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Francisco de Zurbarán, 'St Francis in Meditation', 1639

 


Strikingly simple and strongly meditative, Zurbarán's multiple depictions of St Francis, including this example from the National Gallery's collection in London, are uniquely his. Drawing on the lineage of artists who recreated the saint, from Giotto to El Greco and more, Zurbarán's Tenebristic ode to the techniques of Caravaggio gifts us St Francis in an altogether different light. 

St Francis' makeshift habit is pieced together from two scraps of cloth, alluding to the extreme life of poverty he chose to lead. Zurbarán may even be drawing more closely from the life of the saint here, a set of stories which are defined by dress and clothing - for example, on the path to sainthood, Francis famously gives his cloak to a poor man, and later, his renunciation of worldly goods is often represented by the stripping of his clothes, both of which are expertly rendered by Giotto in the basilica at Assisi. In true Caravaggisti fashion, Zurbarán includes a rip in the foreshortened elbow of St Francis' habit, serving to blur the boundaries between image and reality, whilst emphasising the closeness of the viewer to the saint. 

Despite the traditional choice of subject matter, the life of Saint Francis and his commitment to poverty would have resonated with a contemporary audience, all too aware of the attitudes towards devotion, piety and repentance encouraged during the Counter Reformation. Religious art of the time presented saints as spiritual role models, as outlined in the Council of Trent, and Zurbarán's earthly depiction of St Francis kneeling, grounded and humble, would surely have inspired an onlooker towards imitation. Zurbarán furthers this through the open mouth, which adds another dimension to the darkness: with the head inclined upwards, the saint could be preaching, or calling out for guidance amidst his own suffering. Yet the eyes, as the window to the soul and to the true feeling of the saint, remain shielded from interpretation. Despite the intriguing complexities of the work, the National Gallery's acquisition of the painting in the mid nineteenth century was initially criticised - Zurbarán was relatively unknown at the time, he did not fit the mould of the 'canonical' artists the gallery was used to collecting, and for art critics then, the painting remained 'small, black, repulsive'. The National Gallery's upcoming exhibition now celebrating the artist will hopefully prove that attitudes have rightly changed. 

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