The Eyes of Caravaggio
Your eyes don’t miss a Caravaggio. It draws your gaze, even when surrounded by the works of the great Italian master throughout history. It pulls you in like a whirlpool; dark and mesmerizing. But all you can see is the light, in stark contrast to the dark spaces behind the central figures.
I had never heard of the infamous Caravaggio before Italy. My introduction came a few days after I arrived in Cinque Terre. I was laying on my bed in my hostel reading the assigned Francine Prose book on the temperamental artist. The woman I was sharing the room with looked at the title page and smiled. We had up until this point exchanged only awkward pleasantries about the weather.
“He is my favorite European artist. I had never heard of him before I came here, but I will remember him best when I leave.” She was from Hong Kong, and spoke minimal English and Italian. She explained that she was never taught any western art, and everything here and in Europe was completely new to her.
“I was in a museum in Rome, and I saw a painting from across the room. It was a Caravaggio. I sat down in front of it for an hour and saw nothing else.” Now that I have seen his paintings in person, I completely understand the impulse.
Caravaggio is unforgettable. We saw many of his paintings throughout our trip, and I never got tired of looking at them. Disturbing and fascinating, each painting makes you a participant in the story being portrayed, whether you would have volunteered or not. The paintings have eyes that look at you with such intensity that you feel the need to look away. But he pulls you back in. Some of his paintings can only described as grotesque, while others as more subtly grotesque. I am, or course, thinking of Sick Bacchus.
Villa Borghese in Rome holds a wealth of Caravaggio paintings. One room surrounds you with canvases, both large and small, imbued with the dark, rebellious energy the painter seemed to pour into his medium. One of these paintings is Sick Bacchus, a decidedly disturbing painting because of the combination of lust and disease blended together in the portrait of the young god. A sheen of moisture covers his green tinged skin as his eyes implore you to come closer. But I was prepared for him, so I turn away to look at the others.
My favorite Caravaggios can be found in that room. St. Jerome and David With the Head of Goliath. But I knew about them too before I laid eyes on them. The head of Goliath is a self portrait of the artist, and I can’t look away from the face of David. He looks with distaste at the completion of his task, his mouth twisted in regret for what had to be done. He pities Goliath, and does not gloat at his triumph. Caravaggio’s David will now forever be the one I think of; this portrayal resonates with my own understanding of the story. In St. Jerome, it is the use of light and color that first piques my senses. The man’s skeletal frame is accented by the skull on the table next to him. His thin arm is stretched out in the work of God, recording a message that will outlast him. There is nothing passive about these paintings.
Running, walking quickly, through the Uffizi I have time only for a quick glance at the art displayed on the walls. We lost track of time; it was easy. I didn’t realize how big this place was, and I regret my speed now. But suddenly I stop and excitement grips my body. Is that a Caravaggio? Yes! It is! Bacchus and Meduca. I recognized them without help. It is true what the book said. I cannot look for more than a minute, but I am more drawn to Bacchus, the healthier but just as sexual version of Sick Bacchus. I find him indulgent, and while I admire Caravaggio’s vision and skill, I think I must prefer the drunken Bacchus amusing us in animated form in Fantasia. But I think Caravaggio got it right. The god is arrogant, drunk, and self-satisfied. Slightly repulsive.
Your eyes don’t miss a Caravaggio. It draws your gaze, even when surrounded by the works of the great Italian master throughout history. It pulls you in like a whirlpool; dark and mesmerizing. But all you can see is the light, in stark contrast to the dark spaces behind the central figures.
I had never heard of the infamous Caravaggio before Italy. My introduction came a few days after I arrived in Cinque Terre. I was laying on my bed in my hostel reading the assigned Francine Prose book on the temperamental artist. The woman I was sharing the room with looked at the title page and smiled. We had up until this point exchanged only awkward pleasantries about the weather.
“He is my favorite European artist. I had never heard of him before I came here, but I will remember him best when I leave.” She was from Hong Kong, and spoke minimal English and Italian. She explained that she was never taught any western art, and everything here and in Europe was completely new to her.
“I was in a museum in Rome, and I saw a painting from across the room. It was a Caravaggio. I sat down in front of it for an hour and saw nothing else.” Now that I have seen his paintings in person, I completely understand the impulse.
Caravaggio is unforgettable. We saw many of his paintings throughout our trip, and I never got tired of looking at them. Disturbing and fascinating, each painting makes you a participant in the story being portrayed, whether you would have volunteered or not. The paintings have eyes that look at you with such intensity that you feel the need to look away. But he pulls you back in. Some of his paintings can only described as grotesque, while others as more subtly grotesque. I am, or course, thinking of Sick Bacchus.
Villa Borghese in Rome holds a wealth of Caravaggio paintings. One room surrounds you with canvases, both large and small, imbued with the dark, rebellious energy the painter seemed to pour into his medium. One of these paintings is Sick Bacchus, a decidedly disturbing painting because of the combination of lust and disease blended together in the portrait of the young god. A sheen of moisture covers his green tinged skin as his eyes implore you to come closer. But I was prepared for him, so I turn away to look at the others.
My favorite Caravaggios can be found in that room. St. Jerome and David With the Head of Goliath. But I knew about them too before I laid eyes on them. The head of Goliath is a self portrait of the artist, and I can’t look away from the face of David. He looks with distaste at the completion of his task, his mouth twisted in regret for what had to be done. He pities Goliath, and does not gloat at his triumph. Caravaggio’s David will now forever be the one I think of; this portrayal resonates with my own understanding of the story. In St. Jerome, it is the use of light and color that first piques my senses. The man’s skeletal frame is accented by the skull on the table next to him. His thin arm is stretched out in the work of God, recording a message that will outlast him. There is nothing passive about these paintings.
Running, walking quickly, through the Uffizi I have time only for a quick glance at the art displayed on the walls. We lost track of time; it was easy. I didn’t realize how big this place was, and I regret my speed now. But suddenly I stop and excitement grips my body. Is that a Caravaggio? Yes! It is! Bacchus and Meduca. I recognized them without help. It is true what the book said. I cannot look for more than a minute, but I am more drawn to Bacchus, the healthier but just as sexual version of Sick Bacchus. I find him indulgent, and while I admire Caravaggio’s vision and skill, I think I must prefer the drunken Bacchus amusing us in animated form in Fantasia. But I think Caravaggio got it right. The god is arrogant, drunk, and self-satisfied. Slightly repulsive.
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