A comparison of the baroque naturalism of Alonso Cano and the baroque classicism of Anton Mengs After last week’s comparison of two paintings of Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem, this week as an Easter meditation I offer something similar, but this time each painting is of the scene when Mary Magdalen sees Christ in the garden and he tells her not to touch him – noli me tangere.

This time the offerning in baroque naturalism comes from Alonso Cano, the 17th century Spanish artist who had the same teacher as Velazquez, Francesco Pacheco. Cano is perhaps more well know for his wood carvings in polychrome (ie painted in many colours). The baroque classicist painting of the same subject is done by the German artist of the 18th century called Anton Raphael Mengs.

Baroque classicism (as exemplified here by Mengs) seeks to evoke more a sense of the classical heritage of Western culture and, inspired by Raphael the artist of 100 years before, often look as thought they are staged scenes from a Shakespeare play set in ancient Rome. Stylistically, there is always more colour and the edges are sharper and cleaner – sometimes this can tend to give them a more sterile and less lively feel, although I don’t get this feeling with Meng’s painting shown here. In contrast the baroque naturalist style use monochrome and broad focus much more and has a more vigorous, spontaneous feel. My preference generally is for baroque naturalism although I in this case I like both examples equally. To the modern eye, although once pointed out we can distinguish between the two streams, they still look similar. At the time though, each school thought of itself as very different from the other. Each saw theirs as the more authentic form of sacred art and and would be openly rude and dismissive about the other.

After the Englightenment the two streams of baroque art separated and became the Romantic and Neo-Classical movements. The developments, although subtle, were nevertheless destroyed the baroque and with it an authentic Christian tradition in sacred art.

Paintings: above and bottom, Anton Raphael Meng; immediately below: Alonso Cano

]]> http://catholicexchange.com/noli-me-tangere/feed/ 0 http://catholicexchange.com/are-you-ready-for-palm-sunday/ http://catholicexchange.com/are-you-ready-for-palm-sunday/#comments Wed, 28 Mar 2012 05:00:51 +0000 Gayle Somers http://catholicexchange.com/?p=148804 Read More]]> In our Lenten journey, have we discovered that we are studies in contrasts?  Did we begin with great aspirations and are now feeling more than ever our fickleness?  If so, we are truly ready for Palm Sunday.

Gospel (Read Mark 14:1-15:47)

Today, in the universal Catholic Church, we rise during Mass to hear a full reading of the Passion of Christ.  What is our disposition today, having spent nearly 40 days praying, fasting, and doing acts of generosity?  Most of us start Lent with some sense of seriousness about our relationship with God.  We welcome a whole season in which we seek to know and love Him better. Is that happening? Are the results mixed?

For many of us, Lent becomes a time to face ourselves.  Sometimes we discover that our resolve never quite bears fruit.  We can surprise ourselves when we notice our laziness, distractibility, or superficiality.  The disciplines that seemed so promising at the outset—“This will be a spiritual Lent for me!”—get a little burdensome, a little inconvenient, too easily forgotten.  The contrast in us between our desire for God and our love of ourselves can, in a penitential season, become sharp.  When this happens, we should not despair.  On the contrary, we should recognize that this is precisely what Lent is meant to teach us—we need a Savior!  We are in way over our heads.

The public reading of the Passion story on Palm Sunday is the Church’s first call to us to concentrate, to listen carefully to what is about to unfold in Holy Week.  It is a long story, full of drama.  It is meant to lift us up out of our sober (and often disheartening) Lenten self-reflection and help us focus on the remedy for all the troubling contrasts within us.  Interestingly, it is a story full of contrasts.  Let us ponder some of them:

• The generosity of the woman who anoints Jesus; the greed of Judas, who sells Him for profit
• The apostles repeatedly falling asleep in Gethsemane; Jesus in watchful and agonized prayer
• The kiss of intimate friendship; the threatening crowd arriving with swords and clubs
• The raucous, conflicting false testimony in the Council; the silence of Jesus
• Jesus’ accusers demanding that He identify Himself; Jesus quoting Scripture (“One like a Son of Man”) to alert them to the fact that they already know who He is
• The silence of Jesus during His beating by the Temple guards; the loud denials and cursing of Peter when he is identified as a disciple
• The release of a convicted, murderous insurrectionist; the condemnation of Jesus on charges of insurrection
• The crowd calling for Jesus to demonstrate His power on the Cross by delivering Himself; His cry of abandonment
• The Jews mocking and ridiculing their King; the cosmos paying homage to its Creator by darkening the sun
• The apostles fleeing; the women remaining, watching to the end

Life is full of contrasts.  This story, being completely human, is as well.  However, Jesus brought the Divine into the human story.  He shows this by predicting the future several times throughout the Gospel account (the re-telling of the story of the anointing, the room that will be prepared for the Passover, Judas’ betrayal, the Bridal Feast of heaven, the scattering of the apostles, Peter’s denial).  Yet it is the centerpiece of this drama that explains what we most need to know today:  what Jesus is about to undergo—suffering and death—He does for us, to forgive and heal all our contrasts, all our waffling between light and shadow.  Knowing all our failures, He gives to us His Body and Blood, sealing us into an eternal covenant with the One toward Whom we always strain but, left to ourselves, usually fail.

If we think of the Passion story as a mural, we will “see” that it is shot through with lights and shadows.  Taken in all at once, we find they provide depth and texture to the story, giving richness to the drama that changes everything for us.  The contrasts actually clarify the intersection of the human and Divine.  We begin to realize that the mercy of God is made perfect within human unsteadiness.  Jesus entered this world of lights and shadows and conquered it—for us.

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, thank You for being the Stillpoint of all my swirling contrasts.  Help me keep my eyes on You as I make my way through Holy Week.

First Reading (Read Isa 50:4-7)

The prophet, Isaiah, because he lived during a time of great covenant unfaithfulness in God’s people (about the 8^th century B.C.), had to deliver dire warnings of coming catastrophe unless the people repented.  He prophesied that judgment would inevitably fall, but Isaiah also spoke of a coming restoration, when their punishment would end, and the people would once again flourish in their land.  Remarkably, Isaiah’s prophecies included detailed descriptions of a Suffering Servant who would play a significant role in this restoration.  Through his innocent, willing suffering, the sin of the people would be expiated (paid for) and forgiven.  Here, of course, we have an astounding Messianic prophecy of Jesus, the Innocent One Who suffered on behalf of all people, making our redemption possible.  There are several “songs” in Isaiah about this Suffering Servant.  Today’s reading highlights the determination of the Servant to stay the course set out for him, regardless of the physical violence and acts of degradation against him.  To those of us who arrive at Palm Sunday feeling the weight of our flawed humanity, the “Suffering Servant” speaks:  “The LORD God has given Me a well-trained tongue that I might know how to speak to the weary a word that will rouse them.”  What blessed refreshment as we reach the climax of our Lenten journey!

Possible response:  Lord Jesus, I do grow weary of myself during Lent; how thankful I am that You have paid for all my failures so that I can have new life.  Help me choose that life today.

Psalm (Read Ps 22:8-9, 17-20, 23-24)

We can’t read this psalm without being amazed at how accurately it describes some of the details of the Crucifixion.  That is why we understand it as a prophetic Messianic psalm, written by David, King of Israel, hundreds of years earlier.  David, like Jesus, was persecuted unjustly.  His enemies wanted to destroy him, and his suffering made him cry out, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”  However, in a verse not included in our reading, David acknowledges that God has not forsaken him:  “For He has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; and He has not hid His face from him, but has heard when he cried out to Him” (Ps 22:24).  This is the turning point of the psalm.  In contrast to his suffering, David goes on to see a time when he will be restored and be able to “proclaim Your Name to my brethren in the midst of the assembly” (Ps 2:25), even being able to “eat and be satisfied” (Ps 22:26).  In other words, David sees life after his suffering, something wonderful from God on the other side of it that will cause all Israel to “give glory to Him…revere Him” (Ps 22:23).  Is it any wonder, then, that this psalm was on the lips of Jesus as he was dying on the Cross?  The separation from God He experienced as He bore the full weight of all humanity’s sin made Him feel abandoned, as did David, but He had the hope of the psalmist, too:  “Posterity shall serve Him; men shall tell of the LORD to the coming generation, and proclaim His deliverance to a people yet unborn” (Ps 22:30).  We cannot doubt that this psalm, known so well to Jesus, gave Him courage as He drank His cup of suffering to its bitter end.

Possible response:  The psalm is, itself, a response to our other readings.  Read it again prayerfully to make it your own.

Second Reading (Read Phil 2:6-11)

St. Paul gives us a summary of the Incarnation and, with it, a preview of what lies beyond the sober details of today’s Gospel narrative.  Jesus left His glory in heaven to become one of us, yet He became more “us” than we are ourselves.  God made us for obedience to Him, which would enable us to live in His “image and likeness” and be truly happy.  We, however, often choose disobedience (as Lent, perhaps, is teaching us); on our own, we never really reach who we actually are.  Jesus chose perfect obedience for us, even unto death.  Therefore, God gave Him the Name that will eventually cause every knee to bend and every tongue confess that “Jesus Christ is Lord.”  In all our other readings today, we see the “Suffering Servant” stripped of power and glory, the very image of weakness and defeat.  In this epistle, we see King Jesus, exalted and glorified and worthy of praise—the perfect anticipation of the joy of Easter!

Possible response: King Jesus, help me to believe that the way of humility and obedience is always the path to glory.

The decades between that first drawn breath and now have been complicated in ways, and yet remarkably straight-forward in others. The first maternal embrace and swaddled welcome gave way to an unforeseen abyss as death intervened, and the essential motherly tasks were undertaken by others. God provides, and yet the yearning for a reliable sanctuary has ever been with me, for those who are deprived feel keenly what others may take for granted.

God is good, and in His almighty plan the perfect sanctuary endures even when the smaller icons of it slip from our horizons. Thus if a person needs a mother, father, food, shelter and a lamp to light his path, then such things can be found — in both concrete expressions and the supernatural echoes that point their true meaning.

When it comes to the essential tasks of motherhood, the Church — the bride of Christ — stands ready to scoop up the wayward souls in search of peace and order, and to swaddle them in truth and love. The door is open, her arms reach down and she gives freely from her storehouse of nourishment to all who ask. The fact that this bride first “drew breath” in Jerusalem should draw special attention to the pilgrimage that the Holy Father is making to Israel this very week — for supernatural echoes abound in that holy place.

Benedict will see many things during his visit, and three faith communities will parse his every word and gesture. Interestingly, while all three look to Jerusalem as a city integral to their worship of God, only Catholicism puts weight on the maternal dimension of that place.

Layers of the mystery unfold when we recognize that the temple built by Solomon was precursor to both the bride of Christ and the heavenly Jerusalem to which all our churches here on earth point. There are also deep implications tied to Mary, the mother of God, who is herself related to that city. “Mary, in whom the Lord himself has just made his dwelling, is the daughter of Zion in person, the ark of the covenant, the place where the glory of the Lord dwells” (CCC 2676).

While Benedict XVI is privileged to walk in the footsteps of Our Lord, we must remember that every Mass is itself a pilgrimage. “In the earthly liturgy we share in a foretaste of that heavenly liturgy which is celebrated in the Holy City of Jerusalem toward which we journey as pilgrims, where Christ is sitting at the right hand of God” (CCC 1090). In each Mass we’re privileged to glimpse the wedding feast of the Lamb, which will take place at the consummation of the world.

Benedict has described his journey as a pilgrimage of peace — “the lasting peace born of justice, integrity and compassion, the peace that arises from humility, forgiveness and the profound desire to live in harmony as one” — and we pray that it bears fruit. Only through the blood of Jesus is lasting peace possible, and to that end Holy Mother Church offers her sanctuary of ordered love and humble service. She is the true witness — a signpost to the tranquility of heaven.

Roman civilization was nearly 1,000 years old by the time the wall was built, and it must have seemed that Rome would indeed last forever.

Soldiers manned the wall continuously for 200 years after its construction.  But the empire did not last forever.  It collapsed, and Hadrian’s wall became a quarry used by the local people scavenging for building materials.

Historians spill lots of ink debating why Roman civilization fell to roving bands of barbarians.  But when you get right down to it, the answer is in the Bible (see this Sunday’s readings–Isaiah 5:1-7 and Matthew 21:33-43).  Rome fell for the same reason that the Kingdom of Israel fell in 722BC and Judah was exiled to Bablyon in 587BC.  Divine Providence had blessed all three societies.  But he had also called them all to account, and found them wanting.  He had planted them as choice vines, but these civilizations had yielded sour grapes.  Idolatry, adultery, and social injustice were some of the fruits the produced before their collapse.  And how about the people of Jericho?  Why did their walls come tumbling down?  Could it have anything to do with the fact that they practiced child sacrifice and ritual prostitution?

That was then.  How about now?  America was founded in large part by those seeking to make it “a city on a hill.”  Its motto was “in God we trust.”  Now judges rule that we can retain this motto without infringing on anyone’s rights precisely because we really don’t mean it.  America once exported democracy.  Now it exports “Desperate Housewives” and “Sex in the City.”  When I travel around the world and tell people that I’m from Dallas, their faces light up.  Even if they can’t speak English, they manage to smile and exclaim “J.R.!”

Many assume America will last forever.  But there were soldiers manning Hadrian’s wall for more years than a US president has occupied the White House.  We are not invulnerable, as September 11 and Katrina have reminded us.  If we continue to yield sour grapes, our walls too will come tumbling down.

So what are we to do?  Perhaps instead of killing the prophets, we ought to listen to them.  Maybe we can begin honoring God rather than exiling him, respecting marital fidelity rather than ridiculing it, protecting the unborn rather than protecting their “terminatators,” and caring for the poor rather than abandoning them.

And maybe we can follow the advice of St. Paul (Phil 4:6-9) and renounce the anxiety that makes us miserable and causes us to conclude that we must “take care of ourselves” rather than do things God’s way.  Perhaps if we thank God for blessings and even trials, presenting our needs to Him in faith, we’ll see a change in our mood and even a change in our world.   And maybe if we fill our minds with the splendor of truth rather than with the trash of “Desperate Housewives” we might just notice more joy and serenity in our lives.

Have you ever seen a more frantic society than ours?  We eat, drink, and breathe tension.

Yet St. Paul speaks of a “peace that passes all understanding.”  It’s a peace that does not go away even when planes strike towers and hurricanes swamp cities.  It starts in the inside but has impact on the outside.  Without it, Mother Teresa could have never lasted in the chaos of Calcutta and John Paul the Great could have never made his way through Nazi tanks and Communist oppression to occupy the chair of Peter.  

This peace indeed defies comprehension.  But it’s ours for the asking.