The Sacred Made Real

To the National Gallery to view this extraordinary exhibition of Spanish religious sculpture and painting from the seventeenth century: The Sacred Made Real.

As the title suggests, the works on show are religious images - and the majority have not come from art galleries, but from the churches where they remain objects of devotion.

For me the most striking are the sculptures which, according to the rigid craft demarcations of the era, were carved by one artist and later painted by another.

The aim was to create an almost theatrical illusion of reality, which would have been enhanced by the dramatic lighting of the space for which the works were created.

And, of course, the overall intention was to evoke contemplation, awe and sympathy in the viewer, thus inviting him or her to deeper devotion.

The subject matter is uniformly dark: friars contemplate the cross, a hooded Francis of Assisi gazes at a skull, and the head of John the Baptist lies on its plate, every sinew and artery of the severed neck rendered with surgical accuracy.

And then there are the images of Christ's passion: Jesus stands flayed and bleeding; he hangs dying upon the cross; or, as shown above, he lies stark and dead.

The message, expressed with brutal clarity, is of the human, physical reality of Christ's suffering and death: Ecce Homo - behold the man.

The effect, for me, in the darkened rooms of the Sainsbury Wing, was powerful, horrifying and, well, all a bit too much.

I guess it must be to with the presentation of these fearful images in isolation from the story that led up to them - and of the subsequent' third-day' event which transfigures them.

Without the context, the show seemed oppressive, gruesome and deeply morbid - an upmarket chamber of horrors.

Chuff or chop?

A recent visit to the National Gallery prompted a recollection of the basics of art appreciation.

Years ago I was in the NG shop, browisng the postcards - as one does. (You see all the pictures in the collection without the bother of traipsing around the vast building.)

To my right is a mother with her young son - about five years old.

He's staring intently at a couple of cards and is clearly in an agony of indecision.

Meanwhile his mother is losing patience: 'Come on, make up your mind. You can have one card. Now decide - the steam train, or the beheading....'

I haven't noticed the tall man browsing quietly to my left. He, like me, appreciates the little boy's dilemma.

He's less restrained than me. I hear him murmur (deep New England tones): 'Tough choice, kid...."

The works of art under consideration are shown above.

Light

This is one of my favourite nativity images: light and darkness, amazement and mystery, peace and disturbance, heaven and earth.

A tiny, naked incandescent baby bathes his young mother in dazzling light, the illumination shared by a group of small, excited angels and by two attentive animals.

Joseph, rapt and still, watches from the shadows. All is peace and adoration.

But outside on the hillside, it's a different story as the shepherds desert their little fire to gaze in wonder at a single, vibrant angel, who chooses them, the poorest of the poor, to be the first to hear the news.

The picture was created by Geertgen and may be seen in the National Gallery, London.

I wish you a joyful Christmas.

Small but exquisite...

No surprise to learn that Mr G is particularly keen on small-scale works of art.

Today his (and the HB's) spirits were lifted by the arrival of postcard depicting the gorgeous Wilton Diptych, to be seen in the National Gallery. (The two hinged panels are roughly the size of a medium-sized computer screen.)

It's one of those very special objects that makes one stop and simply gaze and gaze.

The unknown artist has created an image of ravishing beauty, the colours undimmed by the passage of 600 years.

The young King Richard II, flanked by his patron saints (John the Baptist, Edward the Confessor and, get the pointy red shoes, Edmund the Martyr) is granted a vision of a blue and gold heaven, where the child Jesus leans forward to bless the earthly boy king.

Anyone familiar with Shakespeare's depiction of Richard II might be forgiven for wondering if the Bard had caught sight of this piece, so closely does it chime with his exquisite, poetic, 'self-iconising' monarch.

In London soon? Drop in to the Sainbury Wing and allow your senses and spirits to be entranced by this glorious treasure - sole property of you and me!