Prelude:
Art has a peculiar way of speaking uniquely to each of us—what one person sees as exhilarating, another may find isolating. For me, this subjectivity, while fascinating, can also feel lonely. I often wish those closest to me could share the powerful emotions I experience when standing before a centuries-long - lost masterpiece. This essay attempts to bridge that gap, to offer you, the reader, a glimpse into that world and, perhaps for just a few pages, feel what I feel.
While scrolling through ArtNews, a headline leapt out at me: "Newly Discovered Caravaggio to be Unveiled at the Prado in Madrid this Month." A surge of excitement rushed through me; the intrigue was irresistible. I couldn’t believe my eyes, a long-lost Caravaggio had resurfaced: Ecce Homo. I was bearing witness to history unfolding. I saw an exciting opportunity in this, and without a moment of hesitation, I booked my flight to Madrid.
I was accompanied by a dear friend, and fellow art lover - a companion who shared my passion for the beauty and depth of artistic expression. Our itinerary reserved the visit to the masterpiece for the third day—an experience I awaited with eager anticipation. We took little time to acclimate to the laid-back Spanish lifestyle, embracing the charm wholeheartedly. The evenings unfolded over plates of incredible tapas paired with cheap, yet delightful wine, while mornings welcomed us with aromatic coffee and the warmth of the Spanish sun. Wanting to approach the museum visit with a sense of reverence, I took a quiet moment to reflect. Why do the Old Masters hold such an enduring grip on my imagination? What is it about their work that sparks this persistent fascination?
I have long admired 16th-century art. To me, it represents a vital connection to our shared past. I believe it is our duty to pay homage to the past as we try and reimagine a new way forward. My adoration stems from the unparalleled mastery and dedication of the artisans of that era—artists who devoted their lives to their work. It is this intersection that resonates with me. For me, art is far more than a profession; it is the essence of my being. It is my voice when words fail, my feeling when I feel empty and my sanctuary in times of uncertainty. These works vividly render the full spectrum of human emotions: love, longing, pain, hatred, intrigue, confinement, contempt, and hope. Whether portraying cherubs encircling Adonis or the solemn sacrifice of Christ, their emotional depth inspires awe and reverence.
These masterpieces serve as milestones in my life, shaping my understanding of humanity and reflecting my personal growth. Returning to these familiar artworks feels like embracing an old friend—unchanged yet profoundly meaningful in new ways. Regardless of past time or life's frivolities, the paintings still stand, unchanged, patiently awaiting my return. It's a curious sensation—finding comfort in something as seemingly static as an inanimate object. Over time, they transcend their status as mere paintings; they become benchmarks of my life, silently bearing witness to my evolution. They remind us of the enduring power of art to provoke reflection.
Certain encounters with art remain indelibly etched in my memory, grounding me in a way few experiences can. Coming face to face with Ecce Homo was one such moment. It was life-altering, fundamentally reshaping my perception of the world. I consider it a rarity, to be so deeply moved by an artwork that the experience serves as a grounding realignment. This is a profound statement and one that I consider entirely true.
I have a Rolodex of artworks floating in my mind, and whenever I want to access a specific feeling, I go within my archives and relive the memory. A feeling, as fleeting as it may be, is untouchable. It is your truth and always will be. I find great beauty in this sentiment, knowing I can recall exactly how an artwork made me feel, whether just a week ago or five years prior. We can therefore understand artwork interactions to be deeply personal. No two people will ever experience the same feeling when engaging with an artwork. This idea is often linked to the age-old argument that art is subjective. I roll my eyes as I type this because I believe this statement is a scapegoat for the unimaginative person when asked their opinion on an artwork. Cue the role-play:
“What does this painting make you feel?”
”Oh, art is so subjective - I couldn’t say”
“What do you think of the medium, do you like it?”
”Oh, art is so subjective - I couldn’t say”
“What do you think of the artist's colour choice?”
”Oh, art is so subjective - I couldn’t say”
This response,
makes me,
want to,
scream.
To clarify, I think subjectivity is entirely relevant and important, and yes, art is entirely subjective. However, what I find uninteresting is the prevalence of a lacklustre response in an attempt to sound pretentious, with no real interest in diving deeper and engaging in meaningful conversation. Subjectivity should spark conversation, not stifle it.
Form an opinion—any opinion. Engage. Maintain an openness to learning and abandon the fear of not knowing.
As a result of this subjectivity, you cannot create the same shared experience between two art admirers. While some find the subjectivity of art exciting, I surprisingly find it isolating. I wish those closest to me could experience the feeling I get when standing before a centuries-long lost masterpiece. And in simple terms, it's lonely. I want you, even if for only the length of a few pages, to feel the way I do. And so, in my search for intimacy & connection, I am drawn to moments where art itself becomes a bridge.
This story begins with the unexpected appearance of the painting Ecce Homo at auction in 2021. It was believed to have been created by a student of Caravaggio, Jusepe de Ribera and listed with a starting price of just €1,500. However, upon closer inspection during the authentication process, new details emerged. When the painting surfaced online, its distinctive features were quickly identified by art historians, igniting widespread interest in its true origins. The painting's use of dramatic chiaroscuro and intense realism closely mirrored Caravaggio's signature style, which led scholars to connect it with historical accounts of an Ecce Homo, once owned by the Count of Castrillo, Viceroy of Naples. Further research revealed that the painting's dimensions and details matched the records, reinforcing its authenticity. This was not merely a piece by one of his students, but an artwork by the masterful painter, Caravaggio himself! In response to its discovery, the Spanish government intervened, declaring the piece a national heritage and blocking its export. It was therefore agreed that the artwork would be on view for 3 months at the Prado Museum before returning to the private collection. This heightened sense of urgency emphasised that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and one that I could not miss.
The Italian artist has a sworded past, one which is filled with lies, thievery & even murder. Yet, he still stands as one of the greatest celebrated artists of the Baroque period. His artistic origins were born out of necessity. As a young boy, Caravaggio received no support. At 22, he began earning a living as an apprentice to Simone Peterzano in Milan, a painter who claimed to be a pupil of Titian. His skill and a keen eye for detail sparked his early success. However, in his later years, he started running into issues with heavy drinking and erratic violence. His rage got the better of him, and he committed murder. The artist fled to Rome to escape prosecution and sought refuge in the church - living out his later years in exile. Due to this posting, we see an abundance of religious focus in his works. He rejected the idealized forms of the Renaissance and instead depicted raw, human emotions and lifelike figures, often drawing inspiration from everyday people as models. His use of chiaroscuro created an unparalleled sense of drama and immediacy in his works. Despite being a fugitive, he continued to produce significant works during this period, once more cementing his standing as a revolutionary artist.
Standing before Ecce Homo at the Prado, I was utterly speechless, moved to tears by its haunting brilliance. In the work, we witness the body of Christ, lifeless, blood slowly pouring over his clavicle from the thorn crown. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, gestures toward Jesus while presenting him to the crowd. His expression is one of detachment, highlighting his role as the one who delivers Jesus to his fate yet struggles with his own conscience. There is a contrast here between the interplay of violence and fragility which is particularly interesting. The third figure, the soldier, serves as a counterpoint to the suffering of Christ, embodying the violence and scorn of humanity. This composition creates a highly emotive theological tension, perplexing the viewer.
The longer you examine the painting, the more intricate details reveal themselves. For example, the folds of fabric are rendered with such exquisite subtlety and precision that they seem almost tangible as if you could feel their texture. His slightly agape mouth, caught in a silent gasp, conveys a poignant blend of physical torment and resigned acceptance of fate. Meanwhile, the chiaroscuro highlights the tension in his hands, amplifying the visceral intensity of his suffering. Needless to conclude, the piece is incredibly visually striking, offering a rich tapestry of textures and emotions that invite the viewer into its layered narrative. Each detail, from the nuanced expressions to the interplay of light and shadow, deepens the emotional resonance of the work, making it a masterpiece of technical skill and profound storytelling.
Yet, if we dive beyond its technical mastery, the painting evoked a deeply personal response, reigniting feelings I thought were long lost.
Being back in Madrid, a city that holds countless beautiful memories for me, I was reminded of this lost feeling - a rekindling of passion. For a brief period in my early twenties, I lived in the city - and these were some of the best months of my life. Coloured by the city’s enigmatic charm coupled with my naivety, those months carried a quiet intensity, where each day felt vivid and full in ways I didn’t yet have the words to articulate. I fondly remember hazy, soft, pink skies slowly setting behind the Prado as I made my way home from work. (Those have been, and always will be, my favourite sunsets). I believe this is where my fondness for viewing art through a romantic lens originates - the purity and intimacy in those sunsets.
The painting reminded me of what love feels like—a distant sensation that had quietly faded over time. This was love, or a form of it at least. Knowing it still exists was comforting, even if only for a fleeting moment. It felt as though the world around me had dissolved; it was just the painting and me. The silence was absolute, as though the room itself held its breath whilst I met the figure's gaze. I was seeing the myth come to life and was reminded of what it felt like, to be moved so deeply & how extraordinary it was. It was more than just a painting for me, it was a profound experience that evoked a feeling of raw vulnerability.
Intertwined with that vulnerability was an exquisite sense of intimacy: both fragile and profound. The piece, illuminated in stark contrast by the surrounding darkness, radiated a mesmerising light. It had a glowing aura - drawing my attention inward. With a beautiful collision of light and shadow, pain and grace, it seemed to embody the very essence of human suffering and redemption. Time ceased to exist as I stood before it. A surge of emotion overwhelmed me, manifesting in the heat behind my tear-filled eyes, a flush that spread to my cheeks, and a sharp, aching sorrow deep in my chest. I surrender fully to these feelings, allowing them to envelop me. There is a beauty in the darkness, a richness and depth that illuminates the soul. This aching, I realized, is what haunts me but what also deeply inspires me. The work is painfully poignant, and will forever linger in the quiet spaces of my memory.
Thank you, Caravaggio, for reminding me what love feels like.
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