Van der Weyden, Crucifixion, with the Virgin and Saint John

Under a black night sky, with this dim light and a sense of doom, the Virgin Mary's fingers are knit together in one of the most startling and stark images. We're looking at one of the jewels in the collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Roger van der Weyden's Crucifixion with the Mourning Virgin and Saint John the Evangelist. This is a radically reduced, simplified image that, because of that reduction, conveys extraordinary emotional power. There's a sense of solemnity here that is overpowering. The geometry creates kind of eternal mourning, as if these figures will always be in this deep grief. We're looking at an earthly scene, the scene of the crucifixion. Angolgatha. Right, the hill outside of Jerusalem, where Christ was crucified. But there is a sense that we're not looking at that scene in the way that we usually do, where we see, on either side, the two thieves who are crucified along with Jesus, a landscape behind him filled with figures, other mourners at the base of the cross. This isn't so much a representation of the crucifixion as it is a representation of the idea of the crucifixion. So this is almost a kind of emotional distillation. By removing everything that's unnecessary, there's a heightened emotional impact. And it suggests to me that this was not meant for a public church, but perhaps it was meant for a monastic environment, or an environment where people knew the story well. And the idea here was to just intensify the emotion, to intensify the spiritual. Right, to simplify the image as a kind of aid in prayer and visualization, to help us, as viewers, to feel the emotion that Mary feels. An art historian has actually pointed out the relationship between this kind of rendering and the monastic work of Fra Angelico, for instance, an artist who's known for a kind of elegant and spare, but also very intensely emotional kind of painting. Right, and we might think of Fra Angelico's frescoes at the Monastery of San Marco, where he lived. So powerful for me are those red banners that hang and frame both sets of figures. If you look on the left, you see St. John, who's supporting Mary as she faints. She falls to the ground, and we really feel her weight. We see her body under even the heavy cloth that she wears. But she falls so elegantly and so beautifully, but still completely enveloped in her pain. Christ is also beautifully illuminated against that brilliant red ground. That red is so vivid and so beautiful and so rich, and so much an expression of the violence and passion, and yet also the quiet of this moment. And I think the thing that I find most startling is not only the black sky, but also that little shadow line behind the red cloths. Those curtains are hanging over that stone wall that creates such a shallow space in the painting as a whole, but they're not actually touching the wall. You'll notice that there's a lip at the top, and so they hang over, creating this thin plane of air. It's utterly still, and because those curtains fall flat, we get a sense of the airlessness of this space, as if nothing is moving, nothing is changing. And yet, that very same shadow also convinces us of the reality of this scene. It makes it all the more concrete and palpable, and also creates a flat, vibrant surface that makes Christ's body stand out almost like sculpture. And because that cloth had recently been folded, and its creases have not yet fallen out, there's a grid behind the body as well. The strictness of the geometry against the body creates a kind of formality that is, in some ways, very powerful visually. You've got the organic, stressed, tortured body against lines that are clear and structured, and it makes it all the more vivid. And it also contrasts with the fluttering of his loincloth, a kind of spiritual feeling within this otherwise very still and somber image. That somberness is the result of the darks above, of the shallowness, and of course, of the sense of stillness. And as you said, this is a painting that is really about our own reflection on these events. Look below Christ's feet, you can just see the little hill that is Golgotha represented schematically. And just in front of that, you can see that there's a small ravine which separates these spiritual figures, this spiritual space, from our world. But on our side of that crevice, you see a skull. Now, it's traditional to represent this skull, but this particular skull is staring out at us. And it seems to be a kind of warning, to be a kind of reminder, a reminder of death, a memento mori. Well, specifically a reminder that Christ is our path away from death to eternal life in heaven. We're going to die, but it's through Christ's sacrifice on the cross, which is rendered so very close to that skull. The blood of the wound from the nail in his feet drawing our eye down toward that skull. And in a typically northern fashion, that bolt that so violently pierces Christ's feet is painted with a kind of vividness, a kind of accuracy, that makes it seem absolutely believable. Yeah, this painting is really a remarkable combination of details that are rendered incredibly realistically, like that bolt or the creases in the cloth, and then these supernatural elements. There's also Mary being comforted by John, but Christ, the most tortured figure, is absolutely alone, that there is this kind of sense of isolation, that there really is no way to comfort Christ. And there's something terribly tragic that results from this. The way that John looks at Christ, there's a sense of how did we, we as humanity, do this to God? This shallow space, this emphasis on human emotion, paintings that are especially pared down, especially ascetic, are typical of his later work. ♪♪♪