My Kid Could Paint That

By LIBBY ROHR

Starting this year with Renaissance painting had me skeptical. How could I compare my love for modern masters like Monet and Chagall to the likes of Duccio and the Limbourg Brothers, literally hundreds of years of skill and progress behind my favorites? However, after a year of art history, I've learned to trust the process. After all, if I can learn to love and appreciate Malevich's White on White then I can figure out these guys, too. 

In studying the Arena Chapel works, I see the creation of something, like art is a child at play learning that if she moves her legs a bit faster, she can run. Here, perspective is being born. It's still a bit crude and unrefined, as you can see in the folds of the fabric. Outlines are still utilized to define figures, but unlike its predecessors, shading and shadow is coming into being in the faces of Mary and Jesus. The blue of the background is stunning, making the golden halos pop all the more. Giotto begins to play with the idea of staging here, as the back rock wall frames the scene, and the man to the far right grounds us with his (slightly misshapen) feet. The rocks form a line, leading wandering eyes back to Jesus at every turn. In fact the eyes of every person or angel in the painting are directed at Jesus. No matter where you look, Giotto has a tool to refocus you. Directly above his body is a hole in the crowd, a passageway to the heavens, leaving him in full view of God. I can see Giotto working the audience into the spectacle with the two men in front. Backs to us, their faces are hidden, a long time artist's tool for including the onlooker. It may as well be you or I hunched over mourning Christ.  

Jesus, maybe for the first time, looks truly human. He lays limp and mortal in the arms of his mother, distinguishable as holy only by his halo. Staring at his mother's face, I see the other revolutionary piece of Giotto's work, the appearance of emotion. This lamentation is actually that. Angels and people alike, divine and imperfect, rich and impoverished, brought together in despair that shows. The pleading in Mary's face, just inches from her son's, is heart-wrenching. Yes, he's still Jesus, but forget the crowd, forget the angels, forget who these people are. Looking at this scene, it's a mother and a child, a perversion of the natural order strong enough to break so many. Yes, I still see Jesus, but he's presented in an a way that any onlooker can relate to. When I see Jesus and Mary, I also see my aunt crying over her brother's casket. I see my mother's clients in the hospital, holding their hurt children for their last times. I see myself kneeling next to my grandfather's bed in his last hours.

We all have tragedy in our lives. We all understand the pain of loss whether or not you've experienced the death of a loved one. Giotto creates this painting on the wall of a chapel, so in many ways it's functional. It tells the story of Jesus and glorifies the church itself, but it goes so much deeper than that. By showing a lamentation that we can all understand and creating a composition that draws us in, he brings Jesus and religion to the life of the onlooker. He has the power to change the worshipers' relationship to the story. No longer is Jesus some unattainable, distant, holy figure, in this painting he is your experience of loss and as a result Giotto gives the audience to own the story of Christ for themselves, too. That's where art is always the same, whether we're talking Proto-Renaissance or Suprematism. You don't have to know the story or the artist or the time period to see this Lamentation and feel the connection to Jesus and Mary. Giotto doesn't need to play off of anything other than our humanity. And no matter who you are, reader, that's the one thing we'll alway's have in common.

The betrayal of Judas. That is where the final saga begins. He gives Pontius Pilate the location of Jesus in exchange for a number of silver coins. Pilate tries Jesus in his court and finds him innocent,
but the public masses want him dead, shouting “His blood be on us and on our children!” (Mathias
27:25) bringing on the blood curse.

Jesus then begins his infamous march with his wooden death bed. His mother Mary weeps for him as he hefts the cross over his shoulder and up the hill. Jesus permits himself to get nailed to the cross, all the while his disciples cry for him. He then slowly dies, his life force fading away. The image Giotto transcribes to the canvas portrays after his death and Mary cradling his body in her arms.

A day of great sorrow is upon us. The beloved Jesus has lived for us, suffered for us, and died for us. I doubt anyone else could be more of a man than he was. No other person could willingly permit
himself to get nailed to a cross and crucified for another man. Every Christian could do a thousand acts of kindness and never repay what Jesus did for all of them. This speaks strongly to me as a Catholic but also as a non-orthodox Catholic. I choose not to preach all about Jesus, shoving him down other people’s throats. I rather live with Jesus internally, fulfilling his teachings in my everyday life.

Much has already been said about Giotto's Lamentation. The emotion coursing through the painting is overwhelming. The angels are spectacular. The tree on the top of the rocky cleft is barren, but promises new leaves come springtime, foreshadowing Christ's resurrection.  There is not just one woman named Mary present, but three. John and Joseph of Arimathea look on. The two huddled figures create depth. But textually, Giotto didn't have much to draw from. Surprisingly, neither Matthew, Mark, John, nor Luke go into much detail about the immediate aftermath of the crucifixion.

Besides a Jewish temple being ripped in two and an earthquake heralding a zombie apocalypse where the dead rose from their graves and "went into the holy city and appeared to many people" (Matthew 27:53), no one gives a detailed account of the mourning over Christ. In fact, according to John, Mary wasn't even there. Just after the soldiers crucified Jesus and shared his clothing among themselves, Jesus asked John to take Mary away and "from that time on, this disciple took her into his home" (John 19:27). Add that to Luke's terse description above, and Giotto's scene seems less and less probable.

I was looking forward to experiencing the emotion of Lamentation in the Bible as well as in Giotto's fantastic fresco, but after reading through four different accounts of the crucifixion, I was a little let down. However, in a last ditch effort to understand Giotto's fresco through verse, I stumbled upon a homily given by the late Pope John Paul II at the Colosseum of Rome on Good Friday in 2003. 

It, frankly, blew my mind. Pope John Paul II not only captured Mary's anguish over her dead son, he did so by tying six different chapters and verses together into one coherent argument. He meditated, "In the mystery of the Redemption, grace - the gift of God himself - is interwoven with a 'price' paid by the human heart. In this mystery we are enriched by a gift from on high (Jas 1:17), and at the same time 'bought' by the ransom paid by the Son of God (cf. 1 Cor 6:20; 7:23; Acts 20:28). And Mary, who more than anyone was enriched by gifts, pays all the more. With her heart. Inseparable from this mystery is the extraordinary promise spoken of by Simeon during the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple: 'And a sword will pierce through your heart, so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed' (Luke 2:35). This promise has also been fulfilled. How many human hearts bleed for the heart of this Mother who has paid so dearly!...Pietà."