The Dream of Solomon, by Luca Giordano (1693)

The Dream of Solomon is a truly stunning picture by Luca Giordano, painted when the artist was nearing his 60^th birthday.

For those who do not remember, Solomon was the king of Israel and the son of David.  It is believed that Solomon reigned from circa 970 to 931 BC.  He is best remembered, perhaps, for his vaunted wisdom, which was the result of a specific request for guidance by God.

Upon achieving the throne, Solomon wondered where best to build a temple to worship God.  He also sought to be a good, just and kindly ruler.  Upon thinking about it, he retired to bed in Gibeon and had a heavenly vision.  As it is recorded in the King James Bible, Solomon prayed, asking God to:  Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people, that I may discern between good and bad: for who is able to judge this thy so great a people?

This request, so simple yet so profound, moved God.  The Bible says:

And the speech pleased the Lord, that Solomon had asked this thing. And God said unto him, Because thou hast asked this thing, and hast not asked for thyself long life; neither hast asked riches for thyself, nor hast asked the life of thine enemies; but hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment; Behold, I have done according to thy words: lo, I have given thee a wise and an understanding heart; so that there was none like thee before thee, neither after thee shall any arise like unto thee. And I have also given thee that which thou hast not asked, both riches, and honour: so that there shall not be any among the kings like unto thee all thy days. And if thou wilt walk in my ways, to keep my statutes and my commandments, as thy father David did walk, then I will lengthen thy days.

Your correspondent simply loves this picture.  Not only is it painted with a master’s touch, but for its sumptuous and allegorical qualities.  As Solomon sleeps, God appears in his dream, surrounded by angels.  God shines the light of wisdom onto Solomon, and provides a vision of what will be Solomon’s temple. 

The Temple Solomon would build following his visitation would hold the Ark of the Covenant, and stand for 410 years before being destroyed by Nebuchadnezzar II. 

Above Solomon is the vision of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, who will inspire Solomon in his judgements.  (Minerva is also the goddess of music, poetry, medicine, weaving, crafts and magic – such a one-stop shop.)  She represents a pre-Christian figure here; at her side is a lamb and a book, representing the eventually arrival of Jesus (the Lamb of God), and the holy book, the Bible.

This is such a rich picture, anticipating the abundance that would be later be found in rococo painting.  There are the angels surrounding God, his flowing robes, the delicately rendered blankets on Solomon.  The fantastically ornate bed upon which Solomon sleeps is a marvel in itself, particularly with the golden headboard in the figure of a faun near which rests his crown.  (Fauns would unconsciously impart wisdom – another pre-Christian echo.)  The muted colors promote the dreamy mood of the story, and there is a gauzy quality that provides a quality of a vision.

Interesting, too, are the use of yellows and blue to create light.  It is not a picture of many colors – yellow, blue, gold and orange – and yet it is bright and sensuous rather than drab and monotonous.  And despite the supine character of Solomon, Giordano still manages the dynamism of movement simply through his inventive composition.

Solomon himself is, frankly, beautiful, looking more like a reclining Apollo than anything else.  His features have an almost feminine cast of beauty (not unknown in Giordano’s other work), and combined with a beefy musculature create a figure both strong and sensitive.

It is, to this viewer, Giordano’s great masterpiece.

Saint Michael, by Luca Giordano (1663)

We return to our look at some of the work by one of history’s most prolific painters, Luca Giordano (1634-1705). 

During his 10 year period in Spain (1692-1702), Giordano carried out major decorative commissions in Madrid, Toledo and the Escorial.  He grew to greatly admire the Spanish painter Velázquez, and painted A Homage to Velázquez (circa 1692, now in the National Gallery London).  Giordano had an incredible ability to mimic the work of other artists, and for some time his Homage was attributed to Velázquez himself.  Indeed, after a trip to Venice he painted an Annunciation (now in the collection at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art) in the manner of Titian, and Giordano’s ability as a mimic are clearly apparent.

Giordano was an incredibly active painter, prolific until the end of his life, and is currently credited with some 2000 paintings.  As such, some are quite wonderful and others, less so.  One of the great challenges with prolific genius is to separate the great from the near-great from the best-left-forgotten.

Giordano painted St. Michael several times.  One depiction, dating roughly to 1660-65, clearly owes its inspiration to the painter Raphael; and while that is certainly a beautiful picture (showing a profound understanding of the color blue), I much prefer the one here, from 1663, as it owes its greatest debt to Giordano’s first master and mentor, the painter Ribera.

St. Michael, along with Gabriel and Raphael, is one of only three angels liturgically venerated by the Church.  He appears twice in the Old Testament as a helper to the early Christian peoples; he appears twice in the New Testament, once first arguing Satan over Moses’ body, and again when he and his angels fought Satan and his dragons and hurled him and his followers from heaven. 

He appears repeatedly in apocryphal literature and was regarded by the early Church as the captain of the heavenly host, the protector of Christians against the devil (especially at the time of death, when the soul is most vulnerable), and the leader of Christian armies against the heathen. 

The cult of St. Michael started in Phrygia, but soon spread to the West, where it gained traction when it was recorded that Michael appeared at Mt. Garganus during the rein of Pope Gelasius.  He is always depicted with a sword or lance, and often standing over conquered devils and dragons.  He is the ultimate conception of the warrior angel in all his glamor and strength, valor and might.

Like much of Ribera’s work, there are hints of the dark, brooding genius of Caravaggio, as well as the influence of Spanish and Venetian masters.  The work is heavily reliant on the dramatic use of shadow, and a moody sense of coloration.  The picture is both … unsettling and startling; despite the heroic visitation of Michael, the overall image is somewhat horrific.

The triumphant Michael is perhaps somewhat fleshy and feminine to the contemporary eye, but the manly torso and powerful legs indicate the strength of a warrior of Christ.  The golden tresses of the angel, along with the girlish face perhaps still owe something to Raphael, as do the draping of his cape behind him. 

Curious about the cape: its pinkish color reflecting the lights of Hell seems as if the brighter, pinker side should be on the viewer’s right, rather than the left.  Also odd, too, is that on Michael’s left hip (or on the right side, to the viewer) the dragon-headed hilt of a sword is clearly visible, but the corresponding blade seems no where in evidence behind the angel.

No, the real triumphs here are the wonderfully bestial devils and the hellish landscape.  The fingers of our devils taper into wonderfully pointy fingernails, and the eyes register as dead black.  Also wonderful is the devil’s cavernous mouth, which seems genuinely otherworldly with its snake-like note of two teeth visible at the bottom.  His leathery, bat-like wings are in marked contrast to the feathery white clouds provided for Michael.  Curiously, the spear of St. Michael pieces the side of the devil almost exactly where the Roman spear pierced the side of the dying Christ.

The background has a sulfuric quality; one could almost choke on the red and brown mists.  Between the serpent wrapped around one unfortunate’s arm, a howling beast and the foot of a plummeting body, Giordano’s hell is truly a fearsome creation.

More Luca Giordano tomorrow.

Pilate Washing His Hands, by Luca Giordano (circa 1655-60)

This week, we look at some of the works by one of history’s most prolific painters, Luca Giordano (1634-1705).  Luca was one of the most important painters during the latter 17^th Century, but many critics do not know where to place him.  Fabulously popular in his day, his sheer fecundity makes it difficult to fully assess his corpus of work.  (His nickname was Luca Fa Presto – Luke works quickly.)

The son of a painter, Luca Giordano was born in Naples.  Young Giordano was recommended by the viceroy of Naples to the artist Ribera, and the older artist greatly influenced the younger.  Giordano proved to be very facile as an artist, and quickly learned a versatility that enabled him to imitate the styles of other artists.  This gift for prolificacy and imitation has hurt his career somewhat; critics have always been suspicious of artistic abundance.  While Giordano painted many pictures that were not as impressive as his talent would demand, the sheer number of masterworks by his brush is amazing.

Giordano apprenticed in Rome, Parma and Venice, eventually developing a Baroque style.  This involved a mastery of design and composition, a taste for luxury, and a lively sense of color. 

Giordano tried his fortunes in Florence, where he painted worthy frescos and worked with the influential Medici family.  He painted the dome of the Corsini Chapel of the Chiesa del Carmine, and painted the ceiling of the Biblioteca Riccardiana (the Allegory of Divine Wisdom); a man of business as well as art, Giordano incorporated the visages of the Medici family into his works.  Stroking wealthy patrons has always been a key component of the career of any artist looking for a paycheck.

Giordano spent 10 years in Spain at the invitation of Charles II.  Following his father’s death, Giordano returned to Naples in 1702, where he painted for a variety of clients, including the church, the court and the rising merchant class.

Pilate Washing His Hands is one of our favorite works by Giordano.  Painted somewhere around 1655-60, when Giordano was in his mid-20s, it is a smallish picture measuring some 17x26.  It was painted in oil on copper sheet, and can be found in the Prado in Madrid.

Pontius Pilate was the fifth prefect of the Roman province of Judea under the emperor Tiberius from AD 26-36.  Though commonly mistaken as the man responsible for the condemnation and crucifixion of Jesus Christ, the gospels tell a more complex and interesting story.

In each of the gospels, Pilate actively seeks to spare Jesus from execution, and only relents to placate the crowd who wants Him dead.  He makes clear in the Biblical accounts that he bares no responsibility for the death of Jesus.

In Matthew, Pilate ceremoniously washes his hands to show that they are clean of His blood.  Mark and Luke indicate that Pilate recognizes Jesus is innocent of conspiring against Rome, and executes him with great reluctance.  In John, Pilate actually asks the Jews to release Jesus from custody.

Giordano’s depiction of the scene is full of drama and subtlety.  The composition itself is fairly static, most of the figures at the same head-level.  The dynamism of the picture is accomplished (amazingly) by following the gaze of the principals.  The two soldier bearing Jesus openly look at Pilate, entreating him for mercy.  The pages at other side of Pilate (one pouring the water with which Pilate will symbolically absolve himself of any guilt), clearly look at Him in frank astonishment.  Pilate, however, is isolated by his gaze – his eye look over the head of Christ, and into the undiscovered future.  Does he see the judgement of history, or his own eventual damnation?  We do not know, but the face of Pilate is painted with more detail, more sensitivity and more … deliberation than that of Christ.

As with the great masters, look for little touches that delineate Giordano’s complete command of the medium.  Note the tiny earring on the ear of the guard in the furry cap, the shadow cast by the details adorning the plated shoulders of the guard, the faint gleam of light caught in the eye of the guard immediately behind Christ.

The two pages, and Pilate himself, wear the garb of the Renaissance and not antiquity, and the armor is surely the creation of Giordano’s imagination, but not a single detail seems out of place, too dramatic, or in any way underdone.

Fascinating, too, is the depiction of Christ.  Much more pale than anyone else in the picture, Christ already seems sickly and near-death.  But the suffering has none of the sadism (or masochism) so often associated with paintings dealing with His trial and crucifixion, and Giordano show admirable restraint.

A fascinating, masterful and psychologically complex work.

More Giordano tomorrow.