Martyrdoms

No cutting necessary, the chase ruled.

We are all familiar with the phrase, "cut to the chase." Its origin, of course, derives from motion pictures where the most exciting part of the film might involve a car chase, usually through a densely populated area, with enough near-misses (an oxymoron if there ever was one) and collisions to fill two junkyards. The thrilling chase scenes from The French Connection come to mind. The hilarious Stanley Kramer film, It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World was one long, continuous chase scene from beginning to end. In popular usage, the phrase has come to mean, skip all the boring details and tell  (or show) me how things finally come out. And though "cutting to the chase" might seem to be a thoroughly modern, 20th century reference, there is nothing new in its meaning.

Even prehistoric artists enjoyed a good chase scene.

Even the original cave painters, with their stampeding  hunt/kill scenes, were, essentially, "cutting to the chase." In fact, all down through the history of art, but especially during the Renaissance and Baroque periods when painting matured as a viable, communicative art form, artists have gravitated toward the most dramatic incidents in their narrative depictions - in effect--"cutting" to the climactic moment of truth when the ending of the story becomes apparent. And since these endings often involved death and very often work that was church sponsored, we find a whole new genre of religious art developing--martyrdoms.



Altarpiece Martyrdom of St. Denis, 1415-16, Henry Bellechose

Although the genre did not reach its peak until the 1600s, we find antecedents long before that in the form of the ultimate Christian martyrdom--crucifixions. The French artist Henri Bellechose's Altarpiece of St Denis (above) from 1416 is a typical Medieval example. In a symmetrical composition with a crucified Christ in the middle, he combines the crucifixion with a pictorial narrative of St Denis's life from his imprisonment (far left), during which time he is served Holy Communion by Christ himself, to his ultimate, grisly beheading on the right. Rich with gold leaf and overt, as well as subtle, symbolism, the painting depicts the patron saint of France at the foot of Montmartre (Martyr's Mount) before, during, and after his decapitation.

The Martyrdom of St. Maurice and the Theban Legion,
1582, El Greco

Spain's King Phillip II may have inadvertently spawned the increasing popularity of martyrdom paintings with his commissioning of El Greco in 1582 to paint The Martyrdom of St. Maurice and the Theban Legion (left). The painting depicts an episode from late Roman history when the Roman general, Maurice, and his legion were butchered for refusing to persecute Christians in Gaul. The king, however, was quite disappointed in the painting and eventually rejected it, apparently because the Greek master did not "cut to the chase," so to speak. El Greco chose not to emphasise the beheading itself (relegated to an insignificant corner of the canvas) but instead, the moment in which St. Maurice and his aides decided to mutiny against Roman authority. In the upper realms of the canvas, angels bear the soul of the saint along with the crown and palms, which the artist chose to symbolise martyrdom, to the glories of heaven. Ironically, despite the royal snub, the compositional elements of El Greco's rejected painting tended to set the standard for martyrdoms for the next 150 years.

Martyrdom of St Erasmus, 1628, Nicholas Poussin

Nicholas Poussin further evolved and refined the compositional formula with his Martyrdom of St Erasmus (right, 1627). With a few exceptions, but several minor variations, the standard martyrdom formula involved the graphic depiction of the saint and his particular means of torture and death prominently displayed in the foreground while the reason for his martyrdom fell into the background along with a delegation of angels descending from heaven with El Greco's obligatory crown and palms usually in the upper left portion of the canvas. In the case of St Erasmus, he's depicted very much alive having his intestines, attached to a windlass, unwound from the open abdomen of his semi-nude body while a pagan priest points to a Roman idol which the saint refused to worship. As with the El Greco martyrdom, the episode dates from the rule of Diocletian around 303 CE.

The Beheading of St John the Baptist, 1571, Caravaggio

There were notable exceptions to the typical martyrdom formula, however. Caravaggio, for instance, never one to be bound by any formulaic treatment, paints us a largely empty canvas in which the action, The Beheading of St John the Baptist (above), is dramatically confined to the lower left quadrant of the canvas where a jailer directs the executioner to sever the head of the saint, pointing to the plate borne by Salome. Off to the right, two other prisoners observe the slaying while the whole upper half of the canvas is enveloped in an oppressive darkness.

St. James Led to Martyrdom,  1722-23, Giovanni Piazzetta

Just the opposite tack was taken by Giovanni Battista Piazzetta in his 1723 St. James Led to Martyrdom (left). Whereas Caravaggio painting is cold-bloodily murderous, in Piazzetta's tightly composed work, his figure of a robust, though elderly, St. James struggles to escape with his hand-written holy scriptures against the restraining bonds of his would-be captor. With its strong diagonals and rugged muscularity, this very Romantic depiction seems to cut to a chase in which the ultimate outcome is not apparent but rather known only by the title of the work. In this rather late painting from the time in which the popularity of martyrdoms was on the decline, Piazzetta has, in effect, zeroed in on the chase itself, instead of the bloody collision and death and final, heavenly credits at the end.

The Mannerist Dilemma

What the Mannerists were up against,
The Libyan Sibyl, 1506, Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo

How would you like to have been a painter in the late 1500's? How would you like to have followed an act like Michelangelo or Raphael, or Leonardo Da Vinci. That was the plight of painters like Tiziano Vecellio and Jacopo Robusti, better known today by what amount to "stage" names--Titian and Tintoretto respectively. All about them were the much-heralded glories of the high Renaissance, the Sistine Chapel, and the Mona Lisa. They were left in the unenviable position of having to at least match the godlike painting masters of the past just to attain some measure of respectability in their own time. Moreover, they were burdened by the knowledge that if they were to be remembered beyond their own time, they would have to somehow surpass them.



Venus of Urbino, 1538, Titian, a meager attempt to out-Raphael Raphael.

Actually, art historians would tell us today that they, in fact, did neither. But it wasn't from a lack of trying. The artistic era following the Renaissance has come to be known today as the "Mannerist" period, a kind of poor stepchild in the artistic scheme of things, sandwiched in between the colossal periods of the Renaissance and the Baroque eras--a somewhat weak and unstable bridge between the two. Artistic themes fostered in the Renaissance played themselves out during this period while the dramatic seeds of the flamboyant Baroque style were planted and germinated. And in the midst of this, painters struggled to be themselves, and to be more than the sum total of their work.



Tintoretto takes on the godfather of the Renaissance, with his
Paradise, 1588 (Ducall Palace, Venice); a "second coming" attempting to
compete with Michelangelo's Last Judgment, 1537-41 (Sistine Chapel, Vatican).

In Venice, Titian strove to cap the work of his immediate painting predecessors by shifting from fresco to oils, from wooden panels to stretched canvas, from chiaroscuro to compositions created by color and glazing in place of sculptural draftsmanship. His exquisite Venus of Urbino (above) painted in 1538 capitalizes on all these factors. Tintoretto (directly above), on the other hand, supposedly a pupil of Titian, built on his master's love of color, but combined it was a dynamic draftsmanship that in fact went well beyond anything created during the Renaissance. Also a Venetian, Tintoretto's painting technique was unique to say the least. He even went so far as to arrange doll-like figures on a small stage and hang flying figures by wires in order to draw them in correct perspective, first executing them on paper, then transferring them via a precise grid to darkly primed canvases. He then quickly painted in dramatic light areas with loosely-handled paint, bringing 19th-century art critic John Ruskin to suggest that he may have painted with a broom.

Mannerist sculptors went after the legend of Michelangelo as well,
as seen here in Gianbologna's spiraling Rape of the Sabine Women, 1583.

 

The Cafe Michelangelo





The Macchiaioli crowd at the Cafe Michelangelo
--looks like a fun bunch.

With the passing of the Renaissance, Rome didn't exactly become an artistic backwater, but it did take on more the role of a museum or school rather than a studio. Rome was where the French went to study the past before going back home to do their serious work. As a result, Italy developed a tremendous Academic tradition that was difficult to shake.



Yet by the second half of the 19th century, there was occurring, simultaneous to that in Paris, all the same "movements" in art--Romanticism, Realism, even Impressionism--except with Italian sounding names. The Italian sounding name given to much of this was the Macchiaioli (pronounced MACK-key-a-OLy). And. just as the impressionists in Paris had the Cafe Guerbois, the Catalonians at the turn of the 19th century had the el Quatre Gats (the four cats), and the New York School in the 1950s had their Cedar Tavern, the Macchiaioli held up in their own drinking establishment in Florence. Ironically, it was named for the godfather of the Italian Renaissance Academic style against which they were rebelling--The Cafe Michelangelo.

 

   

The Cafe Michelangelo, 1861, Adriano Cecioni



The Red Ox Truck, 1868, Giovanni Fattori

Like their mid-19th century French counterparts, the Macchiaioli found themselves first struggling against Academic subject matter before they could make Impressionism and painting on location a fact of life. Cafe Michelangelo artists such as Nino Costa, Giovanni Fattori, and Silvestro Lega worked to demystify art by introducing contemporary subject matter while gradually working more and more in the field. As a result,  they eventually begin working with the "macchie" or spots of color from which the movement derived its name.



Women on the Beach at Anzio, 1852, Nino Costa

The Macchiaioli painted during a turbulent period in Italian history amid rebellion and revolution--conflict which eventually resulted in the unification of the many geopolitical factions into the Italian state of today. In the middle of all this, Nino Costa struggled to spring free of classical content in his paintings to depict the evolving middle classes while Giovanni Fattori embraced the Impressionism seeping across the border from the south of France. Sylvestro Lega was a revolutionary in both art, war, and politics, leaving us images of the conflict and turmoil itself as well as portraits of those leading it. With all this in the background, the riotous nightlife at the Cafe Michelangelo must have made the endless "artguments" of the Cafe Guerbois seem as effete as a little girls' tea party.

 

Bersaglieri Leading Prisoners, 1859, Sylvestro Lega



Mad King Ludwig

King Ludwig II of Bavaria,
1865, Ferdinand von Piloty

I suppose quite a few of us, having been nurtured in childhood on fairy tales and stories of kings, queens, knights, and their ladies, etc., have fantasized about being a king or queen...master of all we surveyed, waited upon hand and foot, ensconced in some magnificent Baroque palace or Medieval castle with nothing to do all day but play at being King or Queen. Although royalty down through the ages have enjoyed variations of such a life, one man in particular, actually lived this fantasy existence. He's come down through history with the moniker "Mad King Ludwig." He was not an artist, but definitely a connoisseur of quite a number of arts from architecture to music, opera, poetry, and interior design. As for his being mad, he was certainly eccentric, probably psychotic to some degree at least, extremely shy, homosexual, an insomniac, and egocentric to the extreme. Had he not been a king, he would probably have been left alone in his eccentricities to live out a simple, solitary existence in some remote hovel in Germany. Had he lived today, he might well have been in the entertainment industry, and thus in his eccentricities, immune from persecution. As it was, he was the wrong man, in the wrong job at the wrong time. His story is as tragic, as it is amusing, and as odd as it is fascinating.

Ludwig II and Sophia, 1867,
a marriage that was not to be.

This poor, unfortunate man was born a prince, the son of Maximilian II, the Crown Prince of Bavaria, in 1845. A shy, sensitive child from birth, he was largely raised by his mother once his father ascended the throne and was quite busy being king. He was deeply religious, bookish, slender, attractive, and fond of the outdoors, especially the Alpine Mountains of Southern Bavaria (now Germany) where he grew up. He came to the throne upon his father's death in 1864 at the tender age of eighteen. In 1867 he was engaged to marry his cousin, the lovely Sophie. The wedding was postponed three times. Finally, her father forced a showdown with the trouble young king and to everyone's relief, the engagement was broken off. It was about this time that the young ruler found a new love--building.

Schloss Herrenchiemsee, 1878-92 (unfinished)

In 1869, work was begun on his first of three castles, built simultaneously, that were to occupy his attention for the next seventeen years. Only one, Linderhof, was ever completed. Neuschwanstein atop a mountain, and Herrenchiemsee, on an Island in a lake, were both unfinished at his death in 1886 (supposedly a suicide but probably murder). Each is a grand, megalomaniacal work of art. Herrenchiemsee was a Versailles rip-off. Only the central structure was completed but its Hall of Mirrors was actually larger than that at Versailles. Neuschwanstein is probably the best known and by far the most beautiful. Created by a set designer, Christian Jank, in conjunction with royal master-builder Eduard Riedel, it is Romanesque in design with Gothic influences, enormous in scale, and boasts a killer view. One of its "keeps" soars nearly 100 feet from the top of the mountain. Yet only 9 of its projected sixty some rooms were ever finished inside. The chapel and tallest tower were never even started. Hey, kings can have money problems too. And the throne room, strangely, has no throne. After the king's death, the order for it was cancelled.

Schloss Linderhof, 1878

Linderhof seems to have been his favourite. Built on a farm just a few miles from Neuschwanstein in an elaborate, Baroque style, it's impressive from the outside; made even more so by the fountain out front which blasts water straight up 100 feet into the air. But it's inside that Linderhof draws gasps of awe. Most notable among its pretentious wonders is the Venus Grotto, a concrete "cave" complete with arc lighting, swirling warm water, a wave machine, central heat, all manner of sculpted nymphs and satyrs, real misty rainbows, even a table that rises through the floor from the kitchen below so the king might be served a snack apart from the prying eyes of servants. Based upon a fantasy scene from Richard Wagner's Tannhauser, it would seem to be a setting for every man's wildest sexual fantasies.

Ludwig II and Richard Wagner

Speaking of Wagner, no discussion of Ludwig would be complete without mention of the king's other obsession. It began in his childhood; and even though Wagner was more than a generation older than Ludwig, the king's love for both the man and his great operatic masterpieces permeated every artistic endeavour in his life. All three royal residences have many rooms named and decorated for Wagnerian operas. Ludwig promoted, inspired, and supported Wagner for much of the latter part of the composer's life. Several of his late works would not have been written under any other circumstances. In fact, Neuschwanstein was as much designed as a music hall as royal residence even though Wagner was never performed there until 1933.

Neuschwanstein, 1869-1892 (unfinished)

Today, Ludwig's mad masterpieces bring millions of tourists to the area each year and millions more deutsche marks to the German economy. Estimates are the "Mad King" spent about thirty-one million marks his country could ill-afford at the time to fulfil his architectural obsessions. And three more castles were in the planning stages when he died (one even larger and more grandiose than Neuschwanstein). As royal residences, they were a horrendous waste of money. Ludwig lived at Neuschwanstein only about 180 days before his death; even less than that at Herrenchiemsee. But as tourist attractions, it was money very well spent. Neuschwanstein has been open to the public since 1889. Among its visitors in this century was a tourist with similar tastes in fantasy architecture. He's even gone old Ludwig one better. He's built five such castles (so far), each influenced by Ludwig's towering design; one in California, one in Florida, one in France, another in Japan, and yet another in Hong Kong, with a sixth castle planned for Shanghai, China (2016). He's done all right attracting tourists to his too.

Neuschwanstein from the air.
The Chapel and the castle's tallest tower were never completed.

The Birth of Christ

Sarcophagus of Stilicho, forth century AD, Basilica of St. Ambrogio, Milan, is probably the
earliest surviving depiction of the nativity.

Adoration of the Magi, fourth century AD, Cemetery of St. Agnes, Rome.
Very often medieval and other early depictions of the nativity concentrated on the magi.

Holy Family (detail), eighth century mosaic,
Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Rome, a very early
depiction of a long time artists' staple.

During the December holiday season, we routinely send and receive dozens of Christmas cards with scenes ranging from lumpy little snowmen to deeply religious painted masterpieces depicting the nativity, shepherds, or magi. With the possible exception of crucifixions, the nativity is probably the most painted religious scene handed down to us by the Christian artists of the past centuries in which painted religious works survive. Although the Italians were most fond of paintings of the Madonna and Child which, broadly speaking, fall into the general category of nativity scenes, often the Christ Child is depicted as just that, a young child, rather than a newborn baby.



Birth of Christ, 1425-30, Robert Campin

It remained for the artist of northern Europe to bring us some of the most moving scenes of Christ's birth in the traditional sense. Artist like Matthias Grunewald and Robert Campin painted exquisite little (some not so little as well) masterpieces of intricate design, detail, and symbolism. Often these were in the form of altarpieces sometimes called triptychs (three folding panels) or diptychs (two panels) designed for what was then a portable priesthood, taking mass to small communities with only rudimentary churches. Or, when used in traditional churches, they were art which could be locked away at night for safe keeping.

Merode Altarpiece, 1425-28, Robert Campin

If we include the hundreds of holy family paintings as being the aftermath of the birth of Christ, it's also appropriate to include with them various paintings of the annunciation in that they constitute a prelude to the nativity genre. Campin's triptych Merode Altarpiece (above), is just such an annunciation, and one of the most impressive. Depicted in the first panel are the kneeling donors of the work peering through an open door to the second panel where an angel appears to the figure of Mary in contemporary dress, seated before a fireplace amid the trappings of a typical Flemish household of the time. In the third panel, appears a (much too old) representation of Joseph, at work in his carpenter shop, building mousetraps. The painting abounds with symbolism such as the mousetraps, used to reinforce the belief that Christ was the bait with which Satan would be trapped. Taken together, these three categories--annunciations, nativities, and holy family depictions--illustrate a more complete birth narrative than can be seen in traditional Christmas card "manger scenes."

Concert of the Angels (left), Nativity (right), 1510-1515, Matthias Grunewald,
central panel of the triptych Isenheim Altarpiece.

 

The Louisiana Museum of Modern Art

At first glance, the Louisiana MoMA strikes one as an upscale suburban home.

You should all go visit the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art. The man who founded it was Knud W. Jensen. In 1944, Jensen took over his father's cheese wholesaling business. Twelve years later, in 1956, he decided he was tired of being a cheese salesman so he sold the business. Two years later he bought a stately estate where he founded his own art museum. But before everyone decides to charter a bus and head south, it might be better to charter a jet instead and head north; for you see, the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art is located some twenty miles north of Copenhagen. Yes, the one in Denmark. Louisiana was merely the name of the estate, dating from 1856, overlooking the narrow Oresund Straight between Denmark and Sweden.

Out back however, overlooking the Baltic, the Louisiana MoMA exhibits a
restrained, yet surprisingly contemporary aura.

Part of the underground passageway
housing prints and photos.

At first the museum housed only Jensen's collection of Danish art. It was a beautiful, garden site, but Jensen was roundly criticized in art circles for setting his museum so far from the Danish capital. It was feared no one would come. But in the best "Field of Dreams" tradition, Jensen built...and built...and built, in eight different phases, world-class facilities and a remarkable collection of late 20th century art to fill them. (In fact, he lived in one wing of the museum until his death in 2000.) Today over half a million visitors a year, almost half of them foreigners, browse through the 7,500 square meters of exhibit space to enjoy the art of Francis Bacon, Max Ernst, Robert, Rauschenberg, Picasso, and Warhol, to name just a few. Works range from Pop to New Realism, a collection quite different in its contemporary emphasis from many museums of its kind around the world. One might even consider it a museum of post-modern art.

The museum map gives some idea of the sprawling size of the museum as
well as illustrating the lengths architects Bo and Wohlert have gone to
retain the environmental integrity of the site.

As exceptional as the collection might be, the museum itself, while carefully designed not to compete with the art (as so often happens in such cases), may be one of the most extraordinary in the world; if for no other reason than its restraint and respect for the natural beauty of the estate. Glass exhibit passages arch around in either direction from the original, 19th century villa to form a semicircle. These wings house the majority of the permanent collection. In meeting the challenge of ever larger, taller, more open exhibition space for modern floor installations, the South Wing is half buried into a hillside with a sloping roof mimicking the natural slope of the land itself. Finally, connecting the two wings, is the totally underground Graphics Wing, placed so as not to block the view of the ocean from the historic main house while providing windowless protection for the highly light sensitive photos and prints it was designed to house.

 

Purposeful understatement would best describe the
museum's architectural relationship to the art within.

Architects Jorgen Bo and Vilhelm Wohlert were quite young when Jensen first commissioned them to remodel the original villa into an art museum. In fact, it was their first commission. In the 54 years since, they've grown with the museum, adapting it to the changes in contemporary art as well as modern museum design standards. In many ways, it could even be said that they've helped set those standards themselves, in evolving one of the most popular museum of its kind in all of Europe.

Few museums anywhere in the world can boast a more beautiful or
carefully preserved site that the Louisiana MoMA.

Last Suppers

The Last Supper, 1495-98, Leonardo da Vinci--restored as best as can be expected.

As I was growing up, what I knew about art, especially art history, wouldn't fill a teacup. In thinking back, I'd heard of the Michelangelo, maybe of his David, knew who Gilbert Stuart was, and Leonardo da Vinci. I knew of his Mona Lisa and the Last Supper. Believe it or not, Mr. Ripley, that was about the extent of it. Forty years ago, before art education was part of most school curricula, that kind of ignorance was common. Today, despite the best efforts of hard working art teachers around the world, it still is, especially among those of my own generation. For instance, you'll notice I mentioned Leonardo's Last Supper, as if there were only one. Probably not one in a hundred men or women on the street is aware that Leonardo's Last Supper was neither the first nor the last, nor even necessarily the best of the lot. It's good, what's left of it. Perhaps, if we use our imagination a little, it's even great, but certainly not the last supper as if none of the others really mattered. Even among artists, my guess is that, while they may be vaguely aware there are others, few could name their artists or locate them on a map. Most probably couldn't even locate Leonardo's Last Supper on a map. (It's in Milan...that's Italy, by the way.)

Cenacolo of Santa Croce (bottom tier), 1340, Taddeo Gaddi, one of the earliest
surviving last suppers.

Since we have our map out, that's one in Milan, I know of at least two last suppers in Venice, and an astounding nine in Florence. And of course, in the National Gallery in Washington, DC, we have Salvador Dali's modern-day masterpiece on the subject (bottom). And, there are undoubtedly others. For perhaps two or three hundred years, they were standard decor in convent refectories. Apparently though, it was pretty much a Northern Italy thing; I know of none in Rome or from there south. Although there are apparent visual references to the Eucharist in a Roman catacomb or two dating from the first century, and a sixth century bas relief in the church of Monza, Italy, the earliest serious fresco on the subject would be that of Taddeo Gaddi (originally thought to be the work of Giotto), the Cenacolo of Santa Croce (above). The term "cenacolo" refers to the upper room as described in biblical references. Gaddi was the first to place Judas on the near side of the table. The fresco is located in what was once the refectory, now the Museo dell'Opera di Santa Croce in Florence. It dates from 1340.

Last Supper, 1445-50, andrea del Castagno

Also in Florence, Santo Spirito has one (or at least a fragment of it) dating from 1370, and Santa Apollonia has one by Andrea del Castagno (above) from around 1450. Ghirlandaio painted three, the first in 1476, then another in the refectory of the Ognissanti convent in 1480, followed by yet another in the refectory of the Dominican convent of San Marco around 1482. In 1495, about the time Leonardo began his Last Supper in Milan, Perugino completed one of the most beautiful, The Cenacolo of Fuligno in the refectory of the Franciscan tertiaries of St. Onofrio. Its most notable for its brilliant, Umbrian landscape background, though strangely, the figures are thought to have been completed by his assistants. Another Florentine last supper, The Cenacolo della Caiza, painted by Franciabigio in 1514 is, sadly, hardly in better shape today that Leonardo's. And finally, ninth but not least, we find Andrea del Sarto's The Cenacolo of San Salvi (below) painted in 1527 in the old refectory of the Vallombrsan Abbey on the outskirts of Florence. Of them all, it's considered the most lifelike. Vasari records how this one narrowly escaped destruction during the 1529 siege of Florence when the soldiers sent to plunder the area were so awe-struck by its beauty, they spared the refectory while destroying the church, the campanile, a nearby hospital, and even part of the convent.

The Cenacolo of San Salvi, 1527, Andrea del Sarto 

Many of us already know much about Leonardo's Last Supper, about his disastrous experiment with a mysterious oil tempera applied to damp plaster; how it began to deteriorate within just a few years after its completion; how the monks begged him to return and repair it; how it fell into such a state of disrepair by the mid-16th century they saw no harm in cutting a door through the lower part of the painting; about the disastrous restoration efforts in the centuries to follow; and the near futile effort to preserve and restore it today. Leonardo no doubt knew of the early Florentine Cenacolos, and not surprisingly, seems to have been most heavily influenced by Ghirlandaio's work. In a very real sense, Leonardo was responsible for exporting what seems to have been a locally favored style and subject to Milan and eventually to other parts of Italy as his work influenced that of Veronese's controversial version in Venice dating from 1573, and Tintoretto's radical, Mannerist composition of 1593. They, in turn, influenced Rembrandt's Supper at Emmaus (technically not a "last supper") and of course Dali's unforgettable, mystical masterpiece (bottom, 1956).

The Last Supper, 1594, Tintoretto--Mannerist chaos.

It's not surprising that last suppers have become one of the most important subjects in religious art. Despite their "dining hall decoration" history, next to the crucifixion and resurrection, they depict probably the most critical point in Christ's life, and the centrepiece of all Christian worship. Unfortunately, what we've come to know visually of this subject in art and worship derives from poor copies of dubious distinction, made hundreds of years after the fact, of a good, but by no means outstanding, Leonardo version painted as but one in a long series of earlier and later Florentine efforts. Of course some are better than others but, with all due respect to Leonardo, all deserve a more equal share of the religious and historic limelight.

The Sacrament of the Last Supper, 1956, Salvador Dali--my favorite.