Skip to main content

Michael Damaskinos, 'Stoning of Saint Stephen', c.1591

 


For a painting that seems to the eye so rooted in the Byzantine traditions of icon painting, it is altogether surprising that the date comes from the mid to late sixteenth century. Here, the artist Michael Damaskinos is conflating style and iconography. He was extremely well travelled - born in Crete he learnt the ways of icon painting, before travelling to Venice and subsequently all across Italy, where his style became infused with Italian naturalism. Despite this, he retained his alla Grecia manner, and highlighted his Greek roots in his decoration of San Giorgio dei Greci in Venice, literally the church of the Greeks. Twenty-five of the artist's major works are in Venice and twenty located in this church alone. Having apparently trained El Greco, Damaskinos was the master of the Cretan school of icon painting, and the Venetians recognised his importance. 

Given the rather vague dating of the Stoning of Saint Stephen, one can presume Damaskinos created the work when he was in Venice. Surrounded by the Italian masters, he would have been familiar with the artistic output of the time, especially in Venice which arguably held the first art market of the early modern period. A key depiction of the same subject is by the brothers Jacopo and Domenico Tintoretto of a similar date. A youthful Saint Stephen kneels in the foreground, just as in the work by Damaskinos. Moreover, the figure hurling the large stone towards the saint in Damaskinos' work seems like a direct quotation from the depiction by the Tintoretto brothers. Or, perhaps Damaskinos was familiar with the work of Giulio Romano from the start of the sixteenth century, where again this figure heaving the rock above his head is depicted. The hands of Saint Stephen in both Giulio and Damaskinos' works are also splayed outwards, recalling artworks depicting the stigmatisation of Saint Francis, conflating the iconography of saints. The twisting bodies that Damaskinos has attempted to render in some of his figures also recalls the approach of these Italian artists. 

However, Damaskinos continues to show off his Cretan origins. For instance, he cannot render the separation of the plane of God above the saint because his background remains rooted in the Byzantine propensity for gold. Equally the solid gold halo of Saint Stephen is giant and unyielding in the centre of the panel, something the Italian artists have dropped. He has also utilised the technique of mordant gilding to decorate the sash that Saint Stephen wears, enhancing the perfomativity of the panel which was a key aspect of icon painting. What is particularly unusual, however, is the contrast between Byzantine elongation and archaism in the hands of Saint Stephen and indeed the faces of the surrounding figures, whilst the face of Saint Stephen is incredibly emotional. Damaskinos has attempted Italian naturalism here, and the viewer witnesses the pain and grief of the saint's torture. He looks up towards the sky in perhaps a final conflicted questioning of his faith. Surrounded by that Byzantine halo, the eye is propelled towards this devotional epicentre of the piece, and the pained expression of this martyred saint. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Mark Rothko, 'Light Red over Black', 1957

  My eye is not drawn to the painting itself but the title of the painting, 'Light Red Over Black'. We would automatically think that the black is on top of a red background, but Rothko has flipped this around, subverting the title just like he subverting the meaning of what it was to be an artist and what Art actually was. During this time, art was going through rapid changes, with abstract expressionism coming into full force (Rothko, Pollock). But Rothko showed that all this change was for the good, even if for him, it was short lived.  The colour red in this painting is searing and the black struggles to fully cover this velvety border, especially at the bottom of the canvas. Unlike the black squares which have a hazy quality to their edges, the red is clear and impregnable. It is hard to figure out what this represents - the Tate has suggested a window perhaps, but if it is a window then what are we looking out into? Perhaps it is night, or perhaps the viewer is catching ...

Egon Schiele, 'Dead Mother', 1910

  My eye is drawn to the hand. Those long, bony fingers are so characteristic of Schiele but here they are particularly skeletal and deathly – the veins seem to have been injected with poison. And they are a warning right in the foreground of the painting that keeps the viewer at bay as an outsider to this incredibly intimate relationship between mother and child, and sets the tone of death and mortality which hangs over the whole image. The mother cradles her child in a womb-like shroud, alluding to childbirth and the death of the mother explained in the title. She seems desperate to feel that bodily connection with her child, highlighted by the emphasis on her craned neck as she tries to connect to the baby. There is a clear link between the mother’s bent neck and the child’s bent neck, again emphasising their longing to be with each other. However, the darkness around the child is almost like ropes, with flecks of white in the painting making it look as though the darkness is wo...

M.K. Ciurlionis, 'Funeral Symphony VII', 1903

  There are many who have been left out of the art historical canon and Lithuanian artist and composer Mikalojus Ciurlionis is one of them. Producing over 200 musical works and 300 paintings, his career was extensive, prolific and multifaceted. Yet, he was a 'genius cursed by fate' according to artist and critic Alexandre Benois, dying from exhaustion in 1911. Praised within his lifetime, Ciurlionis is virtually invisible today, especially to a Western viewer. Describing one artwork by Ciurlionis is not enough to appreciate his diversity and synthesis of artforms - pastels, as this work shows, vignettes, oils, designs for stained glass, even abandoning the easel for cardboard. More importantly, he was indebted to the Lithuanian landscape. Ichiro Kato refers to him as 'Lithuanian in nature and national feeling...a genius from the Baltic lands', reflected in works including  Serenity depicting idyllic, peaceful settings of mountains and lakes, devoid of humanity. Like man...