The Fabric of Faith

We must confess that religious paintings are not our favourite subject, and we've tended to regard Spanish Catholic art as being, well, just a little too religious to cope with. So we approached the Francisco de Zurbarán exhibition at the National Gallery in London with a certain amount of trepidation. A degree of contrition is due.... Yes, there were monks, altarpieces and lots of saints, but we were blown away by Zurbarán's ability to depict textures and fabrics and to convey an intensity of feeling. 

It's an absolutely excellent exhibition, full of truly beautiful paintings. Such religious art was intended to bring the faithful closer to God, to bridge the gap between Heaven and Earth, in an age when many could not read. Zurbarán was a master at it.

Let's start with a saint: Just take a look at the fabrics, trimmings and gems in this picture. And the garments are even more striking when you are stood in front of this nearly life-size figure. 

This is Casilda of Toledo, the daughter of an Arab king. She converted from her Islamic faith to Christianity and smuggled food to her father's Christian prisoners. One day when he surprised her doing this, the rolls hidden in her dress were miraculously transformed into roses -- the attribute of this saint.  And the cloth with roses, as rendered by Zurbarán, really is sumptuous. The plain dark background ensures that nothing detracts from the exquisite cloth of her garments. You can't take your eyes off the brocade on that skirt. 

The fabrics are just as alluring in the Adoration of the Magi below. 

The three wise men, come from the East to pay homage to the baby Jesus, are majestically attired. In the foreground, the billowing garment worn by Melchior displays incredible detail. The burnt-gold patterned gown shines where the folds in the fabric catch the light, as does its beaded edge. It's complemented by a gorgeous ermine collar. Caspar wears a fantastical suit of armour. This Christ child is in fine garments too, not the usual swaddling clothes. From the vessel and ornate hat on the floor right up to the spears piercing the sky, the materials are wonderfully reproduced.

Zurbarán's interest in fabric, we are told, may have had its roots in his early years; his merchant father sometimes dealt in cloth. You can sense the weight and the texture of the garments in his paintings, however fine or, in the case of Saint Francis of Assisi, as coarse as you might expect for a monk devoted to a life of poverty.

He’s looking up to heaven in devotion, his mouth open in ecstasy, in a painting that’s sparse but dramatic, despite the limited palette. The light and shading of his simple garment, his shadow on the grey background and that amazing knotted rope belt that hangs down from the waist add to the effect.

Zurbarán trained in sculpture as well as painting, and you can see that sense of three-dimensionality in his earliest dated work, The Crucifixion, which made his reputation in Seville. It was hung in the dimly lit sacristy in the monastery of San Pablo el Real, and according to one 18th-century writer, all those who saw it “believed it to be a sculpture”. Alongside it in the first room, there’s an astonishing rendering of an ecstatic dream in a space removed from reality, The Apparition of Saint Peter to Saint Peter Nolasco. And then, the image of Saint Serapion, bound and tortured but still in spotless white robes.

It isn’t all religion, though. One of the most riveting paintings awaits you as you head through the saints and crucifixions, a Colossal Head 246 cm by 205 cm.

Only recently attributed to Zurbarán, its origins are a bit of mystery. It was first documented as hanging on a staircase in the Buen Retiro Palace in Madrid in 1661. The face with those piercing eyes, so animated and lifelike, may have been calculated to inspire awe and surprise. It may depict a giant, it may have been painted for a theatre set. You can't take your eyes off it; it's not taking its eyes off you.

On a much smaller scale: Zurbarán's exquisite still lifes, displaying the full extent of his skills in depicting light and surfaces.  

The pewter plate reflects the white cup on the rim at the front and back, light presumably from a window to the left of the table. The precise rendering of the weave of the basket and the rind of the citrus fruit is astounding. They look so real. But they’re also very minimalist. Take, for example, the National Gallery’s own A Cup of Water and a Rose. These images seem to invite contemplation. They may be studies for larger paintings; in any case, they’re very unlike those more elaborate Dutch still lifes of the 17th century, which generally teem with life (and you wouldn’t have got lemons like that on the market in Delft, either….).

Providing a contrast in this room of still lifes are the more elaborate confections of Zurbarán’s son Juan, such as Flowers and Fruit in a Bowl. Only some 20 of his works survive, and they seem to speak of wealth and luxury. Juan predeceased his father, dying at just 29 in a plague that wiped out almost half Seville’s population.

There are more treasures in the final room, which contains what is perhaps Zurbarán’s most recognisable work. You’ve seen it before, surely, even if you couldn’t have named the artist.

This lamb is so convincing, the shading and texture of its horns and fleece so accurate; it could be a living sheep from a Welsh or English hillside. The hooves project from the ledge, seeming to enter the viewer’s space. But this is a deeply religious picture; Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God. The innocent lamb about to be slaughtered stands for Christ, about to die on the cross. Zurbarán painted this subject several times; this one, from the Prado, is regarded as the finest example. According to the 18th-century Spanish painter and art historian Antonio Palomino, “an art lover in Seville has a lamb by this maker’s hand, painted from life, which he says he values more than 100 living rams."

Zurbarán, then, a painter of deep faith, but also of absolute realism. Take The Veil of Veronica. In the Bible, Veronica wiped Christ’s face with her veil as he carried the cross. Miraculously, his image was imprinted on the cloth.

Zurbarán imagines the image on the veil as it might have been, an indistinct smudge on the fabric, rather than the portrait likeness seen by El Greco or Domenico Fetti. And displayed as a sort of trompe l'oeil, complete with signature on a scrap of paper apparently stuck to the wall.

This really is quite the exhibition. Even for those of little faith.

Practicalities

Zurbarán is on at the National Gallery in London until August 23. The gallery is open daily from 1000 to 1900 this summer, and until 2100 on Fridays. We spent about 75 minutes in the exhibition. Standard adult ticket prices for this show are £20 Sunday to Thursday, £22 on Friday and Saturday (more if you add in Gift Aid). You can book ahead online with a timeslot here.

The gallery is on the north side of Trafalgar Square, just a couple of minutes from Charing Cross or Leicester Square stations on the rail and Underground networks.

The exhibition goes on, in a slightly different form, to the Louvre in Paris from October 7 to January 25, and then to the Art Institute of Chicago from February 28 to June 20 next year.

Images

Francisco de Zurbarán (1598-1664), Saint Casilda, about 1635, Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid. © Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza
Francisco de Zurbarán, Adoration of the Magi, 1638-39, Musée de Grenoble. © Ville de Grenoble/Musée de Grenoble -- JL Lacroix
Francisco de Zurbarán, Saint Francis of Assisi, 1636, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon. © Lyon MBA; Photo Martial Couderette
Attributed to Francisco de Zurbarán, Colossal Head, about 1635, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. © Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado
Francisco de Zurbarán, Still Life with Lemons, Oranges and a Rose, 1633, The Norton Simon Foundation, Pasadena, California. © The Norton Simon Foundation
Francisco de Zurbarán, Agnus Dei, 1635-40, Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid. © Photographic Archive Museo Nacional del Prado
Francisco de Zurbarán, The Veil of Veronica, 1658, Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid. © Museo Nacional de Escultura, Valladolid