The Sickness Unto Death Pt. VII: Bust of Costanza Bonarelli

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Bust of Costanza Bonarelli, 1636-37

"And when I have my childhood back
I'll tear every page out of my bookPlace them in an urn
And strike a match and watch them burn
And then i'll hold the front cover
Against the back cover and look
You see
Eternity will smile on me"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon


Leave it to Gian Lorenzo Bernini to stand out from the crowd. While the other artists in my gallery accepted death as the inevitable fact of life - the only sure thing about existing - Bernini rejects the notion. Perhaps, it was not his intention. Perhaps, I am giving the piece more meaning than the sculptor intended. However, this is largely what art history is about: applying meaning where they may be none. Indeed, that is what the reception of any art form is about. And so I posit that by creating the Bust of Costanza Bonarelli, Bernini not only paid homage to his mistress, but conquered death itself in the name of love.

Costanza Bonarelli was the wife of one of Bernini's assistants, and a participant in a heated affair behind said assistant's back. Bernini and Bonarelli's affair never came to the attention of her husband, but it did come to the attention of his younger brother, Luigi, who quickly made the love triangle a square. In response, Bernini beat his little brother near to death, and had Costanza's face cut up by an assassin. Yes, these events are horrific. Yes, they are based deeply in obsession. Yes, this is a story of love gone wrong. But it makes the Bust of Costanza Bonarelli all the more beautiful.

Bernini must have known that his affair must eventually come to and end. Either the husband would find out, or Costanza would lose interest. These things never worked. More over, beauty is fleeting. Costanza's looks would wilt with the passage of time, and the youthful face that Bernini so loved would be no more. And so, he sculpted her a love song, freezing her in time, forever young, forever beautiful. Age could not take her beauty away. Her mutilation could not either. Not even death could rob her of her looks now.


  • 7:00 AM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. VI: Isenheim Altarpiece

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis
Matthias Grünewald, Isenheim Altarpiece, 1512

"Every bitter night into an empty room I plead my caseEvery night I pray that in the morning when I wake
I'll be in a familiar place and find that I'm recovered and I'm sane
and I'll remember everything
I'll remember what I was like before that bug bit me"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon 

Of all of the paintings of the crucifixion, this one hits me the hardest. Critics can talk all they want about the strides that Caravaggio made in making Christ accessible to the public at large. I won't disagree with them. However, this is the only work I have ever seen that fully reduces Christ to a human form. There is no grace. There is no dignity. There is no beauty. Instead Grünewald gives us a hanging corpse, skinny and ragged. He gives us ugliness. The true ugliness of death.

Though this particular panel depicts no sense of holiness - not even the faint halo of Mantegna's Lamentation over the Dead Christ - the other panels hidden from view in the above photo depict a scene of glorious resurrection and ascension into the blinding lights of heaven. By portraying Christ's as a deformed corpse and later as a risen angel, Grünewald conquers the fear of death, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the wretched masses who would have seen the altarpiece in the Monastery of St. Anthony. The Monastery, you see, served primarily as a hospital, and served the lepers and cripples of Isenheim, helping to alleviate their suffering and make their final days on earth as comfortable as possible.

And so the Isenheim Altarpiece's ugliness is only surface level. Beneath the grime and gore lies the beauty of compassion and human empathy. And there too lies the belief that our time on earth is what we should dread most. Death is nothing at all.

  • 7:00 AM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. V: Head of a Man on a Rod

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis
Alberto Giacometti, Head of a Man on a Rod, 1947
"I read somewhere that when you face eternity
 You face it alone
No matter what you thought
Or what you had or you had not
Unless you put yourself in God
But tell me God oh where did you go?"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon 

Alberto Giacometti's sculptures and portraits exhibit a twisted pride in the reduction of the human form to its most basic and fragile states. The Walking Man series, City Square, and Three Men Walking all feature thin, frail figures, lost in the void of empty space around them. The inclusion of several figures upon a single surface - City Square and Three Men Walking for instance - serves to increase the sense of loneliness rather than detract from it. These shades are lost and self-absorbed, worn down to skeletons by the slow steady passage of time. In the aftermath of WWII, Giacometti's works were a statement about the human condition, that is to say, that humans were broken, selfish, helpless things. Not one of these works, however, seems quite as lonely or hopeless or concerned with eternity as Head of a Man on a Rod. 

 A man's cry to the cruel, unfeeling heavens captured in cold, rough bronze, Head of a Man uses negative space to its fullest extent. The man's body has blown away, gone like so much dust in so many gusts of wind, leaving only a rod to support the head. Empty space surrounds the silhouette, engulfing the figure in nothingness. The man is crying into a vacuum, the vacuum. He hopes for a reply. A sign. For purpose. For hope. But he receives nothing in return. Instead his head hovers there for eternity, gazing into the abyss, praying at the top of his lungs that something stares back.

  • 7:00 AM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. IV: The Dog

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis

Francisco Goya, The Dog, 1819-23

"Now I've only got one organ left in this old bag of bones
It is failing me
And I try to tell people that I'm dying 
Only they don't believe me
They say we're all dying
That we're all dying
But if you are dying, why aren't you scared?
Why aren't you scared, like I'm scared?"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon


In 1819 Francisco Goya holed himself up in the the "Quinta del Sordo" - "The Villa of the Deaf Man" - near Madrid, Spain. In the preceding years he had been racked by illness and mental decline, just as his country had been racked by war. During his stay at the Villa, Goya completed a series of fourteen paintings commonly referred to as The Black Paintings. These dark and brooding pieces were painted directly onto the walls of his home, like hieroglyphics in an Egyptian tomb. But while the Egyptians used their art to capture the promise of a happy afterlife, the murals of Goya's mausoleum speak of the inescapable horror of the void beyond life.

Among these Black Paintings, The Dog stands out, not as the most macabre work, but rather, the most hopeless and tragic. The titular canine gazes up at the sky, into the heavens, as he is tossed about in a sea of darkness. For now his head pokes up above the surface, but soon the swelling wave on the right side will break over him, tossing him down, down, down, into its black empty depths. The helpless creature has no chance to live, only to survive. To paddle and paddle until its strength gives out, or the darkness consumes it once and for all.

Goya must have felt that he was the dog. Lost, alone, and afraid. The Black Paintings were never truly intended for public exhibition. Goya had chosen to paint on the walls of his home for his own sake, never mentioning the paintings in writing or in conversation with his contemporaries. The paintings acted as a sort of therapy in this, the final dark chapter of his life. The dog's plight is his own. But while it will forever be frozen in time, just on the cusp of drowning, Goya's story would have to end, and no series of paintings, no matter how moving was going to change that.

  • 8:40 PM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. III: Foreshortened Christ

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of the Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis
Andrea Mantegna, The Lamentation over the Dead Christ, 1480

"Life is for the living
I've heard tell that it is while we are young
In the morning sun
You take every year as it comes,
But when your life is over
All those years fold up like an accordion
They collapse just like a broken lung"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon

Most paintings of Jesus' death focus on his resurrection, ascension, or divine heritage. They seem weightless, light, and joyous. After all, he alone succeeded in conquering death. Yet Andrea Mantegna's The Lamentation over the Dead Christ paints a strikingly different picture of the death of Christ.

His green and yellow skin drapes itself over his insides, much like the blanket that covers his body. The stigmata on his hands and feet are a deep, festering red. The flesh at the edges of the wounds hangs in hideous folds. His large torso - accentuated by the foreshortened perspective - seems heavier than the stone slab upon which he lays. Upon his face he wears an expression of pain and weariness. This is not the rest of the Messiah before his ascension. This is the body of a human being, unceremoniously taken down from his place of execution. The only indication of divine presence is the faint halo that crowns his head. However, even its inclusion cannot save the work from feeling like a struggle, not only with death, but with faith.

The two mourners that attend Christ's deathbed give the death a sense of finality. Until he rises again, if he rises again, all that the mourners know with a certainty is that the human form is a frail thing, even when inhabited by the Son of God. While this notion certainly makes the viewer more apt to relate to Christ, it also suggests that Mantegna may have been wrestling with his belief in Christ's divinity, and the promise of an afterlife. Neither the mourners nor Mantegna can comprehend what awaits their savior beyond the grave. Indeed, they cannot be sure that anything awaits them, nor that he is their savior at all. All this must be taken on faith, and in the face of death, faith can be a weak crutch to lean on.
  • 7:00 AM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. II: David with the Head of Goliath

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis


Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, 1609

"You tried so hard to make people remember you for something
you were not,

And if they so remember you then something else will certainly
get forgotten" 
"The Sickness Unto Death" Typhoon 


Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio was a man all too fond of going against the grain. Drunken brawls and late night prowls through the streets of Rome were his primary pasttimes before (and during) his rise to fame. It was this rebellious past that allowed him to tell the stories of the gospels as never before: through the eyes and experiences of sinners. It also led, however, to his ultimate downfall. In the summer of 1606 Caravaggio challenged Ranuccio Tomassoni to a duel in the streets of Rome, less than a year since an attempted homicide and a libel suit. Caravaggio, who had grown more and more violent since his rise to fame, won the duel and took Tomassoni's life, a decision which would change Caravaggio's forever.

For years Caravaggio had been creating works for the Catholic Church in order to reach the worst of the sinners of Rome. His down-to-earth depictions of the Saints, Disciples, and Christ promise that salvation was waiting for all people,  no matter how wretched the life, no matter how wicked the sin. "Gamblers, prostitutes, drunks, beggars: It matters not what you were," his works say, "Because now you are saved." And yet, with Tomassoni's blood on his hands and a price on his head, Caravaggio began to fear that he may not receive the same treatment. 

Wracked with guilt, but hopeful for a way out, Caravaggio fled to Naples and then Malta, painting more scenes from the gospel. Scenes of redemption. Scenes of forgiveness. It was in Malta that Caravaggio first sought to clear his name by joining the Order of St. John in return for the painting, The Beheading of St. John the Baptist. Shortly thereafter, he assaulted one of his fellow knights, and was thrown back in prison, his life once again in jeopardy. Somehow, he escaped from the jail and made his way back to Naples where he caught word that the pope's nephew, Scipione Borghese, was willing to pardon him. In order to save his life and repay Borghese, Caravaggio painted David with the Head of Goliath.

The work is a self-portrait unlike any other. Caravaggio paints himself as Goliath, the wicked giant that is struck down with a slingshot. Mouth agape, right eye filled with blood and lolling to the side, the stump of his neck dripping with blood and hanging gore, Caravaggio is truly monstrous. He has become a villain, not only in the context of his life, but in the context of Catholic belief. The man who promised sinners a sure way out is beyond redemption. Except, that he isn't. At least, not on earth. By killing himself metaphorically, Caravaggio hopes to save himself in the real world. The state had asked for his head in a basket, and he was giving it to them on canvas instead. 

The intention is sound, but the implications are horrific. It is, in effect, a suicide of the soul in exchange for the safety of the vessel, and suicide - like murder - is a mortal sin. And this must have been what Caravaggio feared, for if he so believed in the saving grace of Christ, why then his fear of death? Perhaps a deep-rooted dread that he might be swallowed whole by the jaws of non-existence, of the pitch darkness that surrounds the characters of his works, the utter blackness that finally closed over him as he struggled through the swamps of Italy, hoping to catch up with his ticket out. 

You see, things didn't quite go as planned. On his way home to Rome, he was arrested by a guard who hadn't been informed of his pardon. By the time he got out of jail, his ship had left without him, taking his works with it. Lost, alone, and hopeless he chased after the boat by way of land, and collapsed on a beach in a fever. He died before he could receive his pardon, having killed himself on canvas for naught. 


  • 7:00 AM

The Sickness Unto Death Pt. I: At Eternity's Gate

Aaron Dupuis
The Sickness Unto Death 
A Musically Guided Exploration of Artist's Struggle with Mortality
Curated by Aaron Dupuis

Vincent van Gogh, Worn Out: At Eternity's Gate, 1890

"Old man in your rocking chair
You wake up, you've been living alone

After all these years
Surrounded by these shards of mirrors
How'd it get so quiet here
You wonder where did everyone go?"
"The Sickness Unto Death," Typhoon


A couple weeks back, as I  was driving beneath the emerald canopy of Blue Ridge Boulevard and tossing project ideas about in my head, "The Sickness Unto Death" by the Portland0based indie group Typhoon began to spill from my speakers. It had been some time since I'd heard the song, but just as the cold makes the old cut on my finger ache, it brought back the ache of buried memories. Teenage heartbreaks. Long drives in the dead of night. Relatives that I'd lost. But most of all, as is always the case, it brought back the fear that lurks in the back of my head, of many heads around the world. The fear that reduced me to tears time and time again as a child. The fear of forever. Of experiencing forever, whether I continued to exist or not.

And it was from this well of fear - beautiful, terrible fear - that I drew the inspiration for my gallery. I present to you The Sickness Unto Death. Through a synthesis of contemporary lyrics, personal experience, and the paintings of the masters, I will explore the efforts of the Artist to reconcile himself with human mortality. In doing so, I hope to capture the beauty of life and expression, rather than the triumph of death. Though the lyrics themselves will not play a great part in the body of the text, I felt it necessary to include them, not only to give the gallery a proper narrative structure, but also to illustrate the timelessness of the Artist's struggle with death. That being said, I would encourage readers to give the song a listen. It's a favorite of mine.

And so it goes:

Van Gogh first took down the image of the old man in the chair in 1882, using an aged war veteran he encountered in an alehouse as his model. He wrote extensively about the drawing, which he called Worn Out, and its eventual transformation into a lithograph. The writings in question detailed his thoughts about the emotional power of the human form, and the greater implications that it seemed to hold. "It seems to me that one of the strongest pieces of evidence for the existence of 'something on high' in which Millet believed, namely in the existence of a God and an eternity," he wrote, "is the unutterably moving quality that there can be in the expression of an old man like that, without his being aware of it." Fascinated and moved by his discovery, van Gogh began a long series of lithographs and drawings of the veteran, women, and hospital patients, all in the same pose.

Vincent van Gogh, Worn Out, 1882
For eight long years, van Gogh did not return to the drawings and lithographs he had made in that formative time of his career. And in those eight long years his life had drastically changed. He had found his artistic style, collaborated with artists like Gauguin, created what would be his most famous painting, Starry Night, begun frequenting brothels, cut off his left ear, and had started to lose touch with reality. By 1890, the hallucinations and periods of madness had grown so strong that van Gogh could no longer keep their effects from affecting his work. During this time there passed entire months of inactivity, months that took their toll on the artist's outlook and work. It was directly following a mental relapse that van Gogh finally revisited the old man in the chair. This time he forsook pencil and lithograph, and went straight for his paint.

Blues, greys, whites, orange. They play off one another, but they do not dance the way that the colors of van Gogh's landscapes do. Instead they seem to tremble. The man in the painting seems smaller, weaker, than his predecessor. And where the subject of Worn Out seems to be resting his eyes, the fists in Eternity's Gate look like weary guardians of tear-filled eyes. The men are not the same. At Eternity's Gate is more than a final play on an early artistic motif, it is a mirror of van Gogh's life. He has replaced the old war veteran. He is a veteran in his own right. A veteran of art. A veteran of life.

Two short months after painting At Eternity's Gate Vincent van Gogh shot himself in the chest while out on a walk in the wheat fields of Auvers. He lived a night and the better part of the next day, managing to make his way back to his room in the local inn, where his brother Theo comforted him and recorded his final words:

"The sadness will last forever."


  • 7:00 AM

Bird in Space

Aaron Dupuis
Constantin Brâncuși, Bird in Space, 1923
I already dug art when I joined art history my junior year. I had seen contemporary shows at First Fridays, Town Center, the Country Club Plaza, etc. I was fully aware that despite my love for art, I knew absolutely nothing about the masters of the past, save for their names. As I expected, these once unfamiliar masters became beloved friends. Their works brought my life beauty, intrigue, even encouragement in difficult times. By the end of my junior year I believed that I had come to understand art better. I was wrong.

You see, I had created a very narrow definition of art for myself. That is to say I only sought out paintings and drawings. I thought that sculpture was neat, sure, but I never thought that it could move me like paintings did. After all, nearly all sculpture consists of handsome youths traipsing around in the nude, modeling themselves as Greco-Roman deities. That's what I thought at least, until I saw Bird in Space.

When I first lay eyes on Bird in Space my breath caught in my throat. I felt a rush of joy and excitement rush over me as I gazed upon its bronze curvature. Nothing I had learned could account for this feeling. It was just a shape. Just a perfectly sculpted, beautiful, electrifying shape on a base of wood. Nothing more. And yet, I could not ignore the emotions it instilled in me. In that moment, it became my favorite work, for nothing before or since has evoked the same reaction in me. Bird in Space taught me more than the worth of sculpture. It taught me the meaning of art.


  • 7:00 AM

St. Peter's Baldachin

Aaron Dupuis
Gian Lorenzo Bernini, St. Peter's Baldachin, 1623-34
In 1623 the Basilica of St. Peter was vastly under-decorated. The golden ceilings, tapestries, paintings, murals, sculptures, altars, and carvings were nice to look at, sure, but they didn't give the church the class that the Papacy was looking for. And so it came to pass that Pope Urban VIII, sick of worshipping in such a destitute chapel, ordered Gian Lorenzo Bernini to begin work on a marker for St. Peter's resting place. Something nice and flashy that would pull the room together, like a favorite rug might. So began the plans for St. Peter's Baldachin. 
Detail of St. Peter's Baldachin: columns and canopy 
The first problem that faced Bernini was creating a structure large enough to fill the space under the giant dome of the Basilica. He responded by fighting fire with fire, and built the canopy 95 feet high. In order to build the structure to such a massive height, Bernini and his benefactors were forced to borrow materials - especially bronze - from older, less interesting creations like the Pantheon. So much bronze was scavenged from the city's architecture that the people of Rome began to whisper quod non fecerunt barbari, fecerunt Barberini, or "what the barbarians did not do, the Barberini did." Truly, a reputation worth all the bronze in Europe. But at least the beautiful, twisted, Solomonic columns that called for all of the material were one of Bernini's finer ideas, right? Alas, even the idea was pillaged from an architect by the name of Carlo Maderno, who had drawn up a design of his own not long before Bernini was put on the job.
Detail of St. Peter's Baldachin: coat of arms
While some of what went into the construction of the Baldachin suggested that Bernini and his bosses were devoid of moral fibre, some of it showed a severe deficiency. The Baldachin is credited entirely to Bernini, scholars aren't entirely certain which parts of the structure he actually contributed to. The project marked the first time that Bernini acted as an administrative figure, rather than primary artist, giving way to an age of uncertainty regarding his works and their true authorship. Of course, artists have always had their assistants and apprentices, but its a practice rooted in a brand of ego found only in the department store of fame. And though the Baldachin bears St. Peter's name and marks his grave, Bernini made sure to cover it with the sigil of his very own patron saint, Urban VIII. The base of each of the columns has a carved Barberini coat of arms. What better way to ensure future employment than to memorialize your employer in stone?
And yet, despite all of my griping about the politics surrounding the piece, I cannot bring myself to dismiss it. How could I? Its soaring columns, dramatic statuary, and massive scale command the eye in a building already filled to the brim with beautiful decorum. And whatever kissing up Bernini may have done pales in comparison to the masterful planning and execution that went into the coats of arms. Each represents a stage in childbirth - from conception through delivery - in a tasteful, yet daring show of talent. Sure, the methods may have been questionable, but what the Barberini built, barbaric or not, no one else could have.
  • 7:00 AM

Fray Hortensio Felix Paravicino

Aaron Dupuis
El Greco, Fray Hortensio Felix Paravicino, 1609

Most of El Greco's portraits lack discernable features in the background. It is not unusual that he limits his color palette in Fray Hortensio Felix Paravicino to white, black, and brown. And though that left wrist looks mighty odd as it seems not to have an arm attached, it still is not what makes the painting stand apart. The strange thing about Fray Hortensio, a portrait of Hortensio Felix - a poet, friar, and friend of El Greco's - is the way in which Hortensio is portrayed within the context of his chair and robe.

With the exception of his Portrait of a Cardinal and Fray Hortensio, El Greco seems to rely on the face to reveal the personality of his subjects, ignoring or simply excluding the rest of the body. His subjects are poised, proper, and still. Even Portrait of a Cardinal depicts the Cardinal in a pose that reflects his high standing in the church. Hortensio, however, seems on the verge of slouching in his seat, casually lounging as his portrait comes to life, stroke by stroke. His body looks frail and lost in the great sea of his friar's habit. His pose does not suggest his fame or importance.

Yet still he sits, smugly gazing back at the viewer with dark, piercing eyes. His strength lies not in his stature. Rather, he makes himself a giant in the intellectual arena. At his side he clutches two books, likely the Bible and a book of poetry. The larger of the two dwarfs what the viewer can see of Hortensio's physique, but also reflects the power of his mind.

Interestingly enough, Hortensio's powerful mind, though it made him a staunch supporter of most arts, also led him to decry all nudes. He once went so far as to demand that the best of these should be burned for the good of society. The best of these would no doubt have included many of El Greco's most famous works. That's a poor way to repay a friend for painting you.

  • 7:00 AM

Cupid and Psyche

Aaron Dupuis
Jacques Louis David,  Cupid and Psyche, 1817

Girl, would you look at that body? Perhaps Jacques Louis David's funniest painting, Cupid and Psyche depicts the beginning of the couple's tumultuous relationship. "Tumultuous?" you may well ask. "How is this tumultuous? A handsome young man and his fair skinned maiden just waking up from a light night 'tumble,' all seems right to me." And that it should. David has gone out of his way to spice up the allegory from Metamorphoses, and has done so brilliantly. It's nothing too glaring: Just a smug grin on cupid's face, a gentle moving of the lover's arm, an open window and a winged rogue to escape through it. These details are what first made me love this painting.

The story behind the work is a wonder in and of itself: Once, a king and queen raised had three daughters, the youngest by the name of Psyche. Psyche was so beautiful that the people of the kingdom gave offerings to her instead of Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. Of course, this made Venus pretty upset, and so she asked Cupid to enact some sort of punishment upon the young girl. Cupid, like any good henchman, falls in love with the young girl instead.

 Basically, time goes on, Cupid doesn't do his job, doesn't claim Psyche for himself, and eventually people start to wonder why Psyche hasn't been married. An oracle cries wolf - or rather unholy dragon offspring - and Psyche is whisked away to a mansion in the middle of nowhere where an invisible Cupid seduces her and makes her his wife. All right, all right, let's get to the good parts by doing this middle bit quick: Cupid leaves every morning before sunset (again, note the pleased grin), all goes well until Psyche's sister comes to visit and insists that Psyche look upon her lover. Cupid is so hot that she spills hot lamp oil all over him and he runs away. Smooth.

So while Cupid runs home and sobs into his manicured hands, Psyche wanders the earth looking for him. She tries in vain to call on the help of the goddesses Ceres and Juno, and finally offers her service to Venus herself. Venus gives her three tasks of increasing difficulty, and Psyche finds herself constantly wishing for death, but each time she is saved by an animal or talking object that encourages her to keep going. Finally, after completing these first three trials, Psyche is tasked with traveling to the underworld to borrow some of the queen of the underworld's beauty. She performs her task beautifully until she opens the box and falls into a deep cursed sleep.

"Oh no!" you may say, but fear not! True love wins out in the end as always. Cupid finally nurses his "wounds" and comes to wake Psyche with ambrosia, the drink of immortality. The two are married and give birth to a beautiful daughter. Note: Daughter. Not a scary dragon.

  • 7:00 AM

Over Vitebsk

Aaron Dupuis
Marc Chagall, Over Vitebsk, 1915

Marc Chagall's Over Vitebsk is a modernist masterpiece that evokes the powers of simple geometry and complex composition all at once. Its plays on color are stunning, the yellow and blue amongst a world of white and grey. The faceless wanderer floating above the city, sack in hand, not only stands in for Chagall's departure from his home town, but also for the escape of Jews from the oppression of Russian  prejudice. However, all of these things have been said, and said, and said again. Instead of harping on the artistic merit of this particular painting, I believe we'll all have a much better time exploring the theft of the painting that came before it. 

Marc Chagall, Study for Over Vitebsk, 1914
Study for Over Vitebsk, a dark painting no bigger than a sheet of printer paper with an estimated value of $1 million, hung in a temporary collection of Chagall's entitled "Marc Chagall: Early Works from Russian Collections" on June 7th, 2001 when it was stolen straight off the wall. For several days, no clues came up as to the whereabouts of the painting. Finally, a letter was delivered to the museum from an organization calling itself the International Committee for Art and Peace.

 It was a ransom note like no other. The thieves had no intention of profiting from the work. Instead they asked for something straight out of a Miss America pageant: Peace. The thieves promised the Jewish Museum of New York City that the painting would be returned when the Israelis and Palestinians could achieve peace between their nations. A noble cause, to be sure, however, the thieves' plans were not well laid. As it turns out - and this may come as little surprise - museums don't have much sway in international relations, and the Jewish Museum was forced to give up what little hope they had left of ever seeing its painting again. 

That is until it showed up in a post office in Topeka, Kansas, where its packaging was opened after being deemed undeliverable. Following a series of calls to the F.B.I. in my hometown of Kansas City, the painting was promptly returned to its owners in St. Petersburg. Though the painting and its owners had their happy ending, the thieves never got theirs. Theft may not be the most morally sound method of encouraging world peace, but it begs the question: If lives and art are equally threatened by a world at war, what is safe?

  • 7:00 AM