Saint Michael the Archangel,
With your light, enlighten us.
Under your wings, protect us.
With your sword, defend us.
With your power, strengthen us.
With your love, impassion us.
Picture: Abbazia San Michele, Procida
The magnificent Charterhouse and National Museum of San Martino is perched precariously on a hill high above Naples, just below the commanding fortress of Castel Sant’Elmo.
Once home of Carthusian monks, expelled at the unification of Italy, the monastery complex is deceptively large with breathtaking views of the city and bay below. Here, for over 500 years, the devout, white robed inhabitants worshipped their awesome God in the hermitic and cenobitic style: maintaining silence, livings in cells, praying together whilst contemplating alone – remaining ‘steady [to the Cross] while the world is turning’.
It is also home to a spectacular collection of art. The central church, assembled at vast cost, is a virtual who’s-who of Neapolitan artists from the 17th and 18th century – Di Ribera, Caracciolo, Fanzago et al. It’s a baroque vision of beautiful side chapels, exquisite marble floors, hand carved stalls and devotional works of Christ and the Saints.
Surrounded by this splendour and in their religious isolation, the monks who lived here must have had a very odd relationship with the city above which they sat: living in Naples but separate from it; in reach of the city but unable to touch it.
Even today, the place remains quiet, peaceful, holy and sacred – very different from the frenetic, crowded, raucous, very human, and profane Naples below.
Some pictures below the jump:
Michelangelo Merisi called Caravaggio arrived in Naples in 1606 on the run having killed a young man in a brawl in Rome. His fame and radicalism as an artist preceded him and he was quickly commissioned by a group of young, charity-minded noblemen for work at the Pio Monte della Misericordia church in the Centro Storico. The local worthies originally wanted a depiction of the Seven Works of Mercy — seven different acts of kindness from the Gospel of Matthew — on seven separate panels around the church. What they got was a single composition unlike any other painted before: a deeply religious painting embedded in a grim Naples alley scene, the combined figures emerging from the darkness.
We commit ourselves to work in penitence and faith for reconciliation between the nations, that all people may, together, live in freedom, justice and peace.
We pray for all who in bereavement, disability and pain continue to suffer the consequences of fighting and terror.
We remember with thanksgiving and sorrow those whose lives,
in world wars and conflicts past and present, have been given and taken away.
Artemisia Gentileschi (1593-1654) was the daughter of a painter, a close friend of Caravaggio. At the age of 18 she was raped by a painter associate of her father and, after a notorious trial, this experience unsurprisingly influenced her own work.
In the same year as the end of her rapist’s trial she started work on the picture Judith and Holofernes. On face value, it shows Judith, a rich widow, decapitating the drunk Assyrian general Holofernes with the assistance of her maid. Caravaggio had painted the same scene before Artemisia and you can see his influence, especially in the harsh light, the facial features and the frozen movement.
But look closely at this shocking painting.