My Kid Could Paint That

For those of you keeping up with current events, you may know that our current President, Mr. Donald Trump, is quite the fan of President Andrew Jackson and recently hung this here portrait of our former President in the Oval Office. Jackson has had a mixed reputation through the years. He’s clearly a love-him-or-hate-him kind of guy. Certainly, Jackson ran as a war hero and a pioneer for the common man and won on the back of that goal, but if you dive a little deeper into this President’s history and legacy, you’ll begin to understand why Andrew Jackson is easily one of my least favorite Presidents of all time and a clear addition to this list of terrible people.

For this post, the terrible person is twofold. Both Jean-Paul Marat, as the revolutionary martyr pictured here, and Jacques-Louis David, the painter, were intelligent, talented people gone bad. Picture it, just a few years before the French Revolution, the tension is mounting in the wake of the shockingly successful American Revolution due to french support. In Paris, he was just coming into the light of success after a series of acclaimed essays on philosophy, science, and government. January of 1789, the year the revolution began in Paris, Marat was still under the impression the monarchy might still be able to solve their country’s problems. However, by September, Marat’s writing began took a sharp new turn, shifting towards the movement of the revolution that would soon sweep his city as he took on the new role as editor of L’Ami du Peuple, a revolutionary newspaper. Marat grew more and more radical, drifting towards the more dangerous side of the revolution and befriending Maximilien Robespierre along the way while supporting the Jacobin faction of the revolution. With his newspaper he became a leader in inciting propaganda, stirring up the people to a point where he was nearly arrested upwards of three separate times. However, his fame began to grow to the point that it overruled those arrest warrants and, though a rogue, he was able to continue to work and write in paris. He worked particularly hard to bring down the Girondin revolutionary faction and to fuel the fires of violence. He became one of the most dangerous men of the early revolution from his place in the bathtub (he had a skin condition soothed only by hot baths) scrawling out scathing articles. On July 13th, 1793, he agreed to meet with a beautiful young girl, Charlotte Corday, claiming she wished protection from the violence, but upon stepping into the room where he was bathing, Corday pulled out a knife from under her dress, revealed her continued support to the Girondins, and stabbed Marat to death. As blood filled his bathtub, she ran, and without meaning to, his posthumous image as a martyr became an even stronger tally on the side of the Jacobins, who, led by Robespierre, would take this momentum and begin the Reign of Terror, arguably Paris’ most unjust and dangerous time.

But as I said, Marat is not the only one to blame. David, the painter, had taken on a similarly vocal role in the revolution and was a close personal friend to Marat. He, like Marat, rose to success shortly before the revolution began, painting beautiful neoclassical scenes like his famous Oath of the Horatii, which were widely popular in the increasingly revolutionary climate in Paris. When the revolution did break out, David, always the hidden radical, was quick to jump to the side of the Jacobins, entranced by their vision of a utopian Paris. He, too, became a master of propaganda, painting, rather than writing, his incredibly convincing pleas to the people. David himself had visited Marat in that very bathing room the day before his murder, and upon hearing what had happened, knew exactly what had to be done. David immediately jumped in to paint his friend as the martyr for the cause. The Jacobin Christ figure. An image so emotional and haunting it practically fueled the Jacobin rise to power and the subsequent horrors. 

But how could one not be moved by this portrait. The Death of Marat is unquestionably stirring. A man in his most vulnerable state, sitting naked in a bath in his own home, lays draped over the edge, head lolling back, defeated. His pen remains in his right hand while the other clutches the introduction letter from Ms. Corday, now smeared with his blood. A shadow has been cast across that side of the painting, as if to show his final breaths have just left his body. Directly behind his gaunt, quickly paling face, is a crimson pool, giving a horrifying image to represent the violence of his brutal murder. The white linen of purity surrounds Marat, right to his turban-like hat, framing his face almost like a fabric halo. Marat’s round visage and slightly parted lips are childlike and innocent. If you didn’t understand the mechanics of the revolution, you’d see this and come away telling a story of slaughter of the pure and well meaning. Of senseless violence robbing a poor man of his precious life. Of renewed support for the Jacobin side of the revolution. 

That’s what qualifies Marat and David for my list of terrible people. They might not have been the literal hands to drop the guillotine, but the two of them are at least significantly responsible for putting Robespierre and his Committee of Public Safety in a position to do so. Their sheer ability to create such moving emotional propaganda through their arts made these two master manipulators. At the time they likely believed they were doing what was best for their country. Don’t we all? The difference is, with a few strongly worded articles and a violent tribute to a lost friend, these two became responsible for the paranoid executions of 1400 people. Clearly a stunning work, it’s easy to get lost in the glowing tenebrism of this painting, just make sure that when all’s said and done, it’s something you can pull yourself out of.

For a king as endlessly selfish and insecure as Henry VIII, Hans Holbein blatantly plays into his arrogance and entitlement in this work. In the full portrait, Henry stands tall and immovable, with his wide shoulders and a puffed out chest like Superman, covered in jewels and rich fabrics, with sleeves fluffier than fourth of July marshmallows and a determined expression somehow coinciding with his incredibly beady eyes. Holbein was a genius in the kiss-up category, somehow managing to convey an exact physical likeness in a way that turns a pompous spoiled ruler with the maturity of a child into a noble, yet bullish commander, worthy of respect and leadership. The height of this visual adulation comes at Henry’s waist. His left hand holds a glove in a ringed hand, propped up on his belt, leading down to a rather large and visible codpiece. His other hand highlights the bottom of said piece. Everything from the red color to his stance emphasizes Henry’s (desired) superior virility, despite his famous inability to produce a male heir. This part of the painting is straight nonsense for Henry’s benefit. What's made all the better is that this painting was done when Henry was in his forties, as part of a midlife crisis of sorts. The whole things is absolutely laughable.

And yet it worked. In several accounts by onlookers of this portrait, placed in full view in his grand palace, it was astounding and intimidating to behold. Henry certainly got some bang for his buck with this piece. When you look at this magnificent portrait, it’s easy to forget about his temper tantrum that got him excommunicated by the church. It’s seems like one might be momentarily able to forget the roughly 72,000 people he executed on a brutal whim. One might be able to overlook the absolute dismemberment of the monasteries and cultural organizations that defined the day to day organization of English life. Looking on this magnificent portrait, one does not see Henry the wild narcissist. Instead, he’s replaced with the Henry he wanted to be but never was, triumphant and deserving. This alone shows the power and purpose of court painting, to promote. While people like Caravaggio lead us to think about the complex ethics and humanity of people we see as gods, the remaining paintings in this series will do the opposite. We will see human beings, desperately clawing for legendary and even holy status, like Henry here, who declared himself supreme leader of the English church.

It’s paintings like these that make us think of the point of view of the artist and encourage us to question the information we’re given. Above all else, this painting of Henry VIII shows just how impressive good propaganda can be.

Judas. Everyone knows one. Whether it’s an actual sell-you-out-to-the-Romans-with-a-gesture-of-love kinda guy, or Benedict Arnold, or just a friend you know will ditch you for her boyfriend at a party the first chance she gets, they're all over the place. Judas is arguably the worst sinner of all due to the severity of his crime and his level intimacy with and proximity to Christ. He lived by Jesus’ side for years, as his most trusted apostle, hand picked, who witnessed all of Jesus’ miracles, and handled the most sacred of tasks. Jesus, through his own divinity, understood that someone close to him had to be his betrayer long before Judas’ lips grazed his cheek, making the story all the more unbearable. Caravaggio’s greatest talent lies in bringing the world and stories of God and Christendom into the brutal light of primal humanity. Caravaggio strays away from painting holy people as anything other than everyday human beings and uses this theme to forge often violent depictions of these moments that are shocking and painful and most of all horrifyingly real.

Caravaggio uses this cramped composition to garner a feeling of intimacy between Jesus and the audience, and his lack of background (characteristic of his portraits but not his religious scenes) forces the eyes to focus all the more on the tension at hand. As a master of movement, you can feel the forward momentum of Judas and the guards, as emphasized by his hand gripping the shoulder of the teacher he’s just betrayed. Caravaggio uses color here to show us what we need to see. The dark armor of the soldiers makes them drift into the background, pushing us to look at three things in particular. First, the follower directly behind Jesus, St. John the Evangelist, screaming into the night. It’s difficult to know just from this painting whether he is attempting to flee or to get help but either way there’s no aid coming. Second, Jesus, Judas and the agony between the two. In this moment Jesus begins to understand his fate just as Judas starts to realize what a sin he’s just committed. Jesus turns from Judas, pulling back from his betrayer and the rushing soldiers behind him with a mixture of sadness and resignation on his face.  Finally, the onlooker behind the soldiers, a typical Caravaggio self-portrait, tucked in a back corner, holding up a lantern. Is this a symbol for the effect he wants his paintings to have on the audience, an illumination of the bible, or merely another opportunity for a self-obsessed painter to show the world how cool he is by casually dropping himself into one of the most crucial moments in Christ’s story? Likely both. There is also a third option, which might be equally as true, guilt. It’s no secret Caravaggio didn’t run with the nicest, or the most law-abiding people. And he has put himself in this painting, watching Jesus be carried off to his death, doing nothing and apparently not trying either. What’s more he’s staged behind the soldiers, compositionally helping in the strength of their push towards Jesus. To me this detail is also a statement of the guilt of the frozen witness. To quote, of all things, the musical Hairspray, “Just to sit still would be a sin.”

Clearly selling out christ for 30 silver pieces is an unbelievably horrific thing to do, particularly of someone of Judas’ position in Jesus’ group of followers. That much of the story is clear. So clear in fact that Judas is incapable of living with what he’s done and commits suicide shortly thereafter. But examining the big picture theological role of Judas is a little more muddled and complex. Without Judas’ terrible betrayal Jesus would not have been crucified, an act this powerful, the sacrifice is believed to have given pardon to all good, repenting Christians. It becomes complicated, is Judas somehow partially responsible for Christian salvation. Did this act of betrayal need to happen for the will of God to play out, and if so, was Judas acting as servant of God in this act or should he remain the lowest of the low? These are questions we must ask, yes because this is a biblical post, but also throughout this final series. Growing up, my mother always used to tell a story of one of her law professors of which the punchline is “All the world is gray. If you can understand that, one day, you might turn out to be a competent attorney. You might even turn out to be a halfway decent human being.” And when it comes to confronting this topic, with the lowest of the low, we have to see this concept and understand, if even for a moment, these terrible people are still that, people. Not black and white, or good and bad, but convoluted, indefinable, mixed up creatures with big brains and a particular propensity for illogical rationalization. Caravaggio’s mastery comes in making us see that.