Response to Anthony Visco on Marco Rupnik: Christian Art - Never Simple, Always Challenging -  and Changing

by Virginia Raguin, appearing in Volume 46

Letter in response to Anthony Visco's “Marco Rupnik: Modern Iconographer or Denier of the Incarnation?” (Sacred Architecture Journal, Issue 45 2024)

Anthony Visco’s article on Marko Rupnik in the recent issue of Sacred Architecture raised many questions. It addressed a tragic story of abuse within the Church. Yet it also addressed the issue of artistic and doctrinal validity of a work of art, linking the maker’s personal failings to the work. Given the implication of such a far-reaching attitude, I offer here some thoughts on the work and the artist.

I must confess that I have not been enthusiastic concerning the frequent reliance on the Eastern tradition of the icon for contemporary Western imagery. The gravity of the icon as a sacramental, and its position in the iconostasis, is rarely understood. Many Western images in this mode seem created out of a vague desire to convey a sense of Christian “tradition” with the use of an image abstract enough to transcend demands for an ethnically true image of Christ as man. Rupnik, a native of Slovenia, is different. He understands the Eastern tradition and the value of transcending time and “realism.” I fail to see any theological issue with his work.

The image selected as the logo for the Year of Mercy of 2016 was illustrated in Visco’s essay. It shows Christ with a cruciform halo wearing a long white robe. His pose is reminiscent of Christ’s stride over the abyss of death in the Anastasis, one of the traditional narratives of Eastern church decoration. The scene is referred to in the West as the Harrowing of Hell. After Christ’s burial, he descends to hell to liberate the souls of the just who died before his coming. The scene was a standard illustration in English manuscripts from at least the eleventh century, exemplified by the Tiberius psalter (British Library Cotton, Ms Tiberius C. VI). Istanbul’s Chora Church (Kariye Museum) displays one of the most widely reproduced images of the Anastasis, a fresco dating to the fourteenth century. Christ grasps the hand of the elderly Adam with his right hand, and Eve’s hand with his left. The dynamism and the vesica-shaped mandorla are channeled into Rupnik’s image. The artist, however, places Adam (or simply the human) across Christ’s shoulders, a motif derived from time-honored images of Christ the Good Shepherd. The human is fully clothed, adding dignity, and his face is bearded as is Christ’s. Their faces are pressed together, and they share a single eye. Arguably, Rupnik seeks to address the unfathomable mystery that every human shares the human nature of the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity.

The shared eye has precedents. Giotto’s fresco cycle in the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, 1305, must arguably be one of the most sublime depictions of the Life of Christ and his Blessed Mother ever created. Many of the narratives depicted were known to be outside of biblical authority. The creators referenced the Protoevangelium of James and other apocryphal accounts that had become codified in Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend (c.1260). In one scene, Saint Joachim returns to Jerusalem, reassured by an angel that he is not cursed by God, to meet Saint Anne at the Golden Gate. Although advanced in age, the couple would become the parents of the Virgin Mary. Giotto strove to solve the problem of depicting that mystery, the conception of the Virgin Mary. The faces of Joachim and Anne meld into one. Their eyes each make up half of a single face. To some medieval viewers, the kiss at the Golden Gate was a literal representation of the moment of Mary’s conception.

Controversy Part of the Process

We should understand that contested religious images have always been a part of our world. Controversies of this sort were of particular intensity during the era of the Inquisition in Spain. Explicit rules were laid out in manuals, such as Francisco Pacheco’s The Art of Painting, published posthumously in 1649. To encourage dignity in the depiction of sacred figures, nudity was discouraged. Spanish paintings of that time, such as Alonso Cano’s Christ Bearing the Cross of 1635-37, depicted Christ wearing a sumptuously lined tunic (Worcester Art Museum, 1920.95). The longstanding image of the Virgin breastfeeding (Maria lactans) also became suspect. The subject does not appear in a single painting amid the prolific output of Bartolomé Esteban Murillo or Diego Velázquez.

Such an attitude was in direct opposition to the spirituality associated with Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153), the luminary of the Cistercian movement. Bernard was commonly depicted meditating on the sufferings of Christ, even embracing Christ hanging on the cross. Traditions from the fourteenth century depicted Bernard in prayer before a statue of the Virgin, the inexplicable “problem” of his meditation being the mystery of an omnipotent God depending on the human Virgin for his very life. His prayer to the Virgin that she reveal herself as a mother became depicted as the “Lactation of Saint Bernard.” In response to his call “Monstra te esse matrem” (“Show yourself a mother”), the saint is blessed with a stream of the Virgin’s milk. These are the words inscribed above the Virgin’s head in a miniature by Simon Marmion, c. 1475–1480 (J. Paul Getty Museum, Ms 32, recto). The scene also appears in a number of early Renaissance prints.

Modes of representation change, often not due to censure but to changing attitudes. The fifteenth century developed a compelling representation of the Trinty we call the Throne of Grace. A brilliant alabaster sculpture of this type from Nottingham, England, 1420–50 (Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 27.852) shows God the Father, seated and blessing with his right hand, holding the crucified Christ. The Holy Spirit appears as the dove painted at the top of the cross. Here God is displayed as a loving father, giving his son to the world to redeem humanity from the power of evil. Taddeo Crivelli’s illustration from a Gradual, 1460–1470 (J. Paul Getty Museum Ms. 88) shows the same theme. Some have recoiled from the stark representation of the emanation of the Holy Spirit as golden rays from the Father’s mouth that descend on the head of the Son. The image challenges traditions of male hierarchies of power. Both Father and Son are visibly suffering. In the Throne of Grace, gender binaries are transcended. God the Father holds his Son between his knees, evoking the idea of birth.

Personal Morality and Creative Production

If we had to analyze the personal morality of the artists who created the works we admire, we would be lost. So, should Cardinal Scipio Borgese’s personal “failings” (to some) reduce his importance as patron of artists such as Bernini? Borgese commissioned four masterpieces, Aeneas, Anchises, and Ascanius (1619), The Rape of Persephone (1621–22), Apollo and Daphne (1622–1625), and David (1623–24), which established Bernini’s reputation.

Or should we reject Caravaggio (1571-1610) and his ability to create iconic images of Christian faith because of his widely known personal failings? He was an acknowledged homosexual who lived a short and violent life. He killed a man in a brawl, resulting in a death sentence for murder which forced him to flee to Naples. One of the greatest treasures of the Vatican, Caravaggio’s altarpiece of the Entombment of Christ (1603-1604) caused a sensation when it was displayed in 2011 at the Museo del Prado in Madrid. Thousands of visitors were mesmerized by the voiceless, uncomprehending sorrow on the face of Saint John as he gazes on Christ’s beloved body being lowered into the grave. Is it that Caravaggio was able to channel his own infirmities and thus enable the viewer to do the same? The Supper at Emmaus, 1601 (National Gallery, London) similarly shows us flawed humanity. The apostle to the right, often identified as Cleopas, wears the scallop shell of a pilgrim, a clear anachronism, and his outstretched hand reaches out to the viewer. The other apostle, presumed to be Luke, is dressed in rough clothing and seems about to leap up from his chair. They clearly recognize the risen Lord, a radiant, beardless youth recalling the youthful images on early Christian sarcophagi. The standing host, believed by many to be a self-portrait of the artist, is not granted the revelation, perhaps allowing viewers to empathize with their own sense of unworthiness.

The Madonna of Loreto (1604–1606) is located in the church of Sant’Agostino, Rome. At the painting’s unveiling, some were distressed by the lack of dignity in the depiction of the Virgin and her Divine Child. A thin, circular halo hovers behind the Virgin’s head, but otherwise, they appear as ordinary people, indeed, even barefoot. They match the two peasants kneeling before them whose dirt-encrusted feet rest on the lowest right edge of the composition. Caravaggio’s “problem” was to again confront the mystery of the divine in corporal presence in human life. For over an hour, I witnessed scores of individuals in the church viewing the painting, invariably aligning themselves with the angle of the peasant’s feet. Caravaggio enabled them, like the couple in the painting, to worship with their eyes.

God is that perfection for which our souls thirst. Our images only mirror our imperfect efforts to draw closer. The success of an installation to reach the viewer entails many issues. Effective communication of a sacred truth is achieved not only through iconography but by composition, scale, and color harmonies that meet the demands of the setting. I have not addressed these artistic and aesthetic issues of Father Rupnik’s work. We need, however, to adopt a long view, especially for imagery that endeavors to remain true to a tradition of over two millennia and which hopes for a transcendent future.

Anthony Visco replies:

Recovering Modern Art

Rupnik’s form sense, like most of his work, is one more uninformed appropriation without care, and it is hardly Eastern Orthodox. In his native Slovenia, the Catholic churches are adorned with the influence of the Bavarian baroque mixed with the Italianate from neighboring countries. Compared to that, it becomes apparent that his form sense was contrived from the Copts and presented as a sophisticated but feigned naivete.

The crux of the problem with Rupnik is his bastardized iconography. The Jubilee of Mercy logo image is confusingly ambiguous. It reflects a disordered perception of image and faith. Is it the Good Shepherd, the Good Samaritan? Or is it, as Virginia Raguin suggests in her response to my article, because of the vesica, the harrowing of hell?

The use of vesica piscis or mandorla around a sacred figure hardly makes anything more Eastern than Western. It has been used for centuries, and by most accounts, predates both Pythagoras and Euclid. It could hardly be considered a hallmark of orthodoxy, especially without a mention as to why it is used and in what context it is used in sacred art and architecture. It has always been reserved as a vessel for specific episodes in Christian art, such as the Transfiguration, Resurrection, and “Christ in Glory.”

Using the “Caravaggio was a ‘bad boy’” approach as a reason to accept Rupnik’s works would not make his art worthy of a place in the best of modernist sacred art. Nor would it be worthy if he were celibate and chaste his entire life. That would not change the lack of aesthetic in his work. The quality of his works will never stand the test of time. They have already failed. It is astonishing to equate one artist’s sins of the flesh with those of another and declare that the caliber of their works of art is equal too, in this case comparing Rupnik to Caravaggio and Bernini.

The relationship of saints to the arts is astounding but hardly if ever mentioned by art historians, such as the influence of Saint John Damascene, Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Ignatius, Saint Teresa of Avila, Saint John of the Cross, and Saint Charles Borromeo. Some artists have even been raised to the altar, including Blessed Fra Angelico and Servant of God Antoni Gaudí. One wonders how the world of art history would contend if artists such as Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Caravaggio were ever elevated to at least Servant of God. Although millions stand in line to see their works, day after day, year after year for centuries now, we have no record of the conversion experiences that have taken place because of them. However, to quote Cody Swanson, a sculptor-convert: “I came to Florence to see Michelangelo and instead found God.” Has anyone converted after seeing a Rupnik mosaic?

As for the use of the flesh in Catholic art, something like the Lactating Madonna may be discussed by art historians, but it is no longer acceptable for reasons of modesty. But the symbolism is never explained why she is depicted with one breast exposed while the other remains clothed in her regal robes. Or why Christ is nude in some versions of the baptism and not in others, or why he is naked in some depictions of the crucifixion and not in others. Saint Francis is quoted as saying “nudus nudum Christum sequi” (“follow naked the naked Christ”). And in keeping with this dictum, he asked for his confreres to strip him naked on his deathbed, a dirt floor.

When these representations of the flesh are rejected, it creates a vacuum. How did this vacuum happen? The effects of Protestantism, the Enlightenment, and Modernism have all taken a toll on the current condition of today’s Catholic art and architecture. We became the very thing that had oppressed us: Calvinists seeing our own Catholic patrimony through prurient eyes.

Rupnik and many others simply filled the vacuum. We have now allowed our art history to be sexualized. Did it start with Leo Steinberg and his “Ostentatio Genetalium” in his The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion (1983)? Is it any wonder that the Uffizi now has LGBTQ+ tours, where, according to one group’s advertisement, “You will admire worldwide famous masterpieces like The Birth of Venus or Leonardo’s Annunciation from a queer angle,” and “We will ask ourselves questions like, ‘Do you think Caravaggio and Quentin Tarantino would have made good friends?’”

As for the removal of the Rupniks and others of his kind, that should be an easy decision, but a concern remains that it would only lead to more like him moving in. That would be a denial of the wrongdoing of those who commissioned him as they remain silent, while Rupnik’s Centro Aletti is still allowed to operate freely in Rome. It is not enough to separate the weeds from the wheat here while the enemy is still out in the field sowing the weeds.