar. The shadows appear as if the light is placed behind the altar, shining through the chapel and illuminating the whole of St Peter’s life. The skewing of the perspective to create such illusory unity, despite the fact that the paint was applied to a wall at such proximity, is what makes such fescoes mindboggling.

Onlookers in Raising the Son of Theophilus

Spending time in churches, convents, chapels and cloisters in Florence, over the past few days, I saw the Renaissance artistic endeavour in a whole new light. If ever I held doubts that paintings need to be seen in the spaces for which they were executed, those doubts are now officially dispelled. Because the light coming in the windows — which was also often the roof of smaller spaces — completely changes the paintings. I am thinking of Andrea del Sartos cycles in the SS Annunziata,  for which the artist painted in anticipation of the fall of sunlight through the roof at a certain time of the day. The density and hue of the colours anticipate the transformations that occur as the day moves on.

 

Peter in Prison

Also, as I visited church after church, it was driven home to me that painting was the material and created the spaces where power and influence were expressed in the quattrocento and cinquecento Florence. These painters, in the case of the Cappella Brancacci, Masaccio, Lippi and Masolini who finished off some of the frescoes after Masaccio died, are like the house painters of the time. They were hired to fulfill the commission and make the donor or patron, here Brancacci look good. They aren’t painters like artists are today – individuals painting to express themselves and their world vision. Rather, they were pawns in the world of banking, of money and social standing. This is obvious to anyone who has ever read a book on the Renaissance, but the function and role of art as a status symbol, and the artist providing a service really comes alive on these church walls. These walls are the battleground of generations of politically and financially powerful men. And these men needed the walls that we look at today, in order to show the world how powerful they actually were.

The Temptation of Adam and Eve,
this was painted by Masolini, who became Masaccio's follower while painting the Chapel

What makes the likes of Masaccio, and later, the obvious Michelangelo, Raphael, Lippi and so on, masters, is that not only did they fill the commissions, but their genius was expressed. In their interpretation of the same stories they changed the iconography, the story, at times, even the characters. These transformations had to be extremely subtle so as not to distract from the importance of the patron at a time when radical creativity was not always appreciated. And then, only if they were successful, their genius was sealed as everyone who came in their wake, followed their invention, until the next genius appeared on the streets of Florence. 

Fra Angelico frescoes, Museo del Convento di San Marco

The Annunciation at the top of the stairs

Whenever anyone I know goes to Florence I send them to the Museo del Convento di San Marco where Fra Angelico painted frescoes, one in each of the monks’ individual cells on the upper floor. I have never seen so many frescoes in one place; even before going upstairs to the cells, the whole convent complex is filled with not unimportant works of art, mostly depicting lessons for the use of the given space it adorns. But it is the Fra Angelicos on the upper floor that take me back to the Convento di San Marco every time I am in Florence.

Adoration of the Magi in the smaller of two rooms
reserved for Cosimo de Medici - including the tabernacle

As we walk up the stairs, we are greeted by The Annunciation. For me, the most extraordinary thing about this painting — another one I have read about and seen in reproduction after reproduction — is the spatial dimensions and perspective. I am starting to realize that the depiction of space via the articulation of light and shadow is the measure of an artist’s brilliance in the Renaissance. The more visually unified through the depiction of space — usually in an illusory manipulation of the relations between viewer and painting — the more skilled and in demand was the artist. This characteristic, something like the crescendo of the Renaissance fresco painting, is lost if the work is not seen in the flesh. Of course it is, because this is its defining moment. As we reach the top of the convent stairs, it as though we step into the soft oranges, pinks and golds of the loggia in Fra Angelico’s painting. We step from the world of earthly vices into the space of the Virgin. At least, I felt as though I was elevated into this luminous, timeless world, and I could hear the Angel Gabriel announce the news. We are immediately embraced into the world of silent meditation of the convent. From that moment on, I kept thinking that if it gave me the opportunity to be surrounded by these frescoes, especially The Annunciation on a daily basis, to work with these exquisite images by my side, it would be worth joining the Dominican order and giving my life over to copying of manuscripts. 

The Annunciation in Cell 3

The catalogue on sale in the bookstore is one of the best in its genre because it not only describes the scenes painted on the wall of each cell, but it also explains the use of the images as pedagogical, didactic, or illustrative of the activities or postures of humility to be assumed in the given cell. It also discusses which of the frescoes is painted entirely by Fra Angelico, and which — usually determined by the handling of light and colour — can be attributed to others in the order. Nevertheless, I kept wanting to know, how was it determined who ocuppied which cell? For example, all of those on the outside wall, facing the cloister have a window onto the cloister. While those facing the inside are given light through a round hole in the wall to the corridor, I imagine it would have been preferable to have a window onto the courtyard? There must have been a pecking order for the cells – not only for the ones with the windows into the cloister, but more importantly, for those with Fra Angelico’s brighter and lighter images.

The Sermon on the Mount in cell 32

Some of the frescoes are so soft, gentle, and delicate, that they induce instant calm. For example, the best known, in cell 3, The Annunciation with the silth-like figures, Mary bathed in the light of the angel in her sumptuous pink drapery, makes the heart sing. Others, such as The Sermon on the Mount in cell 32, are dreamy for a single detail, in this case, the disciple fourth on the right whose perfect, glowing complexion seduced me. Other of the cell frescoes were dark, bleak, even scarey. I wouldn’t want to be working in cell 23, having to watch the virtues about to hammer those nails still further into Christ’s already gushing wounds in Jesus Nailed to the Cross by the Virtues. Similarly, all the devils escaping through the crags in the rocks in Christ’s Descent into Hell in cell 31 somehow makes the scene unsavoury. This despite the brilliance of the first liberated figure.

Crucifixion with Saints
in Cosimo de Medici's cell

My question of who occupied which cell was, in a couple of instances, clearly answered. Even though I always do my best to steer clear of la Famiglia Medici when I am in Florence, unfortunately, that’s not a realistic goal. If a visit to Rome is under the sway of the Catholic Church, then visiting Florence is more like a Medici theme park. Sure enough Cosimo de Medici rebuilt the convent complex as it stands today, complete with Fra Angelico’s frescoes, some time after his return to the city in 1435. And for his patronage, Cosimo kept a cell there for private spiritual retreat, complete with private oratory. Needless to say, his cell is the biggest of all: it is a double space, amounting to probably around the same space as my apartment in Paris. And the image on the wall of the larger of the two spaces, Crucifixion with the Virgin and Saints Cosmas, John and Peter of Verona is the only one to have a background in lapis lazuli, the most costly of all pigments.

Detail of Mocking of Christ with the Virgin and Saint Dominic
in cell 7

As I say, the Convento di San Marco is one of the non-negotiables in any visit to Florence. The best part is walking straight past the hoards in line to enter the Accademia, and on up to Piazza San Marco. When inside, there’s no having to share the frescoes with anyone else. The place is empty. It’s a relatively unknown spot, but the experience is sacred. 

Roman Catholic Church Etiquette

Jesus covered for Lent
Pantheon

I first visited Rome thirty years ago, and as I wandered through the medieval streets, marveled at the facades, floors, door handles, was charmed by the Romans, brushed past young priests and was stopped by tourists for directions, I was reassured to see that not much has changed in thirty years. I was heartened by the degree to which the Romans have held onto their culture, their personality, their city as the world has changed around them.

The Floor of the Pantheon in the rain

And as was the case thirty years ago, I was astounded by the degree to which the Catholic Church defined my experience of Rome. Of course, my visit coincided with Francesco’s induction, so perhaps there was more Catholic pomp and circumstance than usual. And I have to admit that, in the moment, I was swept up by all the excitement: as I did my morning run along the Tiber on Tuesday, listening to the sounds of the Vatican choir interspersed with Francesco’s address to the world, I looked left up via della Conciliazione, and there he was up the end of the street. I almost wished I was Catholic. I also loved the familiar sight of black robed priests young and old, rushing, walking, riding mopeds and bicycles through the streets, defining the world around them.  

The floor of  Basilica di Santa Maria sopra Minerva
 the sun shines through a stained glass window

The charm of the air pervaded by Catholicism and my enthusiasm for its rituals and cultural assets would, I am sure, wear off if I were to be anything more than a tourist in Rome. But because I have no intention of moving to Rome, I put all my prejudices and opinions aside about what must be the most oppressive institution in the world, and soaked up its riches for a few days. Along the way, I became fascinated by “church etiquette.” It started when I got very unwelcome looks from the young priests in particular. I am in Italy to look at specific frescoes, none of which are of any interest to the average tourist. And so, often the lights in the chapels with the frescoes in question were only turned on for services. So I sat with the faithful few and sometimes in a congregation of one taking notes on the frescoes while the young priests were busy at the altar. More than once I felt the eyes of judgmental surveyance directed at me. But I figured that they could never say anything to me because that would necessarily mean they were not concentrating on their prayers. Much to their chagrin, I kept writing.

The Hole
Pantheon

And then in the basilicas and churches where I joined the tourists, it was a different kind of tension between the Church and the mignons. In the oldest of old, the Pantheon, a shaft of daylight penetrates the wondrous vaulted ceiling and illuminates the world below. This architectural wonder is heaving with tourists, and so I took a seat out of the rain (because the hole in the ceiling opens the basilica to all elements, not just sunlight. My sense of the crowd was that they were very well behaved. As people do, they chatted among themselves, read their guidebooks out loud and asked me to take their photographs (somehow I became the official Pantheon photographer for all Italian tourists who needed to record their moment together with Jesus at the altar). And then, as if negating the beauty and wonder of the shaft of light, a voice over the loudspeaker announced in five different languages, that is, five repetitions, “Please respect the silence in this Basilica”. I wondered why it had obviously not occurred to them that the loudest, most disrespectful noise was the booming voice telling everyone to keep quiet. There was no opportunity for quiet contemplation as the announcement was loud and long.

Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio

As I entered Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio, on the same piazza as the Trevi fountain — read: church was all but empty — I was surprised not to see the requisite young priest protecting the sacred spaces. That was, until I sat down and rested my tired feet on the kneeler. All of a sudden he appeared, or more likely, bolted through a hatch in a door that must have extended 20 feet up the left transept. He reprimanded me through the familiar Italian mixture of gestures and words, turned around and raced back through the hatch. A group of elderly women appeared and were gathered around one of the chapels at the back, obediently listening to their guide. Lo and behold, out he came again. The young priest stood right in the middle of the ladies and dealt them a warning not to go inside the chapel, even though they were quietly standing at least two feet from the altar rail, listening to their guide. He must have been safely back behind the door for no more than two or three minutes when an American with a camera came and sat near me. I wanted to tell him not to take photographs as there would be consequences, but this seemed a little too like self surveillance. There must have been either a spy hole in the hatch of the 20 foot door, or a surveillance camera. I couldn’t see a camera anywhere – so I imagined the young priest sitting behind the door, eagerly awaiting the next infringement of his domain.

Michelangelo, Il CristoBasilica di Santa Maria sopra Minerva

In the Basilica di Santa Maria sopra Minerva, a major church in the Roman Catholic order, an old priest sat next to a makeshift table selling books on Michelangelo, reading his iphone. He showed complete disinterest in any of the goings on in the Basilica. I watched a group of tourists from India stroke the legs of Michelangelo’s Il Cristo. The smooth erotic surface of the perfect form is of course, just waiting to be stroked, so why not. A group of young Italian school children were being led around, given a talk on each of the Basilica’s attractions. While they were relatively well behaved, by the time they reached the Carafa chapel with Filippino Lippi’s frescoes, they couldn’t contain themselves. One chased another around the altar space and the others followed, and the let out muffled shrieks. The priest did not look up from his iphone.

The floor just outside the Basilica San Pietro

And in the holiest of holy, the Basilica San Pietro, anything goes. There was no attempt to curtail photographs, noise or school children’s scuffles. I wondered if the mise-en-abîme of chapels, and the sheer size of the place, either makes it impossible to police, or more likely, absorbs the sound? Similarly, perhaps the Catholic church reasons that if the sculptures have lasted this long without being damaged by the caresses of the 25,000 tourists that move through there in a day, then there’s no need to prohibit access. That said, Church logic isn’t that easily distilled: Michelangelo’s Pietà is now behind an elaborate glass structure and railing — of the genre that keeps visitors going anywhere near the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. So while school children can chase each other around the altar adorned with Lippi frescoes and a Bellini sculpture can prop up weary tourists, there’s no going near a Pinturicchio fresco in Santa Maria del Popolo, to give an other example. In the end, like most rules and regulations of the Roman Catholic Church, I imagine there’s no sustainable argument to support the surveyance of tourists in its most hallowed spaces.